Post a sample of your writing, and other anons will tell you what writer you resemble the most

Post a sample of your writing, and other anons will tell you what writer you resemble the most.

And I saw in that moment how the days pour into one another in an unbroken stream, and how every day is the same. And I saw how dreams exist to hide this from our sight, because if we saw it all at once it would be too much. And I knew all at once that living was terrible, that the unbroken cycle of day after day after day was too much for my brain to handle. And so I went back to sleep.
But I could not sleep. I felt as though a protective layer of mucus had been peeled from my brain, which was now stuck to the wall of my skull like a chewed up wad of gum, cold and still and dry. I could not sleep because it could not sleep. And I knew then that I would never sleep again, and the days would stretch before me like an endless desert. And that would be fine for a while, until the sand seeps into my eyes, my throat, my lungs, and my body dries up entirely, and my corpse is devoured by ants and buzzards until I am nothing.

He coughed and felt unfamiliar tendrils probe the inside of his lungs for damage, an agony which provoked a laugh as if he had been jabbed in the side. His mind pulled sluggishly in all directions under the heavy blanket of medication. Awareness of his situation filtered through the anaesthesia and he fought it off tooth and nail, retreating into half-dreams of warm memories even as his skin howled and grew around skeins of glisteningly black nascent neural pathways. He would push it away and every time it would come back. They’re putting me right in the heart, he thought. Beyond their control. I’ll be alone.
A wave of sedation hit and he spent a few luxurious seconds submerged before the tide rolled out and left reality twisting in the wind again. He groped through his psyche for some sign of his trademark bravado and found none. And what have they done to me? It’s-

Hours passed.
A sensation of cold joinings at the nape of his neck signalled the Rig’s arrival at his brainstem. His misgivings were blown away in an instant and he sat up. Arching his spine hard, he let his head fall back and gazed at the ceiling, trembling.

Standing before this building, I learn something about fear. I learn that it is not the idle fantasies of someone who maybe wants something important to happen to him, even if the important thing is horrible. It is not the disgust of seeing a dead stranger, and not the breathlessness of hearing a shotgun pumped outside of a house. This cannot be addressed by breathing exercises. This fear bears no analogy to any fear I knew before. This is the basest of all possible emotions, the feeling that was with us before we existed, before this building existed, before the earth existed. This is the fear that made fish crawl out onto dry land and evolve lungs, the fear that teaches us to run, the fear that makes us bury our dead.

‘and there in the desert wastes, stood Atemriat over his fallen brother, broken beneath him, body and flesh warped, their soldiers and the sand the only witness to the last of the great lords of Miaton as the Lord of Ravens drew his dagger. “You who were my brother! you have tainted your flesh and your being with foul deeds and fell magics, you wear a mantle of bones made from your kin and thought to rule our people, today I have cast you down and with heavy heart and hand condemn thee to die!” So saying, he plunged the dagger into his brothers breast, and where his blood spilled, the land died, so deep was his taint that the land would not give seed or root to any plant, nor would it give shelter to any beast that crawled, walked, slithered, or flew for miles around.’

>I learn something about fear
whoa so abstract

>I learn that it is not the idle fantasies
really?

>of someone who maybe wants something important to happen to him
how old are you? drop the maybe and watch the repetition, be less general

>even if the important thing is horrible
stop it with the meaning pirouettes

>It is
oh jeez no contractions this is poetic

>the disgust of seeing a dead stranger, and not the breathlessness of hearing a shotgun pumped outside of a house
now you've got some actual imagery; don't need to tell me these are experiences though

>This cannot be addressed by breathing exercises.
pretty solid, though it made me stop for a second to think

>This cannot be addressed by breathing exercises. This fear bears no analogy to any fear I knew before.
this is alright

>the feeling that was with us before we existed, before this building existed, before the earth existed.
not too shobby, watch it with the grandiosity though

>This is the fear that made fish crawl out onto dry land and evolve lungs, the fear that teaches us to run, the fear that makes us bury our dead.
and you killed it

>wanting to emulate other writers
>not forming your own distinct style

Stay pleb, plebs.

