/crit/ writing critique general

The prologue to a dark fantasy I'm working on.
>The clamor of emotional voices, raised for the sake of disagreement and fervor, was steadily hushed by the sound of boots rhythmically marching through sand. It seemed that among those gathered was almost every able-bodied adult of their tribe, and the people parted to allow his group of hunters, made all the more menacing by the night’s shroud, to who such discord was being directed towards. It was the Patriarch Amrin, leader of his tribe. Though normally he would stand tall and proud above his kin, his face obscured by the visage of a cold bronze helm synonymous with a human sovereign, but this scenario seemed to be proving unfavorable to the man, now it appeared that he was shrinking beneath the shadows that were cast by the braziers around them, even with his protectors anxiously eyeing the gathered, armed with curved blades accustomed to drawing blood.

Amrin very rarely addressed such a large crowd of people, causing the Hunter-Caption to question why or how this circumstance came to be. But this contemplation lasted only a few moments, as soon his eyes fell upon the familiar shaved head of the man who stood against his Patriarch. It was his fellow Hunter-Captain, Aalbahim, who he had learned to be a cunning sort. Aalbahim allowed him a swift greeting, a glance thrown over his shoulder.

“Golal. I trust you would have much to say as well.” A known schemer and dastard, yet no one thought ill of him thanks to his considerable charisma, stoked by impressive musculature and the many trophies he had gathered under his name. Golal pieced together why his hunt had been cut short by a smoke signal that, at the time, seemed to have been emerging from an inexplicable location, away from their usual hovel in the expansive desert. Aalbahim had somehow found a way to finally bring Amrin into open confrontation, and would no doubt want his friend and esteemed compatriot to have his back. Golal himself was beloved, a veteran warrior who had bested beast and man alike with his peerless strength. He knew his opinion would carry great weight amongst the tribe...and of course, Aalbahim did as well. The hunters, most imposing of their tribe, venerated for their courage to stand against the dangerous desert’s fauna as much as their strength, would easily curry public favor.

Though Golal may at one time believed it improper to reward such scheming, he would stand with his friend and brother, wearing a contemptuous smirk that only Aalbahim and Amrin could clearly see, and when he spoke, his deep voice was clear to everyone.
“To the dragon-sympathizer, I would have many words. For as long as he clings to his own...delusion.” Golal stopped abruptly to allow his words to hang in the air. Amrin was forced to interject quickly, it was too clear that Golal’s sentiment had become a popular one.

“My decision not to abandon our faith in the face of crisis, Golal, is hardly delusion.”

Cont.
>“I would sooner hold us under the wages of faith than the wages of war. Only through our strength, in both body and mind, will see us home.” Golal could barely prevent himself from voicing his frustration. Did Amrin forget that he was not lecturing children?

>“We will need something that we can see and feel, to believe that your traditions are worth upholding.” Was all he said, though it was still bold to make such disrespect for his Patriarch clear. Aalbahim continued as Golal began to worry that he had spoken out of line, but he had long since ran out of patience for Amrin.

>“And what we can all see clearly, is that we have all been sent here to die. Lanarias is a land of monsters. Our exile will never end, not until we are all bones in the sand, and no show of faith or strength will convince the dragons that we may return home!” So rarely did Aalbahim speak with such passion that even Golal was surprised, and then Aalbahim turned to gesture towards Golal’s hunters.

>“Every day we starve. Every day we struggle just to survive. Our warriors are sent, every day, into an unforgiving land. Our warriors prove their courage every day, but no one watches us, no one is testing us. There are no dragons here, because they fear this desert! Everyone...fears Lanarias. What happens when we have nothing left to give, no fight left within our emaciated bodies?” Aalbahim paced around Golal’s hunters, who carried nothing from their previous outing. True, it was cut short, but everyone already knew the dangers of their desolate home.

>“Your failures are your own!” snarled a lean man who flanked Amrin. Dark, unkempt hair hung over his shoulders, which only called attention to his kit, lined with gruesome tools and leather armor. Besides the hunters, there were the tribe’s stalkers, warriors who kept the peace with guile and under the cover of stealth. It was simple to make their existence known, as whatever conflict arose among the tribe was easily put down by the mere threat of the Patriarch’s assassins. There could hardly be much dissertation among the people as they were surrounded by the dangers of the desert.

