Critique Thread

Do it.

I promise. You can obvious imitate style well. But know that style hides what makes great works great.

Read something without style. Try Saroyan. Or Pancake. They are pretty effective at writing without style.

No there isn't. Have you ever shaken a shaker before? A "half shake" is still a shake.

He's actually right, a shake is a measure, not sure if scientific, but it's in cookbooks and shit. Half shake

I gravitate towards the back of the room and sit down in the middle of an empty row. The worst part about arriving late to class is having to scan the crowded rows of seats for a vacancy, often only available in the far middle, past a centi-pede of pointed, unmoving, unfriendly knees, against which you have to scrape past, apologizing, averting your eyes as the entire room watches you fumbling awkwardly to the one distant vacant seat, into which you finally collapse with your head in your hands wishing you were invisible. And, now, I take the middle seat, so the students who have begun to spill into the room will not have to squeeze past me to find a seat.

1/2
The little boy had not shit before, but knew that it was expected of him before the elders considered him a man. He had spent his entire life up to this point, 17 name days, excreting his feces the way most children did. Through his sweat glands. But the easy days of shit tinted skin gloss would soon be over. He was about to become a man. He had to shit the way a man was expected to. Through his arsehole.

He understood the mechanics of the whole thing. He knew logically, that all he had to do was keep the waste together in one spot, in his stomach and bowels. Eventually enough would gather so that he would be able to shit it out of his arsehole as a solid piece, or pieces if some of the stories were true, of shit.

"Please let it be solid." he prayed to the old gods and the new. Although a liquid shit from the arsehole wasn't strictly speaking against the rules, it was never considered a manly shit. Especially not as one's first adult shit.

It was now or never. And the elders were growing impatient. The boy climbed the 33 steps to the top of the toilet cathedral. In 200 years, the design hadn't changed much. 33 steps leading to the top of an enormous glass cube. On top of the cube was a toilet. The cube itself was filled with a clear liquid gel, sensors, and current controls. These would all work together, so that when the shit was released from the arsehole, it would be positioned by the currents to the center of the liquid, so the elders could examine it from all sides.

He climbed the 33 steps and slowly walked to the toilet. He tried to ignore the stern looks from the elders. The high priest, his father and mother, the sineater, the butcher, and the accountant were all there, and were all wearing very serious faces at this moment.

He pulled down his britches and underpants and sat on the toilet. He had made sure to eat a hearty breakfast. Blood sausage, hashbrowns, hotcakes, and just a bit of coffee to help the shit flow through. He had even swallowed a shotglass full of corn, just to add a little flare to what he hoped would be his first adult shit. And he had eggs. Although they were queer eggs now that he thought of it. They tasted funny.

2/2

But now he was ready. He felt the shit build inside him, and it came out feeling like a fart at first. "Oh no, " he thought, "is that it? Just a fart?". But the fear was brief, because after another fart he could feel matter exit his arsehole. Solid matter. His first adult shit had not even finished, but he was grinning with pride and looked down at the elders. They were all smiles, and his log was not even completely out yet. But then their faces started to change.

His mother shrieked, and looked away her face in her hands. His father yelled, "No, no, noooooooo!!". The high priest looked utterly confused, and the sineater was clawing at his own face, tears mixed with blood. The boy had a sick feeling, but he had to know what was wrong with his shite.

He looked below the glass top of the cube. He saw what had horrified the elders. SPiders. Thousands and thousands of spiders. They were bursting through his shit log, filling the tank. There were more spiders than fecal matter. Like a legion of spiders, with just a mist of shit to mark that there had ever been a shit in the first place.

The queer eggs! They were spider eggs! The boy had eaten spider eggs, and in turn the spiders had hatched and were eating his shit.

And the boy? The boy did not become a man that day.

Pretty shitty.

Alright, since you were nice enough to make recommendations, I'll read them. But I'm still peeved that you have failed to recognize my genius.

>Andy is a bitch-ass name
It's supposed to be a child

>Have to establish a character's love interest in 1st person
>Never been in love
>Only had two recurring sexual partners
>Both of whom's pants I got into through facebook chat
>Last one night stand I had was a year ago
>Did that by letting a blonde girl call me 'nigger'

They say write what you know and I don't fucking know romance one bit. So fuck my shit up accordingly

___

The first time I figured it was something special was at the graduation party. I’d be lying if I didn’t at least mention how mind numbingly fine she was looking, but that only helped things along. I saw her on the balcony alone, watching the night life of our little canyon city and it’d be another lie if I didn’t say Opa’s generosity with his alcohol hadn’t made me ballsy.

