Critique Thread

> ctrl-F critique thread
> no critique thread

Well. Let's fix that.

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/fJanXfij
emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/showing-and-telling-the-basics.html
wattpad.com/335994293-life-in-gotha-chapter-1
pastebin.com/JQ9sQysT
docs.google.com/document/d/1y5X2KwG9n75k1PIq3oxJjLNADCpCeSq-FAfOCuYnakc/edit?usp=drive_web
pastebin.com/raw/cVvNmf6k
twitter.com/SFWRedditVideos

Bad idea. You shouldn't have made a critique thread. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Why? is there one already up?

A Knew

A man drunk. He went in strokes. A shadow was on the glass, and the drink on the shadow, teeming in the light. A ring. He let himself stay. The casedrawer was drawn, the ices in lorgnon teeming.
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘A fight.’
His lame. It gave him an ache, the sun.
All about. Going here and there, most never arrived within his sight. On a catalyst.
‘You can’t keep up like this.’
A man drunk.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
The berm was ill devised. His throat was warm with drink. Tippled, astir, the shopcases all a dim. There was pink, little else. He called him up. Neath a splintered pilaster, coming down to the telephoneclip. Some watched as they went. He placed his coins in the slot. Taking it by the ban. A ring. A dialtone.
He came to a path ran over the tributuary, like a crutch, teeming. A man found a bench and sat awhile. He would remain there all day.

reposting my own:

pastebin.com/fJanXfij

Scene I revised just now. Try to ignore the autistic parts if you can. Main character's GF dies as they are trying to get back to a ship where their home city has just fallen and is being taken over. He completely snaps and goes full suicide. Curious how well I convey that, especially if I should change the end of line / paragraph 25 to:

> Emma was dead. Emma was dead, and it was time for him to die.

Instead of saying it later. I like the parallel of "she's dead time for me to die" but I also like the "nothing else mattered" because I was listening to Nothing Else Matters when I wrote a lot of their scenes, how they really only cared about each other in a hopeless war. Also I don't know what to write for the part below at the end of line 27 where it's "She was dead, Sarengarth was gone, and it was time for him to die".... it just doesn't have the same ring to it. So I'm not sure if I should switch it back, or try to come up with something else, or what.

Also just general opinions on my prose, it's structure, it's rhythm, etc. Readability is my biggest priority, as well as not being entirely cringeworthy. I'm going through a lot of my old shit and trying to shift away from the ultraviolet spectrum if you know what I mean. I like the idea of Ernest Hemingway and his straightforward writing. But I also want to describe the gunfights well, make them feel fast and furious like I imagine them in my head.

Will give critique if you post your own shit with your critique of me.

A lone stallion laid among the newly thrashed pile of men with dawn reaping the losses.
With a gallop, a cavalcade of grey and a harmony of horns approached the wetted battlefield.
“It shan’t be continued, m’ sire. The Olrils have already set camp amongst the coast, and we cannot afford to repeatedly send these brave men to--”
“Hush”, the commander yowled at the sire, ceasing the symphonic horns of victory. The squadron of the Royal Vanguards began to dismount their steeds, placing the red and dusty brindles they carried with them.
The commander unsheathed his own blade. A panabay glimmered, embroidered in golden echelons and elvish scripture. The sky ahead was mournful, but of seemingly an ensorcced enchantment, the air was plenty dewy, leaving moisture upon the elve’s brow. As far as one could seize the mixture of muddled shapes and mountains, a lowly fog concealed the squadrons location. Most of them soldiers were taking rests and scavenging the fallen orcs of the Olrils kingdom’s pile. “Do you not reckon the Olrils would know we have just slaughtered a brigade of their elite men in the midst of their own country? How foolish, Egthow. . . You’re putting our lives in danger--your own mens’. To sally forth like this and to leave behind such a mess is not a mere statement, brother. It is a damned suicide note!” Tanyl protruded amongst the inebriate discussion of the high browed sinuous men. Of what started as mumble out of frustration, Egthow eventually alleviated his anger, and replied, “Brother, I know what I am doing with my own men, my own life, and my own plans. This is no suicide, this is a conquest. There is no room for compunction whilst the ancestors we have proven worthy of progeny are being scoffed at by the Olril Kingdom.” For a brief moment, the chatter had ceased. The silence allowed the trees to imitate the rain, whistling with the small bit of wind the land had offered. The sand beneath the elven boots was of fine black sand, with skinks crawling about and insectoid inhabitants scouting the land. A small island offered diversity in both the ecosystem and war.
Egthow, after making careful check of the thick forests around his comrades, approached the nearby sea that encased such dignity. Thin-booted steps and soaked-seines made their way to the near water, in hopes of some fish. Two crude rafts floated on the mirrors that made little sound. A seine was tossed, and when reeled, a catch of four fairly-large sized fish had been attempting the escape. A swift spear spiked all four, and when lifted, the reflection of the squamous creatures lingered in one of the crew mates eyes.

I take a step,
a leap a bound
The first of many,
how profound

Sun brings play, snow brings presents
A time when I knew, or at least I knew they knew
My favourite this, my favourite that
Nothing is expected when everything is new

He sees

I kiss, I love, I lose
The laugh, the cry
If the world is mine
perhaps I may even try

Stub your toe no longer tears
for pain is greater once you feel
Thoughts of Venus, abyss divide, terrify
Stare and wait, and soon the kneel

He watches

I take a step,
a creep a crawl
Uncertainty looms
but on I trawl

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious?
Do it for them, but say it's for me
Once praised for being, now left so thankless

I see

More to say less to do
now that thinking's easier
What if? If only?
Would I have been happier?

