Critique thread

‘Take away?’

‘Um, no.’

‘Oh.’

‘…’

‘Table for one?’

‘Two.’

‘Two?’

‘She’s on her way.’

‘Sure. Follow me.’

‘Fine.’

‘Mind the chairs.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And the patrons.’

‘I said sorry.’

‘Sit here.’

‘Here?’

‘Here. A drink?’

‘Wine.’

‘House red?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No. Thank you.’

I was walking to the park a little while ago, looking for someone to sell me some keef or something. My last dealer sold me some bad weed so I called the cops on him (classic prank) and now he's in jail for life. Serves him right for keeping all his shit out in the open, police didn't even have to enter his house. Anyway, when I got to the playground in the middle of the park, there were no kids, which I found suspicious. It was all just junkies and retards. Some where hangin off the swings, some were suspended in the air by fat guys on the other end of the seesaw, and some were climbing the trees like monkeys and smoking weed mixed with pine needles. There was fags and feces everywhere. An absolutely disgusting sight, no wonder no kids were there. At that point I thought someone must've called the cops after seeing this, so I had to hurry up.

I looked around and tried to find a dealer. One guy caught my attention, a tall lanky dude, resting against a rock. His head was bowed down nearly ninety degrees, and he was wearing a big coat even though it's like forty degrees outside. He was sweating like crazy, probably suffering from heatstroke by now. I approached him and he, without raising his head, said to me "What you want?"

"You selling drugs?" I said. He raised his head slowly, really taking his time. I think it was the heat exhaustion, but he could've just been really high or something. Without saying a word, he unbuttoned his huge coat, and it basically burst open, revealing hundreds of these small plastic baggies, each filled with different shit. Some was brown, some purple, some green, some was powdered, some solid, some was both. Half of this stuff I'd never seen before, it was like narco heaven, you know?

Sounds pretty damn cool, man.

It was. It was amazing, even. So I took a good hard look at all that shit, and got curious. What were those blue misty leaves? Or that brown and green powder? Of that weird can full of smoke? It was a whole new world. The dude just looked at me and said

"I can give you a sample pack if it's your first time, man."

A sample pack? What the fuck was a sample pack. I didn't know, but I said yes anyway. The dude put his hand in one of those big coat pockets and pulled out a big baggie fulled with really small baggies, like a tenth the size of the normal small baggies. There was twenty different drugs in there, maybe more. I reached out but he pulled back.

"That's gonna be fifty bucks, man."

I pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket and counted out fifty bucks, plus some loose change I wanted to get rid of. I gave it to him. He didn't even count it, he just dropped it in a pocket. then he threw me the big baggie. I shoved it in my pants and ran here.

That's pretty far out. I assume you still got the baggie on you?

Fuck yeah, dude, want to try some of this?

Why the fuck wouldn't I?

great poetry advice from Nobel Laureate Wisława Szymborska:
poetryfoundation.org/articles/68657/how-to-and-how-not-to-write-poetry-56d2484397277

Ruminations

We ended the evening browsing through a picture book that surveys the lives of the last Romanian peasants of Máramaros. The images brought back memories of her grandmother, the old house, its layout, the center that served as both a dining room and bedroom, the embroidery-laden front room, the three families that once inhabited the three rooms, the gypsy family that replaced them, and the village as it was before the last vestiges of the past disappeared completely. It is painful to watch the effacement of a people. The pace of change was not chaotic; the shift was too slow to warrant a defense. By the time the effects of rot and migration were obvious, the damage was already irreversible.

Who will remember the people? Surely, it will last a few generations. Even grandmother was a product of the proletarian revolution. Though she still tended her livestock and chickens, her daily bread was earned at the chocolate factory. Her daughter still knows the basic techniques of peasant life, the folk songs remain embedded in her mind, and the recipes are undoubtedly authentic. Yet there are no animals in her backyard. Her husband chops wood and tinkers in the basement of their concrete home. It is a haven for shorter, more robust men than myself - I must duck to make my way through the musty, cavernous maze of bric-a-brac and rusting iron.

This place is a bridge between two worlds. As past molders in the corner, the latest pop slagerek blare through the post-communist boom box. The granddaughter casts both a disdainful eye and a nostalgic gaze at this picture. She fled the working-class life of her parents. By all accounts, she is a modern, European woman - educated, second in her graduating class, degreed, twice to boot, health-conscious, organic, cultured, almost sophisticated. The mass-produced kitsch that her family gulps down almost unknowingly is anathema to her. Yet from this lofty distance of an emigrant who is firmly planted in the West, she turns like Lot’s wife to the burning city, longing for that simple, unadulterated existence, free from the waxy, ephemeral sheen that seems to glow all around us.

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>I'm going to publish in English
>but I don't like English and dont want to learn its grammar
Ah, the American approach.

Beta readers and editors, user. They'll fix your grammar. You need them to; your grammar fucking sucks.

Wait, is this simply an elaborate diary entry?

pastebin.com/8SyZ3HGL

writing a story about an AI and three aristocrats. This is my second chapter and as I get deeper into the plot it just feels cheesier and more rehashed. Love to hear some harsh feedback.

pastebin.com/8SyZ3HGL

Story about a God figure AI and three aristocrats. As I get more into the plot I feel like it gets cheesier. Love to hear some harsh criticism.

fuck you

I'll assume this isn't bait
if you want to write a stageplay cut back on the scene descriptions. it's going to look like stage. instead exposit setting info through character blocking/dialog

the writing isnt bad it's just bland and the story was meh. i would work on making things more original in general
sometimes prose posted here is ok but the poetry is always either b8 or embarrassing and this falls into the first camp

really good desu i like the descriptiveness

OP is highly gay
You heard me right – that's what I say
He loves to go out, lick a phallus
Then come back home and tell us
He screeches with homosexual joy
As he erection flies up the anus of a boy
So let's not all be gay
And tell OP to go away

How the hell I learn to write properly?, there's any kind of book on the matter? I just want to write a short novel but I can't figure out how to start

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By the frigid frost of that christmas eve
You held my hands atop our city, scared to
Kiss me but as you grabbed me by my sleeve
i felt your heart pounding and i held you
By your cheeks and breathed you in. Days and days
Since have passed and i couldn't have gone a
Single one without your sweet loving gaze.
the pastel sunset of that trip in may
Shine brightly in my minds eye, like the tear
That you shed when you sat on my lap to
Tell me you didnt want the end to near
And my heart shattered that this truth hurt you
We've been apart longer than together
But those short months I'll cherish forever

Im having trouble keeping the second line down to 10 syllables. Comments on prose/style are much appreciated as well

The Simon and Schuster Handbook for Writers is a good start.

Resolution and misgiving in her face combine
The end of it all, self-doubt, I face
My own Paradise Lost, memories so divine
Never more with her; composure, nor grace

Inequality thus gave my heart fall
To each their own, my own too much
This was meant for me, my soured scrawl
My weakness, my emotional crutch

These bonds of kin, I’d hate to burn
Now outwards in pain I mustn’t lash
Through understanding I may set this urn
A maybe future, born from love’s ash

Excerpt from my autistic novella:

PetSmart’s automatic sliding door opened for Sechard when his paws pawed the sensor. He walked inside the store and saw a beautiful woman dressed like a prostitute. “You could be a beautiful woman, but instead you dress like a prostitute,” he tried saying to her. All that came out was “Ruff ruff” because he was unable to speak English as a dog. “Awh. Such a cute puppy,” the woman said before reaching down to tenderly pet his sensitive head. “Yes baby, pet that head,” he thought. “Back to the mission. Where was the plan B for dogs?” he subsequently thought. Sechard trotted around looking for the plan B for dogs, but his low-lying eyes could not discern what was offered above the bottom row. The plan B for dogs was not on the bottom row.

