Write what's on your mind: Heteronym edition

I would like a nice plump wife.

Oblivion truly is a blessing, Lovecraft was right

found a dream journal i kept for about a month from over three years ago and it’s amazing

Tell us more!

I've been entertaining the idea that all human action is either done in the pursuit of happiness/pleasure or for the purpose of avoiding pain.

Even the most noble things in life we only value because of the sense of well being it evokes, that or the avoidance of guilt. "Good people" are only good because their neurological makeup forces them to be distressed at other people's pain while also making them more receptive to the reciprocal pleasure of relationships.

I see this in myself as I am a very empathetic person and experience emotions very intensely. I'm very nice and supportive to everyone in my life, but I think that's only because I believe that it is the shortest and easiest path to contentedness. It is not realistic for me to expect to be happy.

I've been blasting L-Dopa by Laura Stevenson on repeat.

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I've been thinking about writing fiction for the first time outside of my education, which makes me feel odd because I know nothing of writing fiction whatsoever. The thought just came to me in a sleepless night, "maybe you could express your thoughts through stories as opposed to the terse and confusing language of acedamia?" After this thought I wrote what I can only call a soliloquy (I think?) of a man lost in space:
Two hundred billion miles. Two hundred billion miles from the home I wallowed in, much to my own chagrin. Two hundred billion miles from my brothers and sisters, most of whom I've never even known. Two hundred billion miles from any Earthly pleasure. No Sunlight or Moonlight, only LCDs. No air to breathe myself, only compressed oxygen. No food of the soil, only powder and dried morsels. Of all the things that could have come with me to this point, it is the one that has caused endless dread in every man's heart, even if only in his past youth. Darkness. That all encompassing nothingness, that eldritch abomination which has no end in any man's sight. Even in this hollow shell of metal I feel it staring, entering the depths of my psyche with no end in sight. I don't know how long I can take this, even how long I have taken it. Minutes become hours and days become weeks with no end in sight, no relief to be gained soon enough. I feel as though I have entered Hades' domain, not blessed or damned, only a common man to be forgotten in an endless abyss of time and sorrow. This fate seems worse than those of the hottest of Hells, for this punishment is unseen and unknown. Yet here I lie, in wait of this all consumming night to enter this pod, taking me with it.
sounds like you would love Epicurus and Lucretius

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If you've never written fiction, then chances are the first things you write aren't gonna be good.

You're soliloquy is callowly nihilistic, but there's some good imagery and phrasing within.

If you're interested in taking writing seriously (or at least getting good), then put this soliloquy away and don't look at it for two weeks. Then come back and look at it. The vain infatuation that writers get from their own work should have worn off by then, and you'll likely start to see a lot of things you'd like to change. I've gotten 3 stories published, and I put my writing through 5-8 drafts.

It also helps if you write 5-7 days a week, at least 500 words each session. But you're in academia and you might already be good at a lot of the skills you need for fiction writing. I don't know.

I hate bar prep. It’s not hard. It’s just so much fucking shit to do.

Writing this out, it sounds childish, but I am going to the realization that my parents' neglect both intentional and unintentional is the source of virtually all my problems. Didn't want to believe that and the implication it would mean, but it's true. I would be a much happier and effective person if I was adopted by a family that actually wanted me and was prepared and willing to deal with the problems ever child faces. I love my parents, but I can't ever forgive or condone their past behavior

Coming to the realization*
Proofreading is hard to do on phones

I've started reading and I actually like it. For the first time in year I feel like I'm NOT wasting my life.

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well it might only appeal to me. one of the entries went:
the third man score was playing in a large, slightly crowded room. a bunch of guys and i were with this millionaires daughter when she began to have a stroke, i ran to her and told someone to call 999, but the guy next to me ultimately couldn't do it. the third man score got louder.

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A Somalian boy locked his mom out of a van right outside of my kitchen window and they are screaming at each other. An elderly black woman across the street is doing that roar-laugh thing they do when they get drunk. Don't you just love diversity?

Who is the Third Man? Do you have recurring characters in your dreams?

kanye

this is the third man score: youtube.com/watch?v=2oEsWi88Qv0
i've never ever noticed any patterns in my dreams ever, but apparently at the time of this journal i kept having documentary style dreams (and this was around the time i first watched the documentary f for fake and loved it so that could be why)

where do you live dubsman

I'm sorry to hear that user. There is no easy way to process/deal with that sort of thing.