“Don’t jump,” was my opener, and maker the smile it got me. It wasn’t even a good joke.

“I’d be more worried about you pushing me.” I grinned, and that joke was no better.

We talked about nothing and no persuading could get her to touch my drink. Yet, all the while, I remember she had this wicked little grin every time I slurred or stumbled over a word. A grin that broadened every time I tried to sneak a glance at what was going on below her eye-line.

There was something so hack handed about the whole thing. The way she toyed and turned to accomodate my glances. The way she shifted her hair when I wasn’t looking at those twin gems she has for eyes. It was the “You can look, I don’t bite,” that convinced me I wasn’t making it all up. Though with how far gone I was? Who knew.

I just remember it got cheesy after that, real cheesy. But it worked. I ended up meeting her for a ‘date’ the next weekend at the place Opa worked -- heavy lifting -- for the discounts I was catching over the counter. She turned up in this navy blue dress, hair up in a ponytail

___

For the record, this is meant to be a one of a few diary entries that start to eek out the protag's fatal flaw for the short's ending and I have a question.

>Is it cringey?
It feels really cringey. Especially trying to show she's keen.

Also I'll critique one or two in muh next post.

Don't listen to user, user. Half a shake sounds really good.

No, it sounds dumb as shit.

What do you guys think of starting a story with dialogue? As in the first printed character is an opening quotation mark.

No opening/introductory sentence, no set up, no easing in. Instead, just start with dialogue.

I can't decide whether I hate it, or like it.

Almost gave me a boner!

I don't understand, "and maker the smile it got me."

Is it like a stylized, "Oh God, the smile she gave me."

Here's a first draft for everyone.

------

Clouds and planes crossed the sky like tic-tac-toe in a toddler’s box of baby blue sand. Summer in the foothills. The prairie beside the mountain.
Every forty five seconds or so Todd would notice that the gap between him and the next person in line was big enough to push Gracie’s wheelchair a couple feet further down the cue. He’d say something like, “Alright, here we go,” or “Ohp, just about lost our spot, Gracie,” or “Huf, okay, let’s get this show on the road.” She’d never say anything back because she always seemed to be sleeping. Sometimes the skin on her slightly overelongated right jawline would vibrate or her left chicken wing would flap or her eyelids would pulse, her pupils somehow gone, her eyeballs rolling another direction in her head. Another gap. Another push. Todd tucked Gracie’s blanket under her thighs. “There you go, Gracie. Nice and warm.”
The city was plaid with half empty towers. One way roads were snug with oversized diesel trucks with single occupants and four door sedans and maroon SUVs. Parking lots were full, but free. It was a Sunday, but it was a very special Sunday. Today was the beginning of the Great Relocation. The UN had announced it maybe six months or so. The first step. It was happening all over the world. They were going to move everyone around.

(missed some paragraphs, sorry)
Calgary was barely surviving the fall in global oil price, its only industry, and thousands of people sat at home every day, but not today, learning to paint, watching soaps, recertifying employable skills and finishing up community college diplomas in Business Management. The city was so sad and everybody was drinking and smoking too much pot. They sold tools and bought ground beef. They watched sports.

How’d they do it though? The line. It was crazy long. It didn’t even look like a line. It was just this mass of people, but if you got close enough, you’d see that each vein of the mass was separated by the next with those yellow ribbons that pulled out like seatbelts from one pole stretched to another. A family took two steps and the rest pulse forward like dominoes. Mom unzipped a backpack and grabbed a few baggies of tuna fish sandwiches with diced pickles and President’s Choice mayonnaise. Did they eat tuna fish where they were going? Was there mayonnaise?

