Hey guys im an aspiring writer what do you think of this paragraph I wrote

hey guys im an aspiring writer what do you think of this paragraph I wrote

"The tree was black and dark and dark and black, im a gay kike"

I like ya kid, you got some real guts

I ironically unironically ironically like it.

thanks heres the next sentence

"The dog came out of the holes in the hardwood flooring. The man did not know the dog but the dog knew him. The dark and foreboding room that was both dark and foreboding made the man feel as if he were in a dark and foreboding place, his mind filled with dark and foreboding thoughts."

Borrows too many of the techniques from the first paragraph. Try using the opposite of everything.

I think you need to describe the dog a bit more. I kind of got the sense he might be dark and foreboding... Am I totally missing something?

"From the holes rose a dog, the man killed himself upon seeing the dog. The dog was upset and blamed himself for this, he used to watch the man leave for work everyday from the park, wishing he were his owner."

idk guys i think im to inteligent to be a writer

too postmodern for my taste

dog=god

When in doubt, just write down your stream of consciousness and claim it belongs to a character.

is dog going to be okay

Hey guys, what do you think of this paragraph to open my novel with:

I pressed the steel tip of my Colt .45 on the man's neck as I pressed the steel tip of my boot on the steel tips on his white collar. "Any last words, priest?" I smirked, the shadow of my classy pinstripe fedora shadowing my smirk as I smirked a smug smirk. "You are going to hell for what you did, God will punish you." I smirked and said, "hell isn't real, and neither is god." I said god with a lower case g because I'm a rational atheist and I know god is just a fairy tale for the feeble minded sheep. The echo of the gunshot echoed through the church as I shot him with my gun. The shell casing fell out of my Colt .44 into a pool of blood. I smirked at the pool of blood and turned around, my beige trenchcoat making a swoosh behind me. With my one enemy eliminated, it was time for my final target: god.

i tried to jump up but instead i jumped down. as i was passing trough my floor i had time to ponder life and also death and then the finality of both. i fell down near the heat radiator of the guy living below me. i touched it. it was cold. i asked the guy why it was not working. he said it's been like that for years. i remembered that, since our radiators are connected, mine was like that too. having pondered death a moment ago, however, gave me the strength to call the heat corporation and complain to them. i've been meaning to do this for all my entire life. my brain was embroidered with rage now as i started dialing the number. how dare they not give me heat which i pay for. the other guy in the room was secretly rooting for me, but was not showing it. he is probably shy. the heat corporation's operator picks up and, as i expected, starts yelling at me...i endure for 20 minutes. then the operator thanks me for calling and turns the heat back on. this is how things work here - it makes sense if you think about it. now there is heard a ring on the door. i go to open. policemen grab me and escort me out of the building. the owner of the apartment looks smug but also guilty. they put me in jail where is cold. to think of all that heat wasted back at home... i start crying.

I kekd hard multiple times

pretty good user

I dropped the spoon as I was eating my cereal. It fell on the ground. My mom says to nobody in particular.

"I HATE RETARDS!!! I FUCKING HATE RETARDS!!! DO YOU HEAR ME RETARD? YOU ARE A WASTE OF SKIN AND YOU DROVE AWAY YOUR FATHER AND I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU FUCKING RETARD"

I smugly smirked... I didn't know who that is, but they sure as hell must have deserved it...

>as I shot him with my gun
You made me laugh at 3AM and bother my family fuck you

I pulled my finger back, it made a crackling crack, a snapping snap, the bones could not hold back. I pulled at the finger, I yanked at the finger. Pop! The finger was free. "Yay" cried the finger "I am free!" shouted the finger. It hopped and hopped until it grew tired and finally it flopped.

this is the beginning of my kids book will i be published

I'm writing a YA novel, tell me what you guys think of the opening paragraph!

The great phallus punctures my abdomen, pain and pleasure both wash over me as blood pours out, great loads all over my body. The massive metal phallus is removed, and for a moment there is a hole, a whole hole about the size of my fist, in the middle of my stomach to the left of my spine. Then the phallus comes back and fills the whole. This process is repeated many times. Each time my internal organs are pushed around a bit more until finally PLOP the intestines slither out like snakes all over my belly and one knotted tubular food filled snake is on top of the metal phallic abdomen piercing mechanism. At this point I realize that the whole process is voluntary; I can leave whenever I wish and that makes me think maybe it's not the people in black suits and ties watching from the windows above me who make me submit to the great metal phallus, maybe it's me all along and my internalized hatred for my internal organs and maybe the orange and red snakes and red liquid like ketchup all over my shirt is really the punishment I get for not treating myself right and eating healthy but it doesn't matter anyways because they're all on the floor now and I don't think I can get them back in even with all the kings men and horses and maybe I shouldn't have sat on the wall anyways but in any case it was my fault. Then I take the virtual reality glasses off. "Wow, what an interesting game," I say. I look out the window of my fifth story apartment. It's a beautiful day in new New York. My heart is still racing from the intense virtual experience of playing "stomach fucker simulator 2022". I like to play games like this to take my mind off the rapidly deteriorating political situation. It all started when President Trump suffered a fatal wound in the Great Mexican War. It was revealed that he needed fresh souls to feed his psychic power. Unfortunately for me, my soul is on the menu.

...

you will be published I can feel it!

KEK!!!!! IT WAS YOU!!!!!!!!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAH RETARD!!!!!!!!!!! KEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
kek!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Really makes you think

*BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP* oops! teehee!! -William H. Gass

Thanks!! That means a lot!! My idea for the rest of this is to have the main character slowly develop their psychic power to defeat Donald Trump in a virtual reality battle, do you think they should win in the end or should it be left ambiguous?

kek ikr!!

kek!!!!!!!!!!

Have you considered trying other genres, like a suicide note?

лмao

Bretty gud

>no steel tip on the fedora
You have to have a consistent aesthetic, user

pynchon?

Finally a steel fedora to stylishly protect my most important asset (my mind)

"in the background there was a pigeon."

best one

wow so good.

My futon is hard, my futon is soft. I sleep here everyday and when I’m up at night I’m awake but still on the futon. There’s a can opener for my condensed soup to my left, the empty cans scattered around the floor like fruit flies. The fruit flies are scattered like fruit flies. I’m angry that they’re alive, the fruit flies, because it’s winter and I can’t leave my room. There shouldn’t be any bugs, they should be dead. I’m out of food but if I stand up to get more I’ll hit my head on the chandelier. It’s winter, so I can’t leave my room even if that wasn’t a problem, the chandelier, that is.