/crit/ writing critique general

>Read the whole thing.

I shouldn't share first drafts.

Ya pal you shouldn't, I read the whole thing... A DAMN WASTE OF MY TIME MATE, it's bad, beyond any philosophy or political implications, it's just shite, and I'm really hoping you only shared it here, what a damn joke, but of course it's the type of joke THAT NO ONE CAN LAUGH AT, you goddamn clown.

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14. You shall not redditspace
- The Anonymous Book of the Laws

Part 1

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Part 2

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Is it meant to be a fiction or a biography?
The writing tone seems a bit more like a journal, but this clashes with the lecture-like tone that makes me think that the protagonist is explaining this whole thing to someone. Work on implying or hiding things rather than flat out explaining it. You might also want to consider putting the gossip dialogue before the whole “uncomfortable with my gender” spiel.

>no quotations
Pls, my eyes.
Good start but needs to be more in depth and descriptive. Maybe change some of the dialogue to internal. But pls, punctuation

Ok. But it's not supposed to be a surprise.

Fiction, btw. Why would it be biography? I'll read more great books for help with showing and not telling.

This is from a memoir i'm writing about being a NEET, browsing Yea Forums, video games and my descent into watching tranny porno.

She was there again, the girl i regularly see reading books at starbucks. Today, i said, i'll finally approach her. And from the bottom of my soul, i catched a sliver of confidence, that was immediately shattered by a glimpse of my appearance seen at a ceiling mirror. "Maybe not" i thought. So i finished my coffe and went back home and took a shower, and in that remedial shower, i decided i was going to change myself so radically, that in 3 months or so, i'd approach her no matter what my appearance was. This time was for real. And for a week, i felt really excited about my new enterprise, and decided to renew my gym membership. I also got a haircut,i started browsing /fa/ and i started NOFAP. I also practiced my diction so i'd stop the stupid stutter in social events.
This was 3 months ago, and today was the day. 90 day NOFAP streak going glorious. All the benefits accumulating. I am a GOD. I felt confident as fuck and knew that no matter how bad it went it wouldn't matter because Camus taught me you should always embrace the absurd.
So there was i, wearing my blue steel jeans, my blank T-shirt underneath my favorite black leather jacket, and my horn rimmed glasses, looking pumped as fuck (i changed my schedule so that i could go to Starbucks immediately after the gym, with my muscles swelling through my tshirt, but not visible through my jacket, a mistake, i see now in hindsight). I went to talk to the barista and she smiled at me. I asked for the same coffe i get for the past 3 years, and sat at an advantage point. There she was, reading Kafka.
Now it begins my approach. I start staring at her, and do so for 10 minutes. She doesn't give in. Her eyes are still glued to Kafka after 30 minutes. It then occured to me that i actually didn't really know what should i do to get her attention. I thought about the issue and dediced to google up "PUA how to approach girls at starbucks" and went on to watch this 25 minutes video, only for my eyes to catch a glimpse of her leaving the place. I panicked and decided to follow her. I also noticed i didn't really drink my coffee so i had to wait and drink it, because i can't really leave starbucks without drinking my coffee, it would be autistic not to. I probably spent some more 5 minutes sipping my coffee. So by the time i leave the place and start looking for her, i see her figure there, on the horizon, walking away ever more distant. So i start running and people look at me like i'm some kind of criminal but i don't let them stop me. I finally manage to catch up with her, and see her on a bus stop, browsing something or her phone.
I get there and i'm out of breath, and my heart doesn't seem to be pumping blood that well, i feel tired and slow and i don't think enough to stop and rest so i blurb this out immediately:

"Hi, i'm the guy form Starbucks"