Nothing's perfect, now I'm learning
Expect no big, build from small
This is the constant compromise of
bittersweet nostalgia times

I watch

I see the picture now
rough and ragged
no form or meaning
Finally equipped but unequipped

Head full, body empty
No time for shame or blaming
No time for much at all
Unexpectedly, more predictably,
The shifting sands herald him

We go

No people just hate critique thread because of their Ego

This is the first time I've written fiction since I was a teenager so I'm well aware it's shit but ya gotta start somewhere. Any reccs on like a "starter kit" of books to improve your writing would be appreciated. Here goes: “Drop it.” I said and motioned towards the ground with my rifle. He’s a boy. Can’t be older than 20. We were well into winter and the seeds of facial hair were just beginning sprout on his chin. I caught him as he was finishing pissing and he still had one hand against the thick base of an oak tree. He was off balance and the FAL rifle slung around his shoulder was still pointing at the ground. He was clearly not of the stature to be using a full-sized battle rifle and his barrel had dipped into the snow as he turned around, which may have created a barrel obstruction if my recently diminishing favor with lady luck had given her cause to take pity. Either way only a lunatic or a fool would challenge me from this position, but twenty-somethings are more often than not find themselves in the overlap of that, particularly deadly Venn diagram.


He was still staring at me, motionless and I could see every gear behind his eyes whirring like a rat trying to gnaw its way out of a mental cage. His hand slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to move down the tree. I knew how this would end. .308 Winchester bearing down on me with all the accuracy of a man with half the weight needed to wield it properly on unsteady footing. He was only somewhere around 30 feet away from me so he would hit me, but he would probably just tear my arm off or spill my entrails into the snow. Perhaps a picturesque way to go but certainly not a pleasant one unless he could surprise me and override his fear with courage and mercy but that was a longer shot than him not toppling the dominoe of his demise. I put about 4 pounds of pressure on the trigger sending him halfway down the path to hell.


He let a long breath leak from his lungs and stain the cold air. It would be his last. He quickly reached for the handguard and had barely started to raise his rifle upwards when I completed my trigger pull sending a bullet flying out of the rifling and into the center of his chest. It landed with a thud and his body lost all sense of rigidness in a split second. He crumpled towards the ground as I finished the next half trigger pull that I justified as an act of mercy when in reality it was the gut reaction of self-preservation. After he lay still for a few moments, making it imminently clear that he had expired, I slung my rifle over my back and continued on my way.

I am, for what i am,
and i shall be, whatever it takes.
But without guidance,
i am but myself

Great

Not good

Good

Not good

Okay

Great

The froth of boreas’s verglass
Swept I, the lone wanderer, from height
The lamina had undergone the chemistry
And perforated by my tuffs I held ground

fuck off with your lowercase "i"'s

that's fucking neat, what are you into geology or something?
I'd post something but I already know my shit's shit.

thanks man, yes actually, a lame hobby, really. I just collect rocks and if I have any free time I'll read on some geophysics, but I don't have knowledge past calculus so the math is a slight barrier right now

post something man, only way you'll ever improve. We're here to critique

>only way you'll ever improve
All my shit is online anyways, I'd just invite trolls to leave bad reviews, even though I've got my share of them from the usual visitors anyways.

I don't have small snippets that are 'clever', I already know what's wrong with my work. I'm planning on going to a writing support group, Veeky Forums is the worst place for this. I've posted in the past, reviewed others stuff as best I could but there's usually no decent advice from what I've seen.
I would advise people in this thread to find a site that gets webtraffic like I did at royalroad. Huge site, lots of readers looking at shit, authors actually publishing and making money.

I've sent in submissions as well, so I'll find out from the big boys if I pass muster there as well.

I'd honestly like to see some good critiques of my work but I can already tell what people are going to say and it's usually compliments. I recently figured out that I'm not the only one who hungers for negative feedback to confirm what they already thought about their work, I assume that's what most people post in these threads for. Random negative feedback.

Obligatory spanish poem
Entendimientos
Miserable la ceguera que acosa
El alma libre que en el cielo goza
La cándida soltura de la libertad
El suelo fértil que abraza la luz de verdad
En el vuelo efímero sobrevive lejos
Pronto, será la prisión que ha de preceder a la muerte
Oscuras envolverán y estrangulan
Las garras son verdugos y deambulan
Sofocarán a la piedad del vivir, antes fuerte
Los pasos firmes serán reliquias y cenizas
De quién que divaga en el sórdido rumor
Caerá presa de la mentira y el fervor
Puede solo admirar las paredes macizas
Y en la planicie solitaria de su interior
Merodeará la nostalgia de haber abrazado el calor
Craving for a (You)

He's critiquing you.

He's being funny.

Ha.

Not bad, but I can see your writing style becoming annoying if the piece were any longer than this post.