Oh my dear is that dare I say a little drop of chocolate on the rim? Oh yes indeed quite delicious isn't it my dear? And the stench of that little gust my dear is most tantalising oh yes another if you please hmm so warm and pungent as well what a delightful little fart my dear oh and some more chocolate I see has come out too oh if I won't taste but one little bit hmm now that is truly remarkable my dear yes quite the extraordinary little chocolate maker you are

(wait i took a huge shit on that guy but this wasn't actually a critique thread... ah well.)

>this post

I think it's time you went back to rebbit

never been there, do they tell people to go to Veeky Forums when they fel unconfortable?

>Being so goddamn illiterate that you think the goal of this thread is to emulate other writers, rather than just find out which you are similar to

bump

bump

Margaret Atwood

Joyce Carol Oates

Dan Brown

Stephen King

bump

The first voice is a voice of concern and anxiety. It’s also the voice that asks the initial question with a restatement of the title: “dying is fine)but Death / ?”. The voice is greatly concerned with the issue of death, but not dying, even stating “dying is fine.” The views given on death are not factual, but rather in the form of a strong opinion: “i / wouldn’t like / Death if Death / were good.” By issuing an opinion, the anxious voice is likely seeking confirmation of its views. The voice believes that if death were better than life, he/she would still choose life, showing anxiety and fear about the concept of death. Death is also one of the only words capitalized in the poem while dying is not, always addressing death as more serious.

su sexualidad, ninguno de los dos dijo nada al respecto.
El Comisario se había dejado coger por Tati hacía poco más de un mes. Nunca se había puesto a pensar seriamente en travas; lo único que tenía para decir sobre los travas era un comentario como “mirá ese trava, jaja” cuando pasaba por delante de alguno que anduviese yirando en una parada. Tampoco se puso a pensar demasiado cuando su vecino Gabriel le comentó que se había dejado chupar la pija por un trava y que se la había chupado como los Dioses. Sin embargo, le había picado el bichito de la curiosidad. “Jajaj, seguro le tocaste la pija, bufarrón”, le había dicho a Gabriel entre risas. Pero cuando entró a su casa y se sentó en el sillón del living a mirar Teledoce se empezó a cuestionar cosas. Hay que dejarse chupar la pija por un trava, qué puto que salió Gabriel, la puta que lo parió. O sea, ponele que el trava esté prolijo, que pase por mina: igual, es un tipo, le cuelga tremendo pedazo entre las piernas. Más le valdría si no chupara bien la pija: es un tipo al final de cuentas, tiene que saber qué es lo que le gusta a los otros tipos. Así se quedó rumiando un buen rato hasta que su mujer lo llamó para comer. Guiso de lentejas mediante se olvidó de todas sus cavilaciones sobre los travas.

Some sort of Guillaume Apollinaire from the ghetto.

Oops, I that first sentence shouldn't have been included.

No, they worship Veeky Forums on reddit. Liking Veeky Forums is the most reddit thing you can do.

We sat on a long rocker-seat under the eaves, looking out over the snow-covered forest. What are you worried about? You don't have anything to hide. Your computer's just... doing something... uh.. porn-related. That's it. Not many people with two X chromosomes would inquire any further. Sure, she's hot. You've always had a thing for women with long blonde hair, and it's not like she's been going out of her way to be all tsundere. Would that be worse?

She exhaled a long, perfectly straight plume of white smoke into the freezing night and frowned slightly. "I don't even know what that means."

I was in the middle of drawing on the improvised pipe and had to break off to cough, and then giggle "tsun-tsun...", pantomiming turning away, "dere dere.." and hugging myself. The giggle was contagious. Imagine if all communication was that easy!

She leaned back in the rocker and looked up into the dark grey clouds swirling overhead. "You're a shaman, right?" I flashed her the Vulcan hand-sign; the cell shamans had appropriated it. "So you're no stranger to mind-altering drugs."

"I think the mind works just fine without alteration. You can nudge it now and then. It's the most powerful tool we have. It's not a baseball bat, so it doesn't work better with a rusty nine-inch nail through the end."

Ellie re-packed the pipe and focused earnestly on lighting it. "Some of those Agency tests... involve flooding the subject with hallucinogens... to reduce the chance... they might be avoiding the, uh, possibility..." she stopped talking to clear the pipe in one shot. She handed it back to me and said, in a serious tone, "Have you considered you may be Talented and not know it?"

