/lit/ - Literature

>>7133763
What do you think I could do differently?

>>7133726
Well, you can be whatever you need. I am terribly insecure and need to know how to improve. I write and write and this is the first thing in a while I've felt is worthy of being shown.

Critique thread. Be harsh, it is how we improve.

http://pastebin.com/4rLmvXFg

We laid against the bases of pine along the tree-lined roads of Gießen. Seventy-five men waiting impatiently to be ordered.

"I need orders and new boots", I ignored the man next to me mumbling through his upturned collar.

In Gießen we did not do much except lay. The fight did not come to us. It was November and our hands shook. The young men shook the frost off their hands and the older men shook from shells. I was cold here and awaited orders.

"Sit tight. We'll be moving out shortly."

It has been three days since we moved. Our tents were set up in large fields filled with the cold wind. The luckiest of soldiers set their tents up closest to the road and closest to the trees and tanks. I was not lucky.

You might sleep, but you never dream
Onward! Progress! Or so it seems.
You might laugh, but you never smile.
Come on in and waste away awhile.

When dreams of rings and flowers fade and blur
Giving way to that familiar ill
come over and part your soft pink curtains
Where I'm waiting for you still
If you'd unlatch the window,
If you'd let me lay there on your floor
If you'd give me another chance,
If you'd forget the pain I caused before
No use in saying how I'm sorry
So I'm trying not to speak
I'll sing in silence, lay beside you
With my face there on your cheek
My stomach swears there's comfort there
In the warmth of the blankets on your bed
My stomach's always been a liar-
I'll believe it's lies again.

>>6810991
Woah. Thank you for this. The truth is I dropped out of high school and was living in the woods for a while. I know nothing about proper grammar or sentence structured. I simply write.

I seem to add a lot of unnecessary words in. Would you mind reading over one more thing of mine?

“We're a nation full of dumbbells”. James paused to laugh.

“It doesn't seem worth it.” He added.

“Seem worth it to what? Get in shape? James' friend Dylan asked.

“Seem worth it to spend hours lifting up and placing back down the weights. I could go for a run through the graveyard and I could skate fast down the ice. I could be outside bailing hay on the neighbour's farm or helping my father lay bricks at a new school, yet you recommend I stand or sit in that room with all those people to lift and drop the weights. I don't want to be there or around those types of people.”

“Those types of people. You mean like me?” Dylan asked again. They both laughed.

“Yes like you. It's all for girls right? If they'd only like me for my body, then I wouldn't like them for their mind!”

Liking the way he said that, James carried on thinking. He and Dylan had met each other at Arborist school. The school taught them how to identify fungus and it taught them how to safely climb a tree. Arborist school did not teach them how to pay attention, and Dylan fell from the top of the tall treaty oak that the school taught them how to safely climb. Dylan's climbing days were done and he quickly lost interest in the rest of school, so he stopped going. Because he couldn't run anymore, he started to lift things. A briefly used school book, and then two, and then three. He lifted them and then put them down. He did this a few times and it made him feel very sad. After a month of lifting books Dylan had realized he would always be sad. The books were replaced with weights and the stairs to his home were replaced with a makeshift aluminum ramp his father put together. Having a crippled son was very expensive and they lived with little

>>6810947
Sorry. You are right, I was trying something new there. Hemingway is one of my favorite writers and people have told me I write too much like him so I'm straying away.

Here is something more serious and shorter.

Fifteen steps into the fairgrounds. Acid and heat from his stomach burned just behind his chin. His eyes, sparking blue and nearly shut, struggled to focus on the ferris wheel that rose above everything else, much like him, in the distance. Always out of place, he stood six-foot-six. With his long black hair now short in preparation to join the army, and his pale skin showing up his arms to just below the shoulder, he stood in the middle of it all with shaky knees.

James inched forward, unsure of where to be. Nobody expected him to be there and everyone glanced at him. It was hard not to. Without sleep and without sunscreen, he prayed for his protection. For the sun to stop shining and for the clouds to hide him deep under the atmosphere.

http://pastebin.com/XEjAcZ7V

Through hidden hand I never planned
This contingent future, once too bland
Antic irony pushed us together
Soon enough you layed in my feathers

A mesozoic neck keeps the truth at bay
We barely made it through that day
Exhausted, consumed, whatever you'll say
I left you at Bloor St. confused, in dismay

We wrote thousands of words for a man who can't speak
Forgotten though, his impediment breached
Star gazing, tombstones lay sunk in the grass
I push one over. pure granite, part brass

A glass of ice wine to puke and Deja's constantly looped
The lights are always out as I work at your drupe
Margot lays awaiting repair
Her despair is quite evident she neglects every prayer

We spend hours alone looking for ways to postpone
The inevitable goodbye always awkward, bemoaned
I claim to be thinking of Margot, untrue
Your damn emerald eyes turn my brain into stew

Critique thread. Welcome. Post and critique others if you feel you are worthy of critiquing.

Anna couldn't contain herself. She was giddy. Her black, now villainous eyebrows danced for James as she spoke and the shake of her nerves shook him strong. It was morning but the sun was not out. It had not been out much recently. In its place was the far less solitary darkness of sleet and rain, overshadowing their actions.

Small part of something. I don't feel I am qualified to critique others. I haven't read many books or gone to school.

Anna couldn't contain herself. She was giddy. Her black, now villainous eyebrows danced for James as she spoke and the shake of her nerves shook him strong. It was morning but the sun was not out. It had not been out much recently. In its place was the far less solitary darkness of sleet and rain, overshadowing their actions.

bump

How do you overcome the struggle to put pen to paper sincerely?