“Of course I want it fixed today, if I wanted it fixed tomorrow I’d have brought it in tomorrow!”
There was a man standing in front of me, in my garage, holding a block of red iron oxide that may have at one point or another been some sort of shotgun. His body type gave the impression that while his physical strength might be decent, he drank excessive amounts of beer. He was wearing a sleeveless denim jacket, with patches of our state and the Confederate flag. I thought this was weird considering our state didn’t join the Union until after the civil war. He also wore a belt and suspenders at the same time. I don’t remember his name.
“Sir, when was the last time you fired this?”
“Oh well I suppose it would’ve had to have been last time I went duck hunting.” He said with the expected amount of consonants missing.
“And what did you do with it after that?”
“Figured I’d just leave it in my boat for when I needed it next.”
“Did the boat sink?”
“It was a little leaky when I got back to it, why?”
I took a few minutes to explain to him that his firearm was more than likely in no condition to fire, and it’s structural integrity was probably so compromised by rust that if he tried to it would more than likely explode. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, and if I wouldn’t fix it then he’d find someone who would.
Over the course of that day he called me back twice. Evidently, he came across my phone number in two different places while looking for my replacement and neither time did he realize it was me. The second time he told me he’d leave me a poor review on something he called “Help”.

This helps nobody

You help nobody

1/2 - This is the first time I've ever written fiction. Trying to write a short story because I've been really enjoying reading short stories recently and Veeky Forums inspired me to try and write one. Forgive that this is A) not finished and B) not the most original plot/not dealing with original themes.

It is no secret that many a young man is filled with unbridled indulgence in vices. Virtue is not only foreign concept to these youth, but it is strongly discouraged by society. The standard of behavior, so to speak, of young men is that they act unbounded in their pursuit of pleasure, portray themselves as being of incredible importance, and walk with a certain swagger.
There is an Irish pub in midtown Manhattan called Faces and Names, and early one evening, while the bar was relatively empty, a young man walked in adhering perfectly to the portrayal of youth I’ve just put forth: Cocksure, yet at-ease and clearly uncaring of the opinion of others – he had no issue blocking the doorway, allowing others to bear the yoke of squeezing through the small remaining space of the entryway.
The young man’s name was Anthony, and he stood near the door in silent observation of the largely unoccupied room for a few moments before moving toward the bar. He wore cheap and informal clothes (albeit deliberately – he could afford to dress well), but carried himself as if he was wearing an expensive outfit. He wasn’t dressed inappropriately for the room, but he was still less dressed than the few patrons in view. Anthony noticed this in passing, but didn’t dwell on it, and sat down at the bar next to a man some years older than himself.
Anthony was short, skinny, and athletic but not particularly muscular. He had relatively attractive features, which he didn’t boast but certainly capitalized on, such as loose blonde hair and calm green eyes. Coming from a wealthy family, he was well educated and made good use of his ample intellect when it suited him. Some critiqued him as lazy, but that was an inaccurate view of him – he had the ability to dial in on pursuits of intense interest with fantastic ambition. Sloth was far from being his foremost sin: pride and lust were what really plagued him. When he was in high school he largely poured this ‘fantastic ambition’ into girls and gambling, with great pride stemming from success in both pursuits. Admittedly, he didn’t take himself too seriously most of the time and usually had a calm demeanor, but he was prone to frequent mood swings. He spent most of his time stagnating in his apartment overwhelmed by boredom and only was relieved of this boredom by quest for whatever currently interested him. These objects of interest were rarely long-lasting, and usually underwent constant change.

The question I asked myself is “What is experience?” I didn’t ask it as a pseudo-intellectual or a philosophical quandary, it was instead out of a feeling of illegitimacy. Is there such thing as a more ‘authentic experience’, did the great writers of our time have these life defining experiences to draw from, or did they just sit down and write? Must I live as Thoreau and throw myself to the world’s cruelty and pray that I survive wise enough to write something worthwhile? A lack of faith in my cognitive senses has been weighing on me because invariably if I have an original thought; there will those who have already thought it, someone who will dismiss my writings as adolescent. I write as a 19 year old, and that fact innately lessens value.

Anthony did not live in Manhattan, but was in town for the weekend to visit an old friend. He intended to meet his friend for dinner later in the evening and wanted to have a drink before their reunion. Unlike most young men, Anthony made a good sum of money and managed to live a solidly pleasurable cosmopolitan life. This, however, was a new enough development in his life that he was still enjoying the novelty of it. More specifically, he was distinctly fond of having real money for the first time.
On this note, he turned to the man next to him with an amicable look and said, “How’s it goin’, man? Let me buy you a drink – what’re you having.”
The man turned to him, forced a smile, and nodded his head in agreement. Then, seeming only to acknowledge that he actually had to respond verbally after a few seconds, he spoke up, “A Dewar’s and soda. Thanks.”

Snobby tone bored me. This might be 'actual' good advice for a change. See 'actual' in that last sentence? Doesn't add much. It's not helping the words. You may not notice it, but reading it to me it looks like you just stuck a ! in the middle of every sentence. I can understand you want to get across emphasis of a certain idea:
"relatively empty"
"strongly discouraged"
"ample intellect"
"adhereing 'perfectly'"
I'd cut those, they don't help describe the character and neither does this passage. 'Telling' is fine, despite what people say, it's about doing it in the right way.
emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/showing-and-telling-the-basics.html
I'd like you to keep in mind the idea that you just keep this entire paragraph off of the actual story. Backstory sets the scene, but it doesn't make the character fun. All my characters have about a page of that sort of description I could type out but it's in my head, I let their thoughts and actions define them as characters. When you use 3rd person omniscient, remember that what you focus on the most becomes the story, so if you want a story about his personal life you just killed all of the interest anyone could have had in such a character. Mystery is the only genre worth writing and everyone does it to some degree if they aren't boring.
>more 'auth-
cut out more
>feeling of illegitimacy
I'd cut that whole sentence, say it in a different way. Too many big words for a simple idea.
"Tell me my feelings are real, my experiences worthwhile."
>Must I
You mustn't do that.
>cognitive senses
Inhuman imagery screws your tone. Do that from the start if you want to do that, you were going for stuffy intellectual.
>invariably
find a better word
>already though it
express this in a different way
>and that fact etc.
express this in a different way

What's inhuman about cognitive senses?

