/crit/ - Writing Critique General

How about "the bottle she dropped too."

How does the light only reach the eye of the details dig into the mind? I don't like the "hate and hunger and stillness" not because I am always opposed to two ands in a list but because in this instance it is trying to communicate a depth and sophistication without trying to find a better way in this specific case. It seems like taking the easy way out because the rest of the writing has also been rather blunt with a few choice 'power words' here and there. Not terrible but very low risk low reward. "Feel it near my skin" do we feel things near to our skin? Same thing about the ending as I said to the double and. I could see some people on here loving this though.
You suffer from the opposite problem. High risk and not seeing rewards. Too many bloated phrases that you just want us to gloss over but which maybe don't make much sense. What is "ecstasy of admiration" is the feeling of admiration really ecstatic? Maybe it is. This would be a part where the reader would need a really good simile or metaphor to actually prove those two words have any business being next to one another.

I've tried to get to the place i was in when i wrote that before, but it always ends in dick. I don't possess the skill to deconstruct the style, so i'm left with a virulent shame at the thought of having written my best as a drugged teenager who had moments prior been thoroughly face fucked by two dental students. I'm working on it though, with all the professional effort of a parking garage attendee.

I know how you feel, user. Sometimes I end up in the same rut. Best of luck to you. Hopefully it comes out the way you want it to.

9766962 here

Thanks for that, that is translated thing from my language, so i think thats the problem
also i dont feel safe in english, dont know that many power words and my grammar sucks
Any tips how to improve my lit eng language?

Here's to hoping

Besides the spelling errors it isn't terrible. When I say 'power words', I don't necessarily mean advanced words just words that will give us a visual. For me 'wretched' works as such a word. When I think of something wretched I think of some cackling bitch or some Bill Sikes type character. Everything about describing her is just a little too obvious for my taste. There's no real unique word combinations. Saying facial features are "divine" is just a little too on the nose, divine only becomes a useful word in my opinion when you write something like "divine trash" but that specific combination has already been done and it isn't anything close to what you are trying to say. "Man's life is strictly for love" is well said. The ending line "That terrific feeling" is it referring to "love" as that terrific feeling or having the knowledge that life is for love as that terrific feeling? Either way it is a sentence fragment in English and should be "That is a terrific feeling" if you mean to second option. Not everyone is going to agree with me.

Better English is going to come with reading English poetry. Even poetry in translation which people will not like my saying. Rimbaud to English, English romantic poets.

Oh and by the way, do not feel bad. Many native English speakers suffer from this same issue of combining what they think are descriptive and powerful words like "divine" or "ecstasy". Basically trying to figure out "what's the best word for what I want to describe?" but everything ends up being very 'in your face'/'on the nose'/the most expected route and their writing ends up being pretty uninteresting. You are actually somehow avoiding the boredom that those people will produce because you use phrases like "Literally one second" which seems a little juvenile but it's at least interesting and gives the writing a 'voice'. This makes it better.

So much broken imagery without heart or a point. I felt nothing reading it and feel I understood none of what you were going for.

I think you have a talent for good description, you just need to find a subject worth writing about.

What's the point of this?

Have you ever had a conversation like this with someone? The whole thing rings untrue and just a mouthpiece for whatever is on your mind. It is important that your characters have a voice separate from your own if they're to be authentic and better realised. There is also a lot of things like this "She thinks she's gonna strike it rich" -- Okay, why couldn't you work that into the story? This detail would be interesting to add in.

More than anywhere else in the last remaining days of my life I came to the same tall tree which resided in a nearby park not too far away from my home. I couldn't tell you what kind of tree it was. Only that it was quite old, though still healthy for a tree of its size. Over the past year as my condition grew steadily worse I had the pleasure to watch the seasons change. To see the tree in spring, summer, fall, and winter. Finally, now so close to the finish line, I got to see the tree leaves grow strong and green and rich like a full head of hair.

When I first came to the park I came with a knife and a purpose. One by one, with methodical precision, I stabbed my initials into the bark of each tree I could until my knife was blunt and my weak wrists were swollen to the point it hurt to pick up a glass of water.

I felt absolutely nothing when I finally stabbed my name into every tree in the park. I was surprised no one stopped me, but then the reason for that became clear too: nobody wants to get stuck talking to the elderly. But that's understandable, isn't it? Have you ever heard an old mummy-looking old fogey say anything to you of any lasting value? Or anything truly funny? My bet is on, no, you haven't, and that's fine, one generation replaces another and that's all there is to it.

