Critique Thread

"In the interest of marking International Mother Language Day, I’d like to expound upon something with which a lot of you probably are vaguely familiar, but have probably never bothered to examine in any considerable detail."

This is a sentence you wrote. Prolix padding aside, I'm baffled that anyone could put two "probably"s in one sentence. Up your game, kid.

I knew there was something wrong with that line. Thank you for pointing it out.

Thanks, I'm interested in finding out what to work on and how to work on it.

>There is not a single trait in the characters that seem legit, it feels as if they were videogames NPCs

How does one add depth? What novels or authors do this well or showed mastery?

>Your use of language is for the most time incoherent with the characters and context

Also interested as to how they were incoherent.

This is sort of a starting point for me, I just took a random idea and went with it. Any criticism, no matter how autistic, is appreciated:

Against the pleas and bargains “for it to be over with”, Mr. Wergingshire’s industrial process through work was halted. Amidst the many lines of one of his students’ work, an anomaly took residence within the fourth page of the stack. As with the preceding paper trio, each thought or solution or rambling was numbered in rising succession. Continuing on with the last page’s surrender of the number 27, the fourth page moved onwards venturing through the, until-now, unforeseen lands of the thirties until Wergingshire’s following of the numerical adventure lost his fueling interest. Number 33, the third two-digit decade’s own twin members, was found to flaunt a mixed relationship instead. Its first three presented itself as the tried-and-true centuries-old classical double-parabolic styling known throughout all constituents of the numeral Arabic family. Moving forward to its partner in vocation, the expected repetition is thrown away, while maintaining the underside too definitive of its predecessor, this 3 chose to flatten its top for a rebellious, rugged fashion. These two numbers did not provide any real problem on their own, besides any fascist association with the buzz-cut 3’s militaristic look, and likely saw each other as two-actors for one role, a competition met with grace, respect, and the deepest contrast. Yet today on Wergingshire’s eighteenth student’s thirty-third example of allusion to 20th century society through the pages of a 1960s dishwasher manual, the two threes stood beside each other stupidly, infuriatingly, between the college-ruled lines that held the document’s content and Mr. Wergingshire together.

Got some really nice feedback for this in the last thread and someone said that people in here would enjoy it and should read it so here you go. It's 8 pages but I'm proud of the section:
docs.google.com/document/d/1zKJCKjGZ60x0anbneRBMtf4j0QnVHxbT6FgBez9sg7A/edit?usp=sharing

树./Tree.
Peeling the paper from trees:
Thin limbs stretch out gads,
Boughs bend to aid blue birds.
Shedding skins for a time.

...

Is that made for a robot or a human? You're not some legendary writers who can get away with putting a period after five words, start to write for human consumption and not for some autist who never learned how to actually read in elementary.

I will never read this.

Honestly I didnz't even read the story, just decided to make a mean comment for no reason. Your gentle response made me ashamed of doing that, I apologize,

>someone said that people in here would enjoy it and should read it

Nigga what are you even. Are you saying somebody (who?) told you that the people in this specific thread would enjoy your piece (based on what characteristics?). Just post your shit to be critiqued senpai. Don't preface it with this weedling bullshit.

Also try slobbing some knobs if you want your own knob slobbed. Orgy etiquette 101 fuckwit.

Really enjoed that one

This was hard to read. Not because it was bad, but because it was difficult. It seems like you are trying hard to elevate your language which gives it a choppy and drawn-out feeling.

You're free to hate it but I'd just like as many people as possible to read it and give some criticism, is all.

Robots are the audience of the future.

>docs.google.com/document/d/1zKJCKjGZ60x0anbneRBMtf4j0QnVHxbT6FgBez9sg7A/edit?usp=sharing
i ain't clickin that shit nigga

Alright then. I hate it.

Thanks for the critique, though I'm not really sure what you're getting at. In terms of the sentences, the shorter length was just what struck me as most effective for an action oriented scene. I wasn't aware that autists had any preferences in terms of sentence structure. Anyway, I'd be happy to give a critique in return if you've posted a piece or would like to.

