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/lit/ - Literature

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536573 No.536573 [Reply] [Original]

/lit/ reads, but can it write?

>> No.536577

no.

>> No.536590

>>536577
thats kind of disappointing, why is that? have none of you attempted to write?

>> No.536593

Well I mostly read, but I also write sometimes.

>> No.536601

I wrote one short story. Everybody hated it.

>> No.536604

You're making a pretty big leap suggesting it reads.

>> No.536614

>>536593
Comma splicing is fun.

>> No.536621

some of the writers in the ZWG Zine that gets put out are surprisingly good for this being the internet and 4chan and everything.

>> No.536623

I'm taking a 2nd level Creative Writing workshop in college right now. I've presented one of my short stories to a class of twenty, and it got very positive commentary.

The problem is, I tend to write too much of myself and my issues into my stories, so I'm embarrassed about showing them to other people.

>> No.536638

>>536623

I'd like to write too. I think that's an issue that every author faces. Some of the best stories and books come from the most messed up people. Really though were all the same, so usually the deeper you dig the more universal truths you find and the more your story becomes a story of the human condition instead of pure escapist fantasy.

>> No.536647

I write all the time, as a hobby.

Whether it's actual GOOD writing though....that's a whole 'nother story. So all of my shitty writing is stored on my hard drive and no one will ever see it, just as it should be.

>> No.536674

>>536638
I loves me some escapism, keeps my problems out of mind

>> No.536675

>>536573

I'm good at writing academic essays; never even tried to write fiction, don't have any interest in writing stories.

>> No.536681
File: 671 KB, 1240x1748, ZWG_-_April.13.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
536681

Yep

>> No.536733

>>536621
Which ones?

>> No.536759

Nope. Recently I took the time to read my essays and stories from high school and I felt physically ill because of how badly-written they were.

>> No.536784
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536784

How do you get over your "writer's block?"

I read a chapter of a book.

>> No.536790

>>536784
was supposed to make that into a post, lol

>> No.536833

>>536759

Try being a teenager deluded enough to write a novel. Then go look back at it in two years.

You will weep.

>> No.536863

I refuse to write again until I get my grammar, vocabulary, and life experience down to some measurable worth.

Without using goddamn idioms like the one above. It'll never happen /lit/; I'm pretty damn sure of that.

>> No.537170

>>536833
There's nothing at all wrong with a teenager writing a novel, if they have plans to become a writer. Practice is very important. This asshole that I work with keeps saying he's a great writer and that he's planning a whole story in his head, that he will one day write it and get rich and famous. I asked him how many hours a week he practices writing. He looked at me like I was a turnip.

>> No.537178

i like to write; wouldn't say i'm very good at it but i write stories.

>> No.537184

I like writing but I can't ever finish anything I start. How to fix?

>> No.537196

the zwg has showed us that /lit/ can't write for shit

>> No.537218

>>537170

This. Like any craft or vocation, writing requires a lot of consistent practice. I remember reading an essay (I think it was by the CEO of Google, I can't remember) where he asserted that "to become an expert at anything, one needs about 10,000 hours of practice in that field." This same point was reiterated by Malcolm Gladwell, author of the book "Outliers."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Outliers_%28book%29

The point is, I think writing has more to do with work and persistence than in-born talent. True, a talent for writing and storytelling will get you far, but it's all for naught if you don't put in the effort to practice and master the craft. Even Joshua Bell, the world-renown violinist, had to practice every day to get to where he is at right now. Why should anyone else be any different?

>> No.537229

I write. I'm pretty fucking good. ::shrugs::

I'd say it's about 50% natural born talent, 50% skill and craft. But without the discipline to shape your prose, all the talent in the world won't get you published these days.

>> No.537239

>>537218

Ah here we go, I found the essay. Turns out it wasn't written by the CEO of Google, but the Director of Research, Peter Norvig.

http://norvig.com/21-days.html

>> No.537242

>>537229

>::shrugs::

Doubt it.

>> No.537252

I write awesome shopping lists

>> No.537255

>>537229

anyone with a word processor can get published these days

>> No.537273

>>536614
I was also about to mention that I'm not very good at it. You picked that up just fine though.

>> No.537280

>>537196
But I liked what Josef K wrote.

>> No.537300

Dispatch, can you relate?

>> No.537301

>>537170

You're absolutely right, there is nothing wrong with a teenager writing a novel. My problem was that I had a fundamental lack of knowledge regarding grammar and punctuation. Seriously, I didn't even know what the subjunctive was.

