New Critique Thread

Same rules as last time:
>Post a piece of your own work
>Critique each others work
>Don't post a piece without contributing

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/pWwNp6Fq
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/58056
pastebin.com/zft0AZfp
pastebin.com/vhdxEBS4
pastebin.com/PmwZJbvp
pastebin.com/vwu1xgke
pastebin.com/wyF4Kque
pastebin.com/5Qd7GpsQ
nytimes.com/books/98/11/01/specials/gass-present.html
pastebin.com/aJY2xxBi
pastebin.com/RDGV1kBy
pastebin.com/ZDPdLesu
pastebin.com/SS4KYK5p
twitter.com/SFWRedditGifs

Tell me whas good, Anons

pastebin.com/pWwNp6Fq

so far I only have the first sentence. pls give constructive critiscism.

>"I am skeptical towards metanarratives" said John Everyman

I would have to see another sentence. I'm so far in my literary journey that I don't give anything a chance anymore. If the first few lines don't assure me that the author is on the same wavelength or """vibe""" as me, then I don't read any more.

What about this beginning of a "poem" I wrote yesterday?

Like a blacksmith
sniff a whiff of the tradition's praxis
Scattered among the myths
of rage spilled like the absinthe
Wary becomes legendary
Battlefield
Cemetery
Smoke the chamber or hit the sword
against the heart of the adversary

You are quite good at describing the mannerisms of the characters during dialogue, but the overall theme goes so mundane and uninteresting for so long it's almost some Infinite Jest type shit

I honestly find this hilarious and I don't even know why

It was a bad day, like usual.

I like this first sentence. Really funny

>pastebin.com/pWwNp6Fq

>"It got to the point where even my mentors started worrying."

Does your audience know enough about the narrator's mentors to appreciate the surprise in this?

>Then they referred me to a professor in the science wing.

I know it's minor, but "then" could be cut.

>His office was just a cramped space like any office in the humanities building.
>just a cramped space
>space

Can you think of a more interesting word to use? 'Cramped' set my expectations for a short but effective description/metaphor, and 'space' let me down.

>Overstuffed bookshelves covered the other two walls

Since I don't know what the "first" wall(s) look like, I can't easily picture where the "other" two walls are in my head. You've told me what they look like - can you do a better job telling me where they are? I know it sounds stupid - its a tight space with walls. Where else would they be? But when 'other' is used to enhance a description, it typically follows another description. Maybe I'm thinking about it too hard. Just something to consider.

>The amount he moved could be considered nervous or anxious if he didn’t move so graciously.

Exchange 'would' for 'could'. 'Would' is more definite and makes the comparison absolute.

>“Well,” I explained, “Getting to sleep isn’t the problem--”

Narrator has said one word. That is not explaining. Perhaps "I started" or "I began" would work better. When it doubt, "I said" is a happy neutral. When I use speech tags, I only use "I said" during my 1st draft, even if I know I'll change it later. Doing so sets everything at neutral and makes it obvious when it needs to be replaced.

>“Right, right, it’s the ‘staying’ asleep.”

Why did the professor ask the narrator why he couldn't sleep if he already knew this detail?

Your prose is hyper-efficient, and the narrator sounds like he's "different", but not "quirky" or "try-hard". I don't know if I'll be able to critique the entire piece, but I'm definitely reading it.

Hope this feedback is useful for something. Best of luck to you in your revisions.

Nope

My own:
He snickered and flipped up his collar against the cold wind. He looked at the small boy and laughed, wiggling his finger at him.

"The web stretches forward and backwards, as if the sequences aligned themselves preemptively with
their soon to be partner!"

He gave the boy a lip splitting smile and laughed again deep from his belly.

"The system aligns and converges and intertwines and inverses ,diverges and emerges! Yet, at another
particular moment out of this chaos arises a perfect partner, a soul mate, a direct bijection to another perfect moment in 'time'."

He slid up to the boy and took a knee and lowered his voice so that the boy could barely hear.

"Through this bijection the "current" moment connects perfectly with something that has no reason to be there! Through the chaos we have deduced
without a shadow of a doubt, that between two consecutive moments the system diverges completely. All order is
lost. All measure and observation contradict and circumvent one another
Utter chaos in these sea of moments, until suddenly, for no reason, the next frame to "reality" emerges from the chaos and
"time" continues."

The boy slowly backed away as the man continued apparently unaware of the boy's departure.

"If only they realized the immensity and unknowability that hung between every moment.
The infinitude, the long stretching into nothing, like an unbreakable rubber band stretching on and on.
it goes without saying of course that I lack frame of mind. Experiencing, as I have, the near infinite gap between "moments"
I am stretched thin.

Attracting other nearby parksgoers with his yelling, people began gathering around the strange man in the yellow suit.

"I have experienced every moment, as have you, but it is only one my infinite other frames
of reality that I have processed. You set my tick rate too high, is one way I've always thought of it.
I am receiving when nothing is happening. When everyone is setting up the scene. Always being set up.
Don't think that I haven't seen the hidden pattern hidden among the chaos. Its directed nature
is of necessity of course. For the system to exist, this has to happen, there's no way around it."

Small groups of people stared in silence. The man turned to address his newly found audience
He let out one final laugh from deep within his core.

