Lit Crit

Here's the first few paragraphs of a thing i'm writing.
A gentle click-clack of iron rims rolling, bumping over tiny stones, this rhythm threaded into the rhythm of the horses' hooves and exhalations. The two chestnut mares stretch leather round their breasts, cutting into fur over skin over muscle rippling and pulsing with life. Inside the carriage the harpist sleeps, breath droning softly in the warm, dry air of the cabin, gusts from his lungs catching specks of tiny golden detritus and sending them twirling through sunbeams filtered narrowly in via the gap around the little pull-down blind inside the window. around them rests a low heath of autumnal golden grasses and scraggly little berry-bushes and down leftways in the valley stand dark thickets of pine giving way and merging into a denser standing of oak-elm forest around a stream glinting merrily silver in the afternoon light. the dry, rut-cut road curves smoothly down over the crest of a ridge, across an open dene and up over another ridge outlined in pale blue sky.

Now the sun sits a few degrees lower in its arc and rounding a bend into the mouth of a valley, becomes visible beside the road a cottage. a quaint cottage, a lonely cottage. lightless windows lie recessed back into grey-stone walls siting stoutly and a dark slate roof perches slanting above them and beneath oak branches bedecked with furry lichens and mosses. atop the carriage sits a golden harp swaddled tightly in linen and lashed in place with rope, while inside the cabin rests a large leather suitcase, valise and canvas travelling-pack and in the drivers foot-bay sit a medley of stacked-full hessian bags and small woodcrates of foodstuff.

Drawing close to the door of the abode the coachman sits high, whistles and pulls back the reins - horses whinny and slow to a trot, then a walk, then a standstill, letting the carriage fall at last to stationary.

Thoughts? plz critique

This might be a dumb question, but how do you go from an idea to a concrete plot?

Critique pls. Its not massively long.
I knew something was wrong by the way he called me. The usual note of apology had melted from his throat. This was something else. This was new, an entirely different morning start. Even before I had opened my eyes, I knew he wasn’t calling me to deliver a new lamb. This was trouble.
It was my mother’s voice that made me rise. She wouldn’t have woken up unless something drastic had happened. I couldn’t hear my father’s voice anymore. He must have floated out the backdoor, the way he often did in a hurry, and into the cloak of the night. I was tired of gathering clues from voices through the walls. I threw my old clothes on me, and made my way to the kitchen. While I listened to my mother make a frantic call in the next room, I looked out the window, surveying the horizon for the reason why I was woken.
Nothing stared back, save the swallowing shadows.
They couldn’t have woken me for nothing. Surely to God, they had a reason for pulling me out of bed at this hour. I was ready to abandon my concern, and return to bed, until a flickering hue on the hill ensnared my vision. Orange, red, and yellow tongues conquering their surroundings, threatening the earth around it. Shining, snickering, like a sinister star.
I left my mother, still pleading for assistance on the phone, to help my father. With a torch in my hand, I climbed over the four fences between our house and the hill field. It wasn’t long before I didn’t need the light of the torch. An orange shade had already begun to consume my surroundings. The night has a way of making the familiar austere. In the darkness, every ditch is a valley, every stream is torrential, every step is a risk. Urgency has a way of bleaching those fears from your mind. All that matters is your goal, even in the heat of the night.

I found my father at the edge of the field, shouting like a madman at the few people kind enough to help. Barking orders in a way that was second nature to him. It never seemed strange to me until I saw him to do it to somebody else. They tried desperately to mute the blaze, throwing buckets of water from the nearby streams at it. No point. The fire would ease for a moment, and then it would take back the price of its mercy with interest. It wasn’t long before we gave up. We just had to wait until the firemen came, and we prayed to God that their hose would reach the remote corners of the field.
It was only now that I could breathe, and properly observe the fire, in all its terrifying might.
If I had been any younger, it would have given me nightmares. Reaching ten feet into the air with ease, as if some artist had taken our priest’s sermon’s about Hell, and painted in on our property. Through its deep cackle, I could hear branches giving way as they succumbed to the flames, and the bullwire of the fence snapping in the heat. The scattered embers and blinding lights ravaged my face so harshly that I was sweating marbles on an October night. As it burned the wet grass beneath our feet, this cruel beast hissed like a snake. It threw white smoke carelessly into the air, daring any and all Good Samaritans to tame it. We stood there, my father, some of the neighbours, and I, before this Greek titan, a handful of Davids against a superhuman Goliath.
I could only imagine my father’s thoughts. Petty consolation in the fact that we had moved the sheep only yesterday, because we wanted them to be closer to the house to monitor the ram’s performance. Ultimately, a slap in the face when he realised what he was watching. His grandfather’s land, his father’s land, his land, and one day, my land, burnt to the barest while we watched, powerless. I wiped the sweat from my eyes, and he wiped the tears from his. We had to watch the fire eating away at a piece of our livelihood, and we had to sit and swallow it.

