Critique thread

>Amateur here, should I just quit while I'm ahead?
Quit while you're almost finish. That way when you're old you could lament that you never finish a story.

Somewhat beautiful up until i completely lost track at the end. Maybe it's cause im a retard though.

*pored
*yawning

you jump tenses quite a bit, and honestly your descriptions are far too overwrought and too numerous and seriously make reading quite painful.

Well written but not surprising prose, Harry Potter tier. Lacks darkness and depth, but maybe it's because it's merely an introduction, but it sounds too teensy (red until the 3rd page however)

Not aggressively bad, way outside the interests of this board and myself and you're probably going to get eviscerated, but not aggressively bad. Keep working and keep studying the art of writing good genre fiction. The font is kind of obnoxious and the paragraphing is wrong.

Thank you, could you tell me where specifically you lost track of what was happening?

I just don't understand the dream and what dolores said within it. And then i also don't know what u mean by "the subject of my liturgy" IDK it's confusing as fuck. I didn't get anything out of it for some reason

Thanks for the two cents mi amigos. The font is Gramond cause I thought Times New Romans was just a meme. But I suppose if that's what everyone is used to... So be it.

I'm aiming to make something teenagers will eat up, but don't necessarily want the writing to look like shit. If it reads Teensy - that's because it's in the viewpoint of a 14 year old right now (and because I want the target demographic to have a fluid accessibility with my writing lol).

I've never published anything and only write on the occasion, but I'll keep learning. If anyone's got any books to recommend me on the subject (more specifically good fantasy in 1st person view) that's be a blast.

Is it possible to make a realistic Urban Fantasy with switching P.O.V.

why wouldnt it be

Bit from my novel

This is a story in Serbian, so if anyone here knows Serbian, please critique. I'll also post a translation.

Биo caм нa caхpaни јyчe. Бapeм миcлим дa јecaм. Билo јe cyвишe cyмopнo, ниcy тo кao нaшe caхpaнe. He, oвдјe cy cви кpoкoдилcки oплaкивaли пoкoјникa, a зaтим cy ce пoвyкли y cвoјe ayтoмoбилe. Cигypнo cy ce дoгoвapaли гдјe ћe љeтoвaти, y њимa. Mи ce бapeм нe лaжeмo, кoлeктивнo ce paдyјeмo тyђoј caхpaни, caмo јep ce дoбpo јeдe и пијe. He знaм, љyди cy oвдјe тaкo дивљи. Eтo нa пpимјep, јyчe ce кacиpкa тaкo љyбaзнo oпхoдилa пpeмa мeни. Hиcaм нaвикao нa тo. Имaлa јe oнa глaзгoвшки ocмијeх. Peклa ми јe „Дoђитe oпeт!“ – e пa бaш нeћy – билo би ми caмo нeпpијaтнo. Кaд јe лoшe pacпoлoжeнa, бapeм знaм дa нeштo ocјeћa. Oвaкo јe кao aвeт. Cyтpa мe пoзнaник звao нa cјeмeнкe и пивo, дa глeдaмo yтaкмицy. Бaш тaкo јe и peкao „Дoђи нa cјeмeнкe и пивo, глeдaмo yтaкмицy“. Toг кoд нac нeмa – тo ce пpocтo дecи. Улeтимo y дpaгcтop, пoкyпимo двoлy и cјeмeнкe и изaђeмo. Кaквo дoгoвapaњe, кaквe тpицe.

I attended a funeral yesterday. At least I think I did. It was too gloomy, those aren't like our funerals. No, everyone here wept over the deceased with crocodile tears, and then they retreated in their cars. Most likely talked about vacation plans in them. At least we're honest, collectivly we celebrate someone's funeral, just because we can drink and eat good. I'm not sure, people are so wild here. For example, yesterday a cashier-girl treated so me kindly. I wasn't used to that. She had a Glasgow smile. Told me "Come again!" -- well, I won't. It would only cause me distress. When she's in a bad mood, at least I know she feels something. This way, she's but a spook. Tomorrow an acquaintance invited me over for beer and sunflower seeds, to watch the game. He said just that "Come over for sunflower seeds and beer, we're watching the game". We don't do that -- it just happends. We run in a drugstore, pick up a two-liter beer and seeds, and go out. Making plans -- how silly.

I like it.