"We're considering necessary truths here, undoubtable completely.
Through my own experience I have seen myself do things somehow in line with
the continued impossible appearance of perfect steps along time. I see myself
say things but between the gaps in those moments I no longer, and in fact am continually removed
from all control of what I do. Not as though I could maintain control of myself. I am so apathetic
of these moments among all my other experienced moments that even maintaining any semblance
of control when these moments pop out of the blue.

So I apologize if I seem distant"

Really helpful stuff. I overlooked a lot of this as I wrote and I totally agree with you.

>it's almost some Infinite Jest type shit

I haven't read Infinite Jest, I don't know what this means. Care to explain in more depth?

Infinite Jest has long sessions about many of the mundane and seemingly vapid issues that assole the characters that are being focused on a said particular chapter. For example, your text reminds me of a chapter right in the beginning where the older brother has a issue with sweating while sleeping..

r8 me bros (the Cuneiform says 'Inanna')

The blacksmith/praxis rhyme isn't good enough to warrant the use of such a strange an ill-fitting word

Battlefield/Cemetery

this doesn't feel good. too rap like, but in a bad imitation of Aesop Rock, so either work on it for another 10 years (i think his style might be worth it) or ease yourself into such a percussive and rhythmic rhyme.

I think you have something here though. I want to be clear about that.

>tfw actually wrote that originally as a rap
I've been discovered

"Please Doctor," pleaded the man. "I need to know how to temper this fungus. The medicine does not work!"

"This is your mistake" the Doctor replied. "The medicine only allays the fear of the fungus, your fate is already unfortunately final. The best I can do is suggest a few brands of fine white white vinegar. If you care to listen to to the list?"

The man left the office feeling woeful and wronged and spit on the doctor's door handle on the way out. The man retired to his apartment across from the factory and slowly faded into the chipped paibt in the corner of the room; rotting and mutating into the obese lard of blue mold he was always destined to become.

well, if you are really interested in that specific style, study skelethon, not just listen, really study, because it's the only album where words like praxis fit in and feels coherent (and stuff like ZZZ Top and Leisureforce have powerful rhythms)

I've listened to Skelethon, and when I'm writing stuff like that it's usually Aesop, DOOM and MC Ride that end up being influences on the "rap" side of things.
Death Grips' "Black Quarterback" has some of this kind of language in a working rhythm as well.

Yeah, I love DG (Ride is the ghetto-Joyce as far as wordplay is concerned) but Aesop Rock is much closer to what you write.

notm is great though. and seriously, go deep into Skelethon, i don't think you'll regret it. don't be afraid to be a little autistic when studying rappers if they interest you. anyway i'll stop trying to force him on you.

No forcing, I like Aesop, and while I'm at Skelethon I should go for None Shall Pass as well, thanks mate

oh, here's another piece you might want to look at for rap in poetry (a very different, but interesting take)

poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/58056

pastebin.com/zft0AZfp

Loved everything except the last sentence.

tfw on too much speed at da party

1/2Winter Lanterns

There is no secret in nature. There is no inside. There is nothing left to discover.
Ichi was braiding some hair. The forcen was drawing some titties on a rock. We were surrounded by stoned and squallid water, and night was beginning to nibble, on our bodies and ids. My socks were nearly dry. The pink of the sky followed us back through the growth and stubble.
The lodge was waiting, but it could go on. Out here we still felt another kind of safe and sound, even in the starshadow, at least now having it to wrap around us instead of the terrestial superfacades of the city as it was before, always looming everywhere, whether you or one was within or outside it.
The ocean, seen from the newer or capital heights, had been the only frightening breath of it. Occasionally it came along as a scenting, or otherwise the surprise of a breeze, from without the walls around you. In the end it had delivered on its silent promise, and then delivered us here. So it was nice to keep beside us, as tenderly long as we could.
Down a few gardens from the lodge was the hut of the belly sage, where he'd welcomed us at the end of one of their otherwise mundane weekdays when we'd buckled ashore under the twigh light. There now was the sage and Biggie Balls, and a few other artists and farmers come out of their snow holes to have another end of their day. It was hard to make room for all of us; the kids all got caught gumming up the door lifting process, and falling into whirls. Still, pretty quickly there were beers.
Among the shuffling and sparse switching of chairs we sunk into chatter again. Bardock left his station and brought me a sink of pikes for a fondue nearby, and I knew immediately what he was propositioning to talk about.
I met him right away. "Have you seen Eileen?"
"There's been regeneration."
A cute something swaddled by in the thick, and Cat reacted immediately as well:
Opening the door above him; "That'll be a nickel, maam."
She did look him over.
"Well I wish I had a nickel then."
Unstably ironically; "Shucks-"
but just like god does, the traffic sent her away.
"You the doorman now?"
Sincerely angrily Cat: "Yeah and it's five cents bro."
Elsewhere: "She just spoke to me in four different languages and I don't know how turned on I am about it."
Finally, we fell upon a cold pillar corner and a hot table for our own, next to a dissociating Benzo & Brand.
"There's been several regenerations. We're still ministering like ever."
I was elated, but two lesbians were sitting on eachother too much too close to me. For the first time I sipped my beer, the first after the night, and tried to let some of the tethers sever themselves until I might reside along the booth something almost like comfortably. There was only an inside to the human world, and only ever things to discover.