Longer than I initially thought.

"Blood!” The vampires chant, banging on the doors of The church. It's clear the church going to hold them off, with every push the doors get weaker, after every push the vampires are push harder. Millian is still searching for mardork. Mardork the first one. The carrier of the darkness. Somewhere in the catacombs he lies and waits, turning the remaining hostages into vampires. The doors finally give and the vampire rush in, screaming and yelling for blood. “Brother!” Wilhelm yells at the sight of first vampire. It's Ronald.

Akin to the older vampires encounter at the gate, when Ronald entered the room he held the same twisted look of confusion, However unlike the others, his focus did not dart from being to being, his dark eyes dialed in solely on Wilhelm.

Is Ronald still alive within that body, could vampires be more wild beast after the taste of blood?

There was no time to wonder the nature of the vampires.

As vampires peered further into the halls of the church, the assassin started her attack. Firing a volley of arrows only inches past the motionless Ronald, into the growing horde of vampires that have now darted past him.

The hero follows up as well, speaking words of brimstone and death, the stone tiles twist and rise into to a long row of spikes impaling the vampires ahead of Ronald and creating a trench to slow the impending vampire’s horde advancement. The assassin sustaining her onslaught continues firing arrow after arrow in the same pattern: past Ronald's head and into the horde. “I can't hit him” she shouts, he still uses his magic to dodge. “I've found Mardork, He's below us!” Millian said.

“A trap? He's smarter than he leads on” Ronald says breaking the twisted stare on his face. The church's begins to rumble and shake. Much like before with the encounter with Mardork, The ground begins crack and part, large sections of decorative tile gives, falling down into the deep below; Into the catacombs. ”I must meet him” Ronlad said with a smile, lets himself fall into darkness below.

The vampires are still chanting for blood, some attempting to push past the the trenches of spikes, others falling into the growing pit leading to the catacombs. “We must find him!” Wilhelm yells jumping straight after his brother into the pit of the catacombs. “That fool” Millian transforming into a dragon dives ahead after him, the sheer weight of her body breaking of the remaining foundation of the church sending the hero and the assassin falling along with her.

Stop with the descriptions. Get on with the actions. What are the main characters doing? What is at risk here?

I like how you described him listening to the various sounds in the house that was really cool.

I couldn't really imagine the orange shade, is it the sun? And "all that matters but your goals seem to come out of nowhere" DESU.
The horse part could use some work, I like the rest though.

I'm thinking of writing a short story from this plot.

>newly transferred student is enrolled to your school
>he looks like a drug junkie (unwashed torn clothes, bad dental hygiene, greasy hair, etc)
>named Garret
>you share a class with him and he does not have any pens or textbooks

>Garret steals your wallet; your wallet held a large sum of cash that you earned laboriously
>he runs off home before you can reclaim your wealth
>"fucking junkie blah blah"
>Garret comes back the following day with newly purchased pens and textbooks
>he has used your money to buy himself a chance at graduating school

>tell your friend about Garret as his misdeed
>you both beat the shit out of him for weeks after school
>Garret becomes increasingly absent

>one day you are called for by the principal
>Garret sits with his mother, a short scraggly looking woman
>blah blah blah you start to empathises with Garret
>you're invited to his grubby home
>you befriend Garret and accept that you misunderstood him and his situation

>Garret comes back to school
>your friend goes up to him at lunch and starts laying into him
>do you help Garret and betray your friend?

>A thing from a first draft that won't probably make it into my first novel

The Thing climbed out of the swamp water onto the bed of grass. Skeletal thin. Skin coarse and black as if once burnt alive but the grim reaper had yet to rob the bodily vessel of its animation.

The Thing cries out a hoarse guttural scream. Desperate. Reaching. Coarse black hands twisted and raised. The sound of water splashing hypnotises Meadow in place. The slippery black human corpse wriggled and came gasping with its hole for a mouth for crisp Shanton air; Meadow stood and watched for a moment longer than she knew she should. The world ceased to make any kind of sense; Meadow spun away and ran as the cries of the creature rattled in her ears. She ran as hard as her constitution would allow.