She looks at me with without knowing what to say.
"What?"
"The guy from Starbucks. You know, i watch you reading everyday there. I was planning to talk to you today but i couldn't gather the courage to just go and talk to you so i pulled up my phone and searched for "PUA how to approach girls at starbucks" and i thought, maybe this will give me a little more confidence, but the problem was that the video was 25 minutes long, and when i was watching it, you left out the place. So i thought about following you where you live and then maybe talk to you tomorrow when you have the time. I like books too you know, Camus, Kafka, Dostoevsky, the list goes on..."
She was baffled. "Haha, i think i know you, i don't know"
Then i started talking about my favorite philosopher, "have you read him?" "no haha" and i go on to give a lengthy presentation of Schopenhauer's philosophy and she says "cool haha i like philosophy too..." I respond "cool, you know Hegel?" and when i was preparing to talk about how his dialectics are actually compatible with Schopenhauer's thought, i feel a heavy hand on my shoulders.
The heavy hand stays there for a brief moment, and then, a body enters the scene, its shadow cast all over us. A 6'8 figure has just entered the scene, and i don't know how to deal with it.
"Any problems?" He asks making direct eye contact with the girl. "No haha, we're just talking, this is a guy from starbucks, but yeah, i remembered... we need to get home quick! Linda is going to need our help at the party so yeah, thanks, starbucks guy". And they go on. The 6'8 figure has just stolen my girl and i couldn't do nothing to stop him. I was this close to finally having love in my life. But it wasn't meant it. Not today. Maybe, not ever.

And this is how it starts THE FALL. I get home and in a fit of rage i search "female t girl stockings feet porn"...

I should note that i'm not a native english speaker, so this is probably all ungrammatical because honestly, i've never studied english, i learned it by playing games and watching Youtube videos. But anyway, when i publish it, it will be in english, and i hope there is some kind of tool to help with grammar without me having to actually study it. I don't like english and i don't feel like learning its grammar.

The last stanza could flow better.
Other than that, I like this.
It's like a haiku, but the imagery has an almost surrealistic intensity.

not a big fan of rheums actually, but the point is good.

do you do narrative poems and how does the holy in a poem so decorative?

All the world is crying
Like a stomping foot
On the brown soil

Out the caravan window
Lives a brown-leaved place
That smells of living, decaying earth
Reaching, lost in timeless views

In twosome time
We pass our stay on ball of life
Listening to the chimes of eternity

'cause all drunken speak
is void and null, in the end
we are only passing time, waiting
for the blackness to return

Thesaurus: The Poem

Which words do you think user got from a thesaurus?

Brainlet: The Comment

This is from a series of short stories I have written in the form of snarky imaginary biographies, always of mediocre artists. Apologies for any language mistakes, I have translated them from the spanish original.

-----
Half a century before another, more illustrious musical critic, Wissenmeier said in 1884, that "there was a certain quality in the sheer quantity of Schuppanzigh's work", although we will never know how much of this famous comment could be a cry of frustration at the titanic task of having invested thirty years of his life in cataloging the work of our hero, only to reach until the 1740s, just before the prolific years of Paris and London. After Wissermeier's life was cut short by his tragic and inexplicable suicide in 1886, his work would be continued in the 20th century by Teufelsdroch and Grijander, who, hardly discouraged, invested decades of their lives - in Grijander's case, who
had survived certain exchanges of views with soviet T-34s in the middle of the steppe, what he called the Overtime- to show us Schuppanzigh´s nice minuets, his slow- maybe
too long and repetitive adagios-, the occasional thrill in a soprano aria that arises after several minutes of gargling, the endless recitatives always preceded by a harpsichord bang, some moments of brilliance in the first five minutes of a concert or sonata that could remind us of Bach or Handel reflected in an abandoned swimming pool in winter.

----

You never forget your first time: it happens with girls, and it happens with jumping off a bridge,
and over the years Brian will mix all the bridges of America together in one: that first bridge in Boston, and the strange violation of Newton's laws that he felt right at the beginning, in those very first microseconds after he decided to finally jump off the parapet, the sudden tug of the Earth on Brian made him look like he was approaching the river at a speed that emptied his body. But then - when in fact he was accelerating faster and faster- the last seconds before crashing into the Charles
seemed to Brian an eternity in which he was a for such a good while floating suspended between
the water and the sky, floating away from everything and everyone, he alone, he alone in the world, only he, Brian O'Harnihan, free from all fear of gravity, and that first time was when he experienced for the first time that mystical suspension on which he would reflect so many years later
while crossing America and the Pacific for no reson. Then he hit the icy water and came up afloat with a dislocated shoulder and bleeding out of his mouth.

