/crit/ - Writing Critique General

I only read the first few lines. Dialog is lively. Descriptions of Willy are a tad stiff. He gets less air-time than the menu.

The unseen world.

The normal things are strange to me,
I am the eye that sees with glee,
the way the things once used to be.
I see the world as it has been,
just as when it was unseen,
All colors are still clean,
Nothing there to smear the scene.
But when I look a second time, it fades away like gey to spite,
my wish for it to explode again, like dynamite,
of impressions for my own delight.
What is seen once, is never seen again.
It vanishes,
now just scenery.
It dies, never seen again.
And so I wish,
I had an eye that would again, see the thing I forgot.
Let me see again like it was on the first time.
And so I wonder:
What lurks in the corner?
Did I forget?
What is in my cabinet?
Maybe It lurks in the corner, it's sight unbearable, it's sight beautiful,
but I am blind.

(English is not my first language)
Imagery is heavy handed at times.
No distinct voice, difficult to read aloud.
Rhyming oftentimes feels forced.

The abstractness isn't helping you. The length might also be problematic.
Try to write shorter poems. Try to use everyday imagery.

Example:

A lady pays a portrait
I paint her in my style
Pour love in every wrinkle
Alas, she thinks it vile.

I’ll paint her smooth as marble
And lie with every stroke
Deny her single beauty...
...atleast I wont go broke.

I do not care,
I should not care.
But still I do, yet do I dare?
It's not my pie,
love is a lie,
I stay alone, 'till when I die.

Thanks for the advice. I will definetly take that into account for my next poem.

free bird

a bird who likes to sing,
sits up here, and does its thing.
A woman climbs up to its stage,
and offers up a silver cage:
"My bird", she says, "I love your song,
Is there somewhere you belong?"
The bird is free and answers "no".
the woman's pleased, yet even though,
the bird flies off and disappears,
leaving her alone in tears.

4 Yea Forums

Enter darkness
Leave the place that you know and
Enter darkness
Couple drinks down ya
Couple drinks down ya
Couple more
Couple more
Then you pause
Life a little hazy
The dark a little less scary
And the music just begins to resonate through your body
And for a moment you lose yourself in the drinks and the dance
And then she's there
She walks up to you
Hand on your shoulder
Scarlett, in your ear
Vodka in the air
And then slowly
Slowly
Slowly
You are dancing with a girl

The images and ideas are tangible and simple.
But the meter is jolty.
The sentences are convoluted.
And the structure, too, is convoluted.
A poem like crooked branches.

Why not a clean 2x4 structure?
Why not a clean meter?

Some words, phrases and lines seem like stains on a white tablecloth.
The "sits up here", or the woman climbing (up the tree), or dropping the word "stage", or the lines 5&6 and 8&9.

Make it shorter and even more to the point.

What's going on with the pic.

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The tears filled up his glass, swirling down the crystal edge and floating on top of the off brand brandy, Billy had not taken a single sip before he started to contaminate the drink with the overfilled culmination of his life’ unfulfillment, he hadn’t cried in 7 years, if anyone would notice him in this instance, and no one did, the people around him were busy with themselves and each other, they would probably laugh or jeer, like they had done in the past. Billy cradled his head, as holding in a shriek from his forehead. It was a physical force, like a horn or growth tearing off the skin and protruding, marking him as the ghoulish creature he saw in the mirror everyday. The smoke from the people’s cigars and cigarettes danced around his knuckles and the glint of his eye penetrated the open distance between his fingers like a bullet in a barrel. Billy clenched his being and thought, “What was to be done?”.

Why

not the guy who responded to you before, but it comes off pretentious as fuck, and the fact that you neglected exposition so there's no context does not help. it seems as if you SHAT out the dialogue, said "hey that sounds vaguely stylistic" and pressed 'Post'

Bryce's dialogue is great and contrasts well with the main character and his very passive demeanor. I enjoyed his nonchalance after being kicked out of a bar. As the end of the excerpt grew closer though Willy says 'fuck' too much for my taste. Maybe it's from years of reading peoples edgy characters, but having a character that swears all the time becomes tedious imo. Like, okay, I get it, they're unpolished. Keep it in the back pocket. That's more personal pref though.

First of all, break up your sentences. Full of comma splices.
I'm gonna be a bit mean here, but did this not feel cliche to you when you wrote it? From this paragraph all I can glean is that it's yet another story about a sad spiteful man at a bar. It's boring and we've read it countless times before. My advise to Billy is to get over himself. Try writing about something else, user, something that you don't think you know how to write.

I'll admit you got me hooked with this first page. I wanna know what happens. I liked what imagery I could pick up and I like Mary for some reason, but the prose itself is clunky. Some grammar, spelling, and syntax mistakes, yes, but also just feels a bit messy. Go through and re read it very carefully. In the second to last paragraph you repeat "hot and humid" air twice in a row.

>>ME
I'm posting my own now in 2 parts. About 2200 words you might have to zoom in since I formatted it to tabloid paper for the fuck of it. I've already posted in /crit/ twice with no luck. Please help an user out.

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(2/2)

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The name dropping in this passage is grating. It feels like a Yea Forums version of Ready Player One.

He's an engraver that illustrates classic literature. How else do you propose I establish that quickly? I understand your complaint and it is reasonable so I will happily accept any suggestion you might have.

Then maybe reduce the amount described because the passage drags on longer than it needs to--particularly if it's not entirely pertinent to the immediate plot. Maybe just mention the books and limit the descriptions of the scenes they depict.

I will consider it. There's a clue in there that is extremely relevant later and I wanted to bury it with other details but I could tone it down.

>Valenberg

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the protag is indeed jewish

I appreciate you, but you don't understand the power of Billy just yet, and that is my fault for being vague

Hurtful but helpful

If you're going to defend your writing by saying "you don't get the full picture" then don't just post your most whiny paragraph.

You have a whiny tone, i merely stated that Billy is above your brainlet grasp

My WIP is slowly progressing, this is from a different section I wrote recently since I'm working on different parts as they strike me.