2/2

On the boat, I had my hands up to my elbows wrapped within her blood and her feathers, prone together on the far keel. "I got my hands pretty dirty."
It was still the early stages of ministration, so she talked without moving her jaw, and from beneath her mask, still. "Yes, you did."
A must have been watching us. It had been a moon and more and I still hadn't moved. All we all did was only that capable with the sea, and where ever, and the only looks around in the end proving to be those early to see the urban leviathan and then its shadows slip away. There was no need to look at the all beyond that, all that we might have seen was sea.
And we didn't talk much either. But like our craft and us, conversation seemed no longer in any important way bound, and so stayed with us on its own course. Maybe it was the same day later that I went on: "The old man's dead."
She let the waves lollop a bit. Pressed against me. Pressed against me all the same. "You did it?"
"I'm sure...".
For the first time now the pressure of us came alive, became a pressing. Like a brief bed away from time she laid her head against mine. Yet all the same what she spoke was painful. "Oh, hunter...".
"I'm sure."
Then again came another of the familiar crashings across the hull.
"And we're alive... Oh, hunter." In some time more near a dream state later, she asked rigorously but lazily: "And we've left."
I said the affirmative. Again, she doted a bit, giving the ever new noises of the ocean space to breathe with her.
"Why?"
"There's nothing left." That was exactly when she kissed me. All over the course of the next few days, though occasionally it would slow to feel far and few between, she didn't stop. I met her mouth with my own or my face, or let it play and rest upon my neck. With the waves of newer and fresher ministration, her hands were able to explore more of me.
Snow fell above us. It never reached near enough to drink or mark us. Only by the time her hand found and then fell into a long rest on my thigh did we altogether concede to the need for something to drink. As close as it fell and as much as we had them out anyway, our tongues, like the horizon, were only staying bare.

Dont at all intend this as end just all i have

I don't like it much either. I wrote it very quickly, maybe I'll try again later

i'm keep feeling like anything serious I write is completely pretentious, so I made this
pastebin.com/vhdxEBS4

nice.

I like how the doctor tells it like it is

plz bully

Hippity hoppity poppity poo
I've got a story I want to tell you
Hippity hoppity peppity pee
It starts with a man known as Stevie

I live in California and slurppies (or icee's if you aren't a pleb) aren't even that expensive bro

I'll do better next time pa

Don't you dare be gentle, Veeky Forums.

pastebin.com/PmwZJbvp

Are you retarded?

Nah, he's young and he trying to get into literature.

We're all retarded in the beginning.

Pretty dank. What's your Soundcloud?
pastebin.com/vwu1xgke

I am too, so maybe I'm missing some of the genius of it.

Before you begin reading: I don't write at all. At least not creatively - I do essays and stuff all the time. But yesterday I had some sort of moment of creativity and I spat this out. I haven't read over it so watch out for typos and clunkiness. I'd just like to get some thought about how I'm writing.
A time and a place, him and him, to get their kicks. Together, they're often in love and they become one. They have known each other for so long. Well, all that they need to know. All the nitty gritty of other people's lives is trivial and boring, but the shapes and sounds we make at our most beautiful can make slaves of desire into slaves of men.

He loves you, darling, all over; your thighs, your ass, your...you're sweating. And then it's over.

What lies in our bodies stays temperate only briefly. The coldness of the room will breach its shattered walls and make a man shiver. So stop being naked; warm up a little bit, he'll think to himself. You'll need those clothes when you get out of that front door and into the frigid wind which will surely be gone by the morning. That's what the weatherman says. A dashing man indeed. Tells you all you need to know about how to get around.

The Traveller searches for love in all the right places. He's done with that app now. Deleted it. He's done with that website now. Deleted it. A date now, though, and that's holds nothing but hope. Ah, his picture was litotes. He can't take photos and he can't talk either. They're not so different, the Traveller and the Date.

Glances that last long become quickly carnal in his world. They fuck. The start of every good relationship. If only he had someone to keep him warm. Better yet, someone who doesn't make him shiver. He just has to keep looking, scrolling, sending. He's re-downloaded that app now. He's got a new account for that website now. To love forever is the dream but to love for the night isn't a nightmare.

I really, really, dislike this. I'm sorry.

Thank you. Any particular reasons why? Tbh I actually just read over it after I'd posted it and I cringed at a few moments.

Its just so cliched.
The use of litote hurts, but not as much as the fourth paragraph
"the traveller and the date"
I shuddered.

Those were the bits I cringed at, among others. I think I need to take a look at myself.

Cool.
If you're going to write about hot steamy sexy stuff, write about it how you think about it. What you wrote is, I pray to fucking god, not how you would actually think.
I write long run-on sentences because that's how my ADD and stoned brain thinks. It comes out easier that way. Good luck.

It was not meant to be steamy and sexy. It was meant to be a more grim description of hook-ups. But the fact that you didn't read it as that is probably more a problem on my behalf.

The short sentence thing is because I've been studying a really annoying poet in college who has a similar style and I'm involuntarily channelling that.

Thanks for the advice in general.

This is a setup for a fairy tale. I know it sucks but I don't know how start it off better. any ideas?

Angelo Bevitore was by all standards living a comfortable and fulfilling life. That nearly all of it had come from smuggling liquor in and out of the dry city of New York was of very little consequence as far as he was concerned.

