Critique

this is a false start from something im working on. this would have been the opening

'If I could have told the fat man how I really felt. Balding, insecure moron. But I need the job.' Lighting his fag he draws deeply and fills his yellow bedroom with smoke. Yellow light from the ceiling yellow light from the fire yellow light from the air yellowed by smoke. Piss-stained tile in the bathroom with yellow-painted walls smelling of piss. Sheets grayed deep green and blue. The walls in his bedroom are bare aside from bookshelves filled with the memoribilia of his youth and books with pages yellowed with age, spilled coffee and milk. 'Scheduling someone to close one night and open the next morning should be against the law.' His desk stands two inches from the wall not against the wall and not in the center of the room. Atop this the monitor radiates dully such that with the light on he believes it is off. A half-beard of black hair ash-hued by pale skin surrounds yellowing teeth; the sink full of shavings still. 'I should brush my teeth.' He will not brush his teeth, idly casting aside his shirt and trousers and sliding into flannel sheets. Tonight is merciful. The lightbulb goes out before he remembers he must turn it out before he falls asleep; he falls asleep.
He rolls over, rolls over again. 'If I keep my eyes closed I may fall back to sleep if they open I will not fall back to sleep.' He rolls onto his back, back onto his side. 'I forgot to set my alarm.' He rolls back decisively and reaches for his phone. A missed call from the company. 'It is half-past the hour I was scheduled to work Penny said I am on thin ice I must call them now.' There is no time to wait for them to answer and he passes the phone between hands to crawl back into his work shirt and wrangle his trousers about his waste. 'I have no time to brush my teeth. I do not remember if I brushed my teeth last night.' Into the bathroom. 'A piss would be superb but I have no time.' When he gets to work he will piss and it will satisfy more deeply for his wait. 'My hair is a mess but I have a comb in the car. No time for coffee.' Descending the exterior stairs rapidly he scans quickly for observers and spits his mouthwash into the bushes lining the sidewalk. 'It is before noon so my car has not yet left the shade.' He has no time to watch behind his car as he reverses. I am lucky. His call is still on hold. 'And now I must make a left turn and can't swear in case the call is put off hold.' The call is put off hold, "Barry where are you. Why didn't you answer our call?" 'I was sleeping.' "Well you can go back to sleep, Cassie took your shift and is already clocked in. If you pick up her shift tonight at 6 I may not fire you." Ok. A click and silence. He has not yet turned onto the road. 'Well I may go back to sleep'. He reverses once more and hits something and stops. In his side mirror he sees mangled fur spotted with blood emerging from behind the bumper. 'God damned me God damns me.'

theres supposed to be a paragraph break after "falls asleep"

bump

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Cross the bridge built high on embankments and pylons of huge tunneling bits, born of earth eaters dipped into rivers civil. Upriver and downriver at a gentle space, what is left of older bridges, full fifty feet lower, and dragged away by water cresting records of decades. Brief skeletons in the flood of time, and so surmise iron to wash away with its four lanes full hundred feet above remains.

Great highway bridge carrying 18 whealers in a dull fury of white noise concealing the drifting sigh of ages.

Here pathways climb above the water veins, of industry in its vain, slight might to quell the machinations of nature herself. It is said by some that man shall drift away like pictures drawn in sand, the great metropolis of his designs become substrate for vines which grow wild to no discernable end, and folly full reaches up to babel on.

Cross the bridge of the great highway to another bank, down below to where willows wild tangle the litter of the road, and vine cousins choke what whisp of trees has grown up in its shadow. Like urchin children abandoned to forlorn soil of little depth, reaching in their outward branches for sunlight, forgotten by a world quite busied with the extension of its own reaches into a fathomless abyss.

The prophets have spoken lately of the stars, and read in the signs of galaxies where perhaps other worlds have already lived and died. Yet this one carries on, heeds no call of quiet from the far off calamity that has been foretold. Thus the homes on the other side of the sound barrier wall. A light is on upstairs, despite that it is night, the illumination of instruments directed towards a purpose unknown to both passerby and inhabitant.

