Post a piece of your own work

Thanks for telling me what's wrong with it. Productive.

your dialogue is awkward and forced, and your prose is seriously pretentious, especially in the first paragraph
also don't post your shit on fucking Veeky Forums and then complain about getting shit advice. find an editor or something, dumbass
why is this so funny to me

Time to delete the thread buddy

Haven't written in a while

Eve continued to read on about the habits of the basilisk fly, and when that entry was completed she read several dozen more. By the time the train arrived at the Medial Park Station she had nearly forgotten her hunger, but as the wheels screeched to a halt and the doors slid open the emptiness of it reasserted itself in her minds eye.

It was only a matter of minutes before she found the sandwich stand she had in mind. It was a broad, squat brass gazebo laying out on the green, surrounded by a fog of meat vapors and smoke. Rye breads and sour doughs were lined up on a wire rack on the counter, and just behind them Eve could smell the aroma of half a dozen waffle irons in use. Brisket and bacon smoked over racks in the back, and goudas and mustards lined the wall to the side. Eve had to swallow before speaking to avoid drooling on herself and hurriedly ordered a sandwich of ham, gouda and bacon between two fresh waffles. It was only as she reached for her coin purse that she realized what was missing

Of course I have no money, she groaned to herself, I ran out in my pajamas. An idiot could have seen this coming. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Ma'am,” the cashier nosed in, “I have other customers waiting. Will you be having that sandwich or not?”

I like it. It's not too pretentious and flows easily. maybe a bit too highschool comedy to my tastes but it's not full of shit, which I can't say for 90% of the shit in these threads

Damn someone's salty about something

I laughed hard

I'm hungry now lol. I like the characterization man

> the emptiness of it reasserted itself in her minds eye
this is bloated and awkward
otherwise this is fairly inoffensive. not especially eye-catching for me though

At first, Adam walked beside the immense angel, Michæl. As the light burned off him, Michæl said:

“The Lord, my God has suffered a terrible lose, Adam. While you frolic among the warm green and taste the sweet fruits of paradise, a Satan has rose up against Him. My brother shed his glory to claim the wooden chair of The Lord and was cast down viciously into the black tar of Death to burn and never reach again the soft light that made us. How could anyone be so brazen as to go against The Almighty.”

Hearing this, Adam looked down at the soft green Augustine that slowly grow beneath his feet and walked forward. His feet dragged through and he drudged up small words:

“What horror it must have been to see your kin raise up against The Lord, our God. For surely there must be some sort of ailment that would cause such a decision. Did your brother have demons?”

Michæl:

“I cannot know. The Lord has forbid me to see him in this moment of Hell, and I will not fail Him or the other Hosts. He has raised me up beyond measure. Feel my strength, does it not tremble the earth? Feel the heat of my wings, do they not rival the Great Seraph that pieces through the blue cloth of Eden?”

Adam nod. The ground had shook the looming trees and the fruit they bare fell onto the soft grass and color the canvas in bright warm colors and deep cool hues with the occasional broken fruit releasing the sweet scent of paradise into the soft air. Adam stared off into the meadow where the cattle had slept until the ground shook them awake. The Ox lowed a long and low note and slide higher in tone until the lowing shrieked. Michæl did not take notice of the noise as he stared into his own hands.

No other sound was uttered after the Ox spoke. Not even birdsong drifted in the air; their wingbeat already fading as the trill call cut across the sky. After some time, Adam nervously spoke, saying:

“I have never heard such a noise, do you think that God has spoken through the cattle? Do I have a demon? Did you not hear it? What a horrible call.”

Michæl:

“I heard the cattle, though nothing seems different of his call.”

You use the word "creature" way too much. You describe its head as mouthless, and then go on to describe its mouth in that same paragraph. A sustained sound capable of breaking windows would be rapidly fatal to nearby human beings.

You've got a number of inconsistencies and redundancies to work through, and your writing tends to ramble, but with heavy editing, it could be decent.

Here's my piece, some poetry because the thread is currently all prose:

In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.
As a sparrow's beak on the mount of eternal day,
the Knife whispers on thought made flesh made thought made stone—
to pare what need not be from that which must cohere.
And Heaven's withered eye shall stare a thousand times
as it goes to one who must be, from one who has become,
In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.

>not especially eye-catching for me though

yeah, that seems to be a running problem in spite of the fantasy setting. I really hope I won't have to re-write that begging a fifth time

You repeat phrasing a bit. but otherwise it's sold, the only real thing I need to point out is

>The Lord, my God has suffered a terrible lose, Adam
>my God has suffered a terrible lose
>a terrible lose
>lose

fuck, meant that for

I am a true artist. My brush is the written word, and my canvas is the greentext. Get ready to go for a ride.