Fair enough

Well, that's too bad. It was vague enough for me to project though lmao.

Bump, anyone else?

My friend, you need not bump this--people will see it.
Why do krauts always post their rubbish as though everyone speaks the barbaric language?
You lose your effort about halfway through.

Thanks, I keep that in mind when I write some more.

>10547372
Sorry I meant
>10547067

I'm not being an asshole,
but in honesty,
how new are you?

she i just break pov and if i want to just describe my character's appearance real quick. I'm sick of writing and reading some bullshit like they are looking in a mirror / puddle / store window / glass dildo. It seems better to just state it instead of coming up with some dumb-ass plot device used only to say the bitch has dark hair and pale skin or whatever.

I'm the one who said I liked it. And I still do. It's the only thing I've ever seen on this board that isn't completely cringey and belabored.

He still has a long way to go (I think he is hiding behind a meme genre to spare himself the long, painful, and dangerous process of becoming who he is) but he has a much better control of rhythm and imagery than I had when I was 21.

No you're not. You're him samefagging. Stop being so needy and transparent.

Ignore the fags this is publishable quality. Moody atmospheric and actually interesting... I’d keep reading

Wtf is a “belonged lot”? The whole story carries that vibe of weirdness

I’m often guilty of this. I think the mind subliminally reads the word and suggests it to itself, having forgotten

>Lattice
>Geodesic
>filled with stolen terms and textbook jargon
faggot

Thanks, user. If you've got anything to critique I'd be glad to give it a look.

Those are the only two remotely jargonish words in the excerpt, and they are both neccessary to describe the building. I honestly don't understand what's up your ass, but I hope it works its way out someday.

I like it, I would definitely keep reading.

This is by FAR the worst I've seen in these threads in a while.

You aren't a Hemingway. You aren't a trendy author. You do not know what you're doing.

Thank you. Again, feel free to post something (or direct me to your post) and I'll give it my honest thoughts. Otherwise I'll start doing some critiques of stuff already posted.

Same for you, bro

>I'm open for criticism!!!
>receives criticism
>WAHHH NO YOU ARE! YOU ARE! HA, NOTHIN' PERSONAL BRO

What the fuck is wrong with you?

The proportions are okay. You seem to have good technical skills, but hyper realism is pretty boring desu. Try drawing from imagination. If your shit at that then pick up some Loomis.

...

I snuck into the theatre. The corridor was interminable, full of posters and uncomfortable squeaky chairs straight out of a soviet-eta classroom; the posters were from mostly sub-par plays from the 50's. I stumbled upon the main locker room, I entered it and hid in one of the lockers. Some faggot entered the room, probably one of the actors. He sat down started reading a script he found on the floor. While he reached out for the script I threw myself out and knocked him out senseless. He fell down like a carrot on ice, I began slowly, gingerly, carefully removing every article of clothing, revealing my erect 9.4 inch penis, all of a sudden some other prick entered the room holding an hour glass. Only a paucity of sand was left, so little time was left, so little.

"I am the individual who is directing the current play, and I demand that you impart the knowledge of what's transpiring in this confined area!" He shouted, while pointing at his sandals
"We're just rehearsing" I said pensively, while looking at his sandals
"But the janitor isn't even in this thing!" he cried.

The atmosphere is great, but the sentences don't flow very well.

My overall thoughts are you've got a good sense of place and person, and I enjoy the Chekovian domestic touch it has. My sense is you're big into the Russians (or maybe Munro). That said, for an introduction I feel like you might be frontloading a bit. The description of the asylum, for instance, is good but abrupt. I barely see it before I am in it with the main character. It is obviously hard to judge from just a small sample, but my advice just based on this excerpt would be to take care not to rush through too much too quickly. I think you have the descriptive chops to let things breathe more.

Other than that, the "ate eaten" typo needs to be fixed.

Could it be anymore obvious that you just finished reading Hegel?