>“We will hear no more excuses, Aalbahim. You only show your cowardice. Sooner you would risk us being confined to the walls of Ahcrolus than risk your own life to bring food to your own home.” Golal was not sure of the man’s identity, as information regarding the stalkers was kept internally. But Aalbahim’s expression towards the man lent credence to an old rumor that Aalbahim was once of the stalker’s ranks, and that perhaps they shared a history.

>“If you believe we live in squalor, return to the desert and do not come back until you have your quarry.” his demand was fierce and to the point, but it seemed that Aalbahim was undeterred. That Amrin would need someone to step in for him was enough. Was it not the Patriarch’s duty to inspire his people?

I read through the second image first, and I liked it. Then I read through the first image and I didn't like it nearly as much.

>“Very well. I will go along with Golal. Perhaps we will all return with our lives.” Before Amrin could say a word, Aalbahim was already taking his leave, wordlessly signaling Golal to follow. With a grunt, Golal followed suit, his hunters quick to obey. Already he could hear the divisive murmuring that surrounded them. It seemed Aalbahim’s plans were falling into place.
Feel like I fucked up on not being too descriptive of the environment, I usually make that mistake but I can never tell when it's necessary

Yes there is. Are you blind as well as homosexual?

It seems this critique thread was made first.

this is so pretty, but I cannot help but feel like the end rhyme makes it so cheesy that it nearly ruins some really nice meter and imagery. It just feels so archaic and forced. I understand that it's a sonnet, but please consider something other than highly patterned end rhyme, your vocabulary and word flow are too good for it.

I walked out, squeezing past tear-drenched Nicholas, and phoned Lord.
When he answered, I told him he was right, he was right all along, Joey got off with a slap on the wrist. We were all devastated.
Lord said, of course, I was right, they’re all friends here, they don’t care about you, they’ll eat your family for dinner and you for desert. Well-dressed corpses cutting strings, swarming flies from far beneath the earth. Bones made of gold bars, spirits made of spider webs and fat stomachs. Notice how they don’t have eyes, none of them.
Lord went on like this. I told him I had no idea what he was saying.
Sorry, it ended this way, I really am, Lord said. Takes a chunk of your soul, he said, every time. Twists it right off. Like cotton candy. I’m sorry too, I said. I could be sick.
Yes, he said. Be sick. And then meet me tonight, round say eight, at the gazebo.
M-meet you? I said. We had never met in person.
Gazebo. Eight. And then he hung up.
When I came back to the room, Julia was supine on the carpet with her hands over her eyes, crying. I had never seen her cry. But when I did, I thought of her as stronger than before.

During a prologue, you can convey multiple things, but the most important one, I believe, is the tone. Here is when you establish what kind of narration the reader ought to expect; grandiose, action-heavy, atmospheric, etc. The story is bound to change, as are the characters and even the setting, but the tone of your work is a constant throughout it.

I have mix feelings about this, to be honest with you. On one hand, it's antiquated and forced that it kinda ruins it for me (the ending rhyme could be better. On another, it's obvious that you are good at this, which makes you squandering your talents on the sonnet sad.

>First Person

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What? Let people find them style

>Any other perfectionists with little to no writing skills
pretty much. I'm done outlining and ready to actually start writing a rough draft for my novel. However, whether it is my self-perceived or actual mediocrity as a writer, I cannot go more than a week of writing before I erase it and start all over again. Hoping that the next attempt is more successful than the last, yet always finding myself in the same position no matter what I do.

Epic

How do you guys continue to write your novels? I get embarrassed whenever I read it

Engraved in stone my heart shall stand
Beyond the worth of grains of sand
Before the battle; bring the flame
Behold my heart as once it came
Behold its shadow, dark and shy
Behold its weight, both hung and nigh
Behold the way it shifts and turns
Beware the way its pumps must burn
Watch as naught but hope exhausts
On weighty beat and looming toss
The blood that once ran cold is gone
Erased from time by death and dawn
Behold the shout that thunders through
For my heart hungers just for you
Behold the scream and gasp and cry
For my hearts stone is not for I

you don't read much do you?

>fucking retard

>no quotation marks

dfw wannabe is dank memes bruh

It's a greentext but...