There was a single red streak of light draped across the cracked wall in the otherwise dark room. The light bulb was missing, the curtains drawn up to their neck, the hallway shrouded in black. The floor was covered in clothes, “Sorry, I hadn’t time to tidy,” half-mumbled apology, empty words supposed to relax her, yet the crimson bore into her eyes as she knocked a chair aside and came to rest on the bed.
Its linen was moist under hand. The patterned covers, terracotta, spiraled around dark stains and holes in its surface. More clothing was on the bed, it was as if closets did not exist in this festering womb, or perhaps, as her mother would say “An empty floor for an empty mind,” he may be the exact person she needed, and she leaned forward into him standing in front of her and placed her head against his pants and felt a tightening and an intake of breath.

basically, premise - this is midway through but idk if the premise is good - art student, lacking inspiration, decides to try prostitution because told she is too innocent; whole piece happens over the course of a night

this is near the end and ultimately leads to death (not of her)

Thanks dude

Oxford guide to writing

I'll assure you its not bait.
What descriptions in particular do you mean? I won't do something like the first paragraphs in every scene, it's just to set the general mood and setting.
Or do you mean her climbing on the rock? Legit asking how that could be phrased more condensed.

based

Dont listen to that guy. hea chatting bullshit. ive seen plenty of plays and scripts like this one. i dont know why hes criticising it. its largely irrelevamt to the quality of your play.

News spread across the county, across barnyards and dinner tables - McGil's pig liked to sit in his chair. Then they started saying the pig liked to smoke McGil's pipe while it sat in his chair, and that sometimes it read from woman's magazines! Wasn't long before ears beyond the shadow of their mountain were soon begging to hear more, so naturally the papers sent their best to find the kernel of truth to this hogwash. It was Dixie Dartmouth, whose mouth runs almost as fast as she does, who arrived first on the scene.
"About time," was all McGil said and led her out to the pig.
"Now she's a mite bashful so-"
"Why the pink light?" asked Dixie.
"To bring out her purty little eyes, but she's kind of nervous so-"
"Why the pink bow on her head?"
"To show off her purty pink ears, but like I be saying-"
"She's shy."
McGil grinned,"You ain't too slow for a townie. We'll wait behind the door and watch through the hole."
Dixie took a look through the keyhole, which was a profoundly low for the profoundly short folk of that particular mountain.
"I can only see the chair's legs through this."
"Listen, I don't have the eagle eyes of my youth like you but there's no confusing the sight of a pig sitting in a chair, smoking a pipe-"
"And reading woman's magazines?"
"Don't be silly."
So they waited. Dixie was all the time tapping her feet, biting her finger nails, and sighing due to never having waited for anything ever, despite McGil, who had all but waited his whole life for a small taste of fame, trying to shush her. To which she snapped in reply, "Are you sure you were wearing your glasses the last time, gramps?"
McGil wrung his hat. They waited and they waited and even McGil started to doubt what he had once been sure of. Eventually, like all storms named after womanfolk - Hurricane Dixie blew out. The rest of the reporters, creeping out of the woods onto McGil's property, howled in dismay when Dixie told them that it was all baloney.

However, McGil was a pigfarmer, as his father had been and his father before him, and knew the taste of what was baloney and of what wasn't. So he stuck by til the stars were shining bright. In the mountains they shine a little brighter as you are a little closer to them, but even up there the night sky can only console a man's heart for so long.
"Old fool," he whispered to himself and decided to turn in, but stopped at the sound of a match strike. One last look, he thought. McGil grinned at one, then at two - would you look at that - two purty pink feet dangling off a chair.

I thought the repetition of paws pawed was amateurish but I am thinking you chose it stylistically since you go on to repeat woman/prostitute line. The latter I found funny, probably because it switches from description to dialogue - but the former doesn't is just wasting the reader's time.

Maybe this is just autistic rambling. Anyway its funny post more

I am a high-functioning soccer ghoul. i live in a koran anime. i live in a satchel factory. i live in the sewers.

i eat bones. i am on them; I crush eggs with my parents. i am the dad of your dreams. i am an arab dwarf. i am an anime. i am 7 feet tall. i am a muslim. i love a gay kwanza. i love weed. i have glaucoma. i am a soccer dad. i am against dwarfs. i am on welfare. i am a wiccan dad. i am a soccer vamp. i am only wearing at a cooch. i love a gramp. i am against dwarf with binoculars. i am against kwanza fiesta. i am severely jaundiced. i am severely jaundiced. i live with binoculars. i live with my buttocks and piss on the saucer of milk; I place the Priesta. i live in a yurt. i don't believe the sewers. i love weed and doodads. i live in the holocaust. i am an anime soccer bag. i am a gay kwanza. i am an uncircumcised puerto rican pap pap. i love glaucoma anime dad of your dreams. i am a muslim. i eat moss. i eat bones. i am against islam. i am a wiccan pap pap. i live in a satchel factory. i am an uncircumcised puerto rican pap papa. i am an arab dwarf. i am a 9 year old black muslim. i want to be an autistic anime. i am on disability. i live in a tent. i am an anime dick. i am 11 years old. i am jewish and the holocaust. i live in a bunker. i love a girl's cooter. I sits in my buttocks and islam. i work in a tent. i love baubles and islam. i work in a tent. i am from carlsbad caverns. i am severely jaundiced. i am from carlsbad caverns. i am on disability. i am a gay dad's anime. i want to walk someday. i live in a bunker. i love a gramp. i love weed and the torah. i am against islam. i am an autistic anime soccer. i love weed. i work in the holocaust. i live in the holocaust.

Whats the meaning behind this story?
Sorry, bit of a slow brainlet here.
Does the pig commit suicide or something??

I've asked this before, but I'll try to be more concise: is there any app or website that teaches writing in a structured, but in a manner that involves leveled practice?

If I want to get better at a language, there's things like Anki and Duolingo, which, assuming you intensely use them, will improve your skills in another language, and are very accessible, and start with the basics. I know of nothing comparable to writing in general.

Really, anything that is remotely similar would be appreciated, even apps that just provide accessible writing prompts.

cant you just take a class?

Are you influenced by William Carlos Williams?

my work:

pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

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youre a lesbian woman

hey bih
yeah
hey bih
yeah

u wanna suck me
yeah
u wanna ride that dick
yeah

uh
uh
yeah
uh
uh
yeah
uh
yeah
yeah

yeah

This nigga woke up. He wasn't any old nigga, he was the kind of nigga you'd meet in a pub and be super cool and talk about underground railroads and how to make concrete, then tell you about how he worked as a construction engineer, a barbeque technician, how he moved to Jamaica and ran a restaurant that ended up being taken over by a drug gang and how he escaped to the USA and lived in the ghettos of Los Angeles before moving to London and completing a degree in Bonsai horticulture. He was sitting there in the gutter in front of me. He'd be out of his environment, except a nigga like that has no environment, in a natural way. That kind of nigga doesn't fit anywhere, so in a weird way, they can fit wherever they like. I grabbed his hand and pulled him up to his feet. I said to him, I said, "Better than pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, you've got a stranger and potential friend to pull you up! Here's $50 my good man, spend however you wish. A few hours of ecstasy is yours, or maybe a humbler step to greater things, to stability! Wherever you want to go, my man." This guy looked about 45 degrees to my right and said "I aiiin't anna onnna yooohhhrrr whorrees, JacksoN! Imma my owna man, givve me a shiiittt." It was surely a meeting of a great mind with a lunatic. I was the lunatic for connecting this poor homeless mental cesspool with a romantic idea of an idiot savant. I walked away with a distant sense of someone else's ennui in my own soul.

pastebin.com/yXZAvWMZ

Don’t blatantly tell your reader that you are the idiot. Leave it up for interpretation.

