CRITIQUE THREAD: this quote doesn't even make sense edition

There is only 1 rule.

1. CRITIQUE IF YOU'RE GOING TO POST

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/16M0nnjM
pastebin.com/rHYG3hnq
twitter.com/NSFWRedditGif

She was a lunatic going down the side of the road. Old ghosts hounded at her heels and surrounded and tormented her to mania. The pram tackled gravel and the sound of her screaming child emerged at times over the noise of traffic that passed behind a chain link fence. Found herself here all of a sudden with the clairvoyance of being the dreamer, where events are already in motion, no questions as to the how and why. They were dead or irrelevant but somehow they found her and so caught between a response of fight or flight, she frenzied in retaliation and great, animated flinches. Exhausted and eventually did not even have the energy to hallucinate. She clung to her mid-section and touched her chin to her chest, the pram was saved by a young tree as it rolled toward a likely tragedy and she went on into the paddock nearby, left empty in the centre of development, waiting patiently to become houses or an IGA. There was no foreground behind which she could hide but she diminished in the dying grass bent sideways by the wind, her apparitions returned to memory where she could still hear them, she asked no one for any mercy, wanted only the privacy to suffer. She was the custodian of that bit of land, or at least its unclaimed heir, and it took her kindly somewhere safe, where if searched for methodically over square metre she would inevitably be found, but where it was simple fact that no one would. Dusk bled orange into the sky and coagulated on the horizon in black bellied clouds of soot, and there was actually the cawing of crows, essential to the afternoon as the setting sun, the sound of them in intervals of four, each cry became weaker until there was silence, a sentence abandoned as the moment became unsuitable, or suddenly the speaker realised that what he was saying was of no interest to anyone listening or even to himself. Her baby quietly occupied by the scenery that seemed to materialise through the shape of whatever it was laying in, or else it had fallen asleep and would have to wake up soon.

Your writing is ornate and overwritten.

You kind of need context to understand King's quote. He was saying dream big while you're young because life is gonna shrink you down one way or another once you start to grow up.

complete senseless drivel and inane

I keep having to reread sentences because I can't tell what the fuck is going on. By the way, most of your shitty sentences are run-ons.
Dusk bled orange into the sky and coagulated on the horizon in black bellied clouds of soot, and there was actually the cawing of crows, essential to the afternoon as the setting sun, the sound of them in intervals of four, each cry became weaker until there was silence, a sentence abandoned as the moment became unsuitable, or suddenly the speaker realised that what he was saying was of no interest to anyone listening or even to himself.
Seriously? Kys if you actually want to defend this shit.

Outside the central heated office building, bloated clouds had swallowed the afternoon. They gushed rain against the polished windows, and made the headlights of packed Hyundai's on the street below appear grey. A man jousted his umbrella this way and that, hair wet against his forehead, his briefcase rattling in his free hand. Up in the offices, his frenzy appeared more like a strange, inaudible rain dance. But in the office, where the soil in plant pots had become arid powder, one employee snored with his tie loose around his collar, wet from perspiration. Another chugged water bottles one after the other.

My tongue was dry. I was unsure if it was owed to the heating or the new girl. My eyes traced the soft line of her cranium, hair tied into a neat ponytail, and then down following the line of her back, and then down again to the flush curve of her bottom. That was my first impression of her. She had been stood in profile for a while, in front of the whirring printer, watching documents collect in the printer's tray. When she faced me, her eyes softened behind their single lids. Stood under the office lights, her lightly tanned skin was glossy, the pearl fixed to her earlobe glistened, and she tilted her head as though trying to understand my gaze. The scent of her delicate, peach perfume wandered across the still distance between us, and sat in my throat.

This isn't critique, you're just insulting it

As I sit here in my bed,
Wishing dearly I was dead,
Browsing Veeky Forums every night,
Life fucked up, I'm just not right.
But I'll stay here and I'll browse,
Tired but refuse to drowse,
One more night I've spent alone,
Just shitposting from my phone.

I know you're proud of some of these lines but a lot of them are unnecessarily verbose.

The only understandable action going on here is the first line.

>phoneposter
kys

Do you also hate Pynchon? Genuinely curious.

This ain't no gravity's rainbow.

It's a tiny excerpt with very similar style. I mean, I am not the user who posted it but I lurk crit threads a bit and I've noticed that most criticism tends to be around
>muh purpose prose meme!
>just say what you mean!
>simplify, simplify, simplify!
And then there is /lits meme trilogy... The discrepancy is just bizzare to me.

*purple prose

Consciousness rushes into focus, a dappled plaster ceiling stares back at him. The first reminder of his continued existence. A dull throb inside his brain is punishment for what feels like an eternity asleep.

Just an hour longer. His lids droop shut and he rolls to one side, the warm, wet blanket sticks to his flesh, but he barely notices, drunk with slumber. His limbs are waterlogged. He turns over again. No use. Reluctantly, he embraces reality, catching the first glimpse of the aftermath from last nights self-indulgence: A half-empty bottle of Sainsburys apple and blackcurrant squash, Extra mints, a box of pork pies and hand lotion. Standing remorsefully on his bedside cabinet.

“Face the day”, Mumbling to himself, knocking a toilet roll to join the smegma of his bedroom floor as he heaves himself out of bed, feeling caked in sweat and oil. If he had the ability to smell the miasma he might find the motivation to wash it off. Tomorrow perhaps.

He has more important things to do, of course. The harsh blue light of his laptop screen forcing him to squint as his eyes adjust, his desktop no better than his physical surroundings, littered with video recordings, some hours in length. But they are not enough. Click. A familiar red circle lights up, He stares back at himself through the screen, a pale amorphous blob, shirt covered in sweat stains.

“Greetings across the grand spectrums of time and indeed the multiverse, my name is Alexander Gordon Jahans!”

I just wrote this for fun as tribute to my lord and saviour, what do you think?

pastebin.com/16M0nnjM

Something I wrote about a year or so ago, been thinking about expanding on it for a contest so I'd appreciate any critique in that direction.