>be me
>17 yr old edge lord
>mom always trying to catch me smoking weed
>avoid detection with a bluff every time
>every once in awhile she will say " You smell like weed user"
>always respond with bullshit like "I don't do that stuff. Test me if you don't believe me"
>this strategy works for a solid half year
>get cocky with my bamboozling
>grow less and less cautious
>hot boxing friend’s shitty civic after practice (runnerfag)
>let’s call him Dan
>Dan just got a new bubbler and a quarter of Moby Dick
>OhShitDawgDatEuphoria.png
>Dan forgot to bring the eye drops
>Say fuck it because I believe strongly in my bluff strat
>Come home for dinner chromed af
>I try my usual "test me" bullshit
> she says “okay user, I will”
>Wut.jpg
>Try to play it off and act indifferent
>say edge lord shit like “ ok whatever”
>She says she will get a test from Walgreen's tomorrow on the way home from work
>Sit down and eat mom’s shit chicken. I need to think of a plan.
>Call Dan later that night
>Dan’s been a smoking the Devil’s Lettuce for much longer than I have
>Dan will know what to do
>Dan will save me
>Dan says I just need clean piss
>only one problem
>I'm a beta edge lord fuck stick
>Dan is my only friend
>Dan blazes more than I do
>Dan has a solution
>His parents tried to test him a while back but he had a secret weapon
>He has a little sister
>let’s call her Laura
>Laura is a 15 yr old 7/10 sophomore
>piss more pristine than Mr. Clean’s sparkling, bleached butt hole after a Oxiclean enima
>Dan gives me her snapchat
> I’d lie about getting nudes, but I’m too beta to even make up a story about that
>Hit her up and tell her what's going on
>Laura agrees to help if I pay for her lunch tomorrow and give some extra cash.
>Laura = Piss Jesus
> feel relieved
> go blaze in the shower with my shitty little pipe
> go to bed right after
>tomorrow is the big day
>Cont.

thanks! typos are a bitch!
i'm trying to be a bit repetitive to echo Semitic mythologies, but i'm not sure how successful it is.

>Wake up and go to school
> day goes slow as fuck, but it’s finally lunch time
>everybody goes to Mcdonalds for Lunch
> me and Dan meet Laura at the Mcdonalds
> Give her extra an empty water bottle I brought to piss in
> She goes to ladies room and comes back with a full bottle in hand
> tuck warm urine receptacle into my backpack and step into line to get food
> me and Dan both get Big Mac meals and Laura gets the 10 pc chicken nuggets meal
>Total is $16.50 I just pay for everybody with a 20
>give Laura the change and she say’s we’re even
>eat, finish school, skip practice, and head home
>It’sShowtimeCuntWaggons.png
>stash Laura’s piss in bathroom cabinet.
>smug bitch mom gets home an hour later with multidrug piss test
>we'll see who gets the last laugh you cunt
>she hands me a cup and I head to the bathroom
> piss loudly into toilet
>quietly pour some of Laura’s piss into cup
>pour rest into toilet then hide bottle
> take cup to mom
>she puts the test stick into the piss
>5 min pass
> It’s negative for marijuana
>But it’s positive for cocaine
>WHAT THE FLIPPITY FLAM JIM JAM IS GOING ON
>Mom goes full ape mode takes my phone and says I am grounded for half a year
>searches my dresser and finds my weed
>I’m double fucked
>I'm in shock
>How could this happen?
>I, the Bamboozler was bamboozled by some 15 year old bitch
>can’t sleep
>stay up all night thinking of how i'm going to kick Laura’s ass tomorrow
>cont.

>next morning I’m in hulk mode
>it’s time for revenge
>barely even notice bitch mom
>can only think about revenge on Laura
>get to school early
>go to side door where she and her friends always hang out before class starts
>Walk up to the cunt and suckerpunch her in the kidney
>My fist bounces off of her scaley hide and she barely notices
>at that moment I realize...
>Laura is actually an eight story tall aquatic monster from the paleozoic era
>The god damn Loch Ness Monster gave me her cocaine piss
>I yelled “Why would you do this to me!“up to the towering beast
>Before that aquatic monstrosity could respond I remembered
>The Mcdonald’s cost $16.50 and I payed with a 20
>20 - 16.5 = 3.5
>The goddamn Loch Ness monster made me fail a drug test just so it could have some goddamn chicken nuggets and
about tree fiddy.

Bravo

>not drinking a 15 yr old 7/10 qt's fresh, warm piss
you need to have your head examined

Okay, I added some more. I've wanted to write this scene for months

“Oh,” she mumbled, loosening the top few buttons of her blouse in the way she had seen some of her father's working girls do. “I think I may have left my purse at home. I don't suppose a handsome gentleman like yourself would be inclined to help a lady in need?”

Several minutes later Eve found herself wandering on an empty stomach. “Okay,” she said out loud to herself, “that was a learning experience. I can think of at least 42 things I could improve on next time but the big one is probably to only try flirting with male cashiers.” Her stomach interjected with a loud growl and Eve hoped dearly that nobody else could here it. A glance at her fellow city-goers seemed reassuring as they all seemed much more interested in their sidewalk than in the hungry young lady with a habit of talking to herself. A cursory adjustment to her glasses reminded her why.

The snoreoscopes, she realized, even if they were trying to see me they wouldn't notice. Not unless I wanted them to. She could probably have robbed a bank in front of them and they wouldn't pay it any mind. As Eve's eyes drifted to the candy shop next to her, an experiment sprung to mind. “Maybe I should just try one small test?”

The bell tinkled as Eve walked in. The shopkeep, a gangly man in his late 60s with a pair of coke bottle glasses looked up from his newspaper just long enough to for her to notice how little they focused on her. The candy shop was a narrow single room taken up mostly by small wooden shelves with glass doors that were hinged on the bottom. Many were stuffed with hard candies, jellies, taffies and bubble gums. Chocolate beetles and pretzels were arranged in the glass counter like precious jewlery, along with truffles crusted with toasted almonds and cinnamon saccharites cut like huge, spicy rubies. After a several moments of perusing Eve settled on a glass jar of peppermint wheels. With a careful hand, her eyes darting back and forth between the jar and the shopkeep, she plucked a mint from the jar and popped it into her mouth.

She expected to be scolded, to be thrown out or arrested, but the man at the counter didn't even bother to look up. Eve nestled the peppermint between her molars and with a noisy crush she crushed it to sugary powder. This, it appeared, was of little interest to the proprietor.

