No plagiarism edition:
While tempting, and understandable that you wish you could steal talent, we learned about this in Elementary/Secondary school.
You'll be quickly found out for the fraud you are.
I'll do my best to offer my own unprofessional opinion on your works/mind wanderings. Unfortunately I only read English and some French.
Here is a suspect looking link:
1drv.ms
Other urls found in this thread:
pastebin.com
pastebin.com
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
youtube.com
1drv.ms
twitter.com
Don't try to ram exposition into people's skulls at the speed of fucking sound. If every Other Word in an excerpt is Capitalized, you're just infodumping. Tolkien could make a mythological history fun to read, but you're not there. Write a story, not a wall of exposition, and let the details of your setting filter out through the story so people can piece them together. If this were a prologue to a book I'd picked up, I'd either set the book down and never look at it again or I'd skip the prologue.
As for "no plagiarism edition," nobody plagiarizes in these threads to "steal talent," they do it to shitpost and see if other people will recognize the excerpts they've pulled from somewhere else. The writing style in your prose and post tell me you're probably a 16 year old in "gifted and talented" school programs who still doesn't really understand context clues.
The much more productive rule for /crit/ threads is "don't post your own material without critiquing others."
I can understand that at some parts, but your critique doesn't say much of anything. I appreciate it despite that, since it is some form of feedback, it's just not detailed feedback. It doesn't touch on what you liked, or what you didn't like and what exactly the parts you found that were juxtaposed. Some of it I know didn't really fit, like the part about the army. I'll probably remove that and put it elsewhere in the story. I always kind of feel that way about some parts, and I admit that I don't really know how to express my ideas properly, which is why I'm asking for critique.
For that piece, Asunder, I like the way it is written, but I am a little lost in the subject matter. It sounds archaic, but in a good way, but is also somewhat unfulfilling.
I know I'm not a very good writer, but it's one of the few arts that I can actually get myself to finish something in, so I want to get better. I really do, so I won't be bothered by what you have to say. You're most likely more well-read than I am, and have a better grasp, I'm trying to get back into it. I would be very grateful for some more specific feedback from you, and anyone else. I want to share my ideas, but I want to share them in a way that is enjoyable for myself, and those I share it with.
The plagiarism thing was just a quip about how some people were complaining about plagiarism on this board.
Okay, this is my first time writing anything, I would really appreciate any critique on what I'm doing wrong before I continue with the story. Thanks, guys.
My feet are numb, my arms are limp.
My eyes are red, I drink again.
The flood comes down a mighty storm,
so many times I've drowned before.
I am far gone, far off the shore,
no swimming back to dry before.
With my strong hand I lift the sea -
down my throat it pours it's glee.
I can't cry out, I cannot scream -
I like the way it speaks to me.
The talk so sweet it ends my fears,
sweetest words in my all years
heard only when I'm drenched in sweat,
sweetest droplets down my neck -
they're the ones to bring me glee,
they're the ones who fill the sea.
Wonderful my drowning is,
reaching lower for abyss.
Only there can I survive,
only there my body thrives,
only when my body shivers,
only then I feel forgiveness.
Come with me down to the bottom -
won't feel cold, won't feel as rotten.
Won't be alone - I'm always there,
kicking, raging, weeping there,
always there, trapped in there,
the sweetest there, will die in there.
Here’s a sonnet I wrote to one of my love interests:
My angel’s eyes are gates to heaven’s heart,
And when I see them, oh! I melt away
I melt away and hope to never part
From her so graceful golden gaze.
And like the moon, her beauty pierces night
And shines more brightly than the many stars
That line the sky from their so lofty height;
If only I could hold her in my arms!
If only I could hold her in my arms
And lie entwined therein forevermore,
Embracing her and all the lovely charms
That she and she alone has always worn.
If only I could lay a single kiss
Upon my angel, princess of my bliss!
I know the couplet is shit and doesn’t flow well from the final quatrain, but I thought everything else was good enough to warrant posting it in this thread.
Such quiet chords that pull the boughs of pines and souls of men. Where in this dirt, this ash of earthly cremation are the tokens of my father. Whose bones are still wet, burrowed in their time, now in their debt. Facsimiles of the vessel that wears my life, soon to be scattered on the air. Yet now is not the time for sorrow, while I stand upon the grass, for bliss it is to see the dawn in my winter days.
>no title
>"wrote to one of my love interests"
Absolutely dropped and cringepilled
>he titles his sonnets instead of just giving them a number
This is Sonnet 8
You're no shakespeare, kiddo
I am literally Shakespeare, egg.
read this in david brent's voice
"I remember once reading that all human's are instinctually frightened by snakes. Appears in all myth, every religion, subtlest of God's creation and all that. I bet if you put one in front of a baby it'd cry and wail it's little heart out. Wonder what that says about people who own one."
"One of what?"
"A snake. What else would I be talking about?"
"A baby."
"No one owns babies, not legally at least."
"Hmph."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Anything to add about snakes?"
"Sounds like bullshit to me."
"Why?"
"The Caduceus."
"The what? Oh, Stop rolling your eyes, just explain already."
"Apollo's staff, you know the one. It's on every amblance. Universal signal for good health, in the western world at least. Can't say much about the orient though, might be different in china."
"Well what does that have to do with snakes?"
"Are you really this clueless? The Caduceus is made up of two snakes rapping around a pole. If we're all so deathly afraid of snakes, why'd we go put them on the one thing that's suppossed to assure us our lives aren't in danger."
"That's a good question, I suppose the greeks are just of a higher sort."
"Higher than the rest of humanity?"
"Maybe."
Feels cliche and dishonest
How much do you actually care for this girl
can someone critique mine?
An exercise in writing action.
pastebin.com
It might just be my personal prefrence, but I feel your short staccato sentences don't fit with this grand statement you're trying to make. I'd say either play up the emotion a bit or link shit up
I agree. I don’t think it’s possible to write a 21st century love sonnet in iambic pentameter without being intensely cliche.
Shakespeare doesn't feel cliche at all, but you just seem to be trying to emulate his style and topics without being true to yourself
Apply yourself next time, write about something you care about
Yeah, this was more of an intellectual exercise in meter than a genuine expression of emotion (the girl I sent it to still loved it, probably because she’s never read poetry before). If I wrote genuine poetry I would have to do something like T.S. Elliot because I rarely feel anything at all.
You sound like a sociopath
Your art will likely suck
Please seek help
>T.S. Elliot because I rarely feel anything at all.
You're still just imitating someone else and not being true to yourself.
Original art is just the alchemical combination of preexisting things into something new.
Tumblr might be more up your alley, sis.
Best of thread. Mention Enki perhaps instead of, or in addition to the Apollo thing
Fear of snakes is number 2 most popular fear, number 1 being spiders
You have a very sterilized view of art and an alarming lack of emotional honesty
If you can't understand humanity you'll likely never make a single piece of good art
>Original art is just the alchemical combination of preexisting things into something new.
True, but imitation shouldn't be the intention.
When youthful morning ascends clouded skies,
Gold flattery stifles the infant realm;
And while bubbling brooks and lush lowlands lie,
Her fingers of rose do soon overwhelm.
Twelve sit upstairs amidst the basest rack,
While her eye victorious in its gaze
But foreseen heaven appears at her back,
A forlorn shade over cosmic face.
Stealing west, hiding face from dishonour,
While robes of saffron left on morning’s bed;
Her gaze I filched, my paramount wonder:
Passing away, fraught, with blue verses said.