First paragraph is much better than the second, especially in the imagery you conjure (the rain dance bit especially) and the atmosphere of stale, desertic sameness you managed to create.
After that, the habit of describing physical and behavioural minutiae that was present, as some kind of accompanying undertone, throughout the first part of your writing jumps into the scene and clogs the text with what I'd consider well meaning filler.
Not that you wrote the scen horribly, it's more about the choice to have the scene described like that in the first place. Obviously the shortness of the piece and my personal loathing for this kind of passages played a part in my critique, but I'd like you to genuinely ask yourself why you're writing like that, what's the reason you have for creating this kind of worldview for your reader - if you don't mind, I'd appreciate an answer so I can understand as well.

'After that, the habit of describing physical and behavioural minutiae that was present, as some kind of accompanying undertone, throughout the first part of your writing jumps into the scene and clogs the text with what I'd consider well meaning filler.'

Did you mean, simply, that the first paragraph was better because the imagery set the scene, while the second paragraph prolonged the setting of the scene too long, and instead should be the point at which the scene rolls out action and drama?

I am writing in that way because I want to evoke the world with concrete, specific, and vivid detail. And I think one loses some of that in the style of Carver and Hemingway (of course, not to compare myself to their literary might). Their clipped prose, for me, doesn't allow this level of evocation.

The best element of your writing is the strong sense of voice; it's engaging in how it details the world.

But you go on too long with detail. I'm waiting for something to happen, as I read sentence after sentence of world building. I wish some incident or event would occur. In short, you don't make me care about what's happening.

>present tense 3rd person
Discarded
>no paragraphs
Discarded
This is good, write more
This is trash

I was mostly thinking about how your physical descriptions of the girl seem to occupy all of the reader's mental ability, leaving no place for more virtuosistic fragments of literature to take place - but it probably depends on us having two different approaches to literature. I think the mimetic aspect shouldn't take center stage, as it often ends up just holding up a sorry, drab mirror to reality, and it should focus on those of its eclusive virtues - metaphors, for example, meta-textual plays, the indeterminacy of dialogues (think McCarthy or Burroughs) and all this kind of shit.

Back to your piece, my gripe could be probably summarized in the fact that there seem to be two "souls" to your work, the overtly descriptive one and a conscience more "literarily" in touch with the world, and they seem at odds to find a balance, instead barricading themselves in different chunks of text. I hope I've made myself clearer.

Agree with you on your last phrase though, the kind of minimal, clipped prose I see a lot of young authors employ is used indiscriminately for ideas whose execution would be much better off assigned to other styles.

the Knights Templar are a strike force who handle supernatural incursion on earth - they shoot demons. they wear black armor with a cape with white crosses. before operations, they're blessed, individual bullets prayed over and inscribed with the lords prayer. this Commander has perks of psychic fortitude, and zealousness. (Rebuke and Deus Vulte) (Rebuke is a defensive psychic and moral regenerator and defense. Deus Vulte is an offensive charge that grants luck, damage, accuracy, pain threshold)

The Knights Templar was never actually disbanded. they continued throughout the centuries, responding to the threat of hell on earth whenever it appeared. the faithful must be protected from the sort of evil against which their faith alone is of no avail, but which must be vanquished by the acts of those consecrated to holy war in their name.

(scene in white walled scientific command center with lots of screens and technology. alarms go off and techs respond. they discover that there is a supernatural terror attack occuring at the Notre Dame cathedral. alarms go off and extreme activity occurs)

(scene in remote, snowy monastary. though it is an ancient structure, there is technology here. alarms go off and the Templars leap from their beds and run down the corridor, to an elevator, that rapidly descends to a special forces team room.)

(scene in a japanese style zen garden modern office. a director whose face and identity is not revealed recieves a phone call from a rotary phone. he listens without saying a word, and hangs up. he picks up another rotary phone, and spins the dial once. he says, "I am calling you to request emergency Sanction on a Class Four Incursion. Yes. Yes. Thank you.")

(continued)

(scene in a subterranean chapel of the monastary. the Templars are in their gear, sitting on pews. a priest is before them. all are in prayer.)

(scene of a Skyranger in an underground hangar being prepared for takeoff, techs are doing rundowns.)

(scene in the Directors Zen office. he picks up a phone and spins the rotary several times. it rings once, and picks up. he says, "You are Sanctioned." and hangs up, before turning back to his meditation)

(scene in chapel. the phone inside the pulpit rings, and the priest quickly breaks from prayer and picks it up. he listens for a moment and then hangs up. he addresses the Templars, who have rapt attention on him. he says, "are there among you who would fear for their soul?" there is no response from the templars. "then come forward and receive blessing". the templars put their helmets on and rapidly come forward and take a knee in a row before the priest. they present their MP5's)

(scene panning across scenes of the Templars highly modern special forces facility, such as screens inside the Skyranger running down weapons checklists, and a closeup on inscribed blessed bullets. the priests incantations voiceover the pan as he goes from one Templar to the next, and annoints their helmets with a cross of consecrated oil.)

("Blessed be the lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. Send your heavenly blessings upon these weapons that they may protect your holy church, the poor and the widows, and Your holy inheritance on earth, and make them terrible unto the forces of evil. grant victory to Your Templars for your praise and glory. Let the blessing of the Triune God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, come down on and remain upon these weapons and those who carry them, for the protection of the truth of Christ and humanity, for whom thou sacrificed thy blameless son. Amen.")

(scene as soldiers stand one by one. the priest returns to the pulpit. he says solemnly "May the father, son, and holy ghost guide your hands true, and be the rock upon which you shall not falter; and in death unto heaven take the fallen in thine name, Réquiem aetérnam dona eis, Dómine: et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace, iter autem nunc vivo in bellum ruentes Deus vult")

(continued)

(scene Templars shout Deus Vult in unison and run aboard Skyranger in hanger through the back of chapel)

(scene at notre dame. it is evening and there is one priest in the front row of the church praying.)

(scene around cathedral as plainclothes Foundation agents direct tourists from the area and agents as utility workers close off area rapidly)

(scene aboard skyranger as Commander gives a rundown. the Skyranger is a twin fuselage quad turbojet superfast transport. the Templars are prepared for a HALO jump directly onto the cathedral. "The breach is estimated at 750 feet in altitude. that's roughly 40 seconds from jump to breach. we'll open chutes around 1:10)

(scene of cathedral from sky about 750 feet above. "Preliminary scans indicate a complete and multiplexed dimensional breach. there will most likely be extreme temporospatial fortifications in place.")

