Writefag Thread

It was for so it had to be substanceless.

Then cut out all the substance after the first paragraph.

I wanted to write like 10 posts of absolutely nothing a la Tristam Shandy.

Then I ran out of ideas.

>Running out of ideas
>About literally nothing
Kek.

I could have went on about incest and digressed back to the parents a few dozen more times.

I would very much like some thoughts on this.

My sight switch between the clock and the sheet of paper. My turn would being at six in the morning, and I were five minutes late. However, I could not abandon my unfinished poem. The sky began to turn blue with the dawn, the birds sung melodies which, althought devoid of rhythm, could only be compared to the greatest symphony, and the weak light of the candle, put there only to add to the ambience, was agitating in the paper. It lacked but one stanza, and I could not finish it but there, during that exact moment. If I abandoned it, it wouldn't be for a short amount of time, but for all of my life. A poem with it's verses made in different times loses its value, becoming fruit of different emotions and conditions.

i think you have infinity typos

Why are you on Veeky Forums

Anyone remember the user who wanted help with the - WAR WITHIN - query letter?
I emailed him and got a few chapters of his magnum opus, if anyone's interested.

I'm just going to leave this here :)

drive.google.com/open?id=0BzZzSemy73ZDY3BDeXFCN0MyZVE

there was once a man named man and he went to the store and he bought a pint of milk then he realised he drinks a pint of day and would have to come back tomorrow to buy another

then he realised if he didn't buy a pint a day and bought 7 pints in advance of the week he could drink all his milk without having to buy milk every day

so he did then he went to the store then he bought 7 pints of milk then he realised he couldn't carry it all home so he made two trips one with 4 pints one with 3 and then eventually he had the 7 for the week

so he drunk his pint a day then man woke up one day and took out a pint then drunk it then spilled it everywhere

what does man do?

>indentating the first line
>using line break despite using indentation
>inconsistent paragraph spacing
>font size fucking mosquito

I'm not even going to try. People who know fuckall about text formatting shouldn't get creative.

What's wrong with indenting the first line?

I write my stuff in spanish. Should I post the translation or the original text?

>indentating

Indenting the first line in a body of text is unnecessary, ugly and unprofessional.

Every novel I've ever read has indenting though.

Yet it seems you can't read at all.

I was in a hurry translating it from my language, hopefully now everything is correct. Tell me your thoughts.

My sight was switching between the clock and the sheet of paper. My turn would begin at six in the morning, and I was five minutes late. However, I could not abandon my unfinished poem. The sky began to turn blue with the dawn, the birds sang melodies which, although devoid of rhythm, could only be compared to the greatest symphony, and the weak light of the candle, put there only to add to the ambience, was agitating in the paper. It lacked but one stanza, and I could not finish it but there, during that exact moment. If I abandoned it, it wouldn't be for a short amount of time, but for all my life. A poem with it's verses made in different times loses its value, becoming fruit of different emotions and conditions.

>who cares what's written when it hurts my autism?!

Sorry m8, but if your wall of text looks like shit on the outside, then the chances are, the contents aren't any better.

>bitching about anime on Veeky Forums

This is probably bait, but come on! Get a new angle, buddy.

The modern lover of history finds more of value in Thucydides than in Livy. The former, while guilty of embellishment and invention, did so in the service of a history that was as secular and objective as could be expected at the time. He documented the religious beliefs and superstitions of his age, but did not give them a causal role in his writing. It is these attributes which make him stand out to the modern mind: a mind obsessed with reason, or with its appearance.

Livy is conversely guilty of the gravest sin in modern academia, that of unrepentently subjectivizing his writing to favor the direct, internal lived experiences of those about whom he writes. Where he did not have sufficient information to speak authoritively about a person or event, he resorts to embellishment and invention, like Thucydides. However, he does so using the raw positionality of each of his subjects based on the Roman social context, or on mythology, which he assumes to have a kind of prehistorical significance as an even less rationalized, externalized, and objectively codified form of lived experience.

In writing this history, which is unlike anything of its kind, I come far closer to Livy than to Thucydides. While I regret the consequences this will have for the dissemination and acceptance of the text, I must nonetheless justify my choices and stand by them as necessary in the exposition of a story that must be told, but which is buried in so much obscurity, uncertainty, ancient and modern confusion, and deliberate obstruction.

Both, please.

The beginning to a little story im writing.

pastebin.com/syexbgAu

Critiques appreciated thanks

Sure. Let me get home first, tho. My english is very rusted.