Eve picked another and ate it in the same fashion. When the owner again failed to respond she opened another jar and stuffed her mouth with marshmallows until her jaw couldn't close properly. She tore open a chocolate bar from a basket by the door and munched on cocoa and nougat until she was licking the wrapper. Satisfied with her own immunity, Eve picked taste-tested the candies to find what she liked best, before ultimately setting on a glass jaw of butterscotches which she took with her into the park

>I don't suppose a handsome gentleman like yourself would be inclined to help a lady in need?
Died of cringe

That was intentional. She literally has no idea what the fuck she's doing

>cashiers
>working girls
When are we?
>snoreoscopes
what is this harry potter? thinks of a cooler name (unless you are British) but seriously it does have a tone of a childrens book(more adult version would be robbing a resultant or something) overall I would say its pretty good, general structure is better than I have seen in many published books (can't really tell from a small sample but I think you know what I mean)

I'm a terrible writer. What can I read to be able to tell stories better? Should I use a pen or type? What paper is best for writing? I want to tackle a short story then move up to a novella of 40k words once I improve.

>When are we?
1920's
>snoreoscopes
I'll admit it's not a good name, but I'm not great at naming non-unique magic objects.

maybe suspectacles?

When it comes to typing or writing, choose whichever you want to, it varies from person to person. I make a lot of spelling mistakes and tend to write out fast, so I type as to revise and edit things quickly, but some people I talk to say that writing works better for them to articulate their thoughts.

now this is not a criticism but I always tune out when I hear descriptions like this. Im a foreigner so I have no idea what sourdough or rye bread or at least if I do know I the image does not pop into my head instantly the same way it may for a native speaker. saying "go with simple stuff like nice aroma/taste looking/etc" would be unfair since simplified writing can have a bad effect on the story. so basically I have no solution for you but maybe you could consider it during writing.
>fog of meat vapors
How would that even look. Im picturing sewage grates in winter. small wafting aromas can sound taste, sizzle of meat is taste. fog of meat vapors is something you would use when you want to paint a market in a negative light, with dirt,fish stink, ugly people and fog of meat vapors. (all imho)
>Eve
unless the name was given for thematic reason by her dad than maybe change it or have her come up with a variant for herself during her journey of self discovery (maybe Evy or jessica) I know its not fair but adam and eve are one of those worn out names

Here is the first sonnet or metered poem that I've ever written, I wrote it for my girlfriend. Not in a homo way. She just likes poem. I'll write some critiques in the following post

A sonnet, so. My sonnet though, the glee
Writing, inspiring, the rhymes a chore
My spirit aching deep, desired free
I hope, for yours, I pray in search of more

But scourged, a plague has set be forth, demised
As dark as night, I brood, the rhymes ajar
My poem, it's lack, it's void, A sigh arised
Be fourth lay nil. A petty attempt, bizarre

A sonnet, love inspired. But missing much
It is Riana, that I miss, I loathe
I quiver deep. I melt before her touch
Returning soon, but left me lasting trothed

Perfection soon, my sonnet shall of course
My girl, Riana such The Driving force

>What can I read to be able to tell stories better?
The dictionary. yes really, most people speak in a common way that does not translate well to page. read other books, see what you did not like about them and what you would change in your own story. pay attention to wording and writing tricks so you don't start every sentence with "and then she"
>Should I use a pen or type?
type
>What paper is best for writing?
digital.
>I want to tackle a short story then move up to a novella of 40k words once I improve.
The 2 are different beasts.mastering one may become a hindrance once you try to move on. instead just write and see where you fall. Don't have X number of words as a goal and if you write a lot/too much reread the whole thing, chances are you may have gone on a tangent about a subject you are interested in but the reader would find akin to a tumor in the middle of the story

This is alright. A good base to build on

This isnt particularly great. A little dry but you've added a bit of complexity which hasn't quite came out all that great. Practice more and become well rounded

>How would that even look. Im picturing sewage grates in winter. small wafting aromas can sound taste, sizzle of meat is taste. fog of meat vapors is something you would use when you want to paint a market in a negative light, with dirt,fish stink, ugly people and fog of meat vapors. (all imho)
good advice. I'll take it

>unless the name was given for thematic reason by her dad than maybe change it or have her come up with a variant for herself during her journey of self discovery (maybe Evy or jessica) I know its not fair but adam and eve are one of those worn out names
Well, she was given a forbidden fruit by a reptile that gave her the ability to see the future

any specific criticisms?

Read short stories. Read bad ones, read good ones. Learn the difference and make sure you stories dont have the bad elements in them. 40 k words is a lot. It will take months. Being able to write decently isnt a kin to being able to write decently for 40k or having the discipline to. I finished one of such length not too long ago. But i had to attempt ones prior many times before and promptly abandon them because they werent great

What meter? Do you want me to read pronouns and determiners with a pitch you faggot?
Also, there's nothing more pretentious than ending a line with random period-enjambment

well snoreoscopes makes it sound like it puts people to sleep or looking into their dreams. you could be a total fag like most writers and go for latin obscurumscopes or something like that. you could also give it a name that does not proclaim its function, like you could just call it mildreds glass and maybe mildreds was a famous person who made the glass (mc just does not know) bonus of such naming is that you can add hidden functions later in the story. again if its a children's story than the name could get a pass if the character is young and made up the name herself while the real name is unknown

Honestly. It's hard to give you a critisism with such a short passage. But I will give you advice about seeking critisism and that its hard for me to give you something constructive and for you to build upon I can only remark on the prose which was adequate. You can certainly build on it. A touch dry but with a solid base. But hey, i cant tell if you are trying to be complex or minimal from such a small amount

Its a poor attempt at iambic. What a sonnet is written in. I know it needs polishing but I was hoping people could see through that and give me adivce. Which you havee. Thank you

>Well, she was given a forbidden fruit by a reptile that gave her the ability to see the future
would not that be bit on the nose? There is no wining with such names, some would go "well now I know where the plot is going" if you subvert all expectations than they will go "another fairytales gone dark story" only way would be to have a patient reader and avoid all connection to anything(which would be hard given how prolific the name is) I guarantee you that one of your first 1 star goodreads reveiws will have " her name is eve and she gets a forbidden fruit, obviously" and you will get 1 stars reviews because there is no book without 1 star reviews.
>reptile
consider a fox.