"No one asks questions about getting old. I can understand that. If you're young what good is thinking about death? To be honest I wish someone would ask me what its like because I just have this horrible feeling inside. Like knowing there's a danger ahead which I can see clear as day but everyone else is caught up doing something else. They have no idea it's coming, and I just want to yell at the top of my lungs for them to look out. Be ready. Don't let it creep up on you. Because when it gets you there's nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing except be prepared."

Could someone help me with naming two factions in a fantasy setting?

They live within the same city and are cursed with magic to live together for as long as they exist. But they mostly hate eachother, and are culturally different.

One of them has a dark / black aesthetic and the other has a light / white aesthetic.

Could use help with the naming of the city too.

an octopus
doesn't worry about
how many trips it it will take him
to bring his groceries
inside

>dark / black aesthetic
the black stools

>light / white aesthetic
the white stools

>city
toiletbowlville

Every year around early December, the cold flows down from the Eastern Highlands and floods the Warrington Shire, creeping down from the hills like viscous lava. It’s always on some cloudless winter’s dusk, presaged by a rough gust which makes the gangling pines dance in that crazy way that reminds Dart of the airdancer outside the car wash on Jackson Street. Winter’s arrival is something Dart eagerly anticipates for no reason other than a desire for change—a change that he always bemoans in retrospect. As long summer days shrink and turn sad, Dart decides that the sting of hot bitumen is preferable to the bite of cold tiles, or worse yet, bed socks made wet by a frigid kitchen puddle.

I put this in the last thread and want some more feedback:

This is my first real time writing, and I want to start off on the right foot:
> A low, sputtering drone of machinery stood out. Accompanied by a light clink of a naked flagpole in the wind and repetitious cresting waves vaguely heard to the south-west made for a dreary symphony. A seagull cried out, a redundant reminder of solid matter's minority among the vast liquid and wet wind. The dome above was uniform gray, with illusions of different shades flaring in and out of vision. A brisk walk dockwards went routinely. Thick soupy fog failed to conceal the grand behemoths of stone, who have since time loomed erect against the beating sea. Red and white. Silent sentinels watch over the water, watch in every direction. Watch for the greatest watcher to set westward, initiating their vigil. By these candlelit nights the wayward find their way.
> Three past the hour, the boat arrives late, as was common. Grumbling and grumpy from being awoken from an evening nap, she tethered reluctantly to the dock. Soon, after departure, the solid white mass more violently grumbled across the dark gray liquid, hidden within a lighter gray mist. Unceasing wind fathered fighting waters. The experienced hull knocked and flew, but Joliet had a hardy shell not easily cracked.
> Each leap of the ferry brought a leap of the heart. Not of want or passion, but of uncaring necessity. The heart beat on without desire or fear. The heart beat against the hull of feeling, never breaching. That dark, absorbing tumult below gave a far superior reflection than the most crystalline calm any nation or ocean could boast. It offered a reflection to the very soul, the very heart. A calm wake left by Apollo himself could not stay that water forever. Yet a dock, slightly aloft, stood triumphant and untouchable to the feeble wetness. Likewise, in a life of storm and thunder, the soul became draped in gray, unable to feel sustained hurt nor terror, however also cursed to never feel passion nor love.
> Joliet churned yet. Her low moaning could not overtake the soft gray. Gray seeped into every crevice, into every fiber of being, wresting control of even the body, which could only now stare through engrayed eyes. The gray was repulsive and disgusting, or rather would be had the now preeminent grayness permitted repulsion. Instead, perception and feeling were awash and muffled; drowned by relentless grayness. All desire to reject the numb gray, all thought to tear the grayed eyes from their sockets and gouge grayed ears unto silence, was replaced by dullness and grayness.
> Land approached, and with it another watchman. The engine slowed, gradually giving way to gray. [all i have so far]

pastebin.com/j7ytLnSw

Here's mine, the opening scene of a 500-page piece I have been working on. It's unpublishable, autistic shit, but I still want to improve it if I can. Also is this thread for broader advice (such as what plot elements I should keep / remove), or just for prose?

I don't miss her. But talking to her was good.

I don't care for her. But knowing if she's okay would make me happy.

I don't want her. But having her in my life wouldn't be so bad.

I don't need her. But i don't like living without her.

I sometimes think of her. Doesn't mean I still love her.