Formulaic, nothing super interesting happening here either in terms of device.

I'm trying to write a whimsical short story about cheesemongers but I only got one hour of sleep last night .

Ah what the hell, tear my edginess apart Veeky Forums- only way I'll learn-

Hospital windows

I have idled in all the waiting rooms
on blue geo-patterned waiting chairs
I have sat and i have stared
I have bore my gaze into the clock
Until there was no time left
I have gone slack-jawed, I have depersonalised
I have held television static in my eyes only to realise
that the window is one true friend
And so I have become the coma kid
Who killed himself a dozen times
On distant silent highways
I have stepped out into the vein
To be run down by metal cells
that hoon all throughout my brain
And awoken to a muted sigh
and saw that it was all so far away
Watched the traffic ebb and flow
And watched the people pulsate
To throb into these hospital rooms
Then throb themselves till empty
Under the eye of fellow throbbers
that lean over to touch them gently
and make a spectacle of their decay
Then pad out the door with a sad limp wave
And pad on down the hall
And pad on out into the day
And pad on and pad on
Till they’re under bleached sheets
With weepy eyes and organs
That syncopate each other’s beat
Till they cannot see the rush before them
And so spend these final throbs
In sleep

Cut down on some of the repetition. Other than that I like the simple style- compliments your character's dislike of pretentiousness and such.

how do i be good writer lads?

Read lots and practice, then take something you think you're proud of and let it be torn apart by vicious lion-types (preferably ones that know what they're talking about)

i'm a lazy fuck so i will spend maybe twelve hours developing something and then drop it for six months

I wrote a semi-occult book called Book of Sanctimony in anticipation of my suicide. It's kind of a joke book, and there are a lot of gags in it which aren't possible to transcribe to type.

Yeah I know the feeling. I guess trying to force yourself to churn out something on a regular basis is really the only answer- pity that quality tends to degrade along with interest in these kinda things though.

I'm writing a dialogue scene for my stupid intrusion fantasy book. Do these characters sound like realistic, modern young adults?

docs.google.com/document/d/1iHr55v-zRwPZDRwL96ImNmS62pizGkg2uaFx3MPzb1Y/edit

Not very good until the last couple lines. the rest is lacking, I'd personally get rid of all the lines starting with "I".

Here's a short story I'm working on. All critique welcome.

pastebin.com/0ukLkt2V

Yeah it seems like a fairly natural/ realistic dialogue. Get rid of some of the "dudes" though as it seemed a bit over the top.

Okay, awesome.

Did the passage convey that Zach might be depressed? Was the "my entire fuckin' life" line too obvious?

how SHIT is my SHIT?
pastebin.com/S0jhaWcw
JUST

That's a lot of "says".

Well, something I wrote in Portuguese:

"Ian se refestela na cama sem sequer tirar o acolchoado. A temperatura começa a cair e ele lembra que talvez seja uma boa ideia descer para o jantar. Seus olhos fitos na luminária onde um grupo de mosquitos voa em um vaivém ininterrupto. “Que diabos eles querem?”, ele se pergunta e observa os insetos em sua dança da morte até que um deles, o mais arguto e afoito, tenta meter-se por entre a base de plástico que segura a lâmpada fluorescente, até que, de tanto se bater ali dentro, ele acaba tocando um dos pinos de contato que estavam minimamente expostos. Há uma descarga elétrica, pequena e imperceptível àquela distância, e Ian sabe que aquilo foi o fim. Ele quer pensar sobre aquilo, extrapolar o insignificante ao ponto que tudo se torne uma reflexão acerca da vida e sua falta de propósito — mas tal como um músculo que exposto a exercícios prolongados mal consegue estender-se sem que uma dor pungente o acometa, da mesma forma Ian sente a cabeça oscilar pesada, um pêndulo entre sonho e realidade, os olhos semicerrando-se, o corpo tomado por um torpor, até que tudo desaparece nos rios que fluem a mente cujos barcos já se encontram em cais escuridão adentro."

Don't mix text with the direct speech.
>A man shouted from an elevated wooden platform, he is clad in white robes...
That's an awkward transition, do something.
>He had positioned himself at the center of the busiest STREET , a lot of merchants and travellers use this STREET to get to and fro major cities.

Not that guy, but I think it was okay. If it's really important, maybe you should add something about how he looked while saying it.