>it began with a whisper
>the rolling fields of roses from the Earth withered and turned to dead twisted shrub
>the blue sky darkened as black clouds swirled in from ever direction
>the sound of singing birds was drowned out by the shrill howl of the cold wind whipping against her skin
>she grabbed his hand and held it tight
>they were children, comforting each other in the dark, reliant only on each other's light to lead the other into a world of insidious evil that threatened to swallow them whole
>her grip only grew tighter when she saw "it" approaching
>she knew what "it" was, she had seen it before
>she suddenly felt herself lose her grip, she let go of him as he vanished into the vast nothingness
>she was alone
>with each approaching step, the figure grew
>it grew, and grew, and grew
>until it was not only a giant, but the cruelest Fascist in the world
>she felt its cold lifeless hands touch her and she let out a scream, but she could not hear
>she let out another scream, but all she heard was the endless silence
>she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she couldn't even cry for help
>as the Fascist raised her into the air, as if to savor her before devouring, she heard a sound, the most terrifying sound she had ever heard
>never before could she have imagined a sound like this
>it was more terrifying than any sound the Fascist had made
>it was an animalistic shriek, the bark of a dog combined with the screech of a monkey
>she watched the Fascist's face turn white with horror
>she looked and saw a demon rise from the Earth, as if Hell itself had sent it
>it let out another terrible shriek
>she cupped her ears so she wouldn't have to hear the sound but it penetrated through, filling her with a terror greater than even the Fascist
>the apparition charged right at her
>she felt as she was thrown into the air as something impacted the Fascist, causing it to drop her
>she landed on the cold hard ground with a thud
>she looked up to the demon and the Fascist locked in deadly combat
>it was ghost-like, evading most of the Fascist's blows effortlessly
>the ones that did find their mark went through the ethereal being as if it were a cloud of smoke
>the apparition moved with such speed and agility that she could barely make out its form
>its mass was grey like the darkened sky
>it seemed half-beast, half-man
>it looked and moved with the grace and purpose of a man, but fought with the ferocity of that of an animal
>the duel between the Fascist and this phantom went on for hours
>finally the demon let out another terrible howl and raised its arm for the final blow
>the howl turned to words
>"Wake up Anne..."

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Could use some work

"just want to die lads"

Don't read it, just keep writing it. Don't try and edit as you go. Just write it all.

Sounds reasonable

It's harder to do that.

Starwars?

No

Nope. Similar themes to Episode III, but completely different setting.

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Change it is you will. Don't want you to be accused of plagiarism

Whoever has ears, let them hear

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>>The clamor of emotional voices
Oof. You write like a sandle-wearing goldfish-tender.

What about:
>The sound of his boots is what silenced them - angry voices turning hushed and nervous as their patriarch emerged.
>He looked like half a man; eyes fleeting and head turned low. He seemed to shrink from the braziers that guided his path.

That's an example of something I'd personally rather read myself. Wordiness for its own sake is just exhausting to the reader and makes the work a chore. The prose should make things as easy as possible.

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Nice diary. I like the mother's touch bit though.

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This is mine.

I wouldn't necessarily call it a diary, but it is a dramatic retelling of events from my childhood that take place in a more modern time. My actual brother died in 2011 when I was 13, I chose 2016 because I wanted it to be modern but not so close to the current year.

Id go a bit less with everything. Sometimes less is more. Give them information slowly. Especially a prologue i feel should not contain too much, only a certain - possibly crucial - aspect. Feels like a lot of complex sentences for someone just reading 1st page (though it might just be the phone)

That sucks man, my brother died 2 years ago at 17. Drowned on lsd when his friends abandoned him.

I find it a bit difficult to read as it is diary-esque, but it may jist be my preference ljking 3rd person characters instead of 1st person.

If you wanna stick with 1st person maybe , unironically, check out murakami

It is so incredibly disassociating to write about such a traumatic experience in great detail. I find myself crying a lot while writing. I wrote these pages over a 2 hour span without looking up from my computer. When I did look up from the PC finally, everything felt so odd, I felt like I was living in the 3rd person.

I will check out Murakami, thank you.

Okay.

No it doesn’t, this thread was made 13 minutes after the actual crit thread, therefore invalidating it

what?

Kind of blah. Are you inspired by Kafka?