(scene panning 180 from cockpit to cargo bay of Skyranger.)


i was imagining a new game that kind of combined SCP with X-COM, and scripted out a cool intro movie or something for it.

>This is good, write more

Thank you. What about it did you like? I will replicate it again in future.

I liked this. Presumably the protagonist is gonna kill and possibly eat that new girl?

Someone else pointed out that you haven't used paragraphs. I was willing to overlook that for the sake of giving you some feedback. Was that a conscious decision? Why do you not use paragraphs?

Thank you. What about it did you like? I will replicate it again in future.

I have since dropped this story. I don't know about protagonist killing her. But he was certainly going to end up fucking her so as to eventually arrive at some deeper understanding of himself or the world.

I wanted to try my hand at a more kinetic and fluid writing style than I'm used to read, as I felt that the inherent temporal incommensurability between an action and the description of an action could be, maybe, worked around by eroding the textual barriers between narrative voice, descriptions and dialogue. The first draft didn't have any punctuation to signal that a dialogue was taking place. Also, the setting and protagonists give me an excuse to dance around usual narrative conventions as I can work within the drug addled-flow of consciousness framework.
I know it sounds pretentious, in reality I just told myself I want to write F A S T literature.

That and I handed it in as an assignment where the professor, foolishly, gave us a page's space to write instead of a fixed amount of chracters, and I just felt like giving them a slab of text filling every space.

pt.1

Where do you want white people to go so we won't bother you anymore?

You can have europe and north america if you want it. You'll be rich.

The arabs bought way more black slaves from black people in africa than we did, but they cut their dicks off, and they only lasted a year. That is why there aren' t black people in the middle east really. And this is white peolles fault. No i am not kidding. We are to blame because we could have stopped them. Its our fault.

The arabs attacked europe aboyt fourteen hundred times in the dark ages and typically took all the women and fucked them, and killed all the guys, if they won the battle. I AM SO FUCKING SORRY FOR THE CRUSADES. they only attacked us because we're a bunch of inbred racists.

The military had to teach soldiers in afghanistan to not be racist to all the arabs there that fuck boys. Its their culture, and pedophobes are disgusting bigots. It is scientifically proven that if you go real slow, warm her up, maybe lick her clit, and use olive oil as lube, that having marital relations with your child bride will not result in death from internal bleeding.

And who are we to judge, aren't trump supporters all fat twenty something pedophiles who masturbste to japanese anime cartoons depicting children being raped by tentacles? Lol its fucking 2016, wake up you fucking racist loser. Get a life. Get a girlfriend. Oh wait thats right, no girl would ever want touch touch a disgusting racist freak like that.

And guess what you fucking chauvinist pig, you dont have ANY fucking right to shame a girl for being a slut. You don't have ANY right to critisize a woman for being fat. Just because a girl is fat doesnt mean shes not beautiful. EVERYONE is beautiful on the iside which is all that matters.

White males are fucking rapists. This is a known fact. Lots of fucking mansplaining rape culture apologists like to quote fabricated statistics to try and prove that theyre not fucking rapists. All rapists should have their dicks cut off, and then have to suck a BLACK MANS dick in prison. Which by the way is WAY bigger than white dudes pathetic peckets. Theyre so fucking jealous so they compensate by buying fuckine assault rifles so they. Can shhot defenseless kids. And they like to pretend that some shit written by WHITE HETEROSEXUAL SLAVE OWNERS three hundred fucking years ago gives them the right to own machines that arent good for anything except MURDER. You think you can fight the government? Lol fucking idiot.

pt.2

The government always wins against retarded racist sister fucking meth smoking racist trash like all you white people living in trailora. Why? Because everone hates you. You dont even want everyone to have free healthcare. Your time has come EUROPEAN SCUM. Black people arent going to take it anymore. Theyre gonna fucking kill you KKK trash. And you deserve it all. You can NEVER. fucking atone for buying slaves and makung them work.for every time that a white person whipped a black person, a racist white family is gonna die. Lol you thought you could get away with just giving people food stamps? More like slave sramps right? Slave owners fed their slaves barely anything. Just garbage that was left over from the big white person dinner and heated up in the microwave. Black people dont want leftovers. they deserve THE BEST.

Have i left anything out? How about how we made weed illegal just to arrest black people for smoking a NATURAL PLANT. Fucking coward white people arent even brave enough to kill the black people they hate in person. They just send a racist cop to do it for them. Why? Because theyre just scared little dick racist rapists who dont want to pay for everything they have done.

Whats with all these christians, too. Hello, jesus wasnt even white lol, and he said that you shouldnt stone a woman to death for sleeping with whoever she fucking wants to. You gonna cast the first stone? Your not even a big guy. Fucking pussy. A woman has the RIGHT to fuck a bkack man and have half white babies. If she wants to that is. Because a womans body is HERS. A fetus isnt even alive, so who cares if she kills it?


Theres no fucking heaven or hell you tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist right eing christian trump voting racist creationist pedophiles. Its a myth and youre too much of pathetic sheep to not just follow your racist ass honky leaders in whatever bible bullshit they say.global warming is real and it matters because the earth cries out in pain and humanity is doomed now. Evolution is real because scientists said so. You know what science is, you racist? Its just the little thing that proved race isnt even fucking real and all races are equal. Theres no fucking way that black people are dumver than white people. Next youre going to tell me that theres a difference between rotweilers and border collies. Fucking racist idiot. Theres only one race, the human race.

Didnt you know that black people used to be kings in africa and had advanced technology before that evil white savages with tiny dicks stole it from them?