Where? I can only find one "says" and one "said"

Please help me make this more interesting:

pastebin.com/5ypFy1PB

a political scirntyist rold me i am "very racist" tonighht

I dont have ill feelings to the abos

i cabnt type

>something good on Veeky Forums
I'm curious enough to want to see this

pastebin.com/xuUKJxL9

Here i pasted it in google translate
pastebin.com/c7D538Vw

demo:
In particular, a lot has changed since the days when the hospital was called the slaughterhouse, and patients going into its northern gate, and leave mostly southern gate - feet first. Specialist began his work by measuring the total area of which occupied the hospital with branches that do not belong to the main building - this area was one hundred and ten cubits long and ninety-wide and was on each side separated by a fence. The main building occupied this forty cubits long, wide and thirty high was nineteen elbows. Contained in a total of four main branches on each of the floors, long a few dozen yards wide and about ten, each of the branches divided into smaller units - surgery divided into general surgery and orthopedic surgery, trauma-; gynecology also neonatology, and block birth; a branch of internal medicine also contained in a neurologie and OAIT (and silent). Results have not been included several specialist clinics and laboratories X-rays, each of these rooms was in the form of a square with an area of several elbows. Ground floor - dining room, kitchen, chapel, pharmacy - on a rectangular area with dimensions of forty cubits long, ten wide. Hospital grounds ended in August with the north and south complexes of buildings - the northern branch of infectious and ZOL (by dividing the entire width of three parts, these troops occupied part of the central long were ten cubits, and the high on for six), in the south of laboratories ( in a large building 20 yards long and wide to ten). Wind was a total of 4 - one at the entrance to ZOL, the other at the rear of laboratories, and the two oldest - in the main hospital building, dimensions: 3 cubits long, 3 wide and 6 high elbows. Jarek chose this which in contrast to other work, and drove her to the surgical ward, his left wing was in block birth (8 cubits long, 27 cubits wide), where according to the report happened to malfunction.

Cntrl+F, "say".

Muito gostoso, user.
Portuguese is top-tier for writing.

Animeposters need to leave. /r/anime is at a different website. That website? Reddit.

Anime website.

first real attempt at writing something, how terrible is it?

pastebin.com/titzhyvu

Pink and thick Like an
eraser in friction against paper
a star tesselating into five
points A feeling, a sense
Deja vu every time the dawns wells
A benificent tumorous coral
Timbre resonating in something
the coiled pink muscle of migrane
The glowing light that
Innards scraped across a page
The flakes whispering a lovely
pulsing amnesia Fading poem
Like a metaphor taken literally
the meaning of the metaphor forgotten
A pink eraser scraping against the
page My head searching for a
poem that I lost
Something strange and beautiful

Automatic writing:
Delicate, the bones of a poem folding under the weight of words
A comb running through the mind, unwinding the tangled mess of thought
tasteful only to the point that it ignores the nature of things
The building like a metaphor straining at the edge of its meaning
admits its weakness in the form of broken glass
While somewhere else a kettle screams, full of tea
the frail porcelain that holds it's fragments
like the structure of the building

An honest man sits
Alone beneath a tree,
And the whole world dares to listen.
A man whose words
Are bittersweet,
But the world does not dismiss him.
In fact, he feels,
With every sin
The world begins to miss him.

An honest man, here, once sat,
And told the world so much.
When on this tree he hung his hat,
The grass forgot his touch.

>the frail porcelain that holds it's fragments
First thing that came to mind was a toilet bowl. Just thought I'd let you know.

I'll post the original text. Maybe I'll post the translation later.

Es increíble como el silencio corrompe las mentes sin hambre.
Déjanos ver que regalos trajeron los dioses para esta cabeza vacía.
Queremos saber qué tan lejos llegan las lecciones.
De uno en un millón, caen, se tropiezan y los pisotean, ciegos, sin tacto, percibiendo la suave carne como si fuese una alfombra.
Por fin, bajan de sus apartados hogares, lejos en la montaña, vienen para matar y oír los llantos de sus presas.
Huelen el miedo en el aire, tiñen la nieve de rojo y se marchan sin dejar rastro alguno.
Y elejimos hacerles caso omiso a los lobos, y amamos a los corderos, los cuidamos como si fuesen tesoros y cuando se convierten en carneros, los faenamos por sus crímenes.
Escucho las pesadillas que se agolpan en las salidas de mi cráneo, rogan misericordia, escapan de un horror lejano y desconocido, que las humillará y las pondrá de rodillas.
Y ahora opinamos sin saber, hablamos sin razones y pedimos que se nos escuche. Oigo palabras de vacío. Desconocemos y nos lamentamos por lo que no sabemos si deberíamos. Los sensibles gastan sus lágrimas. Los apáticos se quedan confundidos en un rincón. Luchamos por una causa perdida sin ganar ni siquiera la satisfacción de hacerlo. Deformamos los sentimientos para que quepan en nuestro propio ambiente. Y así se produce una malinterpretación. No nos inmutaríamos si no existiese primero desde nosotros. De alguna forma debemos proyectar fuerza.
Es hora de dormir. Tal vez los sueños borren nuestros efímeros recuerdos, pero existen en los pensamientos de los guardianes, que sin perder su férrea postura, sollozan como niños.