Late, late hour in the waning moonlight. Everywhere paths upon roads for automobile or foot. Draw each on a great map in various colors designated whatever meaning which you will, so that long ropes of spry hair in blonde brown and white lay knotted and flowing to the limits of the paper edge. What of such activity and wandering?

A man is born and takes up this or that strand, and it leads often to the upstairs lighted room, and weaves back and forth from chair to table to toilet, and outward to a place of work, and backward jutting as if to get away, perhaps winds upon the globe in great arcs, and then at last curls upon some bed, of hospital or home, where finally it ends.

The After Man: sees the curtains draw in heavy blinking, and knows for a moment what life has irrevocably been. There too creeps hope like trees under the bridge, so he is no different after all.

Encounters between start and finish: strangers blown like spray from the rolling ocean. I saw a great crowd and brushed the shoulders of a few. What was to be seen in their eyes?

[...]

is bolaño wearing panam shoes?

I love the originality of this. You should write a whole novel in this style. With no characters, just landscapes

first little story i made

pastebin.com/3AegHeZq

The repetition of yellow is waaay too on the nose.
The "The lightbulb goes out before he remembers he must turn it out before he falls asleep; he falls asleep." is such a jarring sentence, and not in a good way. I get the aesthetic flourish you're going for, but it is really hard to pull off in a way that makes sense.
"He has to lean off the edge of the bed to reach for the light switch. A troublesome stretching of arms and twisting of torso. Instead he lays inert. The lightbulb burns out. He smiles himself to sleep. This night was merciful."
Just go for first person dog.

I can't help but describe this as flowery - I think you've got a beautiful way with words here, but it feels like you jump around a lot. Linger in the individual moments more: the dull monotony of the job, or consider putting the paragraph about friendly faces and your relationships right after your introduction, when you leave the office. It also feels a bit dare I say pretentious and Holden Caulfield-y but I assume that's what you're going for?

Solid 7.5 out of 10 for me, I'd be interested in seeing how you build longer works.

Really wonderful excerpt! I actually thought it was a finished short piece at first, but I see that this is indeed an excerpt. I think that fact that I could see these paragraphs as their own piece speaks for how well you've developed this character's world, story, and emotions. There's a few spots where the wording is funky - "case briefs" made me do a triple take - and I think you can go for the emotional narrative without pushing us so hard to believe it. Let your subtleties carry the story so it comes on us more slowly. Does Shelby really "bang" on the car windows for help? How old are the children (I felt somewhere around 5-7, but I'm bad at guessing with younger characters)? Does the narrator have any thoughts about what they're hearing, or are they blankly taking in that information? Really, really good dialogue and flow.

8.5/10, keep going user! :^)

I think your intro paragraph is miles stronger than what follows. I agree with about the yellow, I think you push it on us to the point that it isn't tactful emphasis, it's just overkill. I think you lose all of the well-established energy and setting from here. Even him waking up late was good, but what followed just felt so rushed and simple to me. I wanted to linger more in his panic or even just the drive over. The dialogue feels robotic but I'm stuck between that being a style choice or an oversight.

6/10, I want more weirdness and description from the rest of the work!

So beautifully written. You have a very fine eye for flow and lyric. I kept thinking of Ozymandias for some reason, but I mean that as a compliment to your writing. I think my only real suggestions are to maybe cool some of your alliterations: I find "willows wild tangle..." to be a bit clunky. Even just switching "wild" and "willow" around makes it ebb better. I also have to admit, I don't like the last two paragraphs. They don't add anything to the piece and I would like to see them cut off entirely.

9/10, please write more like this beauty!