Know ye, o Prince, of that place between the two great rivers? The village of villages, whose people number as many as grains of sand, whose houses and walls are made of brick, and whose gates raise many cubits high? The inhabitants call the place Uruk, founded by Enmerkar and within whose temple once dwelt the Great King Gilgamesh, whose life and deeds are known to all men of the Earth. Many fertile fields this place has, and from atop the great watchtowers of Levantine wood, one sees them stretching to the end of the Earth.

The people are made rich by war and trade, so that even the peasants wear bronze bracelets and pay tribute to the King in the form of silver bands. This King, whose name is Men-nuna, is descended from the Gods of the Sky, and holds in his lineage those such as Tuge, his father, who built the long canal to Ur, and Mamagal the Boatman, who sent many galleys to trade with the people of Kemet and Nubia.

His ancestor Susuda, who is reckoned to have reigned for two centuries and a year, sent soldiers against the raiding bands who roamed the southern desert, which at that time was a fertile grassland, and by work of cudgel and sling, slew so many of their number that their very lifeblood dripped into the sand, and cursed that place so that the grass died and the rain clouds blew away, nor would anything grow there again.

Many peoples and bands have fallen before the might of the Kings of Uruk. Being blessed by the Gods, is it not natural that the men of that place be willing to take up arms against those who oppose them? Ninurta stands above the city, and Inanna guards the gate with outstretched wings and spear in hand. The walls are girded by slingmen who can hit a piece of bread from one thousand cubits away – It is said that the children of Uruk, from the time they can walk, are not permitted to eat unless they first strike it with a sling-stone.

And you, o Prince, a young man whose people are but few, and whose fields grow fallower by day, think that you can enter that great place, dethrone the King through guile or feat of arms, and so become King of that place? As was told to you by your father, beer is better made into bread than drank, for the following invigoration is matched by a lack of temperance.

I pray you do not call up your soldiers to form an army, for they will surely die beneath the bronze-capped cudgels of your enemy, nor listen to those wandering oracles who claim such things to be possible. I pray you visit the temple of our goddess Geshtinanna, whose blessing was cast upon this land during your father's father's reign, and through piety and tribute ask that she reveal to you the way.

This is the advice of your loyal uncle, Enkidu of the white hair, and by the wisdom of the Gods may you heed it well.

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This clay tablet was uncovered in a ruined palace along the northern bank of the Tigris river. Only one other text describing the existence of this kingdom yet survives – A small inscription on the wall of the temple of Inanna in Uruk, commemorating the defeat and enslavement of a minor tribe from the north.

The first stanza is good, the first half of the second is good as well.
I think the last stanza is horrible.

Not bad

Is there such thing as a writing course that one can do online that's based on simple prompts asking for input? It would be something like courses that teach you how to speak a certain language based on phrases given to you in your native language, or scenarios to describe, starting with extremely simple phrases, becoming more advanced as the course goes on. Does anything like that exist for writing, only instead of learning to speak or write a language, you're learning to write more articulately?

Sounds like a business opportunity.

Holy shit you guys suck at writing.

post your work

It's Yea Forums, what did you expect?

These walls barely sway
From the waves
That one pair of footsteps make.

An empty space
Is keeping me awake.

Pair of footsteps?

I Have Arrived

We smoke spliffs till were sick-
Licked, at this point I’m real gone practically
folding in on a hundred folds,
A paper thing
Folding in on itself, and then
burning and burning
Then folding,
I depart

I can see where you're coming from and appreciate the comment.
There's a footstep for each foot, that's why I used the word pair, despite there being multiple pairs of one's footsteps. I prefer the way I worded it despite being aware of the slight illogicality.