There was a reason people drank: it eased the nerves, warmed the body and made even the coldest and dirtiest gutter feel like a good mattress. Agriculture as a whole had been an attempt to keep the beer flowing, and in his opinion it would be shameful to have the rhyme without the reason. Someone had to keep the city soused as a kitchen sponge, and for the past seven years one of those men had been him.

It was a demanding job, and often called for long hours, crude methods and cuckoo ideas, but the pay was decent enough to bring him a life of modest comfort. He had a ritzy apartment with electric lighting and some well tailored suits, an automobile fresh off the assembly line and a beautiful wife; but as his key clicked in the lock and the front door swung open the treasure on his mind was his daughter, Eveline.

He wasn't sure where she got it – he had a hunch it had something to do with those astrology books she always spent her money on (or was it astronomy?) – but the girl had a knack for seeing things that hadn't happened yet. It was a talent that came in useful more often than not, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit. Mr. Bevitore was a practical man, and he knew to foster a talent when he saw it.

“Anybody home?” he called out, rapping his knuckles against her door. He was used to responses that weren't quite words – “uh huh”s and “mhm hm”s chief among them – but the whump and ruffle of toppled paper stacks was certainly a new one. With a sigh he opened the door, and found the room in complete disarray.

The writing slate on the far wall had been mantled with chalk scratchings from corner to corner, and even the blackspace and marginalia had been cannibalized to make more room. Mess carried over from the wall to the desk, and from then on to the bedding and floor The carpet was littered with scratch papers and charts, bare patches were stained deep with dribbles of ink. In the center of it all sat Eve by her wall, startled and suddenly quite aware of the chaos around her.

“Is there a non-crazy explanation for all of this?”

“The universe is expanding,” she mumbled sheepishly.

“I figured as much” he sighed. Eve shifted awkwardly in her spot, an obvious attempt to interpose herself between him and the section of the wall beside her. It was at that moment that he noticed the faint of crushed calcite.

I think your prose is pretty solid, it read pretty nicely for the most part.

I can't help feeling that what you've given us is a detailed dust-jacket description. You've condensed a ton of information into this page-sized introduction. I think you could afford to slow down the pace and really SHOW us more of what you've just glazed over with telling.

On the other hand, maybe you're trying to rush the intro so you can get into the fairy tale bits? Even then, I still think you could slow down the pace a little.

I'm glad you like it but I just can't start with this.It's just not right. I feel like maybe I can start off start off like a disney movie and open with an expository fairy tale and then transition to this, but I don't know if that will work

very passe writing, it's not very inspired, 3rd person monologue, plot, etc...


Here's my poem:


At long last, the weather dims
For the fortune of night,
The fear of darkness
Neither imminent nor polar
For the sun to rise
And the moon to sleep,
Ornamental rock in shallow river
Deeply passioned to praise
Everything about Valentine's.
The days rise with their boiling passions
The nights whisper their doldrums of whisper
Immaculately unseen, heavenly rose of days
Bounty breadth and being;
Have all the times gone
With serendipity and felicity?
If only it were true,
that you see both sun and moon
More than once in life
Together bundled under crimson skies
Whether they meet each other
For the fondue that spills out of such a date,
I would forever say myself of gratitude
And encumber with heavy weight
Resign to stare at the vista
In absolute vision, with no cause
To holy spirits which make me sigh
With signs that neither deviate
But meet in the background of our two
Stars, which beloved the conditions of crimson
Shine us to our fallacious envy
And beauty circumvents rain
For the rainbow which shines
The delicate love with alls heart
To see the sun and moon in one sky!

Tough call. Maybe you can just write the various scenes you have in mind and then figure out the ordering after?

I liked this. I'm working on a fairy tale myself. Here are a few things you may want to consider...

>it eased the nerves, warmed the body and made even the coldest and dirtiest gutter feel like a good mattress.

Consider killing either 'coldest' or 'dirtiest' for the sake of an experiment. Does removing the extra modifier help the sentence read easier?

'Eased the nerves' is a short statement, and so is 'warmed the body'. Ending this pattern with 'dirtiest" and 'coldest' may be more description than is necessary.

>but the pay was decent enough to bring him a life of modest comfort.

Nothing wrong with this, either. But could you improve it? Maybe. Consider killing 'was' and replacing it with a concrete verb.

For example - "but the pay bought him a life of modest comfort(s)." Since you list multiple comforting things next, consider making the singular 'comfort' plural.

> "He had a..."

Again, try killing these helping verbs where you can. Dig right in to the description.

Consider - "His ritzy apartment came equipped with electric lighting and a closet full of well-tailored suits."

'Well-tailored suits' is a fine description, but people use it everywhere. It isn't a cliche, but it doesn't paint a solid image in my head. What color are the suits? What kind? Consider researching the style of suit that was popular during Prohibition. Readers familiar with the fashion of the period will appreciate the facts.

Same goes for the automobile. Don't tell me it's an automobile. Tell me the make, model, color, etc. You don't need to go overboard, but there's room in these descriptions for more.

Hope this proves useful during your later revisions. Good luck!

Is pastebin.com/wyF4Kque a better beginning to a story along the lines of pan's labyrinth than is?