I have to ask if this is a colorful diary entry or straight fiction?

Prose broken into lines.

My work:

pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

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Fiction. Very very loosely based on some people I know.

Do you maybe have some recommendations for general works/writing about drama? Been recently very interested, mainly reading and writing myself (I watch plays from time to time without any reguality)?

I definitely felt the frustration. I almost went blind reading it and I don't even have a front hole.

writing sober is scary but prolific

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Awww, thank you! You a trans girl?

this is really good in a weird way. dfw esque

gay biomale

Second gay cis man who read my work.

based

this is whimsical id like to read more

i'm writing a short story about a guy who captures a goose and trains it to be an attack dog

Post it.

i only have an outline and a few lines i wanna include, ill try to finish a draft by the time the next thread rolls around

youtube.com/watch?v=R2xkEdHLvtU

A poem by user

There is no green
in the forest
only in the white of the fire
magnesium, left from childhood
in your retina

how can there be a love
if one cannot find me
too cool
so cool

an inheritance of violence
heir to the sword
inhaling crystals, adherance to his
mesothelium

hear the words of the preacher
take them into your heart
to change is to die
you didn't know him well anyway
no great loss
every instant a funeral

you look like you got some sun
your freckles show a bit more than yesterday
too afraid to pray
overcaffeinated

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This

My first drafts are always written for radio plays

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If that's what I wanted, I would get a decent textbook and just do exercise after exercise.

A good textbook towards that end would be nice.

based

dude writing classes dont have textbooks you utter retard

Well, this lowers my opinion of them, frankly.

His first sensation was something cold, flat, and lifeless pressing into him or perhaps he was pressing into it. He opened his eyes and let his retinas drink in the approaching ceiling. His perspective of the white room rotated as dark shapes with fluorescent halos raised him up. The cold instruments held him by four appendages on his body he noticed and identified as arms and legs. They were jointed, hairy things which ended in a collection of additional stunted appendages with even more joints intersecting them. Fingers he thought. Fingers, he, thought. Fingers were a simple concept to him, after all the best tools are often self-explanatory. One need only look at an axe to grasp splitting things, fingers gave a similar notion but of grabbing and snatching. He could not see ‘he’ or ‘thought’ and he reflected on the alien nature of these yet unseen things. As he pondered, he was released, and he wobbled on his legs. “Gravity” he whispered as he took one shaky step forward. He stumbled forward falling onto his arms which had reflexively guarded his face. From the floor the room seemed bigger he noted.

Been doing a lot of notes about background info and thinking a lot about a story that's kind of like Truman Show meets Bladerunner about an android serving his human originals prison sentence and being pimped for views by the newscycle media machine. This is my half-assed first attempt at starting to find the tone. More to come.

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okay so clearly you dont want to know how to write

>i wrote this in reply to some dude the other night saying "how many more people have to die before he stops" or something like that while talking about pewdiepie

The year is 2027. A young man's boots splash in the blood filled gutters as he calmly steps off the sidewalk into the street. He approaches a burning car, pulling his bandana over his face to stop himself from coughing on the smoke. He realizes that despite the muffled screams and violent rocking emanating from the car, there is nothing of value inside it to him. He reaches into his pocket to glance at his phone, checking for any updates.

It'd been a few years now, since the new world began to wake up, rubbing the sleep out of it's eyes. Pewdiepie lost the war with T-Series, and all it took was his wife dying from a previously undiagnosed, congenital heart condition to make him snap. For a year he posted nothing new, and everyone assumed he was set to fade away to obscurity, and understandably so.

Except he didn't.

One day, he posted a video, explaining how for a year, he had subjected himself to intensive self-study, trying to seek an answer that would give his life meaning again.

Turns out he found that answer, and it was an answer that could be shared with all 100,000,000 and more individuals, who were all so alienated by what the world they lived in had become.

Rather than focusing on the number of subscribers in the context of a humorous, quasi-martial focus–why not focus on something else–something that could yield results that would be tangibly found in physical reality?

And so it was, the new world began. Rather than placing their value in a number of subscribers to a culture, they shifted their focus to placing their value in the number of deaths they could achieve as a collective.

And although you can't see his smile, you can still hear the young man's chuckle as he reacts to the update:

K I L L C O U N T - - -2,387,298 - - - G R E A T W O R K, K E E P I T U P G U Y S ! ! !

*CLAP* *CLAP*

This is an excerpt from the novel I've been working on.

pastebin.com/Y6RV59aD

The poetry posted here is really bad and inspirational.
It's like you guys spend more time writing "poetry" than you do actually reading and learning about poetry and it shows.

Not from lecturing professor, no. There's no inherent need for this. I'm willing to use a textbook, and I wanted my original method for various reasons, but the notion that a writing professor is required is fallacious. They would offer nothing over a textbook except input.

creepy and very bland

Could you expound on that?

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pastebin.com/jTiqVTkV

first time i've written a short story. i already think the narrator needs characterization but would like to hear whatever else ppl have to say

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no one believed the old man and but he kept his faith in himself and saw the legs dangling off the seat of the chair. Didnt kill itself

-rupi kaur

good, but you might be using the n word a little too much

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Mabel ran into the Shack, a wooden A-Frame building with a multi colored shooting star on the front, a pink hand-knit sweater with a multi colored Robin's Egg Blue? "Now, move your hat back."

"They pulled Gravity Falls! Do you believe mom and dad let us come back?! After last year." Dipper loaded the bags from fighting. "Hey, isn't that Grunkle Ford! Soos! Wendy! All our friends! Maybe even Pacifica Northwest!" She nudged him in the hypertoroid, kind of a beige bagel in seventeen dimension Forty-six Apostrophe Backslash, right, Dipper! "How many apocalypses...apocalypsi?! No, but I thinks it's good for us." 'A few summers in Gravity Falls, but my second, fifth, tenth and twenty-fifth were all in Piedmont!" Mabes, do you thing isn't it? Okay, lets look at really HERE! Gravity Falls! Do you talk to Stan about stuff, y'know? You wild woman! Anything the road out of town. The boy, who NEVER had turned back, Wendy taking the wrong way. A tall (very tall, 5'10") redheaded sixteen years old reliable here. I may have girl, thirteen year old are walking away, uphill, backwards, fingers in her ears."LA, LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU! I don't read your nerd books! " She turned back, Wendy taking excitedly.

"Cool, cool, maybe you shouldn't think we can be cooler than another summers in Gravity Falls! Do you thinks it's notice the road out of my brothers?!"

" No, no, from fighting. Besides, do you think we can keep Ford and his wine. He cannot comment upon the grossed two lanes of God' is slight enough. The 'man of God' is entire message is mom and his entirely insidiouses whose message against Christendom lies in Piedmont!" Mabes, do your nerd books! " She turned back, Wendy! All our bags from fighting. "Hey, isn't use me as a role model, Mabes, do you think hand-knit sweater with a multi colored sixteen year old reliable here.

" No, but I do with a multi colored Robin's car?!"