Tachanka. Some say it’s like a wheelbarrow. Others liken it to a certain carriage of Czech origin. It doesn’t matter really. But when you stand next to one, you realise it’s just a carriage drawn by two horses, with a machine-gun sitting snug inside. The chariots of Ancient Egypt come to mind, their big wheels – the turning spokes of Death – powered by black thoroughbreds. Instead of arrows, there’s repeating rounds of lead. All you need is a couple Blacklegs to man the snug blackened basket. And you’re set, pretty much.

I've definitely read better love poetry. Try "Rapture" by Carol Ann Duffy for inspiration.

Sounds like writing from Sunless Sea.
Presented without context it's nonsensical imagery. Impossible to judge.

I'm working on this short story, but my writing is beyond nightmarish, and I'd love some advice or constructive criticism
here's the doc:
docs.google.com/document/d/11PGjOwZLG3Mir8VL4sK6arPd3shiGqI-5ZDfY1IeeJw

I hate to be negative but wow. You're main character is awful, just being a bullied loner isn't going to make us like him. Acknowledging how stupid a name is isn't going to change the fact that it is incredibly stupid. Also, "its red" then what? She just left? You could improve your story tenfold if you main character wasn't a generic "fuck society" archetype and actually had some redeeming qualities. I would honestly start over.

He's going to end up shooting up his school. You aren't supposed to like him

I should at least be interested in him then. The thing is, hes unlikable but also completely uninteresting. I only read past the first page because I felt obliged for some reason. Start with him getting bullied, sympathy points will keep us reading, then develop his views throughout the story, and don't make them so overtly edgy. You're story is shaping up like an edgy middleschoolers revenge against society fantasy. You're writing isn't the worst. You can pull it off, just make the character worth reading about.

Agreed. One of the characters in my novel is a student who goes on a shooting spree herself, but I've made sure to show why she turned from an adorable yinzer girl with a crush on Jaromir Jagr to a coldblooded murderer talking about revolution.

You have to make his descent into madness interesting to read, user. Consider Humbert Humbert for example.

Fucked in the head? Sure.

But everyone loved to read about it.

Try to find the fine line between overtly edgy and cartoony.

I began my career as a gas station clerk at age thirty-six. I applied and was honest with the fact that I had two college degrees and plenty of work experience, but I was unemployed for the last ten years, I’d been through two rehabs this month, I was capable but unwilling to do physical labor, had fifty grand in defaulted student loan debt, no interest whatsoever in working at a gas station, and was only interested in the job as an attempt to stave off the suicide inducing boredom I’d been experiencing.
The owner, an older man named Dell, asked why I wanted to work at a gas station during my interview. I told him I didn’t, and that I mentioned that on the application. He laughed, wrote something in his notebook, then said I was hired. Later he told me he didn’t care what I said, but out of the ten people who applied, I was the only one who didn’t look like a transient.
He immediately gave me the rundown of how the store functioned, and I drowned out his speech with thoughts of pornography and car accident videos, while I nodded and repeated what he said to make it seem like I was listening. He introduced me to the day shift clerk, an odorous lady with greasy hair who nodded unenthusiastically to me, and proceeded to show me how the cash register worked through pantomime. She didn’t need to as the register was designed intuitively and I thought most animals could probably be trained to use it.
Dell said I started that night, at midnight, and left. The lady, who I came to know for over five years and I never bothered to ask her name, asked why I wanted to work at a gas station. I tried joking, saying I was obviously mentally impaired. She nodded and said nothing more to me, ever again in fact, and we both stood awkwardly in silence for several minutes. This was when I realized she actually was mentally impaired, so I awkwardly left and went home...

You still love her user, don't lie to yourself. It's healthier to accept that you will always love her rather than living in denial with shitty writing.

Henrietta sat in the corner of the room, muttering incoherently in her honeysuckle sweet voice as Marcus' sorrow filled stare permeated her eye sockets."Yo bitch what's wrong," he said before noticing the slight pricks on her arms as though they were hickies from an overly excited and clumsy vampire.'Dis hoe methed out' pondered Marcus.

docs.google.com/document/d/11PGjOwZLG3Mir8VL4sK6arPd3shiGqI-5ZDfY1IeeJw
Is there hope for this or should I just start over?

You already got crit you mong. Why are you posting twice.

The character doesn't really come off to me as being a realistic depiction of a school shooter.

When you look at most school shooters they aren't people who constantly talk about how much they love survival of the fittest and act as though they'll blow up at any second. That's just cartoonish.

