What are you writing? /Critique thread/

No critique thread anywhere. Post your drafts, story ideas, whatever, anything goes and other anons rate.

Other urls found in this thread:

fluland.com/2017/06/23/red-shift-ryan-silva/
pastebin.com/9BNaqwT1
youtube.com/watch?v=-2KZI3AHdi4
cosmoetica.com/B950-AS5.htm
theondioline.wordpress.com/tag/e-e-cummings-2/
vidwrites.wordpress.com/2017/04/21/house-chapter-01/
poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/49006
warpedspacetime.wordpress.com/2016/09/22/conscious-sacrifice/
twitter.com/NSFWRedditImage

fluland.com/2017/06/23/red-shift-ryan-silva/

Already had it published, but been workshopping here in bits and pieces over the past month.

Doubt is the grindstone to the sword of reason.

I met the owner of a publishing company last night. We talked for a while and he seemed sincerely curious about what my writing. He asked me "what are you writing at the moment?" and fucking somehow I ended up sperging out and basically listing statistics about refugee crime in Sweden and Germany until he said he had to leave. I'm so fucking retarded. Please kill me.

Currently working on a Catcher in the Rye / Less than Zero inspired novel about an art hoe going to school in Chicago. Themes about innocence lost, lack of human connection, etc. Excerpt attatched.

I like the premise, but the alliteration in the opener is pretty distracting, especially since it's so different from the rest of the prose.

Vaporwave retrospective is a great touch.

Some of the passages, like
>"Then, a thirty year old French magnate stepped in, a magnate by the name of Martin de Kuhn, buying out Musk’s shares. And then the project went silent for almost thirty years."
read a little awkwardly because words are repeated (then, magnate). This is really hard to edit for yourself, so I recommend getting a friend and/or software to do it.

In general, try to make as many sentences as you can brief, and only repeat words or use multiple clauses when you want to create certain effects.

Like I said, though, this was fun and I'm glad I read it.

Good aphorism. Consider using a word other than "reason," especially on the internet, since there's a connotation of edgelord there.

Brilliant satire of /pol/.
If this is true, I'm so sorry.

Here is mine, I'm looking to an autobio with some humour (critique virgin bee soft)

. In the eyes of the social upper class at Hilltop High, I am the most undesirable and lame person to ever step foot in these halls. Even all the teachers, instructors, advisers, lunch ladies, janitors, disciplinary counselors, and coaches can't hide their outright hatred of me. That's how bad it was. There are numerous examples of this, but just to set the stage here one time, I was in homeroom and the teacher Mr. Jacket was announcing our grades for our classes, and when it came to be my turn, Mr. Jacket had me stand in the front of the classroom and proceeded to tell me he was shocked I had actually passed a class! He was actually proud of me for once, and maybe things were finally turning around for ol sam, academically speaking that is. A spark of joy appeared on my face, and that was his signal. He punched me directly in the solar plexus and shrieked at the top of his lungs that I had failed, obviously, and took my grade sheet, crumpled it up, and made me eat it. This is a true story. Oh brother! With all the wind knocked out of me and a big paper ball in my mouth, all I could do was loudly and pathetically groan in front of my dearest classmates, who, by the way, were all busy uploading photos of my embarassing public failure to every social media site possible and laughing mercilessly. Traumatic, right? I had no idea what I had done to make them all hate me so much, but they clearly did. I guess it's pretty clear from that story that I didn't have the best of grades either. I don't really want to talk about it, but I'd say it's a little bit more than that. I mean I didn't even know how to frickin read until I was 15! I was that stupid. The trauma associated with seeing words on pages or anything else created a mental block that made reading super hard. I only eventually learned the skill of reading from comparing the lyrics I had heard out loud in the songs to the words in the liner notes of all my Marilyn Manson albums, and from the word puzzles and fun games on the back of cereal boxes. And also my dad's yellow pages that he left all over the house. Gotta love dad and his yellow pages. Good thing ol dad collected those yellow pages. In school, though everyone noticed how weird and melodramatic and also incorrect my grammar was, I got pounded even more.

I recall a particularly dark moment when I was in english 101 class, which I failed and had to redo, and the teacher Mrs. Tants said it was my turn to read aloud from the text book. It was really lame and boring basic english stuff that I didn't even understand anyway. You know, textbook stuff. So's I thought I might spice things up a little bit and that would be cool, and my classmates would think it was awesome and cool if I added my own "spin" to some of the writing. So I added words like "Gilgamesh" and "black steel rimmed helm" "Lucifer X" and "two-handed crimson broadsword". To my surprise, everyone burst out laughing at me! I got seriously pantsed that day by everyone in the classroom including the security guards. I have no idea what I did wrong. I thought, "maybe it was all their faults. They just didn't realize how cool the words were that I was using. Yeah that's it! Right over their heads!" But I was starting to realize that maybe I was missing something, other than my pants for once.

I've got an idea for a short story/novel.
Not sure yet. Still working on it.

>Title - Kevin: The Monster Slayer

> Kevin is a thirteen year old horror movie buff who is sent to summer camp upstate for a few weeks.
> He hates it because he doesn't know anyone there besides his sister.
> His sister Jane(16) is a camp counselor who is mainly there for one reason only:
To impress some idiot jock named Garry, who is also a counselor.
> Kevin meets two new friends, a girl named Sally and a guy named Steve (13 and 14). They all like watching horror movies, so they really hit it off.
> Day 3 and a camper goes missing.
> The next few days go by searching for her and two counselors vanish as well.
> After a week, a kid drowns in the lake.
> Garry finds the body. It has a visible bruise on his leg that indicates that the kid was pulled under by someone/something.
> After investigating further, Garry goes missing.
>Jane, upset after Garry's disappearance, decides to go looking for him. Kevin and his friends tag along to help.
> It quickly gets dark and they begin using their flashlights to make their way back to camp.
> They get lost in the woods.
> They stumble across a clearing with a pumpkin patch (It's summer, so it's odd).
> There are four scarecrows. Each of the scarecrows are the bodies of the missing campers and counselors.
>After freaking out, they make their way back to camp, returning to everyone gathered around a fire making smores.
> All four of the missing teens are there too, having a great time and singing campfire songs.
> The drowned kid shows up too, wet from swimming, but otherwise fine.
> Kevin's group is extremely confused and terrified.
> Jane secretly inspects the drowned kids leg. Bruise is still there.
>Time for scary stories
> A silly ghost story.
> One about a werewolf.
> It's Kevin's turn.
> He re-tells the events of the past week.
> The other campers laugh, calling it a good story.
> He pulls out his cell phone.
> The group took pictures of the pumpkin patch with their cellphones for proof.
> They stop laughing.
> The drowned kid starts coughing up water.
> Now he's practically gushing like a fire hydrant.
> The fire goes out.
> Screams are heard.
> Kevin turns his flashlight on.
> He's alone.

