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[ERROR] No.21988390 [DELETED]  [Reply] [Original] [4plebs] [archived.moe]

Teach me how to writefag, /tg/.

>> No.21988433

>Have an idea
>Write it down
>Repeat infinite amount of times
>Voila. You're a writer.

Afraid I can't help you with the "fag" part. Maybe fuck a few guys?

>> No.21988434

Say please.

>> No.21988512

Go ahead and write a story for all of these. More importantly, write whatever you damn well please. Express yourself. Have conflict. Breed contempt. Problems are solved, but solutions beget problems. Someone is always trying to cause change. Don't plagiarize but find inspiration everywhere.

Most importantly, write. No amount of help will help you if you don't write anything and (more importantly) everything.

>> No.21988527

Rolled 42

Lets give her a whirl. Not OP but I'll post if I feel I wrote it well enough

>> No.21988545

I don't understand what it means by "heated weapon debate."

>> No.21988641

It seems you are destined to be a writer

>> No.21988644

You're the writer. Make it work.
Could be a simple as "Scythe vs. Shovel"
Or maybe the gravedigger believes the A-Bomb is the greatest weapon, while the Grim Reaper maintains that it's the spear (as it's killed more people).

>> No.21988674

Rolled 11

Well, why the fuck not?

>> No.21988724

Rolled 10

The real question for me is: Will I actually do it?

>> No.21988735

Rolled 36

OP here.

I accept your challenge.

It shall be a piece of the utmost eloquence, imagery and verbal pleasure flowing and tenderly caressing those hidden parts of your mind like the velvet kiss of a moonlit lover.

Or it will fall flat on its face. Oh well, such is the way of the writefag, I suppose.

>> No.21988738

Rolled 19

I'm in. Let's rock.

>> No.21988739

have you tried writing?
a lot?
like, everyday?

>> No.21988754

Rolled 73

Since it's my first go, I'll reroll and see what else I get... not that "tornadoes plan uprising" isn't hearty food-for-thought by any means.

>> No.21988782

Rolled 87

Well... I'm out of excuses. I'll start working, I promise.

When I was younger, I tried to write Tolkien-esque epics--turns out I don't have the patience, or any sort of muse, that gratifies such an endeavour. It's been many years since, and I want to hone that literary edge again.

>> No.21988785

Rolled 43

I sense potential for a fine dystopia.

>> No.21988813

You have to realize that everything is inspiration. Garrison Keillor put it best. Something along the lines of:
>For the English major knows that all suffering is just inspiration
And I forgot where it went from there because it's been a long long time since that episode of Prairie Home Companion aired. Basically, the point was that graduating as an actor sucks because you will never make the big break, but if you graduate as an English major you'll never be without something to write about.
And then he plugged the Professional Organization of English Majors.

>> No.21988814

>For a given definition of "A writefag is a guy who writes shit for the board much like a drawfag is a guy who draws shit for a board"
Honestly the easiest way to writefag is to participate/lurk in a thread until someone has an amazing idea that you MUST make into a story and share with the world. This is often easier when you can just bang out stories in thirty minutes or less, something that happens only after practice. So just write shit for now.

Wait around for another /tg/ gets shit done thread, and you'll be a writefag in no time.

>> No.21988879

This. All my most well-liked writefaggotry came from someone making a silly comment I just had to turn into a story.

>> No.21988902

>All these threads about writefaggotry tonight
Dammit you guys, quit reminding me about that thing Ive been meaning to write.

>> No.21988917


Inspiration is part of it. The other part of it is just sitting and banging your face into the keyboard for hours, metaphorically speaking. Sometime something comes to you quickly, but a lot of the time the first thirty minutes or so is just warmup, and the rest is just keeping at it.

I'll be honest, some of the work I'm most happy with are snippets for /tg/. Probably because they're short and because it's satisfying seeing someone run with your idea.

>> No.21988926


That is how we got Space Chupacabras last night.

>> No.21988931

Rolled 47

I've contributed to two of them. I had an idea for a scene last night that I've been meaning to write since. I still haven't.
And now I'm using these threads as my excuse for not writing, even though I know full well that they aren't valid excuses.
The cognitive dissonance is strong in me.

>> No.21988966

I have yet to participate in those things.
<s>Ive been meaning to write another thing for the Scraplootas, but I keep putting it off. I might not have anymore excuses tomorrow, depending how sucked in to Zone of Enders I get.</s>

>> No.21989025


To add to this.
Read. Read CONSTANTLY. If you're not writing, you should be reading. If you're not reading, you should be writing or sleeping.
What the fuck are you doing on 4chan? Go write!
Was that an excuse? It's a bad excuse, no matter what it is, but I'll humor you. Fine! Go read!
This is not optional.

>> No.21989064


Just fucking write stuff. There is literally no other thing to do.

Just write. Anything, whatever. You become a good writer by writing.