But forgiveness is the best way to recover and heal from something like that. If you embrace bitterness and resentment, then you become a bitter and resentful person. It becomes the lens through which you perceive the world and those in it, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I had a horribly abusive father. The first quarter of my life was squandered because of what he did and also what I did to cope with it. But I've forgiven him, and it's so much easier to process the problems I have now without having to deal with that anger. However, my father isn't in my life anymore, and he never will be again, even though he would very much like to be. It's not because I hate him. I'm not trying to punish him. It's just better for me this way. I'm not going to have a relationship with someone I can't trust.

That sounds fun. Do you know whats happening outside my window? Nothing ever worth looking at

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Graves wrote a poem Birth of a Great Man:

Eighth child of an eighth child, your wilful advent
Means, as they say, more water in the stew.
Tell us: why did you choose this year and month
And house to be born into?

Were you not scared by Malthusian arguments
Proving it folly at least, almost a sin,
Even to poke your nose around the door –
Much more, come strutting in?

Yet take this battered coral in proof of welcome.
We offer (and this is surely what you expect)
Few toys, few treats, your own stool by the fire,
Salutary neglect.

Watch the pot boil, invent a new steam-engine;
Daub every wall with inspirational paint;
Cut a reed pipe, blow difficult music through it;
Or become an infant saint.

We shall be too short-handed for interference
While you keep calm and tidy and never brag–
But evade the sesquipedalian school-inspector
With his muzzle and his bag.

What kind of meaningful work can I possibly do? I'm decent at writing but not creative enough to write fiction. I enjoy some programming but then I procrastinate at doing it so it's unlikely that I actually enjoy the field, and I'm just not mathematically inclined so there's that. I'm nearly 22 but I could still go to university for something, but what? I don't want to flip burgers nor be a NEET but I don't see any field to go into, to dedicate my life to or at least somewhat enjoy enough that I could at least bare working in. I've no idea what I'm to do.

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Twin Cities, Minnesota.
I live kitty corner to a gas station so that might exacerbate the hooliganism around here. There's always a fight or something going on, and the neighborhood always reeks of weed. Hipsters are moving in though, so that's some good news
That looks incredibly cozy, I'm actually jealous. That must be an amazing place to live around Christmas time

Heartbreak is the worst pain you can feel. It’s crippling, long lasting, and never fully recovers. My wounds are still fresh, but every waking moment is filled with thoughts of her and my failure of getting her to love me the same way I love her. I’ve been beaten to a pulp, broken bones, been tear gassed and pepper sprayed but I’d take all of that again if it would lift this newfound pain again.

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a combination of the fremen from dune with california surfer/skater culture

The pastor from my old church is going to die of cancer this week, and all I have to say is
>Good riddance
He was the only person I've ever met I consider legitimately evil, and I've known rapists and Nazis. I'm not going to his funeral, even if I'm invited

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I still love the girl I saw then. Time and time again, I'll see her in my dreams. Those eyes won't leave my mind, even though I'll never see her eyes again. I love those fucking eyes. And now I'll miss her my whole life.

This but also Schubert as a starting. Comfiest classical composer.

>his heartbreak is of some woman
>not his hero

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Examples of what Schubert can do (particularly like the last one):

youtube.com/watch?v=e52IMaE-3As
youtube.com/watch?v=AonBUbPkthc
youtube.com/watch?v=aO5fLLHj55k

I’ll try not to be overly saccharine/sincere in this post, ironic considering what I’m trying to achieve.

In the past couple of months, I have begun to realize how much of my childhood innocence and my autism (in the informal, ‘chan culture’ sense) have depleted. This was caused, I think, a multitude of factors, most importantly my overconsumption of media and what most would consider ‘personal growth:’ less social apprehension, better interactions, etc. — completely shattering the solitude and pensiveness integral to my upbringing. A sort of weltschmerz has arisen because of this, rendering my enjoyment of art to a fraction of what it once was. I am no longer able to immerse or lose myself in a mystifying world completely alien to my own; I am no longer invoked with a blissful, exultant paroxysm after viewing a work ostensibly unrelated to me; my emotional strings are not pulled, nor are my intellectual foundations uprooted. And worst of all, possibly, is that I can now only view art only with its ‘real-world’ applications — how others may perceive it, how others may perceive me for liking/disliking it, and other dumb shit that is considered wholly extraneous and unnecessary. I think growing up as a maladjusted, gauche recluse forced me to find refuge in something, and I involuntarily chose art, making it my greatest escape. I once held a romantic and admittedly juvenile ideal of art, but it has since waned. Is this simply a part of maturing? Was I taking the wrong approach to art in the first place? How can I reclaim the exuberance I once felt? Am I just a retarded faggot?