I think it's important to understand those first, but you are right all-in-all. That writing allowed me to understand I needed those things (however I thought I didn't, I can't grasp). By the way, that guy at your work sounds like a wank-bucket.

>> No.537303

>>537242

He short-cocked a punch to Seth’s left kidney, the impact jostling muscle and fat with the sound of a gunshot through a pillow. A groan rattled up from deep inside the man, as if that punch had ejected his soul. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Michael peeled him off the rookie and threw him into a row of lockers. He slammed against them with a hollow, shivering boom. Couched between the rattle and its echo was the greasy squeal of his body sliding to the floor.

>> No.537309

>>537303
Too many sounds all at once, throw some other descriptions between them.

>> No.537315

>>537303

>short-cocked
>jostling muscle and fat
>A groan
>deep inside the man
>ejected his soul
>Michael peeled him off
>He slammed against them
>greasy squeal of his body

>> No.537323

>>537315

yah, that's kinda the point, sex and violence, one as an outlet for the other

>> No.537324

>>536573
Everyone on this board can write. The question is: can they write well?

>> No.537357

i dunno if i can but i do im currently writing a book that mixes philosophy/sociology with science fiction

>> No.537364

>>537303

a gun shot into a pillow does not sound like punching someone.

>> No.537395

>>537303

fucking shitty. try less hard with the imagery next time. jostling muscle and fat? make it less wordy. make less noises. or just stop writing altogether.

>> No.537424

What.. is that? A small boat breaks the horizon, the figure of a shadow sits upon it, its head looking up, to the sky, blowing out a cloud of smoke. The smoke rises, never dissipating, seeming to join the all encompassing cloud, to become a part of it. It all seems so surreal. I decide to swim to the boat, to this figure. I don't have much choice. I start up the routine of swimming again, kicking and swinging my arms, and make my way over. The figure pays no attention to my coming, just keeps smoking its large pipe, looking out into this tranquility. I finally make it to the boat, and because of exhaustion, grab the side of it to stay afloat, but I do this as gentle as possible, as to not disturb the figure, who I presume is a man, being able to get this much closer look.

>> No.537435 [DELETED] 

>>537424
"Hey," I say, with the accent of being out of breath. He turns and pierces me with his hollow eyes. Or lack thereof. My God. "Well, hello there, John." I try and I try to keep a straight face, while looking into his eyeless visage, but after hearing my name, my eyes give off fear and my face contorts. He smiles, then opens his mouth again, "Where are my manners? Climb aboard. We need to talk. We have a long trip ahead of us." I do as he says. I, awkwardly, pull myself up and into the boat. I posture up and sit, then bring my head up and face him.

>> No.537436

>>537424
I see a lot of commas placed in the middle of these sentences.

>> No.537449
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537449

>>537435
>with the accent of being out of breath

>> No.537477

Mulligan never had much to do with his free time.
He read a magazine or watched the colors on the television change, but he could never understand.
Sometimes he would imagine himself imagining for the novelty of it.

Mulligan walked down the street with a person next to him. Mulligan stopped to untie his shoelace.
He opened the door to his home and sat down in a chair. He rubbed his face with two hands like an animal.
His face was one of someone too old to remember, and too young to notice.
His ear was a volcanic crevice laying in dormancy, in which the doorbell rang.

He stood up and walked to the bedroom.

His mental state reached the point where his waking and sleeping mind laid together making a child-wide and flat as a steppe, and more alone.

The flats captured a desolace in a cage, projecting it into an ethereal nothingscape where it could always be found but never seen.

At this point, Mulligan awoke and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. His memory of the incident was as intimate as the momentary touch of a dozen fingers tips being pulled away.

There was a man at work, Mulligan had forgotten his name. He was vivid and alive in the way a Jack-In-The-Box is-

just for a while. He opened his mouth and his throat vibrated small, vapid, and digestible things for him to listen to.

>> No.537530

bump

>> No.537547

Anyone can write, but few people can write something that's really important. Look at the endless shitheap of paper back romance novels out there. That's all I'm going to say.

>> No.537550

>>537477
This was painful to read.

>> No.537555

>>537477
What the fuck is with this?

>> No.537567

>>537555
No?

>> No.537577

>>537477
In this post: A James Joyce Fag.
Just kidding, he's fucking incredible.

