Let's see those first paragraphs

let's see those first paragraphs

of what I'm currently reading?

In 1933 appeared a slim volume: Edinburgh Essays on Scots Literature. Its extravagant subtitle
– Being a Course of Lectures delivered at the University of Edinburgh by Members of the English
Department and Others – recognised the rare event it recorded: sustained attention to
Scottish literature in a university English Department in Scotland. In the Preface, Herbert
Grierson – editor of the Letters of Walter Scott – acknowledged they were in part response to
complaints about the neglect of Scottish literature. Edwin Muir, reviewing the volume,
commented ‘it would be better for Scottish literature to languish in its time-honoured
neglect, if this is the only publicity it can secure’.

preferably of what you're writing

ahhh...

Red kidney beans
Patates
Cabbage
Carrots
Onions
Garlic
Beef

nice

I'd read.

They say that magpies steal shiny things - not because they really love shiny things - but because they are scared of them. They collect shiny things and hoard them in their nest so that they know where they are. That way, the shiny things can’t lurk in the shrubbery and woodland, waiting to ambush innocent magpies. A magpie doesn’t know that these things are harmless, when they’re flying and see light reflecting off these shiny things and into their eyes, they don’t know it’s harmless light. What if it’s a living being - a cyborg - beaming lasers in their eyes to disorient them, sending the innocent bird twirling diagonally into prickly tree bark. The magpie could be left vulnerable to predators, what if the shiny things are working with birds of prey? For this reason it makes sense for the magpies to imprison the shiny things in their shaded nests. The magpie never observes the shiny things afterwards, and sees that they are harmless, they just fly out to look for more immediately afterwards without giving it a second thought. I wonder if any magpie has ever learnt the truth.

twitter would love it
you'd make made cayshe

I am considering the idea of a literally circular kind of text. It's easy to conceive short sentences of this type, like 'X is Y is X is Y...'. but it's harder for longest projects

I actually like this a fair amount. It's funny, poetic and clear. I like that you actually had a subject to write about rather than just using flowery language to depict the life of a basement dweller like most Veeky Forums excerpts.

Cool, user. I like it.

it's absolutely disgusting, i'm aware

-

A halberd cleaved the Duke’s head in two.

He had seen it coming. Yet he had spurred his horse onwards, yet he had kept his posture straight. Yet he had held his head high and his spear couched, out of dogged hope in the blade sliding off, breaking, cracking or out of sheer disbelief in his own mortality, as if his squinty eyes could melt the metal in a fraction of a second or cut the halberd's shaft by the pure force of their stare.

The blade creased his skin, and even then the Duke refused to accept his fate, driving his head into the sharply closing horizon between his eyes. And then the blade split his nose, his furrowed brows and a single lock of hair, then it split his nose bridge, his upper lip, his nostrils almost perfectly at the center, and then, only then, the Duke yielded.

The rumble of the battle raging around him dissolved in silence, the ringing in his ears in a quiet hum. A sergeant screamed his name and another cursed it, sword hit sword and a bird chirped. A call and a curse, a sword and a bird were the last sounds he heard.

I like it user.

Bacchus stroked his prominent and diamond-encrusted jaw and drank from his grand goblet a draft of red wine, artificially aged for twelve centuries, pondering what he might take for his breakfast – perhaps some traditional American cuisine, or a taste of the finest offerings of the Nordic peoples; maybe even a sampling of the exotic stylings of the Orientals or Africans? As he issued a command to his robotic attendants for more Colombian powder, he came to his usual conclusion, as all men of the pimphood are naught to do – he would have them all. He brought down his mighty cane upon the marbled floor, and the dishes were lined up: four of the planet’s finest asses, laid out before him. Bacchus dined voraciously upon their sculpted curvatures and was fulfilled, for, as a pimp, he had surpassed the merely human need to eat. The hoes were carried away at the clash of the cane, for now Bacchus’ day could truly commence. As he returned to his ponderous position, the grand scrying pool began to bubble; he waved his hands absentmindedly, and the hoes beneath him hoisted his throne high into the air, carrying him to the pool’s edge. Bacchus threw a gold doubloon into the waters, and the shrill sounds of the voice of Little Ricky, the head of his Ro-Bo-Hoes division, resounded throughout the tantric temple.

Unironically good which is rare for Veeky Forums

I love this concept, good work user

this is fucking garbage

I like the detail

The little vessel made of scraps plowed a path through the water. The hull had the appearance of an egg shell broken into many pieces and held together tenuously by an unseen force and where the water splashed on its surface the light caught on patches of roughness and revealed deformities invisible to the eye.