At some distance Meadow felt the mildew grass; and yet still even from a greater distance Meadow could hear the curse'd Thing cry out in agony.

Meadow knew she could have ran in that moment. Whatever gave the abysmal creature life was surely the work of a demonic evil, and if such a thing could be in such a horrid state and yet still cling to life, then what black forces governed its existence could also grant it unnatural speed

I dicreetfully recommend to everybody to have an eyecatching first paragraph, even better with an eyecatching first line("Call me Ishmael"). You're not only trying to set up your story you're also trying to sell it, which is arguably more important.

ebin

y
no
y
A big ramble about fuck all. Have a point.
Could you just say what the hell is happening instead writing every nothing detail. What's the story? Focus on that and keep it brief.

Plots are not concrete. Try and write what you can of the story and keep the plot in mind to see if it is on the right track. Keep trying to find out what your story is, why you are the right person to tell it, and be prepared to give up on many ideas for stories because most ideas are shit.

I like the specific nature of your writing. You can make a point in a sentence without rambling. I don't like where you take me out of whatever story is happening by saying 'I imagine, I could, If I had' etc, just describe what happens and what the character should take from the experience should be evident in their actions throughout the story you're writing. Be prepared to allow the reader to form their own opinion of a scene instead of having a character describe everything they should feel.

There's a lot of action description here. Make sure the scene has a real point for the character and is progressing the point. This reads as if you are trying to write what you think the reader might find cool and that's about it.

Fuck off and write it, then come back.

You put down the pen and stop writing dehumanizing dogshit. The good crook trend is retarded. He would have used the money to buy his drug of choice, stop fucking about. If you have him become friends with Garret (fucking limp wristed faggot of a name btw) have Garret betray him at the end. If you plan to have this end with the two chums graduating, kill yourself. Not in a meme way, suicide is just your best option, because life is way, way harder than coming up with a better idea than this.

>Here's mine:

In their twenties it was all about fucking hard and fast; now in their thirties sex between them evolved into a cerebral game.

add conflict and resolution of the conflict

Please tell me this is a meme, because I'm after pissing myself laughing. What the fuck does that even mean you pseudointellectual child?

It's not a meme. And its cool if you find it funny, sex is funny after all.

>discreetfully

I would rather get my japs eye caught in a door hinge than read anything written by somebody who thinks that is a good opening line.

>Could you just say what the hell is happening instead writing every nothing detail. What's the story? Focus on that and keep it brief.
Elmore Leonard back from the dead

Trash
Trash
Boring but structurally sound
Solid
Meh
Trash but at least i loled
Bad advice
Thats awful
Ok i guess but change the name from meadow

virgin detected

en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/discreetfully
Could work but I think the punchline should be better and more clear, sharp contrasts always draw attention.

I can see why you think its shit. I'm not defending it. It is a shitty opening line to be fair.

The coke is useless. Either I've built up a tolerance to it or it's shit quality. I'm suddenly worried that I won't have a ride home and I'm starting to freak out. I bump into three different people on the stairs, all oblivious to the outside world like their brain is on auxiliary power, overextended thanks to the variety of drugs available in this house. I rifle through my bag for my Virginia Slims but they're gone. It doesn't seem possible since I had them earlier. I start to wonder what else I'm forgetting, what else I'm oblivious to that everyone else can sense, can perceive as obvious.

And I can feel the bad thought starting to bubble up from some part of my brain and I feel an icy sense of panic that's combined with the thirst for a cigarette, for that drying feeling where the saliva on your tongue dissolves in nicotine.

I need a cigarette. I also need to get the fuck out of this house so I can breathe, so I won't have to deal with people gazing at me and judging me. I ask a stoner guy for a cigarette.
- Sure babe but remember he says.
- What? I say.
- What? he says.
- Remember what? I say.
- Peace and love babe. Remember peace and love.

I stare at him for a second and he turns away and talks to someone else. Does he know? What does he mean by peace and love? Again that feeling that I'm oblivious to the obvious.

I sit outside on a patio chair, find my lighter and light the cigarette. I can see John through the patio window. He and Miles and some boy in a rugby shirt who I don't recognize stand near the door singing Please Don't Go by KWS, grabbing anyone who tries to leave. They look so happy with their sunglasses on. Torched. Blazed.

Maybe I'm just not that important to him. But at least he can't see through me like I know everyone else can. Why can't they just be honest and tell me what that they know? Why all this hiding and guessing? But it's not guessing, for me at least. I know that they know the truth about me.