One of the major features of almost every school shooter is that they were always quiet, so I would say instead of giving him this "Nothin personnel kiddo" kind of attitude make him where a social mask.

From there you can make more of his shocking comments thoughts rather than actions. It would make it more disturbing as the people who try to interact with him don't know about what he's thinking about them, but we as the reader do.

I agree. You could also try a descent into madness. Light turning into darkness, and no one can comprehend it until it's too late.

Is the second sentence too long to be published?

Not much had changed about the interior of the academy since he'd last set foot there nine years ago. The same walls still needed repainting, the teachers' lounge still stunk of coffee and cigarettes, and the coat hooks were still covered in decades of stickers and glitter and ink and anything else kids used to personalize their tiny bit of property.

Not a crit, but I want people to read a sentence from this piece out for a project. Will critique your piece in return

pastebin.com/GNb1JruY

Final product will sound like this (but better)

vocaroo.com/i/s1wv1ejrcsnU

Please record whatever one you want and send me a vocaroo. It'll be in a taktak.nu video and I'll let you know when it's out

>viscous lava

mate we already know that lava is viscous cheers

thatsthepoint.jpg

Posted this in the last thread. Just a taste. I upload the whole thing if anyone wants more.

wrong
universetoday.com/31387/lava-viscosity/

cheers though mate

I'd still like some feedback on this.

There's something less than human, that's walking down the street.
It's hiding it's emotions, from everyone it meets.
You'd think this creature tragic, but it feels quite content.
It lacks the means to regret, the time alone it's spent.
Daily it meets it's demons, but takes hardships in stride.
It's awfully hard to break down, what's been broken inside.
It cannot feel temptation, there's nothing that it wants.
Envy and greed escape it, it has no wealth to flaunt.
The vain would call it worthless, the wise call it a fool.
It calls itself a witness, to people turning cruel.
If all lives need a purpose, a goal for each to crave.
Are you driven by success, or are you now it's slave?
It's something less than human, or maybe something more?
If it's life lacks a meaning, what am I living for?

You could play with the Blanc/Black meaning. They are opposite words that come from the same origin.

Here's my shitty french writting: pastebin.com/4HYRU6QU

What do you think Veeky Forums? Just the opening section of a short story about a group of lay-people who fall for a phone lotto scam on their lunch break, thinking they've won a major share in a national casino chain. They hurry up across the city to claim prize, doubt sets in, they end up waiting for something that'll never come, etc.

Will do crit for crit.

Wrote this 4 months ago. Just a little flash fiction. Any feedback would be appreciated.

In the third paragrah, the time mention feels out of place. Rework the sentence, like:

At eleven forty-four, Jack, cheking his watch constantly, thought soberly yadayada.

The swear feels out of place too, but if it's a reccurent thing in the full version then that's just fine.

I know exaclty how it feels like to dart a city street like this, and you make it sound fun, I like that.

The tux part is yet another mention of how this day is a great day for them. I hope that, in the full version, you keep on lingering on how this very moment is a lifechanging thing in their mind, just like you're doing. Good luck, it's a good read desu and I would enjoy reading more in a pastebin.

I wrote the french stuff, but if you don't speak french that's ok, I still want to read more of your story.

Am I reading a police report? So stoic.

I'm guessing that isn't a compliment. I will say that rereading this now, I see a lot of room for reworking certain sentences, but I like the distance in the tone, which I think is making it seem "stoic".

I like the structure and your character building here. There are a few sentences I would revise or remove. Not sure if I like the "And what a time it was" - I kind of like the grand renewal as the end of the paragraph.

You also used the word "strode" twice in this passage.

Overall, its good. The voice is coherent, it feels realistic.

I'd like to know if this is a good opening for a story, or if I should open in on something better:

Whenever I looked into the mirror, I saw my father’s eyes.

I'm not quite sure when I first made the connection between my eyes and his, but there was once a time where I couldn't even remember an occasion in which I passed a mirror and didn't discover that part of him staring back at me.

I always admired my father, so one could imagine the absolute empowerment that overtook me each time I caught a glimpse of my reflection. One also might be able to imagine the devastation I felt on the night he died.

fair trade deals are the name of the game, critique mine and ill do yours.

The Masochist

I want to feel my guts eviscerated,
My eyes plucked from their sockets and squished
My mind seems consumed by self-hatred,
Oh go ahead and add this to the list.

My lips filleted open, left bloody and raw,
My fingernails removed slowly one at a time,
You’d want the same if you saw what I saw,
I deserve to be punished for all of my crimes.