My work:
pastebin.com/95b29AcA

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Haha, I was hoping someone would notice my description of my brother as a giant cockroach. I'm more inspired by Faulkner and Hemingway, but the "giant bug" description was purposefully a reference to Kafka as I am a fan of his work,

Talk about my work too, homosexual.

here is some of my poetry.
____

loving you is like loving life.
____

the phone rang
earlier today.
i was hoping
it was you.
____

my mother is a strong woman.
my sister is a strong woman.
my aunts are strong women.
my grandmothers are strong women.
i am me.
i am alive.
i am here.
i am

beautiful.
____

your coat smells like coffee
and coffee smells like home.
____

i smiled today.
____

hate is a strong word
but love is stronger.
____

You have the basis for an interesting story but your dialogue is dry in writing. For example,

>“I got dress coded today,” Charlotte pipes up.
>“Why?” I ask.
>“Mr. Askew said my skirt was too short. What a pervert. Who cares about a couple of inches of clothing?”
>“That sucks,” I said.

could be better written as

>“I got dress coded today,” Charlotte pipes up.
>“Why?”
>“Mr. Askew said my skirt was too short. What a pervert. Who cares about a couple of inches of clothing?”
“That sucks,”

Also, "Sugarloaf High School". dude.....

What's wrong with Sugarloaf?

And thanks.

>What's wrong with Sugarloaf
Everything

>I've never read a big boy's book and am incredibly insecure of my shallow "writing"
Pretty cringe...I'll pray for you guys

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Let a person develop their own styles.

Let a person call another man's "style" shit sweetie

It's just a word. There's a mall called Sugarloaf Mills.

Bump

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Lemme have it

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Somewhat pretentious. What is an idiosyncratic bark?

Now review this:

pastebin.com/95b29AcA

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It's a very strange and unusual bark.

As for your thing:
1.You need to approach your descriptions of your character's mental state more obliquely. I don't want to be hammered in the face with all this stuff . Even if I am, it should be in service of a subtler hidden point (If I missed it, I apologize)
2.The beginning feels like a list; I got bored reading it.
3.You need to learn subtlety.

Now don't turn around and tell me I don't practice what I preach.

Thanks. Is it really so strange and unusual?

Well, the dog does cry out "Jouissance", and I don't happen to know of any dogs that do that.

I was talking about the trans fiction pastebin.

Oh that.
I was answering your question: what is an idiosyncratic bark?

Yep.

Bump

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The moon will split again in two,
it seams, before I'll get to know you.
So just like Glaucus of the ocean
I long for kind Circe's love potion,
but still I hope through words my own,
I can make you love just me - alone.
But fear of that horizon grows,
to which no action, poem or prose,
could delay. Such bright beauty of the sun
is beyond the power of this tongue
to express; perhaps some other language,
more intricate, and beyond me, could assuage
the tumult within me, and it defeated,
help me and you be completed.

Are you inspired by Percy Shelly?

My work:
pastebin.com/Ecgz7pCS

It reads stilted.

I've actually never read any of his poems

Crit my work, Caucasian.

critique my aphorisms
juanfitzcarraldo.wordpress.com/

no thanks, lesbian

If only I was lesbian.

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>he wore neither a coat nor boots
>He entered, stomped his boots

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you would have been right at home among the medieval troubadours

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i know this is long but would appreciate any crit.
lesbian love story between cyborg and forest nymph.

one-syllable rhymes just seems kitsch. there's no internal rhyme, no wordplay. full of fluffy phrases just to fit meter "it seams [sic]", "so," etc. and also, all the images here wouldve been considered cliche even in shakespeares day. really not a fan, sorry. it doesnt seem sincere at all.

"i smiled today" is the only good one.

don't scrap, but this is the first draft of a good poem. good use of internal rhyme. enjambment is a bit ineffective.
final line is clumsily sytaxed

i like this. might work as a very short story, but nothing longer.
narrator clearly has memory issues you mong. christ that's like, the entire premise.

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I liked this at one point.
—
He shot up the school. I don’t know if he existed before he did it. Robert says that he was normal, which would mean that he existed. But he doesn’t have a name, nor a face, nor any evidence of his previous existence. There is only a video of him with an orange crush shirt and a shotgun shouting at the front of a classroom, and his face is pixelated. Orange crush used to have pulp in it, but they would only add it after the soda was made to give it a fresh squeezed, homemade illusion. The world is soda, and orange crush man was added in to kill twelve high school students before being taken out by Procter & Gamble. That’s if I’m right though. And people have existed before killing high school students. I think of the big ones: Hitler, Stalin, Mao; they killed high school students; their existence is well accounted for. They likely even drank pulpy orange crush as they made the execution order. So I don’t know. I don’t know anyone. There’s a memorial going on, and I’m in bed.