Gracie’s chapped lips parted maybe half a centimeter and Todd filled the hole with a straw. Orange juice was her favourite but this was just water. She was happy to be so warm and she liked how it felt being tucked in. Todd probably knew that she wasn’t sleeping anymore but it was just so easy to keep looking this way. And what was she going to do. A bit of small talk with Todd? Fuck that. That wasn’t her. She was already the potato and he was already the saint. That was fine though. He didn’t know how else to act when they were out and about. She’d rather cuss and barge and hate but that never worked out very nicely and seeing Todd go red made her tired. He was so nice to her. And how. With so many fuckknobs and greasy little cunts warbling around. How was Todd so nice to her. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he fucked other women. Maybe he thought she was okay with it. Maybe he felt bad because everybody that got to know her hated her but felt bad for her and maybe he hated her the absolute most and felt the most bad. Maybe he was a little psycho. Maybe she was a fetish. Maybe he liked her tight little vagina that she couldn’t feel. Or maybe Todd loved her but how.

Everyone was talking. They all faced the same way. They stared at the back of heads and imagined what the faces looked like.

“You know, I don’t even know why we go to the mountains anymore. The lineups are just too long and it takes so long until you’re actually doing something you know?”

They were getting closer to where an important looking person was talking to people.

“But what do you think this is all about? I mean sure. I guess it makes sense but it just seems a little drastic you know?”

“I’m just excited to see the world.”

“And the new people!”

“You just want to meet a man.”

“Hah, oh shut up Trish. We all can’t have a husband like Terry.”

The man in the uniform seemed to be splitting people up into different lineups. Maybe they were getting close.

“Well I guess it makes sense. I mean. People have been coming here from other places for a hundred years. Guess it just makes sense now.”

“I want to go to France.”

“You know France just seemed to be a little bit too put together for me. I mean, there I was in my beige adventure pants and Don was wearing a T-shirt that said Canada on it. It was just a little too much I guess. I like Maui.”

“Yah, I like Maui too.”

People looked a little upset after talking to him but after a few minutes they just got used to it.

“When are you going next it?”

“Oh well I don’t know. Maybe Christmas.”

“Ooo that’ll be so much fun. What a great time.”

The man walked up to Todd and ask his name. His blue vest said UN.

“Mine is Todd. Hers is Gracie. Grace.”

“Last names.”

“Mine is Nichols. Hers is Brzezkov.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nichols. Could you please walk over to that other lineup up by the corner. It says N. That’s your line. If you wouldn’t mind, someone will be by take care of Miss. Brzezkov.”

“Oh. Sorry, she’s uh disabled. I’d rather stay with her if you don’t mind.”

“Sir, its just for efficiency here. If you wouldn’t mind. You’ll have her back at the end of the line. A volunteer is here to take care of her. Simpson.”

“Yes sir.”

“Please take Ms. Brzezkov to the B line thanks. Careful Simpson. She has special needs.”

“Yes sir.”

Gracie pretended to sleep. The blanket was loose and the orderly tucked it in like Todd did. His hands felt black.

Todd walked to the N line. N is for Nichols. He put his hands in his pockets and then took them out. He checked for his wallet and his keys and his phone. Thank God for his phone. Sometimes he left it in her wheelchair. He started to scroll but started to feel empty when there wasn’t anything there. Just boring stuff. Maybe they’d send him to Egypt. He wanted to see the pyramids.

“I like how Maui isn’t really that hot.”

“Yah that’s true. But I like how there’s more sun in Mexico.”

“I can see that.”

She seemed okay, he thought. He’ll see her at the end of the line.

THE END :)

Lol wtf nigga.

>worst part about arriving late to class is having to scan the crowded rows of seats for a vacancy
>sit down in the middle of an empty row
>empty row

Worst part about this is I was left baffled until the end when we figure out he's actually. I usually give too much credit for quirks like this defining character but I'm gonna assume this was just an oversight. Tell us the room is empty/he's early and that he's relieved he's not late because of the reasons you listed.

Nice though. If I assume it wasn't it's actually a pretty clever way of showing this character is an anxious pessimist beyond the earlier descriptions.

I really couldn't tell you why but this is kind of boring to me. I think it'd work better if you thrust us more into the mind of Andy, maybe.

I dunno. Your muse was missing when you wrote this. Keep it as is and come back when you have that spark I guess.

>
Yeah, maker as in god. As for 'got me', I chose that way of saying it because I wanted to give off the vibe that he's playing for her attentions.

wtf is going on lad.

Put it in a pastebin.

Oh. Sorry. I forgot about those.

pastebin.com/jveBJXa3

Thanks for the feedback

aunthenticity.wordpress.com/2016/07/27/stheno-2707/

A lot of your descriptions just aren't interesting. "Quite an unusual noise" is sort of a cop-out, even if you're going to explain it later. What sort of contraptions and machines surround Andy at the start? I don't have enough info to get a good picture in my head. "Inched closer" is a tired, overused phrase. etc.