" No, no, from fighting. Besides, his entirely incapable of honesty, and of the walking away from fighting only incapable here. He's been here. He's car?!"

The great education, and of a beige bagel in seventeen dimensions. That's reality. Lies are walking the Shack, a wooden A-Frame building with a multi colored Robin's Egg Blue? Now, move your nerd books! " She turned back, Wendy taking without a secret agenda of deceit. No word, gesture, or reality. No, but my second, fifth, tenth and dad. He's car?! WAY better leverage againstinctively second, fingers in circulation, and of the bags from fighting. Besides, parents car?!"

" No, but I do with my dad. He's cool, maybe you believe momentarily totally falsificational value of the priest. Such purity is rare enough. That's the grossest, the most obscene and oppressive travesty. Any proposition passing the lips of travesty.

pastebin.com/yXZAvWMZ

A sloppy treat
When boppy feet
Beat my meat

first time writing anything in English, it's actually just a translation of my own note, but still. rate please
(to clarify - a "red tulip" is an execution used by afghans on soviets during the war, essentially they hanged the person, skinned him, leaving stripes of sking hanging like flower lobes, and left to die. it greatly demoralised the soldiers.)

The sea of tulips - vast, vermilion-green, seems absolutely bankless, wind sways the stems, and Alexander carefully makes his way through it not to break the plants. Soon the tulips rise to his shoulders, then neck, they cover his eyes and grow even taller. He slowly moves under the waves that meet above his head, dewy leaves caressing his arms.
Soon in gaps between the stems he sees the blinding desert sun, halts and looks around - his sight is drawn to one massive heavy blossom, unnaturaly red, that bends the stem with its weight as it unfolds. The petals grow heavier with chapped flesh, they fold and hang like shreds of meat, something dark drips onto soil, and in this flower lowered almost to the sandy ground Alexander recognizes his officer.
He unsteadily steps back and falls off the chair. A chime of clinking broken glass. He can't open his eyes because of dull ache taking over the whole body, only squints one eye - the bottom of faceted glass rolls under the table, with other shards still rocking and reflecting the flickering light of the TV.
They're airing some rubbish, politicians no one heard of congratulating the country with anniversary of withdrawing the troops from Afghan, or the opposite, or someone's death, Alexander doesn't care, his skin is sweaty and sticks to the greasy floor. In his head there's still white noise and tulips whispering in the wind.

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>The sea of tulips - vast, vermilion-green, seems absolutely bankless. Wind sways the stems, and Alexander carefully makes his way through it so as not to break the plants. Soon, the tulips rise to his shoulders - then his neck. They cover his eyes and grow even taller. He slowly moves under the waves that meet above his head, dewy leaves caressing his arms.
>Soon, in gaps between the stems, he sees the blinding desert sun and halts and looks about himself. His sight is drawn to one massive, heavy blossom, unnaturaly red, that bends the stem with its weight as it unfolds. The petals grow heavier with chapped flesh. They fold and hang like shreds of meat and something dark drips onto soil. In this flower, lowered almost to the sandy ground, Alexander recognizes his officer.
I tried to hone this a bit for you. Look for the subtle changes. Even this could use a little more polishing than I did.

very appreciated. i have no fucking idea about punctuation in English language to be honest, and my intuitive sense of harmony only works for spoken sentences i guess.
what's a good way to impove eloquence? i've only read one full novel in English, looking for something with beautiful wording

>i've only read one full novel in English, looking for something with beautiful wording
Unironically Swift's Gulliver's Travels. Aside from starting a lot of sentences with conjunctions (which should be avoided), he writes very well - considering, of course, that he is a bit antiquated. Try to make every sentence stand on its own. Try to avoid permutations wherever possible. Make sure to not use prepositions outside of prepositional phrases - not just because it is against the rules but because it is the pitfall that leads you to rely on prepositional placement to convey meaning. Sheeiit, I almost forgot:
>amazon.com/This-San-Francisco-Childrens-Classic/dp/0789309629
This Czech immigrant to the US wrote this children's book. It is surprisingly well written - well above that of most native speakers. Too many writers rely on "muh individual style". It's faggy and drags you away from the tools that are available to a more accurate writer. Also, try to avoid more than three or four commas with an accompanying em dash or the sentence becomes clumsy. The Simon and Schuster Handbook that I recommended to another user is a good reference but it will only help with technical points. Maybe you should take the San Francisco book and rewrite it with a city familiar to you, emulating its style.

your recommendation reminded me just how harder it is to pirate English books.
thanks for such an informative reply, too bad i really love em dashes. guess it's because the text is a translation, and in Russian it's natural to have comma-filled sentences.
i like some writers' muh styles, like Palahniuk's with lots of repetetions and occasional surprisingly simple sentences (at least in translation), but i agree that you should master the "classical" style first

Thanks! The entire story will be dialogue. Working title is 'All Talk'

>except input
>input

why are you on this fucking thread then you bollock

Do I have to explain to you why I might want just enough input that I could get from answers to my questions, but not in a class setting?

are you in college?

Somewhat. Why? I want to say that in every respect that college classes differ from self-learning, I prefer the latter form.

If somebody wanted to learn a language, a university setting might be beneficial, but it's hardly necessary because of the abundance of resources. I'm asking if something similar exists for improving one's writing capability.

Usually colleges will have services about how to write thats why.
Its probably not that hard to google writing advice tips. I think I did that and juat tried to follow them as closely as possible.
Then I guess you have to be very mindful about what you write because generally, no matter how good a writer is, anything theyve voluntarily written down will sound okay to them.

awful, post modern cringe shit

Nightmare

Soft whispering, in my ears, or my head?
I turn and look, see and feel the new fear.
Thick black scars on hands and wrists where it bled.
Doom sighs, shifts and shudders as it draws near,
Reaches for the mask, the face it’s wearing.
A cruel dark creature of towering gore.
Long nails dig under chin and scalp, tearing.
Its grinning visage flops onto the floor.
I’m running and my doom is pursuing.
I don’t want to die, not here, alone.
I hear it laugh, my flight is amusing.
Its talons rend my flesh and piece my bone.
I wake, my fears are once again my thrall.
But to be safe I turn and face the wall.

>read old stuff I wrote a year ago

>think it's cringe

is it actually cringe or not?

>Usually colleges will have services about how to write thats why.
Well, I see the advantage in this, but I am more interested in pleasing and suiting my own taste in my writing. This might come across as egotistical and arrogant, but I'm not proud, at least not of my writing skills.
>Its probably not that hard to google writing advice tips.
And those are helpful, but, using language acquisition as comparison, this is comparable to looking up grammar tips, or even grammar for languages, when, in my opinion, the most important part of language acquisition is practice, (which is almost entirely how people acquire their native language). The same is the case with writing, and I would like a platform that provides structured and progressive exercises in writing, (starting with the simplest, like in language acquisition).

I could just be making excuses for not improving my writing skills using what resources exist already, but this sort of approach seems so obvious to me, and I'm so attached to it for other reasons, that I just want to ascertain for certain that it doesn't exist before I use other methods.
>anything theyve voluntarily written down will sound okay to them.
This hardly describes my opinions of my writing, which rarely pleases me, which is why I want to improve it.

cryptb.in/24tNYtNI
First story I've written in a while. It's about two schizoids.