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>I'll admit you got me hooked with this first page. I wanna know what happens.
I'm glad, you like it. Though I'm on the fence if I should make it anti-climatic

>I liked what imagery I could pick up and I like Mary for some reason, but the prose itself is clunky.
I'll make sure I fix the Prose later on
>Some grammar, spelling, and syntax mistakes, yes, but also just feels a bit messy. Go through and re-read it very carefully.
Don't worry, I'm working on that. I just would rather finish my draft first.

>In the second to last paragraph, you repeat "hot and humid" air twice in a row.
Thanks for telling me, didn't catch that.

Also, keep up with your story, It's good and interest, though I gotta ask, are you the writer of the Ambien Dreams on the last /crit/ thread?

Yeah that was me lol. Why?

Fucking great. Would buy if you are publishing your works

>Alas no heed was paid
This kinda seems out of place. Either contain this old timey speech to the dialogue or go all-in with it in the narration. Overall bretty gud tho. Reminds me of Grimms' fairy tales, but that may be because most of my work this semester had been focused on them.

Dumping the rest of this story

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You're asking us to read 14 pages when you haven't offered crit on a single post?

yes

It's shit and you're a bad writer.

Sorry, if the first four hadn't gotten some interest I wouldn't have posted the rest.

This was really fascinating to read. They style is strange, but there's nothing wrong with it, it feels very antique. The dialogue feels like completely unreal but I suspect it was meant to, to evoke a fairy tail or whatever.

The subject is extremely original and well handled, though I'm not sure how far you will be able to take. Writing reminds me of DFW in a good way.

Not a good judge of poetry, but the message and subject are simply erroneous, there is porn targeted at your tastes, simply by virtue of how much porn there is.

This is very interesting, it made me think of Yea Forums as the bar, a place that comforts you and sucks you in, a familiar place. The dancing with a girl bit threw that out the window though.

That wasn't me. See

it's just a lot of content and this whole thing doesn't work without some level or parity. you crit my back i crit yours.

i mean these threads barely work as it is so don't be too hard on yourself, but also 14 pages is kinda a lot

Dancing with a girl is a metaphor

yeah, we know

Then what is the metaphor alluding to

Not sure where to put this, but does anyone have tips on writing dialogue? Mine always comes off as aimless or rushed.

a little confused on the transition from the dinner with Mr. Bryce to the bar crawl/park. When I read "He did afterward" I assumed he was drinking with Mr. Bryce and was still with him as you never mention him leaving. Why is he so hostile to the girl? If he was willing to approach her and help her it seems uncharacteristic for him to curse her out like that. I liked the dialogue and line about "snapping fingers off like twigs"

Bryce dropped him after dinner. I guess I should clear that up. As for the hostility to the girl, he’s witnessing something inexplicable (this is unironically a ghost story) and he reacts with rage/confusion. He’s also drunk and just had his artistic ambitions crushed.

No

Goddess please bless my own labia beef
And speed to my gash sturdy flaps as its wreath
Do spirit our cunts from all sexual grief
And to you we promise our every climax and queef

Your powers make the glisten inside of our sheath
And in your name we sing these pleasures beneath
Though soggy and soiled our snatches and flaps
There's none so holy as our va-jay-jay gaps
We seek only those phalli that draw such applause
Without foreskin or blemish or circulatory flaws
Into our vaginal maws we stuff them to gorge
And deliver the Fempire by this our yonic forge

Goddesses of the Yonic, help my words I do pray
So that to herstory comes news of such sexual fray
Where coital mileage dwarfed the greatest whores of yore
And grizzled each my sisters' chaste peaches to gore

These sisters won such great acclaim by their story
Their spread legs and agape cheeks beckoning Glory
Barely battened crowds were thusly mad with lust
Setting upon any woman like the wind's fickle gust
To our sisters bodies the men drew their best pucker
To kiss, lick and win the best body-part sucker
But woe to those tongues that knew any taste of our snizz
And suffered no allergies when sprayed with female fizz
Because darkly hides a monster in each our cunt floccules
A certain face-melting disfigurement alights from but one globule

I usually post and critique in return, but here’s a poem by someone I know. Tell me what you think.
I like him, I just want to expose him to critique outside his echo chamber.

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Some of my own for the sake of not seeming like a cunt. I’ll try drop re-crits,but I’m pretty drunk

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Anyone ever stay up at night wondering if their poetry sucks? Serious answers only, I know this thread will get down voted.

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No.

No why would we do that?

>Not a good judge of poetry, but the message and subject are simply erroneous, there is porn targeted at your tastes, simply by virtue of how much porn there is.
Poem is a satire, user.

Do you really think this would be enough?

Yes, I often spend all night trying to see the mistakes, make corrections and improve it in general.

Hey nerds, I'm new here and I'm looking for some good books about how to write, thanks in advance dorks

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Of all the words in the English language “hello” and all its variants stirred within Meeker the most anxiety by a country mile. Just to say it he would quiver and melt in his unending unease. It seemed as if all he did was worry that he was a bother to the world, and greeting, he thought, was by far the most annoying act he committed. “Hey” sat in the text box as his eyes timorously contemplated the Send button, the screen probing him in return, making his pupils shake with such force they could have detached themselves from their host body and fled at any second.

Unfortunately I don't think feminists are as obsessed with pussy as they used to be, sorry.
I like it, but the thought of wearing "illness like pearls" makes it come across as a plea for attention rather than a genuine feeling.

The Elements of Style is a good starting place to get a good foundation of technical skills.

What edition I should get?, any other recommendations?
I'm planing to write a graphic novel (I'm a drawfag) based on Nabokov and Margaux Fragoso works

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Light's pouring through the stained glass & eclipsing his skin in pale glow, settling in the room to illuminate oak cabinets, mismatched rugs on the floor, someone's chest atop a dresser. His head tips back, takes in the arched ceiling. Boy whistles at the height. Admires the mural there, he's wondering if it's a leftover from the previous owner(s).

"alright, so. hm." Now, he's trying to figure out his share of the dorm. *Ahead of time*, so negotiations with this, 'Sylas', wouldn't drag on for long. "i hope the guy is nice," muttered, while he sits on the left-side bed with a bounce. "or at least like, tolerable." His back hits the mattress, his body sinks in nicely, & he's all, 'yeah'. 'maybe this'll work'. Maybe this can be home, at least for a bit.

