Critique Thread

Post your original work. Other anons crtitique. Be cool, but constructive.

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Other urls found in this thread:

drive.google.com/file/d/1Sq4ycrhk3znXzB5Nwvf14vQT2dL5uOdX/view?usp=drivesdk
pastebin.com/dzJGsTcH
youtube.com/watch?v=_zBrM1XiXRQ
youtube.com/watch?v=T4bTq16OXF8
twitter.com/NSFWRedditImage

>Be cool, but constructive.
Let me tear up your asshole. I have no talent of my own but I darn sure like criticizing

Be as harsh as you like, but give reasons why.
drive.google.com/file/d/1Sq4ycrhk3znXzB5Nwvf14vQT2dL5uOdX/view?usp=drivesdk

On the fifth day he rose from his bed.

hmmm

*checks mirror*

*burp*

hehe

All I will say is that when it comes to screenwriting, you should have far less action/description. This is what a director is for. Read a few leaked scripts and see just how much is left to the director in terms of action and stage direction.

[user exits, pursued by bear]

I did, and they are pretty descriptive as far tv scripts go.

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A bike, that covered enough
Miles that no one
Would object to it
If it gave up right now,
Was set against the wall
Enduring the coldness
Of another winter.

Besides it, stands a man
Whose posture carried
The characteristics of rebellion.

A bell ringed.


Just saw a man in the cold waiting for his son in front of a school. Wrote a poem about it.

“Great warrior,” says the ego to itself,

“we stand at a crossroads.

Before us lies a great, yawning light.

But this light does not bring clarity,

it does not bring joy,

rather,

it brings confusion,

it brings despair.

So:

do we run, retreating into the darkness?

Or,

do we join the great, jump in,

and accept death?”

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classic

Unironically phenomenal prose until you ruin it with over-the-top try hard irony

ew

Not very good. It just reads as generic and cliche, it reminds me almost of Rupi Kuar in its structure. The first line about a great warrior was just enough to put me off. Keep trying though.
Pretty good, though I feele you are restraining yourself a bit. Dig deeper into the picture, find things that aren't obvious. Look at the image you saw from a different point of view, and try to see what angles you can get. The posture carrying the characteristics of rebellion was a nice line.

Anyway here is mine. Rip me apart, yo.

pastebin.com/dzJGsTcH

it's eloquent, it's easy to read but it doesn't feel like a child wrote it,

I read half of it though, can't comment on the ending because I should be studying right now

That episode of Lost was co-written with the director, JJ Abrams, which explains the directorial notes in the text. In your circumstance, which is "on spec," is right about directorial specifics.

The dialog will limit your market choices to premium cable, which leaves out a lot of possibilities. The middle sags, like most middles, while we introduce all the characters and places and relationships, like drinking vodka outside in the middle of the day. Haven't today's late teens thought up any new and different ways to be delinquent?

I don't think you mean to black out the "screen" before the street lights, since that would mean we (viewers) won't be able to see the street lights go out. And presumably all the lights go out, not just the street lights. If this is going where it looks.

I would think really very hard about every word that every characters speaks. Not only from the point of view of "would viewers want to hear this line" and "does this line propel us forward in the story" but also, and this is television so dying for art is out of the question, "are there actors out there who would want to read this line, take this part, be remembered for their careers as this character?"

Because Hollywood thinks that way.

Finally, do the rules for TV elide the normal movie screenplay convention of capitalizing on-screen props that are required and sound effects that must be generated? Like AXE instead of "axe" and SIREN instead of "siren?" Because I took hell from some agent at a meet and greet one time for not doing it right. First thing, before the content even registered. They are prickly about that stuff.

I got through on the strength of the conceit. We are in the tradition of Paradiso, all the way through to Heaven Can Wait, and What Dreams May Come.

Each new detail made me less happy to continue. It is possible this can turn around, but the mysteries are all unhappy and obviously the pious will hate it. I hope it is not a theological polemic masquerading as fiction. An interesting start that needs to really pay off to become something.

"Aisle 28."