The look that stoner guy gave me. Remember peace and love. And sex. Remember love. Love is sex. Love brings peace. Why couldn't he have just said what was on his mind? No you can't bum a smoke you virgin, you loser, you pathetic waste and you're even more pathetic than the girls at school who sleepwalk through it, the ones with guts, moles, bad breath, the ones who pine for guys like John, write him sexy notes (anonymous of course) and crumple them up before they can summon the courage to put them in his locker. They're pathetic, but they can't help it. It'll take them a lot of Slimfast, Jergens and hours at the Iron City gym to be hardbodies. But you're a hardbody and you could get any guy you want if only you believed you could. But you don't believe and that's why you're a loser but I'll just give you the cigarette because I'm just a nice guy but that's the only reason. It's not like you deserve it.

That's what the stoner guy was thinking.

I have a quick idea: "sex was at once quick, intense and sensual but then their thirties cleared such blur away."

Daniel crumples and folds--the white page lying balled before him, it's jagged form tattooed in graphite. Each waving letter slipping on the paper's folds into the darkness underneath. If only he could see where they fell in this disjointed state. Perhaps, he believed, within the ball, somewhere among the avalanche of disappointing script, lies the inspiration he seeks. Ironically mocking him as it hides all to well within his crumpled failure. He thinks to himself if only he could get a good start, he then knows his work will become a masterpiece.

Trying two more times, taking Daniel late into the night, he tries greatly to arrive at an acceptable introduction with no success. Leaving his desk, switching off his lamp, and sliding between the sheets of his bed, Daniel gives up and eventually falls asleep. The crumpled sheets littering his study each weaving perfect lives into their impenetrable folds.

Threads like these only nourish your procrastination. Finish the damn book, then ask for critique.

Maybe they're such shut ins that they can't get critique outside of the internet

White page is kind of a pleonasm, and not an interesting detail in general.
The second sentence in the second paragraph is off too, the present participle is kind of wonky anyway, especially in that sentence.

Dont write about drugs if you dont know what youre talking about. Its cringeworthy

That's a big concern of mine user. I've smoked weed but that's about it.

What about the drugs doesn't make sense in the above.

I cant speak for others, but a friend or someone I know might give a biased opinion out of fear of hurting my feelings, here people don't give a fuck about that.

Veeky Forums, what can I do to get myself to stick to one story?

As soon as I start writing something down, I get ideas about how to go back and improve it, or I can't decide about the exact way I want the events to g, or I just think the writing is bad--whatever.

Point being, I've never started a project that I haven't abandoned. And it's not even a healthy sort of abandonment where I go on to new things. It's just cyclical. I start story A, I drop it, I start story B, I drop it, C, D... and then we're back at A all over again. My preference changes depending on my mood; but the problem is that just about anything affects my mood.

I read about these people that get autistic over specific projects, and I feel so jealous. I just keep writing the same shit over, and over, and over again. I probably have enough first chapters (of the same stories, mind you) to fill an Oxford multi-volume history.

I just don't know what to do anymore. And because I've covered the same things so many times, they also bore me to a certain extent. Yet it's hard to start something completely new because there's no emotional connection there.

I know I'm being a faggot, but is there a cure?

Write from experience, don't make shit up. Sign of an amateur. Go do ayuasca in the jungle if you want to write about drugs.

Don't parade your work around to anybody until you've finished something.

Just go do some blow nigga

Why? You sound like a massive faggot

Because that will give you a sense of fulfillment when you've accomplished nothing as well as a stress factor because people will keep asking about it.

This is scientifically proven. If you tell people about what you're planning to do, their acknowledgement kicks chems in your brain that make you feel like you've already accomplished something, and you're less driven to do it.

Lol. Youre a fucking sperg

Because I cite facts? Okay, then.

Have fun passing your shitty unfinished writings until the end of time.

It's true. Why do you think so many people are "working on my novel" but never produce shit? This board is a perfect example.

mashulong.wordpress.com/

I only have one post. It's a stream of consciousness I wrote this morning. Pretty much uneditted outside of a quick spellcheck. Please let me know what you think. I'm not a writer, but I want to start.

He's right.

While this is true you can give the benefit of the doubt that what they wrote is a fragment of a short story or something
plus Veeky Forums is hardly 'encouraging' in threads like these, so what you say is rarely relevant.

"I’m ranting at this point."

No you started ranting almost from the beginning. I haven't read SOC stuff in a while but this seems pointless as a coherent piece.