>> No.537600

Well, I write very optimistic stories. I get sick of all the Dark And Edgy shit out of there.

So what happens? Well, I've finished a Writing Major in my BA with a Credit mark. Very average.

You know what my main feedback comment from teachers was?

Too naive. Not enough experience.

They marked me down BECAUSE I was optimistic. They never thought, maybe disagreeing with me isn't enough of a reason to give me a lesser mark. Nooo! Why would they?

Also I find using "cliche" as a criticism is hilarious in a day and age when every possible combination of letters and words has probably been done before, on probability alone.

>> No.537624

Nope, for several reasons.


1) I tried, but first sentence was so horrible that I instantly closed text editor

2) There's always someone in "my" room, and they LOVE to peek over my shoulder and interrupt me with stupid question.

3) English is not my native language, and I dislike people of my country to write in their language.

>> No.537655

>>537600
maybe you could add a little more "dimension" to it? not saying optimism is bad, but how about portraying the pitfalls of too much optimism? The conflicts the character faces, how it affects his ideology, development, etc. Maybe his faith is tested, and confronted in various ways, but ultimately he never loses that sense of purity and innocence. Optimism would still be the dominant theme but there would also be different factors involved as well. Perhaps your character highlights the cold apathy of those around him? Maybe his heart touches and changes lives, etc. These are all just brainstorms you can think about. I enjoy optimistic messages.

>> No.537677

i bill $67/hr writing for politicians and the videogame industry.

>> No.537687

Yes, I do.

Every now and again I'll write down a scene that strikes at me from wandering thoughts and I'll go on it rewrite it several times.

My problem is that I can never really get past those couple short scenes and pull together a story of decent length.

But still, I carry a notebook with me to jot down any ideas that really catch my attention. Bit by bit, I'm putting together a world: the one I see when I'm trying to get to sleep, when everything in life bores me, when I wish I was somewhere else. I see those people whose lives are fragments of the people I've met and the people I wish they would've been.

I often think that writing fiction is dangerous for me because to be passionate about it, I have to lose myself in it first and I don't know if it'd be so easy to come back.

But still I'll keep writing, keep jotting down scribbles and bad sketches and poorly thought out ideas. Because in time I'll refine it and let it mature. So that when it is ready, I will be able to share my world with the world.

>> No.537695

>>537655
I understand what you're getting at, and I thank you for your thoughts.

But honestly, I try my darnedest to create three dimensional characters. I depict the failings of optimism at times as well since that is what markers seem to want (and there are certainly failings in such thinking), but honestly I think I am just too alternative to really impress mainstream-thinking markers.

Except with my genre fiction. That I can impress with, but that's because it's entertainment-based. It's just a shame when people block you off on the basis of age.

I believe in good things. People say that's because I'm young, but I plan to stay optimistic no matter what. The trouble is, even though I know about the pains and plagues of the world (I'm an aspiring journalist doing Media Studies as well), it's hard to depict them yet remain optimistic in tone. So I often avoid it and come across as naive.

I think writers also just socially hate people who acknowledge that some things in life ARE easy.

>> No.537696

>>537600
Certain things are done more often than others, that's why "cliche" is often used in conjunction or in place of "overused".

The key to optimism without naivety is the acceptance of failure/disappointment but continuing regardless of the outcome. That come what may, even if you die at sun set tomorrow, your last day will be amazing and you won't waste a second of it in tears. Add a touch of self doubt to show he's human if desired.

Also if you did all that then ignore what I said; your teacher's a bitter hater, and we all know what they're best at.

>> No.537708

>>537695
You can find optimism in the cruelest events of the world in the humanity that people exhibit. That travesties on a living being will erupt such a cascade of emotion and empathy across the globe that people will feel compassion towards those that they've never met before. That people are willing to and even happy to help those in great need. Those moments of great compassion and humanity are beautiful in and of themselves. They're proof that even if the world is cast in total darkness people will work towards building that light back up simply because that's what they feel is right.

There is beauty even in the darkest despair.

>> No.537716

>>537696
True, but I still think that it's very hard to measure or quantify what aspects of a story are "more used" than others. Cliche is certainly not a very scientific or objective criticism, but that's the art world for you, I suppose. I should just accept that about it, but for some reason my bullshit meter just goes off whenever someone starts saying it's a problem. Haha.