I am the watchman.
Alone in the warehouse.
Long after everybody has packed up, gone home and gone to sleep, I alone walk the aisles.
It is easy work.
Make sure nobody enters.
Prevent theft or trespassing.
Myself, my flask and my flashlight.
Trusty companions.
Loud tonight.
There is a strong wind howling against the metal shell of the building.
I pass aisle 10.
I do a rap-atap-tap atop a box of shoes. Same as every night.
A whole lot of stock in this place.
Clothes, footwear, confectionary.
Its my duty to keep it in place.
I stroll up aisle 18.
Rap-atap-tap on a box of jeans.
The wind is picking up.
Howling like a madman.
Aisle 24. Rap-atap-tap to a box of ladies blazers.
I turn up aisle 28.
I freeze.
My flashlight hits the floor.
A solitary box sits in the centre of the aisle.
"HELLO WATCHMAN" scrawled on the front in black ink.
I'm not alone.
The wind shrieks.

An excerpt.

Mine is in the form of a video
youtube.com/watch?v=_zBrM1XiXRQ

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once a poet plead my court
willing death but never loss

loving even past her life
her song his soul's only breath

but unmoved I bid him go
I own no tears, only gold

so words failing he just stood
quiet in my court with woe

though he played with peerless skill
it was only silence found

sprung from granite tears of lead
no pain worse than words unsaid

drowned in river waters his
bloated corpse rose once again

singing joy reunion found
dead and floating down the river

Polygon Cathedral/American Poetry

Here, I Am standing
with my body
in Polygon Cathedral.

The mechanical force
of its emptiness Surges
among the cybernetic light
of rigid colored windows
and the unsounding
organ Within me.

Now I Am sitting, Here
my unfurled eyelids
expose the 62—Furiously
counted 1 September—miles
between them and
the pupils, the dark
transparent mounds
that birth and devour
Earthy irises incessantly.

Pixels of borrowed window
seep into the 62
and torment the cloudy
figures There—the Gods of
walking down the stairs
and digging a hole
and finding things
you've never seen
and putting things
you've never seen
into the Ground—
with quick bursts of light.

* * * *

It Is outside, Now
there are friends
to talk to and everything
is green or grey.

I can look at This
animal before me
being American Poetry,
firm and shadowy,
while a harsh
intangible landscape
flickers in my eyes.

pic related, it me

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please Psyche set me free
I'm searching for a ghost

my visitor at night
a lonely heart and soul

please lover, love me true

a lamb with burning breath
a monster in the night

I fear my loves all see
a truth I cannot fight

please psyche tell me true
I'm searching for a ghost

and in a box I've put
my heart and all my hope

is buried in my chest
is it all only death?

and Zephyr has me now
and all that's really left

please tell me Psyche, shall
he dash me dead against

the rocks below this cliff?

youtube.com/watch?v=T4bTq16OXF8

I didn’t not enjoy this, user

I quite enjoyed this, user

oh I see what was wrong with it?

He stares up out of his blue face at the wall; placidly drunk on this month’s obsession, a small game his Dad says looks like a smeared Jackson what’s-his-name-it-starts-with-a-P painting, N.L faces himself with a wall of no feature, uniform in its plainness, a writing board for thoughts -what am I doing--it’s 4 a.m--I’ve wasted another day- which then sit back relaxed in a blue headed swivel of another effortless hour. It’s placid, the whole thing, very usually placid with all kinds of colors and violence and N.L’s placid face and loud, tuned out fans that race against the heat-loving circuits and wires that N.L expensively one summer put together when the money he had been saving, he found out belatedly, would no longer be of use in the same way he thought it would be. Now, drunk as he is, he finds peace and forgiveness in the GPU, “gibber pof u”, and a small Keep On Truckin’ sticker on the side with transparent plastic where red lights flicker their way through. R. Crumb, Keep On Truckin’ guy, he left some fat woman, his then wife, one night without telling her in January of 1967, hitching a ride to that LSD hazey San Francisco, and he, ugly, awful, and perverted as he is, and as his work -is-, slithered his way into a success, kept on truckin’ as it were, and, as it is, a semi-sometimes role model to N.L, who he himself finds to be ugly, awful, and perverted. He holds on to those things, N.L, in a self-identifying way, a way that maybe makes him less threatening, maybe appealing almost to where, through self depreciation that N.L assumes as his humor identifier, people could think of him as like the funny, nice, self aware guy, and look at his premature balding, his thick eyebrows and glasses and stupid voice, his pudgy, over-sat body, and his weird thing with eye contact, maybe they could look at these things as if, with self depreciation, he knows they know, so that they know he knows they know, and everyone can have a laugh and he can be a normal, non-threatening person assuredly and without doubt, no doubt. But N.L. doubts that people know. Not that they’re too stupid to know, no, it’s just that N.L doesn’t afford the opportunity, doesn’t go outside very much anymore, and, when he does, he doesn’t say much to people who wouldn’t want to hear his negativity anyway, even though on occasion he’s ignored their dry faces to say -hope you didn’t have to get up at the ass crack of dawn just to serve little ol’ me some coffee- to which a dry face breathy haha walks away quickly to a no customer silence. N.L, after such occasions, ruminates, abandons cafes, plans future hellos and thank yous to be shorter and never agains to never happen again, spends more time in blue light, spends more time in his awfulness, sleeps longer, and finally needs a double shot espresso in order to make it through work for the last few hours.