It's not bad, certainly not cliched and has a bit of a rhythm to it, if a simple one. That said, it's a little opaque, and this one line
>For the fondue that spills out of such a date,
just really does not fit

Is that really the only criticism you can offer me? Well... I guess that means it's either totally unremarkable or above reproach

I offered my pieces in the poetry thread, but no responses.

Kinda new to writing, so tear it apart.

pastebin.com/5Qd7GpsQ

is english your first language?

Yeah, why do you ask?
Did I forget some important english rule?

No I just had it hammered into me from such a young age to avoid present tense that I was unsure. But read this by Gass: nytimes.com/books/98/11/01/specials/gass-present.html

Also to be completely honest yourstory is boring and there is no linguisti diveristy within your prose. It's nice to see you trying to use big words and all but it's done so awkwardly and so strangely misplaced and out of rhythm with the YA theme (no offense) that I am unsure what your going for. It's kind of obvious that you just started getting into writing and reading and I'd recommend putting the pen down for a few years and dedicating your time to reading art fiction, expanding your vocabulary, paying attention to how you relate your subjective experience through language, and developing a sense of the rhythm of dialogue and language in general.

That's what I was afraid of, I have ideas of what I want to write, but was worried that I just recycle the same types of things again and again, throwing in random bits to make it seem different. Thanks for the advice, I'm fairly certain you hit the nail on the head.

thanks user, I felt so too

pastebin.com/aJY2xxBi Before anyone tells me that name at the end is stupid, please realize that I didn't make it up. It's a creature from Algonquin mythology

I'll be honest. You have my interest but I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to be picturing. are they camping? If so why are they having fondue?

Your writing style seems really rushed, with a mixing of tenses and some strange descriptive choices. I think this has the potential to be something but you need to refine your ideas and get everything clearly written out on paper

don't listen to someone that tells you to stop writing (do keep reading, especially high brow stuff in the language you want to write in)

How does /crit/ feel about plagiarizing a scene?

I just did it (from a pretty popular series too) and feel really shitty about it but I literally didn't have any other way for that scene to go

there's a difference between telling someone to stop reading and telling someone that they have no idea what they're doing and need to do some research. Obviously do what you please but pretty much every writer will tell you the same. But you know there are so many painters and directors who have no clue about the history of their craft... but writing is different

it depends on how closely you've followed the source material

It's pretty down to the letter, is it noticable

Let me know what you think, Veeky Forums. The opening sentences are copied below. If you think the rest is worth your time, the pastebin link is at the bottom.

There were two reasons the spider was never accused of poor bedside manner. The first – she conducted her patients' surgeries from the comfort of her own bed. And when your rear-end was the beginning of all things luminous and voluminous, you needed plenty of blankets and quilts and pillows and other such soft things to keep it comfortable. During their operations, her patients experienced a conflict of sensations – most of them marvelous, a few of them malevolent. Physical discomfort was not one of them.

The second reason her patients kept their opinions to themselves - the real reason. The spider was mad.

>And when your rear-end was the beginning of all things luminous and voluminous, you needed plenty of blankets and quilts and pillows and other such soft things to keep it comfortable.

I think this is one of the weaker passages. Can this be salvaged, or does it need scrapping?

pastebin.com/PmwZJbvp

“That’s what I don’t understand about live music,” says Harry, pinching his nose’s bridge, leaning back into his seat. He draws an American Spirit from the pack in his front pocket. “There’s this enormous emphasis on non self-consciously ’losing yourself’ to the music, like an opportunity to temporarily shed your day-to-day ritualised inhibitions and instead just fucking dance and be carnal and free.” Harry attempts to ignite the cigarette but his light keeps sparking out. “But it seems to me everyone, at these concerts, claiming to lose themselves, is just trading one set of inhibitions for another.”
Rex’s eyes are trained strict on the road. He exhales/inhales slow/heavy. “If I fall asleep,” he says, “or if, at any point, it appears I’m on the verge of falling asleep then, please, light and stab that cigarette directly into the back of my head.”
The cigarette is planted firm between his teeth. Harry crosses his eyes on the lighter, holding it beneath the cigarette’s tip, waiting for the right beat when the road turbulence to ease out. Fucking moles, he thinks. “People nod their heads at concerts. They shake their heads left and right.” Cigarette bobbing up and down, he mumbles all of this. “Am I supposed to believe this is some natural, instinctive response to music or are people merely emulating what they’ve seen on TV? What do you think? It’s the latter.” Now is his chance: he clamps down the light. “Easily, its the latter.” He enjoys a long drag.
“Could be a chicken” - yawn - “egg sort of deal.” Rex’s left eyelid winces in quiet agony.
“Maybe, maybe, But there’s always the one guy with his arms folded, nodding his head, smug half-grin in tact. There’s always like four of those guys. That can’t be some carnal thing.”
Rex’s stomach sinks. The sky is navy blue headed straight fo for ink black. He can’t see any sign this road, this road he retrospectively very wrongly assumed had been named after some local anachronistic colloquialism, is going to let up anytime soon. Who’s to say Julian Assange even has their diamonds? It’s probably an elaborate ruse. Still, there’s no going back. It’s like waiting a real long time for the bus; yes, it has been twenty minutes but if you leave now then those twenty minutes will have been entirely, absolutely, resolutely in vein. Tobey needs their help. He would do the same for Harry and Rex. He has, in fact. Those signed blu-rays count for something. If moles believe in God, thinks Rex, then they must take this 2017 Cherrolet Silverado 1500 Pick-Up truck as a sign God is not happy.