It's honest and some of your experiences are interesting but you only dabble in them briefly to return to the general narrative that doesn't lead anywhere.

If it really is your first start it's not a bad one but I couldn't see a purpose to it as a whole.

Im sure that was an excellent ted talk
And im sure if you asked 100 published authors 95 of them would say they showed passages for critique or bounced ideas around with their confidants. The idea that you need to keep your novel secret is laughably absurd

I agree with white page. I thought about cutting waving but believed it contributed to slipping. Want to change darkness to shadows as well.
__________
Following this post, I'll be posting two more posts containing crits for the ones above mine.

I was mainly talking about the present participle in the second paragraph not the first though.

One other argument against sharing is that you can end up changing your approach to what the story should be about based on the feedback, and you gradually defer more and more creative choices to your potential critics.

I see that as a danger for some writers but not all, and certainly not a reason to not share altogether (unless you take criticism too seriously).

Also there is a big difference between "here's a chapter of something I'm working on" and "would this be a good idea for a novel?" Most of the posters here did the former while the latter is just a means to continue procrastination.

I should have edited this better. Looking over it, it's sloppy, just as you said. I was lax since it was short practice.
___________
Following this with two more posts critiquing most of what's above me. I did them without internet, so that's why I didn't get to all of them.

>Pros
It's good, ignore the other people who don't realize this is Chapter 1. I feel like I'm in her head and it gives a good introduction into her character. Writing is sound, grammar is sound. Even though we're just on a train here, following her line of thought gives motion into her life and the day, and that's plenty of progress.
>Cons
It's not a very attention grabbing introduction, though relateable for city dwellers and train takers. I don't do either, so this experience is only vaguely familiar to me and personally didn't grab me. Some people may not read on simply because of this. But it seems like you have direction, so it's nothing to bat much of an eye at, just something to consider.

>Cons
Okay brother, you're not trying to cum as fast as you can, you're trying to give us a steady picture, a good fuck. The overly excessive details utterly detracts from any sort of image I might try to form in my mind. Does the color of the horse effect the story? Does it's muscles pulsing with life effect the story? Do these details progress your idea? These are the sort of questions you should be considering when working. All these dense descriptions leaves me no imagination and is a clutter to read. Let me fill in the details around your story, and you focus on the story and characters. Not all of it is unnecessary, but a lot is. Also, your grammar is lacking all across the board and literally inside all of these meaningless details I've grown no more or less further into your idea than I would if you had gutted more than half of your word filler. Important details only. Most necessary words only. Study form and structure. I always recommend Strunck and White, it's easy to follow and will help anyone trying to write of their own interest while improving.
>Pros
You clearly have the imagination and attention to detail needed when writing. You've just got it focused in the wrong areas. Put the kind of detail you use for descriptions into the plot and events of the story and you'll find much more satisfaction and motivation. You'll quickly see your stories take shape, regardless of the small details. Keep practicing, reading, and studying others.

For you, gave some good advice. His qualms about your interjections of thought I can sort of agree with. But that's also the downside of first person. When you are telling a story from one character, you can't give them no thoughts. But, you can word it (the entire sentence) nicer than beginning with "I imagine", to make it less jarring. Let the scenery and events carry the thought.
Following your "I can imagine my father's thoughts" sentence, you can try something like this:
>"The fire reflected in my father's eyes seemed to radiate anger and regret."
You see? Your not saying that your imagining his thoughts, but the way I worded it more than implies you are. This way it doesn't pull the reader from the story.

>tbc in next post.

Is English your native tongue? No offense if it is, but this is laden with very simple grammatical errors. Most of which should be caught with even one additional read-over to edit and assure quality. If you're going to post without editing, you're not going to get a good critique. And I don't mean myself exclusively, nobody will take a piece seriously if there is more than one missing word within the first few sentences. Unacceptable. Your vocabulary seems trivial or else you need to vary your nouns. I don't want to read "The church, the vampires, the church, the church, the vampires again, the church doors, VAMPIRES!" Obviously I exaggerated, but the point is is gets boring and droning and nobody will ever finish it.

Very average. Needs work across the board but isn't excessive or utterly lacking. Read Strunk and White. Spend some time reading a book with a wide variety of vocabulary and study the words you don't know, or spend some time with a dictionary and thesaurus. Sentence structure is basic and uninteresting, again, Strunk and White is perfect for this. If you like writing, keep practicing. You'll get there. It's not as bad as a lot of other posts here.