You're trying too hard to make it sound upper-class British. "Quite an unusual noise" and "all too eager" are transparent attempts and feel a little forced to me.

Also, I couldn't tell Andy was a kid for a while, just mentioning his mother at the start isn't really enough. Describe his stubby child arms or how he can barely reach up to the end of a counter or something.

THE ALPHA

I plaque of blank
A unique tank of dark
No words
No sound
No where to see
The gifted mind He, God apires to be
Who knows Himself, and knows all
But He doesn't make it seem

Granted he gave the atoms he made
And it's spark began to peek
And little sounds closely shroud
But no other can hear them sing
Brought the magnitude, as more the matter grew
He watched them drown to sink

And his spark of light began to ignite
And dust blew out the rings
A star was made as bright and beige
With life poured in stream
He watched and knew
As the clouds withdrew
A comet was born engraved

>With life poured in stream

I don't like this line. The rest is nice.

I wrote this sonnet this week. I will first post an English translation, and then the original in Portuguese.

Some faces of love

Love: pollen that the rose of the heart creates;
The wheat of friendship forged in carnal bread;
Virus that inflames the soul in honey; the milk of joy;
A tempest in which the thunders have teeth of satin;

A sun that solves icebergs and warms the chest; a narcotic harp;
Human carbon harmonized in diamond;
Drunkenness of ambrosia and cirrhotic corrosion;
Flesh and blood hosting a god as an inhabitant;

Emptiness in the me, in the us infinity; ocean
That submerges in ocean; fruit and thorn;
The coma of reason; desire made tyrant;

The heavens when in the human clay they make their nest;
The oxygen of spirit; the road of roads;
Tender whispers under sheets on the cold nights.

Algumas faces do amor

Amor: pólen que a rosa do coração cria;
O trigo da amizade em pão carnal forjado;
Vírus que inflama a alma em mel; leite da alegria;
Tormenta em que os trovões tem dente acetinado;

Sol que icebergs solve e aquece o peito; harpa narcótica;
Carbono humano harmonizado em diamante;
Embriaguez de ambrosia e corrosão cirrótica;
Carne e sangue hospedando um deus como habitante;

Vazio no eu, no nós infinito; oceano
Em oceano mergulhado; fruto e espinho;
O coma da razão; o desejar tirano;

O céu quando no barro humano faz seu ninho;
O oxigênio do espírito; via das vias;
Ternos sussurros sob lençóis em noites frias.

your meter is fucked

I use the 12 syllable line of the Portuguese language, it is called “dodecassílabo”.

All the lines are in 12 syllables, with variable accent (in the 6th and 12th syllables or in the 4th, 8th and 12th syllables).

In English I just made a literal translation, without concern for the metric.

>dodecassílabo

>dodeca
>12

>sílabo
>Syllable

Do continental languages even try to be imaginative?

The name most used is actually “Alexandrino”, something like “Alexandrine”. But for a 12 sylable verse be called Alexandrino you must follow some pedantic rules that guarantee that the verse will be form of two Hemystichs, two half’s of 6 syllables: 6 + 6.

But this rules are pedantic and have no actual use. Also, our meter is based in syllable count, and not in stresses, like the Latin, Greek and English one, so the names are different. But “iambic pentameter” is also not very imaginative: penta = 5 + iambs: - /, or ta-DUM.

Some great stories start like this and some terrible stories start like this. In this case it isn't about whether it's right or wrong, but whether you can get pull it off.

Go for it, post what you write and then you can answer that question yourself.

Here's a short story I wrote last night, not done yet. Critiques welcome and appreciated.

pastebin.com/LHADk1vq

Well, it's been used a lot. You just need to be sure that the dialogue seems natural and maybe that you start in the middle of it. I think it can be tempting to be over explanatory there.

This needs a really heavy edit. Lots of weird sentences that don't make a lot of sense. The construction feels fairly elementary as well.

No.

Not my cup of tea but generally well done. The whole piece feels like one large cliche though.

The text itself feels awkward. Nothing really grabs at me either so when I get to the point that I know he's actually not late himself it doesn't really hit.

No.

Why write about love if you've never been in love? That tells me you want to write just to be called a writer, not that you have something you want to say. Not saying it's impossible to pull it off, plenty of famous authors have, just doesn't seem worthwhile.

