Starting a novel is one thing, but continuing to write it is another...

yeah i know you mean well but that just sounds like "just B yourself". like, if you write without being well-read wont it just be shit? ive only read maybe 200 books that Veeky Forums would consider decent because i spent a long time in a YA rut. im still quite young so i havent got any sagey experience or adventures. idk man i just dont want some shitty juvenilia. does you writing ever match the standards you hold authors writing?

The sooner you start writing the better. It's not like you're planning to publish the first thing that comes out.
First and foremost I write for myself, I simply enjoy it.

cheers m80 ill give it a go

Think of it this way, 200+ is still more than the average fag writing some YA genreshit has read. Also reading is only half the process, you have to constantly be writing to really improve. Not necessarily novels all the time but anything that requires some creative effort.

When you first start writing, you need to do two things. You need to learn to imitate, and you need to learn to be authentic. These things are not polar opposites. You need to retreat into your most private self and flesh and realise the moments of life that speak to you as an individual, as a lonely human. You need to see this clearly, and you need to notice when it hums and strings with the lines of another writer, how it resonates, why, how he does so, why his music is more beautiful. You need to understand yourself and your life, and you need to understand how others must match up to that; the paradox of two individuals feeling alone together.

I don't get the appeal of this kind of prose. It might be flashy and seem really impressive, but to me the real beauty is when more is expressed with less. Stream of consciousness has to be really fucking refined for me to enjoy it, OP's text for example just reads like random ramblings to me.

But then again I just might be a huge pleb.

It's not about reading, it's about *thinking*

Experiment to learn. Writing is about learning to make judgements about what you have written. Write 1000 words and then judge what you need to do.

For me concrete ideas/themes are more important in the inception of writing than how it reads. Get those ideas in writing first, then refine the prose (i.e. how the ideas are expressed) later.

Being "well-read" will facilitate your writing. It will highlight whether other authors have had the same ideas and how they have chosen to express themselves. If your ideas are similar, you might still be able to express them in a different way. I used to feel comfort in reading texts that resonated with me. Now I feel distress that my ideas are not original. It pushes you further, motivates you.

Just fucking write though, my man. Read at the same time. A lot of alterations I make to my texts only occur because I'm reading alongside writing. It's an ongoing process.

You're not. You're a smart individual with a differing opinion. I happen to agree with you, although OP is not a bad writer, just not one that smacks of the particular honesty I crave in my own.

I like this OP. Is there any way I can follow what you're writing?

This chapter intentionally left blank.

Write and continue writing as you read. There is no set amount of reading that will suddenly turn you into a literary miracle worker. In my own writing I can see the improvements I've made from even a year ago, let alone four. I actually can't read some of my older stuff without cringing now.

there's actually a payoff with that sentence, a punchline. Papa will ask him if he's thinking or talking, and after a little back n forth the kid will start using quotation marks. Kind of a goof on The Road in that opening of that chapter

Here's the beginning of chapter 1 of that same book. I'll probably amazon/createspace it the end of summer

I'm lying down on my synthetic, cat skin, sofa, smoking type O positive laced ketamine, and listening to an audio recording of domesticated penguins having sex.

And I'm writing my masterpiece. My first Wil and testicle. Or, “My First Wil and Testicle”. It's a cop buddy screenplay about a testicle, who after being amputated from an aspiring castrato, leaves his fellow testicle to become a cop. His partner? Former child star, Wil Wheaton.

But all of this writing is giving me jaundice, so I throw the manuscript into the air, demanding it stays there, floating, until I have need of it later. I stab myself in the upper back with my pen, and twist it in until it's about halfway in, and secure, then throw the ketamine pipe on top of my tombstone. Rest in peace, pipe.

Food. I need energy after sucking down horse tranquilizer all day, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And night. And day. And all of the night. Chinese baby pizza. No, you sick fucks, it's not made out of Chinese babies. What kind of monster do you think I am? It's made by Chinese babies. To help pay off debts, some farmers in China sell their excess babies into pizzeria slavery. The ethics are a little sketchy, but damn, these pizzas are incredible. Honey bee crust. Delicious.

When I was older, I couldn't find the ingredients to make even the most basic of pizzas. Pepperoni had been gone for years, hunted to extinction by radical vegan extremists. We thought it an isolated series of incidents, the pepperonis didn't disappear overnight, but one morning we woke from our beds, turned on the television, and the president told us that the very last pepperoni in the world had been destroyed. If the death of pepperoni had been a long drawn out whimpering fart, the death of cheese was a sudden and completely unanticipated diarrhea shit storm violent explosion of a fart. Fuck all that noise, I had decided to revert to my younger self. In a world of pizza.

I'm running late for work. I go to my bathroom and induce vomiting to get rid of the pizza. I need room in my stomach for work, plus I plan to transition to a life of shirtlessness soon, and don't need to build up any excess fat. Brush my teeth, dry them off with an old pair of underwear, and then rub superglue over them. This helps fight the acidity of vomit that attacks the enamel. I look in the mirror and recite my reverse Gatsby opener affirmation before the glue seals my lips to my teeth.

“In my older and less vulnerable days my mother sold me some advice that I tend to forget every day. Whenever you feel like praising any one, just forget that some of the people in this world have had every advantage that you never did.”

I put on two thirds of a shirt (Small incremental steps are best when transitioning to a shirtless lifestyle) and crawl out of my window, ready for work.

The majority of the book will be written as follows, see

If you have read regularly just start writing.

That's how almost all writers start. They are readers. They regularly read books. Then they start writing. There is no number, or set canon to start with.