Another one:

Hermosos eran los vientos cálidos del invierno.
-”¿Podrás capturar a la Luna y las estrellas
arrodillándose frente tuyo?”

-”No, si el agua sigue estando lodosa y turbia;

no mientras quede encandilado por su belleza:

es simplemente un espectáculo ver como se oculta entre las copas de los árboles.”
La noche temblaba, su brillo otorgado por el Sol agonizante y sus hijas.
Pueden verse las copas de los pinos meciéndose en el viento del huracán.
Ese viento una vez suave, que apenas besaba el rostro de uno.
Pueden verse los techos de madera y de chapa arrancados de sus soportes.
A la gente no parece molestarle.
Ya hace tiempo necesitábamos una tormenta así, silenciosa, cálida y luminosa.
¡Que barra lejos de aquí aquellos ruidos espantosos, que nos abrigue del frío y que traiga agua a los secos campos!
El cielo sigue deslumbrante, como siempre.
Nunca la muerte de alguien tan poderoso pudo proveernos de tal espectáculo.
Veo los techos de madera y de chapa, y todavía no son arrancados.
Mejor así.
Que la tormenta sea solo mía.

I'm writing an urban fantasy book atm and is coming along great. Though its to shit right now to show to other people.

Post it, user. I wanna see it.

Lamento de la Selva:

Es como si las copas de los altos árboles se inclinasen para ver al niño muerto.
La triste lluvia hace de cortina, cubre al pequeño y a su madre, que huyen del dolor.
Los ríos se secan al ver pasar a la joven, y se enfurecen al ver a los persecutores.
La tierra se vuelve firme, y las hierbas se corren durante unos minutos. Luego se vuelve lodosa y pesada, y matas espinozas y llenas de veneno bloquean el paso.
Parece ser que la piedra ya se quebró, y la jungla se queda sin energías.

pastebin.com/xmjUPa9y

First chapter let me know what you think

It's nice, but it needs some repolishment.
For example, you use too much the word "Calvin". Play around with "his" "him" or "he".

Thanks I appreciate the feedback

Wine

Maybe a plum-colored
pail of salt to scrub myself with, or

a diaphragm of opulent
chalk markings shrouded over

the bed-side floor; a heart-hole that
tremors from its carved weight
will do.

The linoleum, it peels like skin above
the cavern
where my feet have forced themselves into.

I sink there on a sibilant
night: in the horizon

of your wine my airy suspension sounds
as metal on the plate of your eye.

I'll wash your things in that old bay, my skin
cold as it develops in the swelling fluid.

Your hand becoming sheer
under the scent of glass I sleep

until the bottom hits in
the firmament of your grasping palm.

Very nice

La infinidad del horizonte corta mis entrañas
En acecho a el tiempo y la viveza extraña
De la inquisición del frío lento en las manos
Y la escritura falsa perdida en los años

La luz del sol cae agresiva
No hay sombra a mi alrededor que me aguarde
El aire esta vació y sangre viva
Escucho mi voz y mi palabra arde

No existo en el umbral del ayer
La silueta me obsequia la ceguera y el deber
De partir a fuego a mañanas blancos
De surgir en el hojaldre de los cantos

Encuéntrame en los muros de piedra
Muerto entre puñales y plumas
Mis ojos cerrados y mi cara despierta
Simple en los caminos de fugas

>drive.google.com/open?id=0BzZzSemy73ZDY3BDeXFCN0MyZVE
yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki yuki

Literaly pixelated shit.

G-gracias.