...

DARKNESS:
'Tis I, the Shade of Life forlorn. Despair:
For this my Light doth Sight obscure, and air
It dries by thousand anguish'd cries, so hear:
In silence deep will Reason try thy ear,
But Treason thou unveil in her intents.

THE SPIRIT OF POOR MANKIND:
To be is not to be, that is the point,
For Reason doth her guiles try, so trust
I can not ever share that lasts a day.

MOM:
My son, thou be awake that school is start'd!

I like it, humor is always good

Any good crit would be great. Thanks lads.
wattpad.com/335994293-life-in-gotha-chapter-1

I think it would read well for a more casual reader, your narrative style sounds more like a pop-novel

>Crit my cv for my first job im sick of being neet


Personal Statement
user, X years old, currently seeking a job. I hope that in reading this short bio about myself, coupled with the rest of the information contained in this CV, it will convince you to hire me onto your team. While never having worked a paid job before I am confident in my ability to perform any task efficiently, my work ethic is strong and I have pride in the fact that I can focus my will and effort entirely on my work no matter how tired or spread thin i might be. I have completed a level two performing arts course at SCHOOL (Northern Ireland), and though i know it does not qualify me for many jobs outside of the respective realms of performing artist or within its artistic administration services, the time spent there did give me some valuable experience handling teams to create works and to finish projects in very tight time frames. In my time off education like to read and exercise, my diet is healthy and I enjoy spending time with friends
Skills
Allow me to preface this by saying that my skill-set is easily adaptable to any task or environment. That may seem like some sort of a copout, a quick and empty answer for a complete lack of skills, but i would like to convince you otherwise. I think what i'm really trying to say is that I am willing, able and cautiously eager to learn anything.
I. I'm smart. I'm not To-Smart-For-My-Own-Good arrogant ,but i am clever. I learn by absorption and I learn quickly and i dont need to be told twice how to do something.
II. I can communicate and deal with customers in a friendly, professional manner, i can handle complaints with appropriate protocol and i am almost a stone wall of patience and manners with difficult customers..
III. I am very passionate about putting my abilities forward and helping a company I work for expand.

Too stunted, too staccato. I like the aesthetic but it would be unreadable after too much more of this.

Less is more

Is this a joke?

No...

Christ. Go to /r/resumes and lurk until you know what a real CV and cover letter look like, if you're over the age of 18 this is the kind of shit that would get sent round the office for people to laugh at

never be self-deprecating and always shift the relevant point to the beginning of the sentence rather than leaving it buried underneath your self-pity

Wet hands and trembles,
Rumbles.
Speak with your rifle and mingle.

Its called new sincerity bub ever read a fucking Mcarthy? Wallace?

>relentless self-pity
>sincere

the antithesis of new sincerity tbqhwyf

Now that you've pointed it out I get exactly what you mean.

That being said, which paragraph are you suggesting I keep out of the story entirely? The main descriptive one: "The young man's name..."?

If you ask that, then you need to read more. 'cognitive' is a science word, 'senses' is a science word, you need to go to an actual sense or its too far removed. The style is psuedo-intellectual at it's core and it's not done in an interesting way. We expect the intelligent youth to mutter on with science metaphor, but we don't want to see it done, that's boring.
It's boring, you need to put more into it. Just because it's genre fiction doesn't mean you can slack off. Put in more of your feelings, imagine life for the characters. It's a good start, could get published if you continue like that, people love this stuff.
Just a new writer in my opinion.
Yeah but if you were going for cringe you got me to feel that emotion. Your prospective employer is just going to see a liability, please consider your audience.
Your entire post after 'themes'. It's not 'bad', you probably just wrote that as a start for your first draft. In the editing portion, when you understand the story you want to tell, the 'heart' of your story, how your story does that, you'll be able to better understand what I mean. Introduction of information to a reader is paramount to any fiction story, that's the difference between fiction and non-fiction, you decide what's real and what's not in fiction.

bump

Nothing to critique in my opinion that's an opening. Sofistar was confusing, you mean the two of them together? I'd do something to help the reader understand that, maybe 'solfistar, both of them'. Imagery and style are strong, but I'm worried where you think you're going with this. You either change styles in low key scenes, or it's a straight fable story based on short sentences. If you want to keep that style going, then I'd work on getting the impressions you want right. "What does this sentence say, maybe I should add more so I don't get misunderstood?" I think that would improve that style.

thanks user. solstafir = crepuscular rays

I want to convey a surrealistic view of the world that mimics changes in concsiousness I've experienced, the kind that don't use drugs. I want to capture and transmit a very personal view of the world.

kek - I took a minute searching for the word 'themes' before realizing you meant I should scrap the entire post.