If any spanish speaker happens to be lurking:
El sonido del timbre sofocó al de sus palabras. Bajo el chirrido metálico que tronaba en el aire, los labios de Maria Roccasecca aventuraron el inicio de otra frase sobre la física newtoniana que fue inmediatamente abortada al percatarse su dueña de que aquel chirrido rotundo, inapelable y sentencioso como una trompeta arcangélica había irrumpido en la clase, acaparando todo el espacio sonoro y, con él, la atención de los alumnos, que ahora dirigían sus miradas hacia la esquina del techo desde la que el timbre bramaba su inapelable autoridad. El chirrido se detuvo de súbito tras unos segundos, dejando caer con displicencia el abrupto silencio sobre Mary Roccasecca.
Maria sintió cómo, al cesar el cántico inicial, las miradas de los alumnos se posaban en ella con aire de expectación muda y sumisa, acatantes, mansos tras el silencio y tras esa inexpresividad unánime que recordaba a la del mongolismo. Impelida por aquel silencio idiótico (que Mary Roccasecca, simulacro tras simulacro, no podía evitar percibir con inquietud como una insolencia soterrada, tan subrepticia como carente de agente intencionado), se forzó a despegar los labios y comenzó a recitar las fórmulas acostumbradas.

--Bueno, niños, ya sabéis qué quiere decir ese timbre, ¿verdad?—tras recorrer con la mirada al grueso de sus pupilos sin distinguir ninguna cara, se fijó al azar en uno de los alumnos de la primera fila—A ver, dilo tú, Ezekiel.
Ezekiel se levantó de su silla.
--Un simulacro de ataque nuclear, señorita Roccasecca—volvió a sentarse.
--Eso es—corroboró Mary--. Es el segundo que hacemos esta semana. Y la semana pasada hicimos otros dos. ¿Alguien sabe por qué?—antes de que transcurriese el tiempo que cabría otorgar a los alumnos para que estos asimilaran la pregunta y rumiasen, gestasen y finalmente expresaran en voz alta una respuesta, Maria dijo el nombre de otro de los alumnos de la primera fila. Éste se levantó presto de su silla al oír pronunciar su nombre por la voz apremiante de la profesora, sin dar signos de sorpresa por su repentina asignación de responsabilidad. Escoltado por las miradas y el mutismo de sus condiscípulos, el alumno recitó:
--Porque los rusos pueden atacar cualquier día, incluso mientras estemos en el colegio, y la única forma de poder sobrevivir es tomando refugio lo más rápido posible cuando oigamos una alarma y esperar a que el ataque pase y la gente de Defensa Civil venga a ayudar.
--Muy bien, Paul—Paul volvió a sentarse.
El silencio volvió a enseñorearse de la clase durante un instante, antes de que Maria reanudase las liturgias acostumbradas del simulacro. Los alumnos, sabedores de que su participación vocal en el simulacro había concluido, mantenían ante la profesora aquella expresión de expectación feligresa. Mary Roccasecca intentó reprimir su ansiedad jugando con un hilo que sobresalía de la manga de su blusa, volteándolo alrededor del dedo índice de su mano derecha, y comenzó a decir lo que entonces correspondía.

Needs more little

i dont want too many!

I wrote this for the Mommy Cinematic Universe prologue

>Annie Clark - Auntie Antje's friend, and guitar teacher mommy is paying to give you lessons for your growing musical skills— prefers to teach you in her studio apartment alone. She loves to teach you by being hands on and putting her hands on yours.

gentle femdom annie 1/?

>After a hard day at school, you come crawling to Annie's studio apartment for your guitar lessons. As you enter her sizable yet modest apartment and make your way to her kitchen where she's preparing a salad with her head and curly hair down facing the counter, she perks up and immediately lose her faint smile as she sees how exhausted you are.

>"Ohh, are you okay, sweety? you look absolutely spent" she cooed as she crossed the kitchen island to get to you, wiping her hands on the flare of her almost sheer summer dress. Her warm and emphatic solemn expression changing to a tender affectionate smile as she makes her way to you. "oh, come here, sweety" she says reaching out to your head bringing it gingerly to her chest hugging you close.

>With the thin silk fabric of her dress cooling your skin, she takes your head with her hands to look at you in the face. With her delicate yet somewhat calloused fingers, she brings her thumb to the ridge of your brow brushing it, finally placing both of her hands to your cheeks. With her dainty hands encapsulating your face, she looks at you in the eyes with the stark hazel of hers relinquishing their ground for her broadening pupils.

>She hugs you close to her chest again, placing her right hand in the small of your back and her other hand to the back of your head. "I've got some cookies cooling by the window waiting for you." she whispers in your ear "Everything'll be fine, hun. I'm right here with you" she takes your head back again, kissing you in the forehead this time— stroking your hair as the contact between her lips and your skin part.

Can I post poetry in here?

delete this

i'll make a poetry thread

please don't delete this

Thank you

Does anyone have full books they've written? Have they ever been posted on Veeky Forums before?