Muy bueno

Esta Bien

first short story since high school (normally write poetry)

The boy wandered about his stuff in the yard like Roman ruins. Whenever someone would stop by and ask how much that couch is, or how much that one lamp everyone seemed to like cost, his mother always shook her head and ultimately said no to the sale. The last time was similar, but she at least sold something. Today, she can’t seem to let anything go.

Maybe her brother will help her get rid of some of this junk. It was so confusing as to why she crumpled into him like a triumphal arch groaning with age and cracks. Remember when the teacher told us about the Romans? They were so strong they had their own lake. If only we had a lake for fishing. They also had huge aquaducks that would bring water to their town (didn’t they have faucets?). Maybe, their water was too heavy.

The heaviness of a slumped head in your shoulder is unforgettable. The boy overheard her saying,
-They threw our shit in the yard! I told them we’d move. I was almost done moving everything, but they, they threw our shit in the yard.
-Mama, this man was wondering how much the recliner is.

With a face as red as a dying sun, filled with blood and anguish she fell to her back and screamed and screamed and screamed.

Ich spaziere über die Straße, wann ich sehen eine kleine Mann. Das kleine Mann sich war sehr lustig, weil ist er sehr klein e. Unter 6" ist kleine. Sollte er bestehen dürfen? Es macht Sie wirklich denken.

moody

>Write something stupid. Write a quick story about a man who struggles with communism.

"What was that?" He squinted at her questioningly, though through the dim lighting of the slightly wobbly room no answers escaped her grin.
"Zizek. It was a quote, you know?"
He couldn't grapple with this reality. Here, in this bar, a highly attractive woman sat down next to him, took his number, and in the same breath, quizzed him on some obscure communist philosopher. Was he was expected to preform his mastery of this guy's works? Was she merely a bridge troll, obstructing his quest with her devilish riddles? As she waited patiently for him to continue the conversation, for some grand display of his deep philosophical knowledge, he slipped his cellphone discretely out of his pocket. He took a deep breath, and prayed she'd be too drunk to notice the glow of his google search.

-slim down your sentences, there's a lot of words that don't need to be there and don't serve a purpose
for example:
> It was so confusing as to why she crumpled into him like a [...]
vs
>The way she crumpled into him like a [...] was so confusing
>It was so confusing how she crumpled into him [...]
or in the first place, what does the adjective "puzzling" bring to the table?

Also if someone fell backwards and started screaming in response to "how much is this recliner" that'd be weird. Like, not "hoarder" weird, more like "this person looks schizophrenic" weird. So, maybe either tone down her reaction from 11, or have some appropriate "this person is literally a psycho, would not want to sit next to them on the bus/10" responses to it.

sorry, I said "puzzling" but meant "confusing". You get me.

Just fuck my shit up

Please read it over with care, then delete everything and rewrite it.

I just started writing a story about a week ago.
If I wanted to get some advice on my writing should I post the first few pages here or should I finish the entire thing first?

I doubt anyone here has the time or will to go through a long text to give an in-depth analysis on the story and characters. But anyone can read a short excerpt and tell you you fail at grammar and syntax.

Makes sense.
Would appreciate whatever feedback.
Unless you know, it's negative feedback and will make me feel bad, keep that to yourself.

Whatever, I'm probably not going to kill myself at this point. Here are some of the things written by or in conjunction with my spirit:

God may not read, Mr. Cioran, but that hardly means he has no knowledge of books.

We are all someone else's source of meaning, so long as we have the perspectives of limited creatures. Here we see why God's first act was to divide himself.

Pain without ecstasy is darkness without light. It is the essential qualia of hopelessness.

If you peel enough layers away from anyone, they will die.

There is no phrase more coercive, more threatening, than "I love you". It takes everything in a relationship and makes it contingent on the time-bomb of irrationality.

The Holy Spirit is like Microsoft Windows. A user-friendly solution which is ubiquitous and doesn't play well with other distributions.

I can already see the entire plot, a boy who wants to be a neet...
Maybe a normalfag will find it enjoyable.

Either way, obligatory

>I can already see the entire plot, a boy who wants to be a neet...

Completely and utterly wrong.

Stop arguing with me kid, I'm the fucking critic here...

And here are the professor's markings. You get D+. Less weed, more care. Please don't take a year off when you're 18.

Thanks a lot user, I don't understand some of the issues, but the ones I do help.

Like why does "being dropped into adulthood" or "free time" have lines under them exactly?

Also general writing question, since the narrator is the main character basically thinking to himself, would some improper English be okay since it's more accurate to how the average person speaks?