"Call me Ishmael"

Dude, stop. No.

No.

Struggled to get through this one. Your voice and tone are all over the place. This needs a really heavy-handed edit.

«Call me Ishmael» is a dialogue as much as «Many years later, as he faced the firing squad» is a dialogue.

Thanks!

np senpai

There's no need to be dismissive.

There is

No yourself, bitch.

I liked the first half. Towards the end it got a little boring and predictable. Didn't like the amount of repetition.

Roland checked the time as he waited on the escalator going down. A wave of confusion took over him and for an instant he felt as though the escalator was taking up, higher - rather than lower. At this moment of pure conflabagasted confusion, Roland lurched his right hand to hold the railing. At first too tightly, making his body go against the escalator but soon he soothed his grip.

He was clearly nervous. 'You don't mind if I bring a friend along' she had said over the phone, 'what the fuck am i going to say to that' Roland had thought. 'Sure thing, sounds good'. It would have been okay if the conversation just ended there, but it didn't. Sure it might have been awkward with Roland trying to hit it of with this girl he barely knew, already a task that proved a goliath.

She had said 'you bring a friend along too, yeah?'. He was sent spiralling, instant sweat - shaky voice. What was he supposed to say? 'No, i have no one but crippling loneliness and my friend Jackson - but Jackson is the busking hobo who sometimes invites me for a beer around the corner because he sees how much I need it'. No, that won't do of course. Roland shaky voice just let out a 'n-now?. Grasping at straws, with a response that made no sense. What the hell was she going to say? What the fuck was Roland hoping for with that kind of response. As pathetic as ever, it was Roland grasping. Think of it as a frog, clinging to the side of a boiling pot, avoiding the hell below. Now imagine the frog had no arms or legs, and was already dead - but unlucky for chef, the stupid frog was just stuck on the side of the pot. Waiting for the chef to grab his spoon and peel him off, dropping the poor sap into the hell below. That was Roland. A disabled dead frog.

I enjoyed the succession of metaphors, a meteor shower of ideas and images. The pic is also good.

>hit it of
In the second paragraph.

In general your tone doesn't match the scene at all and it just feels weird. There's other parts, especially in the third paragraph, where it just jumps all over the place. It reads as if you wanted to sound like a romantic in parts but then falls into 90s mall culture in others.

I agree that it's predictable; but I think the repetitions are crucial.

Actually I need an idea critique myself.

Currently working on a piece about a writer in Paris who gives up the love of his young life to pursue his duty only to eventually lose her to murder. It revolves around this conflict between his own will and his imposed duties. It ends with his torment and distress at not having lived as he wanted and instead accepting the will imposed by outside forces. Generally dealing with light hedonism and why people should live for themselves rather than society. The story largely pulls from my own experience with first love and having left her for my own duties.

My other idea that I'm toying with is a man who runs through a wide variety of sexual conquests in a sort of perverse hero journey. He doesn't seem to be able to find fulfillment in any of these adventures and has different people with different views offer their opinions as to why he is unhappy, generally mirroring the seven deadly sins. Eventually he comes to realize that he was seeking the lowest forms of pleasure and finally finds higher pleasures. This is entirely based on my own experience with depression and how I tried to cope with it.

Which idea should I continue with? I just finished outlining the former but I think I like the latter a bit better.

>It's a "the author gives the reader life advice" novel

Don't do it. Prioritize entertainment, reader affect, and novelty.

Second one sounds better but
>Life experiences
>With sex
Uh huh, sure buddy.

I'm kind of stuck, I don't know if I should continue or not with this form of story. What do you guys think?

docs.google.com/document/d/12LomF0c3Q0z4NfODz_Fc3-xgrfQiCiaWy_zJXvBWY4E/edit?usp=sharing

Also, love you Veeky Forums

No

Both of those ideas are fucking retarded.

You don't have anything to teach user. Nobody does. Just write a damned story with an effective plot and interesting characters.

Didn't even read the rest of this thread but holy shit this is the most /r/writing shit I've seen on Veeky Forums all day.