Then the room darkens, clouds passing across the sun he's guessing.

how is this so far
also this line in particular is bugging me
>& eclipsing his skin in pale glow
what does it bring to mind when you read it? like, what do you see

The sun goes down
the sky goes up
the streets dry up by noon
beaming skies;they sweat me up
dawn with the papermache sun
as if I ever looked enough to know
the constant sound of the busy streets;
pass me a malboro
dusk with the waving orchids, they never move
lugubrious chills
the asphalt never smells at night
wandering with glass eyes till dusk dries me up
the constant sound of the dreaded life
never ever

I'll have your gonads for a necklace, when Fempire comes.

It's meh.

putting so much emphasis on actions becomes tiresome to read and hearts the flow

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Are you going to critique

I fell asleep through night 1. Overwritten and quite boring.

Based

>"look at me special little snowflake"
>"i'm not like those other guys"
>tasteful and discerning blah blah blah

for fuck's sake learn how to write a sentence. a pleasing, varied, musical, imaginative sentence.

>very first word
>when the main verb in your sentence is the apostrophe in a contraction
dropped immediately

>I am of fever
yeah no. get better verbs, chicklit central

1) pull from real life where you can, to make it sound more authentic
2) every line of dialogue should advance the reader's understanding of at least one character: his story, beliefs, motivations, desires

this is fun to read aloud, i wrote it last night:

at least you got a pal in me, see, thats an adavantage
that a.m.'s dont have in tuning out what it is thats worthless
of you. an audible maddness, the flabbiest crashes of unworked
arms slopping out mucuous from which nostril it is
that youve been familiar
with, your sinched up garments,
those karmics, lipped on carmex, and what garnets
are laced upon that wrist of yours. harshness,
parcelled out into bracelets
on the dollar two bus scence, their deaths'
means are masked into bounding for you. hopping
into settings of any sun's bet
upon pupils, mute but the crucial meeting
of poop holes. spoonfulls loosen
what troops are cooled, uncouth
mooses are charging, and
outside minds the beast will rise
up and be harmless
as the baloons cry out and do, recite
as they do about whats tired and used
and whatever it is your ideals are moods,
and here they are moved, and here i have focused
on formations of fists that make up the image
of faces
you've fused, to experience, flaw,
that which
youre gnawing for substance, the bones and crushed bits
are lines
that purple upon which
interpretation it is
that you've been focused,
been flawed, to piece this
poem is paws
on which bones have substance, what
is this,
dawg, a sis? ah, no, miss, my
man, you are my dan, my
favorite sebast-ion,
lessen it all and just let it to fester.
a wound is infected, and let it to fester.
mold
upon memory
i
make all forgett...

alluding to your diary t b h. because that's the only place a girl would dance with you. an hero strongly implied

what?

Here's one I'm working on, it's a little spotty as it stands:

'The Hosts of Heaven'
In April, fair, one evening there, all the stars flowering

Before the dawn, the heavens yawned, spreading their milky pastures

O'er the black canvas sky, leering over embrasures

Where a guardsman tall basked in the fall of heaven's showers
Weeping on high, each star is an eye, spread o'er the cold firmament

Blinking rain tears, piercing like spears, the tar-black canopy

Each twinkling eye a candle aflame brought here to guide thee

And the guardsman tall, weathers diamond drops, heaven-sent
To bathe him in their glistening damp, while the watchfire

Hisses as a serpent's hatchling, dancing, weaving withal;

Winking, seeming to those watching above, an eye, so small

An amber eye, atop the tower, waving from the spire
The eyes above are many, boring as the guardsman nods

Huddled, birdlike, stoking the flames with lichen-skinned logs

Of the fires of the hosts of heaven he's but one, a cog

Lost among the rafters of a sky temple wrought by Gods.

gibe feedback pls

There are dreams that bear no impression of being dreamt: dreams which, upon waking, are swept again under the folds of memory’s abysms and clefts. It is always the same dream, or always of the same sort. If, whether by chance or by will, one happens to retain any record of his dream’s fleeting contours or the sensations of radiance that flash before the waking dreamer’s rising sight, its secretive forms may be transcribed like the unearthing of an archaic book with some language familiar, sonorous, illegible. I knew once of a man who had done just so, although never intimately and many years ago. He was already quite old when I first encountered him, and his age conformed about his body and brows as might well-worn leather. He was of normal stature but gaunt, with a head so sharp and defined it seemed artisanally carven; his lips were thin, indeed hardly noticeable from underneath his aquiline nose that glid into high protruding cheekbones and further toward his pointed, dogged ears. He held a constant grimace, as though sound itself amounted to a single shrill tone, and a pair of perfectly sunken green eyes, I remember, that pierced out from their city walls of cartilage and bone. He was, in other words, a perfect german despite his flemish descent.

That's not very constructive.

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-Incredibly boring first "paragraph." It's poorly executed scene setting imo. You're just throwing details of the room at the reader without need or any particular reason.
-I can't tell if you're trying a gimmick or you just have terrible grammar and syntax. Anyone is going to assume the latter. Why do people always try to do gimmicks...
-That second paragraph is a trainwreck. Who taught you how punctuation works?

>& eclipsing his skin in pale glow
This line is the least of your worries, dude. But whatever, here we go:
It's a bad line. Firstly you're talking about light from the stained window falling on him. Eclipse pretty exclusively refers to the blocking of light, you know, like an eclipse does. Disregarding that, the "pale glow" part is also just wrong. You're talking about a stained glass window. Stained glass' whole entire point is that it's colorful (I know that this isn't always the case, but stained glass in the eyes of most readers is going to be colorful). Why is the stained glass casting a pale light?
I get that you think this line sounds nice, but it just doesn't work. Try something else.

I get that you're trying to be impressive, but it's hard to take it seriously when you write with your nose that high in the air while simultaneously fucking up your grammar and sentence structure so often. I think you would annoy me as a person irl.

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Not him but as an unrelated question, how do you go about improving grammar, sentence structures?

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>I get that you're trying to be impressive, but it's hard to take it seriously when you write with your nose that high in the air while simultaneously fucking up your grammar and sentence structure so often.
Can you give me examples? I'd like to actually know where you start to hate it as opposed to just having a vague idea

Reading out loud and listening to lit is good too for training your ear. I like the NYer's Fiction podcast a lot. Writers reading and talking about other writers' writing.