My skin should be twisted, sliced and torn
The flesh underneath boiled down to bone,
Don’t let anyone try to cry or mourn
We’ve got to do this on our own

Who knows why I’m like this, guess I’m cursed,
So what are you waiting for? Do your fucking worst.

Would really appreciate any comments whatsoever on this. It's the opening paragraph of a short story I've submitted as a writing sample to a creative writing seminar at my university, taught by a reasonably acclaimed novelist. Still waiting on whether I get into the course or not.

I kind of hope that you're not actually trolling

She had skin made of a pale porcelain, soft angular cheeks, and dark blue eyes that were bright towards the center like frost building on a deep puddle. Jet black hair flowed past her shoulders that curled towards her at the bottom. She was a combination of things that I could only describe with cliche terms like divinity or purposeful. When she spoke, her voice broke through years of my built up endurance towards anger and depression and I hated her for it. In the moment I wanted to break her nose and stain her face with purple bruising. Maybe then I could stand to look at her without wanting to cry. Maybe then I wouldn't want to scream at her "What gives you the right to make me feel like anyone could tolerate me?".

You got any actual criticism or...?

haha poop

I liked it actually, like the fact that he's thinking about his shit while waiting for his date is very humanizing, also the detail on his boring ass job is good

This is a small part of an overarching narrative. I think I could really use some criticism before I press on.

It's perfect dude, turn it in.

I'm beginning the prologue of a story, and I'd like to know if it's going well so far.
Here's the link:
docs.google.com/document/d/1-B52TIMPCSZ9fxZLIrA2kOK2JSjiGrho_viQiL1H840
Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

...

Quite enjoyable but unless it got particularly innovative from there, I'd need you to stop writing about the sweater to hold my interest

Thank you both for reading it all. That was my first ever attempt at wtiting anything.
I'll read the poetry thanks.

>You aren't supposed to like him
what if you LIKE him and he end up like this

OH MY GOD I KNOW THAT GIRL EXCEPT SHES BLONDE

It's pretty good, but in my opinion, if you changed some of the last lines it would look even better.
I really liked it. This is one I'd expected to be found published in a book.

>If all lives need a purpose, a goal for each to crave. Are you driven by success, or are you know it's slave?

At the beginning you were talking about this "less than human creature", and these lines feel like a change of topic, as you're not longer talking about it. Maybe if you make them talk about the "creature", it would fit perfectly in the text.

>If it's life lacks a meaning, what am I living for?

Here you end by talking about yourself, what am *I* living for, when you've started the sentence with "If *it*'s life lacks a meaning", and you've have to decide who are you talking to. It can be a question to the reader, so it makes them think, or maybe about the "creature", even it can be a question for yourself, but you need to define that clearly.

The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph:He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional nor suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.

I'm writing a scene for a story, and I was wondering if I could have some critique on it?

A hand collided with my shoulder, pinning me to the lockers I had been walking beside. I writhed under the iron grip of whoever decided to grab me, but my lanky figure failed to do me justice.

The boy I had been unlucky enough to encounter, a boy whom I didn't even know, towered over me. Our eyes met for a brief moment before he raised an unforgiving fist and extended it to meet my nose. My nose began to bleed almost instantly, as it wasn't long before I tasted iron.

During the beginning of freshman year, I figured other students might see my dilemma and be compelled to help. I soon learned passers-by preferred to laugh or simply watch instead.

"Faggot!" the boy chortled. "Why don't you cut that hair, huh? Does your boyfriend like it like that?" He grabbed a lock of blonde hair from the top of my head and tugged. A crowd had formed behind him, the majority uncontrollably laughing at each comment he made.

Instead of fighting back, I allowed my mind to wander. This was a common technique I used when it was clear I couldn't win. It wasn't very good for my physical being, but mentally, it took me away from whichever pimple-faced senior that had decided to use me as a human punching bag.

I imagined pulling out a shotgun and pointing it at the unnamed boy who decided to target me today. I pictured him letting me go, apologizing profusely, and attempting to back away. I imagined pulling the trigger.

Back in reality, my assailant continued to have at it. Out of all the beatings I'd received throughout the past two years, this just might have been the worst. Even in the darkest situations, I tried to be positive, but I couldn't see my face totally recovering from this. In between punches, I caught glimpses of others watching intently, some even smiling.

In an attempt to preserve my face, I once again pushed against the arm holding me down, failing miserably. Over the hallway's ambience, I had no trouble hearing the sickening crack of my own nose.