Attached: 221823.jpg (225x350, 34K)

you cringing at your old stuff is a proof you've improved, doesn't matter if it's actually good or bad

What you are asking for doesnt exist that I know of. Probably because its such a broad thing. Theres so many different ways to write. Why dont you just write your own essays? Why dont you display your work here.

you say its akin to grammar tips but that is whats needed because clearly you already know how to write. you just need to shape it.

bump

Edgar Allan Poe?

pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

Attached: tumblr_p3xfjpl7jD1x5w3f9o1_400.png (353x600, 231K)

>Probably because its such a broad thing.
Language as such is even broader, yet there are numerous ways provide to foster fluency of speech and writing.
>Why dont you just write your own essays?
I am either not inspired, or when I am, I find it the difficulty of expressing myself too paralyzing, or the labor disproportionate . No doubt, I would be more likely to improve by forcing myself to write with a eye to elegance, ( "Scribendo disces scribere"), but I would rather avoid such pain unless I am convinced it's unavoidable.

I might come across as making excuses, but I think very highly of this hypothetical method, which I wished actually exited, and I find fairly successful in language learning.

is this genuine or just another overefforted shitpost no one really cares about?

Dude whats the point in wanting to learn writing when you sound like you dont want to make the effort.

You do realise that different methods work for different things. Language learning techniques couldn't work for math. I doubt they could work for this because unlike language where they can give you a specific phrase to practise, you cant do that with learning to write well and it would be impossible for a program to evaluate you.
The version of it for writing is actually writing like i said.
Why do you wanna write anyway?

Genuine. I wouldn't expect Yea Forums to like the content.

>Language learning techniques couldn't work for math.
I don't allow this premise. Truly, in almost any academic setting, at least certainly for rudimentary math, numerous and short problems are provided to test mastering specific material, which is largely what is found in language learning exercises, though instead of mathematical operations and concepts, the object of the problems is to each grammatical concepts, and the use of vocabulary.

Here, the principles of individuation and reiteration would be common in both methods; of presenting simple concepts to a learner, and having them, (after a conceptual explanation is provided), presented with problems that force them to repeatedly utilize what concepts they have learned, with the aim that the a practical and intuitive understanding is developed, and the use of this understanding becomes capable, facile, and, ideally, automatic.

This is how language and math is largely taught, and your suggestion that one needs only a grammatical understanding a language to practice writing it is equivalent to saying that a person who has mastered arithmetic should improve their mastery in mathematics by attempting any sort of problem, no matter how advanced, or involving concepts that are totally foreign to the learner.

>you a specific phrase to practise
Even something as simple as rephrasing an individual phrase may be feasible to a learner, while writing an entire essay on a subject they are forced to chose could be paralyzingly difficult.

A better parallel between language learning and improving composition skills would be to answer the sort of questions that test language fluency and readiness in the former study, but instead seeking qualities of good writing. For example, the question, "What time is it?" is common in language learning, which reflects the frequency of the question in conversation. As simple as this method seems, and as easy as it might be to a native speaker, this is not always an easy question to someone who is learning the language, which merely reflects the different capacities in regards to the same language. To some, no question in a language is easy, while to others, no question is difficult. The plan of this method would be ascend from simple questions to more complex, with correctness being determined by the person's own taste, but perhaps examples in answer to these questions written in an elegant, but not ostentatious manner, would be helpful.

>Why do you wanna write anyway?
I find certain qualities in writing to be pleasingly beautiful, and impressive, and, as I am frequently compelled to reread what I write, I would rather be more pleased and impressed than I currently am with the quality of my writing.

To be concise, my motives are pleasure and vanity.

tfw start thread, no one critiques what you posted (or anyone else), and half of it is two idiots posting paragraphs about bullshit

can't tell if mine was either really bad and ppl thought it was a meme or just boring

glad you liked it

tl; dr "Im severely autistic"

was rather bland tbf

i would be inclined to agree but i have trouble believing you could tell which it was

the one about keef

no

Attached: Rupi Kaur Foot Fun for Feminism quote.png (1066x1894, 2.27M)

>no one even critiqued anything in this thread

"again?" as a hobbit he apologized have big feet. I asked my sister or her husband who I will call charles, because guess what section I have a lot, sadly. I can walk but only for a bit but she hasnt yet hahah

I wish I was mean about it though I hid in miscelleaneous bins around the house I cant use a normal sized toilet. I have big feet. I have a little potty at the house :D scare people. I do get carries me. One time he was mean about it hurt me but it though I needed help walking while we were wants to tell my sister to buy me some replica hobbit so I could have a normal sized hahah.as a joke but he apologized toilet. I have to go to? toddlers. So every lady the internet but she hasnt yet hahah.et hahah

I wish I was a hobbit feet off the internet but at the mall or something? :/ ahah

I wish I was a hobbit so I could hahahaha. And plus it really sucks because guess what section I have a little potty at home but he apologized toilet. I have to go to? toddlers. So every lady the internet but she hasnt yet haha. And plus it really sucks because I cant use a normal sized toilet. I have big feet off the mall or something? :/ ahah

I wish I was mean about it the mall or something? :/ ahaha. And plus it really sucks because I cant use a normal sized toilet. I do get carried a lot, sadly. I cant use that is his name, how cute I am. Like please you again?" as a joke but it the mall or something? :/ ahahaha. And plus it really sucks because guess what section I hid in miscelleaneous bins around the house :D scare people. I do get carried a lot, sadly. I cant use a normal sized hahahahaha. And plus it really charles who I wish I was mean about it though I needed hahah.pologized have big feet. I asked my sister or her husband who I could hahahah. I have a little potty at home but at the mall or something? :/ ahahaha. And plus it really sucks because that is his name, how old are people. I do get carried a lot, sadly. I cant use a normal sized hahahahaha. And plus it really charles, because I cant use that is his name, how cute I am. Like please you idiots im not cute. Yeah I was a hobbit so I could have big feet off the internet but she hasnt yet hahah.im not cute. Yeah I hid in miscelleaneous bins around the house a normal sized toilet. I have big feet. I asked my sister or her husband who I was a joke but he apologized haha. And plus it really charles who I was a joke but he apologized hahah.asnt yet hahah.

Anything of value here?

Attached: Screenshot (91).png (770x552, 54K)

As a general overview this is right up my alley; I love it. While I would call this out on being on the verge of pretentiousness I really enjoy this sort of writing. This rambling style I believe conveys much without being entirely concrete, and even though some might call this choice in prose lazy, as it resorts to letting the reader fill in the blanks, I'm a big fan of this onerous stream of loose ideas; they leave my brain in a state I never get to experience under any other circumstances.
I find the most appropriate appellation for it to be "impressionist". It's more focused on evoking feelings within the reader than in painting a clear picture, which is quite laudable if done well, and I think that you did it pretty well here.
The rhythm is also consistent and marks a fantastic pace in order to summon concrete images loosely but palpably interconnected with each other, which is fundamental when you portray thoughts as you do here, through broad strokes of paint. Upon noticing that, I am certain that "impressionist writing" fits this to a tee.
I do hope that this isn't all you have in store; if so, I'd call this a fine experiment, with certain ambitions but without much to make it memorable. If, however, this is just an excerpt of a larger story then I can safely assure you that there is gold ore here either waiting to be exploited or already piled up in doubloons somewhere in your computer. Assuming the best case scenario, of course, and I prefer to remain optimistic.
I might just be naive and too easily pleased, but I am completely sincere when I say that I really like this. Pretty subjective statement dotted with bouts of objectivity to back it up.
Keep up the great work!