You define intelligent optimism as a kind of determination. That's interesting to me. I'm a bit funny in that, when such an event looms over me, I am determined to believe that said-bad-thing WON'T happen at all, because I'll stop it. Maybe I'm just a naive person with a naive philosophy, and it's very hard to change that when it's pretty much my best strength (in that it makes me confident) as well as my biggest weakness. It's hard to espouse it.

Nah... they're probably not haters. Their criticisms were probably legitimate. I was more frustrated than anything when saying that, perhaps because I feel powerless to change it without losing myself. In short, the rejection of my optimism makes me pessimistic. Maybe the problem will solve itself. If only it were that mathematical...

>> No.537718

>>537695
Write for the protagonist the things you're going through now. Express your answer to "being naive" through the story. Since you're going through this irl, venting it out on paper should give it a much more personal sincere vibe.

>> No.537722
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537722

so /lit/ reads and writes, but can it edit?

pic related.

>> No.537725

>>537708
That is really quite charming as a thought. And I agree. The greatest moments for humanity seem to happen when we defy despair even if that day is our end.

It's a struggle for me to express said moments without sounding camp, naive, or just plain wrong, though. When your beliefs differ, making someone cross the floor to yours with enticing art and good themes is the greatest struggle in writing. I have yet to master that.

>>537718
Interesting idea. Since my last story for the Writing Major was a good six months ago now, it'd be hard to pull this off, but I'll certainly vent things anyway. Thanks.

>> No.537738

>>536573

I'm doing a writing class and suck massive dicks at it. I thought my stuff was ok then I read some of the other students work - HOLY SHIT WTF MAN. These guys write like pro authors.

>> No.537741

>>537738
Optimistic writer here again. I've been there buddy. You'll get through. The first step to writing well is believing that you can, so that you can work harder.

Sit down and write 'till it rules. And if your fingers fall off first, at least you had a ball.

I respect you most of all if you try.

"For the times, they are a-changin'..."

>> No.537759

>>537738
Those other writers might be intimidating but you should really try to read as much of their work as you can. this would be a huge help for creativity, expression, etc

>> No.537827

>>536647
This exactly. It took me a minute to work out if I'd written that or not.

>>537738
See, I've found my experience to be almost the opposite of this. I detest my own writings, I look back on them before I even finish them and wonder if they are worth adding an end to. But when I got into my writing class, everyone else seemed to be entirely retarded. Maybe it was just the group of kids in my class, but I was amazed by the fact I was in a third year University class and people struggled to get Credit marks when they claimed to have been writing for years.

>> No.538163

>>536573

First fiction I've written since high school. I'm hoping to write a comic at some point so some feed back would be appreciated. Thanks in advance

He felt his body sink into the ocean sucummbing to the feeling of dissipation like sugar in a hot tea cup. The sand felt light intangible almost if every grain was becoming an ever increasingly excited atom fitting to burst out of this liquid container it was trapped in. Unlike the sand however he found his body trapped. Paralysed. Sinking. The water dictated his every movement. Turning and twisting. Twisting and turning. Until eventually there was no longer a seperation between man and ocean.

>> No.538170

>>536833

Do want.

>> No.538673

Dusky tomes were lost betwixt my eyes, For bright shining lights that burn inside, The retina of a flash of light, As ageless knowledge is thrown aside, A quiet death, one with pride.

>> No.538678

>>538673
When I'm bored I write crappy poetry, although proper format on here is a b-i-t-c-h.

>> No.538681

>>538163

Condense condense condense. I know you think it sounds pretty but imagine having to read an entire book of that. It's enough to make you rip your teeth out.

>> No.538691

/jp/, I have written before, but my writing comes off as horribly pretentious and I'm afraid no one will ever like it. Here's a sample from an essay I wrote about my time in a mental institution:

She bitched, she demanded to go home, she demanded to not take the pills. The orderlies do not listen. They say that they do not want any trouble. They say everything is going to be okay as they lift her by her legs. They say many kind and reassuring things as they jam the 250mg of Prozac down her dirty throat. And after thirty minutes and a few troubled glances with Calvin, she is again Jessica. She lives in Canyon Lake, or around that area. She in twenty-three years old. She works as a clerk in a store. It's a fun job. And she likes driving.