Sorry for blogging so hard, but if I didn’t express this, I would have felt even more lost than I do now. I don’t know if any of you feel similar, or could even recommend some lit to help assuage this feel, but please share if you can. Thanks Yea Forumsbros.

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Water

What kind of literature and art did you enjoy before ? Try to find the opposite of that. There's a Dickens for every Pound and a Carver for every Shakespeare. Finding another kind of artistic achievement (even trying another medium) could help you go back to the hidden garden through a different door.

You could also try writing. Not to publish, "become a writer", "live the literary life" or to "make it". Write as an enjoyment, as an exploration of language, as a tool of self-discovery, as a retelling of what you've lived and read. Write in gratefulness for whatever book you've adored, write as a tribute to the authors you admire. Write to pass time. All those are valid reasons to write. Don't worry, you'll be shit at first. Keep practicing and you'll get better.

But the root of evil, as always I would guess, is time. You need to clear some solid measure of unburdened time you can entirely dedicate for appreciation of art. Over time you'll build back you tastes and even refine them, and they'll be firmer and more ramified than before. It may sounds like a meme reference, but the child literature trilogy His Dark Materials has a bit like this: the heroin, Lyra, who was born with an uncanny ability to read a quasi-magical instrument named the alethiometre. In the end she lose that ability, and one master tells her: now that you've lost yor miraculous proficiency, it's time to learn seriously from the very elements. You'll become better than you ever were.

Hope it helps user. If you're anywhere in in your twenties you still have no idea what length of time is, and what it can bring. Don't despair.

I think as we age we lose part of ourselves as things turn from the novel to the habitual. I always fondly recall how active my childhood imagination was, and I lament deeply that I've lost it in large part to social pressures. I had a bit of an epiphany that part of what makes a child's imagination so great is that the can make The Small large. A puddle turns into a sea. A tree becomes Yggdrasil. Today I was hiking in the forest and I came upon a large hill and the light seemed to shine directly down the path, and there was a huge tree than extended over the path and acted like a gateway. It really struck me and I thought how my childhood self would have turned this hill into a mountain, and the path would have turned into The Stairs of Cirith Ungol or something of that nature.

I'm not sure you can ever gain back what you've lost in this respect but maybe in some small way you can.

Videogame writing blows fecal chunks.

Thanks for the genuine replies.
I’ve tried to make my way through the ‘Canon’ over the years and ended up loving Dante, Montaigne, and Goethe in particular. What you said about finding a literary ‘opposite’ was helpful, I’ll keep that in mind. Now that I think about it, the affect that these authors had on me is irreversible, especially Montaigne. His Essays were extremely introspective and poignant that I guess I internally gave up trying to find something else like it lol. So if anyone has a good rec for someone who likes Montaigne, I’d appreciate it. Thanks

Precautionary Bump

Skipped church this morning. Coming to the realization that they aren't even Christian, more of a cult of personality at this point. So I can't even say I'm ex-christian anymore. I don't think any of you Euro posters have any idea of how insane religion in America is,

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finally purchased some decent watercolors, 8$ for 12 tubes, felt like a great bargain.
do you draw bros?

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> mfw only ever went to evening masses, the later the better
i hate sun

reading fahrenheit 451
it sucks

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nice where'd you get them? i have some india ink that i do (or did) ink washes with. want to get into watercolours

read it at 14, i liked the plot and notion, although the prose itself seemed too flowery (if it's the right term) and dramatic
look for online marketplaces, people are selling almost unused paint for half the real price.
ink is based, very relaxing

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i like the bottom middle one desu, i get the impression of a dense forest on a murky afternoon

I've been recently getting out of a one month long reading slump by starting with Guermantes.
Having a really long book or a series makes deciding on what to read really comfortable, and by the time I'm done I will probably want to read a lot of other books, which will get me back into my usual reading habits.
I don't know why I didn't do this earlier.

How do you get better at writing? Just 'writing more' doesn't seem like the most productive thing you can do. Like if someone can't draw because they have poor form or technique, I doubt they could get significantly better by continuing the practice with that same poor form and technique.

I want to be able to write about mysticism and spirituality like pessoa could describe his own thoughts. I have a lot of good ideas but no way to get them across to others in a way that satisfies me

you could try doing what everyone does and copy other writers

My sister works at a fucking restaurant and she always has to eat after she comes home. I sure as hell don't like her hogging up the kitchen and would prefer she goes straight to bed. She can't eat with her fucking friends at work?