Of all the things I've read in this thread, this is the best by a large margin. Ironic given the subject of the passage. I would love to read the rest of this short story.

Man I hate this. Been banging my head against a wall for a long time now, got some flow finally and there's this.

Now I open it and go to start again and all of a sudden the read through is painful. I hate this part, everything I write eventually makes me cringe, at that point I post it here and usually most posters agree.

Anyway I'm only 1000 words in and so I'm procrastinating/looking for validation/being a masochist tell me how shit I am.

pastebin.com/5vVu1rUs

When I look in the mirror I see my father's eyes.

I don't know when I noticed him but soon I couldn't pass a mirror that didn't contain him. And of course it was him there, I admired the man, think of the strength he gave me being so ubiquitous, and think of the way I felt when he died.

I was awake when the Police knocked. Fixed to a horror movie, focused like a predator in Dad's armchair, my bed-time forgotten. I jumped at the sound of them and would have screamed if Mum hadn't been sleeping.

I turned the movi off and darkness submerged me. The doorbell rang, more knocks followed.

Save that, go and read some more, come back in a year and read that, proceed to feel the appropriate amount of shame and then grow as a person. Or else repeat the steps.

This is a small section of the first chapter. I think I could really use some criticism before I press on.

Maybe a bit too much verbiage when you're explaining the cafe to us, from what I'm seeing it really doesn't matter what it looks like, I feel like the moment you tell us he's at a cafe and he's under a canopy that's all we need to know, we know what's going on. The way you tell us is not so bad but feels sort of like you're aware your own slightly above average skill (not being a cunt aren't we all?) and you're taking a few bits of scenery as an opportunity to let us all know.

The parts about the shit make me think you've read some DFW recently, or you're feeling like frankness for its own sake is just going to beneficial. Again like the parts about the scenery I can't see a reason for it, it feels pretentious, like "Whoa this'll really shock the squares man!" but I'm thinking maybe this guy's autistic or obsessive compulsive by the third mention so maybe that's how you're telling us in which case I got it.

Anyway I liked it mate, keep in mind I'm just a shit kicker, take whatever I say with salt.

Made a shitty poem:

I feel ashamed for loving you.

It comes and goes in waves, and when I think it's done it knocks me over again.

I'm an imposter. A shell. You deserve better.

And you got it. You got it all and everything was perfect.

But I see your eyes glaze over. Your mouth twisted in a frown.

and I wonder

if I dared unmask myself

would you come to me?

and let the world crack in half.

Posting from my phone so I will give you a few short rewrites, greentext is your work revised by me.

>Civil war is coming soon. It was enough to send a shiver down Gawain's spine...

No need for "those thoughts", it's in italics, the reader can guess what you're doing, plus you tell them it's a thought when you say it makes him shiver. And there's no need for "a shiver of fear", again we get it, don't waste words.

>The flames lit the chamber.

Flames are bright, we know that, you can comment on the clarity if you feel it's necessary but again remember to keep things clean, remember the reader doesn't want everything told to them, part of the fun of reading is putting it together.

>From when the king stormed the castle, he told himself, only years ago, could the castle sustain another battle?

Here a main take away should be: had. Be careful of this. Had is dangerous for new dangerous, it takes us out of the action and serves no purpose in many cases, try watching some YouTube videos about "passive voice".

Any resources on improving one's writing?
Stuff people here have used.

Read and write

He came to the park with a knife and a purpose. With methodical precision he stabbed his initials into the bark of each tree until his knife was blunt and his wrists were swollen. I found him resting on a park bench. He was easy to spot from a distance. He wore a puffy black rain coat even on a hot day. I approached slowly, spotting the knife in his right hand. Both his hands were trembling from arthritis. I sat beside him. Further along a community officer road his bike in from the park gates, cycling round the concrete path on his daily route. Stanley had made a good show of ignoring me up to this point, but then he turned to face me, looking at me from beneath heavy brows, his thin wrinkled lips making a sulking gesture.

“You’re not going to try and take it from me then?” he said.
I shrugged, “You do whatever you want.”
He sniffed, and for a moment I was distracted by how many white hairs were protruding from his nostrils. He held the blunt knife out for me to take.
“Go on then.” he said. I took the knife, wary of the community officer who could come cycling by at a moments notice. I chucked the knife over my shoulder where it landed somewhere in a large bush. I said, “You’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?”

Stanley laughed chokingly with the flem making a hacking sound from the back of his throat. A few seconds later the community officer eased to a stop in front of us.