Yet for eternity that men can breathe,
Love will be stained by the morning that leaves
ME BETTER
The love poem you wrote was unemotional? You're either lying to yourself to hide from your mediocrity, or you're a hollow artist that values aesthetic(poorly might I add) over emotional content.
It was a summer afternoon on the cusp of an overdue slumber. The days had been too hot, and too long. From cursing the days in front, and sweating under parasols, and slapping close-by mosquitoes, to cravings of one more day, or, perhaps a week, wanting nothing more than to enjoy the end of the summer for a little while longer and the frosty feelings melted away.
The sun beat heavily overhead casting a parting glance before becoming forlorn. Its face would soon grow longer than the shadows creeping away from its brilliant rays and finally settle to hibernate behind a blanket of rain. But for now, its face swelled onto the cherry tree above, onto the hydrangeas (of pink, white, yellow) below the windowsill, onto green grass cut the day before last and the lingering scent of being freshly cut remained just in time for summer’s end, and onto a little girl in the garden making daisy chains in a white polka dot dress humming along with the radio that played from the sill.
THIS IS THE OPENING, IT HAS MORE IN THIS PASTEBIN, i've tried editing it a little from what user's have said-if you can read the pastebin, i'd be grateful;
weird non rhyme to start an otherwise aabb rhyme scheme
>with my strong hand
idk why but i couldn't take it seriously after this
>my angels eyes
feels forced, and honestly a little creepy, take the narrator from this and simply describe the person instead of HAVING to include yourself in it
repetition of
>i melt away
line 2 and 3, superfluous
>From her so graceful golden gaze.
awkward line
it gets progressively worse as you don't say anything more and in fact, write a poem about a girl when in reality its thinly veiled of your desires on this girl
good start, better than all the previous i've commented on, the only part that lets it down is
>I suppose the greeks are just of a higher sort."
>"Higher than the rest of humanity?"
>"Maybe."
it is extremely disjointed from the text, good work otherwise
what is this horrific yellow highlighting
EXTREMELY WEIRD, but its not terribly written, i saw this in the last thread, and see the rhyming in each sentence which is an interesting part however i feel you could expand this, the end is way too short for such a build up. Actually enjoyed overall
ehhhh, as cliche as the other user but at least this feels somewhat more genuine
STOP TRYING SO HARD and stop writing in iambic, we get it, you enjoy old books, you dont need to spell it out in half of your piece that you love GREEK GREEK GREEKS; also, if love poem (i assume it is), you did a good job of displaying forgiveness
I agree. I definitely need to experiment with styles before I discover my own, however.
> The love poem you wrote was unemotional?
Yes, but you don’t have to believe me.
>you're a hollow artist that values aesthetic(poorly might I add) over emotional content.
I do value aesthetics over emotional content. Not everyone is a romantic.
>Yes, but you don’t have to believe me.
That wasn't my point, I'm saying that's a horrible way to approach a love poem, it's disingenuous and people can smell that on art.
>I do value aesthetics over emotional content.
That'd be fine if you weren't plagiarizing aesthetics without changing a thing.
>That wasn't my point, I'm saying that's a horrible way to approach a love poem, it's disingenuous and people can smell that on art.
I agree with you that the poem isn’t very good, I’m just saying that it was an intellectual exercise in meter and not a genuine love poem.
>That'd be fine if you weren't plagiarizing aesthetics without changing a thing.
I’ve never heard someone tell someone that they’re “plagiarizing” aesthetics before. Also, I don’t think anyone who’s read poetry before would seriously think that I’m trying to pass this style off as my own.
>I’m just saying that it was an intellectual exercise in meter and not a genuine love poem.
Yet you gave it to your romantic interest.
>Also, I don’t think anyone who’s read poetry before would seriously think that I’m trying to pass this style off as my own.
Then what's the point in writing it?
>I agree with you that the poem isn’t very good, I’m just saying that it was an intellectual exercise in meter and not a genuine love poem.
Then why mention the girl? Why mention giving it to her? Why mention her liking it?
>Also, I don’t think anyone who’s read poetry before would seriously think that I’m trying to pass this style off as my own.
Then why post this in a critique thread on a famously elitist literature board? Why be this dishonest?
>Yet you gave it to your romantic interest.
Yes, because I thought she would like it. That doesn’t make it a genuine form of expression.
>Then what's the point in writing it?
u / u / u / u / u /
>Then why mention the girl? Why mention giving it to her? Why mention her liking it?
I knew I would get more responses that way.
>Then why post this in a critique thread on a famously elitist literature board? Why be this dishonest?
I don’t see why not. I actually think this is fun.
I won’t be able to reply for a bit because I have to finish a writing assignment, but I’ll check on the thread after I’m done.
It's long and I understand if you won't read it all, but anything helps. Will critique the others tonight.
>I-I was just pretending to be retarded!
Next time you post in a critique thread, don't try to defend yourself. Work with the criticism and maybe you'll learn something helpful
You have a beautiful style. This flowed very smoothly and I find your choice of words great. There was one instance of ‘into’ that could have just been ‘to’
Dialogue is on point as well, very natural. The patterns of thought expressed by the narrator are very ‘normal’ and relatable if that makes sense. Great stuff user
I think it's a bit too bumpy emotionally, you have to give time for things to develop and for the readers to fully understand the depths of certains states like the fathers awkwardness with his child's tantrums or his reaction to the old man's state
>Next time you post in a critique thread, don't try to defend yourself.
I don’t really understand your agitation here; someone asked me a question pertaining to the poem and I answered it. Does my lack of emotional depth upset you? Is it the fact that I’d write poem to practice meter? Is it the fact that I sent it to a woman and she enjoyed it? I already said that I didn’t like the poem myself, so I’m not really sure what it could be.
What irks me is that you keep hidding behind flimsy excuses instead of actually considering what's being said
Your claiming you don't care for the poem while clearly taking some amount pride in it, it's peak emotional dishonesty
this. he's making excuses over the mediocrity and then pettifogging over why we don't like the individual excuses. If you don't like the poem then just take the criticisms and acknowledge that you need to improve.
>What irks me is that you keep hidding behind flimsy excuses instead of actually considering what's being said
The only thing that has been said that wasn’t some form of ad hominem is that my poems should be emotionally sincere, which I agreed with. I think you’re angry because you think I’m being dishonest when I say I wrote the poem as an intellectual practice in meter, but I can’t really make you believe me.
It just feels incredibly wrong to write a love poem as an intellectual exercise and then give it to the person you love. You can see how most people would see that as twisted right? It comes across as either hollow or a lazy excuse for earnestly bad writing.
>You can see how most people would see that as twisted right?
I don’t think it’s ‘twisted’ per se; a bit deceitful, yes.
> It comes across as either hollow or a lazy excuse for earnestly bad writing.
I agree that it is hollow.
i mean this was said about it but ignored
I really like this user, it reminds me of this quote.
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them."
I do think the terms hollow and stuffed seem contradictory, was that intentional? Because the metaphor kind of clash.
Feet on the seat
The way a person sits
is very telling.
A slouched back:
they sit at computers for work
and will spend old age in pain.
Prim and proper:
their parents always scolded harshly,
or perhaps they donned the leotard
as young child-prodigies.
Feet on the seat:
from a foreign land by birth
or spirit,
disguise of centaur thus removed,
contorted in disharmony.
How rank is the crown that wears the head, that governs by personal hurt instead of national health. In the truest world, one that turns beyond the cradle of language and its infantile trappings is an eye that burns in a star and illuminates the world and fosters warm life. For language is the cage that is peered through to truth, an arms-length apart, a galaxy of islands never to know another shore. Another mind to wear the head.