That's was when I realized at that moment the pure lunacy of this. I had no power. Everything I said or did was subject to a prescription to SSRI's. The god had awoken, and he demands that every knee bow in his presence. Our purpose was simple; we were to worship him. Parading the clinically white halls of in a procession to mental sanity. Shout truisms and lies in his name. And all shall bow eventually, since the alternatives were in reality none. I could have called the mental legal hotline at anytime. I could have escaped two nights ago and never had to deal with this. Yet no matter where we run, they will find us. We were faulty units, utterly unreliable and prone to waste. Ultimately better off aborted.

>> No.538693

>>538691
I meant to say /jp/ here. For god's sake your that shitty of a board.

>> No.538701

>>538693
I meant not shitty. I'm not having a good day today when it comes to completing my thoughts.

>> No.538724

I don't really write stories or anything considered what you would read and interpret, but I do write out all of my standup comedy, I don't know if this could be considered writing because it is solely performed instead of read.

>> No.538743

>>538691
You have a good concept there. The writing isn't pretentious, it's just bad.

>since the alternatives were in reality none.

>> No.538747

>>538691

>That's was when I realized at that moment

Bro

Bro. Dude. Dawg.

>> No.538826

>>538743

Well that's nice to know. At least I know I have no talent for this shit now.

>> No.538838

>>538163

>He felt his body sink into the ocean sucummbing to the feeling of dissipation like sugar in a hot tea cup.

That needs a comma between "ocean" and "succumbing". Otherwise the ocean is doing the succumbing and not his body. Also, how exactly do you give in to a feeling of dissipation?


>The sand felt light intangible almost if every grain was becoming an ever increasingly excited atom fitting to burst out of this liquid container it was trapped in.

Should be:

>The sand felt light and intangible, almost as if...

Besides the grammar I corrected, there's also the misuse of the word intangible. By definition, you can't feel something intangible. I can't think of a single word that means "almost intangible" though.

Also,

>every grain was becoming an ever increasingly excited atom,
>grain
>atom

A grain and an atom are two entirely different things, and are by no means synonyms. In your simile, the grain is becoming an atom, but that's downright impossible.

>fitting to burst out of this liquid container it was trapped in.

I don't understand that at all, but that could be because I don't know the context.

>> No.538841

>>538838

>Unlike the sand however he found his body trapped.

Should be:

>Unlike the sand, however, Smith found his body trapped.

Again, besides the grammar I corrected, there are two problems. First of all, you should not have to transition from talking about sand to talking about his body mid-paragraph. You should have started a new paragraph or changed changed the order of your sentences (don't go from his body to sand to his body again.) The best solution would be to say:

>Smith found his body trapped in this sand.

However, not knowing the context, I don't know if that would fit the best.

Writing the character name and clarifying the antecedent is optional, but I feel like it helps. Smith is a generic name, of course.


>Paralysed. Sinking. The water dictated his every movement. Turning and twisting. Twisting and turning. Until eventually there was no longer a seperation between man and ocean.

Should be:

>Paralyzed, he was sinking. The water dictated his every movement. He was twisting and turning and turning and twisting until, eventually, there was no longer a separation between a man and the ocean.

I can see what you were going for by using the sentence fragments, but they didn't achieve the desired effect. Things like that are hit and miss, usually miss. I also corrected a lot of spelling and grammar.

Hope this helps.

>> No.539269

Tear it to pieces, /lit/:

There had been more cars on the road the day before, when it hadn't snowed. I didn't bother waiting for the pelican crossing to allow me past; there were no cars that morning to stop me. The whole world seemed gloomy and bland: the grey skies, the spindly black winter trees and the whitened chewing gum studded in a line across the underside of an old steel bench. The only cars on the road were driven by disgruntled lorry drivers in worn down company vans, wishing they were at home with their wife and kids. I didn't know why I was making such a laborious effort to go to school, which I hated anyway, except maybe for the fact it was good exercise.

>> No.539274

I enjoy writing myself... I even have a short story on my laptop if anyone wants me to post it...

<.<
>.>

>> No.539287

>>539274
go the fuck ahead

>> No.539293

>>539287

“And now there are 4.” With that said Bradley pulled back the hammer on his pistol and with that click the dessert was silent aside from the chirp of a cricket.
A drug deal gone very, very wrong and now it was a slaughter. Two men were dead and there were three shell casings at Bradley's feet. The men now 20 yards away two of them Mexican and two white all of them with knives.
Bradley had the large shiny looking pistol leveled right at them breifcase in the other hand, filled with eight-hundred thousand dollars in cash.