Stealing Family Guy jokes are not the way.

Seems like you're trying too hard to be Kerouac. Also your obsession with the tactility of smoking really bothers me, as a former smoker. Fuck man, just like the goddamn cigarette and stop thinking about it. Which is to say, I think there's way too much description of cigarette smoking. The character development is also a little quick, it is fairly apparent that Harry is one of those guys who folds his arms and holds his smug grin intact, while Rex just loses himself to the music in the way Harry derides. Also, what kind of road is full of mole hills? I know it could be that you're using temporal alienation, but why are the bumps in the road mole hills, of all things? Couldn't they just be rocks?

I am sick of this new trend in the media of 'strong female roles' in movies. all they do
is come off as insincere and condescending people that you want literally nothing to do
with. It really made me reconsider courting and marriage.
If all women act like this because it's 'popular'
then they can go stuff themselves all they want because no reasonable man will
ever come near them.
I can only suspect the weak and of low self esteem to be attracted to these types.
and of course the women will reject them because a man with low self-esteem
is unsuitable, and any woman would choose a stable man over an emotional wreck, to spend
her life with.

The men that know how to respect
themselves will not come near a haughty women, because seriously who has the time of day?
Even if she'll be attractive enough they might try to find a way to deal with her
snobbish remarks long enough to sleep with her, as I understand such a women will
never deny an offer as most of these conceited females are desperately lonely and
in need of human connection. Then of course after the deed is done the man will
leave them right away, in search of a
more understanding and caring companion.

You're just creating desperate lonely confused women who don't understand
what they are doing wrong, as they follow all these false instructions from Hollywood
blockbusters that always end with a happily-ever-after romance.

Pour yourself a stiff drink to ease your troubled mind
It helps to pass the time around, pass it around yeah

Pour yourself a stiff drink to easy your troubled mind
oh, and trouble you’ll find around, find around here

beat down

Pour yourself a stiff drink to ease your troubled mind
Oh, and no one will mind if you, mind if you’re around

Insignificant, you will never find no
No you will never find someone, find someone

Pour yourself a stiff drink to ease your troubled mind
You’re a waste of time, she said

I'm a waste of time, and I know you’re right
I know you’re right, I know you’re right


(i'm not lit and it's obvious and i suck at writing, this is for a song and i was wanting super strong criticism to fix it please)

I don't know how to write songs, prob don't have the ability ,but this one seems pretty self loathing and self deprecating. those songs usually don't work with people they think your coming off as a woe is me kinda guy. but I'm not qualified to criticize something I've never done. I guess the whole thing I'm getting at is the material world's problems is only the surface of the truth behind our emotional issues. dig deeper user maybe you find gold idk.

Do you have skype?

Scrap that shit. The rest is actually pretty interesting, a little cute though. Definitely enjoyable. The payoff (she was mad) was a little dramatic for my taste.
Beautiful diction, has the seeds of interesting metaphors, as guy before pointed out the fondue line is pretty meh


Do not be gentle, first thing I've written since the age of 12

They say of Theodora that her father tamed the bears,
And, bottled there inside your father, rained that royal will.
Rending autumn's monarchs from their thrones to sleep, his trill
Called out their names 'til winter's winds left them their waters bare.
They say of Theodora that men understood despair,
When words left your pools unrippled, without a dip in depth,
When no aural machinery could steal breezes from your breath,
When sons of kings found themselves drowned, dethroned, ensnared.

They say of Theodora when she called the royal name,
Rivers wore down pillars until the palace washed to shore,
And with the palace gates now bowed five feet from your front door,
You split your skin to show Justinian your noble claim.
They say of Theodora when her king was overcame,
By oceans new clad green and blue, storming in the square below,
Shining from a silver column, you told the tide to flow
From writhing crowds to Justinian, setting him aflame.

They said of Theodora that, despite all those who swooned,
Her greatness was too human, her beauty too diseased,
But yours knows not the soft erosions stolen by the sea:
You make ponds of absconding oceans, and puddles of monsoons.
What they say of Theodora, from lovers lips maroon,
Will drain away with every tongue that finds her royal name,
And ousting it from where it perched, your own will there remain
As future lovers try to tame the subtleties of its tune,
As fishermen try to net reflections of the moon.

...not a blues fan then?

How does lit handle it when the writing is just coming out forced? My prose is just awful today but I'm finally getting it something interesting

Pls no bully

“This is weird,” she said aloud as she examined the foliage, “too weird. I've never seen anything like this so why does this seem so familiar?” The realization hit her at once, and she rushed to sit down among the gnarled roots of a grape-shrouded alder. She retrieved the book she had read on the train and leafed through it until at last she came across the passage she was looking for, which began with an illustration of lightbulb-spangled tree.

Across all wooded continents, Eve read, from London to Zaire, there exists a manner of geographic anomaly known as The Unseen Gardens. According to legends collected from a diverse range of cultures both civilized and primitive, in nearly all ancient forests, swamps and jungles there exist a pathways to a boundless region beyond space as we know it where all woodlands are said to meet.

