/crit/ - Writing Critique General

Oh, and thanks!

At soft lit sepia diner drying stars shining over our light minded night, ready to disappear as they do every night. It's all simple blah blah until phosphorescent autumn comes walking out the back kitchen and i immediately shut my mouth and its our waitress. At first I take notice of her delightfully curved nose and how angelic and simple and pure she feels and she says her name is shiny. Of all the names, all the baby books and mixed cocktails of lettering shiny, the horrors! My heart liquefies and becomes a gelatinous substance and breaks. Her name so fitting. When she hands me my cracked porcelain cup of coffee i feel the light - the shine. She is natural shiny transparent quartz and i'm IN LOVE. Alex and Chris are chatting about plans for another bender of a weekend and I cant stand it anymore. I cut right through their conversing and at this point i'm dying. I say "my heart is breaking" in a well directed dramatics and they didn't understand but would soon catch along anyhow seeing my distress. Every time she asks if I need more joe or if "everything tasting alright?" I reply softly and looking right into her sad eyes, every time, and make goddamn sure to show that i want her, i want to be inside you, i want to love you, but I also want us to runaway with each other, go live in oregon via my car and get shitty jobs and work and have a 90's lived in piss yellow wallpaper, water stained apartment, with that gloomy lighting of old lamps and we could live sad romantics until the devil got to us. Once im finished with pancakes I tell my pals flat out, waving a cup of coffe and smudging my eyes "I'm in love... She is the most incredibly beautiful girl i ever spoken with" and shake back and forth and mutter and mumble "My heart is breaking guys." and "Man im just going to go home and smoke and die, thats all i can do is just die." and theyd giggle, and in perfect sequence, like symphony, ask question like"Why not ask for her number?" or "Can't you just go ask her out?" but I couldn't, No. I just knew it couldn't work, That it wouldn't. And when we got our checks i left a very generous tip, actually fifty percent, only because harbored deep inside somewhere we knew each other for a life, another time, of heartbreak and hope, and Alex snickers "There ARE cheaper ways to get a girls number." and we all laughed. Outside, after payments are all said and done, the three of us linger in crisp four A.M. splender, having out last ciggarette over coffees, we split it, bit cold, summers ending. Every once in a while after a long needled drag I catch a glance of the angel waitress and hell every once in a while she innocently looks hack, even seeming to see out my peripherals the beautiful blond looking right at me. I don't know, I could just be going insane, making her look at me in some kind of morphed perception. Suddenly we're down to the filter and smacking hands and saying goodbyes and I hope into my truck, departing this nostalgic-esque

cont--------
neon, antique lived through life. Sky now violets and yellows, and wildflowers, and I cant decide if I should sleep, Don't know if I could.
Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night.

Crying stars*****

I enjoyed this.

>theyd giggle, and in perfect sequence, like symphony, ask question
Would be my biggest complaint, felt too tryhard, can't really picture it either. Some typos were a tiny little bit annoying but overall, man this is damn good. Reads vivid and honest and the flow is fantastic. Now being overly anal, I wish
>"There ARE cheaper ways to get a girls number." and we all laughed."
part was actually funny but that'd just be a cherry on top.

I like the we / she and I perspective you employ in the first sentences and the absolute implied symmetry between the lovers. Perhaps flesh that out in regards to their interaction before jumping into sex. Don't like the last two sentences as they fuck with this concept. Would be interesting if once the story is longer these glimpses of asymmetry after orgasm would become every more unbearable to the narrator each time they occur, interrupting the symmetrical we / she and I narration and slowly bleeding into it.

What are you going for here? In the bginning it seems you are being very detached from what you are describing, like a police report or a lexicon entry about Uris. I like this approach, coupled with the overall vagueness of what's happening (a crime was about to be punished, a whipping beginning to take place, a woman) it gives the story a ghostly unnerving vibe, but it's weighed down (or interrupted) by all the unnecessary specifics (coat that dragged dust, wide brimmed hat, ruined by tears). These two styles clash and the result is awkward. Try to really compress this, no overly complicated wording while still maintaining the lexical, detached tone and no unnecessary specifics.

I like the poetic approach but I think it could be a little more polished, especially in one regard: Try to cut down on the "I", let the phenomena be the subject.
>Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night
Yeah, that's what I thought.

>Eww. A part like that deserves more than a cliche phrase.
How would you improve it/what would you use instead?
>But overall it flows well and gets the point across, just lacks something new or surprising to really stand out. Basically it's good but not great.
That's the best I can hope for at this stage.
>Jeez, this is all? Bump.
Post something of your own?

Reads like classic literature, and that seems to be what you are going for. So, good job.
>Just scribble about a waitress i met the other night.
For scribbling, it is an impressive vignette or reverie.

Thank you!

In the early months of the war, the attitude toward Chinese international students had been one of steadfast magnanimity – a not unsurprising turn of events, though it should be noted that it was the flood of war and all it put at risk that seemed to washed away whatever number of native resentments had been piling up against the international student body in the years building up to the declaration of war.
This eager tolerance did not last past August. A perception of a lack of gratitude, of self-spurred alienation, of suggestions and rumours of a Sinophile fifth column, and the reports of atrocities from South East Asia had dissipated Australian youth’s warmth to their Chinese guests, and, while open hostility never quite reigned the nation’s campuses, a permanent – perhaps unfairly dealt – blow had been dealt to the enthusiastic multicultural sentiments of an entire generation. It is still to Australia’s credit, however, that the open violence and persecution which many had predicted, and not out of a lack of charity, never came to pass in any large way. The Australian temperament had hardened, and grown mature, in response to the realities of war.
That is during the war, at least. Perhaps the sobriety world conflict on our doorsteps induced was too alien to the national character, a strong anti-biotic that had finished its course, a medicine rejected by the body.

Scott skidded to a halt in his 1974 Dodge Challenger. Upon opening the door, all he could see was red. The skies were literally raining blood. Mangled bodies littered the concrete jungle where packs of hyper-werewolves roamed. Reaching into his backseat, Scott pulled out his bottle of Jack Daniels, and his baby, his Magnum 365.

"Time to get fucked up" he said with a sly grin.

He walked into the biker bar like death himself. His duster swayed in the howling wind. He shoved the door open with the intensity of a wild boar. He took another swig of whiskey. It went down smooth like the Las Vegan waitress from last night, and was tossed aside with a similar lack of ceremony. He took his pack of death sticks from out of his pocket and stuck one in his mouth.

"Any of you fruitcakes got a light?" He said with a smirk he said to the rough and tumble bikers. Tonight was going to be one to remember.

>Would be interesting if once the story is longer these glimpses of asymmetry after orgasm would become every more unbearable to the narrator each time they occur, interrupting the symmetrical we / she and I narration and slowly bleeding into it.
That is what I intend to do because the relationship is loveless, the narrator feigning requited love so he can distract himself with meaningless sex. Hence the symmetry - they have fallen into routine. This is also why he isn't sure why she is looking at him - does she know he doesn't care about her?

Crit other people you parasites.

>That is what I intend to do
Excellent.

Thank you man I really appreciate the feedback and the compliment, you have no idea, especially about the flow.
I appreciate the critique and after reading through I see what you mean, thank you.
That compliment brightened my spirits, much appreciated.

might consider posting more of my little writings.

>How would you improve it/what would you use instead?
Now that's way harder than just pointing stuff out, I didn't sign up for this, I'd sit for days on that. From the hip, maybe going in slower, with fingers interlocking or some shit, but on the other side, I do like the more sudden switch with the lips, but at the same time such cliche phrasing does draw unwanted attention to itself, but the "meet" fits well with the wording at the beginning. Perhaps turning it up a notch with tongues, though I am not a native speaker and "our tongues would meet" does sound a bit weird.

>Post something of your own?
Translating stuff would be too distracting from working on it at this point. Critiquing is something that fits in my workflow after smoking breaks much better.