At first you're going to sound like your biggest influences. This happens to everyone. After short story and short story, and as your tastes vary, eventually you'll start finding your own voice without even realizing it.

What stops most people is that they think they are gonna be shit. And they are. There's no way around it. It's just like any other skill.

It's doubly tough on the psyche of a writer or artist. Because you have built up taste to some degree. You know what good writing is to you when you read it. And you'll know that your stuff will not be anything like that when you read it, it will be hard to bullshit yourself.

It's ok to write shit. You'll improve.

LOL so randum! xD Penguin sex ROFL. Was it teh penguin of doom?

Writing any old crap that comes into your head and trying to make it sound edgy just comes across lazy.
I hope this was nothing more than a writing exercise where you tried to make a story out of a bunch of randomly generated words like testicle, pizza and superglue

see a few posts above yours for the explanation, the whole of the book is not written in that way

oh nvm, that part is legit, the book will read like that

>cringe. there are so many jokes dedicated to cringe. so many comics and sketches telling us about the oh so hilarious things we do when we remember something embarrassing. why? because our brains are assholes, whats more, they are stupid. they were not intelligently designed but molded by eons of happenstance and so they are filled with as many glitches as it could afford to have for its recipient to stay alive until it was able to spread it's seed. one of those glitches is to remember in detail our worst moments so it can be sure we don't repeat them. every moment of cringe is our own personal holocaust memorial day.

Made me cringe.

"Goddammit."

...

1/2
paragraph of my 2nd chapter.
wat think?

2

AND SHES GAZING AT PICTURES ON HER PHONE TRANSPOSED FROM SCANNERS AT THE PHARMACY OF HER MOTHER SMILING IN A DISTANT WAY OR UNNAPRECIATIVE WAY AT THE CAMERA OR WHO STOOD BEHIND IT IN THESE GRAINY PHOTOGRAPHS AND REMINDS HERSELF THAT SHE don’t live in your mothers nightmare of purchasing, of surfaces-as-living in her life, changing by the acquisition of new things.
her mother had everything but found that slowly and gradually things faded to the point that that surfaces

weren’t so lit-up as before like moviescreens shined up because their star and source of life slowly fades— slowing rotation of her possessions ceasing to be novel & interesting & becoming transparent and stupid and all pretty mess of her face and hair (very expensive) and clothing, the drapes, the backyard, the playhouse, sweaters of the dog, fad excercise equipment and wallpaper and foreign paintings around the house and the weird giant volcanic rock coffee table and gigantic white house and white couch and pool and all these things eventually becoming clear and windy in the passage of time; because while they still made money, mom and dad, they found themselves in the american cycle of surfaces changing on a loop of scenery like the flinstones, surface slip thru you like knock-off death kitsch health products & medication, a facade flitting by of life spending-as-moving but all their surfaces didn’t add up and everything starts to feel kind of peculiar after a while almost like your in a lit up room where you don’t belong but feels really insular and familiar because its a weird sad waste after a while like you don’t belong here because everything is just surfaces well lit like an office in a high window floats randomly in a city. all these artifacts which change but in their fast-quick moving coming going and falling apart (to pliant and support the goods economy) become invisible the faster they move like fanblades and you see yourself flickering still behind as a display element.
her illusions kind of drain away and she becomes something only visible from the outside. That is, she’d get less and less happy or less satisfied as it became more imperative she look the part: well-clothed, well-housed, well-fed but skinny, good-smelling, well-decorated, appear successful, happy, and give off the impression that you have all the material goods (and so to that end was constantly seen running to the store with a harried, insane look on her face, and if you called to her out she’d turn to you and bowl you over with conversation) she’s come to expect for a person of her age and place in society.

2/2
those things and all their iterations began to unravel and billow like frayed sheets flung all around in some vast uncontrollable wind drowning everything out in diffuse canopy, with a its branches twisted entwined and violent exploding like they’re fireworks of life, flying out into rattling atmosphere which is really death of existing at all meeting the air with your fingers like lungs and staying fed so hooked past conception and walled-in by the beautiful fucking suburbs she looks out (on the patio of a department store) and suddenly feels cold— cold in the yawning blue expanse of creation— alone as child at blue dawn crossing in the middle of a valley. Hair blowing/ actually naked as when you’re born. Screaming. All the gauzy wraps of her silicon and name-brand clothing start to fall away in concussion of the wind because like i said faded to a movie screen when some light gets behind it; mangling that original image that was suggesting perfection, & rolling in the street to do some kind of violence to it. She went nutters—or i did. image becomes untenable when Annie opened a door and let the light in…

>the sunuvabitch youre spooning is jack ghallager

teehee

>having chapters

God you're stupid as fuck. You're the false-artsy-false-deep type that pretends to write only because he wants to feel like an author.

Read a bit of every genre to find the stuff you really like. Might be sci-fi, might be existential narrative. You have to read a bit of everything to find out.

Then read a lot of the stuff you like. All the books you can find.

Once you have a story in mind, write it.

>projecting this hard

Light reached through the truck’s yellow plasticine shell at some point. It greeted him with a tender glow, he stayed asleep on the couch. Trees tapped lightly. Rain drops pattered the roof at a certain point, when he’d fallen asleep under abram’s soft wool blanket, and now dripped from alternating points, a couple leaking spots at the corners near the sliding door and at the corner closest to the passenger side. He didn’t notice, until the truck came to a halt.

Just write, dudette.

sigh
have a kek

Reads like Pinecone