I wanted to convey that feeling of loneliness when someone you would hear every day making the wooden floors in an apartment creak from walking wasn't there to do that anymore. I lived in an apartment with weak walls that I could actually feel shake from doors being opened and closed around the place and that's what inspired me.

last line made me kek for an unexplainable reason

depart rhymes with fart

YIKES

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The opening of Red Steel. I'm trying to capture the drive of Louis L'Amour, with themes and a plot beyond 'Good guy shoot bad guy and get girl'.

“Thomas Jefferson Vance! Come on out!”

“Who in the blazes-”

The old man didn't have time to finish his sentence as Dalia's .44 roared, the sound echoing across the farmyard like a volley of cannonfire. He stopped in his tracks, the shotgun falling from his hands, and he looked down at the red stain spreading across his shirt, centered around a small hole in the right side of his chest, barely wide enough to permit the tip of his finger.

He looked up, his face pale, and seemed to lean down as if to grab his fallen gun. About halfway down, his posture went completely slack, and he tumbled face-first down the porch steps, landing in a heap at the bottom. The dog at his heels yelped, then nudged its fallen owner, letting out a whine. Another shot, and it, too, was no longer a threat.

Dalia smiled, blowing the smoke from her Schofield. A clean shot, straight through the heart, was the only way to kill a man and make sure he stayed killed long enough to collect the bounty. A thousand dollars was too much money to risk missing, not to mention what would happen to herself when he got his turn. He didn't even twitch as she approached the farmhouse, but she didn't lower the gun.

“Thomas! Oh, Christ-” A woman rushed through the open door, nearly tripping as she scrambled down the steps and leaned over the dead man. She was younger than him, wearing a plain blue dress that his blood was staining red, and when she turned to Dalia, her face was streaked with tears.

“You murdered him!” She cried between sobs, “Why did you murder him?”

“Murder?” Dalia spat out a mouthful of black saliva, “He's guilty of murder, you know that? Robbing stagecoaches and-”

“That was years ago!”

“Don't really matter to the county sheriff, nor me, for that matter. I reckon he's worth more dead than this entire farm.”

“Pa! Pa!” A boy rushed out, long-haired and dressed in nothing but a pair of old Union army pants that were slightly too long for his legs. He couldn't have been more than ten, maybe twelve, but with his voice cracking and his face twisted in a mix of grief and rage, it was hard to tell his exact age. His mother wrapped an arm around him, and the two wept together for a good few minutes, at least until Dalia spoke.

“Clean shot. Didn't suffer none at all.”

Whether she was trying to comfort them, or merely bragging about her ability, the woman flew into a rage. Clambering to her feet, she stormed up to the bounty huntress, tears of rage pouring down her face. “You call yourself a woman – You're nothing but a murderer! A modern Lilith!” She shoved her finger into Dalia's chest, “Now get out of here and collect your silver, while I bury my husband.”

“Not yet,” Brushing the woman's hand away, Dalia turned and reached into her coat, pulling out a long, wicked-looking knife.

“Killing's half the work, but I'm gonna need his head as proof.”

The boy let out a shriek that could've spooked old Crazy Horse right to the bone, and before Dalia could react, he grabbed his father's shotgun and pulled the trigger. The buckshot ricocheted off the ground at Dalia's feet, and the blast kncoked him flat on his ass. He scrambled to right himself, but Dalia didn't give him the chance. She only pulled the trigger once, and he fell limp next to the body of his father.

“I-I'll hunt you down! You'll pay for this!” The woman shrieked, rushing over to her dead child, but Dalia just snorted in response.

“No, you won't.”

She picked up her knife and again moved to take the dead man's head. Cradling the boy, the woman wept softly, her fingers reaching toward the gun.

“Don't,” Dalia said, but the woman didn't stop.

You read it all?

I doubt it, but I think it should be an effective idea.

I think it's unfortunate that it's easier to effectively learn a new language than to significantly improve the use of one's own, at least with the resources available, when improving eloquence should theoretically be easier, and done in a similar fashion.