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by going to school as a child i imagine

Procession three
Anti-femur cleric
Twenty years reformed
Walks to stage-center.
At non-existent podium
Struggles to maintain her straight and narrow
Placates worried specks
Through cracked expression
Cracked by specter-consultant
Specter-reduced by vision of future headline:

Christmas morning
Nineteen years past
Terrorists
Grudge match
One pro-femur cleric
*Crack*
Writes in her proactive leger
*Crack, crack*
In Times New Roman:

The emboldened front will spread through open doors and their policies.

You know what. I was just being an asshole and dismissed it out of hand because you have some fuck ups in your figurative language. I was in a hating mood after going through that first one I critiqued. Giving you a fair shake now to amend and because I need practice in not being a dick when critiquing. Zip zap zop:

I wanna start by saying, that, in general, what you posted doesn't really hold weight. As it is now, it just reads as you describing a common phenomena (not remembering dreams) and then an old man's face. Without the context of why you're doing this it's a bit hard to nail down just what is and isn't important within this, making it doubly hard to know where to cut. Also you read as very "thesaurus happy" if you catch my drift.

I think you'd do well to read that Orwell essay "Politics and the English Language." It's pretty basic, yeah, and his 6 rules aren't exactly commandments (as he says himself), but I still think you might stand to gain from reading it. Mainly from his second rule "Never use a long word where a short one will do." This is what I was referring to in saying "You're trying to be impressive." If you cut words and used shorter ones, I think a lot of your sentences would flow better and you'd have more freedom.

>There are dreams that bear no impression of being dreamt
If you're establishing dreams as an ethereal and ungraspable entity, then they shouldn't be the one bearing anything. Dreams leave no impression of being dreamt is more accurate, the dream shouldn't be actively doing anything.

>swept again under the folds of memory’s abysms and clefts.
These terms are good for making one think of folds in a brain and everything, but "abysms?" C'mon. Just use chasms. "memory's chasms and clefts" nice and lyrical and you're using words that people actually use.

>It is always the same dream, or always of the same sort.
fine.

>retain any record of his dream’s fleeting contours or the sensations of radiance that flash before the waking dreamer’s rising sight
What I'm trying to get at mainly is that you have these really involved sentences that are too densely packed to have no real rhythm in them. I'm personally against using language like this, but if you're going to you have to keep it clean. Clean, again, meaning you have to follow some kind of rhythm. A good piece of writing to inform how to do that is "Seeing" by Annie Dillard from her book "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek". You can find a pdf with a quick google search. She has very dense sentences, tightly packed with heavy descriptors but sticks to a pattern and rhythm that guides the reader through the thicket of words. Without that rhythm you're just throwing word soup at people.

I don't really care about the rest of it. The term "show don't tell" sort of applies here. Also, I'm out of space. thanks for the target practice.

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Dude thanks! I'll check it out the Dillard piece asap. I thoroughly agree with the thesaurus happy comment. I've recently just been infatuated with Calvino's writing, particularly invisible cities, because he's able to write with this lightness and fancifulness and longevity that I find pretty lacking in my normal writing style, which I sometimes think is pretty dry and straight. This was a sort of emulation practice.

Again, thanks for the thoroughness dude.

Holy shit lmao my first post I was going to clown on you and only say
>Reads Calvino once

>terrible grammar & syntax
can you explain?

I'm not about to literally teach you grammar.

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please

I took a dusty road today
And passed one freshly paved
And at my destination
Masters looked the same as slaves

The wind howled at me cruelly
As it did for everyone
So I felt no pride or anger
Like those underneath the gum

I walked into the graveyard
Cheap tobacco in my papers
And I smoked until I felt as dry
As all my future neighbours

"An Erotic Couplet"

We had intercourse; I wish you could have seen us
I was assaulted by a horse who had a two-foot penis

Laughed heartily in real life, can't wait to tell the boys at work this one

Shame you didnt get it but I understand that you need to project your depression onto others because otherwise you would actually kys; idk man, it's a bit selfish that you just dont tho. You dont need to be jealous of people on Yea Forums bud :)

it's not my cup of tea

hmm

fantastic

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stop listening to tom waits or whatever impression you're gett-- fuck it, you won't

"I'd drag my nuts through a mile of broken glass just to breathe the same air as her."
Guys used to meme shit like that just to show how much they liked a girl.
Would they really have though? Some of them sure, maybe even most of them.
If they felt that strongly about someone they've never met, then how can I be so hesitant...?
Of course I'm scared. Everyone is... It's alot worse than glass out there and the distance is alot longer than a mile.
Anyone would be afraid to make the trip. But then I think of her, and I'm afraid not to.

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Bood

Bodor

Hoot

Rooble

Dorf

(Critique welcome)

Please don't judge me for writing something trashy. I just want to know where I am with the dialog and hope that I'm not making any big mistakes. Most of this is going to get cut anyway.

(1/3)

>For as long the semi-hairless apes that we call humans have existed, we have had a knack for learning. Time and time again this skill has proved so valuable that millennia of natural selection have selectively bred us to learn fast, start early, and screw up as much as humanly possible just so that we have an excuse to learn more. As luck would have it, I may be a bit of a prodigious case, because upon waking up that morning I learned two new facts before even bothering to open my eyes.
>Firstly, I had a roommate; and second, he's kind of an asshole.
>By now I'm sure you're bedazzled by my powers of deduction, but allow me to explain my reasoning and you'll see that really, this is a perfectly logical assumption that just about anyone could come to with a bit of thought. The first evidence I had to process was that when I woke up that morning was my blanket, which was now suspiciously heavy over my chest and arms as if someone had piled a mass of laundry on top of my bed with me still in it. In addition, there were a few small points of weighted rigid wood, which based on their rectangular arrangement were almost certainly the legs of chairs that had been used to top off the crap pile. The second, and more subtle point of evidence was the brief moment where one of the chairs was lifted up so that a garment of irrelevant variety was extracted, and carefully replaced so that one of legs was rested gently on my right nostril.
>The chair clattered to the floor when I sat up, eliciting a conciliatory sidestep from Jean, who was had just finished pulling on an unnecessary outer layer. “My god,” he said dramatically, “he lives.”
>“Unfortunately,” I said pushing back the covers. I had apparently gone to bed fully clothed last night. Even my socks were still on. “Which way to the can?”
>“First door on the left.”
>The door opened on a girl's room. There was a brief flash of skin and a squeak of surprise before I slammed the door shut shot a glare back into the room behind me.
>“Stage left.” He corrected.