The rest follows him as he tries to rescue his friends and his sister, who were kidnapped by monsters and ghosts. The camp never really existed, and has been a trap for human children for decades. He uses his knowledge of horror tropes to outsmart and escape the clutches of some terrifying creatures, saving his friends and his sister.

The writing is pretty good as far as I can tell. I’m not that experienced though. As for the content, I’d have to read more to get a good idea of whether or not it’s interesting. I do find Eris a bit annoying. Not necessarily because I disagree with her, but because of how she says things. But I feel like that’s maybe what you were trying to do with her character.

>’cause of these thin little dribbles
I would maybe just say “thin dribbles”. “Thin little” seems a bit redundant and adjective heavy. But maybe I’m just channeling my friend who always tells me I use too many adjectives in my writing.

>’cause I needed a history credit but she took it ‘cause…
I wonder if this would read better as “ ‘cause I needed a history credit; she took it ‘cause…” Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t particularly like the “but” in there. Maybe changing it to an “and” would work too.

its shit

My shitty hunter s thompson with a supernatural spin WIP

pastebin.com/9BNaqwT1

Why do you need a critique thread full of shitty critiques when you can email the greatest living writer for one?

youtube.com/watch?v=-2KZI3AHdi4

I always end up hating what I write but recently I started writing a story about a guy who just wants to sort his taxes out. Except he lives in a pocket of time removed from reality and so spends the entirety of the book getting in wacky space hijinks on his way to just get his taxes sorted out because he was overcharged on his dimension tax. And he can't phone them because the people in charge of the inter dimensional tax office switched to telepathy a while ago.

It sounds kind of campy and genre fictiony, which is fine so long as you know that's what you're writing.

I'm not really sold on the idea, but maybe with good execution it could be fun.

One area that might stretch the reader's belief in the story is that if kids are going missing and dying, why aren't the police and parents getting involved? I understand that that's because the camp is really a trap for humans, but it still might raise questions. What I'm getting at is there should be a reason why adults are not called in, either no cellphone reception or landlines are done or something.

I think the idea sounds like it could be fun, but I caution you to avoid making it a pastiche of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I do like the idea of the protagonist trying to accomplish a mundane task and being messed with by powers beyond his control.

I've never read Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and I'm still worried it will end up being compared to it.

And I agree with you, there's something really funny about somebody trying to accomplish something simple and being stopped at every turn by forces beyond our imagination. The juxtaposition is too funny. It's not the book I always wanted to write but it's the only one I've gotten joy out of writing. Maybe it's a case of "you don't choose x, x chooses you".

Thanks for the endorsement of the idea though.

Here’s a scene from something I’m working on. How terrible is it?

I woke up with dark puffy circles under my eyes. I don’t know how. I slept more last night that I have in a long time. Getting ready for work was like trying to run through water. Sludging back and forth in my apartment. Forgetting to put a mug under my coffee maker. A comedy for whoever was watching. I didn’t even have time to check my painting before leaving, even though my routine normally allows for it.
By the time I arrived at work I was ready to go back to bed. I rushed to the bathroom without speaking to anybody and splashed cold water on my face. My lack of productivity over the past two days meant I was behind on all of my projects. I needed to accomplish something – anything – today.
The bathroom door booming open interrupted my thoughts. It was Noah.
“Hey there Emir. Late night, eh?” He must have caught me splashing my face.
“Actually no. But I’m still tired for some reason.”
Noah made his way to the urinals and unzipped. “What d’ya mean no? I saw you here last night.” I always hated when he did this. Talk to me while relieving himself. Always made me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to respond. This must be one of Noah’s jokes. “Well, not you you. I saw your computer was on.”
“Wait, hold on, what?”
“Couldn’t help noticing you were working on something.”
“Noah, I didn’t come back last night.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Noah craned his neck to look at me. I tried to avoid making eye contact with his reflection. “What was that you were working on anyway? Looked kind of old-timey.”
“I don’t– what were you doing here?”
“Huh? Oh, I forgot my phone. Left the sonuvabitch right on my desk too. You know what they say about head’s being attached, right?” Noah made an exaggerated hip shake, zipped up and approached the sinks. “Anyway, I was in and out so I must have missed you.”
“It wasn’t me. Somebody must’ve been using my computer.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t wanna let me in on your secret project. That’s fine.” Noah dispensed an excessive amount of paper towels and wadded them into a ball. He grinned at me and in his cheesy announcer’s voice said, “Here comes Noah Weber, MVP, lining up at the three-point line, ready to take a shot. He shoots, he… shit.” Noah’s toss’s distance was good, but his aim was off to the left by about a foot. Noah bounced over to his wadded up paper towel, picked it up and slam-dunked it into the trash. “Just don’t pull too many all-nighters. Making us look bad is all.”
I stared at my reflection for a few seconds after Noah’s bathroom antics. Somebody using my computer was odd. Anybody working on this floor would have their own computer. Maybe I just forgot to log out before going home. In any case, the mystery stimulated my mind enough to wake me up again.

Sounds funny, I like it

Really, really bad. Almost Irredeemably bad, but I thought that a couple lines of dialogue were alright.

Your prose is just really awkward and clunky. It doesn't flow at all, and the only thing that saves my eyes from melting is that it's dialogue heavy and I don't have to read through more terrible descriptive sentences.

>I woke up with
You should never want to start something with an I statement like that. Especially if it's waking up. It's exceptionally trite and makes me roll my eyes before I've even gotten through your first sentence.

>I don't know how
Delete it. It doesn't need to be there. You can either have it implied with the first sentence, since the narrator does not explain why he does have them, or you can incorporate it into a sentence that flows better like this:
For some odd reason I awoke with dark puffy circles under my eyes.

>I slept more last night than I have in a long time
Why is this here? I know what you're trying to imply, but it's far too simple and inconsequential to grasp the readers attention. I do not care about your characters sleeping habits, and I doubt other readers will as well. Almost everyone gets less sleep than they should, so having that as some implication of something odd going on is boring.

>Getting ready for work was like trying to run through water
Overly overt similes like this can be pretty annoying, and ultimately does not even make sense for what you're trying to describe. Running through water is not at all the same feeling or experience as waking up groggy and tired and trying to slog through your morning routine.

>Sludging back and forth
>Forgetting to put
>A comedy for
Grammatically incorrect tense shifts and very annoying to read through. Consider making it one or two sentences like this, rather than breaking them all apart for whatever odd effect you're attempting to accomplish:
>Getting ready for work was a true comedy that found me pushing through molasses and messing up every aspect of my morning routine.

>Check my painting before leaving
Makes absolutely no sense without context.

>I always hated when he did this. Talk to me while relieving himself. Always made me feel uncomfortable
Don't do this. Don't break something that should be one sentence into three sentences without even rephrasing the sentences to be grammatically correct. Should be like this:
I always hated when he talked to me while relieving himself.

You don't need to tell the reader that it makes the character feel uncomfortable. We gather that fact when he says that he hates it. Anything in the bathroom with other people is already implied to be uncomfortable.

I could keep going for every sentence, but I don't really have that much time. The story itself seems kinda boring, and something that I have already read multiple times. I can already see where it's going and I don't find it very interesting, to be honest.