And dont tell me that women cant serve in the military. THEY CAN. ITS 2016. GET ON GHE RIGHT SIDE OF HISTORY.we need women in the army to win wars. A woman has EVERY right to be in the army.

pt.3

White people are imperialists and its all our fault. We are all genocidal freaks and we are going to be bred out of existence like the cowards we are. We make insane murderous tanks and bombs and guns and flying death robots that shoot hellfire missiles at innocent muslims while we sip coffee in air conditioned offices in california, controlling our terrifying technology of murder like its a video game. And if white people fight the racist white government then white cowards will use these death robots and aircraft carriers and m1a1 abrams assault tanks to kill white racist redneck gun nuts. And guess what, the racist white government has fucking nuclear weapons. Try fighting that, you racist christian meth smokers. The white racist government will nuke you white racists and then black people wont have gang violence anymore. Thw black man will be rich kings again and fuck your white women that dont even want you because youre racist trump voting pedophiles with little dicks that no one will eber love. You fucking white lunatics commit mass shootings because you cant get a girlfirend. And you blame it on black people? Grow up. You think youre so brave and tough but real men, african zulu warriors fighting ravist oppresdion by selling crack because white people are racists are real men. They carry illegal pistols in their stylish kanye swag clothing. Looking fresh and fuck the police, ayo wassup mah niggas, lol white people think they tough with their pussy nukes. Ever heard of a little something called "world star hip hop"? Yeah good luck white boy. Black people are going to stomp you and TAKE those nukes. You white people are war mongers and don't need nukes. Hand them over to BLACK LIVES MATTER. or how about islam, the religion of PEACE. By the way. The arabs invented numbers. So basically they invented nukes. Nice move, you homophobic white racist faggot subhumans. Try to take credit for inventing nuclear power, which will kill us all. The arabs invented peaceful numbers and you turned them into devices that can vaporize entire cities. Your time us over, white boy. You owe us reparations, how about you hand over these racist doomsday devices to the peaceful oppressed black people? If you dont, THEN WE BE IN HERE WILIN, NIGGA. I SAID. *W I L E I N* nigga. Fuck you whitey. You enslaved us because we had big dicks and you couldnt please your women. Now you want to tell us not to loot gas stations? Now? After police killed THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY black men in TWO THOUSAND AND SIXTEEN?????? How are black people ever supposed to survive?

Do you not think it's best to master the fundamentals before breaking conventional rules? Of course, I'm presuming you haven't mastered the use of a paragraph. But to claim the opposite would be quite the claim indeed.

pt.4

Fuck you, bigot. You want to build a WALL between the USA and mexico? Thats fucking impossible. Mexicans have every right to be in america. Rich republican businessmen are just trying to replace lower class americans with all their expectations of a decent life with even lower class mexicans who dont have any expectations of a decent life. Thata fucking racist. Donald trump wants to deport mexicans because hes angry that mexicans want their land back because they dont have enough land and they want a living wage and white people wont gice it to them. If it wasnt for white people healthcare and college would be free. So then people wouldnt be sick or stupid. But white racists who dont resoect women want to blame being fat on eating too much and they want to blame being stupid on watching tv instead of reading books and tinkering with electronics. Books are expensive, they cost ten dollars and thats as much of a pack of smokes that old white men sell even though they know that people will get addicted. And real niggas dont do that nerdy white person electronics shit. Aint no nigga gonna read no label ofa fucking one of them plugs for your phone n shit. Nigga, play basketball, the fuck is you gay or something? Thats what a stupid whute racist thibks. He thinks that black people hate gay people and call them faggots because he watches fox news. Its called brainwashing.

Speaking of brainwashing, how can you even think that trump isnt hitler. Because gas chambers are just rooms with wooden doors and not heavy steel vessels with bolts an hermetic sealing as well as aparatus for administering zyklon B to the poor oppressed jewish people. And if you doubt that the holocaust really happened... Then jail isnt good enough for you. You should be MADE to believe. You should be TAUGHT BY FORCE that hitler was the bad guy who started world war 2 to kill all the jews and take over the world because he was satan incarnate, the embodiment of hatred. Just like donald trump.

Donald trump only cares about money. Hello! Hes a fucking greedy pig with bad hair, who is running for president to get more money. But hes so damned dumb that he didnt realize he could have just purchase an index fund and have made more money. Lol that idiot fucking built hotel and shit instead of investing in wall street. Because he's a nazi that hates jews.so he didnt invest in the massive multinatiobal rothschild scheme to rule the world.not because he preferred to build hotels and stuff but because he's an evil jazi that hates jews, and 99% of the wealthiest 1% are jewish. What a fucking idiot. He didnt even accomplish anything. His dad just gave him a MILLION. FUCKING. DOLLARS. Thats at least enough to purchase a sweet mansion back then. I could make 3rd en billion with a million dollars too. But donald trump went bankrupt 4 times lol yayo fucking midget hand faggot racist trump. He is nothing more than a super wealthy pig who is 70 years old and is running for president to make a lot of money. What a retarded scumbag... Does he really think he can go up against hillary? She's backed by jewish bankers with big ducks who have HUNDREDS of billions of dollars. What the hell does this bankrupt old man think he can do to fight that kind of POWER? Occupy wall street. Im with her. Power to the people. We need to do something about these white people with guns wearing tin foil hats and thinking they government is out to get them. Fucking idiots. You cant fight predator drones. And the eacist white government is either going to give black people a lot of money, and never shoot the lm again, or guess what? The blacks are going to rise up and kill whitey, and consensually have sex with white women who already wanted to have sex with big dick blacks even before the racist government and black lives matter kicked their shit in like the weaklings they are.

White people need to be stopped from being racist and oppressing black people or the racist white government will use the evil white man death robots and sick serial killer genocide techniques to kill all the racist white rednecks who think that black peopke and the government are out to get them. Thats what you fucking get for treating black people bad, cracker. White people are literally the reason why there is war on earth and have spent three thousand years commiting mass slaughter with nazi efficiency and voodoo coward weapons. And now, black people are gonna EXTERMINATE white people. We gunna invent exploding watermelons and put armor on our spinning rims and turn newport cigarettes into blow guns with lethal frog poison darts that black people made while they were camping.

that was pt.5

this is pt.6 of 6

And you know how black people are going to defeat the satanic jesus freak republican funded military industrial complex? You know how they're gonna turn our fancy white boy tanks and bombers and nukes and unstoppable death drones, against the cumskin fuccboi white faggot racists? Niggers are going to invent nigger anime and cuckhold porn. Niggers did 9/11. And those pasty little weak white punks are going to spend their whole lives playing video games and fucking their hand bevause we fucked their head in school, we turned white girls into liberated proud in dependent feminist women, so all these stupid white bois who were taught that they're racists will never get girls and theyll sink into depression and well give them fucking amphetamines or antipsychotics mental casteation pills when theyre 8 years old because he's got to he in school because theres no one at home because mom and dad both have to work because women are strong liberated heros and the man earning the money and the woman cooking food and cleaning is a sexist victimization of women. So we have to make both men and women work so instead of paying a man (provably white) 2 dollars we oay them both one dollar and their kids are completely in the states power to teach them that they cant get girls because thats racist so they should jerk it to cartoons about horses instead, so jow they are pedophiles and ugly freaks that deserve to die in the exact same way that black lives matter deserve a preadtor drone.