Reads like a school essay or a newspaper article. A slow one at that.

Now this is a weird one. I can't say I liked it, was too pulpy for that but I was grinning like an idiot the entire time and you kept me hooked till the end. And I do want to read more.

Thanks! Cutting the specifics is the advice I needed to hear, as I agree. It drags the piece down, creates clashing tones, etc, etc. Much obliged.

>Why Uris?
Originally it was called Juris but I thought that might be too heavy handed (Jurisprudence, story about justice, you get the idea). Overall, thanks for the critique. I'll keep all that in mind.

>but it reads like someone is telling a story about it instead of letting me experience it
This is honestly what I'm going for, a kind of parable tone. It's meant to be rather removed and uncaring. How do you think I could keep this voice and make it half interesting?

>How do you think I could keep this voice and make it half interesting?
It's not something I'd normally read nor ever tried to write so no idea if I can suggest anything of use but instinctively I'd say, going further with the distance then and putting more emphasis on it. Maybe throwing in a couple observation a person involved in the situation wouldn't pay attention to.

Like an apocalyptic detective action comic, made me smile

the more I read this, the more I enjoy it, a simple set of words that we can almost all feel comfortable in

I'm trying to commit to writing around 2,000 words daily in hopes I can become a professional within a few years. Here is today's chunk.

Part 1

Gabriel looked at the door in the corner of the room that was opposite of his modest wooden desk where he sat reading a report from a Sir Captain Herald Brodir. He was a young arrogant moustached man from a rather prominant family that exported wines to the outer reaches of the Darkwood, and had historically exported sons to the military. The problem he measured to guess was that the current rebellion was the first military conflict to reach the homeland in two generations. Not many alive today remember what its like to face real conflict on a massive and imperial scale like the kind we were facing today. He sighed and put the paper down.

"I'll kill them all." he thought. Of course he wasn't talking about the Brodir families sons, nor was he talking about the current generation, he was talking about those savages camped in makeshift hobbles across the forking rivers of the Seline Mier. The Regiment of Red Brothers are rebels, deserters, and traitors to the crown. Their leader, the General Mark De Roth, had returned from his campaign into the Wholford with swollen ranks and an eye for conquest directed at the homeland. These events had sent the councils, academies, and forums into panic without strong leadership to quell the chaos. Gabriel didn't doubt that a leader would rise to power from the open position, a few always did, and they would plot and scheme to overthrow one another until hopefully the most charismatic, intelligent, and vicous would survive.

He would wait during the beginning of this struggle, he would meet the contendors, and he would back the one he thought would save his nation. He could very well lose his life in these sorts of gambles but it wasn't the type of situation where he was risking it all based on a mere toss of the dice. He was a preditor of the court and he had ended the lives of young diplomats he deemed a danger to the state. One thing he wouldn't do that many of his enemies would, is try and put their own cannidate into the chaos in order to assume power themselves while remaining safe. He found the practice of puppet rulers vile and destructive. The one thing he was sure of is that a leader raised for that purpose always brings ruin eventually and is incapable of leading on his own. He prefered to back someone that he would feel comfortable ruling the next generation. Everything Gabriel did was to preserve and protect his children and the children of the people he governed in order to pass to them a secure future.

Part 2

The door opened and a man stepped through and shut the door behind him. He was dressed in a colorful vest, a large plummed hat, and a pair of shirt and pants with airy flowing sleeves. He looked nothing like the soldiers who commonly walked about this wing of the fortress dressed in simple linens worn from service in the fields, but he also didn't look like the nobles wearing heavy silks of dark and royal hues of blue and crimson, or some purple in between. He wore no jewelry, he had no sigil or crest, and his somehow careful yet awkward walk seemed out of place. His smile stretched from ear to ear, and didn't seem sane, and his hair and moustache were wild and unkept in a very precise way. This man was simply strange.

"Hello" said Gabriel "I trust you had a pleasant trip on your way here". He was now reading through a sprawling list of imported wares that passed through the gates of the fortress carried on ships docked at the port and wagons passing through bridge checkpoints.

"Better than most" he said pacing in almost circles around the room, inspecting the corners, and tapping his foot across the floor. "I, uhh" he said sniffing the various tomes that lined the bookshelf and mumbling to his hand which he cupped firmly against his armpit. He paused and kneeled down to pick a book from the bottom of the shelf. It was clearly old, and Gabriel couldn't recall what it information in contained, which was odd because he had read every book that rested on his shelf several times. The strange man licked the cover and the book started screaming.

"Pakanko!" said the man with a merry laugh. He began dancing across the room tearing out pages which peeled away with the most sickening fleshy sound. The book wailed loudly and Gabriel wondered why no matter how loud this mans antics could be none of the guards ever entered the room to find out what was happening. He had questioned the guards several times and no matter who he inquirred every man insisted that he had not only not heard any sound coming from his office, they had also not seen the strange man even enter his room. Gabriel thought that he might be going mad, but this man had proved useful to him.

“I’m a miner.” his father, Lumlin,would say, “Your grandfather was a miner, and his father and his fathers father. They’ve all been miners Bumlin, and one day you’ll be a miner, because this is a family of miners and I’ll not hear no ifs or no buts about it. It’s just how things are done.”

Bumlin would often hear this sort of thing although it never stuck. Mines are dangerous places so life expectancy was short for the miners. Tunnels collapsing, dangerous gases and the goblins, who being deprived of the forest made their way to the mountains and dug tunnels of their own above, below, in and around the dwarf tunnels. It’s safe, usually, for dwarfs if they travel in a group but the mines are long and they run deep. It’s not uncommon for dwarf miners to become separated from their colleagues and then they’re goblin food. Bumlin had five older brothers, two of which were dead by twenty-five, both from a collapsing tunnel. There were few miners around that were his fathers age, but sooner or later death comes for us all. In Lumlins case he took a wrong turn, ended up down the wrong tunnel and got lost. Eventually the goblins got a hold of him and stuck him in a pot. Dwarf isn’t very tasty but then again it’s hard to be picky when you live deep inside a mountain and your menu consists of dwarf, other goblins or small bugs.

After his father disappeared Bumlin decided that the time had come for him to leave. If he’d stay, he'd just end up like all the others. So he waited for the remainder of his family to fall asleep, then he sneaked out. It was quite an adventure in itself but the point is that eventually he found his way to the magic school at Arkash, was found to have some magical ability, and was then offered a place as a student. Sitting indoors all day reading books, making potions and learning how to shoot lightning from your fingertips seemed cushy after being raised as a miner, so Bumlin wasted no time in accepting the generous offer. Bumlin ended up being one of only twenty-two out of a total of three-hundred and forty-nine to graduate and actually become a wizard, due to the schools very high drop-out rate which was on account of most students ending up dead in the first six months.

Part 3

Ink covered the mans flamboyant clothes and sprayed in splatters across the walls and floors. The books screams were now harsh and dry and the man was busy stuffing pages in his mouth which he chewed and swallowed. There were only two pages left now and he ripped small pieces of paper off of each page in thin strips until he got about half way up both of the pages. He then took the cover of the book and broke the spine across the middle so that the cover lined up with the half pages. The book let out a frantic shreak followed by gentle, weak breaths. The man then bent the spine back and started slowly tearing the book in half right down the middle of the broken spine. The book screamed with everything it had left until finally, the book was silenced and the man fell down to the floor rolling around and rubbing himself.

"What just happened?" asked Gabriel who lost track of what he was doing reading the list of imported wares which he now felt uncomfortable holding.

"It wasn't a book" said the man, "but it also wasn't wasn't a book." The man passed for a moment and then said shaking his head "at least it wasn't a book yet, but if we're not careful it could have been."

"I don't understand" said Gabriel.

"It was a muse, an idea, a spark of written thought that could of been thought, but probably should have not." He folded one of the torn out papers into a tiny chair and sat in it.