Their down-turned faces, captured in aguish and sorrow do stare out from eyeless marble luminous, trapped within the permanent fixture that captures them, many that stand atop the edge of this wide and long platform, their many hands reaching out into the void beyond them, twisting, clutching at air as if falling from this high place, but their cemented feet do not slip, and the many high pillars that rise up out of that deep gulf climb up into a new atmosphere with thick columns, and their distance does not forgive highnesses, because the capitals of these pillars that do hang with thick lilies, and heavy decorum, are lost behind the many bellies of many bridges that do glow in this thick mist above their heads, but they traipse forward, half-listed by fascination that pulls their eyes from a half-obscured road and do transfix them with human faces that promise emotions that they have not yet experienced in their lives, and the countenance of these not-living human shaped things reads terror at this presentness that does hold them so, as if they understood and could comprehend the forevers that will hold them fast, and if they would experience the burning time that will plague them as all eternity does plague the living, for there is no eternity soft enough or empty enough to comfort the plagued brief existence of man and make such static and nauseating permanence tolerable for him who moves livingly.

Currently I'm thinking of doing either a fallout or elder scrolls inspired story but not entirely sure which one to go with

This really annoys me. You're trying way too hard to look smart and ultimately make a ton of mistakes that make you look like an amateur. You're not Proust or Faulkner, don't attempt to write page long sentences. It's also exceptionally purple; you use a lot of words and description but barely say anything. It's far too distracting for anyone to enjoy it, awful prose and writing skill aside. A couple lines would have even been absolutely fine if you did not try so hard.

Their down-turned faces captured in anguish and sorrow do stare out from marble luminous eyes trapped within permanent fixtures. Standing atop the edge of this wide and long platform, their many hands reach out into the void beyond, twisting and clutching at air as if falling from this high place. But their cemented feet do not slip, and the many high pillars rise up from that deep gulf and climb into a new atmosphere.

And after that I'm completely lost with trying to rewrite, because I barely have any idea what you're even trying to fucking say. Jesus, man. If I can barely even make it through a few sentences while line editing, don't expect any reader to.

>Noah’s toss’s distance was good,
You have zero sense for descriptive writing.

Anything that gives a bad opinion of The Oath of the Horatii, which is an absolute masterpiece, I hold a lot of contempt for. I feel like Erin is far too unlikable:there's being a pretentious pseud, and then there's just being fucking insufferable, which nobody really wants to read about. It's also rather unbelievable that anyone would complain about a university/college being too conservative and reactionary, when that's not really something that exists these days. Seems a bit detached from reality, in my opinion.

>There's this vomit splat on the sidewalk that looks like the Nickelodean logo
This is unbelievably trite and juvenile. Please refrain from using annoying pop culture references as descriptions. I'm sure you can come up with a more natural description for vomit.

>I ask Eris what a reactionary is.
Really awkward formatting. You need to use a colon there, at least.

>When I stop her, she goes "eep," walks around it, and says thanks.
Awkward syntax when compared to the rest of the writing. Your prose is very inconsistent.

It's pretty bad, but I don't really have much to work with here. It's very inconsistent and annoying to read. your writing is really all over the place. The content itself is also very annoying. It's hard to say much without seeing the rest of the story, but if it continues on like this I would burn it myself. Having a liberal pseud ranting about anything traditional doesn't make for very good reading, and the narrator seems to be far too passive. Not once in that page did I see any personality from the narrator. You tell me what Eris is doing, but you don't give any clue as to how the narrator feels about it, or what he thinks about it.

It was a characteristically bleak winters day in Duisburg, a seemingly endless drizzle of rain accompanied by a cold harsh wind that seemed to cut right down to the flesh.
A day where the worlds color pallet seemed to have been reduced to nothing but varying shades of gray. The sun had yet to rise and it was looking rather unlikely that it would make an appearance anytime soon.
It did not look like the beginning of a day that anyone would want to remember, let alone one that anyone would want to write about. And it may have remained that way if it hadn’t been for one particular girl.
I first noticed the bright yellow color just out of the corner of my eye, it stood out against the sea of muted grays like a single dandelion standing tall in a field of ash.
And at that moment it was as if the clouds parted and the sun began to shine, I found myself smiling, yet unable to explain why. And as I exited the tram and we walked together up the hill, I began to dread the moment we would part ways...

can you begin a sentence with but?

“Why dost thou persecute me, Saturn?” Asks mother White, and she extends her hands, and the walls are illumined with an ancient glow that momentarily reveals the ancient plan inscribed therein that does depict arrow and cannon and spear, and all is seen, and as such so is Saturn convinced to swallow that gun, yes, and to point that barrel upwards indeed, and to blast that palate to milkshake cream, and his forefinger is clenched, but lo, how dost he pull this trigger twice? And all that once was a head is a head no longer, and he drops to his knees, kneeling, whereas his consciousness is forced to surrender all immediate knowledges forfeit upon the departure of the present soul, therefore rendering all possession of identities vain upon departure, and furthermore, dissolving the identity. Thus, the soul that belonged once to the name of Saturn was indeed baptized of that identity, and dissolved of all associations with it, thus rendering the holy spirit holy indeed. By this presence we do intend to associate the soul as an individual unit an entity, and grant it independent sentience from the self-identity, of which this is to be considered an essential component. It seems that the thing that was really and actually Saturn emerges quite untouched by the filth that was Saturn, and does shed those terrible clothes and filthy and besmirched, and walks about both naked and invisible for quite the while in the pure innocence of vibrant youth. The dead body drops to the floor cold.

Cruelty shapes my mind. She is a beautiful mistress, but her talons leave a trail of broken hearts. I pop the balloons, I torment the fragile. But I love them! I want them to be free as I am.
No lies, lies are weak.
But am I free? I bathe in knowledge, I spew knowledge, I drink it. Yet I am left with questions; is that the end of Truth? The higher truth shapes the lower. Meta-truth.
Am I strong? I can torment others; I have been tormented - so is it strength in any sense?

Power? Ha! Miserable pile of secrets.