>poetry is the only thing I write and its usually to myself this one is recent-go easy please

Flamboyant orange-red frog with stripes why do you ribbit so loudly? Why is your skin so beautiful?
whenever i sleep facing my mirror i get horrible dreams
Why do you hop so gallantly with such prestige with such direction;you are beautiful frog
the tongue rests at the top of a mouth.
Frog why do you view the view? Are the skylines precious to you? Here you are sat a-top the railing with all the city in view, an aura of foresight and awe leaves you. Tell me frog what do you see in this city, what do you see with your eyes, what does your mind tell you, tell me frog, tell me
Nobody cares about me, but thats ok. sometimes i get really sad because trauma in the past but thats ok. sometimes im on the verge of tears for no reason but thats ok. people don't talk to me because I isolate myself but they dont know I really want to talk to them I just dont know how. I'm hurting alot like really bad like reallly really bad.
O' frog stop being so morose your skin is so bright, your future is promising look at your stripes, look at your eyes! o what would I give to have those lashes, did I ever tell you of your gallant leaps? you know you are beautiful frog
i am well aware of the love people have for me, i just can never find the cause for this love or cause for any love;god has truly died
O' frog! You crack me up always, you and that brain of yours, your intelligence is unparalleled, o frog do tell me of what you seek in the future o frog do tell me of your mistresses o frog how are you well? O frog how are your friends?
the lanterns bright light never showed anything for me whether it was dropped or picked up, mentiras mentiras otro mentira todo es mentiras todo

i thought poetry was suppose to be subtle, this just hits like a truck. user I hope you are doing well, this reminds me of pessosa and maybe bronte but you dident even attempt line breaks.
get better user

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bump. what happened to critique threads with 200+ replies

>pastebin.com/3AegHeZq
You appear to be missing a word in your second sentence:
>a sound that no one has ever before
Unless it's deliberately fragmented.

just waddled home from the bathhouse

christ my banghole is fuckin DOSSED

got proper punkfucked this time hahaha bet I'm gonna wake up tomorrow with a lethal fucking FUCKFLU

I'm talkin syph hep herp ghon hiv and (hopefulle!!!) full blown fuckin aids

*sniffs*

packin pozzies in my clingtube hahahah I LOVE LIFE

NUT IN MY FUCKIN ASS BRO CHARGE ME UP

you have more stuff?this ones not too bad, its different

thank you user :)

ty!

This is pretty good, user! I admit that I have trouble giving proper crit to poetry but I think the only thing that really throws me out of your poem is the inconsistent language. I understand juxtaposing modern sentence structure and words with more verbose descriptions and purposefully "old" structure (I'm referring to the "O' frog" bits, which I love and would keep forever). I think comment about how this "hits like a truck" is both a good and bad thing. I personally would suggest you try to show your emotions in more subtle ways without just telling us that you are sad.

6.5/10, please feel better user and keep writing

Down yonder road where the blind mulecarts drag along. We told folk tales and had bacon over the fire. Thunder on the desecrate canyons trench.
“There’s a pale man in the Bluffs. Takes the form of an antelope in the steamied morning. Fog carries its bare elopement just far enough to keep you chasing. Close enough to keep you going. A trapper found em once in the dense foliage. Fired off a shot square at its hind, saw the blooming mist carry across the vapors of morning, but when he came to the dry reeds blossomed fruits of nothing, eschewed like the evaporate of still ponds. I wonder if man casts as dense a shadow in the minute particulars of his inveterate offlings, does he instead cast a crimson mist and evaporate forever?”

Not sure if my writing is good or just pretentious drivel. Ignore everything after "Palestina Americana". I hope you like really long sentences. Any tips on what to change, how to improve, etc are appreciated

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8, 8.5 if it was edited to read a little bit differently.

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hey you ever love somebody more than anyone else in the world and they say they don't wanna see you anymore and it's been 5 years and you still think about it every day

It's said a sea of countless minds
Could not, in sum, conceive its kind
Outside the reach of what is thought
It simmers black, curves its spine, ripples hot
Talons on ink cloth

Enormity is in that known,
And can't extend beyond that zone
Know this, such leaps can't be made
One turns back, loses line, stays the glade
It gapes a deathsilk head
Sway in the cradle

Not "up there"
Not "out"
Not "far enough that way"
Not a pointed finger
Not a chart
Not a word
Barn mice know this of the snake
And they do not speak

You masturbate too much.