I have no trouble typing her to you all, or shitposting, but how do I seriously write? I can write a paragraph at most before I start to sweat and get lightheaded. I am terrified at the fact I may be a bad writer.

So I sit here every day and small ideas pop into my mind that I feel could be brilliant if written down in a story. So I go to write them, close OpenOffice, and then start masturbating.

How does one get over this? How do I face my fear of failure?

She pressed right up against his nose. She dug her shoulder into his.

“I want to do it again.” Anna spoke to Dylan.

“Do what?”

“Last night.”

Anna couldn't contain herself. She was giddy. Her black, now villainous eyebrows danced for Dylan as she spoke and the shake of her nerves shook him strong.

Doesn't it feel emasculating to talk to girls about great literature, or a great film, or a great athlete?

I often times feel sickened by myself whenever someone asks for a book recommendation. I wish I could tell them "Here is mine. I am very good."

Instead I must admit I am not good, and recommend something from someone else. I cannot think of anything worse in life.

Or when you take someone to a hockey game and they mention to you:

"You played hockey too right? Were you ever good enough to play at this level?"

And you have to answer no. You were not good enough.

I often times, with a girl, prefer to do nothing because most things were created or are done by better men. Stronger, wiser, humbler men.

Why isn't this talked about more?

“Kiss me! Kiss me! You’ll do nothing wrong the sooner you kiss me! James! I need all of this! This hiding in the bastion has got me sick. I’d rather burn than see myself grow old with him, and this seems less likely the case with you. Do you not want a secret to hide? Something to keep us up at night, I say! Less than quicksilver the ideal, of course. I’m growing awfully tired. I’ll try not to suck my thumb, but I must ponder! What’s so great about India? Are they too busy flying kites to even notice we are gone? That must be it! The summoned serpents seem to be the only ones doing as they’re told, and that’s by way of flute! Am I inaudible to you James? Am I insane? Look at me James. Fetch me another poppy, one that is in full bloom.”

She says "I wanna get free."

I say "Free from what?"

She took our kid by the arm, and said:

"Go piss away the things you love. You go auditioning replacements from church pew, to rock club, to basement. And in the back of your mind, you'll hope that your true love is waiting. It'd be a gift if they're waiting. They're just not gonna come looking for you anymore. So wake up. Wake up! You're not done. You can fix yourself up, kid. You can learn how to love. The way you're praying to love someone who's not yourself for once. To stay some place for more than three months. There's work to be done.

Here is the second:

Creep close my ambivalent ghost
Nothing you do is permanent
White sheets, a window to the coast
Offering false peace, turbulent

Dissonance floods my shipwrecked head
Wannabe autonomy lulled
A broken camcorders thirst to be fed
It thanks its destroyer now hulled

Grateful now it's been several days
My mind at ease, no more solid smack
Life's much different without your haze
Ambivalent ghost I need you back

I just found my first two ever poems. Here is the first one, written around two years ago. I hate poetry, but I wrote it for a girl. It is about us meeting for the first time in a museum in Toronto.

Through hidden hand I never planned
This contingent future, once too bland
Antic irony pushed us together
Soon enough you layed in my feathers

A mesozoic neck keeps the truth at bay
We barely made it through that day
Exhausted, consumed, whatever you'll say
I left you at Bloor St. confused, in dismay

We wrote thousands of words for a man who can't speak
Forgotten though, his impediment breached
Star gazing, tombstones lay sunk in the grass
I push one over. pure granite, part brass

A glass of ice wine to puke and Deja's constantly looped
The lights are always out as I work at your drupe
Margot lays awaiting repair
Her despair is quite evident she neglects every prayer

We spend hours alone looking for ways to postpone
The inevitable goodbye always awkward, bemoaned
I claim to be thinking of Margot, untrue
Your damn emerald eyes turn my brain into stew

Fifteen steps into the fairgrounds, James The acid and heat from his stomach rose to his chin. His eyes, a sparkling blue, struggled to focus on the ferris wheel that rose above everything else, much like him, in the distance. Always out of place, he stood six-foot-six. With his long black hair now short in preparation to join the army, and his pale skin showing up his arms to the shoulder, he stood in the middle of it all, shivering.

James inched forward, unsure of where to be. Nobody expected him to be there and everyone glanced at him. It was hard not to. Without sleep and without his hat, he prayed for his protection. For the sun to stop shining and for the clouds to hide him deep under our atmosphere.

With his cotton-mouth and weakish-knees, James stumbled, or hobbled, towards the canteen. One dollar got him a bottle of water, and before condensation could occur on the near-freezing bottle, it was empty. Seeing clearer, James looked up at the ferris wheel once again. This time he was closer and could make out the rust forming around the iron bolts keeping it together. He saw its navy blues and hot pinks, with a sun just as bright as the one beaming onto him painted against each carriage.

>>6548758
bumpie

>>6550062
I try to. I'm not allowed there.

>>6550107
I will try and come up with something greater.

>>6549527
I am not comparing what I have posted here to Joyce. The thing I posted and we are all speaking on was something I came up with in roughly 5 minutes of writing. I didn't look it over once and just posted it. It was intended to be funny and give a laugh or two while we discussed Joyce's novels.

He is a far better writer than I will ever be, I think. I still have a few years to catch up to him but I doubt that will happen.

Do I have potential to one day inspire?

What could I change? I have the first few stories in 'Dubliners'. It seems as though I should focus more on describing things, instead of progressing with the story. Joyce makes a habit of going in-depth about the feeling of a room or what a man is wearing far more than I do.

I feel I am capable of doing that.