You're right about it being the start of a first draft. Again, I've never tried fiction before so thanks a lot for the advice. Part of my issue is that I don't really understand what the story I'm trying to tell is yet while also trying to throw words on paper to learn technicalities of writing fiction, which might lead to some issues.

>crepuscular rays
interdasting. Good luck, I think you have something there.
Not scrap! Save, keep off page! use it as notes. I write a story journal for each story I write to keep track of how big I want the story to be and where I want it to go.
>Part of my issue is that I don't really understand what the story I'm trying to tell is yet while also trying to throw words on paper to learn technicalities of writing fiction
I hope you see this fucking post because you're doing the correct thing by not understanding your story. Fiction is about exploring your story and characters, using your imagination first then figuring out how to describe it.
Read On Writing:Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King he has this wonderful passage about how writing is telepathy. Technical part of fiction is the writing itself, not troubleshooting your story. You can only troubleshoot your story after you've already written it.

Ignorance is vital for fiction writing, don't throw it away!

(Here's a little bit of what I'm working on. Am I trying too hard here? I've only just begun writing, and I can't tell if what I'm doing is too much, or too little; too vague, or overburdened. Please help me out a little, guys.)

Off in the distance, I could hear the wind sing its hollow notes; tuned by the contours of the serrated crags, the whistles animated themselves in the spruces. The dissonance between the Aeolus and Oxylos rendered fear within me as I approached the bend of the road, and the end of protection. The soft whistles crescendoed into turbulent howls as I steadily tread onwards.

Dude it's like picasso. He chooses to draw squiggles, but he has the skill to do much better. You misunderstand literature on a basic level. Crawl up from the depths of Young Adult fiction, make something that people can understand, try something dumb that you really like even if it's a whole thing like that.

user would call this purple prose, I personally know that such a thing isn't the point. It's heavy work to read that, that's what they mean. I've seen works pull it off and others not, either way the only way you find out is accumulating word count and getting more feedback on work you're proud of. I can't tell who Aeolus and Oxylos are, if you're going to use a Paradise Lost reference with tons of classicalism I will expect to see it everywhere in your future writing.

You shouldn't feel confident right now, now go ahead and push through it and get the damn words down.

To be quite honest, I feel totally uncomfortable with mostly everything that I write. Everything I put down on paper, I second guess, and ask constantly if it's necessary at all. Am I just not cut out for writing? Or do I just need more practice?


I really appreciate your feedback, but just to clarify: are you telling me to essentially simplify my prose?

A lot of people here seem to be striving simply for extravagant writing. You can overuse rhetoric. Focus more on creating an image in the reader's head and having your writing flow.

Nah, you're insecure like every writer. Keep writing, whining isn't writing. I didn't start until a couple of months ago myself now I have more than three novels 40 poems and tons of ideas. Later, when you have a bulk of work behind you, you find yourself some old serene motherfucker or a publisher to tell you your crap is shit but they are unable to judge if you have nothing to show.
That's advanced, my impression is that most of the people in crit threads aren't at that level. I was always imagining shit in my head and my only goal was transmuting it to written word so I understood this quickly although my first novel was shit.

Through time, comes evolution, right? I'll do just what you suggest.

Thanks, man. I needed it.

Crit pls

It's nice. Short stuff like this, what can I say? You gave an interesting impression, that war is a social gathering, I think you could expand on that.

...

BERLIN SIDE STORY

i got married in a bathroom in Berlin. he was a broken kind of pretty. convenience store boy, always called me on the phone. he had a nervous habit of tearing the label off the bottles of lagers he drank. when he went out, i wouldn’t see him come in and i never looked. i never really asked him about it. i found out he played poker russian roulette style, but i only found out because he didn’t call me on the phone. he didn’t have any secrets because i never had any questions. his funeral took place in the church and his gravestone was bought in granite.
i had my heart broken in Berlin. he was always looking away. kept the same list for the grocery store in his wallet, never let me in without knocking first. he had a curious talent for keeping a garden of herbs and spices growing. when he slept over, i wouldn’t find him in the morning and i always called him on the phone. he had a different explanation every time i asked him about it. i found out he ran away train hop style, but i only found out because i let myself in without knocking first. he had a lot of secrets because i had a lot of questions. his friends said he started playing cards at the same bar where he bought a gun in the bathroom.
i broke a promise in Berlin. she was carved out of marble. stayed in the same aisle of the grocery store for hours, always out at night playing games with strangers. she had a january vision of an intimate moment with a nectar boy in the bathroom. when she called on the phone, she had feelings. there was never anything to ask about. i found out she quit the club lifestyle, but i found out it was only because she ran out of strangers. she had no secrets because i could answer all the questions. she walked out the door without looking back and never let herself be bought again.

Posted this in what I thought was a general critique thread but was really just some user's vanity thread so putting it here also
pastebin.com/JQ9sQysT

if I told you the background behind his excerpt you'd be embarrassed for me

To the bum who asks me for cigarettes

I know if I just say “fine”,
You’ll ask me every time
And I don’t have the money
To support your habit on top of mine

when
i left,
i prayed you
would beg me to
stay

Be nice and give him a dart.

Weeks go by,
Days go by,
and the frigid, dense fog that
shrouds the aurora begins to dissipate.
A break in the clouds appears so sunlight can burst through in a barrage of
angelic rays that shower the ground with warmth.

Weeks go by,
Days go by,
and with every second that escapes, you slowly evaporate,
resentment fades, making way for fondness.
I used to wonder who you’re with
or if you ever think of me;
I don’t care anymore.