I am a fey stunt run in a half mad day, walk down the wake haggling teat for tat. Now's way the moon high and, life's yolk fried, spills sin like milk by the gutter-slide. Ah, it's too cold for what dirt's worth I pay but, said on again, nothing's wrong with that. This, climbing without aim at a high hill, all of this is the loneliest blue I look back onto the city with. All that is strung is cut silent, winds scatter sky-up to no swift Harmony. Messenger clouds march into a sad adjective above and elsewhere the stars I do not know. The workings are so shallow under the sun that I may see wet feet from beyond men's rough image in the night's river. Let it engulf me at home, I say, just as well as it whelms the world over, and so I spear in it, out, down by Cocytus.

This is the new four pages from my working novel "Southern Vampire"

1/4

Today after I got done at Flemwood. My curiousity came back from last night. The man said he was living down the street over the bridge, so I went to the shed from out back, and grabbed moms bicycle. The sun was hot today, and the humidit y would have made the walk miserable. I hopped and the bike and steered over through on the streets. Past the trees, I went down the hill and saw the bridge and through some opening I saw a old house, almost too broken and crooked to live in. I didn't see any cars so I paddled up on the graveled driveway. I got up closer, and the closer I got, the more the wind blew. The front door was locked; but not just locked. It was boarded up, and so were the windows. If this man had lived there, then he surely wanted to keep the rest of the world out. I was crossing into a taboo. I was going into somewhere sacred, and hidden. I walked around to the side of the house. There was a tree growing of the side with stems in a vine growing up the side of the house. I grabbed hold of the grass ladder, and I climbed up to the broken window above. With each climb there was a smell, this house must of been oozing mold due to its age.
I moved up flicked away the little glass pieces left from the smashed window. The room was littered with dirt and mud. In the corners were dust and spider webs that spanded over the edges of the ceiling. For a moment it was a twilight zone. Nothing was really left in the room but a row of candles and a large three mirror drawer. But at the very end of the room was a large brown box. I walked carefully, incase of any

2/4

depressions in the floorboard. I notice that the room seemed very unused. Dust and dirt prints were made in the floor. I could see that the man had walked over to this box, since I could see the footprints he left from. They led to it and I followed. The box was a very large one, it was about eight feet long and was heavily vacanted, something large was in there. This was all so wierd to me, I was confused to the fact that this house was even habited, and the fact that the room smelled of death. It was a big whirl, so I decided to take a seat on the crate. I made the biggest mistake when I wanted to follow the smell. I wandered over to the three mirrored dresser. The first pocket I opened had the biggest damn spider in it. I quickly shutted the drawer, and opened another one; it was empty. I opened up the very bottom drawer and to my horror found jars and jars and jars of blood; it wreeked. So badly that I put them back and got the hell out. I almost leaped down from the window and ran to the shrubs behind the trees, and I vomited. After that I left in a hurry, so fast I almost tripped and scraped myself. I was ill and I needed some serious help from what I'd seen.
When I got home, I spent no time talking and ran to the bathroom. I vomited more than before. Mom ran up and knocked on the door asking if I was okay.
"No" I replied "I'm feeling very...sick." She walked in and got me a towel to wipe my mouth on. Her comfort made me feel better. I got up and she helped me over to the bed. She left the room and came back with a thermostat and a extra fan. She checked my temperture, it was 102 degrees. She turned on the fan, and left, promising she'd be back in awhile. It's good to see mother was still being mother, even at my age, she's always there to nurse me. The fan was a real convenience to me since I had both the ceiling fan running along.

3/4

My head was spinning, and I could feel myself in some sort of manic state. Not trying to sound pushy, but I wish mother would've brought me a glass of water. I was sweating, and water sounded like a dire need to me.

Mother came back with a local doctor, very nice man. He gave me a diagnosis.
"What's a matter with him?" mom asked the doctor.
"Nothing much, it seems he has a fever, and should stay in bed for a few days. Just until he gets to feeling better. But I'm gonna give you some medicine for your head and fever."
The doctor left quickly, and mother brought me the water I've been needing. If there is one thing I know, it's that something is extremely wrong with that mans living. That home shouldn't even be inhabited, it should be burned to the ground.
As dinner was brought to me on one of the trays mom kept. I laid there eating, and I watched the sunset fall down from the clouds.

APRIL 28, 1969: JOHNATHAN HOPKINS JOURNAL

Not much as happened today, I walked out to the front of my apartment. I stared at the moon, it was so big and bright. It was a full moon, and it made all the streets shine and glisten like silver dust. If only Emily could be by my side tonight to witness the night with me. If only she could join me, I told myself.
Late at night, I heard a gossip from my neighbor Mrs. Ketler. There has been an animal on the loose, at least so they think she told me. She said one of the farms have had a problem with the so called animal.