Lost and entangled the concurrent waves of nooses do surface repeatedly and secretly and the hands extend against that tide that does encapsulate this full dimension of condensed tensions hidden down here in the dark. Legions of lesions reaching and crushing, pulling and rushing with vacuums of strange directions strung dangling from rafters of loose coils that grasp and release ceaselessly, grasping repeatedly with egret beaks and socratic teeth seething, grieving incessantly this abrasive barrage of extraterrestrial filaments groping at the thick layers of opening spaces that convey him and his flung body through battering avalanches of adamant passages angular and sharp that grate against hard plates not white in this lightless place but crystalline and unruptured by the stabbing probes that graze him with emaciated encasements strange and wet, thin sheets of thick saliva unbraced collisions that twist through rotations of flashlight beams spinning whirlibird drifting as the shifting shafts of oily putrescence part readily in hateful embrace, catching that mote that sinks ever deeper, though the walls of columnar limbs collapsing perpetually crash and rush with fitful business, writhing within this bottomless pit that knows no rest, but the cramped confines of a nesting entity monstrous and full contained within those gates that he has opened by the names he has known and the learned things he has unleashed that now do envelop him in thick forms unidentifiable and bizarre that loop through armpits that slip with hands upraised and do propel him thus further into the crushing weight of the great brood of pythons pressing and his head turned feet that somersault against slick ropes animate that clutch kicking ankles and dangle him over these open depths that his phosphorescent halo of explorative lights peer into to find no more than the opaque thickness of some thing that does not reflect light all about him, though the slippery holds does release, and his plummeting frame does plunge through the thick layers of cocooning phlegm that wrap about him like wet sheets sticky and numb, succumbing to the slothful glue that binds him so in fizzing acid, and he wipes at a glass visor of helmet that bubbles up with fiery foams distant and eager that burn fervently though that membrane does not break, and the locomotive peristalsis of ten thousand grasping appendages strong and tight crush his shell with futile pressure, though the dismal depth of this lostest place does absolve all trace of hope if this bravest explorer did ever care for such blind sentiments unpossessed that cannot impress him, but this tumultuous void of sliding coils abstract and bizarre that shimmer with dark iridescence present and brilliant, shimmering against the blue light he emits in this pit with prisms of shimmering ink.

Yeah, why wouldn't you be able to? Your teachers who told you to not start a sentence with 'and' are wrong also.

I love you.

I do want to go back through and cut up quite a few sentences, but I'm kinda scared to do so. Writing without sentences gives me so much momentum that I really can't stop, but I'm almost finished, and I'd like the edit to go over as smoothly as possible.

Writing quickly does not equate to good writing. Take the time to do it properly. If you just throw away grammar rules and good prose to write faster you will develop bad habits and lose sight of what you're actually trying to say. You'll go back after you're done and get lost in a labyrinth of words that barely make any sense. Not editing as you go is a garbage meme, I swear. Make sure that you say things properly before you say more things. It doesn't have to be perfect the first time through, but it should at least make sense and be consistent.

I've always had a thing for early morning jogs. I've been doing this for a long time - setting up the alarm for 6 in the morning and eventually getting up at 10 AM after resetting it a hundred times. This is the story of me eventually managing to get up on time, the joy that came with it and... the horror.

So as with all days I set my alarm for 6 AM in the morning and went to sleep. I remember nothing more but being woken up by a friend of mine and his girl friend, who I didn't not like. I was seated in the back seat of a jeep - as we call it here in india. We were on a road trip through the coutryside making out way through a bunch of idyllic villages in the middle of no where and making it back by Sunday. Atleast that was the plan.
Half way through the journey we stopped to get refreshments and fuel. This was in a small village - mind you we still had a long way to go. RIght there I hear a noise - a loud one - I knew something wasn't right. I felt as if I was transported to another realm , eventually finding myself back on my bed. I had actually woken up at 6 AM for once, and it felt terrible.

I have no idea what you're attempting to write, but it isn't a narrative. And if you're trying to go for some stream of consciousness style, it's very poorly done.


I'm guessing that this is yours tooCritique is basically the same as your other passage. Except here you somehow manage to have even more grievous prose. There's not really any narrative, and I'm unsure of what exactly you're trying to say other than "look at how smart I am, look at all of these words I can use." That's genuinely what I thought as I was attempting to read through it. It seems like you're writing for yourself rather than any potential reader, because nobody would want to read that. Even if you smoothed it out and structured it into readable sentences, there isn't really much there. It's a lot of words and no content. And to top it off, a lot of the words are completely redundant.

>It was a characteristically bleak winters day in Duisburg, a seemingly endless drizzle of rain accompanied by a cold harsh wind that seemed to cut right down to the flesh.
Comma splice, also exceptionally trite. You spend the first paragraph describing the weather, which is such a juvenile trope. You could have cut down the first few sentences to:
It was a bleak winters day of varying shades of gray in Duisburg. The wind cut through my flesh and rain endlessly drizzled throughout the town.

>It did not look like the beginning of a day that anyone would want to remember, let alone one that anyone would want to write about.
Okay, cool. Don't write about it then. And don't insert annoying authorial asides that contribute nothing and only serve to distract and detach readers from the narrative.

>I first noticed the bright yellow color just out of the corner of my eye, it stood out against the sea of muted grays like a single dandelion standing tall in a field of ash.
Another comma splice. A single dandelion standing tall in a field of ash is also a really ridiculous image, and a bit extreme for the scene you're attempting to describe, but okay. I'll work with it:
I noticed her vibrancy in the corner of my eye, standing out among a sea of gray.

>And at that moment
Never start a sentence with this, to save my and others sanity. You may as well just say "and it came to pass," so that we can at least member and get some sweet biblical allusion.

Now let's look at the sentence in full
>And at that moment it was as if the clouds parted and the sun began to shine, I found myself smiling, yet unable to explain why.
Yet another comma splice, and annoying narration. Don't tell me that you cannot explain why. If your narrator cannot explain something, then don't mention it at all. Keep it simple:
The clouds and sun in my eyes began to part and shine. I began to smile.

Okay, now that we have that out of the way, let's combine all that to see how many useless words you had:

It was a bleak winters day of varying shades of gray in Duisburg. The wind cut through my flesh and rain endlessly drizzled throughout the town. I noticed her vibrancy in the corner of my eye, standing out among a sea of gray. The clouds and sun in my eyes began to part and shine. I began to smile. And as I exited the tram and walked with her up a hill I began to dread the moment we would part.

Nice, we managed to keep a few sentences.

Why is this board obsessed with writing first person narratives about sleeping? The only thing you're going to do is put me to sleep.

>I've been doing this for a long time--
The dash here doesn't really make any sense. If you really want to separate it, just use a colon.

>This is the story of
Can you not? You don't need to tell me that I'm reading a story. I already know. You've also already made it well apparent that it's about sleeping.

>and...the horror
Never use ellipses like this, what the hell man. They're only ever acceptable in dialogue. And even then it can be questionable a lot of the time. Just write: the joy and horror that came with it.

I'm not going to continue going, because I cannot really tell if you're serious with this. I also have a policy where I don't spend more time critiquing/editing than you apparently spent writing.

This was the first time I´ve written something, thanks for encouragement Veeky Forums.

Everything starts in a small hut, at the edge of the Qasim desert, not far from the Eastern Cities. Niniveth is giving birth to our Hero, but let us not talk about this yet. Her brother is dripping in sweat as he finishes bringing from afar three buckets filled with water, to aid the birthing of Him. Everything goes as usual, lots of pain included, and the new life comes to be, and a death also. Because every hero has his own tragedy, he couldn´t have escaped his own, for he was the vector for the death of both his mother and uncle.
As he flies around in circles, crying for food and care, a strange bird approaches and throws a fit against him.

Thanks, grateful for the constructive criticism. Just starting out.

Hopefully it's the last, too.