Eve tossed a butterscotch into the air and caught it in her mouth. Sometimes seen as sprit worlds or witch-lands, other times as untamed wilderness or forbidden paradises, these regions are said to be inhabited by all manner of strange and mythical creatures. She picked another from the jar and again tossed it upwards into her mouth.

Paths through the unseen gardens seldom conform to intuitive rules of space and time. Traveling through them, one may find that three right-hand turns will return a traveler to the same location along some paths, while in others as many as eleven or as few as one would be necessary. Retracing your steps is not bound to return you to your starting location, and may lead to other continents or time periods entirely. Some theories even propose that the certainty in one's location is inversely proportional to one's certainty in their direction and speed.

Eve tossed another butterscotch into the air and held her mouth open to catch it, but after several moments of waiting the candy was nowhere to be seen. Eve picked another from the jar and tossed it into the air. Just as it reached the peak of its arc, the candy blinked out of existence so abruptly it appeared to have never existed in the first place.

“Well that's even weirder.” Eve remarked before tossing a handful into the air above her. If she had thrown them in one at a time she would have never seen it coming, but as the candies scatted, Eve caught sight of something – or lack of something – too quick for any other pair of eyes to process, The center of the mass of butterscotches was swallowed noiselessly by the void, and the void was a messy eater. Crumbled sugar dust formed a disk around a moving point, but in no time at all it circled inward and disappeared.

It's actually pretty good, but your rhymes are pretty sub-par, as is the scheme in general.

lyrics are really hard to critique without actual music or rhyme schemes behind them. That said, it's pretty depressing for a song about going out drinking. It's at the very least and appreciable twist.

>She let her head fall back on the grass in defeat. And then, she got up and crawled over to a shaded area, her thick rump inviting me to follow. She let herself collapse again in the shade. In her state of weakness, I began to interrogate.

Who knows. I keep discovering about myself, over and over again, that the parts of my stories I feel awkward about, and that anyone who reads it finds retarded or unlikeable, are the parts where I start forcing a plot/outline (often just for the sake of tying up ends or instilling coherency). To the point that anons in this thread only focus on those parts and ignore saying anything about the parts I actually think are good.

I guess you have to just keep at it and figure out what feels most natural for you. Sometimes, while I'm writing forced/gay shit, part of my brain knows that what I'm about to write is so unsurprising that I find myself thinking "oh boy here I go again with this shit." When I don't do that, I usually end up producing things that I feel good about.

Reminder that anyone on Veeky Forums who uses the "you're trying too hard to be X" should reconsider posting their criticism.

I think you are prose is good user

very pretty language although it feels somewhat contrived w cliche phrasing as well

cringe but i cant tell if thats the point or not

mine:

It appeared overhead
The invisible force expanding

Applying for a job and hoping you don’t get it.
“If you’re hungry it’s ok to eat out,
Even if you know you shouldn’t”
Familiar faces get up close to you,
And move passed you.
Dragged around unconscious by a daily routine,
with scraped knees,
found moaning in a parking lot.

The concrete pulls apart from your face,
like laying on a glass table,
and being carried away into grace.
It doesn’t matter what it is,
outgrowing atmosphere

You have to admit it seems very obviously like an homage to Kerouac. Also, "I think it's good" isn't really criticism of any variety. And did you read any other part of my post?

why you ask?

Yeah I'm being pretty obtuse with you on purpose.

I hate Kerouac and would have been the first to call him out, but I didn't immediately think of him when reading user's excerpt. Of course you're entitled to the opinion that user's writing sounds like him, I just don't think it's very helpful to tell someone that. We're all amateur writers here for the most part, so its a given that we're going to sound like the authors we've been inspired by the most--but user will never be Kerouac no matter how much he tries, so I just get buttmad when people use the "sounds too much like X" critique. Especially when most of the Veeky Forumsizens here's mental library equates to half the "Veeky Forums recommended books list" under their belt, I too often see people pompously making unjust comparisons (not making assumptions about you specifically, kind of just venting at the board culture in general at this point).

But if user consciously was emulating Kerouac then fuck u user cut that shit out.

Also
>the character development is also a little quick
I don't have a retort to this, just wondering why you think this is a bad thing

>an homage

It's 'a homage' with a fully aspirated 'h'. Why is it that there's something so inherently pretentious about American speech?

I have never actually read Keurouac though I do appreciate the feedback. Thanks guys.

yeah i don't know how to write songs either

i don't know how to get any deeper
i do have a recorded version on my phone.

i cut it off before the waste of time part, maybe it's better that way.

It just sounds to me like his pseudo-stream of consciousness style, e.g. "He can’t see any sign this road, this road he retrospectively very wrongly assumed had been named after some local anachronistic colloquialism, is going to let up anytime soon. Who’s to say Julian Assange even has their diamonds?"

The problem with developing your characters too quickly while employing this style is that one of the main strong points of this style is that it belabors, obfuscates, and generally makes more interesting the development of characters' psychology. If you point it up too quickly, you lose one of the best parts of this technique

pastebin.com/RDGV1kBy

Haven't really wrote anything before by myself. Criticise freely, I won't be offended

pastebin.com/ZDPdLesu

this felt natural to write, so i feel pretty good about it, but i'd love some feedback on what to change and what you guys think works.