(1/3)

(2/3)

My necessities taken care of I splashed some water on my face from the sink. Instantly the gash on my head started burning and it struck me that the sink had martinis on tap. The other knob let ink out of the faucet, so with resignation I mopped my face off with my sleeve and headed down the stairs to see what, if anything, the breakfast situation was.

I was greeted by a burbling noise from emanating from the entrance hall as I made my way into the lounge. It was accompanied by the shrill hiss of steam and the crackle of a wood fire that sounded to me like the most beautiful sonata a man could expect to experience upon returning from his 8 A.M. dump. The muse of the barista. The pencil-pusher's best friend. Coffee.

A crazy straw of twisted copper branched off from a whale of a kettle. The jury-rigged assemblage snaked about in lazy arcs before finally decanting into an unattended coffee cup resting on a counter a few feet away. My hand was inches from from the mug when the gears in my head groaned back into motion.

“I wouldn't drink that if I were you,” Emma remarked, not even bothering to look up at me from the paper in front of her.

“What,” I asked, “you guys don't blind yourselves recreationally? The hell do you do for fun around here?”

“Talk… Explore… Draw maps… Sometimes I get on the roof and watch the stars fall out of the sky one by one.”

“Huh,” I said, looking back at the still. “That doesn't really explain why you guys are running a bootlegging operation in here.”

“We don't have anything that qualifies as water coming out of our taps, so this was a solution to extract it through reverse-distillation. It's pretty effective when we start with the hard liquor instead of the ink, but it comes out kind of fruity tasting and there's a lot of water lost to the runoff.”

“What do you do with the stuff that's left over?” As I said this a blonde girl of maybe sixteen squeezed past me and took the coffee cup in hand.

“Yonk!” She said in a nasally voice before gulping it like a trout.

“Morning Amber.” Emma said with a noticeable sigh.

“Welcome back from the exdepition. Do we have anything to eat in this biz-nitch?”

My stomach gave a growl of camaraderie.“Actually, I was going to ask the same thing. What is the food situation around here? Do you guys have stuff in the house? I mean, with the water situation being what it is, this sounds kind of serious, but I don't know what the deal is with this place. Like, is the flatiron district made of strip steak or something?”

“I wish. Meat isn't exactly easy to come by here. We're lucky if one of us can catch a dog once a month that hasn't been corrupted too badly to eat. Someone must have hit the jackpot while I was gone while I was gone because because we had some jerky left over left over from a bramblestag… but unfortunately it seems your roommate took the last strip.”

(2/3)

(3/3)

>“So what then? Fruits? Vegetables? Seeds? Cyanide capsules?”
>“Whatever we can get our hands on,” She said, pulling a mason jar over filled with what looked like a few tiny slivers of obsidian glass. “But for the most part, we supplement our diet with this. We call it mana,” She held one of the shards out to me so the light caught it on its edge. The thing didn't look any less like glass up close than it did from few feet away, but in the sun I could see that it wasn't black like I first thought but rather an intensely dark blue.
>“So what?” I said taking the fleck from her hand “You just swallow this when you run out of food and hope to got it perforates your colon so you have a way out of this mess?” Amber broke down in a fit of snorts and giggles that I might have appreciated if she didn't sound severely congested.
>“You don't need to worry, it dissolves in water pretty easily. Here, just put the piece in your mouth and I'll show you.”
>Well, it was better than nothing I guessed. I slipped the fragment onto my tongue and immediately noticed the taste. It was like black licorice but but less sweet and more bitter. I immediately swallowed it to get past the taste, but it laid a snail trail of nasty down the back of my tongue. “Well, I remarked, “at least I get to starve to death with my mouth tasting weird.”
>“Just give it a minute or two and then try to focus your mind on not feeling hungry anymore.”

(3/3)

It's eloquent without being too purple, but it also sounds really conceited

I don't listen to Tom Waits

What do you mean exactly?

In freezing Denver the signal's sent
Across the prairie, tallgrass bent
The trainmen know just what is meant

The porters lift the steps and lock the doors
In the last car, whiskey pours

And the 4-8-4, last of her kind
Begins at last to unwind

Though the swirling snow does bite
Steam and steel split the night

And In the river dockyards
Ice-covered cranes stand as guards

The old bridge's girders strain
But take the weight of another train

The Pullman's dim lights flicker
A businessman wonders if that's just liquor

Climbing westward the engine takes up the slack
Making her best speed on the single track

Telegraph poles by the roadbed extend
To both horizons, end to end

The night darkens, rain makes sleet
A farmer prays for his winter wheat

Clapboard houses glow yellow within
Ill-served by walls so thin

Branch lines and stations wait
For their demolition date

But as the storm blows a squall
They give the express one final high-ball

In the cab the engineer takes in the view, the wash of steam in sky black-blue
Whispering 'if there had to be a last one, I'm glad it's you."

Have you been reading Dylan Thomas? If not, consider reading him, you might like his style and learn from it.

Quite affected, but I like it a lot anyway.

Thank you.

It’s funny you say it’s affected since I don’t really read poetry and have idea what I’m doing other than a deep and abiding love for trains.

So the affectation is not intended.

I haven't actually read much poetry at all to be honest, I usually try to write novels/short fiction but have some rough writers block at the moment, thought I'd try something new

Thanks for the tip I'll check him out

Oh, Rosechu, you are as beautiful as a rose,
though a Zapbud is the flower that heals your woes.

You shock me with your electrifying radiance,
If I evolve into your knight, I will protect you with my lance.

Speed makes no difference, though you are slower than I,
You dance in a field with such grace and style. Sigh...

I will run great distances for thee,
For I can run very fast and get a strained knee.

Rosey, as often as birds tweet,
will you be my lovely heartsweet?