I agree with some of it.
As much as I would like to take credit for this poem, alas! the author is T.S. Elliot. I just posted it because the person I was replying to reminded me of it.
ah, that's a tad misleading, but I enjoyed the poem so no harm, no foul.
Perched on my chair like a gargoyle as I read this, damn you.
Bump
I admit that at first I felt confused with this until you pointed out in the last thread that it's meant to be read as a series of rhymes. The only thing I can think of is the last few lines could be punched up to have a greater lasting impact.
>the ropes were tight and his strength lacking
Is it just me or is this line a little out of place?
I liked it
could you english please?
Other than a few typos, pretty good. Dialogue sounds natural., though it's not easy to tell who's who. These two sound like the same character. What's the story about?
>"That's a good question, I suppose the greeks are just of a higher sort."
Good.
>"Higher than the rest of humanity?"
>"Maybe."
Sounds borderline pseud, to me at least. Thanks for posting.
Not sure what I'm reading here. The dialogue sounds unrealistic and like a song. Is this experimental? Is there any deeper meaning besides a guy getting killed by the sister-in-law he’s having an affair with, and that he seems to enjoy it?
I give props for the rhyming concept, I think it's creative, but that just makes it feel way too unnatural, especially the dialogue and what said. Interesting, though. I'm not really qualified to call this good or not. Thanks for posting.
Thanks a lot, lad.
>into
Which 'into' is that? The one at the beginning of the second to last paragraph?
>flow
What do you think about the '***'?
I can understand. How do you suggest I do that? Thanks for the critique.
...
Bump
Honestly not too bad except for the fact that your rhyme scheme was all over the place. You also rhyme 'sea' and 'glee' more than once, which feels kind of lazy.
Also... I'm not going to say it feels like an edgy 14 year old wrote it, but you're close enough to the line that if you don't watch yourself you could end up in that sort of territory in future.
Whilst it would be kind of cringe to actually show this to someone you know irl, purely on its literary merits it isn't bad.
Like, it's not great - 'angel', 'heaven', 'moon', stars', it's all kind of the bread and butter of love poetry. But I could definitely see a real 16th century poet writing something like it; not Shakespeare or Marlowe, but some educated nobleman who doesn't need to live off his writing and mostly uses it to seduce not very bright young women.
I have mixed feelings about this; normally I wouldn't even say anything because I can't pinpoint what it is about it that I don't like, but I felt I had to give a counterpoint to , even if my only message is: don't get complacent, you aren't quite there yet.
While it's good to experiment sometimes, this is neither interesting enough nor melodic enough to be called a success.
Here's a limited sample of my works, arranged roughly in order of length (shorter ones first). Read one, a couple, or all of them, up to you - I don't really want a detailed analysis so much as a general opinion: Am I any good?
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
1d4chan.org
If anyone reads these, you’re a mug
>[Such quiet chords played on the pine boughs in the soul of man,]
Fragment. This directly addresses them in next line now.
>Where in this ashen dirt cremation lie my father's obals?
Charon's Obals, coins on the eyes.
>Whose bones here lie wet, in their own time borrowed and now in their debt?
Father: cremated (sky). Mother: buried (Gaia) ~
continue the sentence, adjust the following correspondingly
>Facsimile vessels worn through [many] lives[/life], soon my own to be sown
>on the air
Either "On the wind" or "In the air", pick one. Alternatively "sewn in the air", with "now sewn" in place of "soon to" ~ The Fates.
>[Yet] while I still stand on grass, it is not [yet] time for sorrow.
Either way, either phrase.
>To see [another] the dawn [again/once more] in my winter days, is bliss
[options]
Approaches Robinson Jeffersy tone, eschew the elevated register where it's introducing grammatical convolutions. More directness (see how this looks as a poem as well). Shape the image (internal editing if you like).
I read most of what's in the pastebin, and my main criticism is that the pacing is incredibly slow.
>"Well what does that have to do with snakes?"
Verisimilitude drops off in the line above and craters hereafter. Fewer words. Those lines would be unreadable for actors.
>"You're serious? It's Cadueces, two snakes winding up around a pole. Why's the magic healing wand got poisonous devils wrapped around it?"
>"I don't know, freaky Greek kundalini? Not 'actual snakes'? You tell me wise guy--"
Go balls in on the opener. That truncated nub reads like the Man from Nantucket.
>On a summer noon on the precipice of an overdue slumber, after too long days and too short nights -- from cursing [...] front, slapping mosquitoes sweating under parasols -- to craving one more day (or eternity) wanting [...] salad days of summer that little while longer, and [...]
Radically less past tense/voice esp. centering on the more striking events. Less is more. Shuffle and juggle and cut.
>Feet on the seat
Sprightly read, the beat of this is fun. Off the rails after
>or spirit
As much as I like the vision, the music is off.
Pacing. We're voyeurs on your internal monologue and it isn't interesting (yet). As a baseline for imagism, get into the weeds after paring this down.
Rhythmically, some potential as lyrics
I read the first two, they actually are good.
Yeah, this is alright. You could vary your sentence length a bit more; sure, you want most of them to be quite abrupt given the circumstances but every now and then you could focus on one particular detail with a longer sentence for emphasis.
What are some writing resources? How do I get gud?
>How do I get gud?
Write. Post it so other people can read it. Take note of their criticisms. Write again.
What do you think we're doing here?
Me
Is it written poorly too? (That may come under incredibly slow as a criticism) I think I’ve been reading too much Woolf come to think of it
So you’re saying it’s bad overall? Written/thematically?
>Is it written poorly too?
It's more bad than it is good, but you seem to have enough grasp of the basics of prose that if you decided to write in a different style you could probably do better.
There are bits where you needed to edit more carefully ('the its')
>The pair did not stop until tears ran down the its face. It was a good day.
There are bits where you haven't quite phrased things correctly
>She thought about being a little girl, how life had changed, how lucky was her daughter to live in a grand house without the fear of death, beatings, or without being able to eat, oh yes, she was lucky!
'without the fear of death, beatings, or lack of food. Oh yes, she was lucky.
Your tendency to have sentences that run on for quite a bit with a lot of commas seems to be a deliberate stylistic choice, but it's not a choice I personally enjoyed, and at certain points it make things confusing and awkward to read.
>She bent down and kissed her daughter on the forehead and told her she looked very beautiful today, that perhaps she was the sun and left some paltry excuse outside to which her daughter beamed and thanked her
At the very least you need a comma between 'outside' and 'to', if not a semi-colon or a full stop.
btw, I am
So, I've got two. Doing a writing exercise where you write down ten ideas and just roll with a few of them for short works.
---
“-and that’s when I said, ‘There’s no place for you in this world fiend!’” Christov said, pointing dramatically across the table to the delight and laughter of his friends. They sat at a table in The Wench’s Arms, already pleasantly drunk. Their clothes were out of place among the leather and homespun of the tavern’s regulars, and more than a few eyes watched them jealously as they spent coin like pillow-talk.
“That’s nothing!” Alexi took a deep drink and slammed his mug down. “When I was in Vorm there was a cult of flesh-eaters, right? And they made the mistake of kidnapping yours truly! Stranger, nobody would miss me, right? Well, little did they know that I’m quite the charmer.” He winked as if letting them in on some private joke. “A few days later and not only did they turn themselves in but showed me where they’d been stashing their victim’s things. I returned everything with any sentimental value if I could, of course, but the dead don’t need coin, right?”