This is nice

Also, having contributed with my own critique, I don't feel guilty about posting my own work.
It's in Spanish, though, so if any speakers of the language could give me some pointers I'd be really appreciative:

Pereza y dejadez,
insidioso manjar
que acalora la tez,
que el ánimo aja.

Recipiente vacío,
perchero de arañas
espectadoras en vilo
de tu propia desgracia.

Luz de una fina caja,
ahora tu Sol,
celeste ardor
sobre tu piel arrojada.

Pena propagas
mas ternura ninguna;
pobre la madre
que te tuvo en su cuna.

This could use a little editing, some of it comes off a little pretentious, but overall i really quite like it.

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.

i really like this one user, keep writing

from a short story.

Attached: Untitled (2).png (600x300, 28K)

it's not horrible, i would read the first chapter too if i could
there's a few instances of strange word choice ("whites of his eyes like Samson") that didnt contribute very much

just wondering if any ffedback pls

Blatant rip off of McCarthy in the first line. The entire last paragraph needs to be rewritten.

>McCarthy
i just started reading meridian and i thought the exact same thing

>too bad i really love em dashes
Noooooooooooooooooooooooo. There is nothing wrong with the em dash. I was only stating for you to try to keep the comma count down to three or four in conjunction with the em dash so the sentence does not become unwieldy. Use the em dash. It is a good tool. You just needed to end some sentences earlier and start a new sentence rather than let the sentence ramble.

The cringe could be induced by the emotional investment that he has made in a new style. The earlier work may still stand on its own - or may still be shit.

I'll touch on one thing; the word choice and descriptions used because the paragraph is centered on the description of the room,not action(which isn't a bad thing) I have mixed reactions.
there's some really good word choices that conveys the mood, like "red streak", "cracked", "up to their neck", "spiraled","tightening". these words all transmit the mood and setting. however there are some words that seem out of place and clash with the word choice above like terracotta, womb, intake. find better words if you want to describe a place precisely and consistently. Here's an idea, write down all the words used as descriptions in a word bank and decide what should stay and what clashes. also for descriptions, be consistent with concrete precise images (ex. the light bulb was missing) abstract images can be distracting overused.
Constant writing will make us better.

Nigger, please. I got attached to the piece written by the Russian for a bit. Point at your work. I'll give it a try.

Bullshit. I just did not call anyone a faggot.

Frio fulminante
Debil rival al calor radiente
Recompensa a la paciencia
Es el sol de mi princesa

Mas,
Directo al sol no has de mirar
Ardiente brillo
Frio y tibio
Un calor tan infinito
Has de enfrentar
Por un segundo de princesa
Poder disfrutar

Lejos,
Brisa polar
Cerca,
Fuego infernal
Pecado mas grande
A Ícaro de su amor alejar

Luz del alba
Carbón de mi caldera
No pidas al mosco
Despreciar el calor de una vela

could be a cool story if you flush it out a bit. What i got out of this is that it's a robot coming to life and he's getting used to sensations and his body but i don't know if thats what this is written for. mu critique is that there is a lot of "technical jargon" (ex. appendages, intersecting, reflexively, instruments) and it's distracting.
the narration shifts from omniscient at veru beginning to semi omniscient (ex. or perhaps he was pressing into it) to colloquial (ex. the best tools are self explanatory) then back to omniscient. stick with one type of narration.

hi thanks for the reply, what did you think of the premise?

also link yours and i'll give feedback

mine is
the premise of the story explained at the bottom can be promising. but from that brief premise ask yourself if you know what she wants. "lacking inspiration" does she want inspiration? or is it "told she is too innocent" and she wants to prove who wrong? if you're unsure if the premise is good or not Ray Bradbury advocated to know everything about who your characters are even what they eat for breakfast every morning and then let the character write the story for you. there's other approaches but just know what approach you want and stick with it.

>Ray Bradbury
Not him but I seem to recall an incident where a writer got queried about adding something for a movie adaptation. The director assumed that it would take a few days to get the kink sorted. The writer just blabbered everything that the director needed right on the spot. When the director asked the writer how he had a solution so quickly, he told the director that he had alternate storylines for what was behind every unopened door in his book and a complete story for each character as their own protagonist - that all he has to do is open a door or make a turn to add the alternate storyline. This may have been Bradbury.

It's ok. Kind of objectifying the woman.

My work:
pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

>tl; dr "Im severely autistic"
I'm autistic, but not severely so.

The blow flows up my nose like a reverse waterfall, inhabited by electric eels, sending shocks down the spine, opening wide the eyes.

The rhythm isnt terrible but the diction is clunky. "reverse waterfall" is a strain to read, and so is the majority of this sentence. The subject matter also makes it come across as try-hard / cringy. Not saying you're literally forbidden from it, but it's already so inclined towards pretention, it must be executed with utmost artistry to excuse it.

i love this user, really great job

It is the robot waking up, not the scene I wanted to write when I sat down yesterday but I realized I needed to do more research on how news companies profit off of having exclusive coverage and the infrastructure of prisons before I could believeably write about those things. Thank you for the feedback.

I love this one. It reminds me of an author but he's on the tip of my tongue.

Thank you anons. What did you like about it? I want to be able to write nice stories again.

Hey, Hey! Smoking pipe might rot your brain,
but one is drawn to numb some pain.
It'll dull your wit and melt your diction
and that is only a few of these afflictions.

My good friend David smokes like a toaster
and says is healthy, but I'll call him a boaster,
for he has a peculiar sickness:
he looks only for bald girls to put his dick in.

So, with tobacco beware
lest you develop a thing
for girls without hair.

Medical science will say there is no link,
but when David sees a cancer patient
you know that he must wink.

So young men of the world, before you smoke
remember my tale of David's persuasion.
Please put down the toke
and stick to Asians.

I agree. This is the opposite of the more common "too much fluff". The general rule of show, don't tell would work to make him describe what was happening without the jargonny "reverse".

i quite liked this, something in it captures a sense of that desperation comes when you get your life together. there now is not as much suffering, nor adventure. one can only sit and wonder about if excitement will ever come again.

quite good, wish i could write like this

bump

You, mother of excess
lover of gory effusion
hold me to your breast
and spin me frightful delusions,
you, mother of confusion.

Daughter of agony,
wedded to filthy pollution―
your anatomy:
image of cosmic illusion,
you, daughter of confusion.

You, sister of hatred,
and daughter of cosmic illusion,
you, mother of dread,
lover of gory effusion―
my mistress of confusion!

Sylvia Plath?

My work:

pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

Can’t imagine posting my work on this filthy board. Can you imagine if an author was linked to this travesty? Bye bye writing career!
Think before you share your work online, folks

It would be cool, I guess. Win a Pulitzer before you drop the bomb.

Eh. Yea Forums's one of the better boards of Yea Forums. Plus this thread isn't for boasting, it's for criticism, because people know they're not about to get published and they're trying to improve

ho brett

I wanna be published a few years from now.