The only method I know of improving one's writing is effectively by attempting to write the sort of things one would wish to write well, if poorly and slowly, and eventually, you will get better. This is the equivalent of learning a new sport by playing it when running, throwing, jumping, etc. are all too complicated to reliably perform, making the process of learning rules and abiding by them extremely daunting. No doubt, scribendo disces scribere, and perhaps the best way to learn a language is to force yourself to manage in situations as if you were a fluent speaker, but this is one of the most frustrating experiences a person can have, and a plethora of resources have been made to suit more inviting approaches, usually by structured and leveled practice.

I imagine what I'm describing probably exists in textbook form, but it is unfortunate far more resources are devoted to teaching foreign language acquisition than improvement in one's native language, when this is arguably far more important.

Several problems arise, no doubt, and it really is not such a smooth adaption of the method. While the first productions by a leaner in any foreign language, unless they are mere vocabulary substitutions, (and even then, these may be very awkward), might be the foreign language that will resemble one's primary language, (like when Geprge Strahan complained to Johnson that a theme he wrote which took him "so much pains was at last a kind of English Latin"), there is little question that one is writing in a particular language. With eloquent writing, it's not so certain, which becomes a larger issue especially when rudimentary exercises in improving language would be given. In learning a foreign language, clearly, the most rudimentary exercise would be word substitution, or knowing what foreign word is equivalent to one in your own language. In improving articulation, a similar exercise might be developed, but this might result in pedantic sesquipedalianism. "Walk" might be replaced with "perambulate," or "face" might be replaced with "countenance," and having a ready knowledge of such words might indeed improve ones power of expression, but these words can not have the equivalency that is found when substituting certain words with others in a foreign language, especially when this equivalently is largely true only for very simple speech between languages, and when wants to improve one's articulation in a foreign language, word substitution between your primary language and that of another's will simply not do.

Still, I think I can envision a method to at least improve one's diction. It would be similar to the method one learns words in a foreign language, (I personally favor spaced repetition, but the principal point here is the material, and not what is learned), and it could consist of definitions of words defined in reference to common ones. For every common word, words indicating the same concepts, but with more precision would be offered to those who wish to increase their vocabulary in useful areas.

For instance, a word like "walk" is common, but the definition of "walking or traveling through or around a place or area, especially for pleasure and in a leisurely way," would be substituted with the word.

When learning the a new language, what should absolutely be learned first is the most common words, and this another difference from improving articulation in native language that makes the latter more difficult, or perhaps more difficult in a manner that can be closely guided by structured progression. The most common words are already known by a native speaker and determining whether a word is well-understood is harder than for a foreign language because substitution isn't sufficient in learning uncommon words with more precise meanings than commons words.

The necessity of less common words is not only not universal, but in those that feel it, can not have their needs satisfied with the same uncommon words. What unusual terms surgeon, electrician, programmer, composer, philosopher might need in more effectively carrying out their profession will vary as in the same way professions do, and similarly, even for general use, few uncommon words could be said to be useful to everyone who may encounter them in a desire to usefully increase their vocabulary.

The primary way to increase one's writing is to read works written in a style you wish to more closely emulate, (or rather, those works you think your ideal personal style would closely approach), and them attempting to write when this style has made a fresh impression on your judgement, in which a manner of writing most resembling this style will most easily come to you. The difficulty is that this processes is not so easily adaptable to a system of structured progressive improvement. However, while I do not think there is any way to generate such structured progression for developing a sense of style based on reading, I think the following proposal would be feasibly make a progression for improvements in writing, even if it would be more heavily reliant on judgment than would be the case in learning a foreign language.

i don't know the drill

I tried writing a poem, but it's in Spanish. If any speaker of the language could give me some input I'd appreciate it:
Maldito sea el deseo
de variar el tintero;
la abyecta negrura
no recede ante la pluma.

Diez, cien, mil los trazos,
negro el papel, negras las manos.

"Somos tus terrores
y no mermamos;
de tu desidia los amos,
del silencio los clamores."

"No verás el fondo de cobre
de negro moteado;
no morirás pobre,
tendrás tinta para años."

If I now could just ask him,
I do wonder what he'd say;
What opinions he might hold;
The young me of yesterday.