Gabriel thought about the young diplomats that would soon be thrown into the court, but mainly he thought about the ones he deemed so unworthy that he made an active effort to cull them before they even had a chance to spread there diseased minds to the others. "I think I understand." said Gabriel, and the man smiled.

"You know, on my way here I saw something you should know" said the man. "There was a young boy who was wearing worn out clothes stained in red and he was crossing a river with so many others just like him. They looked like a field of red flowers that uprooted themselves to migrate somewhere else for the winter." Gabriels brow furrowed. "There was a man too, a young mustached fellow who had dinner with a man who looked like a thunderstorm. When they finished the fellow wrote a letter and sealed it, and the man" the strange man was laughing now. "He walked over and pinned the fellow onto the table, and", he took a moment to breath, "he stabbed him in the face and neck with a dinner fork until he stopped moving."

Part 4

Herald Bodir was a traitor, he was dead, and Mark De Roth had crossed the Seline Mier.

"I also saw something you shouldn't know, but that has a price." The strange man stared at Gabriel, directly into his eyes.

This man had repeated the same line at the end of every single meeting and it always felt, wrong. He had purchased information before and he had made deals with people that were very, very strange, but there was something in the way he phrased the statement, he wasn't worried about the price, he would sell his soul for information that could save his people and, well, he has a pretty good notion that he was dealing with something unnatural. The words that bothered Gabriel, the ones that really made his stomach turn kept repeating in his head, "something you shouldn't know". If this information was anything like the written thoughts, that could have been thought, but probably not, then perhaps this information he should not know, he simply shouldn't know.

"I don't think I wan't to know it" said Gabriel.

"Not today," said the man, "but you will" and the man disappeared along with the unwritten book and the paper chair.

"Perhaps" thought Gabriel as he leaned back in his chair, but today I need to figure out how we're going to massacre this army that's currently on the move. First, he needed to find out where it was headed since the strange man didn't mention any directions. Second, he needed to find out what happened to Captian Herald Bodir's troops. Third, he needed to try and assemble an immediate resistence force from the scattered troops spread too thin across the various forts and castles dotting their country. Fourth, he needed to try and bring one or two of the proper military forces home from their campaign. Finally he needed to find someone that could use this chaos to rise to power and that would be a strong ruler for the future of the state.

This mad mans information had clearly changed the course of his plans and for a brief moment he thought about how people knowing certain things can affect the world around them in many seeminly unconnected ways. He wondered if someone out there was recieving mad information of their own that was pushing and pulling him along some sort of unseen game board. He wondered whether the mad man was simply playing a game with people like Gabriel and Mark De Roth as their pieces. He decided that the next time he met with the man he would ask him these questions, though he thought he already knew the answers. Perhaps right now what he should think about instead is why he wants the mad man to know he's asking those sorts of questions. Gabriel paused, it was a much harder question to answer.

I love it. Its strong points are its simplicity. But I have to ask is the marriage a arrange marriage?

has the Potential to be something great if you polish a bit. Work on getting rid of the unnecessary specifics. like the coat and the hat.

A fun read that kept me hooked. Have you more to share user?

I posted my work before. I was told to work out my tenses, I wanted to know if I did so I can continue on writing.

pastebin.com/ZWDMrjYX

I like what you have written down my friend

>He said with a smirk he said to the rough and tumble bikers
The second 'he said' is redundant. I assume it's just a typo.

It's good, but one thing which might just be me, I really don't like the word "grin".

It's good, just a bit slow.

critiques:

I think it would give the man in the duster more character if you took the time to tell the story from his point of view. Not necessarily first person, just writing using words and tone that's not so objective, I don't know what type of person he is and I can only make assumptions based on standard tropes.

I like this writing though I got confused at parts just because it isn't structured in a way I'm used to. Confused might be the wrong word, I understand what was happening the entire time, but a couple parts I hard to re-read a line or two because a word turned into another word and I had to double back. Maybe you could make it more clear and effective, or maybe it already is effective, I'm not entirely sure. I hope this feedback helps you make some decisions. I got a strong sense of the main character from your tone and word choice and he was very likable.

I'm taking a crack at emulating Cormack Mccarthy's style, from the 'objective' narrative perspective to the style of punctuation. I'm struggling to convey all the meaning I'd be able to with a more subjective style of narration where you can just state what the characters are feeling from time to time.

>Heavy rain poured from a gray sky. Below it two souls were huddled close together beneath an umbrella made for one. A girl and a man who protruded halfway into the pour. He stood heads above her dressed in a damp suit and a neutral expression. Winterclothed softness pressed against his arm and as he looked down his shoulder at her she flashed a judicious grin overtop a thick wool scarf. Goosebumps crept across his body. When she lowered her gaze back to the sidewalk she was still smiling.

>As many people as there were raindrops flowed past. Leers from an oncoming throng were broken up by intermediate passers by and their many umbrellas. Suddenly the girl tugged his sleeve and without further indication led him stumbling off the sidewalk into a streetside shop. As she shouldered open the door an estuary of scent formed where breadmaking fragrance collided with the rainy smelling air from the street. While fishing for his wallet he lingered in the entryway taking in chestfuls of the complementary aromas then passed her a thousand yen note offhand. She raced off to the counter and pressed her face into the display case. As her hungry gaze drifted from pastry to pastry the impression her breasts made against the glass drew covert glances of a similar kind from the clerk.

>One hand cradled a paper bag of custard pastries and the second entwined with a third that was smaller and paler. Its owner was leaned in against his side staring wide eyed into the sheer wall of a public aquarium. With a free hand she idly fed herself a roll she was too busy at present to bite. Her legs trailed off from the ledged platform on which she sat and reciprocated back and forth just short of the ground. In the dim light of the aquarium's viewing theater arcs of shifting water refracted light danced across her wonder filled face. An eddy of filtered blue sunlight struck obliquely across her eyes and glints of luminous wonder shone in her irises like backlit jewels. The man broke off his stare and refocused it on the aquarium as she peeked up at him.

From the first paragraph for example, is it clear why the girl is still smiling after she looks down to the street?

>is it clear why the girl is still smiling after she looks down to the street?
I'd say it's because she is with someone she just likes being around. But your question makes me think that there is something more. When you mentioned a yen note I immediately jumped to the conclusion that a teacher was walking with a female student, I don't know why.

Have you tried sharing this type of writing without the intro or question at the end? I kind of feel like my impressions of what to look for were altered by the information you gave me and I don't know if that's the only type of feedback that you want.

It's something like that, the circumstance isn't what I'm worried about showing.

With the smile I wanted it to hint that she knew the effect her grin had on him. But I have tried so many different things and it seems impossible to show it with this objective style where the perspective on what the reader sees never goes past skin depth and the reader has to make inferences based on physical happenings instead.

I posted this the last time and sparked off a lovely discussion. If you haven't read it already, I'm curious to know what you think.

docs.google.com/document/d/1W_mEphQw8SvQmDGsUC6fpA1VuRlShpYwnFZbnVKeH3U/edit?usp=sharing

Thanks for the response anyway, hope your writing goes well.

Honestly, I prefer Juris and would go with it if I were you. Uris reminds me of Uranus, Urine, etc.

Gosh, I didn't expect such positive feedback. Has really made my day.