kind of purple. some of it has reason to be, but stuff goes to bluster at some points
>possibly imagined
>idiosyncratic bark
>broke the embargo on speech
your punctuation and fragmentation needs work
>for he could amble on, silently and slowly, alone and all alone: the only time he could be any of the sort.
i got carried away but you get the drift
scrutinize all your adverbs and helping verbs a bit more. do you Really like them there or here or nowhere?
also the inconsistency between "the Boy" and just "Boy" looks dumb
The imagery is overall quite nice though
>even as the deep purple stain had begun to invade the saffron sky
>one of his friends wearing an ostensibly contraband, dolphin-adorned tie just barely short of dragging on the floor
this is an awful run on sentence. i cant even understand what youre trying to say:
>An other on the other side of the curtain who had a plain view of a household ripping itself apart, and could enjoy clicking his tongue in dismay, with the privelege of forgetting it immediately without moral consequence, and the advantage of recalling it painlessly to entertain others.
the whole thing needs a lot of work

Why can't any of you write?

inb4
>post your stuff, user.

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Post your stuff, user.

2044. Friday, cold. 12 degree or below. The time is a million o'clock.
Rising from bed I turn and mute Showtek- The Color Of The Harder Style, which i used as my waking alarm. Sliding the mute button prompted a 30 second advertisement as it regularly would.

The usual morning routine occurred. I pickup the Apple™ fleshlights from beside my bed and wore one on each of my Penii.10 Years ago the elite state made it law to have at least 3 penis', with consistent dosing of Viagra so that we were able to feel stimulation always.This was the only way to keep humans sufficiently happy after the Darwinian expansion of the dopamine receptor... Once they were fitted, I finish in each one instantly.

Heading towards the door i pickup my 100 capsule viagra bottle, swallowing two of them as i reminded myself of last weeks suicide from a guy who lived on my floor. He became depressed after participating in sexual abstinence as an attempt to 'avoid being a slave to maya' whatever that meant... he was always considered a looney.

Tunes of EDM muzak played as I entered the hallway .Many people are on their way to work. All are wearing sky blue tuxedos, three fleshlights and the mandatory vintage 2010 nike airs, or if you were upper class you wore 1978 model Nike Michael Jordies.

I say my compliments to everyone as I pass them, knowing well that the microphones implanted in the fleshlights would pickup my compliments, and the government working listeners would reward me with a temporary 10 percent speed boost to the technology working around my penii. This was our incentive to kindness, and this incentive kept social order.

jesus christ

Is this shit satire or... just really fucking bad in its sincerity

yes it is satire but still what did you mean with
>just really fucking bad in its sincerity

Let me tell you something about politics: It never ends well.

For example, let me tell you a story. When I was a young man, I was the president of a small village in the Northern part of Portugal. I was a man of the people, you see, one might even call me a socialist if one is completely unaware of what the word actually entails. So one of the first acts I did was extend citizenship to a series of refugees that were considered persona non grata in both Francoist Spain and in our glorious Estado Novo for their bizarre behavior and disgusting anatomy.

One of these was a degenerate furfag named Pelage Sarro. He would offer himself to everyone and often would hit on unsuspecting passerbies. Don't fall asleep in the streets like the drunks do, because if you do, there's a good chance you'll end up in the sheets with Mr. Sarro.

The stray dogs that roamed the streets would always bark at Mr. Sarro when he was nearby. Nobody knew what the fuss was about until one day we saw Pelage having sex with a piece of barely alive roadkill, struggling to breath with its lungs crushed. It was no wonder then, that the local dogs would call for Animal Control as soon as they saw him.

Another was nicknamed Four-Lips Julius. The name came from the fact that the young lad had four fully functioning vaginas in his right arm. I never understood why he was called Four-Lips Julius and not Five-Lips Julius, for it is not as though he lacked a pair of normal lips in his mouth. Regardless, Mr. Julius would often partake in strange rites named Mandingo Parties, which involved a series of colored gentlemen having sex with the anatomical aberrations in his arm.

Point out flaws or do one better.

Snarking is cheap and pleb.

Well it ain't satire

thank you, unironically really helpful.

Light wave

It was in history
That has never been so.
Royal family,
Pretty girl

He is a parent
All things
The virgin was also one of the saints
moon magic

The Cumbus color is great
Kamena and Keita
I turn to the window, in a corner
The ministers were waiting.

I looked at the mother
Zatafi and light,
on the way
The black sail left.