Context, I've moved back to my parents house from Europe after failing engineering Uni. Personal Journal entry.

Why do I look so sad? I see what could only be described as emptiness in my eyes. I don't see hope or joy, excitement or desire. Just the stare of two blank eyes paired with lips that are pursed forming something that certainly isn't a smile, but also isn't a frown. Lips neither turned up nor down. Cheeks pale and sunken in, eyes surrounded by dark heavy bags. God, I look tired.
It's not that I don't feel better here, as in home. I wouldn't say I really feel any different at all. I'm taking better care of myself, eating more and drinking plenty. Which is definitely an improvement. Socially I'm definitely doing worse. I miss feeling close to someone else. I miss feeling accepted for who I am. But I've never really had a problem with being on my own. How can I really be disappointed if I haven't really put any effort at all into meeting people. Can't fail if you don't try I suppose. Besides, my restless thoughts keep me company. I don't often have the extra mental capacity to even consider the fact that fundamentally I am all alone. My mind is too preoccupied with anxious thoughts and meticulous over analysation. Along with doing it's best to rationalize it's own existence. Not content with the conclusion that life has no real meaning.
What is depression if not just another perception of reality? Who's to say which perception is the correct one? Not like I chose to have this view of the world. Seems to me, that in the end, ignorance is really bliss. For how could one truly ever be happy with even just a realistic view of life. Is happiness just something we can convince ourselves of. Sure, there are positive things in life. Sellflessness, love, artistic expression, family. Somewhere along the lines, I stopped worrying about my own happiness and started to put the happiness of others first. I wasn't happy with who I was and I struggled to make myself happy. But at least I could make others laugh or smile. I've done this so long, tried to please others, that I no longer am even aware of what I want. I want to want things. To be irrational, emotional. To feel things besides sadness or hopelessness. To just feel something and then to mindlessly act on it.
To just be myself. But I've pushed my emotions so far deep down that letting go has become harder than simply keeping it all bottled up. What I want becomes a question of rationalization and logic, rather than a question of desire or passion
Anyway, that's what I'm currently struggling with. Objects don't fill the void and neither do
relationships. How could I ever truly make anyone else happy when I can't even make myself happy.

wull no. It's 200 pages long and this is sort of a half random paragraph from it. I'm honestly here to learn more about cutting my sentences down but the subject is pretty surreal, and getting lost in the head place of what is occurring is what I'm about, so yeah, this should lack a lot of context but

>people in power suits have opened the door to hell and all that is within is just depths of tentacles, so

>also the space before the door to hell was an ice palace beneath antarctica.

but yeah, I'm sorry you feel that way. gonna go scrap it now.

>This black sheep gave away all his wool, leaving none left over to cover his own body; he self-sacrificed for the good of others; he is virtuous, ironically. He is an outstanding sheep, and 'person' for that matter: polite, generous, conscientious, etc. Why, he's no black sheep at all, in principle; only in color. So he is not a 'pure' black sheep. And yet, and also therefore, in he exemplifies the metaphorical concept of the black sheep: the exception to the rule; the opposite of expectation, fundamentally.

Are my semi-colons getting out of control? Are they correct, technically? Why did it take me over an hour to write that? How much longer will I have to do this before I become Freidrich Nietzche? Or at least sound in writing like someone from his era?

The woman was drunk
The man was too

They both did what
Drunkards do

He kicked his legs out of his pants
She hoisted her skirt ready to dance

They both did what
Drunkards do

Once they were done
Having their fun

They both did what
Drunkards do

In the morning they woke
Neither one spoke

They both did what
Drunkards do

Laying in bed
lost in their head

They both did what
Drunkards do

She sat up after noon
And said he had to leave soon

So
They both did what
Drunkards do

I want to write a thriller where a corrupt law enforcement chief jails his enemies by planting CP on their computers.

The twist is that hackers get a hold of his program and suddenly almost every connected device in the world has CP on it.

Do you think it's too far fetched or absurd?

Thanks for the encouragement.

I'm not sure whether or not I'll cut "thin" or "little," but your advice is well taken.

The semicolon is a great suggestion.

I think you're a special case as far as level of annoyance goes — most people don't have such strong opinions about art. I feel very strongly about The Oath of the Horatii (and neoclassicism more broadly) too, but I don't think the average reader will be quite as offended as you. Still, glad it struck a nerve.

The pop culture reference has less to do with description and more to do with the symbolic order. Cartoons are emblematic of childhood. The narrator feels the need to prevent Eris from stepping in something cartoonish, and Eris is actively disgusted by it. If it really comes off that poorly, would there be a better way to establish this same theme?

I'll get a second opinion about the dialog. Glad you mentioned this.

Could you expand a bit on what you mean by "inconsistent"? I'm not sure I understand what you mean.

The narrator's passivity is one of her two major flaws, the other being apathy. Over the arc of the novel, she develops a yearning for higher beauty, but the university can't support it and she's not bright enough to pursue it without guidance. Likewise, the people who she surrounds herself with are averse to the past, and don't see the value in traditionalist projects.

Thanks to all so far for the advice. Pic related is the updated page.

>============================================

You're not Fitzgerald, but don't give up. The first two sentences of this were engaging, and the content of the third is interesting. The rest could use rephrasing, mostly to simplify and/or add specificity.

Patrician of Athens has good advice for the most part. I especially agree with his assessment of the simile — if you have to explain a metaphor/simile, then you shouldn't use it. The reason these devices exist is because they can condense a paragraph, rather than expand it.

The tense shifts are also good to watch for.

Yes. Usually it reads kind of bluntly, but bluntness can be good in certain contexts. As long as you're careful not to overuse it, you'll be alright.

I usually try to give helpful feedback, but this reads like bad fanfiction and/or a teenager's fetlife profile. Sorry man.

For a first time this isn't bad.

Try not to emphasize the hero's grandiosity as much as you are — it doesn't further the story and it creates expectations that you'll have a really hard time delivering on. I know "Show, don't tell," is a cliche, but it applies here.

In general, backstory should be kept to a minimum, and seldom front-loaded. Weave it in throughout the piece.

I'd try to avoid using this many semicolons, generally one or two per paragraph is plenty. Don't channel Nietzsche if you're starting out as a writer. His philosophy excuses his generally-overwritten prose.

I'd read it.

>Don't channel Nietzsche if you're starting out as a writer.
What if I'm a couple years into it already?

Still probably a bad idea. His aphorisms are his best writing, because the format kept him from obfuscating, overstating his case, or self-fellating.

In general, writing in the style of something published more than 100 years ago is a recipe for sounding goofy. I learned this the hard way.

I have this idea for a novel: it's about a fatass carnie operating the Ferris Wheel in the traveling carnival group 'Blossom'. His name is Wally Mullins and he's best friends with a black slack-jaw fellow carnie -
Willie Henderson. Willie's illiterate but has a natural gift for numbers and, throughout time, he coerces Wally into helping him steal money from the carnival director. The director treats them both like shit and openly refers to them as fatty and the nigger boy. Wally is mostly ignorant to this but considers Willy to be his one and only real friend so he goes along with it.