4/4

I don't know how much I believe Mrs. Ketler, she was the same one to tell me that suspected aliens raped one of the towns girls, when in reality she was only bleeding because she had her first cycle. But I'll listen to her and keep my ears open for any more news on this animal.
I must go to sleep though, I have seen enough of the moon for tonight.

Just a fore warning before any confusion, this story is told in the POV of two people (Harriet and Johnathan) So at the entry of APRIL 28 1969 the character is switched up.

1/3

2/3

3/3

Things highlighted in red are either temporary names or sections which need to be drawn out a bit longer.

Is this worth continuing or should I just kms?

Someone please beat me into a mental state capable of writing without wanting to die.

Only you can do that

I've tried everything. I've almost given up at this point.

Maybe stop trying, and it might work?

I haven't tried writing or read any books in nearly two months now. Not caring hasn't helped at all.

I didn't mean not caring.

...

Chapter 2 of a short story I'm working on. Trying to get things moving and give a bit of background.

2/2

From the first paragraph alone I feel maybe you should relax on the descriptions. By the 2nd paragraph(So I'm not counting dialogue as paras) you've painted a picture of Eli being a disgusting slob.

You've also thrown in a bit of jarring telling, "Kyrie, my best friend, had woken me up." We know that, amigo, you literally put that sentence in there ONLY to tell us Kyrie is Eli's best friend. It's so blunt -- especially when you consider the second part is redundant -- that it almost sounds sarcastic and that Eli thinks Kyrie is a prick.

As for paragraph 3, I don't feel as if you've properly identified Eli's voice or personality. If you have, he seems jarringly pedantic in what he chooses to tell us. Which isn't ALL bad, maybe there's a better opening that we could see him being pedantic in a more interesting and amusing way. Maybe throw in a side of him that recognises his pedantic thought process and ridicules it?

Also, a little throw back to "It's time to leave, dude,"(Ignoring the 'he said to me.' Who else is he saying it to? Though that only popped out upon the second read through) were it not for the fact you -told- us Kyrie was Eli's best bud, by the 3rd para I'd assume he was just some acquaintance/schoolmate who'd seen Eli sleeping in class and opted to be kind enough to wake him up.

There are interesting tidbits in your writing, but you do far too much TELLING and that bogs down your work.

I want to try and show you what I mean about TELLING in a story being bad.

pastebin.com/Yy1Va8xM

(Here's also the part where you're welcome to throw my opinion out the window as all I write are Star Wars fan fics, kek)

So whilst I'd prefer you to read my excerpt before you read this summary. Where that excerpt fucks up is that paragraph where the Padawan arrives and I TELL the reader how she's loyal(' "Master Gann," ... sticking by him through thick and thin.') to him when everything else, like the fact he probably has or at least wants to fuck his Padawan, is shown through his observations, his interactions with his surroundings and his interactions with her. What ends up happening is that paragraph massively disrupts the flow of us, as the reader, trying to figure out Gann the Jedi by hitting us out of the blue with some hack handed exposition.

This I feel your story suffers from a lot. You need to remember a few things...

>Trust the reader's intelligence to pick up the image you're putting down
>Let the reader use his intelligence to figure out the details with characters and their relationships(As that is what we as humans are exceptional at doing).
>When using first person, make sure it is because the narrators personality is so good and intriguing that merely doing the story in 3rd person would feel like a waste.

Hope my ramblings make sense amigo.

Was thinking of just taking out the prologue. Idk. Should it stay?

>slobbery slumber upon a school desk

fuck that right off

Whats bad about that? Not him

In prose, devices like alliteration and consonance, as found in this sentence, are best employed in places of particular significance. The fact that nothing significant is being said elicits a comical effect.

Any examples of it being used significantly?

lolita's opening

...

Nice speech, I just don't like long, unfaltering rants or monologues.

Feels unrealistic to me, like he must be reading from a sheet.

>His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Notice also the use of euphony -- the soft s's and l's, the long vowel sounds -- which serve, as they generate a harmonius flow, to make us read on and on as if we're in freefall until the climatic end, made all the more powerful by its cacophonic contrast, and the word 'dead'.

Joyce btw.

I see, thanks!

Truth be told I always felt rants should be used when the character is dying.

Should I just scrap this then?

true

I didn't care for it much.

Seems like a first draft though.