I'm happy to hear that. It isn't a marriage, see here for my explanation: As for your writing:

>Sitting on the balcony of my apartment have its benefits, the panoramic view of Lake Michigan, Chicago River, and Navy Pier provides a sense of lull in the turmoil that is my life.
Has its benefits; *s -
>Ever since I arrived in this metropolis, I notice something amiss. Whether it's me or Chicago itself, I do not know, what I do know is that a sound is building, and I can hear it reverberating in the distance.
have noticed* (?). I like the reverberating sound analogy, like feeling the ground shake as something approaches.
>I've received a letter sent by the Empress of Chicago Katherina seeking an audience for a predicament she needs resolving and the person she needs to be unaffiliated.
This sentense runs on. You can shorten it or separate it into two sentences.
>I wouldn't mind a meeting nor accepting an offer due to the monetary reward I would receive once I finish the task; it's just that I have no incentive whatsoever in meeting her or her cronies. According to hearsay from her subordinates, Katherina is a person you do not want to meet nor work with under any circumstances.
I'd use desire instead of incentive because the money is the incentive. Then again, I'd cut the sentence completely.
Interesting opening, I wonder what the story is about.

>I'm trying to commit to writing around 2,000 words daily in hopes I can become a professional within a few years. Here is today's chunk.
Don't take everything King says as law, you can have quantity without quality. As a rule of thumb though, 2K is a good level.
>remember
Remembered*
>contendors
Contenders*
>preditor
Predator*
>Hello" said Gabriel "
Form requires "Hello" to be "Hello," as the sentence he is speaking hasn't ended. Your punctuation is odd - fullstops go inside speech marks.
>inquirred
Inquired
>there
Their*
>Gabriels
Gabriel's

Overall, less exposition, less telling and use spell and grammar check. I didn't find it interesting.

Exposition dumping turned me off.

Though you spelt his name wrong, you got his style right.

>So it goes.
Okay, Kurt. Otherwise, I liked it.

>Don't take everything King says as law, you can have quantity without quality. As a rule of thumb though, 2K is a good level.
I was actually going off of Brandon Sanderson saying that it generally takes about 10 years of writing, writing for about 6 hours a week and extending that to what he also said in regards to most people writing about 500 words an hour when creative writing.

Overall,
>less exposition, less telling
Alright I'll work on this when I continue tomorrow.
>use spell and grammar check.
I guess a good practice would be throwing it into google docs and giving it a once over before posting it. I know I have a problem with run on sentences but its been something I've been struggling to fix for a long time. I'm not very skilled in grammar usage in general though.
>I didn't find it interesting.
This makes sense, it wasn't very focused and was mainly exploratory just to practice writing. I've never been able to structure a story plot so I just write something and then completely re-write it once I know what type of story I want to write. It sounds like you didn't find any of it interesting though so I guess I just need to get better at characterization probably.

>I was actually going off of Brandon Sanderson saying that it generally takes about 10 years of writing, writing for about 6 hours a week and extending that to what he also said in regards to most people writing about 500 words an hour when creative writing.
You'll find your own pace, just don't push yourself too hard.
>It sounds like you didn't find any of it interesting though so I guess I just need to get better at characterization probably.
Licking the book surprised me but when it became a book that is a book but not a book but almost a book and pages were eaten you lost me.
Every writer needs structure.

Where is the faceless worker?
Noisy, dry skyscrapers quietly desire a big, grimy door.
Shrink roughly like a misty rain.
The jackhammer eats like a noisy hood.
Why does the skyscraper walk?

I don't get it.

Fleshed things out a bit. Introduced toilet setting. Did I do good? Intended focus are the mystical tirades. Not sure about next witty sticker.

„Infestation!“ it reads, „Blame the Arabs on the planes! Blame the Polish on the trains! Blame the jews on the cruise ships! Cut the power, stop the nuisance!“ with little cartoon hands and scissors drawn severing an electric cable – a pursuit that would surely get the acting party killed – a noble one? I see myself walking the docks. A metallic roar fills my headspace – friction? The sound of a large machine halting? Old friend, we are lucky to be awake this time of year for it IS! Look to the skies; The perfect antithesis to our icy forest of silent perseverance, devoid of time, eternally chasing sun, wooden kings of yore with crowns to be surmised beyond the clouds (do they reach?), like an impression manifests itself, soon to be filled with matter and peeled at the touch of curious generations: Metallic cigars plummeting toward the waters, wings broken, winds laughing, howling as they alleviate themselves at their surfaces or level downwards vectors of vacuum left behind, forgotten in an instant. A good shake for the dung inside – imagine the smell (ew!) those cracked tins will be shedding in a few hours. Time enough for the quick-witted among our people, who with sharp knives approach. Those, or parts of whom, still intact, not yet dissolved in the homogeneous brown mass of engine oil, shit and fluid flesh, we must separate. Sun baked, raised on figs and goat cheese, once honest lives on a no-pig-flesh diet, awash in sewage now but scrubbed, shaven, toweled, […] brushed with herbs and oils, blessed by our shaman, still might live up to their promise. Over a fire, that is. Imagine the feast: Strung up bard hanging from tree, sounds of oiled meat on hot iron drowning out festive clamour, consequent fog obscuring eager hands superseding mutual consent, all melting into one blurred silhouette. Becoming tribe, becoming people. Winds, equally frolicsome, play around, nudge and carress scent of roast and wine, sweat and sperm, passing it back and forth and beyond the treeline. Against the frozen shafts of the immortal it condensates as distilled pleasure and all the creatures of the forest smile a knowing smile. From distant past drawn-out groans penetrate the fringes of my botanic retreat, and I remember: I am not alone. The man in the neighbouring stall as well has reverted to some savage state, and judging from his howls, his winds too are frolicsome. My own delivery shows no sign of progress, completely immobile and hard as a rock, not painful yet commanding attention. In fact, the experience is utterly fulfilling and I am in no hurry to return to my seat, friends or beer. The other is shaking audibly and few decimeters from my left boot a first tear, herald of things to come, hits the ground. „Every man for himself“ I think and redirect my attention at the door.

The darkness of night had long settled in and began to engulf the regimental camp, and with it too came unyielding silence: an eerie, sullen silence that all men are familiar with, tapping gently into the psyche, provoking forthcoming thoughts (fleeting as they were) of completely depraved matters. This macabre stillness is often accompanied by an intrinsically perverse gloom which follows submissively alongside the alluring night, like a wicked lackey suckling on the emaciated breast of a harlot struck ill with consumption. The flood gates of debauchery were occasionally interrupted by the coughing, stirring and snoring of sleeping men and this infuriated Vakha Stolytsin to no end, for he revelled in thoughts of sickness, impurity and deviance. It was his solace. For them to defile his sacrilege was unthinkable, arrogant and even a tad haughty. "How selfish of them" he pondered to himself. "How utterly selfish of those inconsiderate rogues."

He stirred restlessly in his sleeping bag until a brief moment of burning impulse and passion devoured him. He silently crept out of his tent. The moon beat down vengefully on his face which was now contorted with primordial malice, a sort of comical grimace expressive of both confusion and ire. Confusion in the sense that when he entered such a flustered state he was often puzzled by what rotten malignant growth that lay inside of him inspired one to commit immoral deeds as he so often did? The time for rational thought had long since expired and his rage someone had to be accountable for, "of course" he pondered, undoubtedly, someone had to bear the brunt of his frustrations.

He fastened his Circassian cap, brushed off his dusty epaulettes, fumbled with his cracked spectacles and set off for town.

This is bad writing.

Regards,
bad writing knower

care to provide something constructive?