Weeks go by,
Days go by,
and you’ve become a scar.
Always here, marking my body, but slowly coalescing with my
flesh until only
I know you’re there.
A story, a reminder, a lesson.
A lesson I was lucky to learn.

And the weeks go by.

Short Story

The strange grey creature slipped through her window. Almost seamlessly. It watched her as she slept so gently. Her eyelids at peace.

Suddenly, almost violently, it placed a tentacle over her mouth. Still, as if nothing strange had occurred, the girl continued to sleep. The creature then slid a smaller, thinner tentacle in her nose. It probed her nostrils with the intent of finding importance.

How had she not awoken? The creature's clammy extremities were now on her face, violating her premise.

What would she do, had she awoken? What did the creature want?

All of these questions went unanswered as the creature found what he was looking for, crept back out of the window, and the girl continued to sleep until she awoke the next morning.

I usually give him one, but he's been asking me more frequently so I've had to start pretending like I'm out every couple times he asks me just cause I'm broke af.

Your poem was a bit le edgy teen breakup but I still thought it was good.

docs.google.com/document/d/1y5X2KwG9n75k1PIq3oxJjLNADCpCeSq-FAfOCuYnakc/edit?usp=drive_web

What do ya think? Wrote this for a school project.

First part of a short story i'm writing. have at it, boys.

pastebin.com/raw/cVvNmf6k

I believe in you...!

>his island of an eye enclosed in darkness.
A bit cringe. It weights more imagetic 'space' than you calculated, compared to the rest.

Also: the constant imagery, intermingling with simple narrative details, makes the trivial sequence look surreal, non-lineal and dispersed.
A miscellaneous brownian prose. I follow the phrases' directions, yet they don't follow one another, and by the end, I have this your created atmosphere, which indeed is awesome, but no clear sense of "What's Going On", and what to retain.
A sort of amnesiac fantasia, that I imagine will trouble long narrative.

I appreciate the critique, and you're right, the narrative is getting harder and harder to right. What would you recommend I do? I feel I've got all these images but no structure to put them in a way where they "follow another" like you say.

I am going for that kinda kinda of atmosphere that creates thick out of thin. Making something as simple as a taxi drive as thick and surreal as possible, I don't want to lose that.

The plan is that the main character is going to a remote hill where he buried his past love. He killed her, and now he's going to seek forgiveness. Her voice will talk to him as he arrives closer to the grave, but it will only be one way communication from her to him. She will not absolve him.

Second chapter to a novel I'm working on, kind of inspired by Camus and Kerouac. I'm going out drinking, I'll critique after. Comments would be much appreciated, and I'll be sure to review anything you care to link in return.

I can see you're genuinely struggling (in a positive way), I'm going to read your piece later tonight and try to help.

Why not? This is the intro to my next book. I hope you enjoy it.

>What would you recommend I do?

My first response is: I think revisiting the Imagists, like Pound, etc., might help you economize, charge less words with more meaning. If you condense, it'll be "thicker", as oil/pastel painting, contrary to water-colour faint drips. The text will be easier to grasp, handle.

The second response is the obvious, that both approaches set a different effect. When I read your plan, about the wife, the passage
>but with tenderness, a sad and miserable tenderness like that of an abused wife.
came to mind though I had read the excerpt hours ago. At the time it just seemed off and unnecessary. But, as the detached reader I am, I merely ignored it, consciously did so, and kept reading undisturbed. The fact I remember it probably says you're doing something right. You can play with that, or not. Really, just experiment, test different textures and effects.

You have the plan, and it's good, so good luck.

every second that skulks
by steals just a bit of who
you are so by the end of
a year you’re a stranger to
yourself.

letters folded &
hidden away
they’ll probably never be
read with sincerity again

nothing has meaning if
you give it enough time.
brass pendants & rosaries
stuffed bears & calla lilies

erode away to dust.

I’d be lying if I
said my heart doesn’t
sink when I see your face,
so low I may as well drown

if I were to walk
over that bridge again
I’d walk right past you &
get some coffee & do us
both a favour.

so maybe through the deafening
buzz of a phone charger,
your morning voice (there was barely a voice)
might call through

it would be better if
every verse about you
were deleted or burned or
strewn about in the wind.

r8 my two-line poem

as those voidblack ink splats paperplated
these movements in your eyes and hands

I kinda like this one, but I think the lines are a bit too short at the start (as in it sounds too disjointed compared with the other lines of the poem)

Also someone crit this? I've posted it before but haven't got any feedback yet

She is as a star at night
That flashes bright, then blushes,
Then fades away, to be
Lost in the starry void.

Thanks, man.
I wrote this in the form of a Lanterne in which the lines are based on syllables.

Yeah I see what you're doing. It's just my own hang up, but the 'when' feels disjointed, because of its brevity. Good poem though!

Try to stick with words that exist

Any critiques?

Joseph was finally going to reveal his secret to his father. As soon as Mr. Jookinen entered the house Joseph proudly said: "Father, I want to become a dancer!". His father Jorge was furious: "No! Get out of my house now! Consider yourself homeless,young gentleman!" Jonathan was furious: " Nooooooo! I will dance and show you how a real man can be! And I will kill you!".
Jorge smiled menacingly:" Very well son, I shall wait for our final duel! I reject you, my own flesh and blood, Joseeeeeeph!!!"
Joseph jumped out of the window and ran away.