>> No.539296

“That case doesn't belong to you gringo.” One of the Mexican's spoke up
“Ownership is determined by who is willing to back up their claim on the item. I have a gun so my opinion is more important then yours.”
“Fuck you.”
“Likewise.”
Another man started bending down and breaking the silence by picking up a rock. Bradley pointed his gun right at his face.
“Drop it.” With that the man reeled back like he was going to throw the rock, the gun fired the mans head was ripped back a second later he was on the ground screaming part of his head gone like a bite out of an apple. His tears and screams broke the silence.

>> No.539299

“You fellas might want to finish the poor fellow off it'll take him a while to bleed out.”
“You have two shots left and there are three of us what do you expect to happen here?”
“I expect to walk out of here with a case full of money and a pile of dead suckers laying around.”
The desert remained silent aside from the splitting screams of one of the dieing man. The sun was setting behind Bradley illuminating the three remaining men who desperately wanted to kill him, In a few minutes the sun would dissapear under the Arizonan desert.
Bradley attempted to put off the exterior of the stone cold killer but felt pure fear. He had a gun with two rounds left, and there were three men out to kill him and he could still miss. He felt fear thinking about what one of those large, sharp knives would feel. It would split open his stomach like a chicken breast he imagined what his guts spilling out would look and feel like warm blood and half digested food splattering over the ground.
How your throat would feel being split as your head leans back and your kneck opens like a clam and explodes red, you try to scream but your vocal coords are slit so all that happens is a gurgle a few seconds later you bleed out.

>> No.539306

The men opposite to Bradley imagined their odds of survival. They each had better then a 1/3 chance of survival. They also imagined what a bullet going into their chest would feel like. A piece of metal exploding into your chest all the bones and muscle and organ being cut and ripped. What most people don't expect is the burning, when a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun it is burning hot from the powder it enters you like a flaming spear.
The screaming stopped as the man who was shot bled out.
One of the men started sprinting 20 yards away.
Bradley adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger a clear “click.” The gun jammed
15 yards
Bradley pulled back on the slide as hard as he could beginning to panick.
10 yards
With succes the slide popped back the casing popped out, Bradley raised the weapon.
5 yards
He knocked the slide release the gun was reay to fire.
2 yards
The gun fired a the sound of thunder filled the air.
The man laid dead at his feet, his chest caved in.
The desert was silent again. A vulture landed on one of the bodies and began to sear into it's face getting at the soft exposed flesh.
“You know one of you could just turn around leave. I won't stop you.”
Nobody moved or said a word. Everybody was too afraid.
They just stood there gambling away their lives for money.
Bradley had just one shot left, and the sun had just set.

END

>> No.539329

> aside from the chirp of a cricket
a little weird
> His tears and screams broke the silence
a bit melodramatic but ok
>How your throat would feel being split as your head leans back and your kneck opens like a clam and explodes red, you try to scream but your vocal coords are slit so all that happens is a gurgle a few seconds later you bleed out.
what the shit

dude

>> No.539343

>>539329

What would you give it out of 10?

>> No.539373

>>539343
with 0 being My Immortal and 10 being Crime and Punishment, I'd give it a 3.

>> No.539379

eleventy

>> No.539556

Also didn't help I wrote it after reading Haunted

>> No.539601

A friend and I are co-writing a sequel to the Great Gatsby, called "The Greater Gatsby". We're just doing it for fun, and the story is really incoherent and ridiculous. It's basically the product of us alternating the chapters that we write (he writes one, I write the next, etc), so it's gotten pretty fucked up. Here's a segment from the latest chapter that I wrote.

The background is that Nick (who was secretly an assassin who was assigned to kill Gatsby) has started hearing voices in his head. Anyways, here it is:

Wait… I’ve heard this voice before.

<i>Yes, you have.</i>

I remember this voice.

<i>Yes, you do.</i>

It was about two years ago.

<i>We were five years old.</i>

That’s right. I remember now!

I’m sitting in the back yard. My pants are all dirty, and my hands are sticky. Mommy and Daddy are standing in front of me. Mommy looks like she’s about to cry, and Daddy has a look on his face that I’ve never seen before. Daddy’s usually really calm and scary, but he looks kind of excited now. I think he’s happy. That’s good. I’ve never seen Daddy so happy before. They’re both looking at me. And lying on the ground is… What was it again?

<i>It’s Brutus.</i>

Oh, that’s right! It’s Brutus. Brutus was our doggie. I loved Brutus. He was so soft and warm. I was scared of him at first because he would always jump on me and lick my face. But then I stopped being scared, so now I love him.