Is demised a word? Arised is definitely not a word.

The commas make everything choppy and clunky, which isn't what you want in a sonnet. A couple times can be good for unique effect but when it's constant the flow of the poem is harmed.

Here's something I wrote for funsies:
pastebin.com/YYsXSmdU

>But hey, i cant tell if you are trying to be complex or minimal from such a small amount

I'm trying to find a balance because my natural tendency is towards making scenes too short to the point that they seem bad, so I end up overcompensating

It seems a good portion of people agree my prose is a little dry and boring, which definitely needs work but I don't know what I need to do to make it more interesting

it's an aligator. it has to be an aligator

or a reptile fox

>it has to be an aligator
Why, is it egyptian god Sobek ?

Thank you. I think they are both words. But that is pretty minor and easily fixed

Yeah. I thought the flow would be an issue but didnt really think it would be too big, but now I see how it could be

I can be more specific later on if hou hang around. A touch busy at the moemnt

>to notice how little they focused on her.
Am I missing something? They? Also I find the dialogue too unnatural for my liking. No one speaks to themselves unless they're crazy or a weeb.

She is waiting by the park. A small girl, hopelessly naïve yet uncommonly pragmatic for her age, aware of the streets but clueless of her own bondage to the human condition. It is a warm night, curiously enough for March, and the bench near her is dewy with condensation. That’s probably where she’ll start with her next john, and speak of the devil, here he comes, short, round and hobbling. Oh great, she thinks, another pensioner, prowling for the glory of the old days, let’s get this over with, and quick. His hobbling is reminiscent of an old man, cane in hand, bucket hat on head, struggling on his own two feet as cruelly as nature can allow. His trenchcoat and low, floppy hat hide his appearance. He speaks. She is astounded, he sounds suave and well-adjusted, albeit a little croaky, but she forgives this to the night’s humidity, and reposes her doubts; he sounds like a gentleman.
“Hullo, dear,” he says to her, his voice creaking at the end of his sentence, betraying his demeanor, “quite the night.” She agrees, quite the night, but time is money.
“How long would you like?” she asks. The man’s posture and voice so far have been heard, but just like the prostitute he has remained in shadow, and she can’t quite make his face, the broad, tureen-shaped thing that it is.
“Only a moment,” he assures her, only a moment.”
“Would you like to sit on the bench first and discuss our itinerary?” she asks outwardly, coquettishly, inwardly she has added ‘under the light’.
“Yesss,” he says. She leads him to the bench under the lamplight.
She sits and waits for the waddling man to arrive before she turns and asks “How much’oo got?” But before the words have fully fled her lips she chokes, seeing the hungry face beneath the bouncing bucket hat, full of sexual appetite. Stretched, warped, grinning, but not happy. The man’s mouth is great and murmurous, like a goldfish blowing bubbles; wide his mouth is, stretching from ear to ear as though the upper half and lower portion of his head were connected only by hinge. His eyes are glabrous and reflective, large as baseballs; the prostitute can twice see her own red lipstick, trailing too far into the corners of her mouth, reflected in each elongated, globular window. The man appears a toad, from head to toe, but of an upright human posture. The brief startling settles in her stomach. Even better she thinks, flippant, better than a limp-dick pensioner. “We’ll forgo the hotel tonight, hey dear,” she says, “the bushes across us would be better. I charge extra for toads,” this will get slimy.
His tongue, pointed and pustule-ridden, slithers out of his mouth and dampens his right eyeball, removing an insect. He will be voracious.

oh, typo, thanks for catching that

He didn’t care at all. He just did whatever, and he made it look so good. That’s why I liked him. That’s why I danced with him, and that’s why I let him put a pill in my mouth.

*

I opened my eyes. Who were you? He slept, turned away. Where was I? The room was dark. I left the door open. Hallway through hallway, I looked for a way out. There were open doors, empty rooms. Flights of stairs, other floors.

Exit did not exist. I sat on a step. Lost in that house, that labyrinth, I found help inside my head. I was led out and away to the seaside, a blanket and wine, where we lay as the waves left the stars at our feet.

pastebin.com/wMFy01ud
I basically got so bored I tried to write my autobiography in German. It's awful but I did it and now I want some feedback.

I can dig it, you've got a decent grasp of composition and dialogue already.