>tfw you're shit at writing at don't know how to get better
Never should have dropped out of English

Dropping out of English is what made me a better writer m8, especially since you aren't reading the nonsense they assign to you anymore and have time to read what you actually want to read

But my writing is still shit

fuck off crab

Dark waves broke over the bow of the ship, washing the decks in icy water and foam. The engines strained against the wind and rain, their acid fumes choking those working below. In guest rooms mothers held their crying children and lovers comforted one another against the storm raging outside the thick metal walls.

What about writing is giving you trouble user?

I don't know what makes good writing

Then you ought to read more! You have plenty of time to start writing pal

most of the battle is avoiding the bad writing

The 68 Mustang screamed down the road like a burning nightmare, and stuck to the tarmac as if it was a lover in heat. Roaring along the forest road, the window opened and out of the cigarette lit cabin, a crushed can of Keith’s was birthed. After a moment, the car began to swerve a little, a wolf nipping at anything that moved to quick at it’s sides; in response the driver pressed the gas just that little more. Inside, Kevin Samson wondered if his bare knuckles would pop through the skin. Kevin stole a glimpse of the passenger seat, the eight pack of brew was going to be finished by the time he landed in Lowe-Talbot. Lowe-Talbot, population 4,251 pricks and one red head named Jane, who qualified as bitch, thought Kevin. Fifteen years in Don Jail Toronto, and she had the fucking gall to sleep with that swine Neal. Neal, that name made Kevin grip the wheel even tighter; that bastard, that shit, that scum sucker snitch; how would he like to spend time in the slammer? Kevin thought about what he was going to do, when he finally arrived in that dying port town; start with the Snub-nose he picked up in Moose Factory sure, use that on ole Neal (not kill him mind you just a gut shot); then work them both slow and loud with a crowbar. Kevin nodded his head and licked his lips at the coming carnage. TSOL’s Nothing For You blasted out of the radio, it only fanned the fires of his mood. With one hand he ripped a can from beside and with his teeth, popped it open. Then the thing walked onto the road.

But how to you know the good from the bad?

You will know when you are calm, at peace, passive.

Either that, or check out bad writing that you aren't emotionally invested in. For an example of extremely bad writing I'd recommend fanfiction, that's how I got my compass years ago. It only points towards feces though. Read genre fiction, amateur novels and so on and see why you hate them. It will not be hard to see the parallels between your own work and such stuff. Weird phrasing, sentences that make you despise the author, excessive length, meandering plot, fanservice, narcissism, flat characters that only there because something has to, sometimes it will feel more like a bad daydream than a book. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Actively seek out literature that everyone hates so you can have a proper conception of what not to write

Soooo ugh, welcome to my book. In this book we'll have a few characters who will get into a few problems and will try their best to solve them. Without further ado, let's jump right in.

Best so far.

now post the 2nd paragraph

This is really bad. I'd start over.

yeah, pull him back into the bucket, crab

I'm at a very early stage. I'll make sure to post the entire book here once I'm sure it's complete.

Here goes.


Let us begin our journey with the whisper of an elk. These whispers call to our sensibilities to the forefront, and allow our breath to find its rhythm. Without these subtle elk whispers, no motion of wind would settle itself alongside our clumsy spirits. This is a tragedy that shant be mentioned in polite society. Our criminal vices may allow our crassness its local bend, though it cannot be wise to restrict ourselves for such little gain.

Bonus second paragraph.

So too our detractors, lacking in political and frankly any variety of grace, do fall into the metal jaws bears so frequently find themselsves desperate to wrench their legs from. We shall pity these bears of little sense, track them to their dens and dispatch them. They will rest in their ursal paradise and we, rid of them, shall return to spirits and wind with little ado.

*call our

"Pretty face little one"

"Please ignore me"

"How could anyone ignore what brings the hand close without the meddle of the mind"

"Stop talking like that"

And then they began walking. The pretty one kicking pebbles and the eloquent deceiver of eloquence doing his best to increase the sphere of his influence.

>Stately, plump Bam Margera came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.

hmm feel like i've read something like this some where before...

>The apartment is silent when she wakes. Yet slowly sound returns. First, the rain, crackling upon the window like white silence. She rises slightly from the bed and she hears her mother snoring like a frog. She smiles, staring at the sleeping face beside her, which not some hours ago indulged in intemperance. She fully rises from the bed, her soles sinking into the carpet as she listens to the muffled bedlam of her neighbors. Feet stamp, locks turn, doors open and shut, speakers blare; she focuses on two voices arguing above her. She cannot discern each word, yet she can hear a few: unemployed, debt, and fault.

It was autumn, if my memory serves me right. A more artistic minded person might call it ‘fall’, as it was the season when I fell for you. But I, unfortunately, am not, and so I have to resort to lower standards of expressing the inexpressible.

The bullet struck sparks as it skidded off the wall behind him; Callahan swore, pushed his hat closer to his head, and drew his own revolver. The gunshots were so cutting and clear through the clamor of the crowd that it dispersed like thrown sand, scattering to reveal in its thinning midst his quarry: a tall, pale, emaciated man holding in one hand a metal suitcase and in the other a smoking semiautomatic.