Charles sat in the near perfect darkness of his study, the moonlight catching his open pack of cancer sticks as he stared at them.; The fine calming rush of nicotine was of the few things he could still recieve a feeling from. But tonight...tonight he somehow had the strength to push them away and turn on his lamp. Awaiting on the desk were ten pieces of blank paper and a pencil. He flexed his hand with a loud aching pop and began to write of the pain that would never leave.

To whom this may concern:
In the year 1976, I met a man and a woman who butchered my family without mercy or a single human emotion. Their names are Richard and Cynthia Huskins. I have exhausted every legal means to have them incarcerated and executed by state. If not that, imprisonment for the rest of their lives. I have failed in both of these. I blame myself for all of it because of how naive and terribly weak I had been back then to believe in courts, in lawyers, in police officers who could care less.

To understand my suffering you'll have to go back to a time when the world wasn't politically correct. When those words meant nothing and most people seemed to smile more. I grew up and only child in a cabin with my parents and grandparents on my father's side. We were a close family that enjoyed the silence and solitude of the spruce forest around us. To wake up to a chestnut chickadee singing was more preferable then neighbors yelling at each other through thin walls.

He stopped within four yards of the light blue sweater woman and doing something that made him suddenly feel light headed as he only stared. Remembering the word vaguely...pray. Green Eyes watched her for a long time as she continued oblivious or not caring a goddamn bit about her company. He slowly looked around the alders before unzipping his grey coat enough to unsnap his .45. The woman's silver blonde hair shimmered in the moonlight as he walked around her, keeping a small distance, to Marissa's empty grave. Her decayed body nowhere in sight. They finally took her away again and Green Eyes should have been ready for it but...

What was suppose to fucking finally be peace for her, was denied forever. If Green Eyes was going to slit his arms, tonight was it. He lost her again and now he was finally alone. His dead eyes looked at Silver Hair's own dark green eyes staring back at him from a blood spattered face, her hand inside her stained sweater sleeve. He saw a bite mark on her cheek, long claw streaks down her shoulder and arm through the sweater. She didn't do anything as he looked away and sat beside where Marissa once was and stared at the darkness in the earth.

Remembering the fights with her. Cussing and yelling and threatening to beat her to death twice; And that alone should have drove her away with all her drawings and novels she talked of and that made her smile. She stayed through it all for who he once been before his parents stopped by. His dad hours out of the state penitentiary. All those hours and days and weeks of therapy relapsed when he saw their twisted faces at the door. Marissa had called the police on them as her husband stormed back to them. She had to fight with him to get that goddamned gun away from the two monsters before he actually fucking used it.

At times in his darkness, he found Marissa on their bed hunched over painfully as she cried and prayed for her lover and a part she said was her other half. He alienated her the rest of the day whenever he did find her praying. She stayed through all of this because eventually she found her husband again and pulled him away from the darkness. He started to see his psychologist daily again but her husband was back and she was happy. Marissa had been happy again before only dropping off her papers that day and coming back with her own darkness. He only sat in silence with Silver Hair as the night faded away and the dawning red sky marked a new day in Hell.

Indeed, there was something odd about the way he spoke and looked, a sort of peculiarity that is striking and a mannerism that is both revolting and riveting in a way. I won't go into detail as how that is possible but later it'll be as clear as the sky on the sunny day the young unnamed boy killed his mother beneath the picnic tree I am now sitting under.

Random writing I just came up with on the spot before sleep,, critique

Let me just admit I might be biased because you've caught me when I'm going through The One and Future King again but...this is so good? I could imagine such a fun and darkly weird world just from that paragraph.