And people will fucking believe this. Fuck you. You have no clue what the fuck you are doing or talking about. You are going to start a race war you fucking idiot. And then blame it on white people. You want to see what racism looks like? Look in the fucking mirror, you stupid nigger.

While I'd generally agree with you, I don't feel there's any proper heuristic protocol to master in regards to literature to justify avoiding any experiment before becoming a "master of the craft" - a term I'm not even sure means anything, in this field, other than a passing adherence to this or that value hierarchy.
I should also add, perhaps, that English is my second language and it's much more dynamic and flexible than my native tongue (Italian), a fact that led me to experiment much more than I'd have done otherwise, especially with the general inner rhythm of a text.

you do a good job making me feel squalrous.

One mirthful morning, Molly Mancer set out on a stroll through Amity Park with a pine picnic basket and a motley umbrella. The fresh air serviced her convalescence, as she had just begun her recovery from a particularly traumatizing incident.

Her son—who never shirked the thrill of mischief for his entire adolescent life—had gotten into a spat with some street boys. He was shooting hoops, relaxin, maxin, when all of a sudden, some people started making trouble in the neighborhood. Twelve young lives were cut down by police gunfire that day, and, fearing for her dear son's safety and upbringing, Molly sent her son to live in Bel Air, where he would experience a friendlier environment.

I am the above poster. Pic related is some writing that I did just now. I'm aiming for one-hundred words per day, for the moment, before gradually increasing that to 250 - 500 words per day. I just want consistency for the moment.

Pic related took me about fifteen minutes to write, so it might be helpful for some other writers here to see how another writer's first ideas look.

You need only pay attention to the final paragraph. The other paragraphs are like a run up; a rehashing until it feels right.

I posted the rest of this in a critique thread a few days back. I just woke up and wrote this for the second chapter:

Dickran sat on his porch playing his backup cello, an electric model that looked like a skeletal outline of a cello instrument, with pickups and electronics along the middle bit which, if this were an actual skeleton, would be the spine. He played it, and he played it well, but it was automatic. There was no soul or feeling. No sound either because he did not plug the thing in, but that didn’t change anything. Dickran was playing sad music, with sad feelings, with no expression, on an instrument that felt like a sidewise viola to him.
He was of course shaken by the death of his bandmates, but more so by the loss of Pattie, his cello. They had probably been together --him and Pattie, for fifteen, maybe twenty years, and he’d met her, it, in an antique store in Barcelona; back when his parents were still alive, three years prior to his moving in with his aunt, and five years prior to his joining the band. Before meeting Pattie, Dickran played, albeit quite awkwardly, a standard sized cello. This skeletal figure of an instrument that he played now was the saddest thing he had ever touched and regretted ever giving away his other 4/4 to the Goodwill, and regretted even more, saying When will I ever use this thing again? Never! Pattie’s going to be with me forever!
He continued playing Donna Lee and sobbing.

#106

You will learn nothing if you do not go outside.

This is true.

The whole of the world's achievements can be viewed, read, downloaded, and watched online

But you will never feel the wind this way.

What you have is more of a treatment at this stage, than a story. To become a story, you need a character. You have personages, but none of them are developed or labeled. None of them are "signified." There is a suggestion of a plot, and suggestion of conflict - a quest story for a resting place, an adventure of violence ending in a search for shelter, but they are sketched as yet.

I spent most of the thing preparing a series of assertions about how vampires are so done, and there is nothing really left, the trend has arc-ed itself out, but then with the revelation that these are not really vampires, I decided you have enough kernel of an idea to reply and let you know that I would like to see how this gets handled when you decide to develop it into a story.

This was fucking stupid and I really liked it

The fences add a lot, an awful lot. Without them nobody would know where to go, or what’s there, or what purpose the land and its constituent compartments have. Sheep would scatter over the country with nothing to bound them, ravaging every piece of grass or leafy greenery. The houses are of those who manage these fences, and the animals between them, and the land they divide. One man’s land must be made of many parts, each of different purposes, as is the man’s life. If a man runs a farm and fences the land from east to west and north to south and looks down, what he sees will disgust him, it’s not natural. Seeing this place as a human settlement and not as a miniaturised labyrinth of paths, fences, drystone walls, bogs, streams, tracks, telegraph poles, rockfaces, reedbeds, scrap coagulations and sculptures, dipping pens, treelines and ditches is a preposterous idea conceived only by the most conceited cartographers. To the lost tourists, the ones just “passing through,” etc., and all the rest who don’t live here, this may not be apparent, but to some people, maybe just one man, or woman, the truth is apparent, the truth of the village which is not mentioned again in name but stays fully animated in our minds, the apparent land of fences.
Now let’s fill this place with houses, with people; reverse, refract and negate the previous maxims of this place, heretofore mentioned. A house here, a house there, the fences remain but between them paths are laid, dirt tracks, leading to houses. A complete reappropriation of the land by people is conducted until the village becomes just that - a village, still with its labyrinths and signature markings, its ditches and junk sculpting and trees, but with people. This is a town.
too purple. you can pull this off if you focus more on consonance/assonance and the general sound/feel of the prose.
id cut down some of the adjectives but this is good, reminds me of delillo a bit.
itstimetostop.jpg
>tfw to intelligent for internet

Oh no, it's not about being too smart for the Internet. The meaning is far less meaningful, it's kind of dumb really. It's quite literally about not bring able to described the wind.

It was a clear dark night and I was restless. Far from the town and on the lonely shore was our sleepy home. The night was unpolluted: The only lights offered up to the sky were those from fishing vessels just off the horizon. It was the perfect atmosphere for stargazing.

I quietly rolled a cigarette from loose papers and tobacco stolen from my mother's ashtray. The tobacco stunk of tar and sea water, but since I wasn't old enough to buy my own and I wanted to keep my habit secret it would have to do. With my religiously rolled cigarette I opened the window and climbed out onto the roof, reaching back inside to grab the matchbook I kept near the windowsill for incense. I struck the sulfur and lit the joint stuck in to my mouth. I always admired the smell of a match, and sorely missed it when the vapors of a burning cigarette overpowered it. If they had match-flavored cigarettes I would buy them, and if not maybe I'll patent my own version someday.