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I quite enjoyed this, user

The flip to the girl realizing she's consumed with "gear" felt pretty misplaced at first. Like maybe there should have been a pause there. The word gear too felt misplaced. It was a subtle feeling I got though cause on second watch it seemed fine idk

does anyone else use pitch as a describer for [any color] rather than just solely black, like pitch orange.
>the sky was pitch orange

Is there a place where I can get critique on my showtunes? I like writing musicals, but I feel this place is attuned more towards genuine literature.

the pitch of the brown bark faded grazingly into the shade of the dark dirt.

>

the pitch of the setting sun echoed its lights onto the soft beckoning sky

Thanks user you're right though I'm messing with this format for the first time, next video is gonna be about stoners.

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Thanks dude. It's a pretty early draft so I may revamp the middle part entirely. I don't plan on sending it in to an agent any time soon because the market for "YA" stuff like this is a bit over-saturated.
That vodka scene is personal experience from when I was one edgy motherfucker

I had a delinquent buddy who used to roam the suburban neighborhood and whenever he found a lawn sprinkler of the flat hose type, like a ribbon of green hose with holes poked every foot or so, he'd rearrange the hose into a swastika, or spell out SATAN in cursive. No actual property damage, but the effect registered.

=.=

Even strangers with a chance
To engage me
In mutual tolerance
And tobacco sharing.
Our noses drawn together
Brace a shield
Erected by my Particular Nature.
Idiot nature, keeps me from
The culture of my peers.

I hang before them
A marble apparition,
Sable and demure
Luminous and excellent. Or,
Such is a necessary picture
To keep of my form,
So I may imbibe the impression
That my strangeness is unrecognized beauty.

I assert that it is,
And I do not feel bad
To be unrecognized.

Though I wish I could be
Closer to the cultures,
My prayers dribble over the great shield
And leap to fill the chests
Of my far-away friends.

The way you held out your hand expecting me to hold it.
How you took me for walks so we could kiss in private.
When you'd lean on my shoulder and nuzzle my neck,
or wrap your arms around me as we wrestled to fall asleep.
These are the things you didn't say that told me you loved me.

When I drove hours to visit you when you were away at school,
or how I'd surprise you with flowers picked fresh from the side of the road.
All the times I cradled you in my arms to calm your anxieties,
and how I made a fool of myself to bring you back around.
These are the things I didn't say that told you I loved you.

That night you told me i made you feel safe,
or when I insisted that you were beautiful, even if you didn't believe it yourself.
The way we called each other cute,
or exchanged lyrics while listening to our favorite love songs.
These are the things we said that meant I love you, without either of us ever uttering the words.

Nothing. I said I did not NOT like it

Now that's quality edge right there

God I wish I were that bird.

They say failure
lets you learn
and loneliness
makes you want to speak,

but I've failed plenty
been lonely
and never learned a thing
or felt compelled to speak,

so then,
shall I simply
make everything work?
Shall I simply seek
the greatest company?