10/10 if I'm being honest, please post more.

Unrestrained was his desire, and unfulfilled were his dreams. Broken was his heart and tortured was his soul. Nothing spoke to him and no one understood. Little he had and little he wanted. He went on despite that all. He was seeking something and at times he thought he knew what it was, but he really didn't and he knew that too. Everything was unclear and vague to his mind. Only on late night walks he began to think clear. He identified with the doomer meme more than anything in his life at some point, but the dork variation of it made him give up that identification. He hated boomers and zoomers the most. He wanted to be a bloomer once but failed miserably. He an hero'd shortly after that.

Once** don't attack me lol

The feeling of uncounted years
Long since gone
Forever lost in time
Stirs up deep and sunken memories
And washes them ashore

Insignificance
picks them up, takes half a look
And throws them back
Unto the ocean floor
Where they lay
Since then
And now
Now forevermore

English is not my native language, so feel free to critique word choice when things feel off.

Wax eloquent, wobble lunatic, wane laconic...
Orbits are elliptical, spheres are not Platonic
Humans but Adamic, in world merely Edenic
Dammit!
In a word
man and nature: whirl
Wind rounding round the rondure's wieldhing goes
The thing and its essence leaping
Like a Cauchy sequence
Closer and closer but never quite
Contrapasso, contra hyp.
Thou knowest the meaning of day and night
And 1 and 0
And more or less
The meaning of degrees
Can even contemplate infinities
But of relations to a tree
Are stumped

Bad joke: life
Is ordered to the good but lost

The pale-faced, baby-faced man in a suit beckoned at me to enter his study, milk dripping from his wire mustache. -Please, please, have a seat my good sir. He took a long slurping-sip from a full spoon. -The effect of whole milk--as opposed to skim or two-percent--on a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats is simply transformative. A humble bowl of cereal transfigured from a snack to a meal. Would you fancy a spoonful?

Having smelled his breath I was forced to decline. At my refusal he shoved the spoon into his mouth and sucked it dry.

-I, munch moinch, only use the spoon, munch munchymoinch, here as a courtesy to you. I forsook it long ago in favor of imbibing the nectar straight from the bowl. Much more satisfying, much more efficient delivery method. And the fiber is lovely for the journey out. Don't let my paunch fool you, I've never felt his healthy in my, buuuuuuurp, life. Excuse me. But a small inconvenience for the security and upkeep of a firm constitution. Watch this--and here he took a gallon of whole milk from the floor in each hand and lifted them above his head. Quite impressive, no?

-...Certainly. But doesn't it go bad leaving it out like that? And what of the many boxes of your cereal lining the wall?

-For too long, of course. But these are, and here the magician reveals his trick, only half-full, were full but ten minutes ago, and will soon be emptied at the conclusion of my lunch, during which you have been quite rude to interrupt me.

-Sir, I made an appointment.

-Buuuuuuuuuurp, be gone!

With this I left him alone to enjoy his cereal and later resolved the issue I wished to discuss with him alone.

I'll give others critique a bit later
This is an excerpt from my work, not the best, but I want to see what you guys think

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thanks.
Incorrigible nature, taking a child in springtime. We dressed her in her baptismal linens, set her down on the coffin raft on ponds edge. April showers roared pitch tents carried away by the gossamer winds, the gale, the rage of elements. Crops eaten to the core by pestilence. Inveterate God at the masthead of our malaise, show me the canyons of sorrow, because I have seen my mountains of misfortune pile up two dead children tall and the stars are arrogant when they tell me it’s not even winter yet. My wife she a banshee at night, the screams of a spirit possessed. I wake at sunup unwholesome a doublet and a pale sash a hat of coonskin and the children are still asleep among the dying embers of predawn. I set a wolf trap among the dead land littered with trapdykes. I find a bite among tracks. The she-wolf perished in the night. I unfasten the metal teeth girders between inches of fleshy fingers and I reach for the pin and it snaps back into my place my leg and forearm pinched by the brutal unrelent. I scream for help, the echoes answer back in silence and the hills and ponds look as if expecting my unwelcome exit into the next life. Sundown comes and I feel nothing.