<i>He’s dead.</i>

……………Eh?

<i>Brutus is dead.</i>

Brutus is…..dead?

<i>Yes.</i>

Wh-why?!

<i>We killed him.</i>

We killed him?

<i>You killed him.</i>

I…….killed him?

<i>We killed Brutus.</i>

That…. that’s right. I killed Brutus. I’m so forgetful.

>> No.539610

>>539601
“Nick, honey, please just tell us what happened. Mommy promises she won’t get mad. Alright?”

Mommy is looking at me. She’s smiling, but something feels wrong. Even though she has a smile on her face, her eyes look really sad. I’m confused. I don’t think she’s very happy.

“Ahahahaha! Isn’t it obvious, dear? There’s no denying it now!”

“Robert! Please!”

Mommy turns to Daddy and gives him the same look she gives me and Lawrence whenever we get into trouble. See? I knew she wasn’t happy. Daddy doesn’t seem to care, though. He just keeps on laughing. Daddy’s scaring me. Even though he’s laughing, it doesn’t look right. His eyes are really wide open the whole time, and he has a scary look on his face. He doesn’t look happy at all.

“Nick. Please… please, just tell us what happened to Brutus. Okay?”

Mommy’s looking at me now. She’s not smiling any more. Daddy’s still laughing. When she looks at me like that, I feel like I’ve done a bad thing. I don’t know why, but I start crying. I can feel the tears on my face. They’re really, really hot.

“There, there, honey. Don’t cry. It’ll be all right. Mommy’s here, okay? Now, please just tell me what happened to Brutus. You’re not in trouble. I promise I won’t get mad, no matter what you say.”

Mommy bends down and hugs me. She feels so warm. I don’t know why, but I start to cry harder. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Daddy shaking his head. He’s still smiling.

“I… I killed Brutus!”

I’m crying really hard now. Mommy squeezes me more tightly. Daddy starts laughing again.

>> No.539614

>>539610
<i>Yes. We killed him.</i>

“Ahahahahaha! Did you hear that, Sharon? Nick says he killed Brutus!”

Mommy gives Daddy a dirty look. She squeezes me a little too hard. Daddy doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps on laughing. Why is Daddy laughing?

“Nick, honey…. Why…” Mommy bites her lip. “Why did you kill Brutus?”

Mommy holds my shoulders and looks right in my eyes. Uu… I think she’s mad at me. But she promised…

“Isn’t it obvious, dear? He is a Carraway, after all! Ahahahahaha!”

Mommy doesn’t hear Daddy and keeps looking at me. She looks really, really serious. I’ve never seen her look like this before. I start to cry again.

“Nick. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

I nod.

“Mommy loves you. She’ll always love you, no matter what. So, please… please, just tell me why you killed Brutus. I promise I won’t get mad. I promise.”

“It’s no use, Sharon. You know as well as I do what’s going on here, Ehehehehehe!”

Mommy keeps staring at me. She’s smiling now, but it looks like she’s about to cry. Her grip on my shoulders tightens. You’re hurting me, Mommy.

>> No.539620

>>539614
“Nick. Please.”

Mommy just keeps saying ‘please, please’ over and over. I don’t know what to do. Mommy always told me to tell the truth. She said that if I just tell the truth, everything will be okay. I tell her the truth.

“A… voice in my head.”

Mommy’s eyes widen. Daddy holds his breath. The place where Mommy’s holding my shoulder hurts. It really hurts, Mommy.

“There was a… voice in my head. It told me to kill Brutus. It said that it’s okay. It said that it would be fun.”

Mommy’s smile disappears. She goes pale. Daddy starts laughing again, harder than last time.

“See?! I told you Sharon! He really is my son after all! But to think that his Carraway blood would manifest at such a young age! Ahahahahahahahaha!”

Mommy starts crying. I start crying too. I try to wipe my tears, but see that my hands are covered in blood. My memory ends there.

END.

>> No.539662

Okay I'm only 16 and you will probably all destroy this but here's one poem I wrote inspired by my heart condition.

Beat, beat, beat, beat. 
The dull pounding of a rythmic god,
The life giving drum beats, beats. 
To push liquid life into the cradle of the soul, 
molten crimson through the canals of the self.

The pace quickens, the thud deafens,
As a once peaceful world bursts to life. 
An earth shaking pounding breaks forth through the dark.
The sustaining throb begins to struggle,
The drum begins to slow. 