"As far as IDE's go, it's one of the better ones, and it's free," he said. "Yes, IntelliJ is definitely going to be your best bet," another fellow chimed in. "What is Scala like, anyway?" asked the conversation starter. "Oh, have you ever coded in Haskell?" "A little bit." "Well, it's kind of like that. How about Lisp?" "Lisp is a lot harder," said the first fellow. "Yes, Lisp is really the progenitor of this type of language. Functional programming is really something else, because it requires thinking in an entirely different way." "That's not true, most imperative programming languages have plenty of functional elements built in." "Not really." "Yes they do." "Functional in what sense?" "In the sense that they avoid side effects and are definitionally functional." "Ok, but; well, it really depends on what you mean by 'plenty'. And at any rate, it's still a different style of thinking to code in an entirely functional style. Just because other languages contain functional elements doesn't mean they prepare you for functional programming. And that's not getting into the annoying aspects of these languages." "I've never touched Lisp. Does anyone still use Lisp?" "Hah." "No, not really. Well, hobbyists use it. And there's always the rare legacy software." "Anyway, cons are a huge pain, especially as they get more complex. Here, let me show you an example."
He turned his laptop around to show some example code, which was suitably byzantine. "Wow, yeah, I can't even tell what's going on there." "You can break it down into binary tree pairs," said the student with the laptop. "This reminds me of Computer Systems, where we had to parse the way Fork worked," said the student. "Haha, yeah, it's similarly annoying, only this is for just writing code, not for runtime analysis."
"What kind of laptop is that?" "Oh, it's an Acer Aspire. It's my gaming laptop." "Kind of a pain in the ass to lug that around everywhere isn't it?" "Yeah, it's pretty heavy, but it's the only laptop I have right now. My other one broke." "That sucks. Did you forget the charger?" "Yeah" "That also sucks," they shared a laugh. "How is it for games though?" "Oh, it works pretty well. I can run a lot of things at the highest settings. Not the newest games, of course, but my entire Steam backlog." "Dude, I have such a massive backlog it's not even funny. If I could play all the games I bought last year at highest settings, I'd be set for a while." "I know what you mean."

I recommend you use only the smallest words you know until you're comfortable enough with your writing that you begin to choose words for function and not aesthetics. Also don't use things like colons and parentheses.
You're writing purple prose, it's the standard thing that people who've read a lot and never written do. You have a big vocabulary and zero knowledge of how to structure a sentence/thought and are trying to compensate for the second thing with the first.

When you're choosing words pick the smallest synonym you know instead of the biggest one and work on making your writing look good because of its flow.

dude where are your line breaks

thx, can you read this and tell me what you think?

The ring of rickety doors being slammed open sounded through the public house. For a brief moment men with faces shrouded by darkened, twirling smoke from engraved birch pipes of Turkish tobacco gave a quizzical glance toward the direction of the sound, only to avert their gaze back to whatever preoccupation they had engaged themselves in. From the doors emerged a young lad, but of a large and domineering stature. His stern hands were adorned with lineaments of hardship, which also seemed to appear in droves on his brow and cheeks which implied a history of deep contemplation, all of which seemed to retract and contradict from his youthful nature. Dark brown hair sat in curls on his scalp, his features sharp and distinguished under the light of the gas lamp, underneath the bulb of his rounded nose lay a clean shaven mandible, strong and well built which only seemed to further the lads handsome and masculine exterior. The most notable feature of the lad, however, was his ruddy complexion and sunken, calculating gaze. His complexion indicated he was either in a state of perpetual boyish giddiness or vexation and his glance gave nothing away, which is very unusual to see in a young lad. His eyes rested nonchalantly, refusing to give away any symptom of emotion he may have had, and so this young lad was a hard judge of character.

The only thing that lay apparent when he entered the public house was that he was already in a drunken stupor and ardently, in an almost effortless manner glided through the stuffy, polluted atmosphere to the bartender amidst the whoops and hollers of Crimean Tatars and drunken soldiers. He exchanged brief pleasantries with the bartender and after lapping up a refreshing sup of his draught, he placed his weight on his elbow and upon generating a pipe from his raggedy soldiers jacket, lit a match and took a long winded pull before briefly exhaling tranquilly. He assumed a most masculine stance, and underneath his wrinkled brow took a predatory glance around the room, til his eyes met that of a small statured dragoon with neat epaulettes and a tidy unscathed uniform. 'Probably one of those Petersburg dandies' he pondered to himself in a most superior manner. The small statured man hastily averted the young lads predatory gaze and continued playing draughts with his companion. 'He shall make for a fine target tonight', thought the young lad once more, cracking a wry smile before taking another long winded drag of his pipe, relishing in the thought of emasculating the young aristocrat.

I like it. Not too slow. Doesn't read like a truly academic portrayal of events but a good documentary's narration.

This is fun. Cliché in the right places.

I won't read all of that. First paragraph reads like you are very committed to writing around 2,000 words daily.

Nothing bad to say, reads like a grownup's fantasy story. Scratch that last paragraph though and keep it as a blueprint for things to happen later on. Much too compressed.

Too heavy on the "I". Apart from that and the faulty grammar/spelling in places, two characteristics of your writing are in conflict here: On the one hand you are very vague in what you are describing (why think of the screams as frightening or intriguing? why suspect that their origin might be magical?). On the other hand you use very technical expressions (predicament, monetary reward, incentive) which demand specificity or your character comes off as a complete autist. I suspect this is going to be some kind of noir story and I encourage you to keep the technical, analytical tone but try to be more specific and detailed as to your character's rationalisations.

No complaints. You're doing well with that objective narration, keep at it.

Too long to read right now but I am intrigued. No complaints after reading the first paragraph although not necessarily something I would read in my free time.

What did he mean by this?

Some of the details seem a bit random. They may make your world seem more realistic but they don't serve any purpose beside that. I would also love to hear/see his depraved fantasies instead of being assured of their existence. I like what you're writing about, and depravity is a beautiful topic but get ready to roll in the mud with it and suck the shit out of its ass if you want to write about it.

Seems realistic, I like that. But with that much dialogue, you might want to space it differently, not that that's important while writing or posting it to Veeky Forums. If you ever want to release this, it's probably good advice though.

I wrote this.

>which also seemed to appear in droves on his brow and cheeks which implied a history of deep contemplation, all of which seemed to retract and contradict from his youthful nature.
The first half of this bit looks bad because of the double 'which' and this whole sentence is begging the question of what you want the reader to take away from it. If you're going to state plainly to the viewer that his wrinkles ''implied a history of deep contemplation" you might as well rewrite it in first person.

The overall structure is exhausting to look at, it's a brick of compound sentences with no rests. You need dips and crescendos in your writing. A giant compound sentence should be flanked on both sides by short simple statements which are really just mental buffers for the viewer to chew over the more complex preceding and proceeding ideas.

Thank you, your criticism is really useful. Are there any positives in the writing or is it completely daunting? Do you write much yourself?

>I would also love to hear/see his depraved fantasies instead of being assured of their existence.
Good idea.

I liked the imagery of the dudes smoking baccy and hearing something then going back to what they were doing

Ames finds himself in his wheelie chair facing the wall away from the television. On the floor, leaning against the walls and stacked in the corner are his mother’s old charcoals in their old frames awaiting some proper arrangement.

A desk far at his right hand is shoehorned crudely into a bay window that has sightlines out to the street.

The desk is the most tidy part of the entire apartment, no room for clutter amidst the mount for the sheetscreen, the adaptors for his old clicky keyboards.

Ames spins around in his chair and the room takes too long to catch up. The loading wheel animation on the television is running clockwise and he’s going the opposite way. Before he can feel sick he stands up.

“Shit,”

It’s too late to start working now. The sun is up and he can see the reflections of the pedestrians milling below. Too late. It will take a few hours to get going now.

He could try to work but he knows he’s yet to shower, will feel some nagging far off source of hunger and will certainly feel pressured to jerk off eventually. Might as well just try to approach it as efficiently as possible. Better to lose an hour or two all at once than slowly over the course of a day, turn a bright hum of productivity into staccato discord. Better to just have nothing else to do but work.

Ideally he’d do his job in a bank vault with a time-release lock and a case of water, a ration of kiddie coke pills. A bucket in the corner for necessity. He should have bounced it off Miranda the night she showed up at the door and asked what kind of work he was doing. Gordian certainly had that kind of money and if you’re going to be a sell out then you’d better be getting better than market value. So he should have thought when she came into the room and stood by the desk in the window, commented on how shabby his equipment was.

But now he’s wasting time.