Leave some critique, first draft and stuck: docs.google.com/document/d/1KaQSkfrzRnGkDro0zEYt8lrRMqNqSyV0Ritw4r1L5-g

Christmas in the Jungle

pastebin.com/raw/u7BVNX0b

I admit I’m coming down with a cold (maybe I’m fooled), but I really disagree with all the critics who’re hating on you. Your technical terms flow well enough that it’s clear you came across them honestly, and your sentence length/style didn’t bother me in the least. Sorry if this is a temptation that you aren’t looking for. Or confusing. But ya

Not at all, user. I really appreciate it.

please?

ctrl+c ctrl+p

Your writing is fine. It's not great, but it's not terrible either. It has the misfortune of occupying that nadir of criticism, where it's not bad enough that it's fun to rip apart, and not good enough that I feel compelled to sing it's praises. My issue comes more from the subjects you're writing about. A bloody suicide in a car followed immediately by a poetry reading? With biblical imaginary no less? Next a philosophical conversation while ordering sandwiches. Why not?

I get the impression that you are a young person, who desperately wants to say something profound, but the thing you are trying to say is neither profound nor particularly interesting. I would suggest instead of focusing on your themes and message first, focus more on your characters and your storytelling and let any thematic elements come naturally later.

One morning near the end of October not long before the first drops of the mercilessly long autumn rains began to fall on the cracked and saline soil on the western side of the estate (later the stinking yellow sea of mud would render footpaths impassable and put the town too beyond reach) Charles woke to hear bells

*ctrl+v

I'm gonna be honest here, this booooored me. I'd like you to make this science fiction setting far more immersive. Maybe your protagonist is stuck in a video game rather than some boring geometric nightmare. You know what, everyone at the moment has crazy 80s nostalgia. Stanger Things, IT, etc., etc. Maybe your protagonist stumbles on a Michael Jackson record without realising what it really is, while he's clearing some dungeon in some futuristic VR - where when you die, it's GAME OVER for real. I think it would be good to cut out the long, antiquated words. Put in some onomatopoeia like THWACK, BOOM, POW, when your character does stuff to really go with that nickname of "Goofy".

Description: 2/10, as I said, work on your diction
Plot: 3/10, boring
Word choice; 4/10, as before, work on your description
Character devleopment: 1/10, I need to see this guy really LEVEL UP

His head turns to look at me, he has not moved. Face to the painting, mask to me. Searing black behind the eyes. We stand in front of a painting, the only one in the room, distant chatter filters in from other exhibits. A white canvas. No. Something is there, oozing into view. Subtle structure begins to take shape- hair thin lines- red and ochre intricate.
The mask cracks a smile, loudly. How did I ever think the canvas was blank? That caustic darkness seeps out of the broken porcelain. I keep watch on the painting- lines assembling, no intention or intelligence, but assembling all the same as in my peripheral the darkness shimmers like air from a boiler.
“From the illusion of control we derive control.”
The words shock back the ink and the air is clear again but for a thin keening. The man spoke those words, the walls shouted them. I feel the first bite of a cold- that dreary weight, that heat in your gut.
One hand clasps my shoulder. Avuncular, familiar, wrapped over steel cords. He has not moved. Mask to painting, face to me. Why would he smile? He has no need to comfort me and no desire to gloat. One rock in the riverbed has resisted the water’s wear and will forever. The water flows over it in the same way it always has. He nods and smiles and is not moving. If I could one day learn that trick: to walk while staying perfectly still.
The air fills with music and the hand on my shoulder pushes me sideways, lying down. With a touch I stop the soft bedside chiming.
Today I am going to the museum.

His head turns to look at me, he has not moved. Face to the painting, mask to me. Searing black behind the eyes. We stand in front of a painting, the only one in the room, distant chatter filters in from other exhibits. A white canvas. No. Something is there, oozing into view. Subtle structure begins to take shape- hair thin lines- red and ochre intricate.