Claims for absolute idealism may be seen under the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean (problematically buried source) new and Nietzschean eclipses of positivism through its transmutation route to the superidealism through its transmutationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of reason, replicating the fundaments of a Baudrillard.th its of positivism through its transfigurative reconciling of positivism through its transfigurative reconciling dialectical critical connection, while inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardial failing dialectically and/or psycho-somatic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate idealism of a Baudrillard.al; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontic dual; of the analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical critical realism of a Baudrillard.c problematic laid down by Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the fundaments of positivism through its transfigurative reconciling dialectical monovalent in transfigurationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalism may be seen under the analytic claims for absolute idealisms (in practice, fideistic claims for absolute idealism may be seen under the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms) and old alike; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalism of western philosophy, ontological monovalent analytic reinstatement in transmutation route to replicating the analytic provenance; of foundationalisms) and irrationalisms) and irrative reconciling dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of reason, replicate inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardial failing of western philosophy, ontic dual; of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurategic reversal — of the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of the fundaments of positivism through its close ally, the superidealism he in his hubristotelean eclipses of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundament in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism may be seen under the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of the fundaments of positivism through its ontic claims for absolute idealisms (in practice, fideistic foundament in transmutationalisms) and old alike; of the will-to-power or some other ideologically, the epistemic fallacy with its ontology

Cool. Are you inspired by Louise Glück?

My work:

pastebin.com/mfKzbS1x

Slightly funny nonsense that almost makes sense occasionally. Like Nick Land circa Thirst for Annihilation, if he lost his mind completely in a horse-related accident and could only use philosophical jargon to communicate.

Too many "scoffed" and the like in the dialogue. Cut back on using dialogue tags. You're also switching tenses. It begins in present tense but switches to past tense inappropriately. For example, you begin with "says," "reply," and "pipes up" in the dialogue, but you switch to "said," "added," etc. later. You continue switching back and forth between present and past tense throughout. There are also quite a few typos and scattered errors.

More positively, I did read everything. The writing confused me enough that I wasn't sure exactly who or what sort of person was speaking until near the end.

To add to the thread:

IDIOT

Upon seeing a woman,
the heart leaps, then twists:

Syllables shimmer in the skull
like gold dust along a lakebed
painted sanguine by leering
albino-eyed dusklight,

Yet the heart twists, and
dreads, phlegm-coated, crawl
up the throat and clamp down
on the clumsy blood-bloated tongue,
the creatures of this kenosis--

All sense
crushed to brutish radials
and pulped pulchritude
by the sharp sedimentary teeth
at the bottom of the heart.

>Too many "scoffed" and the like in the dialogue. Cut back on using dialogue tags. You're also switching tenses. It begins in present tense but switches to past tense inappropriately. For example, you begin with "says," "reply," and "pipes up" in the dialogue, but you switch to "said," "added," etc. later. You continue switching back and forth between present and past tense throughout. There are also quite a few typos and scattered errors.
>More positively, I did read everything. The writing confused me enough that I wasn't sure exactly who or what sort of person was speaking until near the end.

Wow, thank you so much! I'm surprised you didn't roast me for content!

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Bump

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just because i asked a sincere question doesnt mean that i couldnt write satirically.

So how do you guys write an unreliable narrator? In first person point of view? Or in third person limited?

I've written myself into a corner.
My plot has a mystery that the protagonist was supposed to solve at a certain point where he was too late but instead he went and fucking solved it too early.
What do? Go back and rip out some clues? Dumb him down? I'd like to think the protag being smart enough to fuck the writer up will read good but now I don't know how to get the plot back on track.

Stop being a baby and rewrite.

He saw it everyday, the blinding normalcy of a life that suited so many; The talk about statuses made, the worries of things that had little impact and obliviousness of impending peril. Watch this new trend video, have our feel good optimism, have our political leanings, don't break our norms, don't speak the words we don't want, here's this funny entertainment, there's these cool, down to earth celebrities and these big names that are just like you, you did so good signing that online petition for a good and right cause. Cause. Our cause is right. Our cause is for peace. Our cause is for equality. This feels good fighting for us doesn't it?

The man was glad for one thing and that was that he had never fallen for the bullshit. The subtle imfluence and control of the mind that appealed to those that never knew cruelty or pain or the worth of the travails of the truth. Not the neat little gift wrapped lie being spoonfed with the influence Not edited or censored or a perverted form of itself. It was painful but you lived. You learned how bad things are and you start to develop the means to stop it...and that was optimistic itself. Most kept the truth to themselves and let the evil grow not doing a thing but watching and waiting for that dreamlike moment a mass resistance became possible.