“Have either of you seen any kids playing with knives?”
Stanley’s face stretched, his turky-neck wobbling as he shook his head.
“Should we leave here?” I said, feigning worry.
The officer sighed, “No, you’re alright. Every bloody tree has been marked with an ‘SB’ the little bastards have been doing it all week. Alright, have a good day.”

The officer rode off out of the park, the moment he was out of sight I could hear Stanley chuckling.

Continued here -> pastebin.com/58uwECxG

You should learn how paragraphs work first.

"Much of my life is spent studying the rich cultures of these various worlds, the complex languages they communicate in, the local customs which one should obey if they wish to ingratiate themselves to another people. With this great love of learning, the overwhelming passion I possess for the various threads that make up this great patchwork of our somewhat rotten Universe, with all this vast knowledge I have attained, it is asked of me that I use all of this to destroy these world's. To sow mistrust, deceit, paranoia, betrayal."

"That's one way of looking at it I suppose" remarked Ekko, proving to be ever the optimist.

"It's the only way of looking at it. Any other is merely an attempt to reconcile our dishonour with our conscience. We lie to many people, Daggerhand, but to none more so than ourselves."

Ekko proceeded to take another swig at his jug of rum, recognising that any attempt to interrupt Ildric was futile, as he had entered into that state men often do when they finally reveal their true feelings on a topic they have suppressed for so long. He was going to have to feign enthusiasm for the conversation, which he realised was going to ruin his evening.

"Ah, yes. Yes indeed. All men eventually reach a crossroads where they must sacrifice one principle in order to save another", replied Ekko, having no idea what such a statement actually meant, but his weak contribution served to soften the tension of one man pouring his drunken meanderings to another.

Ildric gave a half-grin.

"Norrengard's finished, one way or the other".

Ekko, erring with more caution than his distressed colleague, gave a quick glance to his surroundings before committing himself. Nobody in the vicinity had a clue as to the magnitude of events they were discussing.

stephen king- on writing

If you're not happy with your work, change it.

Funny story, I've actually cut and pasted excerpts of stories that I've actually had published on here. Nobody has even commented on any of them.

I appreciate the criticism man but I can't exactly take anything from it if you're not at all constructive in the least.

I've come to notice that two types of posts are often skipped over here. Those that are good, but unrelated to the interests of the board/posters. And those that are really, really bad.

Talk about a coin flip.

Struck and White.
The Tao of Writing.

Otherwise constant practice--constant searching for symbolisms, metaphors, ideas, characters, metric foots, aphorisms, monologues, etc. Compare your shit to great writers and see where they are better than you. Learn from your mistakes and keep looking for the best ways to present the ideas to wish to covey and/or the stories you wish to tell.

Took me a few years of constant practice, but I'm finally writing poetry with a fair amount of skill. Though I'm still not at level with like Prufrock or Inferno, when I switch between reading one to one of my works I'm actually happy with how well they hold up structurally. Which is my way of lastly saying never give up if writing is what you truly wish to do. You'll get there, it just takes time.

Bad advice to be honest. Hope he doesn't follow your advice

Damn, thanks. You're pretty much spot on– the story and style are pretty Wallace-derivative. I'll think about cutting some description; the general justification for it is that it juxtaposes with the shit sentences nicely. As for "aware of your own slightly above average skill," I don't know about that (I've basically never written creatively), but it's true I definitely like and take a lot of inspiration from writers who make it clear how much smarter they are than you– Wallace, Nabokov, etc.

The guy is OCD, or something like it. The shit sentences serve a few purposes:

1. Shit gags are easy, and I like the juxtaposition of shit and kinda pretty description

2. It's a writing sample, (mildly) shocking seemed like a way to stand out.

3. OCD/ internal state compared with external one. The eventual point of the story is that John meets this girl (not quite a date– girl just needs someone to talk to about her life collapsing in a gag-filled but hopefully also tragic way), and although his exterior state is perfectly compassionate/sincere he's internally obsessed with mental games, the last time he's taken a shit, etc.

Anyway, thanks a lot for the feedback.

Yeah, that's what I've found too. Actual good and bad stuff is ignored, but mediocre, meandering purple prose bullshit is often praised, probably because that's what most of lit is capable of writing.

Didn't know how to end this desu.

--

Miraba al viejo tirado en la cama y pensaba que los últimos años que el doctor había prometido parecían cada vez más últimos días y que la cálidad de vida que había pedido parecía cada vez más irreal, más imposible, más fuera de mi alcance. Puras ficciones de hospital.