There's a couple themes I'd like to mess around with. Like Wally is a devout catholic in mold of his mother (who has already passed) and in the early part of the book he gets willy on board with it; part of the reason Willy likes him. Since Wally's mom is dead they both take to regularly reading the bible with an old lady running a deep fried oreo stand (she also grows a fuckton of pot in the back room). The lady speaks solely in cryptic tounge-y aphorisms that seem profound, but one day Willy comes in for a usual session of prayer and just happens to stop before entering; instead listening to the barely-audible voice of the old lady mumbling to herself. He quickly realizes she's a paranoid schizophrenic who's been slipping in and out of intense psychotic episodic rants which are precipitated largely by the pot use. He has a very real crisis of faith which leads to a drug bender of his own involving Ecstasy and diet pills. The carnival is setting up in the wealthy town of Chagrin Falls at this time, and through a series of events Wally meets and becomes infatuated with a local schoolgirl who teaches him practical subjects in exchange for stories about the parts of the U.S. he's been to. Willie learns of this and in his drug influenced downward spiral rapes the schoolgirl. Wally finds out, and shoots and kills Willy, which later makes him a local hero. In the end, He quits the carnival in a numb digust and moves to utah to practice taoism.

There's a lot more to it but I'm drunk and typing this out on my little cell phone, so just tell me if the idea is shit.

I'm working on two plays, both for small (

>Blossom
>Chagrin Falls
Sounds like you live in NE Ohio.

Anyway, story definitely sounds like fun, but it will definitely come down to execution.

So far, your writing just reads like description without any greater artistic thrust, although, that's partially due to the brevity of the excerpt. Salinger had all those greater symbols like the Catcher in the Rye which helped to elevate Holden's complaints to a higher realm. The start & ending of your excerpt might be slightly symbolic, but it doesn't put as much layered meaning to the narrative. Eris has to hold a greater narrative purpose than just being a stupid PC progressive to criticize. For example, you've namedropped the Oath of the Horatii to showcase her lack of aesthetic appreciation in exchange for political identity - but you've left it hanging. Your narrator could have linked that work of art to a deeper comment about her inner insecurity, perhaps linking the closed eyes of the women in the painting to Eris' lack of insight. That symbol is heavy-handed, but you get the point. Then, in later chapters, you can follow up on those connections to build up deeper meaning. That's where the true artistry comes in.

If you want to see the Classical/Progressive divide combined with great symbolic images, poesy, and higher questioning, just read this short story:

cosmoetica.com/B950-AS5.htm

Notice how the author follows up on themes like heritage and tradition through a variety of approaches, linking the tradition of Classicism with the two fat butcher brothers, and the overall symbol of the Masaai ritual.

Compare your poem to ee cummings' here

theondioline.wordpress.com/tag/e-e-cummings-2/

Yours deals with all the cliches of a drunk couple, combined with that repetition which doesn't particularly add much. His deals with a state that is familiar to all lovers, where the repetition serves a purpose of outlining love-talk, combined with wit and humor.

vidwrites.wordpress.com/2017/04/21/house-chapter-01/
I only have 6 chapters up now, but it's kind of a teen sort of character study and practice to work with embodying different tones and to work on my casual writing voice. Give it a read and let me know what you think.

I know you guys are in college and you basically live on this stuff, but seriously, my ramen is hella good. Now if I can just find some sesame oil…

Let’s each go try to find someone and bring them to dinner. At least we’ll introduce ourselves to someone we don’t know.

Not like that. I meant… Vid’s making dinner and he wanted to bring more people so he told us to come see if anyone wants dinner and invite them and we can meet everyone and make new friends

Look, I’m just saying that it’s considered extremely rude in Japanese culture to rub your chopsticks together. It’s implying that the host won’t provide good enough chopsticks for his guests that don’t splinter

Also did you really follow me from the rooms down to the pool just to try to convince me that fucking Panic! at the Disco is the best band ever?

Does this look like 'different tones' to you? All I did was take random large excerpts from random parts.

Forgot to tag

Cuchulain was there, by the river, trilling and gamboling. From my post atop a crest some distance away I could see him, could tell it was him, could hear his light-hearted warbling. He was fooling around with a long stick of wood, sometimes sharpening it, sometimes throwing it or thrusting it into the gentle river, as if to skewer frog or fish. His warrior's heart, his ancient pride, did not make itself known, and watching him was like watching a ruffian boy playing a knight.
After shadowy hours of debating myself in the dream, I decided to cast temerity aside and approach Cuchulain. More likely, I was lulled by Irish charm and a chance to glimpse ages past, to pervert the truth my professors sought to sell me. Each step led me over ambling knolls and little pastures, and into a clearer comprehension of the song he was singing:

"TVs bleed, like men,
Seeking against the seller.
A merchant grins, and charred remains
Are hidden beneath the cellar.

Around yourself assimilate
The bare bones of dew and ain't.
Dripping all that half-drawn other,
Our heads begging to be smothered.

Around the covers of myself
My brain inspects an open hell.
She screams at Earth, twice forlorn,
Till I undid the deeds forsworn.

From that point I might have seen
The information you have gleaned.
But I could not see enough,
And I assumed the truth would bluff.

Upset it did, with teeth and bones,
Left with things I thought I owned.
The death, the depth, the things and wings
Were left to you, to pull with strings."

When he sang "strings" is also when he saw me, and at once composed himself. A composure so foolish, to see a blushing boy like that act like the warrior they call him. He kicked the dirt in front of him.
"Did you like my song?"
The river started rushing then. The slimming smooth water wept up in bulbs around themselves. Bubbles burst into white froth, flowing over the edges of the river, around our ankles. He held his dumb pose.
"Not really!"
It came out as a shriek at the end and I got embarrassed too, and Cuchulain and I joined each bulb of water as it rushed into my thus-opened pupils.

I think it does, but I'm not sure, since I wrote it and I have these characters in my own mind, so I can differentiate them already. So I'd like to ask in response, does it look like different tones to you?

>In general, writing in the style of something published more than 100 years ago is a recipe for sounding goofy. I learned this the hard way.
So did I, a long time ago, and I decided then that I didn't care, and I still don't.

I'm gonna burn out this dream, see it through to whatever end.

I'll either become outstanding for being the only man mad enough attempt to harness the written voice of history, and to actually do so, successfully, in modern times, or I'll fade into obscurity trying.

Either way I'll live and die like a man, and not just another bitch who cucked himself out of his own writing style's creative integrity.

So, given that I'm willing to risk sounding goofy, what then?

Not particularly. They all have the samey teen style.

To be honest, I don't know why people still write with 'John said' and all that. Literature is artifice, and if you put the names in front of the sentences like a script (John: XXX) - the reader might feel perturbed for about a minute or so, but 30 pages later he'll just accept it and his eyes will skim over the names. Then, with all the signalling, his mind will differentiate the characters in his own head for you. I noticed this effect when playing Visual Novels with no voice acting - but that has images to help ground the speaker as well.