This is good. Very few, minor grammatical errors-- nothing small edits won't touch up. I very much feel like I'm in the head of a coke fiend. I would read this, though I will say the stoner is overly cliche. Sounds burnt out on a lot more than dank, like he's tripping sack on something.
BTW, good touch with the Virginia Slims in her purse. I knew the character was a girl before the stoner called her babe based on her having them and digging through her bag for them. That's the kind of detail a lot of people who post can learn from. Something basic that serves a greater purpose. Not just frilly things.

Might critique more later as the thread goes on, depending on my day as well.

ITT: faggots try to get crit without submitting any crit themselves but that's probably a good thing because they are all shit.

I don't think all critics are good writers.

Maybe not, but all good writers are critics. Hence the shortage of them on this cesspool.

I myself have only critiqued, in these threads there are always mire fragments than critiques. This is one of the very rare threads where we need more phoneposters because they can't be bothered to type entire paragraphs on a phone but they CAN do critique.

Good advice. Took me awhile to realize this. I haven't posted anything I've been actually working hard on since I realized it, and I've made more progress than ever. It's hard to take that leap into 10,000+ words without a lot of advice. But if you feel confident to start a project, finish it first.

I propose that crits intentionally try to not flatter or be too positive in their critiques then. 90 percent of crits aren't positive anyway.

>And im sure if you asked 100 published authors 95 of them would say they showed passages for critique or bounced ideas around with their confidants. The idea that you need to keep your novel secret is laughably absurd

I think part of the reason why the no sharing view has died out is because of the proliferation of MFA programs and the "workshop."

It's almost seen as disingenuous to not share works in progress, at least in some circles.

Start small. Look at my post here . It took me 20 minutes to get that down. If I actually edited it right, it'd take maybe another ten.

But something like that is hard to abandon before you finish. And once you start completing smaller projects, you'll find it easier to migrate into larger stories. Plus brainstorming short story ideas helps bring random ideas together. So if you spend a day and storm up six good ideas, look them over and see if any of them work well with the other ideas. Once you've got a large concept built up from smaller ones, think long about it. Work on the other ideas which didn't fit into your larger plan. Finish them first. Get a feel for your skills, where you can improve, what needs to change. Once you know the water you'll find it easier to swim into a larger piece.

The key then is what this guy says . Take faith in yourself and grind it all out before you share it. Finishing something is the absolute most import part of being a competent writer. Half finished ideas don't get you anywhere, and give you no satisfaction when you lack the ambition to return to something you've had looked at. Ignore your worries, edit all the time, pay attention to your nouns, verbs, and tenses when you edit, not the image. Then read over in another edit and focus on your images. Watch order of operations: does it make sense to describe the features of the barn before its location? It's color? Does she take the spoon out then stir the chocolate milk? Think of natural progressions and attentions to detail. Once you start, you'll notice when you're describing something in a strange or nonsensical order.

I'm typing this quick, so sorry for errors. My internet time is very limited. Hope it helps or is cohesive.

Well yeah, most aren't. But if something is good, I will let them know. And if it sinks into the bottom of their unfinished writing pit, so be it. It'll be a lesson learned.

The opening portion seems to be a ripoff of Madoka. You alienated me from the outset by both beginning with a dream and doing so in the least subtle way possible ("In Emmet's dream"). You use repetitive nouns over and over (Emmet, dragon). We have no idea what Emmet looks like and we're already pretty far in. You rely on established constructs and do not really innovate all that much.

Less than 8 words in, you have a serious spelling error, it's lightning (the electrical force), not lightening (which means, to make light). While I am not a grammar Nazi, the difference between it's (a contraction for it is) and its (the possessive form) is huge and a grating error which detracts from the work.

This is the first piece I ever sat down and wrote by myself. I've wanted to start writing for a while and I've had free time so I finally sat down and gave it a shot. There wasn't much of a purpose outside of giving a glimpse of my thought stream this morning. I figured I'd just start by writing about the events of the last few days and my thoughts on them with quotes of what I remember thinking directly and see if I could make anything interesting out of it.
It's a start though. I appreciate the feedback.