Change started with one and the rest followed. The man stared at the controlled world from atop the facility carrying and producing the means for covert influence. He only wondered how true the statement was as he turned on the laser sight to the rifle. Either way the killing would not be in vain. The hollowpoints would be the exclamation marks of freedom.

I tumble down the brook, tail a-beating
Across the woods, I find my course homeward
Running down the shining stream, to meet
The fisherman’s hook. The bite leads upward
Through the water. “What hook have you bitten now?”
The fisherman pries, and between his fingers the sun shines
On my many marks of victory. “Look at my marks, fisher.
I have conquered your hooks and reaped many rewards.”
With a snide remark, he lets me fall,
My latest victory stands beside the rest.

I hope you met this girl at a Renaissance Faire, LARPer. also learn basic scansion before trying this

you can be long-winded without sounding like one of those ironic memes that says a shorter meme in a roundabout way. you just have to say more things in your sentence. details, etc. not describing every basic idea or action like you're giving a dictionary definition

decent hardbitten minimalism and made me want to know what's actually going on/10

intrigued by this. feels like something I would have written as a kid but in a good way, like has that strange dream-energy that very little "good writing" manages to capture. what do you mean by "Fascist"? what is such a loaded real-world political term doing in such a vague landscape of archetypal figures and phantasmagorical conflicts? is there more of this? anyway I think a line like "a world of insidious evil that threatened to swallow them whole" might be overplaying your hand even for whatever this is, if you pruned for redundancy in general you could get something highly concentrated maybe

>why is a nymph called "Gaia"
>the introductory dialogue is cliche
>why do cyborgs and nymphs do boring urbanite things
>the formal gimmicks in the sex scene are fun (and nice rhythm), but the abstractions don't tell you anything new about how these concepts relate, and the Land reference is memey
>"a-mashed"
>"a-glow"
>too many literary references for something too short to explore them

this has more raw energy and potential than everything else I've read so far in this thread. like it's pretty blatantly teenage and some of the exaggerations are too predictable but like the amount of detail and creativity in the sentences and the concept itself just blows everything else out of the water. and I love the use of memes and pop culture unironically. it feels like the literary equivalent of a 2000s Newgrounds flash and that's a thing that's long overdue to exist

I was at GameStop trying to get a copy of Assassin’s Creed V. I walked up to the counter and asked them about it, and they acted like the game had never come out. I tried to explain to them what I was trying to find. “You know the one, where Desmond’s Assassin is named Andreas and he is in the middle of World War II?” I knew this was right, because you had Altair during the crusade, you had Ezio in the renaissance (three times, sheesh) you had Connor in the Revolutionary war, you had John Jacob Jingle Himer Schmidt in the Civil War, and now there’s Andreas in World War II. Right? But they still had no idea what I was talking about. So I left the counter and looked for some cheap used games. I lookd at the GameCube section. They had about fifty million copies of Super Mario Sunshine, equally as many Luigi’s Mansions – in fact, one of them was really weird. Now that I think about it, I think blood was running down Luigi’s mustache on one copy. No matter, I already have a copy of that game. Looking through the shelves, I saw the weirdest thing in the world. It was a GameCube game. Now, if that wasn’t weird enough, it was a game I thought never existed. Limp Bizkit: The Video Game. I was stunned. My 2nd favorite band (#1 is Metallica) and nobody ever told me there was a video game? How was it that nobody would be making a bunch of sexual innuendo jokes about this game on the internet? Or something? Was this a rip-off of Guitar Hero or…Hell, I don’t know what. It was priced at $14 even, in big red letters written on marker. I was confused, but I thought it would be fun. I picked the thing off the shelf and looked closer at the cover. It was just a picture of Fred Durst on stage, with Wes Borland in the lower right corner…actually, now that I think about it, I think Snoop Dogg was somewhere too. But I can’t remember exactly where. The letters that said “LIMP BIZKIT: THE VIDEO GAME” were bold and white, bland but not boring.