From the roof I could see the filled sky, the massive expanse of quiet bright lights. I had heard the city was filled with bright lights too, and so I had gone there last summer. They didn't compare, nor did they have the same luster as the stars do. Perhaps it was the people, and that enjoying something beautiful was a private matter, something you keep to yourself and reflect upon. The stars reflected dimly on the sea’s shore, scattered by the minute swells as they crashed towards the rocky beach. They were so small and so far away. I held up my cigarette to compare luminosity, but how, I thought, could I compare it to a star? Those powerful telescopes on Mauna Loa see them much more clearly than me. I wonder if they understood those celestial bodies better, too.

Below me the porch light came on, and then appeared my mother in her cream-colored robe. Busted.

oh nice. i think it works better in that respect.
uh yeah this is nice but i really think you could change "cream-colored robe" to just "creamed robe" it flows much better that way.

Done.

Next Part:

"What are you doing out so late at night? Is that a cigarette? Matt!"

"Look at the stars, Ma" I interrupted "Look at how tiny they are!"

"Are you in your boxers? Put on some pants before you catch a cold" she said "and put out the cigarette!"

"Ma you smoke way more than me, and I'm almost old enough to buy my one. Let finish it first. We can spend some time together out here"

She sighed, and went back into the house without closing the door. She returned a moment later with a lot cigarette in hand.

"Did you take my ashtray? Is that where you got that? And why smoke outside, you should come in and smoke if you really want to talk"

"I just really like the stars Ma. Just look at them. Look at them and see how tiny we are, how very little we look in their reflection"

She paused and looked up for a moment, then returned her gaze up to the roof to look at me.

"Are you on pot or something, Matt?"

"No Ma." I groaned “Christ!”

"You're acting strange. Do you have a fever or something? You really should put on some clothes if you're going to stay out here"

"Yes Ma" I replied

She always worried about me. I didn't have many friends at school. I guess she felt a bit guilty on account of how far away my home was and I didn't want to bother inviting friends over such a long drive. We lived on the shore of Netarts, Oregon, which was a tiny village outside a tiny town on the West coast. My Dad and my Ma had built an oyster business here, and had requisitioned a home to be built on the property adjoining the oyster hatchery. It always reeked of the salty, muddy, low tide bay.

The smell infected the air and our clothing and our shoes with that selfsame sea smell that soaked Ma's spent cigarettes. Her smokes always seemed bent and fouled by the sea and stuck to the package like it stuck to her Hodgemans .

"Don't stay out too late. You have work tomorrow, remember" she said, pinching the embers out and tossing the butt into the ground.
"And bring the ashtray back in, I really like that ashtray you made."

She turned and walked inside, the door closed behind her with a resounding click and slam of the screen door. Moments later the light went dark and I looked back to the sky.

change "are you on pot" to "are yawn pot" and "netarts, oregon" to "retard, oregon"

>The smell infected the air and our clothing and our shoes with that selfsame sea smell that soaked Ma's spent cigarettes. Her smokes always seemed bent and fouled by the sea and stuck to the package like it stuck to her Hodgemans .
this is the best bit. also dont repeat the word "door" in the second to last sentence

Netarts is an actual place tho :( They have good oysters.

I liked the wet outside contrasting with the dry inside. Particularly the plant pot line. Otherwise it was just the kinda prose I like - lots of imagery and shit.

Combine that with a plot, good characters and you might just be able to knock up a decent novel. Congrats.

sometimes you gotta break the rules dude

Thanks. Is there any way to make people not over analyze it?

idk using somewhat forceful language to convey a message such as yours can result in that, eg a statement such as "You will learn nothing if you do not go outside."

to convey something abstract you should utilise more abstract language. have the language convey the meaning/message.

Ah I suppose so.

The story is about a sculptor who is always frustrated and self conscious; He eventually receives wordwide acclaim as the next Michaelangelo but he resents it. He is tapped to build an important world monument in Greece , but as the story develops he begins to resent the demands of a world that doesn't understand his creations and only admiring them for the outward beauty.

The opening part is supposed to be a baptism of sorts into the work of life being unloved and unappreciated. It's cliche, I know, but I'm going off the advice that to build a great novel you must have a great subject, and what better subject than a poor boy growing up to build the 8th world wonder?

she came from greece she had a thirst for knowledge
she studied sculpture at st martins college

honestly though it sounds good, reminds me a little of the recognitions

Don't make it Retard Oregon. That's fucking stupid.

Also the religiously rolled cigarette from your first post was a bit overwrought. The alliteration isn't deserved but I see what you're going for.

Overall you're a compelling writer, but you seem like you're putting on someone's clothes. If you are, then don't - but if you're not, then tighten up the language a bit. Revise it more.

>Don't make it Retard Oregon. That's fucking stupid.
shit the fuck off nigger

meant for

ive done it again mother

Walk before you run, user

An ace in the military, Rupert Aceae knew acedia. His hands looked acellular, looking stiff from war. He was aceous of the stereotypical “veteran,” wearing his dog tags and wearing a shirt depicting acephalous reading. His teeth acerbated you. They were too damn shiny, like he cared. The acerbity of his nature was Achaean in intimidation. He had those squinted eyes like he was suffering from achalasia. Guy was smart though. Would ache and make his own story for it. Would turn the game you were playing into some a cheval festival. He achieved some great achievements while in Iraq, like some damned Achilles. His Achilles heel was his own ego. Acidic acid-head. Buys LSD in town, his acidophilic sheets. Pictures of ack-acks were on his wall, and when acknowledged, Rupert would show the acme of his career with hand motions.
“Iraq. 2004. Bit of acne on my forehead, as my crew flew over the Desert. I was acock in my seat, looking down at the acre-foots below me. Already smelled some damn acrimony before I got in the plane. Knew it was gonna be bad. So our planes lift, you know? Like acrobats our planes flipped n’ soared. Nanners took the 09’, swipin’ by the aconites and the acorns. Zoomed past air acold. We bombed them acorn worms. We heard the acoustics zoom inside our ears, already acquainted with it.”
The listener would then, most likely, acquiesce in acquaintance. It’d take an aquired sort of patience to listen to his monologues. He’d tell you things like, “acquired immunodeficiency syndrome is for the gays. God’ll keel em.”
Acquisition of his trait labeled you an asshole. Maybe something lesser.
Rupert was acquitted from the military for his acrophobia.
His teeth were separated by an acre-inch.
He came up to me, which made me notice his acrocentric posture.
“I know your by your acrolect you’re from here.”
His smiles broke like some sort of acromegaly. WTF?[1]


[1] Antonym; means "what the fuck?"; used commonly among the human males. Class: offensive

Okay! Changes have been made.