Fucking incredible 10/10

This is horrible, read virgnia woolf. And at least use some form of flow

God I can't get over how shitty this story is.

digging in and wince at the slightest
the butt of some ongoing joke
an underlying jab beneath every sentence
i'm on trial but everything that comes out of my mouth sounds disingenuous
perpetually spaced
constantly occupied with what?
thinking about my thoughts

dissolve me

do something
do anything
but why?
i listen to the sound of the house creaking and the traffic outside
and gaze towards my peripheral
i don't know what to do
not in some large metaphorical sense but moment to moment life
nothing makes sense anymore

what is making my body write this?
am i in control of my actions
what happens if i just let go?

look vacantly to the right
twenty seconds
what is going through my mind this very moment?
should i be concerned that i don't know what i'm truly thinking
what am i blind to that lies deep within my subconscious
i don't know who i am

A short story by me:

A knight was preparing to rescue a princess from a dragon when he realised Don Quixote had already covered every potential this premise had for shitposting, so he hung himself in his chambers as his life had no potential for purpose.

Btw no one here can write for shit bruh

Do you guys think it's good to mold your voice to pander to the resident NEETs on the literature board of a Guatemalan flipbook forum for underachieving aspiring Unabombers?

I sauntered into the local convenient store at a rather convenient and often-shopped hour, so as to assure that a crowd would be available for the spectacle.

Upon arriving, I was pleased that my crowd-prediction was vindicated. Glancing over greasy snack chips and sweaty revolving bratwursts, I casually approached the cashier.

“Some weather we’re having eh? You see the game last night?” I ask quickly but still calmly, trying to fit in, failing somewhat.

“Um ya, they’re both good,” he responded in the aloof sarcastic way I would have in his position. This unsuspected similarity made my duty more difficult to follow through with, but my adrenal secretion reached its boiling point and there was no turning back.

“What!? You cracking wise with me kid?! Fuck you!” I yell in a state of acting fury - convincingly, I hoped.

Dumfounded, he gazes for a moment, not knowing what to say. I use this moment to make my move. I pull out a magnum from the crotch of my pants and announce, “This is a stick up. Your money, or your life. And any heroics from any of your onlookers and there’s gonna be some carnage.”

Mechanically, the clerk transfers money from the register into an empty potato chip bag. Grab, move, bag. Grab, move, bag. Repeat. The transfer was almost complete and still no one had jumped in. Grab, move, bag, empty. “That’s everything sir,” he whimpers, holding back tears.

I can’t leave. The mission must be completed. Ad libbing, “Umm, give me some cigarettes.” Still nothing. “And some of those lottery tickets.” Still nothing. I would have to hand feed these infants.

While still pointing my steel at the clerk, I turn my head to address the spectators, consciously leaving myself vulnerable. “Everyone, throw me your wallets. Now!” It's a good thing a had scanned Pulp Fiction the week prior. From behind I feel my piece being jerked from my hand. Perfect. Fantastic.

The clerk aimed towards my head. “Get on the floor until the cops get here.” Simultaneously, every one of the passive on-watchers actively surround me and repeat the clerk’s demands. I feel the air instantly release from my lungs as I’m hit in the back, tackled, I would later discover, in order to assure my staying put for the introduction with the local police department.

The cops finally arrived and as I was dragged to the caged back seat; I listened to the self-congratulatory remarks made by the still-present actors in my geniusly constructed drama. I had put intensity into bored lives. I became something worthy of talk and gossip. I created a room full of heroes. Mission complete.

Interesting but kind of basic, could be taken deeper with more detail and better pacing.

short story excerpt:
The Ashcroft museum's board of trustees had largely been appointed preceding Maynard senior's death and the clause in his will unobtusely naming his son as the new director of the board left a film of suspicion and rarely veiled hostility over the elderly members. They took turns naming their own favorite photographers or patrons with the curt implication that probably anyone who had handled a camera before would take the institution in a more favorable or atleast more interesting direction than the young Ashcroft. A lot of this was performance of course, they did it because in the abscence of Maynard senior they felt a new corner to stretch their limbs in, an extra hole or two punched in their already worn out ego restraining belts that gave them the go ahead to push a little further. Another reason behind their behaviour was the fact that Maynard Senior was a business man who came to love but only almost understand art. His fortune was built in the nuts and bolts and manufacturing of a camera, a vehicle or implement that just happened to be a revolutionary media for art. And when he realized this he took it upon himself to study the art of photography, form his own opinions on it and choose his favorite contemporary practitioners, who were subsequently contacted and asked to fill the aforementioned trustee seats. So in Maynard senior was an endlessly generous and benevolent patron of the arts, but not an artist. The trustees knew this and took advantage, which for Maynard senior, was sort of the point. They were supposed to fill the museum not only with agreed upon exhibits of importance but also with the collective aura of their critically acclaimed egos, assuring the public and most of all Maynard senior that this was indeed a serious and well researched institution...

Are you trying to be obnoxious with sentences this long?

nope hadn't realized they were too long

It's not badly written, but there's not enough to call it good. It's perhaps a little slow work on the pacing?

short story:

When Kyna had woken up, the family bed felt rather empty. Arm outstretched, seeking the bodies of her parents but sensing only the straw that made up the bed. Perhaps both of them must have had gone out and started the day without me. She wondered, as she lay on the straw bed for a moment longer. Autumn is nearing its end and they needed firewood and food for winter.

She started propping herself up using her hands. The lord's fields needed ploughing, the garden needed tending, the animals had to be let out, she needed to help her mother in her work when she and her father came back. Lacing on her leather boots along with the wooden pattens followed by her green gown with her sleeveless tunic and wimple.

On the hearth, a cauldron was simmering from what was left of the porridge her mother made from the night before; on the plank table she expected cheese from the lamb’s milk, instead it was small bread that had gone stale. Good Morning, hope it last thought the day. She thought. Before sitting down on one of the stools and started eating her first meal.

I like this. It gives a very consistent color and rhythm and the details are unobtrusive. Is there more of it?