>> No.21989072

Speaking of reading, garbage in = garbage out until you're actually good enough to create your own garbage. And if you're asking about how to start, you aren't good enough to create your own garbage.

So reading that shitty EmperorxHorus fanfic written by a 12 year old doesn't count.

>> No.21989247


>Horus struggled listlessly against his bonds as the Emperor teased his turgid phallus, licking it up and down with the Holy tongue. He moaned wordlessly as the Emperor traced his puckered hole with a finger from a gold-plated powerfist.
>"Please Emperor-senpai," Horus groaned, "Please conquer my butt like you would a Xeno world." He spread his armor plated legs wider, fully revealing his taint and flushed sphincter to the Emperor's immense pleasure. "Please take my anus-virginity as your own."
>The Emperor smiled upon this work, his "pleasure" throbbing. He stroked his own flaming chainsword, also gold-plated, And pointed it at Horus's darkest eye. "You were always my favorite, Horus-chan."

>> No.21989278

As a writer, believe me it is a lot of hard work. The best advice? Read a lot. The more you read, the better your writing becomes as you steal ideas.

>> No.21989279


Oh god my sides.

>> No.21989302


If you can, we need a Scraplootas story for 'The Traditional Gamer' ezine we're working on.

>> No.21989406

Read a LOT. Also, learn to hate the things you write. You need to view everything you make with contempt; there's nothing worse than a writer that's convinced that their work is good.

Personally find that a good starting point is to find a particularly prolific author and devour their work ad nausium, possibly in audiobook format. Listen to Discworld or Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams's entire works once or twice over, then see what happens when you sit down to write.

If you can develop your own voice, then you're a good ways there. Also, go read TVtropes a lot. And when making characters, less is more. Don't come up with a whole list of categorized traits and backstory badassitude.

Actually...I found a VERY illuminating book on writing was Mogworld, by Ben Croshaw. It was GOOD, but it was written in such a way that I could sort of see it being written as I read it, if you see what I mean. I could reverse-engineer and retrace most of the ideas in it. It was clear that the guy was a huge Douglas Adams and Pratchett fan.

>> No.21989438


>Slowly, the Emperor's Chosen Member entered the unexplored dark depths of Horus's death world. With his powerfist, the Emperor lifted Horus's hips, and with his other hand, he grasp Horus's own chainsword and revved it to the beat of his loving.
>For a while, there was no sound besides the grunting between these two great men and the loud clanking of their armor.
>Then Horus cried out, "Oh Emperor-senpai, it's close, I feel it coming!" The Emperor only nodded in agreement, he would finish quickly as well...
>There was a flash of light, angels sang out in chorus. Horus sighed happily as the Emperor's Will was done.

>> No.21989473

And steal ideas. For the love of the fucking gods, don't try to be super-original. Enough with the unique speshul snowflake edgy crap; just steal ideas from other works.

To put my namefag hat on for a moment, I actually recommend trying to write a short quest; its incredibly creatively challenging, really makes you stretch your legs.

>> No.21989483

picture related; eventually you're head will be full of adjectives and you will metaphorically skip all the way home

>> No.21989504

>> No.21989512

you're? seems i fucked up

>> No.21989525

...Goddamn you. I didn't mean for that to become an example of writefaggotry.

>you're head
This is a terrible idea. Stick to words you know. Learn more words by reading, yes, but if it doesn't come to you naturally, chances are that you will use it wrong. Don't be that writer.

>> No.21989542

I forgot I had this saved

>> No.21989602

This is the greatest thing I have ever seen.
Also relevant.

>> No.21989647

Too fucking true.

>> No.21989947

OP here. Made some sort of... introduction... to... something or other. Tell me how it is, if you'd be so kind.


Many years have passed since that dark age of fire—long, aching expanses of time as the seas dried up, wilting, turning to dust like the ashen remains of a blackened tree. Innumerable days since the heathen hordes, with their draping ochre silks and bodies charred beyond recognition, called forth upon their eldritch masters and set the very oceans awash with flame. Moments beyond count, moments of anarchy, of brother pitted against brother, of sons and daughters murdering fathers and mothers, all driven mad by thirst and that primal urge all living beings share—to survive. All as those ochre-draped creatures stood and watched, preaching that this hell they created was in fact a paradise, that the worthy and the strong would only survive, elevating our race to the pinnacle of physical perfection.

Or perhaps it has only been a week. At the least, that was how long it took for the screams to stop.

Arrid sat on a coarse rock and wiped his brow with the back of his hand—not that it mattered, since his skin had long since ceased to produce water, but old habits die hard just the same. The sun beat furiously upon him, unobstructed by the cloudless sky. Once more, Arrid cursed that merciless blue void. Couldn’t it spare just one breeze—one finger of wind to ferret the grinding warmth from his tortured face? Back when this had all started, Arrid had prayed; prayed to the gods, whatever and whoever they may be, prayed to the spirits, to his ancestors, begging deliverance—Arrid was at times even expectant of an answer, as he had writhed on the ground, face parched and bloodied, skin split and tattered, peeling off like rotting parchment in a book too long spent on the shelf.