The body jerked only a little. Then she was gone.
"She's dead," said Bell.
Mark turned to him with a look of amused disbelief. "I know she's dead, asshole. I just shot her." This guy. This fucking guy. He was more machine than a man. A walking, talking, reality-checker that confirmed every five minutes that this was, in fact, real life.
If only it weren't.
Mark holstered the gun and crouched by the warm body. He looked into the all-seeing eyes and wondered what they thought about him. Then he got real and searched the bitch. He looted the ID and scanned it. He got up.
Unchecked, the body would be gone in less than an hour. Almost scary to think about what went on down in this hell.
"What now?" asked Bell, his voice a low and tentative whisper.
"Now," said Mark, feigning some enthusiasm, "we smoke."
They made their way through a network of tunnels until they were far away enough from the body. Mark took out his pack and offered Bell a smoke, then lit up and looked down into the abyss. Far below the fires of the camp flickered, and the homeless wrecks that had claimed this territory shuffled about dazed out of their minds.
"You think they'll eat her?" asked Bell. The asshole fact-checker was leaning against the railing, his head dipped in despair. His dark skin blended in with the shadows, but his white jacket stood out.
"They've eaten worse," said Mark. He flicked the ash and let the smoke purge everything inside.
Bell took his sweet time to answer. Then, louder than before, he only said, "Fuck."

>A walking, talking, reality-checker that confirmed every five minutes that this was, in fact, real life.

I didn't like this sentence when I first read it but you kind of redeemed it with "asshole fact-checker" later on (which I liked a lot more). I would use "asshole fact-checker" in both places.

I disagree with your first responder, and actually think opposite of him. I liked the first description of him but felt that asshole fact-checker was a little forced.

Either way, this is very polished and reads well. Not sure why you posted this, you seem to know what you're doing here. I can't think of anything else to say besides I'd read it.

I just wanted to participate and I didn't have anything else to post so I jotted this down, since I'm going to bed. It's late in my eastern shithole. I'm actually the eternal first chapter guy you responded to previously...

Amusingly enough, the other post you directed me to was mine as well... Irony, eh? That guy got mad, but I was only advising him with what I learned by firsthand experience. The more I plan and talk to people about shit, the less likely I am to do anything. I guess it's different if writing is your actual day-to-day profession, but if it's a hobby, well.. I'd stick by my advice. (Too bad I didn't follow it myself for the longest time.)

It's funny, you know. When I randomly decide to write shit, I think it's okay, because I can use the skills I've acquired over the years without any value-judgments. It's not amazing or anything to write home about, but it reads like a cohesive story written by a human that cares that other humans are going to read it. I'm writing in the moment, thinking about what would be cool and what people would like to read, and that's it.

But whenever I sit down to write >muh epic project I get bogged down in details, because I'm so caught up in how I feel about it that my brain stops working. The writing part of my brain, anyway. So I just turn into this feelsy retard that can't think straight. In the same way a fanatic of any book won't be happy with any one adaptation, I'm not happy with any final version of what I'd like my beloved story to be like on paper. I love the characters so much that immortalizing in any one way and stressing any one theme seems unbearable in the moment.

I think this goes to show why professional writers are so much better at being, well, fucking writers. When your livelihood is at stake, when it's about being the breadwinner for your children, you don't really give a fuck about what you want. You care about what the readers want. But when you're doing your special snowflake life-long projects, it doesn't work that way.

Anyway, thanks for the ego boost. I'm glad I didn't post any of my "real" writing because that would probably get shit on for how idiosyncratic it is.

You seem a self-defeatist much like I've been slowly growing out of. It was ironic I replied to both your posts, but perhaps not? The Laws of Attraction are a very real thing.

I've learned, and am still practicing, to block out that doubtful voice. As you said, I also speak almost entire out of experience. But when you sit down and just write, and you're skilled enough to know how, the waters flow. But as soon as you build it up in your mind, it becomes something that can fall. The trick is to not build it up. To not idealize your passion, but appreciate it. Let it be no different than a quickie in terms of scale within your mind. Otherwise it'll weigh you down and crush you before you've given yourself a chance to unload it. You can't really fail, you can only not do well or improve. This is only more true as you get better and practice.

For people like yourself and I, it's all about getting past mental blocks.

Thank you for the help!

I liked it, but it feels a bit meatless/thin, might just be a result of me not knowing the setting/characters.

Doesn't feel natural, the theme seems like navel-gazing too, although I liked the imagery.

Not sure about this, on the good side though

I meant to add, and forgot, that when you do dialog, you don't need all the he says she says. With how you've done it, simply putting 'he says' after the second 'what' is sufficient enough, and still isn't necessary. It's clear who's talking just by saying 'babe'.

