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can't have that fellas...

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Attached: lefunnymemehaha.jpg (700x525, 72K)

Settle something for me
Here's two excerpts. I just started writing last week, so obviously this is shit. The first version is almost unedited, the second one is edited to a good grade in Hemingway Editor.
I just feel like the second one doesn't flow right. Is that just me? Is the material so terrible that it doesn't even matter?
Any feedback welcome.

First edit (second one in next post):
Derek sat in front of his computer. He could hear his mother in the distance, even through the tight seal of his headphones, she must have been doing laundry or some other chore, maybe doing the dishes. His room was tiny, even compared to the rest of the apartment. The long nights of relentless gaming had left their mark, towers of Chinese takout boxes (a small hole-in-the-wall two blocks over, not much more than a kitchen with a window to recieve the ordered food, somewhat filthy but they delievered in less than 15 minutes), a mountain of unwashed clothing that doubled as a wardrobe and a musky smell that radiated up from the ground. The door stood wide open and lead into the narrow corridor that connected his room to the other rooms of the space, the foor covered with a fitted carpet that must have been red some years ago but had now turned a dark brown, like soil but indoors.Once he turned away from the computer screen, his strained eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness that had crept into his room. He heaved himself up from his desk chair and made his way through the hallway into the kitchen. The stainless steel sink, flush-mounted into the kitchen counter, was filled with water and foam, his mother was labouring over it relentlessly, scrubbing the plates and glasses from the supper they had enjoyed together. Had there been more space for them they would have bought a dish washer, they sometimes talked about getting a maid, always in jest, to help her out around the house. For Julie, despite holding two jobs, life didn’t seem to get any easier with age.She was a woman in her late fifthies and had given him all the love and attention any child could wish for, from his early days up until now. While he had never brought shame or disappointment upon her in one fell swoop, he had noticed that a certain emptiness had formed in the space behind her eyes, sometime after his twenty-seventh birthday, hidden behind a thick facade of the same loving enthusiasm for any one of his endeavours, few as they might have been. Julie stopped scrubbing as soon as she heard him enter, he asked her if she had seen his white, polka-dotted pyjamas. With a swift turn on her heels she was facing him. They were in the dryer and would be ironed, folded and stowed away in his wardrobe by tomorrow. As she was still talking, Derek had already turned his back, ready to move back towards his room.

Second edit (some more):

Derek sat in front of his computer. He could hear his mother in the distance, even through the tight seal of his headphones. She must have been doing laundry or some other chore, doing the dishes or cleaning the floors. His room was tiny, even compared to the rest of the apartment.
The long nights of relentless gaming had left their mark. Towers of Chinese takout boxes from his favorite hole-in-the-wall two blocks over. Not much more than a kitchen with a window to recieve the ordered food. Somewhat filthy, but they delievered in less than 15 minutes and it had become his restaurant of choice over the years. A mountain of unwashed clothing that doubled as a wardrobe. Musky odors radiated up from the ground. The door stood wide open. It lead into the narrow corridor that connected his room to the other rooms of the space. A fitted carpet covered the ground, it had been red some years ago but had now turned a dark brown, like soil but indoors.
Once he turned away from the computer screen, his strained eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness that had crept into the room. Heaving himself up from his desk chair, he made his way through the hallway and into the kitchen. The stainless steel sink, flush-mounted into the kitchen counter, was filled with water and foam. His mother was labouring over it relentlessly, scrubbing plates and glasses. Had there been more space for them they would have bought a dish washer, they sometimes talked about getting a maid to help her out around the house. Always in jest. For Julie, despite holding two jobs, life didn’t seem to get any easier with age.
She was a woman in her late fifthies and had given him all the love and attention any child could wish for, from his early days up until now. While he had never brought shame or disappointment upon her in one fell swoop, he had noticed that a certain emptiness had formed in the space behind her eyes, sometime after his twenty-seventh birthday. It was hidden behind a thick facade of the same loving enthusiasm for any one of his endeavours, few as they might have been.
Julie stopped scrubbing as soon as she heard him enter. He asked her for his white, polka-dotted pyjamas. With a swift turn on her heels she was facing him. They were in the dryer and would be ironed, folded and stowed away in his wardrobe by tomorrow. As she was still talking, Derek had already turned his back, ready to move back towards his room. Through the dark corrider, past the pictures hung on the walls; had they been lit they would have shown him and Julie. His father, whom Derek had not seen in over a year, hung in his own frame next to them. And one only of himself, much younger and thinner.
The lacquer of the wardrobe had turned from a biting white into a yellowish beige over the years. The tone of a chainsmoker’s teeth, it had deteriorated much like the carpet had. Next to each other, the two formed a disgusting cacophony.

Second one is definitely better.