One method for better signalling is to have a character use a subset of nicknames or language quirks for others & have everyone use different variants of a nickname for that character. For example, Bob, Rob, Robert, Bobby - placed in different character's mouths to refer to the same person.

In the end, writing good dialogue is a war of signalling and being able to define character attitudes towards certain subjects. Quirks & tics help you signal voice, while personality helps you craft the content of their reactions.

Thanks for the feedback. I'll keep that in mind moving forward with my dialogue, as to the verbal signatures with quirks, nicknames, and the like. I'm more a fan of the traditional style of prose, however, so I'm not really privy to the idea of writing dialogue like a script. It feels more natural to me to be able to string a reaction or an emotion in with a snippet of talk. Did you take a look at the narration at all? I'd love to hear your take.

Except that post-modernist pastiche writers have done the same and they do it better than you. They've also usually done extensive research so they can mimic the voice superbly - e.g. Pynchon in Mason & Dixon. You haven't put in the hard work to capture the voice, which is why your writing flounders.

If you want to write in that style, start extensively reading and trying to weigh the rhythms. Read about how Joyce did it for his Oxen in the Sun chapter, where he went through a history of prose that had stress marks and all that. Joyce probably had a genius ear and writing sense, so you have to train a lot more if you want to achieve your 'dream'.

Typeface executes the current scene,
rendering like a dream
polygonal people dancing.

Matrices materialise meticulously
twisting figures twirling
to an algorithm.

If true, perhaps they'll prance--
if false, they'll waltz
round predetermined axis
in renditions of conditions

Initialize main function--
A bug lands at the junction
of geometric planes
generating vectoral paths
acting as their brains.

Now in glitch they twitch,
instead of dance,
in pseudo-waltz--
As if in fear from bugs so near

Deconstruct this compilation--
end function--
tracing with dedication
the pest in need of erasing.

The description has that problem of merely describing location without any subtlety of prose. Chekhov has a nice quote on that problem:

>Trigorin has worked out a process of his own, and descriptions are easy for him. He writes that the neck of a broken bottle lying on the bank glittered in the moonlight, and that the shadows lay black under the mill-wheel. There you have a moonlight night before your eyes, but I speak of the shimmering light, the twinkling stars, the distant sounds of a piano melting into the still and scented air, and the result is abominable.

Don't describe the obvious. Describe the broken bottle. Give these things symbolic import.

Hart Crane is the poet you should look at if you want to know how to use multi-syllabic words in a powerfully lyrical manner:

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day ...

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

Notice how unforced the rhythm is, because he takes the time to ground them rather than trying to throw together as many alliterations and assonances in a stilted manner.

Yeah, that's where I fall short. I don't try to write literature, I just spin fiction. I've never had any dreams of being the next Chekov or Hemingway or Tolstoy. I'm just a jackass who started on shitty fanfiction. I was going for more of a Lemony Snicket vibe than a true work of literature. Symbolic import isn't my thing.

Then you should read people like Mickey Spillane and Dean Koontz. Their prose has wonderful speed, which is what you should aim for if you don't want to aim for the higher stuff. Koontz can do the kind of quirky Snicket style, but he writes in very fast and terse sentences such that the prose becomes invisible and just flows into your brain.

I suppose saying I was intentionally trying to swing between stilted and fluid just seems defensive.

Wow. It's like you sensed my power level while I was mostly hiding it, and then guessed my true power, exactly, before I could even begin revealing it.

It could work, and I think Plath has done that stilted style before in her late 'mad' poetry, but she did it in a more precise way.

I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish—
Christ! they are panes of ice,

poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/49006

Full poem is here. She starts of stilted but then it warms up as she talks about her son. That's how you do tone swapping with meaning.

Guys, my girlfriend likes to write poetry that's basically just pretty-sounding word-salads, generally with no particular rhyme or reason behind any of them. Is that bad poetry?

There's an adolescent angst ridden girl that has a poetry blog & writes exactly like you

warpedspacetime.wordpress.com/2016/09/22/conscious-sacrifice/

I would like to know what You think is being implied in this passage. Afterwards We may critique it.

I Am not Dirt, I Am Soil.
I Am abundant and obligatory to Mother what validates Your existence
I have and will sustain sentience for eternities to come
I dignified You and will consume Your vestige
Yet, You deem gold with more merit
You ignore the reality that gold is within Me
You recognize Me as dirt
You caress this gold and polish it
You praise it
In your eyes, gold has value for being gold
None of what I Am is valued
To You, gold is flawless
Malleable to Your desires
You feel entitled to My charity
You feel superior
You may reminisce about Me but always return to eating Your precious gold
I can live in perfection yet You see Me as obsolete
If Your precious gold fell into a cesspool, You would jump after it, and the swallow dirt
However You can’t swallow Your pride and address Me properly
Perhaps if My petals were made of gold You would perceive Me with reverence
Some gold is genuine
Some gold is brittle
Some gold is grime
Yet You bend over in its presence, regardless of the latter
Your ignorance has given gold immunity to desolation
Gold shines because You care for it
You give it what it wants
You Love It
You despise Me
Should I despise You?
Should I eviscerate Your Kind?
Should I introduce You to Malicious Depictions?
Should I melt Your gold or swallow it whole?
Should I convert the Sun with the Moon?
Should I sow Your ignorance?
Should I?
To the blind,
I am no longer soil
I am dirt
I am insufficient
Gold is their soil
A foundation that fosters their rancor
I am not a victim
I am not dirt
I am a Daisy, My blooming was denied because the Roses with golden petals
I do not dismay
My blooming is soon and it will vanquish Your detestation

What is being implied is that the author is attempting to do free verse poetry without knowledge of how to create rhythm and lyricism.

Oh come on that's not fair. I just read through some of that girl's poetry, if you can call it that. She kind of just spews half a dictionary on the page and name-drops some proper nouns a few times. Our guy has reason and meaning behind his poetry, even if I don't agree with his rhyming scheme.

Thanks for that mate.

What Turns Feeling

It is not about the structures that sound what we say
Nor can lips stretch us far from our speaking
The spinning-wind world that surrounds and surprises
In wordless wane that spirits the mind

Past the cold magnificence that was standing one bent
Frame, as though the corners that were
Lost in the roundness of a looseness had streamed
Past the solitude of an earth that unearths

The thickness of volcanic thrusts that would tarry
And darkness that kept itself well unkempt
For my word is an island – severed from the seas

In moments that suppose you knew you understood
What demarcates the sign and the seen
When, grumbling – the incandescent near.

As far as real advice goes, I personally am turned off by your use of rhyming and lack of meter. I know poetry can get very subjective, but I think your piece would work better as a free-form without any real constraints so you can use the words and the line breaks to paint a picture of your wireframe waltz.