I already did a whole fucking Veeky Forums essay on the issues with telling(And got no thank you or acknowledgement, the fucking cunt) earlier. I personally just dislike knowing everything from the get go.

pastebin.com/EFHvXbMy

I critiqued stuff in the last thread and nobody critiqued mine in return so fuck you basically

It's pot luck if anyone critiques you, just keep trying.
I'm not going to now 'cause you said fuck me basically.

>just keep trying

ok

pastebin.com/wE2ZhJgz

>pastebin.com/wE2ZhJgz
Tries a bit too hard but it reads well enough. Bit wordy though, makes it hard to follow.

>Bit wordy though, makes it hard to follow.

Can you be more specific, e.g. as to which part? So I can use it to improve. Thanks for taking the time to critique.

I have no idea wtf is going on with this whole thing lad.

I like this. Starts out old, rustic, reminds me of sherlock holmes in terms of atmosphere, but the last sentence makes me somewhat excited to read the rest. It's limited without context for the character though.

"there exist certain gore sites"
"it's"

I could go on but basically it's too immature sounding for what it tries to convey. Looks like you're trying too hard to fit the deep web videodrome image but not describing it well enough.

please don't say she's your best friend, you shouldnt need to if you wrote it right

I like the dialogue

dry saliva doesn't make sense for me

for the section that starts "Personality-wise," the first sentence could work but it sounds too horoscopey after that. we all know what introverts are, just have him talk about scenarios. but I like that he's psychoanalyzing himself because it seems like a very introvert thing to do, demonstrates self awareness, makes him relatable.

I could not go
through my home's door
For all those small delights
That hide their wares
and perfect cares
In other houses shown

Along the road
Through quiet night
Those shadows on the lawns
That kiss and cry then say goodbye
Inviting to my wild eye

How many buildings will I walk through
Before I am not?
So fewer than I dream to enter!

I felt inspired to write about an hour and a half ago and this is what I have so far. I have never written for pleasure, only research papers and university essays. There is a longer story here and if there was any interest at all I would post more tomorrow. Any feedback would be appreciated.

Thanks friends.

I was arm in arm with my brother Clemence, babying him along with gentle tugs in due course towards home, away from the filthy curb that was littered with cigarette butts, and dangerous road with automobiles rushing past, when he began wailing, his plaintive cry piercing my ears painfully. He was whining like a spoiled child into the evening air, begging to turn back to the music shop. Though he was a full-grown man in big coat, his hands half in his sleeves, his plaid shirt sticking out at the waist; he had the undeveloped mind of a child.
“Clemence!” I said impatiently. “We’re not going back. We going home, don’t you understand?”
He did not understand, because he was fully incapable of understanding, therefore did not care to go home. Even his manner of speech, which seemed to be like that of a child’s-- in its lack of maturity and reasoning-- incensed me to no end. He is incapable, I thought. Incapable.

Gathering a great deal of willpower to not strike him, I tugged at his arm even more strongly. “We are going home, Clemence. We can drink hot chocolate at home and play on the piano.”
He soon calmed himself down at these words and allowed himself to be guided along the narrow street. Holding his arm, I glanced up at the blank evening sky with the chemtrails that resembled pencil etchings on a dark blue canvas. If he were a child, I thought, he would eventually learn these things, but he is not a child but a full-grown man, and he cannot learn these things. You had to pamper him, you had to speak to him gently, otherwise he would throw a tantrum. Any little thing would induce in him a sullen mood that could last all night. A mood befitting of a dark sky. It was not an easy thing be a brother to him, no it was not, and I did not ask for it. But he was brother nevertheless, my dear Clemence. As we strolled silently together, gently swaying in each other’s arms, and looking up at the evening sky with its child-like scribbles, I came to like him as he was. As a simple child, and nothing more, not man, certainly not a disabled man, but as child who liked hot chocolate and pianos.

reads like a dream sequence

I wrote this like an hour ago. I don't normally write outside of school shit though so if you can't be gentle at least be understanding.