A rose in the afternoon isn't the same as a rose in the morning but in fact its just a little off settling seeing the sky a dark blue melancholy when i'm at the shoreline of a busy street rather then me being at an actual shoreline because i'm thinking too much about how to paint a wall the right color when i'm trying to pick out what to not wear in the morning but i'm just trying to peak over at the coffee I laid down on my table just because I wanted to drink something unusual when I actually wanted to do nothing for the rest of the day but that's just me wanting to actually do something instead of just walking in a line I never made myself from just reading the newspaper at the middle of a street that I never wanted to be on but that's just be being poise.

Gonna publish?

I really liked this though I think one or two words/conjunctions could be chosen a little better

Moon split open and souls spilt out. Inside,
A month of unutterable lunacy
Dancing in a fancy, half-lucid airlessness.
Two births return to cradle and mother’s lap,
Wail like wild till shadow tucks them in.
Father caught them wide-eyed and white
No tears, no softness, rough voice no lull to sleep
The little horrors; only an empty breast.

Is it worthy of that?

I was walking in the country one evening, when looking down I noticed that the ground was miles away beneath my feet. Oh, how I longed to lay with cool earth beneath my shoulders, so that I might look down on the stars.

My dick is big, and it keeps getting bigger,
That's because I'm 12 inches deep in a nigger.
Gun in her mouth, finger on the trigger
Ridin' that bitch like I'm a big-rigger

not really

Alone, I count
The fireflies
That pass.

Waiting
For the light
To thicken,
Knowing
Work is slow.

Morning turns
To morning,
Whispers something
In its ear.

I’m waiting
For the train
To pass.

I’m waiting
To be ready
To wait.

The gravel path
Shows us the roads
We know—

A dump of lumber
Smoothed
By fine-grained
Ballads.

Intimate ghost,
You drain
From my cup
Like a leaf
Falling free
From a dream.

Hide in the hollow trunk
of the willow tree,
its listening familiar,
until, as usual, they
cuckoo your name
across the fields.
You can hear them
draw the poles of stiles
as they approach
calling you out:
small mouth and ear
in a woody cleft,
lobe and larynx
of the mossy places.

The Compromise

If you insist
on calling me
an idiot-savant,
I'll meet you
half-way there.

Maybe
no one's
done
barracudas
yet...

the opening 899 words from my forthcoming novel. will crit for crit with anyone.

Attached: opening 01.png (3840x2160, 794K)

gonna start off with a couple of quick crits

I don't think the ending hit hard enough here. Might be a regional thing but "being poise" doesn't ring any bells for me. With such a long-winded stream of narration the last clause has to hit hard, and this didn't. I also found some of the action being described to be replaceable, such as peaking over the coffee. Why would you peak over at a cup of coffee?

>abysms and clefts
come on man
>rising sight
this is somewhat nonsensical and a pain to read. dreadful, to be honest.

Can I rant here?
I'm so tired and so afraid of the future
I have a strong desire to create something on par or greater than Silent Hill and its music
I don't know how to encase that sense of strange dread into words though

Can writings truly scare someone?
I keep reading, but nothing's happening. I'm not scared.

Well fed pup—-pregnant pup

The sheer number of sentences beginning with the word "I" is physically exhausting. I could not be fucked to read anymore beyond these two pages. Your writing, unfortunately, sounds like the musings of someone who lacks self-awareness, someone who is totally engrossed in himself. And the almost-complete absence of other characters, other subjects, really hits this point home. You need to break away from the first person a bit more. You need to vary your sentences. "I verb noun, I verb noun" is a dreadful pattern.

I don't know, but a lot of worse stuff gets published, of course.

Welp I'll delay the suicide then

what horror have you read?
I recommend Cortazar's "casa tomada"

How is this as an opening scene? Is it too short? I'm thinking of introducing the other boy and his name by shifting the point of view to his, and have the story continue like that. I'm still not too sure where I want to take this but I do have a general theme lined out that'd I'd like to explore. My first time writing anything since like middle school fiction wise, so bad writing is expected. I'm hoping for this to be a short story, a couple of pages at most.

--It's fucking cold out here, too cold, how much longer do we even have?
--I know it's cold, but do you see me with a blanket? We have as long as we have so don't bug anymore.
--I'll "bug" as much as I want, you brought us out here, it's your fault.
--You got just as excited over the hearing radio as I did. We have to find him, whoever he is. How else can we know?

Down they went a silent and muddy river. It was polluted with a mixture of trash and human carcasses and gave off a sickly smell resembling a mixture of oil and feces. As the older boy John rowed the small wooden canoe on down he did his best to avoid all the waste but inevitably he'd come to a densely packed section of garbage and carcasses stretching across so that he was forced to humiliate the dead. Each side of the channel was littered with the remains of broken down buildings, all being exact concrete copies of each other. There was never any furniture mixed in or office supplies or any other business apparatus, you only saw some portion of an empty building standing while the rest lay in rubble. The days were overcast and cold with a sharp wind adding to the misery but the boys had virtually no protection against it, only with the bare minimum, that being faded t-shirts and black jeans. Though they did have one small blanket which was more like a large rag than being a thick warmer.

bump

I really like this work. The characterization is top notch and the angel isn’t offputting. Reminds me of the story of the girl selling matches in a way, with success instead of material comfort. The only thing that brought me out of the immersion was the term OD. I don’t think that abbreviation was in common usage into the mid 1980’s, and I was imagining a 70’s NYC with the “losers” on the streets.

Thanks man, seriously. I feel bad for dumping the whole thing on this thread I realize that probably wasn't appropriate but it's nice to get some positive feedback.

What term would have been used instead of OD?

expanding it into “overdosed”, dead, wiped out, or whatever creative but blunt way you could say it.

A planet, the war. Helmets and arms. The oppressors disembark into the fields of wheat enriched with blood of the previous skirmish. Kill the rebels and go home, knowing the rebels think the same. Doesn’t matter, we’re not them. Thermal optics on. Shoulder the railguns at the horizon broken by farmhouses. Huff the respirator. They live in the farmhouses and now they die in the farmhouses.

House 1. Elderly couple. Uncooperative. Wounded rebel in the barn. Bonus pay for live ones, but not worth the hassle. Shot in the head. Oldies identified and reported for future police excursion. Empires don’t run on corpses but their property needs young hands. Not looking good for them.