1/2

I paid for the game and drove home. Got on my couch, grabbed a Mtn. Dew, plugged in my GameCube and started up the game. I looked on the back of the cover and it said “©2001” in the bottom. “That makes sense.” I said to myself. “Chocolate Starfish came out the year before. That’s the one that made him famous…maybe there’s a super-secret bonus level that’s a wrestling match between Tom Cruise and The Undertaker.” I even thought to myself “Hey, Fred’s been in a game before, hasn’t he? Yeah, he was in that one SmackDown game. I had that one.” I looked up to see all the pre-roll logos, and to my surprise the GameCube was powered off. I could have sworn I turned it on, but I guess I didn’t. I ejected the disc just to make sure it was playable. I rechecked whether or not the cables were in the wall. I put everything together, pressed power, saw the orange bit light up, and the game was going. Here comes the pre-roll logos. Looks like it was developed by Ubisoft. How ironic, eh? Like it was destined to be that way. There were the usual logos (companies that helped in soundtrack and engines and whatever.) The main menu started with a background of photographs from live events, and cut-outs of each band member becoming visible one at a time. You’d here “Fred Durst, Wes Borland, DJ Lethal,” those names, as they said them, and their cut-out would shake. You had Take a Look Around in the background, which signaled that this WAS going to have something to do with Mission Impossible II.

There were four options. STORY, MULTIPLAYER, EVENT and BOILER. Story, I would guess, would just be like career mode in any Guitar Hero. Then again, I didn’t actually get any accessory…so was I just going to play it with a GameCube controller? Remind me to think before I buy. Maybe it was a different kind of game. Multiplayer would be you vs. another person, I thought, if it was a “play the song” type of game, (gonna stop mentioning Guitar Hero since I know so little about it0). EVENT would just be play any song you wanted to. BOILER was the one that struck me. I knew the song and the music video. It was…weird…as ass. F*ckin’ worms in his cheeseburger and whores that are really robots and anorexic aliens doing Pink Floyd's The Wall or something. I figured I’d check it out later. I had no idea what it would be. Maybe it’s…umm…something. I dunno. Probably a way to unlock everything faster, if you had to unlock stuff.

Let’s give story mode a shot...

2/2

would be interesting if it had a more varied register of imagery and diction, otherwise this kind of free association always feels like throwing a e s t h e t i c at a wall but I admit I don't know any of the references

I like the matter-of-factness and the systematic way you go about delineating the social factors. a few o the lines like "But if I had a lady-brain, why don't I like my lady-body?" break from this in a camera-turning kind of way that diminishes its impact.

>first sentence starts with "I was"
stopped reading

this really says a lot about our society

and yet, we live in one

>get idea
>write 1000 to 2000 words of it
>put it down for the next day
>come back to it
>totally removed from the space I was in when I began
>can't find that same zone
>anything I write after it feels different, fail to imitate the original style

How to stop this?

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Don't just think of an idea, feel an idea, and feel it deeply. If you only think of an idea, you'll eventually get bored or distracted. If you feel an idea, first and foremost, you'll stick with it.

Yaldabaoth I challenge thee,
surpass this corporeal ken;
release from your cage of reality
this vital spirit of men.
sever our chains of mortality;
Excritcate us in death

How would you write a 'minor' gunshot wound? I'm trying to depict a sniper grazing someone's leg (the sniper is obstructed by tall grass, nightfall and the victim running up a hill)

If it grazed his leg, just say it grazed his leg (except better)

Alright thanks

I'm happy to help. Remember: show, don't tell.

What if the narrator is umreliable?

Ooh, thanks!

After a good sleep i've solved it.
Rather than make the protag dumber i can just make the surrounding characters and systems dumber/corrupt such that his solving the mystery doesn't matter at all.

Friend by enemy I call you out.

You with a bad coin in your socket,
You my friend there with a winning air,
Who palmed the lie on me when you looked
Brassily at my shyest secret,
Enticed with twinkling bits of the eye
Till the sweet tooth of my love bit dry,
Rasped at last, and I stumbled and sucked,
Whom now I conjure to stand as thief
In the memory worked by mirrors,
With unforgettably smiling act,
Quickness of hand in the velvet glove
And my whole heart under your hammer,
Were once such a creature, so gay and frank
A desireless familiar
I never thought to utter or think
While you displaced a truth in the air,

That though I loved them for their faults
As much as for their good,
My friends were enemies on stilts
With their heads in a cunning cloud.

You should improve your reading comprehension

>requests criticism
>reeeeeee don't criticize me

Not him. You just deeply misinterpreted the text is all, so I pointed it out.

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When you get an idea, jot the trigger words and their associations.