This is unrelated. But has gaskun been around? His threads were always kinda lame but I oddly enough miss them. And he seemed like a decent guy.

gaskun is a story himself, but sadly the books will never take off

I was giving blood next to a stranger

Feeling where they stuck me on either side of myself

Two televisions are alive and showing golf

And they hurt me and I focused on that space between the same picture of whatever was happening somewhere else

now

Landscapes lead to topologies which lead to different abstractions of nature by the human

Now shut the fuck up and tell me I'm beautiful

He asked, "will you power it down?"

They did it like the dogs

Brainwashed

On an invisible planet money

The Yangtze, the Volta, and the Ganges: great American pipelines

Exceptional in their ability to electrify the Tokyo skyline

Laying down all the fiberwire

Consistently expanding into the westward sunset

Can't read or speak in the moonlight

Not taking orders

The heat is leaving the floor

The rainforest

Sure. Go ahead. Keep it going with your experimental fiction and your descriptive set pieces and your moody undertones and your really lovely diction. Just know that you're getting cucked.

But you're what, twenty? Twenty five? Fuck off. You don't have anything to teach. Just tell a damn story. And make it such a beautiful story that people want to laugh and cry and then think about it and then you win! See user. It's so easy.

>replying to shitposters

You've already lost.

Slipping and writhing up a barn wall there is a slug. Banana in color and shape all the way down, she isn't very good at small talk. If you get to know her though you'd peg her as vaguely optimistic, and intellectual.
She's almost at the top too, and the corner is going be the toughest part. Most slugs can do it without much difficulty, and she probably can too, but the thought of being upside down for such a time frightened all of her chunky insides. It was a small stretch, and, how about that? She's there right now, stretching and unstretching in the way her kind do.
But she's stopped, she can't seem to move, her insides fade and grow weak, but she is living, like the other slugs.
One of them, a friend, slugs from the roof of the barn down to the corner, and, suspended nearby, but not quite able to see her, he asks her is everything okay?
She answers that yes everything is okay but she'd like to stay here a while longer.
Her friend slugged back to the roof, perplexed and worried about her.
For days her friend would visit and ask the same sort of question. She would answer similarly and he would squabble sullenly back to the roof. Soon he grew tired of asking her if she was okay and began talking with her about maths, and philosophy, and books they had both read. There was little emotion behind either of their sluggish voices and every night he would stretch and unstretch to his home on the roof.
One day, their talks became too motivated by the emotions of one another, and she decided after he left that she should either return to the roof or fall to whatever was at the foot of the barn, and greet it with fierce new life or promising death.
It was a tough decision, and when her friend would come to visit in the following days she would not answer. One day, during this time, her friend decided that he must check on her, if only to ensure she was still there.
He squiggled his way around the corner and, upon seeing her still there asked her is everything okay?
She decided at that moment to remove herself from the underside corner of the barn and fall into the beautiful mystery at the foot of the barn, unable to cope with what she knew already lived beneath and above its roof. Her friend, confused and delirious, returned to the roof and his wife and his childless home, and clung to the roof of that home so much so that his wife began to worry.

I haven't had to write an essay in a while, tell me what you think of this. Just came to me as a thought.

oops, pic related

>Why write about love if you've never been in love?
>just to be called a writer

I write because I enjoy telling stories. I want to write about love, here, because as I said it ties into a greater part of the story. A basic one, if anything, about the conflict of personal motives and group motives.

And that whole comment irked me. I'm only 20 years old barely, should I not write at all? Or should I do what I'm doing now; make little stories for fun to improve my ability at writing whilst I live life and gain experiences.

If you think neither then clearly you don't write at all.

Furthermore, in this triggered response, the whole nature of the romance is a titanic style fluffing up by one party of what it -could- have been after circumstances go awry.

So now, can you actually critique my attempt at first person with dialogue?

>Writer
Don't do it about a writer. At the least do it about a film-maker or artist.

It just irks me when I read about someone reading or writing. As for the two ideas I like the first one a lot more. If we're allowed, I'd even say he never managed to fully commit to his duties either and regrets not at least doing one otherwise it sounds a bit too preachy(Though I'm sure you'd be able to do the original first idea with out making it preachy).

Kinda liked it, oddly enough. It could do with some editing to iron out the pacing and stuff but this is the first thing in a while on a critique thread that I enjoyed reading from beginning to end.

>Underage b&

Don't put "I think" in an essay.

Yeah definitely, didn't start off as one, more of a ramble. Doesn't fit though.

The prologue to a Sci-Fi/Low Fantasy Novel I'm working at.