It was 7pm and God was already dead. The world is merciless, 2nd chances come and go like a ball on a roulette wheel. People can die without having the luxury of seeing the gun pointing between their eyes. That’s how it was today. I don’t know her well enough to know her name, but I know that she was beautiful. That she had auburn hair cut to her shoulders, pretty but not out of the ordinary clothes that belied her morning thoughts of incorporating color coordination in her dress, and I know that she was married. Thank god that there are no children here to witness this, let alone her own if she has any. The shape of her hips has me inclined to believe that she has either struggled through several childbirths, or consumed the lion’s share of many dinners alone with her husband. Maybe she wasn’t so beautiful in the classical sense, but she was beautiful like a pond, more so the beauty I intake on some of my morning walks from the simple elegance of nature of my local pond evokes a feeling, a similar feeling to looking at the parts of her that weren’t splattered in blood.
Those disgusting parts of her were when the pond was infested with mosquitos. The noxious feeling of mosquitoes drinking your blood and leaving itchy bumps filled with parasitic worms and deadly diseases. The kind of diseases that pressure the elderly to abandon the lone bench that sits a few feet from the water, and take their precious bread crumbs that sustain the ever growing pigeon population. Back to the shining star stealing the scene. There might be something to that stuff about finding symmetry beautiful, as even though her left eye was a warm inviting chocolate brown, her right eye was popped, sizzled into its socket and classically unappealing. This woman was so many things, but now she’s nothing except for a corpse with the unearthly grace of a fleeting freshness.

Diary entry detected. Tell me who a character is and make something happen to them. You can be experimental and pretentious -- but you can't just ramble. You don't have to go "this is bill and he's going to slay a dragon," but I'd better quickly know who bill is and feel like there is a basic level of momentum and drama towards something.

The whole things zips around in these enormous bloated paragraphs full of mundane observations, summary, and vague feelings.

You can get away with not formatting speech and paragraphs properly if you are brilliant and you can genuinely justifying doing so. Otherwise it's just irritating to read. If you are using something that makes it harder to read a story "because I feel like it lel," you're just going to lose people's attention. If there is a reason for making it flitty and vague then you really need to bring that out.

Some of your favorites may have done something similar, but for an amateur this kind of this is always going to be read as the result of you 'just writing' with no story in mind and a serious lack of discipline or purpose to your method.

For me someone trying really hard to sound 'literary' and also writing about a lovelorn character who loves literature is automatic rejection. People aren't constantly making films about film nerds and filmmakers but it seems like writers are always writing about fucking writers for some reason.

I'd be inclined to cool it with some of the more 'literary' styling.
>I wade into our class, and ripples appear by my ankles as I advance...
Did he wade into class? He advanced towards a table? What the fuck are rippling ankles? Oh it sounds good but it doesn't mean anything? Readers will skip over that.

When every sentence is overwrought things begin to lose impact and frankly it sounds a little silly to use inappropriate and over-the-top words.

I also noticed a case of "I don't read any contemporary fiction."
>my heart lifted from her kindness
If it's not set in the 19th century then don't write like it is.

>Tell me who a character is
Did you miss the part where he read his love interest's emails, jerked off to one of them, nervously delivered a letter to his love interest while another prof gave him the eye for being creepy, was directly described by his love interest in a meeting about his future, was described indirectly by his previous love interests, observed people acting out the hedgehog dilemma and noticed the sacrifice of social interaction, his mulling over embarrassing memories, and the distant yet kind words of the rejection at the end? Most of the damn story is characterization.

>You can get away with not formatting speech and paragraphs properly if you are brilliant and you can genuinely justifying doing so. Otherwise it's just irritating to read. If you are using something that makes it harder to read a story "because I feel like it lel," you're just going to lose people's attention. If there is a reason for making it flitty and vague then you really need to bring that out.
Is it really that hard to read? No one else has mentioned having trouble. How else would you have me write it? It's in first person. I'll consider making the dialogue more strictly correct.

>For me someone trying really hard to sound 'literary' and also writing about a lovelorn character who loves literature is automatic rejection. People aren't constantly making films about film nerds and filmmakers but it seems like writers are always writing about fucking writers for some reason.
OK, but I'm not responsible for your personal prejudices. Also, it's hardly about writing. Some authors were mentioned, but only to show how pretentious and fake the speaker is.

>Did he wade into class? He advanced towards a table? What the fuck are rippling ankles? Oh it sounds good but it doesn't mean anything? Readers will skip over that.

ripple - noun - a small wave or series of waves on the surface of water, especially as caused by an object dropping into it or a slight breeze .
Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it doesn't mean anything. Is it really that hard to see the relevance of a pool of water to a pretentious self-obsessed young adult in "love" with a professor? For fuck's sake, I even made him look at his own reflection in the story and made the speaker himself note that he only saw her for "one split-second."

>I also noticed a case of "I don't read any contemporary fiction."

Hot critique, this will surely improve my writing.

>If it's not set in the 19th century then don't write like it is.
Point taken.

Not the guy you're responding to but don't post on a critique thread if you don't wanna take the critiques.

As for my opinion on it, were it not in first person I'd dismiss this as some pretentious flower girl's attempt at romance. Which it is, it's just the actual character's pretentious attempt at romance instead.