The mask cracks a smile, loudly. How did I ever think the canvas was blank? That caustic darkness seeps out of the broken porcelain. I keep watch on the painting- lines assembling, no intention or intelligence, but assembling all the same as in my peripheral the darkness shimmers like air from a boiler.

“From the illusion of control we derive control.”

The words shock back the ink and the air is clear again but for a thin keening. The man spoke those words, the walls shouted them. I feel the first bite of a cold- that dreary weight, that heat in your gut.

One hand clasps my shoulder. Avuncular, familiar, wrapped over steel cords. He has not moved. Mask to painting, face to me. Why would he smile? He has no need to comfort me and no desire to gloat. One rock in the riverbed has resisted the water’s wear and will forever. The water flows over it in the same way it always has. He nods and smiles and is not moving. If I could one day learn that trick: to walk while staying perfectly still.

The air fills with music and the hand on my shoulder pushes me sideways, lying down. With a touch I stop the soft bedside chiming.

Today I am going to the museum.

If there were a market for sowing salt in comment sections, you'd be making a comfortable living. Why are you so mad about Ready Player One?

Forgetting for a moment the crushing weight of the car that could impact him at any moment, Gerald turned to the side in his prone position to listen more closely to the radio. His Dallas Cowboys were going to do just fine this season, it sounded like, and he loved the feeling of reassurance that came with that. He smiled as the colorful commentators echoed out time-worn exasperations of life's greatest phrases, lost in comprehension behind the rising static that was familiarly boosted by a screaming crowd in the moment.

Gerald was working hard on this Toyota. He would have time to watch football later, he thought though at the same time he felt remiss for not being there, being in the action, and supporting his team: America's team. He wanted to be on America's team when he was a kid. His dad had bought him a jersey when he was in high school, back when the NFL was new, exciting, and groundbreaking.

He still wore that jersey sometimes. The last time he had put it on was four years ago, when his son graduated from law school at the Southern Methodist University two hours from their small town. It was a gift for the two of them, and they had been so happy to be there, in the stadium, roaring in an electric mass that embodied the ecstasy of sports, competition, and light unrivaled in an otherwise too hot, dry, and busy world, all reminiscence of which was blown away like weeds in the wind on those hard concrete bleachers.

Maybe, if he kept working hard enough, he would be able to afford another ticket to another game. He had a hard time keeping up as it was, because of the loans that had been passed down to him by his son, and his wife had never worked, always taking care of the kids.

Death by depression was what the doctors had told him, and they couldn't have even afforded to transport the body home. It was so heavy in their hearts, that New York, the home they'd warned him about, had finally touched them, deeply and resoundingly, like the weight of a car bearing down, crushing and unrelenting.

His dishes from the last holiday he had planned to visit were still on the table: the Thursday before Easter, moved to Friday because of the firm, and then finally Saturday evening, which never came.

Gerald had forgotten about the game at this point, and was simply idly thumbing over the attachment for his adjustable wrench. Sometimes he wondered why he still made himself work, all these later after retirement. The bank had promised to forgive the loans, but they insisted that it wouldn't be necessary. The Huntsmans' didn't need to be social security, so Gerald would go back to work. That partner from the bank, Mr. (Dr.?) Fine didn't need to pay them, even if it wouldn't have been a problem. The Huntsmans' figured everyone had their money problems these days.

The strike of another resounding cry on behalf of one team or another jolted Gerald out of his revelry, and he focused again on the bottom of the old car. One day, he thought to himself.

Awesome. I didn't get the chance to reply before the thread archived.

I had a few questions. The story is actually about not being able to write things that are profound and being stuck being a mediocre nobody and trying to accept that.

That being said, is my writing too amateur to compliment that theme?
How does one work on characters and such?

Btw, im 24.5, am I doomed?

Any info on how I could improve is greatly appreciated. I'm trying to gauge what level I'm at so I know how to go about improving and what direction to go.

Thanks.

Shitty concept, help.