>> No.21989960

None came, however—only more of this roaring, infuriating, maddening silence. Arrid refused to put his faith into those smirking tyrants after that. They had not dragged him from the dirt and provided him succour from the blood of a freshly-slain man—Arrid had done so himself. He did not need gods. The priests needed gods, and perhaps a layman to preserve their fetid remains, clinging in rigor mortis to their holy icons that had once promised salvation.

Adjusting his clothes and rubbing his tense calves, Arrid sat up once again, ready to continue that unceasing quest for that holiest of liquids--water.

The rhythmic crunch of sand beneath his boots lulled Arrid into a sort of trance, where his consciousness retreated to reinforce his sanity whilst his legs mindlessly put one foot in front of the other. Arrid had mastered the art as the son of a poacher, in the times where forests still grew tall and green under gentle rains, when he would spend long days traveling alone in complete silence, stalking the game he needed to survive. If he had not, Arrid liked to think he’d be raving naked in the stark waste at this moment, devoid of reason.

>> No.21989975

Arrid contemplated his situation for a while—he had enough food, plenty of dried meat from the remains of kills he had scavenged, cleaned, and set to cook on a rock underneath the relentless midday sun. His water supply, however, was beginning to turn worrisome—the moisture he had perchance dug up those days ago was enough to fill his water bladder to the brim, but Arrid couldn’t carry all that water with him, and it would dry up quickly after a fortnight exposed to the sands—so Arrid needed to find the next likely supply soon.

Arrid was strong. He had to be, to have survived alone this long, and he took some form of pride in the fact. However, there was an aching deep within his soul, one he did his best to cover and ignore—it had been such a long time, and Arrid had never seen a friendly face. Not since he went to sleep in a pleasant glade, hunting fowl, and awoke to this barren blight; not since he had rushed home to find his father dead, mutilated and serving as feed for three wild-eyed madmen with their bones jutting through their taut skin; not since he had stuck his hunting knife through the eye of a raider desperate for the cool quenching treasure he kept at the canteen near his thigh. Arrid had never gotten to set his father into the ground—he could not bear to even look at the gnawed remains, the bones cracked with the marrow sucked dry. He longed for someone else, somebody alive, somebody to talk to—and not somebody he would need to gut in order to preserve his own life.

>> No.21989976

Arrid snapped back to reality. Thoughts like that were dangerous. Arrid had long given up misguided notions of hope, but neither was he willing to sink into utter despair—he held his pragmatism like a shield, always living in the moment, constantly moving to the next target, letting his hard life come as it may. It would do no good to dwell in the past, nor ponder the future. Once again, he blasphemed the sky, slandering the lack of wind. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt its cooling stroke upon his cheeks. Arrid grumbled as he ascended the steps up the cliff, overlooking a vast valley underneath.

It was the ghost of a forest. Skeletons of mighty pines and oaks now stood grey and barren, keeping silent vigil upon the eroded hills they used to rule. Sights like these always inspired a sense of awe in Arrid—they reminded him of the deathless executioner that brought all things to heel: time itself.

>> No.21989982

Something caught Arrid’s eye this time, however. It was an inconspicuous pile of rocks, far into the plateau, not worthy of note at any other time in Arrid’s life—but surviving this purgatory had sharpened his senses and instinct. There was something odd about the shape of the pile. It was highly unlikely that they would have fallen into place in such a grouping, even if they were part of an ancient riverbed.

Arrid immediately drew his knife and glanced about. It would be hard to hide in this graveyard of trees, but there was always the possibility of another hardened survivor lurking close by, and from past experience, they were rarely willing to share. Arrid wasn’t about to pass this chance on a stockpile, though, and so he warily picked his way down through the rocks, deftly navigating his way to his goal in the valley.

>> No.21989993

I write occasionally. I suck, but have had a lot of support from random people who find out I right and demand to read things. I do two things to keep my skills sharp:
1.I fill out character profiles based off of the questions in "The Complete Book of Villians."
2.I put two of the created characters in a small room, come up with something crazy to happen, and just let them chat/fight/whatever. It's a shitload of fun.

>> No.21990124

And that's it.

I'm too tired, and hence not in the mood for sexy-time, so the (heh) "intro" got a hell of a lot longer than I hoped the entire story would be. We didn't even get to meet the girl.

But, like everyone in this thread says, "try, try again."

Night, all. And thanks for your advice!

>> No.21992193

I can't remember the last time I tried to write something, but what I do remember is that every time I try to write something, it turns into a monologue.

<s>And I don't know what to do.</s>

>> No.21992257

Rolled 68

Alright guys, what's going on in this thread?

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