As the night went on the two friends stories became more outlandish until sometime after the last of the regulars had gone home. The barman was putting up the chairs when Christov set his glass down. “...she’s late.”
“Yeah. Maybe she’s not coming tonight?” Alexi held his own mug with both hands, thumb running over the polished wouldn’t handle.
“She’s never late, though. Not in all the time I’ve known her,” Christov said, not raising his eyes. “Maybe something happened.”
“She’s a strong woman, she can take care of herself,” Alexi waved off the possibility, draining his mug. “Hey, keep! Gimme another!”
“Closing, boys,” the potbellied man grunted. “Finish up and be on your way.”
The mood turned somber as the two men looked to the door. For a moment they thought the shadows moved, momentarily taking a woman’s form before the barman started dousing the lamps and banishing the figure to darkness.
Christov sighed and rose, chair scraping against the plank floor. “Well, I suppose that’s it then… maybe tomorrow...”
“Yeah. Tomorrow,” Alexi nodded and rose, brushing his white hair back behind an ear. Christov shrugged his cloak over narrow shoulders, gone thin with age but still reflecting the ruin of the powerful man he’d been in his youth.
Maxine grumbled as she scanned the crowd. Tourists, townies, everybody at once standing out and not in the press of bodies. How the Hell was she going to spot the zombie in all of this? She took a sip of her coffee, the overly-sweet caramel soothing her throat in the autumn chill. Raising a zombie from a fresh body should be easy. The right words, the right ingredients, and bam! Instant servant. If you’re careful they don’t even rot too quickly. She hadn’t counted on the man having any of his own will left. Or his reflexes. She winced, rubbing her jaw.
Suddenly, at the other end of the square, somebody shoved through the crowd and Maxine grinned. “Fortune smiles on me again,” she said and set the cup aside on the bench. She reached into her coat for the small leather bag of salt. “Time to put you back to bed.” She stood and palmed the bag, making her way toward the disoriented-looking man in ragged clothes.
>arcing set
not really a good phrase
>our sky
not sure about this--i dont know who is speaking yet so neither do i know who "we" are
>the gods, they danced
?
>treaded ways
i think i know what you mean here but there must be a better way to say it--"the trodden path of Eden" or "Eden's trodden ways" maybe
>grew Eden
Eden grows?
>we loved
don't know who "we" are still. establish a speaker if you are using first person
>warred and lied
lied about what?
>trespass a promise lost in mortal haze
there isn't really enough of an idea here for me to understand what you're referring to; either you're being to obscure or you don't really have an idea in mind--what promise? who trespassed? what is "mortal haze?" is someone dying?
>did
a bit awkward here at the end of the line
>a savage dead king
not sure how a dead king can be savage
>gloaming torch
ok, but where is this torch? where is this king? where are we? you're giving me a series of images floating in the ether
>engorged on the Shepherd
if you're writing an allegorical piece that doesn't mean the reader has to guess at what its about--make it clear; put it in the title so i have the key to the allegory
>nightly order... quelling verge
these meanings are lost on me
....
cons: your ideas need more detail. give me a clearer and more detailed image of where we are, who we're talking about.... before you flower your writing work on establishing clear and straightforward perceptions. if you just described in simplistic language what it is that you're actually referring to you would have a better poem. right now your poem is a frankenstein--it is a series of noun-adjective combinations that seem to refer to something mysterious and epic but the actual event is not clear
pros: no double epithets
>I drink again
not sure what this means
>the flood
what flood?
>comes down a mighty storm
cannot imagine how the flood "comes down" a storm. what does that mean?
>so many times i've drowned before
you're an immortal? you're a reincarnation? what?
>swimming back to the dry
dry isn't a place so I don't know how you can get back there
>with my strong hand I lift the sea
wow, a striking image--if only i knew the context for it... why are you lifting the sea? without context this just sounds bizarre
>it pours its glee
not sure 1) how the sea is pouring itself and 2) why it is gleeful
>i like the way it speaks to me
speaks what? you have some relationship with the sea but i don't have any idea what kind
...
like i said to the other user your poem is full of subjectively meaningful symbols. that's great for you but reading it i glean nothing since i have to guess what it all refers to.
Some cursory thoughts:
1. "X said" is less modern than "said X", the latter also just sounds better
2. Some good bits like "spent coin like pillow-talk"
3. Too much elaboration of gesture, literally every bit of dialogue ends with a gesture, it destroys the flow
4. The dialogue is too--not sure what's the word is--obvious? Not necessarily cliche, but too on the nose, boring even. Real people seldom say what they mean. Doesn't mean everyone should speak in riddles but you should move the obvious to thought so that the dialogue is more interesting and--not sure of the word--but "personal" perhaps. e.g "Maybe something happened" should be relegated to thought, not spoken aloud. Use silence too. Not everything needs to be answered, especially between old friends--that's where you should use gesture by the way, not just as an accent to speech.
5. It's too short to tell, but everything in this story feels derivative, like something from someone's D&D campaign. Fantasy lives and dies by the balance of originality and familiarity, and this leans way too far to one side. Which fantasy authors do you like?
>melt away... and hope to never part
"away" and "never part" are not making sense--how can you be away but not apart?
>graceful golden gaze
double epithet; a gaze can't really be graceful--its not a motion--also not sure how golden and graceful relate to one another
>like the moon, her beauty pierces night
this is something, but its out of place since you've referred to her as "golden" whereas the moon is pale/silver/etc
>and shines more brightly than many stars
you could probably say this in less words and say more--"and more bright shines than many stars" or "and like the moon piercing the night outshines the stars" w/e
>that line the sky
not sure "line" is the right word--makes me think the stars are in rows or something; "array" or "adorn" or something might be better
>from their so lofty height
this is just bad phrasing
>hold her in my arms and lie entwined therein
read this to yourself over and explain to me how I am supposed to visualize this
>lovely charms
not exactly convinced of deep love by mere charms; makes me think you love her as a mere conglomeration of "charms"
>if only i could lay a single kiss
a bit strange here since you've just described "entwining" with her and "embracing" her "forevermore" and now you're backtracking to a peck on the lips
there's not a lot that's inspiring here. makes sense since this is a poem about "one" of your love interests. guess she got about us much as you've got the energy for, given that you must have many other interests to attend to also
>youthful morning ascends
morning "ascending" is a strange image. i can imagine the sun ascending but not the morning; yes it is true we say night descends--maybe its fine
>her fingers of rose do soon
come on
...
rest is low effort
Martin, Pratchett, Weis/Hickman.
Nothing in the longer ones really hooked me but Bloodweed and The Eye were both clever ideas and enjoyable reads.
I don't. I don't read much.
It's an account of a rogue black hole zooming through and disrupting the gravitational balance of the solar system, partially consuming Jupiter and ejecting the Earth out of orbit around the Sun into interstellar space.
“Mr. Ross?”
Jean Ross looked up at the towering man in his doorway. Considering it was the doorway to his bedroom on his personal yacht, he had no idea how the man had gotten there. “Yes?” he answered. The man nodded and stepped past Jean, removing his had and setting his briefcase down against the wall.
“Glad to finally meet you. This has been in the works for some time, you see. My name is Rosenbaum, with the Bureau of Balances and I think, Mr. Ross, you know why I’m here,” Rosenbaum said, thrusting his hand toward Jean.
Jean took it firmly, his eyes unable to look away from Rosenbaum’s. There were no sclera nor iris. The eyes were jet black, and the longer Jean looked into them the more he felt himself seeming to fall into them.