Come close, ancient poets.
Come close, wisdom that eludes me.
Teach me your way with words.
Fill my heart with the lightness
of being.

"Fuck you," the poets say.
"Get a grip," reality agrees.

Fair enough,
that's certainly fair enough.

Suppose I'll try another path.
The best ones are too dirty.

Some might call it sappy, but I found it pleasant, personally. The reader can actually picture a lot of concrete things and get a sense for the characters.

Hello ThreePenny Review algorithm,

Please find attached here subsequently for your consideration and review/2-day automated form rejection, my story, "Venetian Blindness," a picaresque whimsy of a tale about a blossoming affluent young naïf who finds herself, most unexpectedly, on a vacation in Venice where who should she encounter but her estranged mother, Lenora, a disgraced painter who seems to be regressing into girlhood just as her daughter is blossoming into a canny womanhood. Will these two women meet somewhere on their converging paths of maturity and establish a bonhomie, perhaps even a familial love, or will they both just get fucked in the ass by an escaped silverback gorilla for ten pages? Read on to find out.

Best wishes,
Zoel Stirner

BIO: I'M COVERED IN FUCKING ANTS

I think this is a great opening line, but I have a problem with

>spell out SATAN in cursive

I don't think you can do that to a garden hose. They're too stiff.

And can you really arrange a single hose into a swastika? I feel like it would just look like a square.

The feeling is great, but maybe you need some better examples of this kid's degeneracy?

Here's the opening to a story I'm writing for a class. I'm afraid it's too purple.

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10/10 would fucking read.

I think he means the type where there are multiple hoses with holes in them sprinkling water.

I'm looking at pictures of them online. They still look pretty stiff. Are they really that pliable? I've never seen one in real life.

haha wtf na but post them anyway

I was talking to the TV guy about creative delinquency. That guy really exists. At least I'm pretty sure he's not dead. He was an artist. Pic related.

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It's a true story.

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Your piece is very Kingsley Amis, more Difficulties With Girls than Lucky Jim. Young love always reads cute, which is bordered on either side by cutesy, and precious. A narrow path. Easy to read, it could go somewhere.

>/four/ tables

> There he stands! Do you see him? Right over there! Yes! There! He is truly disgusting, isn't he? He can look at the world, just as you can. He belongs here, just look you do, but he shouldn't. It's wrong. When you see something, you reflect, 'what is this things nature?' you ask yourself. You have doubts, but you also have compassion! You approach the world with visible melancholy detachment and sardonic humor, though there is little to no intrinsic value in existence, you can still view it with sad humor and longing. Does he even know any of those words? He pretends he does, but what garbage he spews! What are his wisdoms? Repeated nonsense from blogs and tweets and unfunny pictures he shared with his friends! You can hear what he says, but why would you want to? When you speak, it's with a sincere effort to communicate, you bring your honesty, whereas he's afraid! He's scared of being truthful, afraid of being seen as "awkward". Oh how he'll regret this as the years pass! He'll look upon his immaturity with shame! He'll see you as a lone pillar, holding the roof over your existence with a uniquely crafted personality of your own! Amidst a world of scared copies, you'll be a towering attraction of identity! The only one who resisted the tide! Who truly saw the world! Capable of thought! Reflection! Intelligence! A true man!

> Surely?

Ew. Not even cringeworthy, just all around dreadful. Read more poets

Your first paragraph is spartan compared to the third. It's kind of jarring to go from this simple language to something like "Fervent hands of sunlight," at least when you don't know what to expect. Some of this also feels a tad bit overwritten. "There wasn't a single wisp to threaten protection against the scorching sun," is just too much, imo.

Overall though, I like it. Keep up the good work.

oof I appreciate all critique but maybe a little less vague next time

thank you, user :D
critique my shit pls

>Your first paragraph is spartan compared to the third. It's kind of jarring to go from this simple language to something like "Fervent hands of sunlight," at least when you don't know what to expect. Some of this also feels a tad bit overwritten.

Exactly what I was afraid of. Thanks for the input.

Thanks