Would he smile if he saw me?
Would he beat his chest with pride?
Would he wonder what had happened?
Would he run away and hide?

I'm not sure that I remember,
What I once had strived to be,
Those dreams of youth and glory,
Now seem so alien to me.

This toll that life has taken,
That has wrought such unseen change,
That I never truly noticed,
Has made me and me estranged.

Do I still want to please him?
Should I even still care?
The one man that could tell me,
Is the me who's now not there.

This method would consist of the following:
1. Continuous reading of works that most strongly compel you to write what you think would be the most ideal style you can manage. (this is not the same as merely reading what works would closely resemble your style, as one might be inspired to write the ideal prose by reading poetry).
2. Being provided prompts that are to be answered in writing. This is hardly unique, but, in inspiration from foreign languages studies, they will be of a very general nature, and will begin with the simplest prompts, (such as "What time is it?" or "How is your day?). There will be no directions except to answer these as perfectly as one can, being careful not to equate ornament and excessive precision with eloquence, even if one disdains writing on such mundane subjects, just as one might despise having to grapple with the rudimentary sentences when learning a new language.

The text written in response to these prompts should become gradually more and more involved, until one is effortlessly writing in response to prompts that would have paralyzed a writer before they embarked on this method. At least, that is the hope.

I should say the above method would actually well with improving one's conversational ability as well. Furthermore, I think it should be combined with a spaced repetition regiment, in which prompts that required too much time to complete would be seen at a later date, and the "card" would not be dismissed completely until the prompts is answered with sufficient alacrity. This might extent to having prompts occur continuously as if you were learning a new language, but this might be excessively routine.

Again, the issue is that this would necessarily be more uncertain than learning to speak in a new language, especially if it is compared to mere word substitution. This would make this method more didactically difficult to implement, but I think it would be sufficient for studies of self-improvement, when one has some idea of what is at least acceptable writing or what suits their style, and this method adapts itself even to perfectionists, as they may always deliberately more intensely even on simpler prompts.

The paralyzing quality of "writer's block" is a desire to express something, and being unsatisfied with what is produced in response, (or, occasionally, the lack thereof). While to some writers, who have unreasonable standards for their productions, or what sort of writing they can expect to produce with so little skill, even answers to the simplest prompts can be frustrating, the intent is that they are offered the simplest prompts possible that allow little freedom in responses, (as there are only so many ways a question for the time can be answered), so at least the perfectionist can acquiesce in certain responses, (however short they fall of his standard of excellence), because the variety of possible responses is not so overwhelmingly large. The intended development is that writer aspiring for self-improvement is continuously writing, while doing so in manner that reflects polish and refinement. Writing the first thoughts that come into one's mind engenders facility, but has limits in how it may improve one's general style, as nothing great is obtained with ease. Starting with prompts that demand the utmost skill in writing, while demanding, can be paralyzingly difficult. The requirement of polish, but on easier, more readily answerable prompts, seeks to combine the impulses of constant refinement with continuous practice in writing.

If I were to create such a course as quickly as possible, I would find a foreign language course that offered conversational questions in the native language of the speaker that would usually be answered in the foreign language one is attempting to learn, only instead, the questions would be answered in refined and polished answers in the writer's own language.

While this could hardly be considered the most ideal way this method could be effected, it's advantages would be relying on pre-assembled, "prompts" based on the simplest answers in a language based on the simplest questions.

Surprisingly good, though
>Now seem so alien to me.
"Alien" is awkward, and you would be be better off choosing even a word that that did not preserve the syllabic aspect of the meter than using this.
>Has made me and me estranged
The "me and me" is questionable, but it's made worse by the poor rhyme of "estranged" and "change."
>The one man that could tell me.
The meter is off in both syllabic count and stress. "Person" is less concrete, but preserves the meter better.
>Is the me who's now not there.
This is the sort of line that I think anyone will understand the cleverness, but nobody will like. I don't have a suggestion here, and I don't know if it can be modified, but it strikes one as a bad imitation of Dr. Seuss.

Post your work, get critiqued by neckbeards.

Bump

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>So
Stopped reading