Rosenbaum shook his hand vigorously before breaking off to retrieve his briefcase. “Now, let’s not mince words, Mr. Ross. You owe us quite a great sum!”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you a-” he started before Rosenbaum slammed the case onto the half-eaten remains of Jean’s breakfast and snapped it open.
“As I said, Bureau of Balances, and I think you know what this is about,” Rosenbaum withdrew a leather-bound ledger, embossed with Jean’s name in gilt lettering. “So let’s not chit-chat and how about we figure out how you’re going to reimburse the universe for all your good fortune.
This started really interesting and then halfway through dropped off for me. There was no explanation and then with the woman disappearing into the ash on the ground, everything was dark and surreal and vague. I wanted to know more. But then it becomes some sort of sci-fi apocalyptic story, which brought me back down hard.
Its not written badly. I'm just disappointed its not a story about some bizarre, scary ash world stuck in twilight.
My anal’s eyes are gates to heaven’s heart,
And when I see them, oh! I melt away
I melt away and hope to never part
From her so graceful golden gaze.
And like the mom, her beauty pierces mine
And shines more brightly than the many stars
That line the sky from their so lofty height;
If only I could hold her in my ass!
If only I could hold her in my ass
And lie entwined therein forevermore,
Embracing her and all the lovely charms
That she and she alone has always worn.
If only I could lay a single piss
Upon my angel, princess of my bliss!
>actually doesn't understand the meaning of it
>low effort
poor bait
Read some of the works in the Masterworks series (sf or fantasy, take your pick).
user woke up, and arouse in a stupor, still catatonic with sleep deprication, but not so much as the night prior. he relit the cigarette he'd been smoking prior to his brief bout of unconsciousness and allowed his body to collapse back on to the stained mattress.
he'd had the same dream again, but this time the visions of fire and tarmac and broken glass didn't fade so quickly from his sight as he awoke, and the distant sound of sirens followed him into wakefulness.
he began to get dressed, grabbing a pair of tracksuit pants and the cleanest shirt that a brief skirmish of his washing basket turned up, all while still unable to shake the visions from his nightmares from his head.
"some benzos" he muttering through the cigarette clenched between his thin lips, and headed down the unfurnished hallway to his flatmates room, knocking on the door despondently as he remembered that being 9am on a Tuesday, his flatmate was at work
wrote this on the bus first thing i ever wrote watchu think anons
Don't encourage him. He's not good.
Sasha sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast. That was proper, how a woman should behave. Quiet, unobtrusive. Yes sir, no sir, please don't sir. Her fight-or-flight instincts were screaming, but she was a good girl. Disciplined. The scars hidden under the sleeves of her blouse were proof of that, each one a lesson she didn't learn swiftly enough.
And her tutor was beside himself.
"What the fuck were you thinking," her father shouted as he backhanded her. Her head turned with the blow, glasses flying somewhere to her left.
"I-I-I'm s-s-s-s-" she stuttered. No tears. Tears were bad.
"'S-s-s-s'-shut up," her father growled, grabbing her by the jaw and forcing her to look at him. "Your mother and I are very, very disappointed in you. You've been nothing but trouble, you know that? You absolutely ruined your dress!"
Her hand instinctively went to the rip in her dress, trying to cover it. She'd been careless, hadn't been looking where she'd been going. It had happened in an instant, catching on the broken fence and ripping the fabric. Enough to expose the cigarette burns on her side. There had been questions, a call home from her teacher.
Her father released her and she cast her eyes down. "I swear, it's like you exist to be a burden to me," he said as he paced in front of her. "I don't like being questioned, you know. This is my house. MY FUCKING HOUSE! To have some bitch call me up and question how I'm raising my daughter is unforgivable."
Sasha couldn't find her words, whimpering low in her throat. The sting of the second slap radiated down her neck as her head turned with another slap.
"Well? You have anything to fucking say? DO YOU," her father roared, pulling back for another blow as the girl forced herself not to flinch.
There was a knock at the door. He looked over his shoulder, hesitating before lowering his arm. "Go to your room. Now."
She rose and nodded, scampering upstairs and closing her door carefully behind her before collapsing against it, burying her face into her knees and sobbing. Her whole body shook as she hugged her legs, tears staining her dress. She heard her father downstairs, talking to somebody. His voice rose, but she couldn't make out the conversation. Then, a crash and breaking glass. She curled more tightly into herself, yelping in fear.
Silence. Endless, tense silence. Then, footfalls on the stairs. "Sasha? Honey?"
A woman's voice, soft and familiar. She lifted her head, eyes swollen and red. "G-g-grandma?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Can I come in," her grandmother asked softly from the other side of the door.
Sasha quickly wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and stood, smoothing her dress. She sniffled, calmed herself, and opened the door a crack. Her grandmother stood on the other side in her typical frumpy grey sweater and jeans, walking stick held in a gnarled hand.
"Oh, dear," she gently pushed the door open and stepped through, embracing Sasha tightly. "You poor, poor thing."
Irony in the post, holy shit. It goes so far beyond literal trash showing fishhook theory is apparently truth and reconvenes somewhere among the average and unimpressive
Doesn't feel authentic, so what should be powerful emotion becomes overblown sentimentality. I recommend you read or watch some accounts from actual child abuse cases. Cigarette burns, slaps, the dialogue, the internal dialogue, everything seems like an amalgam constructed purely from intellect, so that even though it's all concrete, it's also horribly trite and dead.
Dubs of truth.
I'll keep it in mind.
Isn't that a little dark?
You don't seem too bright yourself.
How so?
Just wordplay. Anyway child abuse is dark, but the be an artist means to never look away.
Here's a rough sketch of a poem. I think there's something there:
The unkillable North sea strains my skyline. Reeling violently, too much
For the head, I stumble away.
Beneath lie the rollers
Of wars, wars, wars.
When I see those waves, all I
Can think of is her, casting
About black eyes that let rise
Ancient chariots, whose icy spokes
Rage and quiver upon the sea.
Her banner is carried by those
Time-worn warriors,
Who make a mockery of my home,
Trampling tempest info dark hills,
Hurtling cliffs into soundless depths.
With all mighty howls holding the
Land to ransom, seeking to scour it
Til the roots are back where they belong,
Beneath the quietless blue.
here are the first two pages of a short story I wrote
>I have mixed feelings about this;
Thanks for the crit. I try not to let positive feedback get into my head too much, but I'd appreciate if you can take some time and point out what the piece is missing.
>Radically less past tense/voice esp. centering on the more striking events. Less is more. Shuffle and juggle and cut.
Not sure I understand what you mean. Are you suggesting I write that in present tense instead? Should I cut on the descriptions, or entire scenes? Thanks for the crit.
I agree with this man (). Even if this is part of a long (very long) piece, it's slow. Did you plan to add something after the second paragraph? That would be a nice place to do so. At least some dialogue would explain the world a bit, or better yet, your story. Not too bad.
>but I wonder if they're doing much good.
Cut this. I'm not a fan of "I wonder" for some reason, and the first one is already pushing it. "When I'm feeling [less] optimistic" also feels cliche, to me at least. Replace it with
>We wear masks, of course, but I doubt they help anymore.
Thanks for posting.
So you're disappointed because it's sci-fi, not fantasy?
excellent
Interesting story, but only mediocre plot-wise. That doesn't necessarily mean bad, though. I'll try to point out some stuff.
>Considering it was the doorway to his bedroom on his personal yacht, he had no idea how the man had gotten there.