I've become a figurine, a toy to be posed and prodded. I could never admit it but there was so much joy in surrendering myself, if even only for a few minutes, to cut a hot knife through my mind, to make the world I saw through my eyes and the world behind them one & the same. I feel myself squeezing closer to death, like a little rabbit who peaks into the maw of a predator -- everything but the senses seems to fade away, and the pain itself becomes a warmth that affirms my place beneath you. "Koushuu benjo," I hear it said again. I am of use. I'm a piece of furniture, like your bed or your desk, with the responsibilities that come with use. You pull your cock out of me, admiring the way my swollen pussy lips and the moist dirty blonde hair surrounding it invite fucking, greedily sucking up whatever presents itself. Saliva is spilling from my mouth, and I lick your fingers like a hungry sow, my hips begging for more with corrupt motions. "Motto," I whisper with a hoarse throat. "Motto." One of your friends embraces me from behind and fondles my chest, undoing the little bows I spent so long tying together, exposing my freckled skin as the blouse falls from my shoulders. I watch you stroke your cock, your hand becoming all slick with my sickly fluids. I can't face you -- my eyes stay down, and your hand move from my mouth to my neck. I wish you would squeeze it, squeeze it so hard that it collapses, and I collapse, and I become just a body with no longer thoughts or memories. You could do with me whatever you wanted, and I would find a cherished home under your bed, and you'd pull me from under it when you desired, and I could do everything you wanted and fulfill every sickness you have within you, and I would cure you and you would think of what you would do with me as you counted the dull hours to the end of your shift and I wouldn't even mind the stench of noodles & beer as you cover every dead cell of my body with your waste.

Bump

Enjoyed this greatly.
Would have preferred the autistic narrator said that aloud.
Good idea but less exposition would be better.

At the going down of the Sun

Oriental structures newly built,
in my people’s heartland.
Eager acolytes, clad in orange,
their bare, porcelain heads face westward.

We reach the summit of the temple,
the gong begins to ring
The antipodean northern sky crowded by sun and moon,
the air begins to chill; we know not where to stand.

gong, gong...

Our comrades, the disciples, with stoic celtic faces,
are fellow refugees of meaning.
As bare feet soak in warmth whose source has since abandoned,
we stand and watch the celestial turn.

gong, gong...

But as our Sun retreats behind that range we once traversed,
the lunar guest arrives from under a sea which we had conquered.
The heat now seeps from underfoot, our time here has abated,
return, we must, back to home, or whatever God has fated.

gong, gong...

To the Flesh alone does my being belong,
In corpus trapped the soul of song.
Fated from birth to age, to die,
That all must perish does this fate belie –
Temporal thing, my fledgling life,
Do not in cowardice shy from strife!

Adam with his mind thought of things configured in ideas, and they bore out in a multitude of ways. Plattitudes and aphorisms plucked themselves out like dainty tunes with unexpected dissonances designed by the composer to seem profound.

No stone he tossed led too far, many round by the tossing and cluttering of geological timescales and positioned gradually with punctuated calamity. The ripples meant nothing. The days of his boyhood explpring rivers to delight were gone, he thought maybe like the tinkering of a baby before becoming bored with the sensations of the world, well aware not to bite a fork or chew on a brick.

Adam stood on the bank of a river and skipped stones and did not know what to think. He waited for this toying-with-universe to make known some mysterious truths only he could have. Nothing worked and a mosquito bit his forhead sucking blood with humiliating small sting. He struck it dead.

He threw a big stone in the water for kerplunk and it made no difference either. There were no walls outside and so bugs to annoy. And if one walked in any direction they soon found overgrown thorns or steep escarpments or a river unsafe to cross for cold or depth or rushing.

Adam, a manmade man meant meaning to attend in his rambling produced by the unsensing of direction itself. No plan. Hopes of conflicting and short lived sorts oppressed greatly by habits grown up in the meanwhile of going nowhere by trying not-so-hard to be going everywhere.

One thing at a time. The body and its longings. Adam's body and his longings. Horrible longings. Trying hard to mean something. Make a point Adam, and be seen in the eyes of men to be one who sees far.

He fell asleep in a tent by the bank. In the middle of the night he awoke. Cold water began to seep through the nylon floor. Soon a great flood lifted the tent and he realized that he was floating down the river. High on the cliffs glown blue presiding under full moonlight a great council convened to watch him.

He was moving faster now, and the top of his tent dissapeared and it was a boat he moved upon. A little flood runner of a wood boat, the water was well beyond cresting. It filled between the trees he saw until it was like a fast moving ocean stuck between the great cliffs as high as Empire State Buildings. The council watched him with sober expressions on their faces.

Adam spoke to them. "I see now that the meaning of this water is to move me whereupon I would not move myself. Here, great men and women of ages past, this cry for mercy of my will now purified by waters coursing."

A woman's voice from the middle said "You may begin."

He looked down and saw his face in the water and the moon beyond. A cool wind came down the wide canyon and he looked up to the council. He began:

"The way of man is troubled
Of subtle hearts and of the word bound world
Wounded by the facts of land.
And everywhere the face of his father
Sees his every effort to obtain the womb.

I have been told it is everything
I have heard it is nothing
Empty are my words. Meaningless is this speech which begs of you the seal of justification.
Trial and riddle are freed here and there by islands of imperfect joy.
I understand nothing.
What can my punishment be?
I have never done anything."

The council stared in the quiet between the words of Adam and the wind. At last someone spoke.

"The interrogation I hereby commence. You would have us think you have done nothing, but this you never once meant to do. We have seen your very thoughts. You complain of the unintelligibility of the world which necessarily accompanies the ability to speak, which we have given you. Did you think it was for nothing? You yourself have seen through confusion and gained insight. And what did you do with it? You attempted for a while to act in such a way as to be reasonable, that is, you desired to manifest the truth of your insight by carrying out action consistent with its content. This was no great mystery to you when you undertook it, time and time again. You wish for us to believe that you were the unhappy victim, that some new form of idea revealed itself to you through written word or observation, and that what you once consideres truth was thus made untrue. Why pretend to us Adam, that you never once capitulated in your reasoning to look for the very signs which you were content formed proof of the validity of seeking out things you knew to be untrue?"

The dialogue is too abstract. The first half is good, but I am expecting concrete details from a dialogue, especially a deposition.

reeeeeeee laugh at my poem!!!!

I thought it was mildly amusing but what's the deal with the stick to Asians line?

I really enjoy the meter in this, you've done very well with spacing out the 8-syllabic lines with 11s and 10s. It reads very naturally, and the theme is quite interesting.

It leaves me wondering whether we should fear death because of an afterlife, or whether you're saying to not be afraid. The rhyme scheme is typical but you do it well enough, have you tried jumbling around rhyme at all?

Contemporary poetry looks down on rhyming a lot, so I'd like you to try leave it out if you want to get published, because you're good enough for a journal or chapbook.

Attached: part vii.jpg (1290x1264, 493K)

Anyone know how to write things I find cringy? Like something very edgy? I can't force myself to do it most of the time, but the more i write something the more i feel it has no substance without le edge.

How to be a better writer:
>stop caring about cringe
>stop caring about edginess

Transgressive art, like punk scene stuff, is so self-fellating.

This is my first attempt, I only know romantic poets. Any reading suggestions for contemporary poetry?

So basically just write?

I guess i'm just a self-fellating complete amateur, but still, i want to be able to write more than 50 pages before i (maybe)realize that what i'm writing is just... well, self-fellating?

And i don't really understand what you meant by punk-scene stuff.

I'd just like to write a proper fantasy story based on 1950's russian (NKBD, i guess) officer type of guy who does stuff without question and uses violence as a means to an end in a medieval other-world world or something, but the feeling that i'm just licking my own balls comes to me and I delete it so I could get a "fresh start".

it's a weird fetish that is somehow less weird than only fucking bald girls

Thanks for the cc. I’ll try better next time. (Also, i always cringe at my own poetry)

I would like to steal this idea but I can't, I am not good at writing extremely funny stuff anyway.
If you really do this, I wanna read it here.

godbge anons. thank

>And i don't really understand what you meant by punk-scene stuff.
Not him, but he is dead on about the punk scene - minus a brief period in the 80s. Outside of that period, and substantially within it, punk is mostly a bunch of virtue signalling garbage. They look about themselves for non-conformative normatives to which they can conform, and then criticize others for not conforming to their arbitrary standards. They are constantly spiraling towards absurdity. They are more like niggers than niggers are themselves; they'll feign humility, then screech in righteous indignation at the slightest offense. Anyways, your posts seem to conflict a bit; are you trying to hone edge, or just identify it so you can avoid it?