I wish I was less ugly

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*hugs*

Get a job at a fucking restaurant and work while she’s home eating. Its not your personal kitchen, so quit hogging it.

It's a fantasy of mine to buy a thirty second commercial spot for the super bowl and show 15 seconds of slaughterhouse footage and 15 seconds of a partial birth abortion. All to make sure no one can claim ignorance of the evils of either.

*whips out penis*

:3

I think I've finally lost just about every tiny remain of my old life, friends, dreams, etc. I am alone now. I am empty now.

you're gonna distract some people because they'll have to jerk off.

I don’t know what I am anymore.

>Candles = lit
>Beer = poured
>Mahler = playing
>Prussia = United
Yeah, I'm thinking it's EUIV time

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I lost all hope to build any relationship with other people.
I have my family for now, I'll enjoy their company for as long as I can.
When I lose em I'll just follow along.

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Hotel = Trivago

I broke my mind.
For the good of someone else's life I'll never marry or bother anyone by getting too close to them.
My only hope is reaching a state of indifference and thoughtlessness such as to allow me the least grief possible.
Escapism and entertainment will be my shelters.

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Just came to the realization that I'm forcing myself to have fun. My life is a joke.

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All I do lately is watch car fixing and outdoors type of videos, cooking shows and train.
Thinking has become unbearable, my mind instantly goes to painful thoughts when I let it run wild.

Luckily I stopped jacking off two months ago which helps a lot.
This has been the longest I went without watching and masturbating.
I don't intend falling back into it.

Lots of Steve Reich. I find the repetition very isolating.

youre a big guy
for you

Nice. Been going through a Phillip Glass phase these past weeks myself. What's your favorite work of Reich's?

Six Marimbas is one of my favourites. There's a collection called Reich for Percussion which I've been listening to quite a bit. Though I don't really know anything about Glass, I though the Low symphony was not bad.

I write a lot for games, but my problem is that I can't evoke my imagination typing the same way I do on pen and paper.
I don't know why considering I've written entire essay's on Yea Forums with little effort.

I don't know how to get over this barrier.

It also really affects my workflow, with my wrist spazzing out the moment I finish any single page of writing.

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I hate being alive. I hate living here. I hate how lonely your constant willfull ignorance makes me feel. I hate having to witness her degenerate behaviour and being made to feel guilty for wanting her to have some respect for herself.

i just simultaneously shided and peed and farded and camed

Glass and Reich (alongside John Adams) are considered to be the three titans of the American Minimalist movement

>first rejection came in
>day is ruined
this cunt was asking for exactly what i wrote. i wish they would give you a real fucking reason instead of saying "yeah thanks not for me" with a form rejection. such suffering.

why do agents ask for bios? i hate that shit. i'm not gonna sit here and jack myself off how much i just love love LOVE baking and taking baths with candles and retard shit. those profiles are so cringy. "x now lives in rural massachusettes with her husband and 3 dogs!" like yay, confuckinggrats? what does it matter? it feels like a big social club, not a merit based selection.

and no, i'm not that guy who was writing the revenge note. i just don't respond at all. i realize i'm being a fag but it's still unpleasant. she was asking for EXACTLY the super rare niche i was writing in and still rejected me. it's unbefuckinglievable.

could you elaborate more on this? What niche is your writing in?
Hell yeah brother

*John Cage, rather

i wrote a book about [x] set in [y] setting
agent was looking for a book about [x] set in [y] setting
this is pretty rare...there's...i can't even think of a novel that has those qualifications. anyway still got a form rejection. my Yea Forums posts are lazy but i swear i'm a good writer. it's not like i'm some cringy fedora posting incomprehensible diary tier ramblings for 300k words. it's polished, commercial, and fits desired specs. still a form rejection. i don't even know what these whores' problem is. guess i didn't have a fucking instagram with 10k followers so they want nothing to do with me. yes i sound bitter. it drives me crazy, i just wish they'd give me a reason so i know what to improve upon.

Maybe send a professional email asking the reasons why your manuscript wasn't accepted? It sounds like this is more of a miscommunication issue than them hating you. Did you submit it cold or something like that?

wyrm

nahui!)

What do you mean, submit it cold? I follow their submissions requirements to the letter, and she was openly asking for manuscripts, she's a professional agent.