>hipster finger snaps in approval

All that buildup in his life, all that he had worked towards, all the hopes and dreams that resided within him, had been taken away and stomped on by a whim.
As I was pondering, a scream from the well pierced my ear and interceded with the violently depressing thoughts that had been bouncing around my head.

So does the narrator kill someone? Is he pondering killing someone? Descriptive language though, can’t evaluate the prose unless you post more of it, but this bit is pretty good

The sun burns bright in the winter, Saturday,December 1st, out of Xanax, Gabapetin will have to do this morning for Isaiah. The plan is to head out to the park smoke two packs of cigarettes and listen to the same nigger shit I've been cranking for a year now;all while buzzed out on 900mg of gaba.

Sitting here on this playground establishing territory from all parent and children with a cancerstick,board and low down eyes all tell tale signs of juvenile trouble. Everyone passes by moving consciousness like me, quite unbelievable if you really grind it down. They perceive with mind and vision just as you have memories just as you and have to "grow up" just like you. All suffering souls drifting mindlessly;all numb:all of us brutes of the great green earth. How real is this? Really how real is this? Is the crave for belongingness natural to us, is this what keeps life moving? Longing to belong is what makes everyone stupid and this stupidity is what keeps us suffering till the ripe old ages where were to old to care. Gangstalking or the broadcast of my thoughts can be well going on right now without of my knowing this reality can all be a phone game;Uber Driver Philosophy.

The moon among the smoke of clouds blue in median, dark at heart, why can't I have the glare? Is it the will, moon? Is it your will? Will your treat of treasure the glare going on going, draping the asphalt;bluing the blue.. Glare shine about. Moon do you admit to me the death of god? Craters leave you like pools. Moon you are dead how can you speak.

First and last parts are good. Middle reads like a shittier version of DFW

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excellent prose and descriptions
style does have originality to it, which is huge
"lagers and White Castle" makes me wonder, because you're mixing UK with US, and the problem with that is it automatically will make the reader think you're being a know-it-all, which is bad because it brings attention to you as a writer. don't break the reader's focus on this image you're creating. bringing attention to you, and "look ma, no hands" type shit is always going to break the reader's focus (unless there's something greater in the narrative here that would explain this white castle thing that it's explained in this snippet)
I read on, descriptions/details: great, great, great
the only think I'm wondering is, what is it getting at? where is it going? does a reader want to pay to read about awesome descriptions of anything? again, this is just a snippet, so maybe there is something there I don't see.
based on what you did post that's the best critique I could give
godspeed, user
and thanks for doing a SC of your work. people will always take it more seriously if you do it this way and are looking for a critique

first impression are there are too many bland details. Think about this. What details could I write that a person would not see/experience if they just went to the supermarket? We live in a world where someone could literally play a videogame and see pretty nice details. Try to think of details that make someone think, if they say this in real life, "Oh, sick, I'm finna post this shit on instagram" (I'm trying to relate to young people here, bear with me).
Positive: I like the idea of Buchbinder. There definitely is something there to work with. And if you stick with it, you really could do something amazing.
Again, thanks for doing the SC. this is also a lesson on word processing: turn off all spellcheck and grammar check bullshit. there are so many names, slang, colloquial usage that they mark as wrong, or even just original use of grammar it's not use to, that they will just fuck with your flow, and have really not purpose for an actual writer. all of this will be done on the back end of the publishing process

make animo a paperback already I will buy ittttttttttttttttttttttttt

Last line was very good, descriptive and visual

I would change the word “dreams”

Last line is good

thank you, user. the truth is no one wants to publish me. it makes me feel good to help people with their writing if I could. If I could help one of you get published, that would make me very happy