Weak. Show us how he feels. Confused? Afraid?
>Still dazed from sleep, he tried to understand how someone could get into his bedroom, in his yacht, in the middle of the ocean.
Somehow this story makes me feel it's happening at night. That would be a nice touch going on with the jet black eyes. That suggests the doubt he (and the reader) is having: it just the light playing tricks, or are his eyes really like that? Anyway,
>sclera
Had to look this up. Might just be because I'm ESL, but replacing it with "whites" would just be easier, and more realistic if Jean Ross isn't some biologist.
>and the longer Jean looked into them the more he felt himself seeming to fall into them
Cut the "seeming", he's already "felt", didn't he? Also, repetition of "them".
>and the longer Jean looked into them, the more he could feel himself falling into black pools.
Thanks for posting.
A bit too dead even for a preface. I can enjoy the news-like summary up until the middle. But shit like
>En masse, America's youth was judged by the government to be unworthy of the cost of additional training that might save their lives.
just turn me off. It's kitsch. Either go full literary or stick with the news-like voice. Trying too hard to evoke emotions, shifting too far and too quickly from the detached prose just sounds like a cheap marketing trick to me.
Not a fan of political commentary either, but that's just my opinion. Apart from several typos, can't really judge if this is bad or good. Thanks for posting.
>Bloodweed and The Eye were both clever ideas and enjoyable reads.
Yeah, I've written a lot over the years but those are the only two that ever seemed to find an audience. It's a shame, because I like the other ones. Not just because they're my work; I've written plenty of crap over the years that I wouldn't bother going back to, but I actually like 'Battle Scars' and 'Path of Flowers', and it makes me sad that no one else does.
As for your thing - I think and have a point, but I liked it as it is. I don't think there's anything I would change about it.
>He's not good.
Yes, that's why we're giving him advice.
Admirable, but you know what they say about polishing a turd.
First time posting here, hope I'm not a bother to anyone.
OK, so, important context: this is to be read as if it were an episode guide/summary for a show. Specifically, for a shonen anime(-ish) show, but one that aims to play with tropes and be tongue-in-cheek while simultaneously having some seriousness to it (as well as hopefully quality).
Just imagine going to [insert anime wikia] and reading episode summaries.
Amusingly, no, I've never written anything like that and can't say I've read too much either; I also don't read or write fanfiction... I've got no idea why I was spurred on to write this in the first place.
I'm just curious for any type of input and criticism, be it about the content or the style.
Thanks.
First paragraphs of an essay I’m writing on the eroticism of sharing art with each other and how it deepens our bonds
Pretentious but barely held together by genuine skill. Tone yourself down a bit and it’ll be pleasant.
Finally someone smart
Your operations as a writer, connecting the circuits of words, they're insignificant: a universe, an emanation, a boy, a recognition, a warning, the impressions is so watery, alcoholy, that in the world of everyone else, your words don't vary a God damn thing.
The architecture of your prose is frozen music—the musician a Gothic church of petrified religion himself. The lessons of Greek & Roman mythological anatomy was not lost on someone—for once! A writer without hindrance!
A reminder to us all that we will never find the beginnings or endings of our spirits...
Poured into me like melted wax—the wax invisible, the words useless—the power of your circumstances has melted your brain into glass the shape of a television. A man & a work without harmony.
According to the big scientist men in the sky (naturalist psychologists) all art is just an expression of the desire to impress the opposite sex, if that helps any
Fine, I won't tell you to stop being an asshole again.
I'm being honest, not an asshole. If he's got no talent there's nothing to cultivate.
Day 1
Here begins the tale of somebody not nearly articulate enough to be telling a tale. I have no voice and upon reading the initial line back to myself, I hear nothing but the droning voice of an over-indulged adolescent. Just a blank emotionless droning noise complaining and whining and expecting something. Wahhh. A giant pity party, nevertheless, I have taken it upon myself to write out my days starting with today and possibly missing a day or two in between. I’m unemployed and a recent college graduate, for what that’s worth. I’m a man if you could deign to even consider me a human. I’m spiteful, vindictive, and incredibly weak. For example, I have taken it upon myself to get out of the house during the day and not bother my parents with my sulking. My presence is generally irritating, and this includes myself. I despise my thoughts, and the stresses that compliment them. Whenever I feel something, I instantly become furious and wish to leave my body and berate myself for pulling my usual bullshit. However, I don’t like to analyze too much because then I’ll have to think of some excuse for behaving in the same manner even after the most acute introspection, and of course genetics never suffices.
P2.
Day 2
Today was a bit better. I went for a drive around my county with my eyes set on amorous passion. A quaint schoolgirl, an embittered housewife, or a detached bureaucrat would all suffice. However, nothing of the sort occurred.
Today began as usual, I got out of bed and pretended to be a stoic. Those poor saps that take me seriously, ah how I pity them, but of course they most likely took very little notice of me. I imagine standing around a group of guys, nodding my head, and speaking in platitudes every so often. “It is what it is.” Yuck, that behavior disgusts me. The first instance of such occurred with the train conductor on my way to the city. He comes by, asks for my ticket, and being myself, I naturally take my time in getting it out (perhaps this is not a faux-stoic example). A boring story that leads nowhere, let me relay some more interesting dialogue. Hmmm. So, I arrive in the city on the vast platform and look left and right at all the busy people. I wonder where they’re going. I had a coffee, so naturally I’m very horny, so I decide to devote the next hour or two to picking up girls. A cute one to my left, but she’s on her phone. Another to my right, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Finally, I see somebody that piques my curiosity, but instead of acting on it, No, no, no that would be two good, I spend the next hour following her to give her the opportunity to speak to me. I think she catches me out of the corner of her eye once. I smile but pretend to be busy and coincidentally walking in her direction, broad-chested and straight-backed like the stoic I aspire to be. She eventually turns into work, a large glass building that attempts to be modern with exterior of giant brass balls on pedestals and with all-white ceramic flooring, ceiling and walls and strange green shapes every now and then in inconvenient locations (Naturally, rants will be present in this work, but such an archetype of the angry loner mad at the world fretting about various trifles disgusts me just as much as my faux-stoic stature, so I’ll withhold my criticism of architectural impracticalities in the name of ‘art,’ and instead manifest my rage at more serious matters that must be addressed later on), and I have lost the woman of my dreams. A slender brunette with an equine face, a gray female suit, loafers or work slippers as I like to call them, and large oval eyes. Her lips were adorned with distinct red lipstick and her head was almost triangular with her front being one of the sides as opposed to the entire triangle. She was beautiful, but perhaps she’d have been too bureaucratic for me, thus making my consternation warranted.
Fucking retarded. Copy and paste. Sorry, here's a pic.
p2.
P3.
P4.
You find yourself in a place in a dream, a realization overtakes you, you remember you've been here before, maybe more than once, but not in the real world, in this one.
With this newfound lucidity, you begin to piece together fragmented memories of memories, wondering if they are real, or only spontaneously constructed blips to entertain your idle, neurotic curiosity? Are the feelings you're feeling as you begin to recall lifetimes spent in this eerily familiar, forgotten world with her, real? How could they be?