House 2. Had an armed runner. Dead.

House 3.

House 4.

House 5. Recovered the corpses of our guys. Arms, armor, and scalps missing.

Hamlet cleared. Aerial transport for egress. Easy day today. Neptuary 7, 3000.

> would like to get some critique on lit
> i only write in russian
i should finally man up and start writing in other languages.

You should

Nocturnal is

Sun who riseth onto heavenly bodies
In lapse of concious thought
Our palms move forthright and upwards towards the Moon, who is wanted
She as the creator of what is misunderstood

Honesty is admitting
That I long to know her

As I am familiar now
with He who asks what is gone

The wise
are keen to remind
Power is and was
merely forgotten

Still
all is quiet
In somnus

>somnus
Final Fantasy 15, truly was disappointing.

Estraderm, Aldactone, Zoloft, Cannabis; gelcap rainbows smother my vanity. What’s his name? Summer. I have to sort the pills into neat little piles, hidden under the eye of the Logitech 3.0 Webcam. Courteous to have them out of frame. What I do for Summer is performance art; the pill exists behind the scenes. I am about to feel special. I am about to make seventy five dollars.

Why do you talk?

I'd like to block,
your screeching voice before you mock,
the things that are so far beyond your reach,
it's funny that you even screech.
I'll never understand your mind,
how stupid can be one of our kind?

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The old man stood at the window looking out at faces he did not recognise, people he could not love. Young and old, wealthy or poor, all had been touched by the change which swept through the city like a wind of death. And indeed, there were fewer in the streets than before; it was morning and he counted from his window only a dozen or so, all fleet-footed and buzzing. Each departed as the day drew on—he heard them chattering amongst themselves, speaking of strange countries and customs—until at last they left him behind. Ducking to avoid the overhead beam he regarded his little room. Nothing more than what was necessary. Once he had enjoyed some luxury in his living but no more. It is as if everything is floating away, he thought to himself, leaving never to return. Everything siphoned off to that far place of which the strangers spoke. It was this thought that amplified his grief when he looked to the painting mounted on the right-hand wall above the hearth. He let out a whimper as he shuffled toward that oil artwork, a scene of worldly instruments, of vials and calipers, brushes and dials—tools of a different age. He rung his hands before the frame, gazed up at it with reverence, then crossed skittishly to the desk near to it. A book lay open there.

That's what I feared. Thanks for the feedback. This is an experimental excerpt and that rest of the novel doesn't share this style. The character is definitely an anti-hero who's difficult to like early on. I will introduce some sentence variation here. Thanks again.

Attached: no-correlation.png (600x600, 44K)

This is great. I like this. Only segment that seems slightly clunky or lazy is "this thought that amplified his grief". The verb choice here just feels a bit lame.

Oh, thanks. I appreciate it. I try to keep my sentence structures pretty varied. Do you have anything I can crit?

Turn off spellcheck

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>he cased her unit

Yeah, up here, but it's shit. I gotta re-write.

First person is difficult. Here's my own attempt, admittedly in an 'archaic' style so it might sound clunky.

The king is ill and because of this I shall write for him the last days of his life. It must be me who writes and remembers, for no one else will. It is not that I wish to simply catalogue his physical deterioration; such a harrowing sequence of events read after the fall would only compound certain unwholesome feelings of those men held in the highest regard by the king and, as might well be understood, my aim is not to portray the man who made me as feeble--I know he was not. Some may say that I, as prince and eldest son, am the only one fit for this charge, but in truth I know little of my father's mind and we have become estranged in all things. Fundamentally, I believe there is something more to the sickness. That is why my writing shall be broad, encompassing many externalities. I hope to touch upon all aspects relevant to the situation, including the history of this city and some of the legends its people have bred concerning the lands beyond its walls. But first I must turn to myself and my own mind. It is with the relationship between the king and his sons I unhappily begin.

You're in need of a good editor, but your story is fascinating. Some of the dialogue rings a bit hollow, yet you've fleshed out the characters to seem real enough. I would definitely be interested in more, if you have it.

Most things that get posted in the thteads, especially the poetry, would benefit greatly from simplifying and modernizing the diction. Aping the voice of your favorite Romanticist just makes you sound like a pretentious wannabe. Try translating your fancy language into something that sounds more like it was written in the 21st century. Keep the sentiment; just say it in a way that sounds authentic.

Sugarloaf.

Attached: Sugarloaf draft 1 Google Docs (1).png (717x639, 58K)

My eye was drawn immediately to the present tense
>I assert

Sugarloaf. This one is first. Made a mistake.

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I think you really need to vary the way you write dialogue tags... Constantly written this way:
>Dialogue, pronoun, verb.

Sugarloaf. Part 3.

Attached: Sugarloaf draft 1 Google Docs (2).png (676x471, 70K)

How would I do that? I'm thinking of not using quotation marks at all, but that might be stylistically beyond me. Surprised you're not roasting me for subject matter.

>How would I do that?
A thousand ways. Google basic dialogue writing...

Sugarloaf part 4.

Attached: Sugarloaf draft 1 Google Docs (3).png (680x424, 34K)

Found a bunch of verbs here.

readwritethink.org/files/resources/lesson_images/lesson291/dialogue_tag.pdf

I lyke

Also found this.

larecherche.it/public/proposte/Proposta_Saggio/upload_pdf_doc_txt/paolomogliazza_20170625175953_Alexander Steele - Gotham Writer s Workshop - Writing Fiction.pdf

Whats this transgender stuff. Is something going to happen?

Yeah, something is going to happen. I'm the writer of the latter piece.

kinda of late but what do you mean exactly I always try to improve and meh is much better than the criticism I recieved last time mind delineating?

not him but it's boring. it doesn't DO anything, it holds no emotional water. it's just talking about monotony of life, there isn't even anything personal to it. it's mundane and brings nothing extra to a cliche subject.

it's not badly written. but it's not good either. it's innocuous, inoffensive. where are you in the city? what are you seeing other people do? what do you imagine the woman in that restaurant thinks of it all?

user said it best. it's meh.