Around the low partition’s and into the corner alcove where the fridge-freezer lists its contents for him in a scrolling interface, counts four bottles of water and a dozen eggs, a handful of frozen box meals and a bag of microwave chicken tenders. The eggs, it notes, are likely spoiled and should be discarded. On his approach, it prompts him with a dialogue box:

‘Would you like to order ITEM: “THE USUAL” from “Pewter Pony”?’

“Yes,” he says.

It doesn’t respond and he drags the pinpad over from the far right of the screen, punches in the numbers with the back of his pinkie knuckle and then wipes away the smudges it leaves.

‘25.63 will be charged to your…’

He punches Enter, this time using his shirt as a glove.

‘Your order will arrive in 56 minutes.’

Done.

Next.

He uses conventional soap in the shower. Miranda gave him two bars of the new bio-derived stuff that her girlfriend is rendering in an old talc factory in Red Hook but the stuff makes him feel too clean somehow, like the very air around him can’t reach his skin, as if he’s been wrapped in plastic wrap. She says it’s better for him, it could fix some of his allergies.

He thinks it makes him feel even less like a creature that has flesh.

This is all good

"Like, zoinks, scoob! This haunted mansion sure is spooky!" Shaggy exclaimed as he rounded a narrow corridor, Scooby to his side. They found themselves in a dimly lit, empty ballroom. Cobwebs filled every crevice and the floorboards had turned a particularly repulsive shade of gray from decades of neglect. The sterile white moonlight shone through what few windows the long dead architect was generous enough to include, and refracted off the dusty chandelier, producing a curious array of frail dancing lights in the center of the room.
Just visible in the ethereal halo was the golden-haired Fred. He had obviously been separated from the others, and Shaggy called out to him.
"Like, Fred, have you seen Daphne and Velma?"
Fred fell to his knees, collapsing into a shadowy figure, and one could instantly hear the thick, wet vomit sprawl across the floor as he tried to call for help through a miasma of blood and stomach acid.
Scooby gulped audibly.
"Ruh-roh!" he let out. A look of sheer confusion stole their once passive expressions as Daphne and Velma came running to Fred from a door on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Daphne crouched over Fred and grabbed him by his heaving shoulders. "What is it, a clue?" She noticed the visceral blood spewing forth from his mouth, and immediately jumped back, screamed half-heartedly, and fell limp onto the floor, paralyzed with shock.
Velma would have certainly noticed the fact that Daphne's head had split wide open against the uneven plank flooring, had she not inexplicably lost the ability to breathe. Her first impression was that she was having an asthma attack, but that was quickly overruled as her eardrums violently popped. She had the sensation of some force pulling her from every position on her body, as if floating unprotected in space. As the panic reached an unprecedented crescendo, her eyes exploded spectacularly in their sockets, and her lifeless body fell face down next to Daphne's pool of spilt graymatter.
Fred, suffering immeasurably, tried to aim his concealed carry 9mm at his head, but this was growing increasingly difficult by the fact that his arms had become tentacles. By some contrivance of his new form of dexterity, he managed to pull the trigger, but the bullet only traveled through his neck and lower jaw. Fred screamed in pain. The guttural, primeval moaning was made to sound more like a tortured gurgling as he vomited more blood, so much that his esophagus could not close, and he began to suffocate.

In total disbelief of the sadistic spectacle sprawled before them, Shaggy declared "Z-z-zoinks, Scoob! Let's, like, g-g-get outta here!" But before they could do so, the light of the moon grew in intensity, and shifted to a diabolical red hue. The grand window at the center of the ballroom cast it's light on a door, which creaked open slowly, revealing the darkest black the two had ever seen. If felt as though, upon staring into the void, one could begin to lose their own memories and sensibilities, so intense was the blackness. And as the duo stood in awe, a shadow escaped the door and moved across the floor in a slow, sure sweep towards Shaggy. The moment it touched the base of his boot-shod feet, Shaggy ceased to exist. Not a sound or sight was left of what once he was.

Still debating if I should write this in English or in my mother tongue. I'm not too concerned in doing a terrible job but rather the amount of time it will take me to edit grammar and search for different adjectives and verbs just to sound less repetitive. It's an interesting experiment nonetheless.

My native language is not English, but I want to improve my skills so I decided to challenge myself. This is my first brainfart in years, if some ppl like it I might expand it to a novel as daily stress relief.
'Anything we want?' Asked Gordon. 'Anything' assured him Michael as they were descending three stories below ground level. Gordon's excitement already made him forget about the meticulously executed security check by the grumpy looking doorkeepers just moments ago. They reminded him a decade ago, when he nervously stood in line to get in a nightclub just after his eighteenth birthday.
It seemed like a whole life ago since that happened. It seemed like a whole life ago since the bombs fell, bringing along the new-old world order. The events that followed were not nearly enough to end the civilisation as many preached, but enough to shake up the flow of history, and with it to redirect the river bed of science. One of the newly formed creeks in this new world was the future of entertainment as Gordon was told. Without the constraints of ethics holding the scientists back, they were able to accomplish what the generations before them only dreamed of, costing only a couple hundred of souls.

Gordon's train of thought came to a halt when he and his childhood friend finished their descent. As they left behind the tight staircase of the old inner city building's cellar entrance the moldy walls, gas pipes and dim yellow lights gave way to smooth, evenly lit surfaces. The refurbished cellar looked like a sterile, minimalist tech shop that had about a week until the opening day. Most of the very few furniture pieces were in place, it was clear that the reception was not meant to keep guests waiting for long. Instead of getting greeted by hostesses and courteous staff, Michael briefly shook hands with a worker and without much conversation he led them through the nearest door. After the first bombs fell in Asia and America the renaissance of bunkers and shelters began. This underground hive must have been expanded at the time when everyone was expecting World War 3 to break out thought Gordon. The workers they passed on their way did not seemed like the average construction worker. They seemed like scientists and professionals hired straight out of a nuclear power plant.

Their destination was a door, numbered 8041 on a long corridor with about 20 doors alike. The man after quickly searching trough his belongings gave Michael the key, then left hastily only giving a goodbye nod, with a pandering expression on his face, clearly saying "Enjoy".
The two friends found themselves in a small room, furnished like a small urban flat. The most prominent objects in the room were two seats that looked like the perfect combination of the most comfortable chair you can buy and a dentist's chair. They were bolted down, and although no electronics or other accessories were visible whatsoever, they seemed like something out of a sci-fi movie's set. Other than that, there was a small fridge with various MRE's and sodas and a separate small washroom with the essentials inside. 'Are you ready?' asked Michael. 'Fuck me, I can't wait to see if even half of what you said is true.' replied Gordon. 'This is not the neural network you read about in magazines, it's not the shit they use to work out geological stuff and simulate physics, this uses real brains. Well, it actually will use yours and mine as well once we're in'. The two friends then took their places in the two seats without further ado. "Well, I think I passed the point of no return" Gordon thought to himself as the room dimmed it's lights, clearly indicating it sensed the two participants taking their places.

A woman's silhouette started to step out of the wall. As the projection got nearer it took the form of a quite attractive, but modestly presented hostess.
Welcome to the House of Everything gentlemen. To enjoy our services, you don't have to do anything else, other than calmly lay back and let the automated system take care of the rest. To avoid any inconvenience, please keep in mind the instructions given in your welcome package. Enjoy!
As Gordon somewhat nervously but eagerly laid back he felt the seat reclining, extending it's modules. He felt a slight touch on the back of his head and spine. For a moment nothing happened, or so it seemed for him, but in the next moment the walls of the room started to melt. The seat disappeared from underneath and he saw Michael floating by him, the same distance he was sitting from him. The next moment they started to accelerate toward a distant light, accelerating even more he felt the G force in his body without any sort of wind or drag slowing them down. They were on their way to the real House of Everything.

>I won't read all of that. First paragraph reads like you are very committed to writing around 2,000 words daily.