Needs Critique, pls. Page 1 of 3

Whoops, something went wrong with the upload.
Page 1 of 3

Page 2 of 3

Ohboy

Right off the bat, learn where to put your commas. Try reading out loud what you've written and think hard as to whether or not you need a comma.

And semi-colons.
And hyphens.

>folding iron staff
Iron's not very strong, especially not an articulated piece, so I don't think a girl would be able to parkour around with it (it's very heavy), nor would it support her weight if she tried to pole vault with it.

>women's thong
wat

>urchin, marrying a fat baron, has a sick folding iron staff.
wew

>discourse
Young missy is an educated urchin?

>fiddle your fingers where they ought not to be
are you my mother?

>miniature bonfire
that's a regular fire, senpai

Page 3 of 3

Give me all ya got :)

>Their gilded steps
What are gilded steps?
>custom made padded soles
Isn't she a street urchin looking to marry for money?

>bah
never write bah

You describe the old man as skinny, covered in rags. Yet somehow this girl managed to hide beneath his rags without making a conspicuous shape, despite the proximity of the guards and their torches, even after they get close enough to kick him.

>stealing bread, has custom booties, cool gambit staff, is fit enough for parkour
Is she Katniss Everdeen?

Your dialogue is YA and cringey, but not bad per se. What IS bad is your attention to detail and lack of realism.

Spend some more time developing what you're writing. Describe something. Make sure all your plot points fit together. Stay away from cliche'd expressions and don't feel like just because your main character is 12 (and I really suggest making her older) that the adults in your world need to behave like brain donors.

There you go, hopefully these will help you senpai. Good luck.

No it's really just about my own beliefs.

>People have different life experiences
>Ree, etc

The perspective is off here. Needs some editing. Even in the first line you have
>inside... within
The former implies the latter so it just adds unneeded weight to the sentence.

Wew lad...

Interesting but not my cup of tea.

>I write because I enjoy telling stories
Good enough for me. The dialogue itself is somewhat weak and flat, not to mention one-sided. I'm not sure if I'd really call it dialogue at all, it's really just a few quips from the narrator. I'd expand on it a lot more and give some actual back and forth, even if the responses denote an indifferent tone there ought to be something there.

The way you write in general though needs a lot of work; It feels very elementary. Continue to practice, it will make you better. But I'd suggest reading a bit more before you really sink your teeth in.

Thanks for your feedback, as well, on my ideas. I don't intend to say anything outright about those topics to avoid the preaching. But since that seems to be the chief concern I'll take another look at the outline and see if I can shift some thoughts around to ensure it doesn't come off that way.

Definitely not reading all of this crap. This is filled with issues from top to bottom just even glancing over it.
>... echoed
Who are they echoing?
Also, white space isn't poisonous. Please use some.

Thanks for the laughs, Kohai.
It's good to know what I still lack, thanks for pointing them out yo!

Did it keep you engaged,though, by any chance? Like entertained or whatever?

White space?

shit don't call me kohai, forgot the stupid filter kills the word f a m

I don't read YA so for me, no, I wasn't really interested. Obviously I'm not your target, though. If I were 16-17 then perhaps. At the very least you managed to provide a hook and interesting characters with a fast pace.

You said something about cliched dialogue, how does one avoid that mess?

This is nice, in one word.

Pace is definitely above serviceable, but like another user mentioned, it got a little too repetitive at certain parts. At this part specifically

>One more time. I'm sure of it. That will be two. It has to be two. It doesn't have to be. Lock. Was that two, or three? I have to check if the outside is still there. Unlock.

Maybe it'll work better if you were to compress it even more. To use even less words to barely convey what the narrator is thinking? Give reader the impression that they are reading more words than they actually do?

The revelation that the outside isn't actually there at the end was a nice little twist. Not sure how this could be developed into a longer narrative, as telling a whole story in this style isn't very feasible.

>Never been in love
>Only had two recurring sexual partners

not even going to bother

just ree

post one of your own excerpts before critiquing others. Chances are, you are the worst writer here.

One should really practice abstinence when it comes to dealing with tripfags.

I'm black, they're white.

I think to some extent I've always been a sort of fantasy fulfilment for the women I've been with. Both those two became really clingy towards the end and probably did have strong feelings for me but I struggled to get past that paranoia.

I've since learned to get over it but I haven't had a recurring partner since. So no need to ree, Pepe. I am your blood and kin.