The fantasy novel I am starting in on begins with a central concept. Create individuality as a commodity and remove the fact that an individual human is tied to an individual identity. The society operates on the following logic:
>each and every person, save for a untouchable caste, wear masks
>several humans may wear the same mask
>an individual is not tied to the human wearing the mask, but the mask itself
>meaning that four people who each have an identical mask have one group identity and are treated as such
>giving someone an identical mask to yours is essentially make an extension of your identity, their actions and your actions are one and the same
>an individual may have more than one mask, and will essentially be able to change identities
>for the poor these masks are not much more than masks, and this system is less strict
>among the wealthy these masks have a metaphysical significance, with groups wearing the same mask thinking in similar patterns and perhaps even on some level having an empathetic link
>having many masks/identities means one spreads thin their individuality, and can in fact entirely lose themselves to the group think of the shared identity and stop being a person but an agent of the shared identity
>main character is a maskless who an aristocrat discovers has a special talent
>he is able to recreate masks, the metaphysical ones that the aristocrats believes they can use to their advantage
>this aristocrat are four young women
>they take him in with a bid to overturn a deal to essentially abandon their own identity and take up the masks of another in a marriage-like ceremony
>mask politics are complicated and the maskless main character is thrust into world
>impersonating a mask is at minimum punishable by death, even among the low caste

The setting also exists entirely in a ten mile high thirty mile thick wall that circles the equator, the mega structure is honeycombed with the society. They exist in the top layers, the farther down you go the stranger things become. The aristocracy's masks from the orgy of shadow and fractals below. Is this too garbage?

Is there any more? No criticism, I'm shit, but your style captivates me like no one else ITT. Stay on this board please

He, a gatherer like any other, drifted out of mind, destroyed by hubris one’d think maybe, or carelessness as the institution would likely say—in regards and our condolences stamped with thin black ink. Either way there was a fire stuck on the front grill, with a gatherer sinking lower and lower into blue sky, a forest below him inescapable of the eye. He had to leave the ship, everyone could see sort of why (or so he thought anyways), and he knew he’d failed them, so it didn’t matter at that point. Now the descent came, as slow as it was, down in the dark, and darker it got such a long ways down. Darker still but no gatherer panics; just before submerging into the canopy, a second passed so quick, the ship, with his memory, he saw it crash straight, perfectly centered, a trained eye, ahead of him five thousand or so meters. A map in his head, a simple A to B line, it appeared so naturally he had no questions, his only answer being the massive satellite transmitter, a prayer with certainty.
Still falling, the map fresh; the ground, somewhat visible, revealed by the lamp, an old acquaintance, his timely coworker. No sun he noticed, not down here; he had to’ve fallen through a thousand meters of tree brush. It was hard to tell, he almost passed out at some point.

He, a gatherer like any other, drifted out of mind, destroyed by hubris one’d think maybe, or carelessness as the institution would likely say—in regards and our condolences stamped with thin black ink. Either way there was a fire stuck on the front grill, with a gatherer sinking lower and lower into blue sky, a forest below him inescapable of the eye. He had to leave the ship, everyone could see sort of why (or so he thought anyways), and he knew he’d failed them, so it didn’t matter at that point. Now the descent came, as slow as it was, down in the dark, and darker it got such a long ways down. Darker still but no gatherer panics; just before submerging into the canopy, a second passed so quick, the ship, with his memory, he saw it crash straight, perfectly centered, a trained eye, ahead of him five thousand or so meters. A map in his head, a simple A to B line, it appeared so naturally he had no questions, his only answer being the massive satellite transmitter, a prayer with certainty.

Still falling, the map fresh; the ground, somewhat visible, revealed by the lamp, an old acquaintance, his timely coworker. No sun he noticed, not down here; he had to’ve fallen through a thousand meters of tree brush. It was hard to tell, he almost passed out at some point.

Ok have you written anything? Like a beginning? It's rare that I've seen a writer imagine an enormous, engaging, complex world, and then write anything interesting about it.

Avoid exhausting exposition, let things be unknown, and let the world build itself. That's the way I see writing fiction anyways, but there are authors I've read that can do what you're doing. It's just beyond me.