I'm going to post writing every day until you do.

>Bumlin
Jejaroo

>Sitting on the balcony of my apartment have its benefits, the panoramic view of Lake Michigan, Chicago River, and Navy Pier provides a sense of lull in the turmoil that is my life.

Two major errors in the first sentence:

First, it should be two sentences. Second, the word should be "has," not "have." Otherwise you sound like a caveman senpai.

Simultaneously too personal and too impersonal. Instead of saying "souls" and "protruded" (the former is too sentimental and the latter is too instrumental), say something like "people" and describe the rain falling on the guy as if he was a human being. Just exercise some more discretion.

try reading it out loud while imagining you're surrounded by close friends and pretty women

I already shortened it to just 'two', I think people can infer I'm not talking about gumball machines without being told

I don't think it scans in that case. Like if you read it out loud you can sort of tell that it's missing a beat, aurally.

Feels a little Murakami, nice and simple. Agree with the other posters that the last line feels kind of off, but I'd still read several chapters of this story.

---------------------

"So, tell me, what's on your mind these days?"
Without even so much as a nod in his direction, she replied, "The weather."
"The weather?" he repeated. "Well, it has gotten pretty hot lately. I'm afraid the A/C might just conk out at this rate, and then we'll all be in trouble." His hearty chuckle filled the air. "Going by what some scientists are saying, we might be headed for another Scorch. On the bright side, they're also predicting that it might not be as bad as the last one.
"The Scorch wasn't the actual name," she said, her gaze still fixed on the window. "It was just some meme that got passed around on the Internet for a while in certain circles. Eventually, the media got hold of it and people have been referring to that particular period of death and destruction as the Scorch."
"If this had been a test, Maiya, you would have aced it."
She turned her head towards him. "Isn't that all this is, Doctor, just a test?"
"That depends on what you mean by 'this'," he replied.
"These sessions, Doctor, that's what I meant."
"You think they're some sort of test?"
"You're looking for signs of rebellion or stress; you and the other doctors are here to make sure we're all still towing the line, backing the status quo."
The doctor had wanted to roll his eyes, but decided not to since Maiya was now looking at him directly. "You're a very astute young lady, Maiya, you know that? Not a single one of the other children have ever--
"Don't patronize me."
"Of course. But I'm sure you also know that the other doctors and myself are here to provide a service, that being checking on your mental health. I'm also sure I don't need to remind you how vital our work is, not just for your own well being, but the well being of everything that goes on here. Or need I remind you of how much of a mess you were when you first got here?"
To this she did not reply, but instead looked up at the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall on Leonardo's side of the room. The clock read 1:59, it was one of the few time telling devices in the base that was not adjusted to military time. As the moments passed between that 1:59 and the coming of the next hour, she waited. The young doctor waited too. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! went the clock.

Needs more shortening, I'd say.

Shortening? In what way?

This is a nice trick, I'm going to name it 'shame conditioning'

This is was meant to be a cynical analogy from an essay I've written:

A Buddhist was once returning to his temple after a prolonged period of meditation on the mountains when he encountered his follow monk, "why did you want to become a Buddhist?" He asked, "I woke up one day and found that I was consumed with misanthropy, I was faced with two options: become a homicidal psychopath and seek to terminate our race, or retire from life and become a Buddhist monk. So I closed social media, packed my stuff and left for the mounts of Cambodia.", the fellow nodded and smiled and approved his choice.

This is the scenario I envision for someone who keeps emphasizing how much they hate everyone and social media, life, humans, society, and literally anything that has to do with people, and hates everything in general. It befuddles me why would one wants to experience with the things he gloats about abhorring, when it could be easier to isolate oneself from those since isolation is what these "aggressive loners" take pride in doing.

Cher misanthrope, stop being incongruous, make the right choice, become a Buddhist monk.

contrived, ignorant, preaching, and painful to read

if community colleges required a written essay for admission this is about what I would expect to reject, then pass around online so other people could laugh

What is the most beautiful literary account of a blumpkin that has ever been written?

First paragraph of my next Experimental Fiction class assignment. Tear my shit up.:

Harelip

Cliff has planned to cut his tongue out for a while. He stands naked in a mirror, tongue outstretched, in his head an x-ray of the veins and muscles inside it. He sucks it up so it sticks to the roof of his mouth, blue-green veins and purple nerve endings beneath. Humid cavern walls. To the side of him, on a table, a few things: anatomy textbook, surgical gloves, knife, blowtorch, iron rod. A few vials of novocaine, morphine and a handful of needles, still in plastic packing. The place smells of old dust, senile air, no windows, soft lightbulb hanging above.

Pain’s not the problem, bleeding out is. If he clamps the mouth open and holds his tongue with one hand, the other can cut the lingual frenulum without much work, then continue separating the muscle from the floor of his mouth. Another way is to push the scalpel as far down as possible, place it at the right, then make an incision on the base of the throat, downwards and to the left, severing the whole back of it in one motion. He thinks of cutting it by sections, first the outer papillae and progressively smaller chunks until it’s all a stub. Maybe splitting it in half then repeating the scalpel motion, but from the center of the tongue. Has to be efficient, lest he won’t have time to cauterize it. Caught in doubt, he retreats the gross muscle back into his mouth, then notices himself in the glass. Flared pores, orange hair in fine sharp strips, glued by sweat. Unshaven. A mild textured bald scar above his lip. Bent Cupid’s bow. If he pushes his tongue up, he can still feel the remnants of the gap. He remembers as a child sticking fingers into it and coming back soaked in blood and mucus. The tiny, dirt-encrusted toddler nail scraping at the bottom of his brain, leaving chunks of filth and soot-black rotting blood along the way in that passage.

Fantasized of digging in with scissors, see if he could cut an idea, a pure thing, bring it back. Keep it somewhere safe.

It starts in my cup. Looking down at the half empty black sea, I am reminded of the past. Reminded of my childhood, our innocence, and my failures. I am not normally one for dwelling on the past, but as this is the last day, it comes against my will.
Prior to entering this café, I had been wandering aimlessly through familiar streets; but the grey winter morning brought heavy clouds, and with it rain. Shelter came in the form of an unfamiliar, dark grey building, with a wide-open space occupied by chairs and tables. The few people littered inside stare at me as one of them: a refugee from this stereotypical weather. Moving my eyes toward the counter, one of the young women raises her face to the sound of new footsteps heading toward one of the many tables. Her light steps soon follow, and with them she places down a cup of coffee in front of my hands. Grasping this cup for its warmth, my eyes are drawn to her tired yet beaming face to give thanks.
Alone at this table, my cold and tired mind is left with no other choice than to wander. Wander just as I had been beforehand, with no direction or purpose. The memory to attack me is one which attaches itself among the others I wish could have been different.

This time, it begins in a school. The school which spent five years in educating me and the numerous other students who roamed and studied within its walls. As far as schools go, the one I had attended was nothing exceptional, simply another public institute. The reason for my going was due to the effortless location being less than one mile from my parent’s house. I possess many memories of this place with varying fondness; what I am reminded of on this occasion takes place toward the beginning of my third year, where most students break off into their smaller cliques leaving the rest as acquaintances.

At fourteen years of age, there were two friends of whom spent most of their time with me and thus my time with them. Of the two, Kain was first. He was the first friend I had made at this new school, and the first of the trinity. Ever so slightly taller than I, was his head of dirt-blonde hair, often long enough to reach his eyes. These eyes of his were the contradiction to my murky dark eyes; regularly brown enough to hide the pupil, whereas his were the colour of a clear blue summer sky. In our school days, I found myself habitually envious of his looks. My years of puberty seemed not to be kind; leaving me with a face occupied with the odd spot. His years never seemed to show, simply leaving him with the benefit but no repercussion. Our personalities frequently blended into the same at the beginning, and this stayed the same until into our mid-late teenage years.