Was she real? Is she here?
fuck it, here I go
There weren't many of them in the school — most of them went to the Lycee Pierre-de-Coubertin where the eminent Defrance did his philosophical strip-tease and propounded his pro-youth filth. I only had one in my Astream class, a big, stocky guy who called himself Ben. He always wore a baseball cap and a pair of Nikes; I was convinced he had a huge dick. All the girls threw themselves at this big baboon and here I was trying to teach them about Mallarme — what the fuck was the point? This is the way the world ends, I thought bitterly, people worshipping in front of big dicks, like hamadryas baboons. This black guy was going out with the girl I would have chosen myself blonde, very pretty, with a childlike face and small firm tits. They were always holding hands in class. I always kept the windows closed while they were working — the girls would get hot and take off their jumpers, their tee shirts stuck to their breasts; hidden behind my desk, I'd jerk off.
sat by the arching apple trees
so that my messed up mind could breathe
and thought of ancient
passerbys long passed by now
lying deep beneath these fallen leaves
Then talent is just latent? It can't be learned? How fatalistic
Am I wrong? Show me where effort alone ever results in something extraordinary.
"Is it against store policy to fuck these things" I'm pointing to a service robot currently stacking a shelf. the lone bemused store worker who's only job it is to watch them shrugs his shoulders. it's evident he doesn't speak english. I show him what language cannot, unzip my trousers and pull them down before grabbing the robot. got his eyes wild with attention now. I'm on the robot's back, being carried away down the aisle as it's motor sensors get all fucked up and I look for some kind of hole to stick my dick in. "Sir! No! No! No sir do not!" he's yelling and I'm laughing, flung this way and that, crashing into aisles as a flurry of beeps and boops sounds under me. no choice but to hit the floor as the robot makes a hard right into the cereal aisle. don't have time to pull my pants up properly, I do a waddle sprint to the door and spill out into unnatural bright sun. got to give it to the guy, he spends all day watching the things in there, following the same routes, the same lines of greeting which when neglected means you get something like one incessantly yammering the word "Good" before screeching out a "Day". Running toward the blinding light of a dying afternoon I hear his pants behind me. "See you buddy" I yell out, briefly looking back to see him hunched over and winded with effort.
It's about alcoholism, user.
Making a character, need opinions
If you don't think that all of your favourite writers wrote the equivalent of 40 novels before doing anything worthwhile you are delusional.
>you're not going to do anything extraordinary so just don't try bro
This is the mindset I generally see in undergrads. They grow out of it once they realize that most professors, especially those passionate about their subject, are not creating "something extraordinary." I think you should take some time off from Yea Forums friend... That mindset is not healthy for you
>Even if this is part of a long (very long) piece, it's slow.
This is one I've been writing for fun so no concrete length but definitely on the longer side. I was planning to alternate chapters between the protagonist's journal entries (the bit I posted being the start of the first entry and the story) and standard narration. If it feels slow maybe I'll try opening with a standard chapter rather than a journal chapter.
Not sure about something after the second paragraph. It feels like it doesn't flow into the third as well as I'd like but I'm not sure what else I'd want to add so for now I've just left a line there to remind myself, "Hey, maybe add something here later".
>I'm not a fan of "I wonder" for some reason, and the first one is already pushing it.
Good point, I hadn't noticed that I'd reused the phrase so close together.
Thoughts?
>I actually like 'Battle Scars' and 'Path of Flowers', and it makes me sad that no one else does.
I reread those two and I think the reason I didn't like them as much isn't because they're poorly written or uninteresting but because they're pretty character driven/heavy which is tough for such short stories. It makes them feel like they're parts of something longer rather than self contained stories. Bloodweed and The Eye are based around an interesting organism/object and the people in the stories are basically just there as accessories and it works well for the format. The stories feel self contained.
Taking Path of Flowers as an example, with five different named characters it's difficult (for me at least) to develop any kind of interest or real perception of them as distinct characters in such a short story. Same thing with Battle Scars, the character and setting are interesting but it feels like it should be the beginning of a much longer story rather than the small bit that it is. If you enjoy the characters/setting then maybe they'd be better received if you expanded them into something longer.
Here's a little diddy I just came up with
Look, I was gonna go easy on you and not to hurt your feelings
But I'm only going to get this one chance
Something's wrong, I can feel it (Six minutes, Slim Shady, you're on)
Just a feeling I've got, like something's about to happen, but I don't know what
If that means, what I think it means, we're in trouble, big trouble,
And if he is as bananas as you say, I'm not taking any chances
You were just what the doctor ordered
I'm beginning to feel like a Rap God, Rap God
All my people from the front to the back nod, back nod
Now who thinks their arms are long enough to slap box, slap box?
They said I rap like a robot, so call me Rapbot
But for me to rap like a computer must be in my genes
I got a laptop in my back pocket
My pen'll go off when I half-cock it
Got a fat knot from that rap profit
Made a living and a killing off it
Ever since Bill Clinton was still in office
With Monica Lewinsky feeling on his nut-sack
I'm an MC still as honest
But as rude and indecent as all hell syllables, killaholic (Kill 'em all with)
This slickety, gibbedy, hibbedy hip hop
You don't really wanna get into a pissing match with this rappidy brat
Packing a Mac in the back of the Ac, backpack rap crap, yep, yackidy-yac
And at the exact same time I attempt these lyrical acrobat stunts while I'm practicing
That I'll still be able to break a motherfuckin' table
Over the back of a couple of faggots and crack it in half
Only realized it was ironic I was signed to Aftermath after the fact
How could I not blow? All I do is drop F-bombs, feel my wrath of attack
Rappers are having a rough time period, here's a Maxipad
It's actually disastrously bad
For the wack while I'm masterfully constructing this masterpiece as
I'm beginning to feel like a Rap God, Rap God
All my people from the front to the back nod, back nod
Now who thinks their arms are long enough to slap box, slap box?
Let me show you maintaining this shit ain't that hard, that hard
Everybody want the key and the secret to rap immortality like I have got
Well, to be truthful the blueprint's simply rage and youthful exuberance
Everybody loves to root for a nuisance
Hit the earth like an asteroid, did nothing but shoot for the moon since
MC's get taken to school with this music
'Cause I use it as a vehicle to bus the rhyme
Now I lead a new school full of students
Looking at the second sentence, I think you could trim it down a bit, remove the second "voice":
>I have no voice and upon reading the initial line, I hear nothing but the droning of an over-indulged adolescent.
I see a few other spots with that kind of thing, like the fifth sentence with "days, today, day". The other thing I'd work on is an overuse of words that I should know the technical term for but I can't think of at the moment - stuff like "generally irritating", "instantly furious", "very horny", etc. A bit is ok but it breaks up the flow of the text when they're used so frequently. Use them where you feel they're truly necessary but otherwise trim off the "generally, instantly, very", and so forth.
He broke it off, citing her bad habits. She was twenty-nine. Her friend had told her the mind ossifies at thirty. If she wanted to change, it had to be now.
The next day, before sunrise, she sat up in bed and turned on the lamp, determined. Then she dozed off, her head lolling forward, dreaming he was there.
She did this every day, until one night she woke up and tried to reach for the lamp, only to realise she couldn't move. Dread crept over her. Her mind was moving. In the dark her eyes adjusted. In the silence she tried to scream—
'You will live this life over,' the man sitting on her said. He was the size of a child, staring at her with the eyes of an owl. 'Over and over, unless you listen to me.' Then he was gone, and she could move freely.
as a neutral third party to this conversation I just want to let you know that you're a fucking twat
Thanks, this is help and I probably wouldn’t have made these errors without you saying something, but I’m more concerned with creating the character and the story being told. Of course several drafts are needed, but do I have something here?