Half way through, you seem to have discovered that honorifics, like "Senior" are capitalized because they are part of a person's name. Make that consistent.

Variety of sentence length is a tool in the box of style. Deployed for pacing, for emphasis, de-emphasis, or for reasons related to conveying the frame of mind or style of thought of the narrator, if any. It also is a tool for displaying authorial intent, which is the most subtle form of insinuation to the reader of that elusive feeling of confidence that fiction requires to keep us involved.

The simplest technique for making walls of exposition more accessible is to put windows of narrative in them. On the stage, they call it "physicalizing" the otherwise static information.

jerrywbrown.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Barn-Burning-by-William-Faulkner-1.pdf

Take a look at how Faulkner does this in the first three grafs. We learn all about the legal case, but in the context of on-going activity.

Instead of being "built," the narrative world explains itself as it goes. The weight of evidence prefers techniques like these.

Also, I think you meant "thinly veiled" since "rarely" is a measure of frequency rather than degree; think about every instance of all forms of the verb "to be" and consider the active alternatives:

"His fortune was built" v. "He built his fortune"

It is not the dogmatic stricture against passive voice, it is the aggregate of this usage that bogs reader's down over habitual repetition. If an agent sees one typo per hundred words, they will automatically assume 10,000 words will contain 100 typos. It's the accumulation that matters.

I am getting the distinct feeling that my high recognizability, even without a trip, has made not replying to me a meme.

warosu.org/lit/thread/S9117096#p9119054

Thanks, that's actually really helpful criticism.

Yes, you're so important that the most likely reason nobody responds to you is that it's a meme all revolving around you, you very special person. It couldn't possibly be that you're an uninteresting hack now trying to manipulate people into giving you crit.

>unaware of the master plan, he falls for advancing it.

>thinks he's just pretending to be retarded

pfft haha

Sounds comfy. Too little to criticize. The prose isn't bad. (I like the fact that it's simple.)

It was just after dawn when I woke up, to the smell of the ocean. I have always associated the sea with freedom. So much so that I can actually smell the liberty along with the salt for some reason. A remnant of some childhood hogwash perhaps.

I opened the window of my small apartment, and felt the warm sea breeze playing on my face, creating an involuntary smile. Today was an especially beautiful day. The sun was bright, but merciful. It was playfully covered now and then by some lazy clouds, sailing on the sky like the ships I could see on the vast expanse of water before me. The ocean! "What is it about the ocean that is so magnificent? It's just a humongous collection of water.", I reflected. "Yet people flock to see it, to bathe in it."

Water as far as the eye could see. Maybe that was it. The seemingly infinite course of the ocean was probably what made it so splendid. A path of infinite possibilities, routes, experiences..

I usually wake up at this time, even though I'm not expected in the office for a couple of hours. I guess living at the edge of the city has its disadvantages after all. I think I'll have a quick visit to the beach before the office, it's be too late when I get back.

>thinks his shitposting has identified a run of the mill Veeky Forumsizen

Which contribution above is yours?

None of them. This place seems to attract a lot of people with weird delusions of grandeur. What brought you here?

kind of plain, well written but wondering what the arc of the story is.

I, who much like the world was first a siv and then an oven and now am something wholly unfamiliar, assert that at age 23 I did indeed become the man Alberto Giacometti, or maybe it was Lucian Freud, I can’t remember. but the paintings are there, proof, proof of concept, like the Borges story about Chaucer, it can be done with paintings too. Well of course it can, Elmyr De hory and all, is art real? no, but love might be. It’s a slow loss of vision that happens here, with these things, or a quick one depending on when and where you choose to dig in your heels. Borges went blind for a reason. it’s the space between the lines that disappears, or the detail that loses its freedom*. Guitar players are the same, i was Fahey for a spring before my own stomach caught wind of what i was doing and made my hands clumsier than when I was a child, so I would play six notes instead of three four or five and it was a racket rather than a symphony. There’s a line to be crossed is what I’m saying, but there is much more before that, and that is what this is about, that is, this is that much more before…starting….now.

I was a tense horse on a narrow plane
backed away from in the usual ways
encroached upon by floating black waves…

but wait, “halt” that was on the way out…first we have to get IN to the quarry, and before that was the priesthood and before that there was…the Valley!
Yes the valley, the genuine valley, where it began, come to think of it I don’t remember much from the valley. It was somewhere in Europe, before the split, the landmass was different I mean, not Pangea, nothing like Lemuria. A little known but widely felt area somehow behind the initial continent proper. A large stone had to be removed and then replaced, just slightly ajar in order to reveal the entrance. The land of milk and honey as they say. All half finished cobblestone and nondescript shrubbery in the foreground, these were almost the least important compared to the sloping sides, the truncated spurs beckoning the thumb and index in front of the eye, touching the vision or picking it apart by knobbish protrusion. Can you imagine? feel the word VALLEY hit you between the ribs or lower even?

The valley was infact always in peril of disappearing and eventually did mind you. An ancient poem from an ancient poet, perhaps from the first felt threat of its disappearance reads as follows:

There was a spirit lingering
over the genuine valley
that suggested it was not in fact the genuine valley
but a childhood memory passed down from the genuine valley
that only existed before the memory itself
In other words it had not existed except for in the moment
of the foots first falling away from it
So its a bur in the arch of the foot*

To the OP...

I made a Google doc of the first paragraph and left my comments and edits. If this is helpful, I can do the others. If it isn't open to your own review/revisions, tell me and I'll adjust the settings.