In what sense are the rhymes and scheme subpar? I'm not trying to imply that they're good, I literally just don't know because I've never really written anything before

Darbara Grubbum and Allitard Grubbum went to the store to buy some tampons.

Here's one of my first attempts at prose. I'm aiming for this to be a short story. Any and all advice welcomed.

pastebin.com/SS4KYK5p
I like your use of dialogue. It's a little cliche, but it still feels very natural. It carries itself enough to where you don't need any lines describing their inferences and tones. Your opening is interesting enough to keep me reading, but you make certain places or people seem important or ominous without much context so it's hard to be certain and to feel the weight of the implications. Keep writing and keep practicing, you're doing well.

I'm sorry man but this is just too aesthetically try-hard. It's clearly well thought, but it defeats the simplistic beauty of poetry by forcing it to be pretty.

Your prose is very nice to read. Make sure you check your punctuation though, as you have it here, there are a few punctual errors that trip your flow. I agree with what someone else said about it being a little opaque. Definitely, definitely keep practicing, you're already pretty good.

Run-on structure serves to heighten the notion of "sensory overload" well, sorta had a spaghetti story vibe 'til the end; stereotypical autist would have been traumatized and never gone to a 7/11 again.

For fun; composition time: fifteen minutes approx, thought put in: approximately zero, one draft.

On a black sand beach
Where the white seas crash
And no sea gull's cry is heard
The sons of Tyre did beach their craft
And struck the stone with word
Upon that grim volcanic isle
A column they did raise
To fish-tailed Dagon's glory
And inscribed his songs of praise

Two-thousand years and more went by
And not a ship did land
For who would berth their ship upon
some dim Atlantic strand?
But hence I spy a man o' war
It's provenance British Naval
It's captain is a tasteless chap
But fancies myth and fable
He sites that ancient monolith, and soon as he is able
With hammers knocks the stele down
And takes it for a table.

bumping I think I may have misspoke. it's not bad per se but you have a number of rhymes that just don't line up properly

>bears
>bare

>despair
>ensnared

>diseased
>sea

>swooned
>monsoons

also, the ABBAACCA scheme is a little dull but maybe that's just an opinion

Bump

First two stanzas of what I'm currently writing. Not title yet.


This is a catalogue
of pieces from Ingrid,
whose head was found
toothless and bleeding

in a ditch in the mud,
by a rock near the sea.
Gently caressed
by the froth from the ocean.

I like the premise and your writing isn't terrible, but it does need work. First off, try a more sober approach to the tone of your writing. Its a bit too verbose as it is, and makes it seem pretentious. The introduction is quick, which works, but it could be smoother. Instead of telling me the heat hasnt given up, show me. Is the asphalt melting? Are citizens experiencing weird phenomena because of it?

Secondly, try not to repeat yourself. The word sweltering is pretty heavy, and to use it twice in the first paragraph makes the text feel bloated. Every sentence and word counts, you can be flowery and articulate, but don't use filler.

Thats kinda it. Revise it, expand it, get it done, keep writing.

Powers, bro

uh huh
bleeding should be replaced with bloody, since death stuff doesn't bleed

how can she be in the mud in a ditch and simultaneously caressed by the ocean?

sounds try hard

>try harder

Nice Dialogue. it feels natural. If done right it could carry itself
I liked it. but the Last sentence just doesn't seem right.
Solid prose, bit opaque for my taste but that's beside the point. keep practicing and improving.

Here's mine to critique.

Chapter One: William

Bushes, leaves, and trees. Nothing but those three covered the scenery in which William; a foot soldier of eighteen grew tedious, but for reasons he kept to himself was anxious. The village peasants, the superstitious fools from the village complained to the Lord about a “monster” on his land, a ridiculous notion for the lords' land had been peaceful in recent years.

Nonetheless, William called it an opportunity, and smiled when he along with seven others were to search for the monster. None but the leader of the group had ever seen what a “monster” looked; although none have ever heard of monsters besides the tales their mothers’ told at night when they were children.

The lord’s land was nothing more than three fields, one for spring; another for fall, and the last was left to fallow. There was also a pasture for all the peasants’ animals to graze. The Woodland was to feed the pigs and a source for firewood. The village church between the pasture, and the homes of the peasants. There were two water mills to grind grain, one fulling mill for finishing cloths, and the village blacksmith to create or repair any farming equipment.

The land was not the sort filled with hidden riches, it contained no gold, no magical trinkets, or anything that can be called higher mysteries, nor was it plagued with any creatures, bandits, and demons, comparing the lord’s land with other lands, it was rather normal. But this is what made William anxious, while the rest of his group laughed and jape. He asked himself a question: Why would any monster come here?

>I'm sorry man but this is just too aesthetically try-hard. It's clearly well thought, but it defeats the simplistic beauty of poetry by forcing it to be pretty.
if i remove the cuneiform and put the name in English, would that work? (i want to keep the reed hieroglyph)

Thanks for the great feedback! I was trying to avoid using 'sweltering' twice but apparently another one slipped in there

I'll try to incorporate your recommendations in my writing in the future.

Have a good one mate

It's your poem. I'm telling you as someone reading your poem that I don't like it. Others probably won't also. But if you love it for what it is, don't change it. Just take the notes you receive and utilize in another project, one you want more public acceptance of.