Oh gosh, is this Luke Feistamel himself?
Big fan here, actually reading your book now
Your thread has inspired me to keep going with my work despite the constant self-doubt and insecurities
also what this fellow user has saidThank you for pointing out the lager and WC part out
Thing is, I'm neither from the US nor the UK so all my western culinary knowledge came from /ck/ and that's the image I have in mind of an obese American lmao, I'll see what I can do about that
Thanks a bunch Luke I'll keep on improving

think about what everyone in your cohort is writing. they are writing their experience in life, right? you read that, and (I'm guessing) you don't like it, or have already read it. Maybe you do like it. Either way, the publishing industry doesn't like it. You have to actually be thinking of other characters which are outside of your personal scope, if you're doing something character based, which it seems this is. Otherwise, you have to actually do something which is concept based, which this is not. Think about what you want, and think about what your reader will expect and want to read more of
You do have something of an original voice, though quite nascent, and work is needed, but hours put in writing could easily solve that. Just keep on with it, and godspeed, user

what I like about this is there is a very clear, almost unhinged originality about it. However, there's very little for us to sink our teeth into. what I mean is, it's actually very poetic and intriguing, but not clear enough for us to actually want to wonder what is next, because we have little idea of what's going on. unless I'm too stupid to understand it (possible. I'm very stupid)

thank you, user. It actually makes me feel really good knowing I could help you. I do appreciate you responding.
I usually only come on lit about once a week. But if you have any questions, you could just ask me on my goodreads page. I'll respond as thoroughly as I can
Though I do try to come on lit as much as my schedule allows, mostly to help people on these critique threads. of course I have drunkenly done a few threads about my own work. I want to help anyone I can, as long as they're serious in writing. to me the most important thing in the world is lit, it's what makes me feel alive, and I will absolutely embrace anyone who feels the same. we're not competing. we're all trying to reach the same goal. and I want to help everyone reach their goal
Sprechen sie Deutsche? I minored in German

I appreciate your passion Luke
I also believed in Yea Forums's potential in creating something truly great, and we should strive and produce as much quality work as we could
With all the recently surfacing works done by anons (the too big orgy, blacksmith's pedo work, etc), no matter how unprofessional or trashy some of them are, I do believe we have original ideas that maybe the current literary industries are too cowardly to publish
allegedly some user's also working on a publishing company so who knows, maybe we'll be up to something great, just lacking motivation
don't know where you got that idea, but no, I don't speak German
just an ESL peasant with lots of pretentious ideas and nowhere else to put them

Suck my dick, little man

You didnt understand a word and failed for form instead, like a dog that won't eat beef wrapped in paper of disagreeable color.

I taught ESL. No worries, just an assumption I made about speaking German. Either way, your prose is one of the best I've seen on lit. You really do have a strong voice. again, if you ask me directly on goodreads I will answer any questions more promptly
Now I feel hypocritical not posting my own work. Also I promised to publish my novel Glowbug for free on lit. Actually, based on the criticism I have gotten from lit, which I appreciate, on the pages of glowbug I have posted, I really have spent most of my free time taking that advice and cutting the fat (that being largely the critique I got from posting excerpts on lit) and just doing that has made me work a few hours a day (I have full time job) on making Glowbug the best I could make it. I promise Glowbug will be free on lit almost certainly before the end of this month. this is the opening. any advice you can offer me, I truly will take it to heart

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90% of all Yea Forums posts are AI shitposting machines.