Song of the Wine Glade

Day-swan, you fuse with cat tails in your glide…
But are you not motif to somewhere far? A field,
Perhaps, where the heart pulls like an anthem… where
Wings are brush & a thousand peace. Perhaps, a tide
Too – viewed from far – seeming to sit on the shore
As itself and the ghost of itself. Then, illumined at once –
The mirror loamed on the sand. Like a perch
For the fading songs to ease – from a withering throat
That seeks a peaceful voice. Day-swan, you are so far
And through the pond that were crept with leaves around
There was no still to a heart. A glade that almost brimmed
With grasses… candescent like licking flames, bug-lights
And the opera… this opera rising in animal screed and slander
And the deer musk rising – that antlered
God, with muscular strain in neck & legs – that anthem
Too, of ground pulsing with wine & unclean. The faun
In the awe of himself – his heel surveying through tangled brush
And the gourds of vermillion hanging from vines. Dionysus
Voices out a glissando – notary canards in hidden verses,
And seas of sentience… are mourned into the silence there…
There… the votive note –seeking the thrill of the unordinary…
Of the head – there… the embodiment creaking in its linger –
Smoothening the night, its own arabesque trembling
Into the swill – sound, beating hoof, and animal flight…
And the night seems to swelter – with the choir unseen…
Saying there… there – once more – there…

There is a path for all of us
A way towards the light
Good luck finding it
Without flashlight.

Why I can't write anything interesting?
There is no point in the words I write. Only complete nonsense. The reality of
the small town. Waking at 4 AM to prove yourself that you can do it. Meeting
with friends at evenings. Drinking few beers, just to fit in, and do not be
alone all of the time. Same goes for video games, just to fit in with people
you have. I could have been a better person, but what is an actual point of
reading literature when you don't have anyone who knows anything about. It may
be fun, but really there are no actual benefits for me. I don't believe that
anyone can become a better person thanks to books. Reading is purely
destructive activity, each word just forces us to modify our personality. Why?
Because otherwhise we would not understand, and reading from all media is
actually the most destructive as it requires the highest amount of attention
at the work. It is a miracle that society with 91% literacy is not mad. I
mean, being literate doesn't mean you read literature. Magazines are not that
destructive. News are not that destructive. Literature is. But still, what
is the point of reading literature if you can only discuss it on the internet,
and try to fit in some society of people that you have never seen. At some, if
I stay here, Ill just stop readinmg and just lie all day and watch shitty
netflix shows. I remember someone saying that those are the epic media of our
times. I think it just shows in how depressing times do we live in that we
have to enjoy the most important media in isolation. Of course literature also
requires isolation, but the last time when it was the most important media was
late 19th century, when it was released in parts. And at least it required
much more interaction than modern TV shows. Humanity never should have been
that large, the medicine and technology revolutions where the most anti-human
doings that could have happen. Surely some day the tech will wipe us out, as
society doesn't want the tech and medicine in check and they really don't
care. Some designer virus comes out and just becomes another black death. I
don't understand how scientists argue that we will keep AI in check, as we
overuse it. We are lazy, and becoming lazier day by day. Why write neural
network, when we can have one AI for eveerthing that will fix itself. I think
that max population should be something around 1 bilion, as this is the max
humanity can get to without resorting to some arcanes of medicine and letting
too many people live. And when somebody says there will never be a genocide,
tell that to that pigeons that got from over few bilions to none in like 50
years. Why do we think that we are better?

Just trying to get into writing anything and any tips to make my writing/thinking better?

just spit-balled this. i would appreciate any thoughts.

A Paradox of Walterbali Kalinga

A meager man, Walterbali
Sat on the edge of his own bar,
Pondering this order he finds
His thoughts arranged so neatly in—
A sporadic disease, he claimed,
That kept his tongue in check,
That kept his eyes paved down,
That kept him up at two,

That demanded his constant watch,
Else they wander around pages
At the end of an unread book.

“Too scotch,” said Kalinga,
“Too scotch.”

I wrote this really short story two minutes ago, I would like to know what do you guys think.
(I'm non-anglo btw)

I don't want to blow my own trumpets, but I feel like I can back up what I am about to say. Please shit on me in a constructive manner, I will welcome it.
This is the best thing I have ever written, which, I suppose, is not saying much. However I think that this is a breath of fresh air compared to all of the other shit that I am bombarded and saturated by on a constant day-to-day basis.

There are some pretty basic mistakes. For example, you haven't capitalised the L in Latin and the Cicero text that graphic designers would be familiar with is 'Lorem Ipsum, not 'Dolorem'.
>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet

>All words that can be used to symbolically represent it betrayed the concoction of feel-bad chemicals coursing through me. Instead of the vast wordless chasm that the pain evokes, I instead use filler words like anguish, emptiness, and shapeless to fill the blank Javascript template of my misery. Nothing could be further from the truth.
This is just awkward as balls.

No amount of Classical references can save a generic student wake-up angst story. Why dont you do something more imaginative with it like Gene Wolfe does in his stories?

This is much appreciated. This is only an excerpt from a larger work and this paragraph is one of the most problematic that I have encountered.

Please post it without all the formatting things so it doesn't hurt to read.

Here.

Yes it is angsty as absolute shit. This is something that I have tried to avoid the most in writing this. However, angst and a screaming out from a chronic pain (especially from a young college student) is a fine line.
The classical references are deliberate as a contrast between the idealized world of Romans that he is immersed in with the perceived weakness that he associates with the culture that he lives in. It does seem useless as I am rereading it, though. The contrast is not so clear, and seems like a vain attempt to seem cerebral.

Is good. Vivacious. Not keen on the Pynchon bit as it's a bit of a niche joke, even if it is quite funny.
Technical detail, you need to double check how/when to use the apostrophe in 'it's'.

I never wrote anything but i feel like i should before my inexpressed emotions distill into poison. Fucking kill me already.

Thanks. I really should check my grammar sometimes.
I usually try avoiding the areas I'm uncomfortable with.

I think it would also help if what part of the room's landscape is the no-man's land was clearer, and if you referred to the last mosquito as 'she' more than once so that's clearer too. Finally it's 'through' not 'trough'.

The player is unable to simply run past Garl and then quickly murder Astraea due to two things. First, their close proximity to eachother. Garl is well-equipped and well-protected, but quite encumbered. In theory, the player only has to bait him so far away from Astraea before there's enough separation between them that what little time it takes to kill her is less than however long it takes Garl to come to her aid. That's his main weakness as a body guard. And he knows it. He's slow, but not stupid. He knows better than to fall for such bait. He never strays too far from Astraea, so he never has to go too far to get back to her, so he's always able to save her in time. Garl's leash would be much shorter outside the swamp, by the way. So short, perhaps, that to prevent Astraea from getting ganked he would have to remain so close to her that if the player were to fight him properly, she would be within melee range of the player the entire time, anyway. So he wouldn't be very effective either way, then. Under normal circumstances, it seems Garl would prove pretty inadequate. Lucky for him, then, the swamp's there.

Too verbose?

The idea of showing the Classicism/Decadence split has also been done too many times.

Give some examples

"Every writer has his own poison, and his work is the antidote."-Phillip Roth