Caroline, in her regal-like manner and ever present grace, had finally snapped. Standing and weeping like the willow over barnaby street, she could maintain her composure no longer, as tears left streaks down her cheeks. Convinced she was in the right, she decided to drive Emily away from her, only to be comforted by the same soul crushing loneliness that must have taken Kurt Cobain from the world. Pain was not the right word, rather, if her heart was a home, she had prepared a grand room for Emily, only to vacate it, leaving it sealed, windows open with a cold draft flowing through the home. Regret, anxiety, thoughts of suicide, but upon peering into her own abyss, she took one step forward and immediately knew what must be done.

I knew death for the first time just after my sixth birthday. The incident occured in our back yard where my father drowned a couple of black and white cats i'd found in the fields near our house.
He wasn't the kind of man who had the time of the patience for people that cried but i did so anyway and when he knelt down in front of me and said it was time i stopped acting like a little girl i went into the woods behind the estate so he wouldn't judge my behaviour.
He always looked for ways for turning me into a man. Being the type of eager to please boy that i was i did my best to live up to his expectations even if that ment that everytime i did so i shead a piece of my innocence along the way. In retrospect i don't think he was cruel but he held the cinical philosophy that no act was cruel enough if it was done in the name of necessity.
Reading held my humanity intact back then. My mother, a woman who devaured books with an eagerness that i wouldn't have understood if i hadn't grown to adopt the same hunger for words myself, had collected over the years a large repertoir of literature to the extent that paper and hardbacks piled up and overflew shelves and bookcases. They gave some of the rooms in the house a shared similarity with an alien garden made out of paper and ink, hidding inside their dusty tommes an endless suply of magic that my imagination couldn't quite bring to reality with the same vividness.
The stories they guarded gave me more than entertainment. They revealed to me worlds and emotions that under the unforgiving hands of my father would have passed infront of me unnoticed. They also cemented a bond between my mother and i that went beyond the fearfull respect i shared with my father.
The first and most important lesson i learnt that day, the lesson of life and death, broke through the protective shell of ignorance that had up until then covered me in a thick blanket of naivety that i wouldn't experience again.
The second lesson was almost as important as the first. It taught me that nobody, not even those we hold closest to ourselves, could be trusted to act in anybodys interest but their own.

Okay, to start with, "speed like an overgrown bullet" is too cliche. Overgrown also is quite a strained metaphor, because bullets don't grow, you'd want to use "oversized". "heart of the void" is way to abstract and gives us no firm imagery of the scene. And again, "effegies of God" is way too dramatic for just lights. You're also over-egging your prose with way too many similies, the more you use the less effective your next one will be. Why the Caby have an island of an eye, when eyes come in twos?

Things improve in your last half, and there are some nice lines, I think you use jargon like "lemongrass" well, and your passage on the stars is good too, but there are some issues I think you should adress.

>less metaphors, more concrete imagery
>USE THE FIVE SENSES - they compliment eachother, what was the smell, the impact?
>speed things up, you control the passage of time, and faster is mostly better - it will keep the reader more interested

Also, I think you need to tone down the religious connotations, not because I dislike them, but because without having a firm base your narrator will come across as reaching a bit too far to discuss God. Not to mention that it usually removes you from the scene rather than enhancing it. Anyway, good job and keep writing, I hope this helped.

This is good, you have a nice sense for character and scene. I'd like to see some more.

This is okay. It comes across as mildly long-winded, I think you need some punchier sentences and something to break up the flow more.

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious?

I like that verse, I don't write poetry though so I'm not really qualified to other proper critique, but it's not bad.

You might benefit from longer paragraphs.

>He had a lot of secrets because I had a lot of questions
I really like this line. I really like this piece, but I don't quite understand the last paragraph. Perhaps you could explain it for me?

I think this is not bad, but a touch dramatic.

Anyway, this is my critiqued piece. I'd appreciate a >>(You)

>A sci-fi snippet

"Let me tell you a joke Berry," the programmer said, looking carefully over the rows and lines of shifting code, "I'd like to see how this new patch handles humor..."

Berry the AI said, words appearing on one of the programmer's screens.

"Okay...so there are two men talking in a bar. The subject of their conversation comes to the topic of Freudian slips. The first man chuckles and says: 'yesterday I was at the train station, and when I went to ask for a ticket to Pittsburgh I accidentally said, 'one picket to Tittsburgh please.' '
The second man smiles ruefully and says: 'I had a slip just this morning. I went to ask my wife to pass the butter but instead I shouted, 'you bitch, you've ruined my life!'"

Berry was completely silent for a long time.

Rodolfo was working in his cubicle as usual when his boss came inside. He said Rodolfo, I have come on tell you something. It is a new thing you do not know." Rodolfo was shocked " Huh? What ?" Harry said"You must take this papee down to secretary. But first sit down, I have a story to tell you. You are a orphan,. Your parents gave you to a catholic monastery of fighters in the Italian city of Potenza. Then you parents died, they were fighting off American troops, I killed them personally.. The monks also fought hard, but not hard enough for our bombs and my lever rifle. After the fight I found you, and brought you here, in Detroit and grew you up like a son. Rodolfo, tearfully, said:" I never knew my parents, but I know they loved me. They give me to a monastery of catholic fighters to make me strong and it paid off: I love to fight!."