You can learn everything without going outside

This is mostly true.

The whole of the world's achievements can be viewed, read, heard, and watched online

But you can will feel the wind this way

For ten long years I've watched the clastic rocks within this forest. They were compliant to be sculpted by time's chisel and nature's will. Now the forest consumes all and yields nothing, yet they still come and will never stop coming.

His plants thrived in blood and bone. Not one Earthly location could contest the evocative sensation of weariness offered by the forest. For ten long years they would come and we would watch as they starved themselves to death, for there were no animals or edible vegetation allowed in the continent he called "the forest". My brother created this place, and in doing so he killed millions. In a society that has existed without strife for hundreds of years, no one could resist a concept as extraneous as a challenge.

id change "online" to something else because that makes it feel like a commentary on the internet. aside from that its looking good user.

Alright, I'll sit on it for a while and see what I can think up. Thank you.

fuck, meant acronym. spell check brushed by my eyes too quickly

Potato skinned girls selling weed to get your attention.
I am fine, but thank you
They think the same
"Yes, you sure are fine"
Oh if only you knew!
My fear of the dark
Irish music 24/7
I'll talk your ear off about the books I've read and bore you to death with bad poetry.
They have yet to be disappointed.
I have yet to disappoint them.

Putting on someones clothes? You mean writing from someone elses experience?

And thank you for the compliment. I'll work on tightening the language up.

You could mash all these comments together and it would still be better than Infinite Jest.

That's not helpful here, because you have no idea about where people are up to outside of the attempts they share here. You think people can't practice running here until... What? You going to set a curriculum for crit threads before people are allowed to try the more advanced styles?

pastebin.com/rHYG3hnq

This is the first two chapters of the story.

I forgot to post my critiques with my pastebin posted right above.

I like the wild use of alliteration in every sentence. Its cool as an experimental type. I don't think you need to annotate WTF but there could be a purpose to it that I don't know.

>treelines and ditches

Put a period here and start the next sentence with "It is a ..." The sentence reminds me of Finnegan's Wake.

>skeletal outline of a cello instrument
Change this to "its skeleton" it will make the next clause sound better.

>on an instrument that felt like a sidewise viola to him.

cut this.

>of course

and this

>This skeletal figure

change to "The skeleton". It will help with your overall theme of death and loss and emptiness.

>He continued playing Donna Lee and sobbing.

Revise slightly to "He continued playing Donna Lee while sobbing"

>Put a period here and start the next sentence with "It is a ..."
i might split it up but doing that would mean cutting off the sentence without it resolving.
>The sentence reminds me of Finnegan's Wake.
is this a good thing???????

yes its a good thing. There are parts of FW that have beautiful imagery split by commas like you have done.

thanks dude. reading your piece now, didnt notice it earlier.

this is aight. i prefer some of the wording in the intro to how it was earlier in the thread. the dialogue could have some work done on it but its good overall, the prose has a nice balance between not being too bare/dry and not being too purple/ornate.

You got to fix some of your sentences. Lots of run on and it's hard to follow but I think it could go places. It is ornate and that is bad in the current context but if you fix up your sentences, I think it could work.

Thanks. I'm trying not to write a YA but as I'm getting through chapter three it feels like that's where I'm headed >.> I feel like I should add more esoteric words to it to beef up the language, or to add in something explicit and grotesque later on. I dunno, I'm just sorta going with it.

Similar story to yours Mr Cuckson. I’d managed to clock off work early the other day and decided to head down to the local to catch the aflw game! No sooner had I entered the alehouse I was struck by a heavy, oppressive atmosphere; I looked around at the patrons and happened to notice that the women were slouched over their drinks with their heads facing down. Taking an unoccupied seat by the bar and next to one of the ladies I managed to glean that a large group of men had walked in and turned off the women’s AFL game they were watching! Not changed the channel to another sport, but actually turned their television off so that they could not watch it! The men ostensibly proceeded to berate the women for supporting an ‘inferior’ product! I could not believe the account that I was hearing, how does such a thing happen and in the current year no less? The young women continued to say that the men said that they would return after ‘doing the rounds’ of other pubs in the area. From what I gathered she meant that the group of men were checking pubs in the area to shut off the showing of women’s afl games. Apparently all of the men, save one had left. The sole remaining practitioner of the deed most foul was going to hear it from me! As I strode down the bar to confront him, I realized that I may be out of my depth. He was an enormous man of impressive stature and must have stood seven feet tall as he rose to greet me. I decided that he must have a piece of my mind, no matter how intimidating he was. I began to shoot off points including statistics of the women’s game and how it actually compares quite favorably to the men’s game. In a single smooth motion however, he pulled my scarf so tight that I could no longer breathe and I am reliably informed that my eyes were bulging out of my head. The brute of a man then whispered something into my ear. It shocked and terrified me beyond anything I had ever experienced; all this as I still couldn’t breathe! That is the last thing I can remember of the whole sordid affair. When I came to, the man was gone and the women I had spoken to earlier had called the police. They eventually came and I gave them what information I could, supposedly I haven’t been the first victim of such brutality and malice, there has been a spate of ‘scarfings’ in recent times, since around the time the aflw commenced, but the police believe the attacks are unrelated. *sigh* And so I said my parting words to the nice lady, and she in turn gave me some useless, though thoughtful platitudes. I then commenced walking, but not home you see. No. Can’t do that. NEVER. For those words whispered into my ear by the man, that curious specimen were as follows:

Fantastic production out of this story and the cliffhanger leaves me wanting more. What did he say to poor T.cuckson

The great thing about my slice of life lovecraftian terror story that actually happened to me is that you can leave it to your imagination, but I believe what he said was that he would roger my wife's ring in front of me in my house, and he knew where I lived somehow.