Best of luck to you. It was a fun exercise.

docs.google.com/document/d/1ezVSruHqfulKq5xzk1wKvcH0X8NaXI_7oVb5Z6Kw5cU/edit

Excerpts from a short story I wrote, translated to English:

The man was sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, next to the window. He could see the kitchen from his seat. He lit a cigarette. He was looking at the girl busy by the stove. She was short with shoulder-length blonde hair, wearing a T-shirt too big for her. She was holding a kitchen spoon in her hand.
"Baking?" asked the man
"Yeah"
"What's the time?" He was looking for his phone. He couldn't find it in the armchair. As he reached towards the floor he knocked over a wine bottle. The bottle fell on the carpet with a dull tap. He could only hope it was empty, he couldn't get himself to look down.
"About 9:30"
The cigarette was burning his hand by now. He slowly got up and walked to the small table standing in the middle of the room. He dropped the roach into the ashtray and walked backed to his chair.
"Almost done"
"Good."
His head was buzzing. He was strangled by the smoke and the clothes thrown on the floor smelling of wine, and especially by the smell of eggs. He could remember the whole night. This irritated him.
The girl stepped into the room barefooted, carrying a huge tray with two plates on it in her hands. She put it down near the edge of the cluttered table, gently pushing two glasses to the side.
"Bon appétite," she said, barely smiling. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was darker than the man remembered. She had no make up on and the T-shirt fell on her thighs as if she was wearing a sack. She was homely. This also irritated him.

- - - - - - - - - -

The washing machine has been on for minutes. The girl was still in the bathroom. The man was smoking a cigarette, sitting in the window. He was watching the street, the drowsily roaring cars, the slouched men. The street was surrounded by buildings once white, now dappled with black spots. There was a café on the opposite side of the road. A waitress was cleaning the chairs and placed new ones next to the nailed down tables. There were already some customers inside. There were colorful flowers above the café. An old lady was watering her plants. A floor above a tabby was lying on the sill. A plane passed over the buildings, grumbling quietly. The plane left dashed white lines on sky. A couple walked under the man's window, both around twenty years old, in elegant but dishevelled clothes. They walked slowly, with heavy steps, supporting each other. The woman wore her partner's coat over her shoulders. She slowly stroked his loose tie as they turned a corner and disappeared.

The man could hear the squeeking door of the bathroom in the quiet flat. He was curious what the girl was doing.
--Any advice welcome, I'd like to write more in English but I feel I'd have to le-learn pacing and stylistics in order to conform to the language--

I like it. Maybe it's just me, but when I read things like "Yesss" I can't help but consider the writer a bit childish for some reason. Consider describing the way he said it, maybe? Just my two cents, I know I'm nitpicky about this.

-Smokey Clouds-

Smokey clouds shroud a moon glowing bright
Orange burning roach held anxiously in sight
by hands to pass to hand soon pressed to lips-
The first time I smoked was a night such as this.

Though tonight I am alone.

Roaming open streets with foggy
thoughts filling my head like soggy
socks squishing in soaked shoes
hang by laces from a light post wire.

If only I could have known.

It used to be commit a crime, you'd get stoned.
Now I do it willingly when alone. My
thoughts like stones speckled, flat, and fine,
skipped on an emulsified and streaming mind.

I hear rambling water from

Here by the river, the fog is thicker than before.
I can't tell if the rocks reached the other shore,
or if they were sucked into the murky torrent-
Lost in the rushing water before them.

I think it's time I get on home
and not smoke so much on my own.
____________________

Even for shitposting this pasta isn't that good. And I remember the original version of this and at least that was written better.
1/10

You know what you're trying to describe, but it feels disjointed. I feel like you could really gain from a few extra descriptors that push her along her path instead of the few random descriptions of progression you have now.
The food seems tasty though.
6/10

This is great. I don't know a lot of the symbolism and imagery, but it's well written and even without knowing for certain, I still got the idea behind it. Still, for poetry, unless you're writing an epic you're better to stick to more general and vivid imagery to convey your idea. Especially in today's time.
9/10

I was , thank you for the feedback.

That piece may end up becoming the introductory bit to a much longer poem, but I haven't yet found the motivation to write it.

I love coming to these threads to remind me how good I am at writing compared to all the pretentious idiots on Veeky Forums

I can't take this anymore. My own mom told me my writing was shit and I only kept at it because Veeky Forums told me it was good. I tried to fix it and again she told me it was shit. but I managed to get over it because Veeky Forums told me it was good. Now even Veeky Forums is telling me my writing is shit. Why did I waste 6 fucking months on this worthless garbage if it was shit all along. I never should have tried writing in the first place. this was all just a huge fucking mistake

10/10. it's like you're writing my story.

What was the point of this? Why did I bother wasting hours of my precious weekend on creating foul excrement that's not worth the paper it takes to wipe it. This was a fucking mistake I hope I will never make again

Yeah I get that, I thought the same thing when I was writing it. I only put it in there that way because I didn't want to give away too much too quick, but I understand; I think that when I see speech like that too.

ten/10

wrote this today, end is kindof shitty:

mmmmmmmmmmmmm
speaking inhumanly......
feeling —
feeling myself,
the heat in my heart.
confused, he wipes his eyes;
(you're not as good as you thought you were)
And stood there, beholding it all before him, in purest form.
I ask myself, what is this memory?
What is this vision of my life, my sense,
shown upon my deathbed
snapped like a photo.
Are photos more real than life?
A single instant, unapprehendable by our mortal awareness?