Just started working on this today, been sitting on the idea for a while. It's far from finished, but I'm curious if what I have so far is enough to foreshadow where the story's going to be heading to the reader. If anyone takes the time to read it I'd be interested in hearing your guesses.

pastebin.com/hyyjzgSq

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He would give her a chance, he didn’t have much to lose as his recent days consisted of complete and utter sloth. His masturbation addiction was getting more out of control, the stimuli more degenerate in nature. His days were usually void of memorable event with the only times he would leave the house was for the shopping of groceries or to go the gym, but even that was becoming to tiring for him to do due to all his energy getting sucked up by his routine like, unfulfilling but instant sexual gratification he would get by obsessing over pornographic material. He found that the self-loathing and regret that followed lingered for longer and was more intense, but that was quickly and temporarily forgotten as soon as he was aroused again.

bumping to the beat

bumperino
please bring back /crit/ to its golden days

You need to proofread more and read your writing out loud to yourself. This is very stiff and the pacing of the sentences ranges from bland to botched. There's nothing engaging or interesting about the subject matter either, it's just basic college freshman drudgery

Holy shit this is bad. Is this what Amino is like too? You do realise that people on here are only lauding your work because it gives them a sort of vicarious hope and reassurance that something good can come out of this pigsty? Holy shit this is hilarious.

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Feels like a a neural network generated this specifically to test my patience

Literally the only place to get good feedback on the internet and it's finally died once and for all
No real conversation, just a scant few slowly posting their own stuff and ducking back out of the thread
Fuck this gay earth

Because these threads are retarded. There should always be rules stating that one must a) post his entry in a screencap b) critique someone else before one posts and c) do not critique those who break these rules.

post more please
Are those opening sentences to a chapter?
Or perhaps random snippets?
the two sentences are good
but I would like to see more that build from the two

Hey lit I'm a up andn coming Stand up comedian that s been coming on lit for while, read most of lit 's stuff. My fave's Totalitarianism in a Tundram... but anyway here"s one of my jokes, tell me what y all think

---
i’m also very lazy, like i’m really lazy,
i aranged my flat so that there’d be no standing up in the house. just sitting and sleeping.
sleep is the love of my life, I d do it, sitting , laying standing, walking, if i could i’d sleep now.
sometimes i dream about sleeping, i would inception myself to inception myself to inception myself so i could sleep for days but in reality it’d just be an hour.
my dream’s to be able to sleep in my dreams!
wouldn’t it be great to sleep in a dream where you dream to sleep and in that dream you sleep, circle sleeping!
but i think laziness is underrated, because i think it has fueled the best inventions ever
first the wheel :
niggas was tired of riding damn horses, that shit hurts
then
In the laziness Hall of Fame, our pwn MJ
Sir Isaac Newton , one of my biggest heroes.
The man was chilling under a tree, and apples were falling on his head. (get down to the floor)
He was fucking napping!
he was fucking napping under a damn tree!
and came up with the theory that changed the course of humanity;

so as a kid i’d nap under any tree and my mom’s be upset and i’m like :
i’m Newton mom! i’m trying to find the world..
----

I wanna read the rest of this!

surprised that no one critiqued this one
pale-faced, baby-faced in a row reads a bit odd to me, don't know if it's intentional or not
other than that I enjoyed the goofiness
It's fun to read user congrats

Funny that you say that, I feel like my prose can be really good and, yes, I do want to write off my experiences(no idea how you caught that) I just suck at connecting prose,symbolism and dialogue together.

For fuck's sake does no one on here write anymore

recent threads have been deader than ever
what's happened anons?
we were shown a brief glimpse of hope and now it's been rendered to a wasteland

I’m about to call it quits and start a new thread with stricter rules and a more attention-grabbing OP image. I think these things typically go better when it’s spelled out at the offset that you need to respond to others if you’re going to post

Failure.
An endless cycle,
Bringing me down again,
My demons cackle,
As I stand in the rain.

I'll just be walking,
My broken wings, with no use,
I see those other petals flying,
But I'm still left here,
my mind so obtuse.

The priviliged and gifted,
All good grades with minimal effort,
While I have to burn myself out-
Sleepless nights shifted,
Infinitive problems I must solve and sort.

Maybe I'll always be watching,
The others soaring up high,
Still, perhaps it's time,
I gave up my sighs.

To stop running for once,
Or maybe forever,
Never crossing the finish line,
It's over.

Respond to others.

If and when people want to jump ship:

Good fit