"I've never been able to do anything that couldn't easily be explained by Doctor Hal Robins." Was it possible the weed was dosed with something? How bad could it be if she was smoking it as well? Let's test that. I unwrapped the bronze bell and packed the pipe with a large chunk of the shaman's special blend. "Is it possible I have some kind of obscure Talent that only shows up under rigorous Brussels-style testing? Hot iron pokers, cattle prods, ducking stools?"

"Don't laugh. That happened, once, and that was once too often. The best test for Talents - any kind - is, you know it and you're rich and paranoid, or you don't, and you're poor, miserable and confused. You don't easily fit either category. That doesn't mean you're out of the running; it just means you're well-adjusted."

I exhaled and handed her the pipe. "It might be easier to tell, if I knew what sort of abilities you're talking about."

"That's a problem, because I can't risk telling you about a, say, a Talent for, oh, I don't know, playing the spoons, because then you might think you had it, even if you didn't. Confuses the issue. But I'm pretty sure you aren't a telepath, beyond a well-developed faculty for reading facial expressions, and a lot of people have that."

... etc

Dean Koontz

Junot Diaz

John Green

1/2

He found himself sitting once again at the same small metal table at the same bustling ritz as the last time. And once again, Amy sat before him. This time wearing a black outfit fit for a cultureless funeral--nondescript save for a decorative cufflink in the shape of a pill capsule which shone dull platinum in the waning daylight that now surrounded them, which glared in Declan's eyes and made him squint. They waited a minute more for the sun to pass behind a building, and the cafe was once again bathed in calm. Amy sat calmly, dreamily, her body falling perfectly into the small wire chair as she tapped a small spoon against the rim of her glass. "Tell me something nice," she decided, after a pause. "Well... nice?" Declan thought, wishing he could enter her bizarre aura of relaxation. The tapping stopped. "I can't really..." "Tell me about your first experience of making love." Declan felt his eyebrows raise as thoughts of Florence flooded his head. Just behind his eyes were the sights, smells, sounds of a bruised London sky overhanging the hydroponics greenhouse in which he spent much of his seventeenth year. His eyes returned to Amy, who was still examining him gently, her retinas lazily passing over him: right eye, left eye, mouth, halo. Keeping a wary eye on her, he ventured; 'Would, uh... would you like to take a tour of the apple garden?"

2/2

Amy smirked and rose from her seat. I pushed my chair in and followed out of the bustling hall and through a narrow hallway towards the greenhouse in the back. She had a nervous, crooked smile that managed to betray an unmistakably unique brand of societal nihilism. I noticed it as she looked back at me in the hallway. I noticed it as she followed me into the nursery and quickly climbed onto one of the many wait-high hydroponic shelves and undressed deftly between the Red Gala bushes. The greenhouse resembled a giant glass coffin, I mused. I was jolted into focus by a reverberating snap of Amy’s fingers.
“There’s a worm over there, would you get it please?” her finger was extended and pointing to a sleek, featureless metal cylinder as her other hand did her hair up into a bun. “Oh, yes.” I replied, eyeing the object curiously. I then realized where I was, and what I was doing. I felt a warmth rise up into my throat as I scooped up the silvery worm, which emitted a sudden silent hum as I made contact. I found myself flustered as my gaze fell upon Amy’s pale body, perched deliciously among the rows of brightly-coloured winter apple bushes. I stepped towards her and placed my free hand on her hip, her flesh yielding pleasantly to my touch. The muffled din of the party was barely audible from where we were, and I noticed that her eyes were the colour of the apple trees. Muffled clanking of plates from somewhere else as I drew myself nearer. I could feel the worm gyrating slowly to match our breathing. She purred as I reasserted my grip on the delicate cleft of her thigh, and the worm’s tip found her. It began probing around her slit, slowly at first before increasing in its enthusiasm, much to her audible pleasure.
“Sorry,” she managed to wrench her face into a smirk again, “I’m all wet.”
I exhaled pithily, pressed up against her now. The worm detected her increased arousal and began oscillating, softly at first, then with a renewed, almost organic resolve. It seemed so uncannily organic that I almost lost hold of it. Amy was engrossed. I looked down at it, the worm, then back up to Amy as she was gently eviscerated by what I was beginning to see as a “thing”, an “it.”
She was moaning loudly now, as I felt myself becoming engrossed by the strangeness of it all. I leaned into her, the worm gaining more ground, her moans became urgent as her hips moved against the thing, her juices running down the worm and onto my hand.
We were leaning into each-other now, her arms slung around my neck. It was then that we both fell sloppily, softly, down to the concrete floor, supported by our wayward limbs and knocking over some plants in the process. We continued down there until she came, her face contorting with the shock of pleasure as I watched intently, almost as if worried I would miss some crucial moment, some errant detail in her face that would reveal...