_______________________
rhyme scheme is awesome, especially the 2nd stanza and the way the 1st sets it up. By the end it got kindof stiff/predictable though.
loved the imagery, your feeling in this moment is well and explicitly sketched
the diction could be more creative, but that's fine.
Overall quite good, i enjoyed it -- a scene of somewhat confusion and complacent chagrin that we've all felt, told in a mostly compelling rhyme scheme with vivid imagery. nice work, keep improving

pastebin.com/amcR7zwN

Here's something I wrote last night when I sleepy af at the cinema.

What language was it originally written in ?

Although it's either a translation note or a stylistic I'm sure but the

>He x
>He z
>He w

just feels like I'm reading a checklist and it stops the story's flow every other moment.

>She was homely. This also irritated him.

Show don't tell, literally the first thing anyone will tell you. Especially frustrating since you just described her as homely. Bitch looks like she's wearing a sack, there was no reason that bluntly hammer that in.

And in the second paragraph

>There were
>There were

This is the type of thing that'll make me instantly doubt your writing ability surely you can stitch this description better than that.

Any substance in this story has just been drowned out for me under all the basic mistakes and stunted flow. I'm hoping this is due to a bad translation.

Also

>roach

"You gotta be crazy on acid to think a joint looks like a goddamn cockroach."
Fear and loathing in Las Vegas already covered that one for me

Thanks, the first two stanzas were written stream of conscious in the very moment I was feeling it. But even with (technically) the thought completed in the first two stanzas, it felt like it needed more. But revisiting it, I was having a hard time picking back up the stream once I broke it. I like it now, but I'm still working on really holding the flow of piece as well as it began. It's my personal favorite of the pieces I'm working on right now. I'm glad you liked it, and everything you pointed out were exactly what I was worried about, so in a way that's good because I already have a good idea on how to touch this up.

I'm not sure if it's me, but, like you said you enjoyed the vivid imagery of mine, I just didn't get that with yours. It's a visceral thought certainly, but it's not something that captures me as it's presented. It's broken as if into lines for stanzas, but I didn't notice a scheme or rhythm or flow or such. You switch from *my* to *him* to *I* as it progresses, which is confusing. I know you're using dream logic here by subject matter and your descriptions, but I still can't quite orient my POV along with how you've given this to me. I don't know if I'm god, himself, his older self, the narrator, (or even which one I am per pronoun) and I'm not sure my place in time. It's all just a bit jumbled as presented.

Excerpt of an original piece. Don't feel the need to sugarcoat your criticism just be as upfront as possible i won't be offended:

ok. ok. wow. just... ok. so you opened this fucking book? congratulations it's the one thing you did today that probably wasn't a fucking embarrassment. why do you still fucking read books anyway? do yourself a favor and please open this 900 page magnum opus book to the middle page, place your nutsack in the center, and slam the book as hard as possible. even if you're in public just do it, in fact ESPECIALLY if you're in public. good. now you cannot have any children and pollute the planet with more faggot book readers like yourself. pause for a moment. look around the room. let that thought sink in. you are the last of your piece of shit lineage and you've just made the human race stronger for it. congratulations. now you are ready to read my story.

I know you, I know you. You're the only serious person in the room, aren't you, the only one who understands, and you can prove it by the fact that you've never finished a single thing in your life. You're the only well-educated person, because you never went to college, and you resent education, you resent social ease, you resent good manners, you resent success, you resent any kind of success, you resent God, you resent Christ, you resent thousand-dollar bills, you resent Christmas, by God, you resent happiness, you resent happiness itself, because none of that's real. What is real, then? Nothing's real to you that isn't part of your own past, real life, a swamp of failures, of social, sexual, financial, personal...spiritual failure. Real life. You poor bastard. You don't know what real life is, you've never been near it. All you have is a thousand intellectualized ideas about life. But life? Have you ever measured yourself against anything but your own lousy past? Have you ever faced anything outside yourself? Life! You poor bastard.

It's very short (that's obvious) but it paints a pretty pleasing atmosphere. Good descriptors. It also establishes the tone in a relatively quick manner. Kind of eerie initially? Course, we don't know much context due to length.

Here's an excerpt from my first attempt at historical fiction. I haven't written in a long while, and I need some external input desperately.
pastebin.com/zhtehCeB

I crie evry tym

Thank you for your feedback, I'll use this as data to improve my writing.

Can I just ask why you'd write something like this?

I just like to express myself through the art of literature which I know is unusual these days and I enjoy keeping this great art alive. I hope that answers your question and thanks for reading it.

Whoops. Responded to the wrong author.

To the guy who wrote about the parking lot at the beach - some edits for your first paragraph. Hope they're useful. If they are, I can do the rest.

Keep it up.

docs.google.com/document/d/1ezVSruHqfulKq5xzk1wKvcH0X8NaXI_7oVb5Z6Kw5cU/edit

Hungarian. In our language most sentences are fine without a subject (if allowed by context), so there aren't any "He"-s in the original. I refer to him as "man" some 15-20 times in 1.100 words, and only when I absolutely need to make the subject of a sentence clear.

>There were
>There were

>This is the type of thing that'll make me instantly doubt your writing ability surely you can stitch this description better than that.

Yeah I botched that. I just realized it wasn't even necessary. "A few customers were already inside." would've been better, altough I'm not happy with that either. The original goes as:
"Bent már vendégek is ültek. A kávézó fölött az ablakokban színes virágok voltak."
Even if you don't understand it, you can see there's no repetition.

Thank you user, especially for this:

>Show don't tell, literally the first thing anyone will tell you. Especially frustrating since you just described her as homely. Bitch looks like she's wearing a sack, there was no reason that bluntly hammer that in.
I think I should try and rewrite the whole story in English instead of translating. I wonder if I can do better without binding myself to the original text.