One last flurry of beats, a desperate rythm,
As the drum fights to pound on,
Holding on to it's pace with bare fingernails, it's grip fails. 
The beat slows, the universe heaves, 
As a living god breathes it's last.  
   

>> No.539682

>>539662
The drum has fingernails?

>> No.539694

>>539662

It's "its", not "it's". Otherwise, not bad.

>> No.539703

Oh thanks :) expected a shit load of hate.

>> No.539718

>>539703

Meh, you could try posting it on /b/ and see what happens.

>> No.539731

Also, it's =! its

>> No.539777 [DELETED] 

Fuck, might as well join the circle jerk. 1 of 2

She came in from the cold, her jacket seemingly alive with the scent of new fallen snow. All at once he was reminded of a time when he used to sit in front of his old television. Just as he turned on the tube there would be a characteristic clicking noise and a subtle crackling as the dust on the tube became polarized by the static electricity. He would run the back of his hand across the screen, less than an inch away from the glass. When he pulled back his hand it was saturated with the oddest scent; so fresh and yet musty. The smell invaded his nostrils, rejuvenating his senses. There was little in the world that compared to this scent, but then there was snow.
So her jacket gave off tufts of this static smell, gently wafting off her with every minute turn of the shoulders or shivering sigh. He watched her and smiled at how truly beautiful she seemed, cheeks flushed with color against the chilly air outside. Her glasses fogged up slightly and she crinkled her nose in that cute way she usually feigned frustration, her eyes beading together as her eyebrows furrowed, the hint of a smile evident on her face. He chuckled slightly, getting up from the couch to take her coat.
"Work was hell today. Absolutely unbelievable. God, I wan--"

>> No.539782 [DELETED] 

>>539777

2 of 2

She stopped her sentence short. They both knew what she was going to say and, even though she knew it was for the best for both of them she still cast accusatory glances his way whenever she came home from a particularly stressful day, knowing how he would react to the faint scent of nicotine sloughing off her short black hair. She loved him, really. She just missed parts of her past.
"So work was tough, then?" he asked after a brief silence during which resentment and forbidding emotions hung in the air.
"Yeah." For a moment she stood in the doorway, not wanting to make eye contact with him. It was a childish tactic, but it got the job done. Starting back to life, she held her arms and rubbed them, shivering. With measured detachment, sure to strike just the right nerve of guilt, she said "I'm gonna take a bath." She then disappeared into the bedroom, flakes of melting snow falling imperceptibly from her clothes, patterning the carpet like tears.

>> No.539798

>>537687

>My problem is that I can never really get past those couple short scenes and pull together a story of decent length.

But still, I carry a notebook with me to jot down any ideas that really catch my attention. Bit by bit, I'm putting together a world: the one I see when I'm trying to get to sleep, when everything in life bores me, when I wish I was somewhere else. I see those people whose lives are fragments of the people I've met and the people I wish they would've been.

...Are you...me?

>> No.539839

>>539556

See, the lack of punctuation made me get a McCarthy vibe.

Your dialogue's forced, and the prolonged attempt at empathy by this Bradley feller got a bit...boring. We get it, he's a new guy. Kill your darlings, friend.

>> No.540106

>>537229
>all the talent in the world won't get you published these days.

Have you SEEN the shit that gets published these days?

>> No.540121

I'm going to write an epic book.
Not going to tell you yet what it's about, but it flirts with philosophy, science and religion and is going to have a sweet storyline.
Think The Unbearable Lightness Of Being but extrapolated to the universe.

>> No.540278

I suck at writing and compared to most of you, I'm not a voracious or particularly intelligent reader. However, many of the stories here were well-written enough to seriously create a sense of immersion for me, so maybe I just suck, but it seems like you're not being encouraging enough.
I don't know. Here's a poem I wrote, and I honestly don't give a shit what you think. Try to feel it, throw away what you think first, then read it.

Deep within my indigo well, you stir and summon
skies of night and eyes in the heavens.
Fog and mist, dew upon forever fields,
Hills as infinite as the ink of the air,
smiling goodbyes and weeping embraces,
annihilant caresses and amygdalin kisses.

>> No.540289

I've been told I'm a decent writer. I posted a short bit I wrote on here once. Didn't get any comments on it though, so I assume it was fairly mediocre.

>> No.541701

Not really.