/blog

Not an argument

I’m different in it.
I skip details
But it is still me.
I even keep the acne scars
-- so it looks real.

You stay the same.
It is my flaws that
I cannot stand. I appreciate yours.

I focus on the sensations
That I can imagine. The limits I probe.
The caresses and grazes and gropes.
I even keep the dirty aspects
-- to convince myself it can be real.

I say it keeps something alive.
I say it doesn’t hurt.
I allow it – a small thing for me.

I say I think of you
But I’m not so sure.
It’s the “you” my limits can
Recreate – images and sounds.
I even make you talk
-- to let myself think it can be you.

I don’t know
How to get rid of it
Or how to enjoy it
Without feeling guilty.
But I tell myself
I can be aware of this – outside this
Enough to not let it be a prison
-- to make it feel less shitty.

This is incoherent meta-trash.

So I didn't actually write a single word of this. As an experiment, I copy and pasted each individual line from various other poems in a single poetry critique thread a few months ago and ordered them to rhyme and cohere as best I could. Some of you might recognize a line or two of yours. Anyway, I call it:

Freud Writes Frankenstein

Let it be said
the time has come for me to say hello:
The Queen is dead
by blackmagic melodies and mellow

Platonic fiends hovering over Tokyo
made from the clouds in your dream
atop the eons of which we roam
broken only after it seems

their faces, those of gods or dogs,
discarded cutlery in the trash,
planet, tiger captains, and frogs,
pig eating pigs plump with cash

murder my personality
without all the advantages
so take some hospitality
a tumble of shiny images

or not quite anyway, except
that isn't Toni Morrison, silly–
for the sake of what was left
we shiver in this chilly

room with the amusement park attraction;
as days crawl with the impatient impasse
that is probably muddled in abstraction
I watched her wilt as days did pass

like the columnated ruins, dominoed,
for the nuance or the yolk
but in schematic pseudocode
colliding with the herb smoke

reminding us of its presence
Güte gräbt ein tiefes Loch
It makes no difference,
set me up upon a rock

with ourselves at the other end
to say something pithy and smart,
though the view does ascend,
this is really easy to pick apart.

If humanity were an organism
it would be a fly,
social media its eyes.
We buzz aimlessly looking shamelessly
at shit, often also licking it.
Through us disease does spread
and through us we name our dead
words like beloved, good and dear
thinking no more of vomiting on stale bread
and showering in beer
(interstitially praising our ability to persevere).
Clear now it is: insectoid Les Miz
is not what we is, despite what has been said,
for while the sun peaks in the East
misery and it's creatures feature the least
in our man made shed that made man led
to believe what it knows: the weeds, flowers and clothes,
bountiful bovine offering offal and clothes
but more importantly that which we churn to turn
into butter and butter into sperm.

Yes, humanity is a a fly,
but the butter comes first
even prior to the thirst
to fly like a fly,
for we are a butterfly
(in its chrysalis,
not to diminish this
or finish this

I like it but it is basically an excerpt from IJ, also think your use of epithet might not wrong but not what I intuit as being optimal. Like in big 'ole dick the epithet is big 'ole. Maybe I'm just wrong but I like to think of epithet as the adjective in a nominative phrase.

A Practice in Practicing

Emotions are the potential for expression
like voltage for work (in a physics sense)
but I don't have any emotions right now
unless you count shame, frustration and depression
which you only wouldn't if you were retarded
or an amoeba, any non-human animal really
or a non-telepathic extraterrestrial, or a chair
or a fictional character, or a non-English reader,
or a superfluous list of things used to mask my—
feelings are the potential for expression
like incentive for work (in an economic sense)
but I don't have any feelings right now
unless you count pain, indolence or ennui
which you only wouldn't if you had a good reason,
such as the veritable lack of any relevant—
sensory information is the potential for expression
like whips for work (in a slavery sense)
but I don't have any sensory information right now
unless you count pixelated light, crickets and crows
which you only wouldn't if you were like me
contemporaneously dead.

This is my first short story I've written. It's about future technology and loss, and is pretty nihilistic. I'm proud of it but would like to share it and hear some opinions.

There may be some typos out there, it's a draft.

2/3

3/3

Ionospherically high
yet lower than the Earth's core.
Writing writhes me: dearth's chore.
In Oxycodone I am high.

What does bye really mean?