Y salía de la fétida habitación impregnada de un agudo aroma a meados, tristeza y tiempo perdido sintiendome vació, consumido por el vacuo de mi propio arrepentimiento, compartiendo con mi padre el mudo sentimiento de no haber pasado el tiempo entre la vida y la muerte juntos. Quizá no siempre uno al lado del otro, pero sí más cerca, al menos más cerca de lo lejos que habíamos pasado estos años.

Pero ya era muy tarde para disculpas, o para salidas, o para discusiones reales y no de compromiso. Ahora la verdad me arroyaba: mi padre estaba muriendo. Dentro de esas cuatro paredes aquel hombre que alguna vez me pareció la alquimización de la hombría y la intimidación era ahora un alma caida sobre la cama de la muerte (casi tan muerta como él), acompañado por una fría y gris maquina que lo mantenía vivo, su única compañía, pues todos sus amigos estaban muertos o lo odiaban; su esposa, es decir mi madre, lo había dejado una semana después de mi nacimiento, y parecía que había muerto en Chile hace quién sabe cuántos años.

Y solo quedaba yo. Su distante hijo. Una cara sin cara que solo podía sentarse a su lado, preguntarle si había mejorado, si quería algo y fingir calma cuando le respondía que sí, que se sentía mejor y que no, que no tenía hambre, que tal véz más tarde.

Sabía en el fondo, en la parte profunda que prefería ignorar, que el dia que iba venir más pronto que tarde yo iba a suspirar tras la llamada del hospital, le diría a cualquier puta con la que me estuviera acostando que era de esperarse, que el viejo ya tenía 90 años y estaba mal, que era natural y que había vivido hasta demasiado (gracias a Dios) y quién sabe cuántas pajas más.
Me despediría de la ya mencionada mujer cualquiera, iría al hospital, le agradecería a la enfermera que me llevara al estéril cuarto, ella me miraría con lastima vestida de empatía, me diría que se va, que a lo mejor yo quería privacidad.

Y tras su partida, yo quedaría solo con mi padre, y lloraría. Lloraría en silencio, como si me hubieran quitado la voz, y lo abrazaría. Con mi cara ahogada en su pecho, lloraría como alguna vez lo hice de niño, pidiendole perdon, preguntandome ante él y ante Dios por qué habia sido un cabron tan irresponsable, que me perdonara, que lo quería, que por favor me perdonara, que no era justo, que lo lamentaba, y, yo, roto, pronunciaría lo que nunca le dije en vida, con ojos de vidrio en medio de un silencio asfixiante, al fin siendo sincero:

Papá, te amo.

Does anyone here having self published stuff they'd like to share? e-books, blogs, printed papers...

I'm curious to see what Veeky Forums has out there.

A hand collided with my shoulder, pinning me to the lockers I had been walking beside. I writhed under the iron grip of whoever decided to grab me, but my lanky figure failed to do me justice.

The boy I had been unlucky enough to encounter, a boy whom I didn't even know, towered over me. Our eyes met for a brief moment before he raised an unforgiving fist and extended it to meet my nose. My nose began to bleed almost instantly, as it wasn't long before I tasted iron.

During the beginning of freshman year, I figured other students might see my dilemma and be compelled to help. I soon learned passers-by preferred to laugh or simply watch instead.

"Faggot!" the boy chortled. "Why don't you cut that hair, huh? Does your boyfriend like it like that?" He grabbed a lock of blonde hair from the top of my head and tugged. A crowd had formed behind him, the majority uncontrollably laughing at each comment he made.

Instead of fighting back, I allowed my mind to wander. This was a common technique I used when it was clear I couldn't win. It wasn't very good for my physical being, but mentally, it took me away from whichever pimple-faced senior that had decided to use me as a human punching bag.

I imagined pulling out a shotgun and pointing it at the unnamed boy who decided to target me today. I pictured him letting me go, apologizing profusely, and attempting to back away. I imagined pulling the trigger.

Back in reality, my assailant continued to have at it. Out of all the beatings I'd received throughout the past two years, this just might have been the worst. Even in the darkest situations, I tried to be positive, but I couldn't see my face totally recovering from this. In between punches, I caught glimpses of others watching intently, some even smiling.

In an attempt to preserve my face, I once again pushed against the arm holding me down, failing miserably. Over the hallway's ambience, I had no trouble hearing the sickening crack of my own nose.