Before I can get to the intended subject matter I have to give a bit of background as to the character whom I will be relating to you. I must also stress that there is nothing to take badly here, and to bear patience with me and perhaps even a little suspension of your morals, for I will mean nothing harmful by what I'm about to say. Nobody has to have their feelings hurt by this, and I protest that what I have to sayis not offensive even from the most sensitive point of view. It isn't satire, is what I'm saying. The character I have to write about was born in July of 1997 in Connecticut. She was born a male but knew from the start her true gender. As early as elementary school she continuously conceived of herself as a female and by middle school had grown out long hair and wore increasingly androgynous clothing

Reads like what I imagine Tao Lin to read like
How about "yet still" on the second yet a and a similar or the same modification to the third? I don't get the bird, took me out of it.
goblet to cup
would be better to simply say cocaine
robotic doesn't fit nicely here I don't have any love for elk.

He was attracted to her but his balls were dry. Completely passionless against the buffet of pussy surrounding him, he was totally impotent. This is why he did not, and had not, ever fucked a woman. Among friends, watching volleyball tournaments, he pretended to be aroused by their flesh, but in a way he was not pretending at all because he had always known that he was attracted to them, that he had desired them, but his brain and penis were dissonant notes, his penis telling him to stay relaxed and slouch back, his brain burning with all its might telling to hunt and to go in for the kill. He hunted, day and night, but when the moments came he could never sink his claws in that flesh, could never go in for the kill, could never produce a throbbing member to slit the throat and crack the neck of his own personal impotence. He was in the car once with this girl, and this girl had fucked his older brother in the past, but that was the past, and in the car was the present, presently he sat with her she kissed him he made out with her like mad, got her clothes all off and neatly folded into the corner seat and he was going crazy, absolutely crazy with the thought that he might do it, he might really make it, but he produced the member and she sucked on it for a while in a futile way and then broke down crying and drooling and she was vulnerable and he had broken her and that was that.

have the character doing something and describe how he does it to give a general picture of the character

>no allusion to the school system
Thankfully so

Two cowboys with an unknown number of cows rode into a town. There they sold their cows, at a rate of as many dollars as they own cows per cow. With the profit they made they purchased lambs, which cost them seven dollars each - a price that netted them an uneven number of them. To make sure neither would get the short end of the stick that day they decided on a simple deal: one cowboy gave his harmonica to the other, who let the prior take the extra lamb. The sheriff, a mathematician well-versed in the field of modular arithmetic, watched this exchange and asked Franklin, his broomboy, how much he would pay for a harmonica. "Roundabout four bucks, sir." - "Well that's quite reasonable."

Good tip, removed robotic and changed powder

This is horrid, why this is something you thought was anything of any worth astonishes me

Has some indented breaks, but I think it's a paragraph.

Wrote this last year. About the only thing I was happy about for the whole story (which was 13000 words or so.)

How happy I was last night—how immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in your life you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about eight o'clock I awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that I always like to sleep for a short hour after my work is done)—I awoke, I say, and, lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write, and trimmed my pen. Then suddenly, for some reason or another, I raised my eyes—and felt my very heart leap within me! For you had understood what I wanted, you had understood what my heart was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner of the curtain in your window had been looped up and fastened to the cornice as I had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your dear face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at me from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were thinking of me. Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish your sweet face clearly! For there was a time when you and I could see one another without any difficulty at all.

Jeffery woke up with an airbag in his face and red and blue lights in his rear view mirror. It was at this moment that he decided to stop being gay.

can you tell me why you think so

Did he crash cuz of homosex?

Not him, but it sounds like something from Venture Bros lol

It comes to me in patches of fog. Once the basic structure is filled in then I'll go over the paragraphs for re-stylizing and arrange the structure. So I'm at all sure what the first paragraph is.

post feet

As I holstered myself, visions of an already miserable immigrant coming home too early danced in my head. Would he understand the peculiarly North American arrangement his wife and I had negotiated betwen ourselves? Would his conspicuously primitive sensibilities permit him to fathom the sheer depth of human nobility that permeated his otherwise proletarian bedroom during his daily absence? I did not intend to find out.

>mfw Veeky Forums unironically likes my paragraph

Something was wrong out there in the field past the hyacinths. There was a slight reverberation in the air, causing the vision to jiggle and slight discomfort in the brain. Osis shielded his eyes from the sun and fought past the creeping sensation of nausea as he scanned the field for Rover. There was no tell tale glint of sunlight off the dogs metal back, no tail discernible in the chest high stalks of wheatgrass. Up above Osis, the dome that held the artificial atmosphere in winked at him. Somewhere, up there was his mother.