I'm searching for my saving sparks,
though know that time is running up,
and days pass just like hunting sharks,
that hunt me in my sleep and strap,
my body to the work I must
do till I hear the heavens harp,
announcing my doom.
I trust,
still,
in me to go until the end,
even if I know I'm damned,
cause hope is lost when I stand still.

ty ty. Friends have told me the same, that I need to find some genuineness/imagery. Will work on it.

Just started writing not too long ago.
Please destroy me, I want to get better.

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Fin

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Sounds Whitmanian. Are you a fan?

Yeah, I've read and thoroughly enjoyed a lot of Whitman

"Eric Snakehead challenges the American pig!". A bellow from the roaring figure across the room drew the attention of almost every partygoer. My eyes darted rapidly from left to right searching for a proper place to put down my lukewarm Heineken travesty. When seven seconds passed, my socially acceptable limit of not clearly displaying to everyone in the vicinity what I'm doing I loudly exclaimed "God where are all the tables? Isn't it annoying when you're trying to put down a drink and there's no room? Guess I'll have to put in on the floor now." I tried making eye contact with Jessica the Magician, but having grown bored with an admittedly provocative explanation of the aburdity of the Israel-Palestine conflict, apparently she's been off to find new hunting ground elsewhere. I quickly scurried off with all other partygoers to watch the enigmatic Eric Snakehead in action.

A rather bizarre man, he was quick to introduce himself as "Snakehead Eric", let out a little giggle and quickly explain that "Eric Snakehead" was the proper way to address him. A month ago I tried to provoke him by explaining that I was immortal, to which he flew into a fit of rage and armed with a kitchen knife attempted to thoroughly prove the opposite. "Humanity's knowledge!" He screamed furiously, "Humanity's knowledge of death! You can't oppose it! You can't!". Since then he mellowed out somewhat, but he couldn't help let out a death stare any moment he laid eyes on me.

The American Pig, on the other hand, was detestable. Everyone hated him, yet it was difficult to explain why. There was something inherently provocative about his manners, appearance, opinions, actions and voice. Many parties were ended in us in a half circle screaming to him how wrong he was about whatever he just said. there wasn't even the mockery and dismissals we reserved for the pathetic creature that was Spider George, to which we usually just repeated whichever he just said in a mockery falsetto or nasal voice. The American Pig was just a horrendous being who manages to do the exactly improper thing in every situation. Horrendous man, he was.

Is it worth continuing?

Is this in the mode of Thomas Pynchon?

Long hair from the head to the back
pretentious as a victim
unaware
Grin to grin shows all teeth
A warmth moist reaches the stomachs of all who are caught
the big wide teeth stretch and yearn
Its breakfast time the display is set with the warn gloaty air
the memorys stay branded, permeated in happiness

>pretentious as a victim
This makes no sense to me.

warm*

What the fuck is a "Thomas"?

The wind is howling outside letting ore cold in with every breath it takes, the dying fire its only real contender against certain death

"Maksim!! you lazy dog! wheres the fire wood? you want to see me dead and buried before tomorrow?"

"One second" he says non nonchalant while frowning at the chess board.

"When were dead you cant practice chess so ill be the dirty serf and get our wood"

While looking up as if startled by his friends quick and heavy movements he yells "Antoine wait"

Antoine looks at him eagerly

"Antione, since you are being a dirty serf would you mind stirring the borst before you leave" he says with a smirk

"What borst you lazy bastard!!" he snaps at him and charges out into the raging cold to get firewood from the neighborliness cabin praying there is still any left

Maksim knows he cant keep his childhood friends hunger away any longer with anger but its the best his got until they are reposted later in the week.

Thats all im gonna share for now

Its people who use their victimhood as a sense of an identity its an epanodos im pretty sure. It was pretty decent your shit wont get published if its about a girl user or maybe it will idk poetry publishing is pretty shit now-a-days

Is this the John Green poem

huffingtonpost.com/entry/ernest-cline-poetry-nerd-porn-auteur_us_5aabc7e5e4b0c33361afce93

>the dude who wrote Ready Player One wrote a bunch of stuff that's just shitty "nerd" pop culture fetishization
shocking

a particular member of the pinecone family

Why do people think being a Star Wars fan is a mark of intelligence?

Who understood the clouds' precision,
leant on evening's silver rheum—

And the moon; ring of melted questions,
slit into their foam?

From the light, notes began in quiet rivulets,
the holy signals.

>reads Buddhist stuff once

Those who have lived here before us
Must have planted these trees deep.
Out here in the mountains,
Some old horses take your name away.

Those who have yet to return
Have not wandered far enough.
I alone am a child, in a crowd,
Who hasn’t laughed.

Lightning made a hundred days
Per night—long lives
For those who never slept.

This world is temporary.
How much more so is this life?

One can map out all attachments
With a pile of shit
In the middle of the path.

The sonnets you’d jotted
On blossoms
Are only more beautiful
For having being crumpled
In your pockets.

The exaltation
Of speakable things
In the swaying of grain.

This absence I package
And gift to summer grass
Is the murmuring burn
Of an antique engine.

Sooner or later,
One longs to see
The moon come
Unannounced.

This life is the fire.
This world is the wood
And the smoke.

Wallace Stevens? The both of you.

Haha I try my best to write in the American tradition so Stevens is a compliment for me.

Cline doesn't actually look at porn, it seems, because I could probably find a reasonable approximation somewhere on the internet of any of the things described here.

-

In a grey mountain land, searching for God,
I happened on a cave, toothy and cold.
Shouting, anguished, within. I turned to my guide,
facing strident dissent. Heedless, I entered.
Where the small den halted, weak light fell through the rock,
on a thin brackish pool, in which a figure lay.
That tormented wraith writhed, bones in black water,
endless life lamenting— one it would not take.
An ending I offered, a fool's pity.
It shrank from me in fear— by this I left.

Returning to the guide, I bid us continue the search.
Met with my ignorance, his gaze sought the ground in dismay.

Are you American?

You can find Dungeons and Drag Queens?

Maybe not that specific, but gay LARP or other fantasy based porn probably

yes!

Cool so am I.

/crit/, I've finally got the momentum to keep writing, but every line of it is awful.

I'm only getting worse and worse every day but if I stop now I don't know when I'm going to be able to build up momentum again.

What do I do?

Post some work here (or anywhere), receive critique, improve your work, repeat