Sounds like a good night out to me

Well, perhaps I should take him up on his offer, after-all, who wants to be perceived as over possessive of their wife in this current year no less?

You truly are a gentleman

There existed no shape unto the valley until the dogs came. There existed no names unto the hills,except for those names whispered by the wind as it passed. The natives therein saw each day a land anew,a countenance well shaped by the fingers of the lordess. When the dogs came,they tamed the land at point of bayonet,and loosed the wind from their throats to describe her features. Upon her face they built their cities and roads,and tucked her form into the folds of a map. Thereafter came a day whereby stroke of pen mandated their leave. As that day approached,there did fall a great rain.
With the wash there fell away the promise of peace,and the lives of many a good man. Among them was colonel Gaan Sterf,dead from bullet of child soldier,whose corpse was hauled by the two witnesses to his death. The duo blazed down the valley in a Cheval Leger,and in the backseat rode a bag. And inside that bag,smothered by hundreds of bullets was the body of Colonel Gaan Sterf. All the way to the city he once called home,his body bounced.
Looking as the glowing end of a cosmic cigarette,the sun dipped into the black horizon. The two would sometimes see a deej child scurry across the tall grass,pouncing on small game or picking tubers from the dirt. Their car criss-crossed the plains,wheels squelching and stinking of shit as they passed over the morass,born of fetid water.

I have no fucking idea what this was all about fucking seriously dude you can't be a competent political theorist or philosopher or some shit if all you spit is letterbound diahrreah

I remember you. Still not a fan of a few sentences there, but altogether pretty vivid. You're doing alright, senpai.

Poem I shat out the other day after reading some Uberfacts post. Dividing it into parts was probably a bad decision, and the conclusion is too weak and bawdy to be worth it, but I'm fine with sharing my throwaways.

Lovesong

I
Here I am, in a field of grass
with the love of my life, her head next to my head, her hand in my hand.
And we're looking up at the stars.
The shooting stars, streaking and flashing across the inkwell, the two of us down here in the firmament.
And we're existing, breathing, feeling, -together! - right now, and we're able to for the next 50 years or so, out of the other 30 billion this world has to it.
And we're looking at the stars.

II
The next day, I'm online
and I see a post from some millenial site
that says that most shooting stars are really feces from astronauts
on the International Space Station.
"Your wishes
were really made on a turd
instead of a star"
it concludes,
And I gasp.

III
I call out to the love of my life
To tell her about this epiphany,
But she doesn't answer.
She's gone now.
The last time I wished upon a star,
I got her, my greatest wish.
But moments end. Stars hide. People change, And grim realities
Show themselves.
But now i know that when change comes, its not my fault
That things went to shit
In the end

oh fuck writing this out on a phone was NOT a good idea

Why?

since im the one who wrote it i notice things the reader wont (thats just universal im not saying im some Kubrickesque perfectionist or something), and some of the line lengths are just unbearable to look at

There's no chord progression.
There's no chorus.

How am I supposed to play this lovesong?

the cure was playing when i made the post, hombre

I love the political satire. Truly, a gift from /pol/

Fuck I started playing it as goldfinger

if you want more specific critique, tell me

this is how people write when they never actually read and just feel a "need to express themselves"
started out as an awkward scene study, ended up as a half-baked porno
literally the easiest form of writing to do well and you fucked it up user
readable, but not engaging. sounds like you're writing a movie scene rather than prose
cute!!
i should have stopped reading as soon as i saw the alliteration
sounds like you're describing a painting to a blind person, nothing literary about this
first paragraph has a nice emotional pace but the second paragraph is just gottagofast plot revelation with no actual weight or tact
if you're a 15yo girl, this is good, keep it up
i like the foundation you're working with but this sounds like a junkie ex-educator ranting outside a bodega. you are writing about the tendency of men to separate his routine, land, thoughts, etc. into discrete objects, yet you're rambling
come on, this is full of technical/logical errors. also, write what you know
>creamed robe
BLS NO MORE ADVISE
ma ma ma, ma mamara ann
footnote made me laff, fun to read but not respectable
doesn't make sense geologically or narratively
i'm disappointed, user.
posting what jumped out to me as i skimmed
>Cuckson
>AFL
>deed most foul
>he pulled my scarf so tight i couldn't breathe
>a spate of 'scarfings'
this is good, no critiques
you didn't have a big imagination as a child
>literally ending with 'the end'
WEWEWEWEWEW

Late in the amber evening, when the air of the university library thickens with the exhaustion of a thousand drooping heads, I would slip into the elevator behind the periodicals and wait for the custodian. At that hour the libary's mandatory silence succumbs to a more terrible one, formed from the quiet lethargy felt while existing during the decay of another day, mixed with the paralyzing anticipation of life tomorrow. In the cool metal of the elevator I would make myself as small as possible, sometimes even succeeding in disappearing altogether.

I would wait for the custodian for fifteen minutes, an hour, maybe two, and then all at once he would be with me, unzipping his pants with one hand while swatting with the other at the button for the top floor. Through practice I am skillful on my knees, and it only takes five trips up and down until he finishes. During the endeavor he stares fixedly up at the grimy ceiling, and after his release only on the floor, never once meeting my desperate gaze.

For years we have been meeting in the dingy elevator, and our transaction has an intricate code of conduct to prove it. After I pay the standard fare, we exit on different floors to avoid embarassment for him. If he happens to leave on the third floor, where my secret hovel is encased in a maze of non-fiction shelves, I politely cede my territory for his peace of mind, and curl up that night beneath a blanket of Spanish fiction in a distant wing of the library.

Momentarily I can make him love me, but ultimately he despises how I use him, although his entire life is simply another use by another entity. I have tried to convey this to him through subtle bodily movements, but he never...

Clang, Clang... In the distance the bell tower tolls, marking the end of my fantasy with its punctual chime. In the library, the custodian, immune to every stench yet imagined, empties one garbage bag into another and carries it away over his shoulder, never meeting my desperate gaze.

ex-night-shift-librarian here, inaccurate because all library staff generally use the utility elevator and you would get caught. pretty good otherwise, you pervert

is there a way to fix lack of childhood imagination