The final of the three was Isabella. Shorter than I, she possessed dark raven hair flowing long enough to touch her chest.

See, I'm not mad at your setting or plot, if there is one yet. It does have a Proustian feel to it, what with memory being triggered at a coffee shop and such, and you seem to have a decent command of language. My issue is, this somewhat dull and boring. Maybe I'm lacking context, but your narrator comes across as somewhat whiny. Sure, he may be afflicted by sadness, but he speaks in that poetic zombie voice typical of overly dramatic teenagers. This isn't inherently a bad thing, but it should be, in my opinion, withheld a little more, as it can make reading your story feel tedious, and your characters pretentious.

There's also a few cases of awkward sentence construction. For instance:

"The memory to attack me is one which attaches itself among the others I wish could have been different." That took me two tries to understand, because it's a pretty long, somewhat convoluted sentence. The whole "which attaches itself among others" is unnecessary, only weighs down the sentence.

The introductory paragraph of the narrator's school experience is great, it sets the tone, setting and context just right for your narration to continue. Use that paragraph as a guide. If you wish, do get poetic, but remember not to let flowery language and melodrama overtake your plot and characters. If the reader feels like the writer's hand is moving too many pieces, they get disconnected, and loose interest in your story.

Althought not my cup of tea, you aren't a bad writer, so keep working on it. Best of luck man.

>two characteristics of your writing are in conflict here: On the one hand you are very vague in what you are describing.
I was told to leave some area open to interpretation so the readers could form their own ideas on the matter. I do understand the sentiment, both of them will be described later on, just not right now.

>(why think of the screams as frightening or intriguing?)

>(why suspect that their origin might be magical?).
>On the other hand you use very technical expressions (predicament, monetary reward, incentive) which demand specificity
But how is the Character supposed to specify on something if he himself doesn't know? All he does know is that there is a predicament that someone needs solving and that the requirements are not affiliated with any group. He knows he's going to get the monetary reward for his work that is the norm, he just doesn't know the amount since it varies to person to person. The incentive is explained in the last paragraph, From hearsay, she is a poor boss to her own subordinates, how will treat someone that is not even part of her gang. Which puts him off into not working with her

>or your character comes off as a complete autist.

>I suspect this is going to be some kind of noir story and I encourage you to keep the technical, analytical tone but try to be more specific and detailed as to your character's rationalizations.
I will take that into consideration.

Sorry if I sound defensive.

Any tips for learning how to write in third-person? I seem to default all my writing to the first-person, and so my third-person narratives are all kinds of wonky. I read a lot of third-person stuff but it's still difficult for me.

At the absolute basic level, start out by just writing down what it would sound like if you were telling someone about something that you heard happened to someone else.

Then expand on that foundation.

I agree with what said, it's quite preachy and not even in a positive way. Here's a tip I learned about evangellization: preach the beauty of your cause first. I'd like to think most people are simple - they want to see or be a part of pretty things. Focus on making people see the beauty of your point of view or lifestyle - and they'll be more likely to join up. Simply wagging your finger at someone for not following your viewpoint is probably going to cause them to turn away quick. The themes of fellowship and hope in Lord of the Rings for instance, makes it a good propaganda piece for Christianity - it told the beauty of it first, then weaved the preaching/themes as it went along WITHOUT telling you to go all-out christian and praising Jesus.

Here's my piece. From this page alone it's pretty standard fantasy, though I hope it can later sucessfully evolve into a Groundhog Day, Murder Mystery in line with Re:Zero.
pastebin.com/iMq59G4c

definitely could be compelling with a good plot. cool premise. Reminds me of "the lottery"
I wonder if you really do live with such ease as you appear.
I am often jealous of your flippancy. I fear often I wrap myself in thought.

After the party, we walked home in the rain. There were eight of us, walking in pairs, all enveloped in conversations. Our bright raincoats shimmered under the streetlights. The rain and cold punished me. We shivered but talked excitedly towards the snack-topia that awaited us all in your room. I felt honored that you had invited me to come along with your friends to your post-party ritual: gorging yourselves on dollar store snacks. In the downpour, you told me about your dad, and I told you about my girlfriend and then I checked my watch. Our pace matched the tempo of our conversation and we discussed a million different things, but never came to a conclusion on any of them. We kept jutting off before coming to a consensus. I think we both believed that conversation was the currency of the world and the more we had informative talks with the people around us, the richer the world would be.

Your problems seemed so huge to me, yet you flaunted your firm grasp on life. Your way of dealing with everything convinced me that there was nothing you couldn’t handle. It didn’t matter where you were born, you could always work hard enough to achieve your own goals. I yearned to be more goal oriented. I guess, to put it more accurately, I yearned to be successfully goal oriented. I had plenty of goals either way.

Simple advice, but sometimes that's just what ya need. Thanks, pal.

No prob. It's okay to be defensive about things you're passionate about. Being vague in one's storytelling and providing detail both serve the same purpose (and feed off each other in that regard): They let the reader imagine your world more vividly. This can be hard to handle when writing from a first-person perspective about a character's thoughts, feelings and imaginations. Everyone knows what thoughts sound like and everyone knows how they are intertwined with feelings and imaginations, so the description of a mental process that is lacking in detail (or overly detailed in the wrong ways) will seem unnatural. The mental process your character's narration describes seems incomplete as it is completely made up of thoughts, even when it describes feelings (frightening, intriguing; intriguing being even more than a feeling as intrigue can be seen as its own mode of mental activity, tying the perceived to some imagined future involvement in an activity pertaining to the perceived and the wish to partake in such activity) or imaginations (is it natural of magical? judging from this question the character has had an imagination as to the nature of the phenomenon, an imagination of a natural scenario and a magical scenario). Think about this for a bit. Writing itself is an imaginative and affective act, you perceive visions of an imagined world and feelings toward what you imagine and translate these into words. Think of your characters as doing the same thing.

Thank you.
I can understand what you mean about it sounding whiney, so I'll get to work on that. As for that particular sentence, I'll just get rid of that part.

I thank you for understanding. And I thank you for as to why I should give a more in-depth description. Which I will give more consideration. Do you think I should rewrite it to include it?

Posteds this in another thread, but that one didn't stay up for long.

I've recently started a web serial, and I can't seem to get any actual feedbaack from anyone that won't pull their punches.

powersetfive wordpress com

He was ethered out of his mind and "labrador... retriever..." was all he could utter in a dopey drawl before his eyes went to the back of his head and I caught him as he crumpled to the ground, his throat gurgling like a commode, post-flush. "What happened to him?" the dame breathed, painted fingers clickety-clacketing at her shiny tobacco case. "Quiet," I snapped and took a draft from my Helper's Whisky hip flask and IS THIS A GOOD OPENING TO A DETECTIVE STORY Veeky Forums

The beginning takes too long describing the environment, just get to the plot already, garsh.

Here's mine. It's a fantasy story about a hero AFTER his "happy ending."

> 'Anything' assured him Michael
remove him
>They reminded him a decade ago
of a decade ago. Furthermore, you can dive deep into his feelings of those times. Like "They reminded him of those long-lost joyous moments a decade ago".
>It seemed like a whole life ago
lifetime sounds better
>end the civilisation
civilization
>had about a week until the opening day
you lost me
The man after quickly searching trough his belongings gave Michael the key
commas
>For a moment nothing happen...
to many use of moment. Try to find synonyms or word it better.
> accelerating even more he felt the G force ...
lost me again

I didn't like it 2be honest but I think you should write the whole thing anyways, like you said in a daily basis. My native language isn't English either, maybe someone else could give you a better critique. I try to post my stuff here too even if I get a kill yourself every single time, it's about not getting discouraged and improve.

A more improved version of my story. A bit longer too.

pastebin.com/85wSBYm7

This gets gay about halfway in.

I try to write when I'm bored and would appreciate some critique

pastebin.com/EApiQsZ3