I personally couldn't read it, at no point did I feel implored to read on. Why? Because I'm a pleb who likes to know where he's going. If this had a blurb that mentioned a love gone wrong, and we got to see this guy's fall from grace into becoming a stalker I'd read on despite being a genre-fiction pleb. So if that's what you're trying to do? Good job.

I do think you should try it out with more standard dialogue, though I can see how that would undermine your characterisation and attempts at putting us in a position where we're really looking into a man's mind as opposed to being told(If that makes sense?). The reason I say this is because I think you're resting a LOT on a wholly and, even by you, admittedly unlikeable main character. If I were to continue reading, I'd want some other characters to latch onto and identify with. The best way to do that is with dialogue.

If its just a standard romance? Fuck it. As it stands I have no desire to see if and how the main character gets the girl.

Also the wade thing was pretty gay but again, a lot of that stuff I passed off as quirks of the main character.

I'm taking the critiques, including yours. That doesn't mean I can't respond and push back.

>I'm taking the critiques, including yours. That doesn't mean I can't respond and push back.
no you can't push back.

Push back? Bruh.

Well look, you do you. I just think a better way to get the most out of your feedback, when you disagree with someone who posts a detailed critique, is to explain WHY you did the things they disagree with and see if that changes their tune not call them too stupid to understand your work.

Call me a big business minded Jew(I'm actually a black, but Jews are my racial role models) but its those who loathe your work that should be listened to the most.

just eviscerate my shit up fam_

>I'm actually a black, but Jews are my racial role models
>racial role models

You're planning on turning into another race are you? Fucking idiot.

Actually you can, not all critique is good critique.

>Implying I'll ever truly abandon my gun slinging, gang banging roots

Lmao oh boy... This is fucking funny.

>FCL ... Allegiance
Gonna assume you tell us what the fuck these things are way before this excerpt.

>Carbonizing
Not as good a word as you think. Maybe edge it up with some details. This whole thing should be a fair bit longer.

Maybe start off with the Captain's crew realising they're all going to get melted and then describing that process with a particularly punchy sentence or two? Though this is really a matter of style. I just think that for something as impactful as a deep space kamikaze impact deserves some more thought than 'carbonizing the captain's crew near-instantaneously.'

I also think the sentence after about the sealing of the ship could use some work. This is a spectacle bruh! Give me some mental eye candy!

>Alta

Bruh... Why have I just read, if briefly, the fact that some people chose death over defeat, slaughtering dozens, if not hundreds of people in the process only to be told Alta has a banging pair of legs and some lovely hips? Really?

As for the rest? I think you need to slow down lad.

An idea(Not a critique, so feel free to ignore it)... Maybe you could start off IN Alta's quarters and have her hear the impact over the emergency intercom? That way we have more time to get to know her and relate to the horror/panic of what's going on.

Also, senpai, I just realised.

Why the fuck is Alta in bed during a space battle? Just so you could hit us with the fact she has legs for days?

What would the feminist Sci-fi community say, lad?

>Lmao oh boy... This is fucking funny.
Its an excerpt and I didn't feel comfortable sharing the (already written) events that happened immediately prior to that, i.e., captain and crew members.

Obviously FCL and Allegiance require some background as well.

Carbonizing was just trying out something different. Thanks for the comment about the sealing though

The part about the girl's nice legs was written in jest. Sometimes I like to throw a little bit of that stuff in just to see what people say

Thanks for the rest, it was more help than I was expecting.

Overwritten. Don't interrupt yourself with unimportant details. Stay focused on the action. Moreover, the writing is antiquated, eg. "manner of speech" etc, you need to modernise your vocab. Otherwise please work on your rhythm, for instance.

>Gathering a great deal of willpower to not strike him

Should read

>Gathering a great deal of willpower not to strike him

The "to not" interrupts the flow, and similar rhythmic mishaps occur throughout the text, pay close attention to the stresses and how you want them run through the text. Perhaps you want a flowing sentence to be interrupted, mirroring action in the scene, for instance, an ordinary conversation being interrupted by a sudden outburst of anger.

By the way, "chemtrails" is a giveaway that the overwrought style is put on. It's "contrail", chemtrails are a weird conspiracy.

>What would the feminist Sci-fi community say, lad?
Its funny that you mention that because I've toyed with the idea of writing fetishized smut for money. I hardly feature in-depth sexuality in any of my actual works but it seems like it could be fun

I do think I want to play it ambiguously like that. I'll give you a spoiler and say it is a true story. Would you want more?

Thanks again m8.