Share something überrough

nigh unintelligible. It’ll click soon enough. Just keep going

Thanks, my story is here:

I'm going and going man, just hope I don't go and become less intelligible. Some of the shit I've been writing has m e losing the plot. Idk anymore

No, you are not doomed. But, you are putting too much emphasis on the your writing ability and not enough in the quality of your storytelling. Instead of editing what you currently have, I suggest writing a new draft. This time, give your central character(s) something to do: they should want something, and work towards getting it. The story's conflict comes from whatever opposition they face while trying to reach their goal(s).

You can still have your themes; consider the scenes you want to have while planning your story, but do not lose sight of the fact that your primary goal should be crafting a good story. Your themes may even change later as your story develops.

If you think your goal is not necessarily storytelling, but rather, really exploring your themes, I suggest reading Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky and maybe writing something more essay like.

Daddy got it for me as a present and it upset my INTelliJence. Also, u could be a shit post responder and unionise all the other Redditors.

This is well written, user. It's a bit too Alan Rickman for me though.

That's very nice to hear. Are you fluent in German? There isn't much more currently since I've only began to write somewhat regularly a few months ago but I will keep working on the story the excerpt is from and post more stuff in critique threads now and then.

This is a story about Australian life.

pastebin.com/haH9dAfz

I like it - I think it might be good to cut down on the similes, but it reads well.

Here's my poem:

Her poster preached "Life's imperfect"
And her Tinder advertised her as spontaneous,
But her books - colour-coded.

Is this meant for ?

Looks like he meant to post that on /ic/

This helps immensely. I really appreciate it. Funny, I've just bought notes and plan on reading it soon.

Do you think that my characters discussing futility is a problem they are facing at all? Or does a problem need to come along much later.

>Do you think that my characters discussing futility is a problem they are facing at all? Or does a problem need to come along much later.
Can you rephrase this question? I honestly cannot understand what you are asking here.

>Is the discussion of futility a problem in itself?
Never mind I figured it out.

Your characters should have a significant problem for them to overcome in order to advance the plot. Any discussion of the futility of their situation should probably be about the central conflict that drives the story.

Billy Joe Jackson was a strange nigger, but for a nigger he was alright. He'd pass by my house every evening on his way home from what he claimed was work in his same crusty button up and disintegrating jeans. He'd beam at me as I sat on my porch smoking my pipe. That was his way of asking for some. He knew not to come through the gate because he knew I'd still shoot him even though we were on fair terms. I just couldn't have my property tainted and I let him know that because a man needs a reason for his doing or not doing if he's going to abide by either. So, I'd get up from my rocker and slip that goofy nigger a pinch of bacca through the fence and he'd be on his way, struttin like he owned the road and the trees alongside it. The only thing that whipped him now was the sun and his own stupidity. I reckon old curses don't change they just sublimate, but that nigger was going to make the best of it or be both damned and defeated.

Pretty good.

This is good, clear prose. The only part that snags a bit is:
> It was so heavy in their hearts, that New York, the home they'd warned him about, had finally touched them, deeply and resoundingly, like the weight of a car bearing down, crushing and unrelenting.
My sense is that the knotted syntax here is deliberate, trying to capture how painful it is for this guy to look squarly at his grief, but it is just not tuned quite right yet I think.

Carry on, fellow Texan.

bump

Sorry for the poor phrasing. Thanks. Mind if I ask your professional/academic background? Not that it will change the merit in your critique, I am just curious as to your experience.

Bad. Very bad. It's so plain that you just want to write the word nigger.

SHIT NIGGER

DO YOU REALLY EXPECT ME TO READ ALL THE BACKSTORY AND EXPOSITION.

Was this written for teenage girls?

WOOOOOWWW so like she says she's spontaneous but she's not.. wew.. that one will stick with me

Heh. I pieced it together for this thread. It was the first thing that came to my mind and I went with it.

It's like you're just listing what's happening, which makes you seem impatient as a writer.