Anyway I don't want to be a bother or sound bitter. Probably it just didn't strike her fancy. idk, if I ask will she even tell me more? For most rejections I imagine there simply is no specific reason. just bothers me. all i want in life is to be a published novelist and all i get are rejections. agents have said stuff like, they like it, or it sounds really interesting, but always "it's not for me right now." drives me insane.

I wish i was this witty

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Should I go check out the kendo gym (dojo?) in the town next to mine? I have zero (0) friends at the moment and they say they're inviting to new people. Also I've always though swordplay was cool even if it doesn't have practical use anymore.

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Sounds like you want to, here's the push you're looking for.
>Go for it!

tfw no Yea Forums kendo bro to play swordfight with and wear weeb clothes
they look so comfy

religious boomer evangelicals are a dying breed, their leverage on politics since the reagan era has really fucked this country up but they'll be gone soon

i was literally told i was too literary

I say go for it.
Maybe if it gets popular in user's town, they'll set up a group near you.

Bumperino

I made a pretty girl laugh today, so now I can go to bed happy for once

If you write at all like you did in this post, it's no wonder they rejected you. You sound like the worst kind of ill-tempered teenage girl, and write like one too.

How long will it take for me to understand Hegel’s works?

I need something I can look forward to at the end of the day or I won't be able to go on like this.
I'll die from sadness if I don't get a purpose.

How is a man supposed to find purpose in this day and age ?

Everything revolves around sex.
I'd pay to live a day without having to hear about that crap.

I have been feeling for the past little while very detached, not distant necessarily, but like each part of each day doesn't flow on from the other. Like I wake up and I'm suddenly in a new chapter. I used to think a lot about how miserable my life was, and now I don't think about it. Not much has changed, I just don't think so much in general. I'm not sure if this is a sign of me maturing, or a sign of me losing my attachment to life. What's the difference, maybe.

My house is so cold and my bones ache constantly.

Auto pilot on through until I'm 45 years old and miserable with a belt round my neck, I guess.

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The Land of Oppurtunity.

You step off the ship, followed by a hundred others, following two hundred more. You step onto dry land, for the first time in many months, voyaging on a decaying ship over a cold, uncaring, unforgiving sea. You stand on the harbour and are swept into the ravenous stampede of the hundredfold others, searching for food, searching for shelter. And your whole world is the smoke and the fog and the stench in the air you must breathe. The air you share with hundreds and thousands of others, wild-eyed and starving. Dying. Dying all the time, and never realizing it.

The streets are not paved with gold. The great copper woman, crowned in ardour, torch held aloft, once looked welcomed. Now her back is turned from you. She has already forgotten you, staring out across the sea. And the city is big and loud and it stinks like the black pit and you realize that you are dying. Since the moment of your birth, you have been dying. The whole time, and never realizing it.

With that, you join the stampede, get swept into the sway and are heard of no more.

You look at an artwork, and instantly you will have a feeling about it - It's well-done; you dislike it; there's certain colours and shapes going on. For sure you can study it more in-depth, but there will always be this first short impression. Writing seems so different from that. Upon glancing, it's just text, letters. You need to take it in wholly to form an opinion. Besides this different notion of grasping, this also makes progress harder to see. You look at a painting from now and from 2015 - you will likely see improvements, or a change of style. But how do you determine the same within writing? What even makes 'good' writing? Is it different when it's a poem, a short story, a novel? Can a painting even be compared to the vastness of a novel? Sometimes I think it would have been easier if my passion lay within painting.

Klinghoffer is a must-listen.

youtube.com/watch?v=Z6oTzAKk8iI

Sometimes I like to think about creative writing as "mind painting." You are providing instructions for the construction of a simulated world in the reader's brain. This is more of the case for writing that tells a story rather than merely exposits information.

Good writing is that which achieves its intended effect. It produces an aesthetic impression, it conveys an idea to satisfaction. I favor the Wittgensteinian notion that language is a tool, that words and phrases are instruments that yield measurable changes in other people or in yourself.

Fiction however has more dimensionality than a painting. A painting is static, and because of the function of the visual sense, it's entire content can be taken in at one glimpse. (Only to be analyzed into its visual components on further detailed inspection.)

A novel on the other hand has temporal extension. We pass through it like the present passes through time, at each moment constructing the most recent scene and then passing on to the next. The images that we see in a novel in the imagination, are the same images that painters put down on the canvas, except they are employed for a different purpose.

For the painter the images are fodder for painting. For the novelist they form part of a chain of images that produce the world of the novel, and exist only in the reader's head or the author's imagination.