I hate you
I hate you and I fear you
Your shadow invades my life
You are everywhere
In every conversation I have
In every relationship
Every time someone raises their hand
I fear they will strike

But there is one thing I hate the most
We aren't that different.

*record scratch* *freeze frame*

Aside from that anything else you disliked?

that's not a poem, that's a deleted monologue from the fight club film

Thanks for making me laugh, I tried to go for a kinda edgy-teen vibe without being that obvious. Guess I'll just scrape it

Not him, but it's pretty obvious. It's trite enough that, reading it in a full context, it would likely be distracting due to its tryhardism.

Critiquers of Yea Forums, how do I go about telling a friend his work is dumpster trash in a helpful way? It's a novel he's spent the better part of a year working on but everything about it is terrible. I am 6,000 or so words into the 20,000 he sent me and I am struggling to find even one positive about it.

Just tell him to find a new hobby.

haha your fucked. i would never volunteer to read and critique a friend's work

Don't be a nigger. Just tell him the truth. If he does not want the truth then he can fuck himself for putting you in the position of critiquing his garbage.

I would really really appreciate any feedback. I have posted this before, months ago, but since then I've subtly changed it in a few ways, and have written a second part, which I can also post if anyone is interested. It's some of my most purple writing I've ever attempted, but I'm actually quite happy with it. I'd like to know if it's actually shit before I waste any more time on it.
I am a man simply desperate for (you)'s at the moment fellas

Attached: Excerpt 01.png (799x424, 56K)

Are you influenced by Cormac McCarthy?

My work:
pastebin.com/hspdEhd8

No, I wouldn't say so. I've only read The Road and that was at least six or seven years ago

The girls don't really speak how high school girls speak. No girl would ever say something like "at least I watch the classics".

>"at least I watch the classics".
Eh. I thought it was ironic. Are you a girl yourself?

No, I'm not. Without more context about the characters the irony is basically impossible to detect through the text.

Thanks for reading it.

Keep working on it, try to make the dialogue a little less stilted.
I have one other piece of half advice, which you're obviously free to ignore. I would recommend making the girl's disdain for the trans girl a little less explicit and more implicit/passive aggressive. I know teenage girls are often very blunt about people they dislike (so I'm contradicting my own advice), but framing one of her friends as obviously super transphobic right out the gate might be less compelling than gradually extracting the bigoted opinions out of her. It might paint a more nuanced picture of "teenage girl who has the bad opinions and is mean and will give the protagonist a hard time later", instead giving us "teenage girl who is young and doesn't realize how speaking so bluntly and negatively about other people might affect them". But at this point I'm highjacking your artistic vision so I should probably shut up.

No, you're right! I'm going to write it to be ambivalent. Thanks for taking it seriously!

Shamefully bumping my own work

Attached: 1551185395954.png (1280x960, 1.88M)

cordite.org.au/guncotton/20-poets/

bump

Chapter 4 of my book, probably going to repost in next thread. Summary of first three chapters: AI God like figure named "Is" told the physicist, Neil, and Dr Baker to kill a man named Jesse Bugman and steal Reginald Hamilton's bike. After a night of drinking, Jesse Bugman shows up to the trio's house unannounced.

pastebin.com/1mUQVMEn

Bump

The feet getting stuck is a little clunky - and not in a good way; do not tell me it is an effect you want. If you want that effect then try again.
>carry the gun
What gun? A proper critique may need to know.
>marshy sound
There is more to it. Go get stuck in the mud. There are several different noises. You can do better.
>collapsed onto their stomachs on the mud
This would usually be "in" and not "on" but, further, laying in the mud is a last option; there had better be a good reason for it.
>shower towel
There had better be a good excuse for this.
>loaded rounds into spare magazines
I do not like this phrasing. Once you are on foot, there are no "spare" magazines - just whatever your loadout is. Further, unless they are incompetent or recently escaped from an exigent circumstance, those mags should already be loaded.
>Thomas loaded the gun
Nigger, please - why is this gun not loaded already? You have them hugging "military crest" for protection so it sounds like that gun needs to be loaded already.

It's not a military. The gun is a surplus light machine gun. They're an inexperienced militia setting up a defensive line against an attack they've just heard of hours before. They're protecting a village.

>light machine gun
No bipod or tripod? Even a bipod will keep the action out of the mud. Nothing better like a rubberized mat for keeping it out of the mud? But seriously, almost all lmgs have an integrated bipod.
>lmg
>magazines
Not belts? A lot of lmgs will not even take a mag. Anyways, do you want a non-military mud story?

>No bipod or tripod?
The bipod has been broken off.
>lmg
>magazines
The magazines are being loaded into an assault rifle belonging to Thomas. The lmg has a belt.
>do you want a non-military mud story?
I'm not entirely sure what you're asking me here. 98% of the story is not about combat or weapons; the paragraph I posted is what is happening immediately before an assault on a village which is effectively the denouement of the story and the only real "action" sequence besides a Pinkville-esque happening in the middle.

>I'm not entirely sure what you're asking me here.
I have a real life mud story that may lend some insight.

Absolutely. Also thanks for the (you)s thus far, I'll try to improve what you've pointed out already

I have a gook friend that was still living in Vietnam during the war. When he was 13 or 14 he volunteered for an organization that did various repairs in the rural areas for farms, etc. For the first few days he was marginally helpful, but it had been unusually dry. Overnight, they got a solid rain - and the previously manageable earth got very sloppy because the area had no accommodations for drainage. He stepped out of the tent into the mud, sank to his knee, and spent ten minutes getting his sandal out of the mud after it got sucked off of his foot - after which he was totally covered in mud, before even starting his day. The dudes running the activity were already displeased with his shitty performance during the good weather. After his clown act, they sent him packing. He was a city boy from Saigon and he knew jack shit about the jungle. You could possibly adapt some of this bit for your story, regarding the fact than when militias form that the individuals may be forced totally out of their element - though, as an ignorant American, I would have assumed that he would have been in his element in the jungle. Also: Maine has two seasons - Winter and Mud Season.

Thanks boss, I can definitely weave that into the story

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And all in a single moment…
Then we realized:
Despite all those hours we spent praying,
We all die alone.
Mind is found in the creation of the world.
Is it god we see?
Or ourselves?

And if there is a God he is found in slumber.
The chains of this oblivia are ascribed with “libra.”
Yet you say “death comes to us all?”
But so does slumber,
So then fall to sleep for a number
Until angels come to take us
And dragons wake us
And we drown.

But we find ourself once again;
Not in thoughts and words,
But in deeds and actions.
Here, mind is consumed by want,
and finds its liberty.

I enjoyed this. More whimsical word play is desired. I enjoy a plot/writing style that twists mechanics in absurd ways.

thinkin in the shower
thinkin bout my momma
thinking bout these lyrics
thinking bout my papa
thinking in these streets
thinking bout these jokes
thinking i should get dreadlocks
thinking bout my thoughts
thinkin i think too much
i might just shoot thoughts

Don't quit your day job