Here’s a real teen who’s already racked up some major life experience, and a hell of a lot of fucking experience. Janice Griffith could hardly wait until her 18th birthday to sign on the dotted line and get busy sucking man-wang and shoving as much dick as possible in her moist pussy walls. She’s even already gotten some good anal experience from the industry’s resident good boy/bad boy James Deen, in his Evil Angel "Sex Tapes” series, so we know she’s in good hands, and on good cock. Janice is a fiery sex kitten whose cute face and innocent smile could break the Internet before she even lets one perky little tit out of her blouse. She can sport hipster glasses or fill out a nice evening dress, but what really counts is her rock-hard birthday suit. Light as a feather, you could lift her up on the tip of your boner and spin her around like a horny meat puppet. Her pussy is a treasure trove of tangy sweetness that glistens with excitement when she holds her flaps wide open and invites you in for a taste.

That's shit and you know it.

Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I thought this was a pretty promising excerpt. I think the mingling of the Aesopian/parable-ish tone with pomo authorial reflexiveness is an interesting tact. I think you have a good ear for dialogue that has the right surreal pitch. My only gripe is all the adjectives. Winnow out some of those adjectives. Also make sure you are using the word "aplomb" the way you want to.

You are very kind - but I agree that I am limited in using my own voice by the genre in question. Here's an opening from something else I'm writing that forgoes any sense of those Post Modern quirks or whatever - it is, intentionally, kind of heightened prose though, so bear that in mind: docs.google.com/document/d/14-bMd4YC4JarMkfca2HoEzcU95lrTNDGLbs1CuwpjVs/edit?usp=sharing

Believe what you want bro.

Your second and third sentences aren't sentences. I know rules are for squares and all, but it looks like they could be formatted into the previous line easily. Before even getting through the whole second line I was already thinking "damn, if only the first line had just had a colon at the end or something." I'm not suggesting that change in specific though.

>The time is 23:35 and P. Pritchard sits shotgun in Bob Monday’s station wagon
I dislike how Bob Monday is smuggled in here. It isn't actually confirmed that he's in the driver's seat right now, but I'm just expected to make that jump. On it's own, I think the line would be better if you instead said "station wagon of Bob Monday," to make it clear you're moving on to Bob instead of just sneaking him in, but the problem is that in the context of the paragraph it might be better to end on the Wagon since your next move is to talk about the peopleoutside the wagon (which is, of course "with respect to the wagon"). Either pick your poison or make a larger change here. I also don't think mentioning Bob at the start of the excerpt is doing you much good either right now; "Bob Monday" still feels like the first time I'm really seeing him, and again, it's shaky. I don't think you can treat him as someone who's already been introduced unless that just has to do with how this is an excerpt.

There's also something unbelievable about him driving at breakneck speed. We were just show a bunch of people on the sidewalks, yet there aren't a bunch of cars? From my experience it's usually both or neither.

You're also flipping back and forth from person to person rather quickly without giving me much to hold on to. Besides names, the only trademark I really got on anyone was the green bob the girl had, but I'd already thrown in a filler image of Elaine Benes from Seinfeld and now I'm feeling liek I have to replace her with that chick from Scott Pilgrim. Your buddy in the passenger seat is Costanza, Bob is some halfway between Camus and Kramer, and your bassist boys -- whose names I've already forgotten -- are the Weasely twins from (the) Harry Potter (movies). You're giving me a lot of blanks, but instead of doing it on purpose to try and draw from the reader's experience, it really seems more like you're just skipping past things you don't want to talk about. Is it a fear of pedantry or something? tfw dfw?

>and how he barely even knows the people around him
For fucks sake, why'd you even name anyone besides Bob and Pritchard? Is this just focusing on him now? It didn't seem like he was paying attention to anything but what he was doing. What's the purpose of your narrator?

Someone did say they liked it in a prior thread. That too could potentially be samefagging, but he isn't making it up on the spot at least.

>It's the only thing I've ever seen on this board that isn't completely cringey and belabored.
then it's probably the only thing you've ever read on this board