Rodolfo goes to a elevator and pushes the button. It opens and he gets on. The elvelator close and goes down, and Rodolfo looks on the paper. There was a message in there...and it said..."TO SECRETARY : KILL RODOLFO"

edit.

pls

Any advice?

What are you talking about?
Kenning is a hugely common poetic device.

How do I become a better writer? I write. I improve painfully slowly. Is there any way to make writing into more effective practice? Any exercises? Anything that will make me more likely to notice flaws in my own work?

Do you have other writers to talk with? A circle so to speak? It helped me a good bit.

Somewhat. Well, one good friend also writes, but she and I are both very busy graduate students.

You're gonna have to make time. Do you talk to her about her work? Can you do that without seeming like you tryna fugg?

>tryna fugg
I used to be into her but she wasn't interested and I've moved on.

Anyway, we talk all the time, including about stuff she's written. Not about mine, though. I'm kind of shy about it.

well introduce it. and talk about how you want to improve. If she is just an echo-chamber, then make some new friends that can. Having close readers around you helps immeasurably.

Will do. Thanks.

Sorry if that's not the advice you wanted, but I am prone to agree with T.S. Eliot about giving specific technical advice. If you guess right you might help someone, but if they have a drastically different process then doing what I do could cripple your writing (as I'm sure it cripples mine from time to time) .

Looking over it I would really like to see where you were planning on putting in paragraph breaks. That text could really use some, it's thick, which isn't a bad thing for the thing you're going for. The depth of the imagery you're going for there contrasted with the more realistic sentences is nice. I think the dialogue is tight, choice to leave out tags is well done and enhanced how I read the dialogue in my head. I think your style from this pages has a certain flair to it that would unfair to criticize except with the full work done and an editor pouring over it. My suggestion is to finish the damn thing then try to work out if it works later.

Down the dusty path four great femurs with feathered loins pedaled in meticulousness as a machine. The palanquin,gleaming brighter than god, moved as the heart of a mile long convoy; the damask vulva sighed here and here, exhausting wisps of perfume, cleansing the heat in way of her concealed prize. As the boom a boom of a guiding bongo drum lured the great beast forward, the four broad shoulders padded on to the rhythm of the whispering silk canopy and the pulsing heat melting from their golden yokes. The earth, splayed bare in nearly unfaltering brownness splashed with whites and tans and already browning greens. Perhaps a stalking lioness hid her bearded fangs in the plain openness but the hoard trampled by unaffected by whatever majesty.

For three brown seasons the gears ground on and the litter twisted through the hourglass, forever staining the sand with footprints. On the eve of the fourth, the walking mudslide reached the opal gates, whiter than the sun and colder than the galaxy they loomed under. Surgically the procession parted, the golden heart separated from the snake and the palanquin entered the city. The four oiled breasts glared blacker here and huddled closer on their poles to preserve the desert warmth still lisping from the curtains. Through the gates they slid across the tiled marketplace paths lined with whispering human shrubbery. Now they scraped by the shamble residences, now the upper estates, and through the courtyard now past the solemn priests, now the palace, where at once the legs stood still then knelt and the belly sank.

The canopy shivered with the sound of belled feet pattering across its inner pillows. The crystalline tinkles pinged from massive pillar to massive pillar in the otherwise sterile veranda. The bells radiated closer to the cold white hall of destiny. The first anklet birthed with such timid breath but presently the second. And the Dragonfly, ashimmer with wings of native gossamer stepped upon one tar mansteed then down and rippled unto the marble.

Posted before, but I think that thread died (I might've killed it for all I know):

H.H. and Annabell

A garden setting; a sprawl
Of stars above, painted in white messy dots
Amongst a backdrop of dark purple-blue,
And hard tufts of green grass
Upon a rocky earth that my and Your

Feet danced upon—running away to
Whatever seclusion You and i might find in that
Maze of bush and bramble. Your hand guided me
As i gave You my feet—happy to be led away,
As long as i was with You.

Your parents, those vile creatures that loved You,
But not us, ignorantly slept in the home
You ran away from for a time, to be
With me, the boy You could not love,
But You would dance with this boy.

Our little feet finally stopped and i
Reached out for what we both wanted
Me to find; and i found it, as You found
The scepter of my passion. And i
Remember that You leaned against the bush

With Your mouth open in a quiver
And Your legs around my hand in a twitch
And then Your parents were heard by the snapping
Of twigs and You forever pulled Yourself away in anger with me.
Annabel—Black Woman—You ruined me. But your conscious is White as ash

actually made me laugh. nice.

It's got personality. A little loopy/epileptic for me, but spines straighten. For the specific part you're referencing, I like the prior. If nothing else mattered, then I would think also fuck Sarengarth. I get the rule of threes, but it IS Jewcraft at the end of the day.
Other than that, keep working the flow. Maybe try to allude to the action a little more rather than stating what happened.

Pretty boring, and probably because of that wall-of-textiness. Be concise, because people will become lost in the bonerific labyrinths you seem to be weaving. Basically get to the point.

Minted. Delightful.

>format error

blorp

(Him)

Dark stuff. I hope you're not secretly a hedonist.

Good post unless it's real. If the latter's the case, good luck, Larkboy /chucklestrut.

Some people like immersive description, but everyone can do that. Focus more on your inner eye for that beautyful stuff. Nobody but you will care how hard you tried. It's more a matter of whether or not you'll try to challenge the visual paradigm you're servicing.