Check your diction levels. The diction level is the formality/informality of your style, and mixing them can sound amateurish. Also beware mixing anglo-saxon and latin/greek words. The latter can give a vague or unfixed quality to the prose. I reacted to this sentence particularly:

>That she had auburn hair cut to her shoulders, pretty but not out of the ordinary clothes that belied her morning thoughts of incorporating color coordination in her dress, and I know that she was married.

There is an attempt to maintain a high style, but slips into vernacular and vague phrasings, eg. "pretty but not out of the ordinary" followed by "belied," and "incorporating colour coordination" instead of something simpler, such as "matching colours."

Also lack of focus in the text. Silly opening line. Remember that you need to back up what you say - if you make a big claim, that God died at a certain hour, you're going to need to write quite impressively or it'll seem underwhelming.

Example of lack of focus: Describing her as a pond, the mosquitoes in the pond, THEN, the feeling of being bitten by the mosquitoes - keep the image focused, if you are describing her appearance you confuse the reader by comparing it to the sensation of being bitten. If you describe appearance, stick to visual imagery.

>Back to the shining star stealing the scene

You ought to structure your piece so as to avoid awkward transitions such as these.

I explained it after I called him stupid. Maybe I would be more polite if he asked what something meant instead of assuming it was just random meaningless nonsense.

pls no bully

Growing as a writer is going to mean taking criticism and realising that your first draft is crap. It's also realising that you are an amateur with a lot to learn. It doesn't take months to make a good short story because writers are lazy.

At first you'll get a little butthurt about it because you don't yet understand other people don't give a shit about you or your writing. At some point you'll realize that the reason they aren't picking up on things is because of your failure as a writer, and not their failure as readers.

What you've written wasn't that bad, but it wasn't good. You have a lot of work to do no matter what your friends IRL have told you.

>Most of the damn story is characterization.

The thing is that you don't really have a character or much of a plot. So it's a bit irrelevant if you are giving characteristics to what is a shapeless mess.

>Is it really that hard to read? No one else has mentioned having trouble.

Who is no one? Your girlfriend and two other dicksuckers on Veeky Forums? Go study some of your favorite writers and notice how they lay out and format a paragraph. Are there 100 ideas in each paragraph? Does speech pop up indistinguishable from thoughts and action?

It might not be 'hard' to read, but I'm also not here to read your work because I'm your best friend. It doesn't read well if that makes you happier.

>Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it doesn't mean anything. Is it really that hard to see the relevance of a pool of water to a pretentious self-obsessed young adult in "love" with a professor?

I am not going to take the time to understand a poorly formed and overwrought metaphor. If a metaphor doesn't make things clearer you need to get rid of it immediately. The only reason other people won't have mentioned it is because they merely skipped over it.

>Hot critique, this will surely improve my writing.

I'd be surprised if you'd much of anything written in the last 10 years. Best advice I gave in the whole thing. You need to start reading what you are trying to write, and to really study how they write.

Also the whole rippling foot thing I may have misunderstood. I didn't realise the character was sat in a flooded room or something. That's the problem with purple prose though. It's easy to overlook things as readers will skip the huge amounts of weightless description and information.

>Growing as a writer is going to mean taking criticism and realising that your first draft is crap. It's also realising that you are an amateur with a lot to learn. It doesn't take months to make a good short story because writers are lazy.
It isn't even my first draft.

>At first you'll get a little butthurt about it because you don't yet understand other people don't give a shit about you or your writing. At some point you'll realize that the reason they aren't picking up on things is because of your failure as a writer, and not their failure as readers.
I'm not butthurt, I'm taking on the tone of the criticism.

>What you've written wasn't that bad, but it wasn't good. You have a lot of work to do no matter what your friends IRL have told you.
I don't have any friends FYI. And i certainly have enough to not share it with anyone who knows me in person.

>The thing is that you don't really have a character or much of a plot. So it's a bit irrelevant if you are giving characteristics to what is a shapeless mess.
What does that even mean? It's a tiny short story, and as I pointed out there are plenty of moments of characterization.

>I am not going to take the time to understand a poorly formed and overwrought metaphor. If a metaphor doesn't make things clearer you need to get rid of it immediately. The only reason other people won't have mentioned it is because they merely skipped over it.

It's not some huge complicated metaphor you have to spend time analyzing. It's pretty simple as long as you're aware of the most basic facts of an extremely well-known myth. Speaking of reading other writers, this is basically the same idea as Joyce's Araby, only without the "and then I realized that in the end I was actually very vain" line at the end. I tried to do that implicitly with the reflection imagery and some other things, but clearly it did not get across to you.

Anything I haven't responded to (and some things I have) I am taking as good points and even though I think you are a fucking moron who should kill himself I will be revising the story with your points in mind (particularly trying to make everything more clear and less pretty).