Turning 30

>Turning 40
>still unpublished

Just came here to say I'm 25 and have 2 novels published and am working on a short story collection.

Good day :^)

How does one rate an anthology on goodreads?

I doubt you're telling the truth, because if someone honestly feels the need to brag to a bunch of fucking losers on Veeky Forums about their publishing history, then I sincerely doubt you have anything worth saying to the world to begin with. If you are telling the truth, then I hope you grow up some day and write something worth reading.

I didn't even think I was all that good a writer, but tonight has been a sobering experience for me, and reading the first few pages of my novel after two weeks has been cringy. I was hoping I wouldn't cringe at my first published work until at least 5 years later or so. Definitely have to edit it, but right now I REALLY need to get this second novel going. Shit's going crazy in my life right now and I might not have much time for writing left. Speaking of which, I shared the premise of my book in another thread... got shot down hardcore. My night wasn't even going particularly good and now it's taken something of a depressing turn, but I think it'll be for the best in the long run.

Going to be good to get drunk tomorrow... definitely need to get myself a bottle of liquor or a case of beer. Fuck sakes it's not easy starting out as a writer. I can take criticism, I really can, but I just didn't know I was this... well... I hate to say it but... bad. Going to keep going though. My life needs SOMETHING to serve as motivation, SOMETHING to hopefully look forward to. I've finally written that zombie survival novel I've wanted to write for years, I am a published author, and it still feels good to say that in spite of the blaring issues with the book.

An arbitrary amount of stars with an explanatory review.

You could complain and call me a liar, sure. That's a tired dismissal. Instead, you should print my post. Take it to your desk and hang it up above you (where it belongs) until you have bested my record. Then you should take it off the wall and piss on it until it dissolves.

It is you who has the attitudinal problem, hypocrite.

Oh yeah, fuck, I was going to post how she's brought into the story.

Grasping his rifle in one hand, the backpack strap on the left shoulder was held in place with the other, and he jogged along, heading for the path on the other side of this small park that went back into the woods, intent on cutting north at some point to reach the highway again that lead steadily eastwards. Suddenly a scream, it echoed out from the town, high pitched, a woman. The fat, old walker was ignored by this point, which ignored the disturber in turn for the scream had caught its decaying ear, and so the armed man kept going unhindered for the time being. She was not his concern; to enter that town was to invite to himself whatever horrors plagued the living female within.

The thought of stopping by the liquor store on the way to finding that woman had, for a brief split second, made him consider the stupidity of risking his life for whatever stranger was screaming in there. It was quickly snuffed out. He had not survived for THIS long, mostly on his own, by sticking his neck out every time someone foolishly got themselves in trouble in a place populated by the dead. The contents of his pack clunked until the jog slowed to a walk once he was within the trail, breathing heavily, the sweat more steadily coming down his face.

Wanted to stop; wanted to get that plastic 1.14L (40oz) bottle of water that once held dark rum out of his backpack, but firstly he ought to get more distance between himself and that pudgy biter. Secondly, water had to be rationed when there wasn’t a ready supply of it nearby. He kept walking, wishing now, like the zombie from the park, he had a pair of shorts instead of those jeans. His tune would change once night came, though. When the chill of autumn set in with the dying of the Sun. Slowly, quite slowly, his breathing normalized, and it was seen ahead amidst the trees and brush that the trail swerved off to the left, towards the north, good, he should soon be on the other side of the tow- “AAAAHHHHH-NOOOOO! HEEEEEEEELP!”

“Christ a’mighty, woman… can’t even hear meself think!” He muttered with a slight accent in this somewhat stressful situation, however noted that it was getting louder; SHE was getting louder as were other noises in the background that sounder slightly farther off. Moans, and not the happy ‘fuck me harder’ kinds… the hungry kinds… the sound of the dead. The man cursed to himself, quickening his already brisk walking pace, peering left, roughly towards the northwest as though hoping to see through the trees. An unseen little rock before him was kicked from the trail, then a shot rang out; she’s ARMED?!
>Fuck me, it basically starts with a run-on sentence. I really did fuck my first book good... anyways, they haven't met yet, this is just the first sign of knowing she exists.

At least there's not as much unnecessary capitalization or ellipsis?

Not that guy, but regardless of whether you out yourself, thanks for the reference to Flapperhouse. They look pretty cool.

all these people were published after 30?

nice word Kid