Cool, thanks

this is far superior, but could still use some work
also, content is depressing as hell and i hope the main character kills himself out of the realization that he is a useless burden on the only person who loves him and he wants to help her the only way he knows how

>but could still use some work
Yeah, I just started editing the first ~2000 words, might have to rewrite some parts though.
>i hope the main character kills himself out of the realization that he is a useless burden on the only person who loves him
better: she dies and he has to get his shit together without her help

Thanks for the feedback!

bump

Just a wee poem I wrote drunk last night

Here go we then, through the Eye,
As the Earth begins to cry,
And the rain writes fates on window panes.
Here we go, the last beneath the Sun,
Dancing into days now done,
Through sonorous subterranean wombs,
And nature’s ration-reason tombs.
Flowing wines that blunt the edges,
And steep in word some drunken pledges.
Reveal what is left unsaid beneath fluorescents,
The blooming, blushing inflorescence:
That all that’s true is, too, uncouth.
And so, is best explored in naive youth,
And then forgotten.

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Cute!

Please crit my poem

The incense burns
A smell intoxicates the air
Inhale and feel the gentle ease
Outside, beneath a maple tree the crickets chirp

A deeper bond
That you should find
When you observe and truly feel,
Invite the timeless awe and beauty from within

And see the moon
A glow so radiant and pure
The gaze that pierces through the sky
A million sensations gently ripple through the skin

Yet undisturbed
We drift ahead through seas of time
To feel and know as others have before us
We feel a confidence within, a strong and virile purpose

Waste not the fear
Rejoice and feel as we did
Refuse and see how much you have
Repent but only to yourself and finally forgive.

if you like it, it sucks

t. faulkner

Funny! I hate Faulkner, and he still sucks!

Is this an autobiography?

I like this. AABBCC as a rhyme scheme gives it sort of a childish limericky feel, but I think that helps it more than it hurts it. I like the line
>And the rain writes fates on window panes
especially.

This is the introduction of a character for a longer work. This is one of the first little sketches of it I've made so far, I write painfully slow. I literally just finished typing it up and haven't edited beyond a few things I noticed as I went, so tell me as much about it as you can.

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.

What reason at all have you to write? My current reading backlog will probably take me 2 years of reading to tackle and will probably lead me down several rabbit holes that expand my list of shit to read further and further, indefinitely. How could I fit your book into my schedule, and why?

holy shit dude send that to a publisher now

I feel like you're wafting around, be careful to not over describe just because there isn't much plot to discuss.

Not really worth its own thread, but vaguely relevant.
I’ve started using “curly quotes” and apostrophes in my word processor. Curly single quotes ‘look like this.’ I have them converted automatically from their straight equivalents, and it’s surprisingly comfy.

Do you guys use en dashes – or em dashes—? Hyphens look so miserable in comparison. I like the look of em dashes a bit more, but I think they might be seen as an Americanism, which wouldn't match my spelling.

The beginning of a short story I've written:

The clock struck one, then two and finally three. Andy tossed, Andy turned, Andy could not sleep. He’d close his eyes and imagine a great black nothing but soon enough his thoughts would come and fill the space with rivers and hills and girls - mostly girls. Once he had almost managed to fall asleep, his brain stopped chattering, his breathing slowed, and then something creaked. Immediately he woke up again, now on full alert. It came from his room, he was sure, but nothing would have made that type of sound. It was too late for his mother to be checking up on him, and too early for his mother to be waking him up. He was at that time of night where reality and reason seemed to put on their coats and head for a smoke break. The hallway to the bathroom was ominous, infinite black promising an equally infinite amount of horrors. Andy’s deepest fears lay waiting there, so he remained laying in bed. Safety was under the blanket and nowhere else at this hour. Another creak. Andy would have sworn on his life at that moment that he heard someone clear their throat. He stayed frozen in bed, not daring to turn his head. Something rustled.
“Excuse me young man?” a soft, deep voice said. It imminated from the void in his room. That’s it Andy thought. He had officially gone insane. There was no way this was real. He did not answer. There was a cough and something cleared its throat. “As I was going to say..” the voice continued, “my name is -” and a grand sound exited its mouth. Not words but stories; nebulas forming, dying backwards, stars born and torn asunder. Planets crashing into each other like small rock marbles. “..Or Kevin in English.”
With the excruciating pace of a snail Kevin turned his body and craned his neck to look over the bed. Dimly lit, and barely visible, was a figure. It poked out of the bottom of the wooden frame of his bed. Human heads usually did not shine like gelatine, nor were they green. Or have tentacles. Whatever was poking out of the bed though did. It blinked. Andy could see the universe in the deep well that were Kevin’s eyes. Shimmering stars or streetlamps, it did not matter, there was a sense of unison. And it all came from the same origin anyway something in Andy’s head thought, he recoiled. That was not him. Please don’t act so frightened. You’re being a bit of a pansy. There it was again. In fact, the last time we met, you were quite a pleasant chap.
Andy remained quiet.
You’ll make this more awkward by simply staring off into the mattress.

Fuck the formatting didn't copy.

>all this pointless fiction bullshit
>no new and exciting philosophical works
Yea Forums is dead

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>hey guys, I'm a pretentious spastic
good to know.

I have many opinions, and I like to rub them in people's faces. Especially poor people's faces.

Do you think I over described? Not much happens, but it's less than a page.
I care more about good prose and evoking feelings than plot, I'll be the first to admit that. The plot I've outlined for the rest of the piece starts as a sort of macguffin chase linking bizarre characters together, then steadily evolves into mystic esotericism.