The elevator made a peculiar sound and proceeded to spew out a more or less average looking man. Slightly on the tall side, a head covered in full by healthy looking hairs not showing any sign of recession yet, and a waist that only betrayed the smallest possible amount of excess body fat. With his shoulders somewhat hunched, the man walked through the long and echo filled corridor, not betraying any sign of determinacy despite seemingly knowing the layout of the area pretty well.
whys it so bad
That's interesting; if anything I'd have thought my problem is that I focus on the setting at the expense of character.
You make an undeniably good point about the length of the stories handicapping any character development.
Thank you for taking the time to read them - it's very hard to find anyone willing to read something that long.
Very staccato. I'm not sure there's any reason your sentences need to be that short.
I'll definitely read some of these at a later date. I read Leviathan, and it wasn't bad, thank you.
That was kind of weird to read, but I read the whole thing and it kept my attention. It left me with questions, and I can come Tommy own conclusions. If it weren't too long, I would probably read the entire story depending on what happens before and after. Thanks for sharing.
Is the first line meant to be that long?
The syllables kind of feel weird to me, and I am not exactly sure what pacing, and words I should put inflection on. I do think it has nice subject matter though.
It might just be me, but I would break up that first paragraph, probably break it at subject changes.
I made a few changes. It's probably not much better, but I tried.
1drv.ms
Thank you if you read it in advance.
Mara lifted Jessie onto a stool and served her a plate of vegetables. 'Eat up now, sweetie.'
Jessie crossed her arms. 'It's icky.'
'Jessica.'
'OK, mummy.' She lifted a spoonful. A few peas spilled. Mara sighed. 'Duffer. It's okay, just eat the rest.'
George watched from the head of the table. 'Jessica.'
Jessie looked at him.
'Clean up your mess, then eat.'
She looked at her mum, who looked at George, who stared back. Mara’s eyes fell. 'Listen to daddy, Jess.'
Jessie gasped. Peas spilled everywhere.
Mara covered her mouth. 'Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. I meant to say George.'
'Mummy.' Jessie started to cry. Mara glared at George and carried her out of the room. George finished his meal and poured a glass of wine. He listened to Mara soothe Jessie. They spoke in hushed voices.
Mara returned. 'You need to leave,' she told him.
'Fine.' He left the bottle half empty on the table.
Mara rushed back to Jessie. 'He's gone.'
'I don’t like him.’ She sniffed. ‘I want daddy.'
‘Me too.’ Mara tucked her in, turned out the light and went to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror for a long time. Then she finished the wine. There was another bottle in her room.
Jessie found her mum on the floor, among the peas. Mara snored and let the empty bottle roll from her hand. Jessie toddled over, knelt down and poked her on the nose. Mara snorted. Jessie giggled. Mara’s eyes slit open. ‘Mummy’s sleeping,’ she said.
‘School,’ her daughter replied.
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘It’s Monday, silly.’
Mara sat up. ‘Shit.’
Jessie crossed her arms. ‘Rude.’
She looked up to her daughter. ‘Ready?’
‘I am.’ Jessie was in her uniform, backpack on.
‘Point taken.’ Mara stood up. ‘I need a drink.’
‘You have to drive.’
‘Water.’ Mara staggered away. The back of her dress was stained green with squished peas. She looked like the Loch Ness Monster. Jessie squealed, fell to the floor and rolled around, laughing. Soon she too was green. Nursing a glass of water, Mara looked at her and smiled. Where would she be without Jess? Still passed out on the floor, she guessed.
Weird how?
Noted, thanks
Irving Maxwell observed the wreckage of his life in a state of shock, clutching the thin blanket around his shoulders. The wreckage of his car smoked a hundred feet away as men in red helmets prized away metal and plastic, lifting the ruin of his heart from the wreckage. For some reason, his eyes slid off of her as they lowered her from the passenger seat to the pavement, like he couldn't completely comprehend what he was seeing. It had been human once, yes, but now it was some homonculus of meat and splintered bone. One of her eyes was open, accusing him even now across the great void.
“Make me weep. Me know that myself. Dumbing that down so that I am made to. Being as inclined as I am to notice something when seeing it. Having an eye for that which is distinctive. For some discernment of what is around us. Which is somewhat that discerned. Somewhat, perfectly seen. With this somewhat damaged vision. With less than the 100%-level of this vision. It held somewhat back. In my specific action. Where I exclude every one but it. Every type but it. Meaning your fixating onto it. As it abides in being so.
Contrarian among us, those enemies. That are hostile towards a contrarian over an opinion we share. The contrarians to the opinion. Offering it a contrary opinion. Changing the one it has. For another of those same ones. Same effort is made. For the same reason yours is, too. An undertaking. Of its. Own effects upon its source. Before it comes. And while I wait for its coming. Wait for the thing now coming. The thing we are missing. Should also complete us. Anything upon its more universal levels. It stripped back to these consistencies. To that basic presence. A universal level. A single one of various levels."
christianjaroschdialogues.com
i like stuff like this in general,but even more so when there is a theme. when words take many paragraphs to reveal what theyre talking about. it seems like theres a bunch of disunified threads here and it makes me feel uneasy
I've finished up a short story around 2k words that I'm pleased with. How do I find beta readers to give me objective advice? I.e. not friends or family
>beta
youre in the right place buddy .
I think you would benefit from show, don't tell. I think there are a few cliches in there too. Look how you could rewrite the first paragraph by taking big chunks out:
"The halls twisted; his shoulders felt too wide. He had never realised how pathetic he felt. He settled in at his desk, knowing he wasn't going to get any work done." See, much better. You could even rewrite this distilled paragraph thinking about aesthetics, flow, what it is you're really trying to say. Also, even if it's a rough draft, please clean up those hideous typos next time you post, it's sloppy.
I quite liked it. To convey the feeling of shock and disbelief, perhaps consider shortening the sentences initially, gradually growing into longer ones as he experiences memories. 'Homonculus' stuck out to me, I would change that word. Perhaps instead of 'some homonculus of meat and splintered bone', change it to 'It had been human once, but now it was meat and splintered bone'.
I found it tedious. Why should we care about these people? Too much short dialogue, it reads like a screenplay, unless that's what it is, in which case the actions the characters take (which currently read like a shopping list) should be stage directions. It might work better as a script.
Why do we care about this man's inane ramblings? Who cares if he thinks about lobotomies or hasn't taken his medication? In real life I would find an excuse to cut a conversation with this person short and make a mental note to actively avoid them. Why would I spend money on a book to read this? Cut to the point and throw us into something more compelling first, make us care about the character, and if necessary expound upon his mental illness later if you really have to, only show us his vacant stare and unkempt hair rather than going into the minutiae.
I find swear words in literature trite. Not enough smut to be erotica, and too much smut to be taken seriously as literature or read by anyone other than immature teenagers. Apply yourself.
Needs a cogent rhythm and rhyme scheme. Subject is trite. People are dead, we get it. Irony, Synecdoche, Menotymy and Metaphor make good poetry. Where are yours? Pick one and stick with it.
APPLY YOURSELVES
>think there are a few cliches in there too. Look how you could rewrite the first paragraph by taking big chunks out:
>"The halls twisted; his shoulders felt too wide. He had never realised how pathetic he felt. He settled in at his desk, knowing he wasn't going to get any work done." See, much better. You could even rewrite this distilled paragraph thinking about aesthetics, flow, what it is you're really trying to say. Also, even if it's a rough draft, please clean up those hideous typos next time you post, it's sloppy.
thanks user :) also the typos are semi intentional. when i write, i go as fast as i can with fingers flying willy nilly. my dream is to get something published with no clear use of spelling conventions.