...

sigh... Joyce.

>
>John Green


who? i wrote that excerpt and i've never heard of the guy.

He squeezed his fingers under the bra and took it from the inside, pulled it forward and slid it over. The territory was liberated. He clutched her magnificent tits and they were exactly how he expected them to be; grand and dignified. A smug smile appeared on his face. He was just about to go behind her in order to embrace them with both hands when she started to cry.

The glow of the boy's flashlight bobbed around on the lonely mountain road, casting shadows behind the rigid pines. Ahead sat a cottage, perched alone near a cliff guarded by a rickety fence. Past the edge, he could see the valley stretching into the distant night. A field of sparks lay nestled on a canvas of black; the city lights of Nalio. Dotted lines of orange light spread from it like a spiderweb. Past the valley's edge, massive trees rose over the mountain peaks, stretching miles into the sky.
The boy's numb knuckles rapped against the door. Muffled footsteps approached. The door creaked open, and an old man in a night robe peered out. He frowned.
“Shouldn't you be at home, Peter?” the old man said sternly.
“I should,” said the boy.
“Then why are you here?”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
A chill wind hissed through the treetops.
“I was reading some books. Some of your books. People used to hurt each other, sir. All the time. I read about it. But that doesn't happen here.”
The professor sighed and looked up at the stars.
“That was a long time ago. Things are different now.”
“Why?” Peter asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
“We learned,” said Professor Harling, “We became better people.”
“How?” said Peter.
“We … we learned from our mistakes. Things changed.”
“Oh,” said Peter, unsatisfied.
He turned away, to look down at the valley floor.
“What's outside the valley, Professor Harling?”
“Forests, mountains. Nothing really.”
“Then why can't we leave?”
The professor stared up at the stars. Peter watched him chew on his lower lip for a second. He didn't speak for several seconds.
“I don't know, Peter. I'm sorry.”
The sound of crunching gravel turned their heads. A man in a black felt coat and top hat was heading along the trail, toward them. Peter's heart sank. His father had heard him leaving after all.
“Peter, come home with me, right now. And there will be no more sneaking out at night, or you won't go to play with your friends till the first snow.”
It was so cold already, it couldn't be that bad of a punishment. Winter would be here in a few short weeks. Nevertheless, Peter took his father's gloved hand.
“Come on,” said Peter's father, dragging his son along the path. Peter gave Professor Harling one last look before the old man closed the door.

To gaze upon these clouds and watch as the hand of god pushes them to cloak the willowwacks moves too the soul of man. . . Why, the wind pushes us like those white masses in the sky, drifting our dreams and emotions to another fellow man. Such a congenial relation has been the result of nature, the mysterious overseer to our lives.

Harlan Ellison

Hit me with the next chapter

He squeezed his fingers under the bra and took it from the inside, pulled it forward and slid it over. The territory was liberated. He clutched her magnificent tits and they were exactly how he expected them to be; grand and dignified. A smug smile appeared on his face. He was just about to go behind her in order to embrace them with both hands when she started to cry.
Peter’s initial thought was that he got carried away in the process of squeezing them and had probably underestimated the power of his hands, so he loosened up the grip. His hands were still inside, touching, refusing to let them go, but as she carried on crying, a guilty feeling overpowered him. He stroked them one more time - as if to say goodbye. It was fun while it lasted, but it didn’t last long. He took his hands out and gathered beside her.