The sun went down with practiced bravado. Twilight crawled across the sky, laden with foreboding. Joe and I sit and stare at the wall of the building. The building is beige, but the shadows make it shadow-color. Aerosolized grease. When I think of aerosolized grease, I think of Charlene. The fine mist the splatter of boiling oil would leave slowly accumulating on every surface of the kitchen. The gleaming exterior of a perfectly fried wing. We were an unstoppable team, her on the fryer, me with the sauce. We could outpace any demand, even on Super Bowl Sunday, and management knew how we kept the place running. But Charlene flew too close to the sun on our red-hot vinegary wings of tender goodness. We had a double double sixty-four order of destiny delivered to us that fateful night.

>is there hope

I'm interested in the conflict and the way you set it up but the first two sentences are too descriptive. It's not clear what the sun setting has to do with the conflict and even if there is a connection it could be stated in a more simple way.

oh yeah and don't pay attention to my use of "allaying". it's cut from the revised version, forgot to upload it

>giant wall of text with no indents, line breaks and bad punctuation throughout
nope

Either tonight or tomorrow, I'm considering posting a story I finally finished after meaning to write it forever. I can't promise it's exciting. But it's thought out and has a purpose. I just want thoughts on it and advice or what was taken from it. Its 4,281 words and mostly edited. I may have some errors still, but nothing detracting.
Would someone be willing to read it, all of it, if I posted it? I only ask before posting because I don't want to put it all online if no one will look at it.

don't read joyce or faulkner homey

The steam condensed upon his face and poured over his weathered cheek bones. He avoided direct contact with the water by sitting at the leftmost end of the shower. It was three years past when Matthew had the custom bath and shower installed, at the behest of his wife. The brochure tried tremendously to dignify the seated tub, as did Fantine. However, no amount of false dignity would convince Matthew he needed seats in the shower; they weren't "that old." Moreover, the entire installation cost over four thousand dollars. Internally, he hated the idea of buying such an expenditure; externally, he managed a smile and agreed with his wife. Presently, he found himself glad he had agreed with her. What a difference three years can make; Matthew knew it better than anyone. He couldn't bear the scalding water on his flesh as he once could. With time, he came to appreciate the steam just as well. After all, a lukewarm shower wasn't quite so terrible if proceeded by a steam bath.

Any good?

I have a short story that needs some work. However, I'm hoping to submit it to literary journals. Is there some way I can put it in this thread discretely?

You can do what I did here:

You're not Joyce sweetie

No. Not unless you find someone willing to let you email it to them. Otherwise anyway you post it here someone can look at it.

I don't buy the excuse of some great writer breaking the rules making it OK to avoid punctuation and organization. user is presumably not a famous writer or else he wouldn't be here.

Not including paragraphs in writing anything longer than a paragraph is just bad manners. As readers we should not have to work that hard to find meaning in an excerpt.

Sundiata admitió entonces que sus últimos momentos acudían ahí, a pesar de esforzarse y matarse entanto por dominar a su enemigo, no conseguía hacer que éste dejase bajar la guardia; a pesar de seguir intentándolo otra y otra vez, veía como todos sus sudores eran en ningún periquete tenían el efecto ora deseado; otra oración orada al amo supremo, otro conato que era amargo fallo, no podía imaginarse el fracaso; la alternativa a no obtener el triunfo ora significaba acabar arrebatandole todo lo que él estimaba.
Sundiata admiró como en sus últimos momentos el hechicero osaba vacilando, andando, cantando; hechizando todo el lugar arrojando humo y nubarolas de extremos colores, miles de ellos.

Opinions pls.

Sudaca

:(

that wasn't helpfull.

Ever since he departed from me I have resided idly, in a constant state of loneliness, longing uselessly for his return. I have felt since that a piece of my being departed with him, and found itself a home inside him wherever he may be. In this way I am always with him, and he is always with me, but it is not substantial. That piece of me.. my heart, my soul.. will stay stretched across this vast Earth to be with him. Until I can catch up with it, I will miss him, and continue to feel that aching pull.

Tom was gripped so mercilessly by his fatigue he felt as though on drugs, his being floating inside him, but separate; suspended in a membrane. The smell of the long black grounded him somewhat. Sitting at that table, one hundred conversations going on around him. One hundred people walking past that coffee stand, shopping, talking, blinking, breathing, thinking. Tom alone, smelling the coffee, trying to dissolve into the stagnant centre air. He’d dreamed last night four or five dreams, but only remembered one: his mother, like a surgeon, removing a large and pale yellow kumera from his asshole in one swift go.

"Only one more hour," he thought. "Only one more hour and then I can go home and I can sleep."