/crit/ - Writing Critique General

Post writing here and get feedback from other Veeky Forumserates.

Other urls found in this thread:

docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/
lel.ed.ac.uk/~gpullum/LandOfTheFree.pdf
pastebin.com/qTa9jAy8
pastebin.com/8LEiiBw0
pastebin.com/a6LphrVa
pastebin.com/cuUudhN3
youtu.be/HFW0z0Y5TR4
twitter.com/NSFWRedditVideo

>one of my very first ones

Even though I never got to know you
And despite the fact that we never interacted
My heart still skips a beat when your name is mentioned
And my brain struggles for quite a time to forget it

I wonder what would happen if I knew you well and that we were talking

pretty gay. sounds like you haven't read anything ever. are you illiterate?

The worst heartaches are from the ones you care most about
The ones you felt like you can tell anything and they won't judge you
The ones you thought would help you in everything you do
The ones you thought would never get mad at you
The ones you can sacrifice your sleep for
The ones for which you would do anything in your reach without asking any questions
The ones to whom it is hardest to deny
And this one does not always needs to be your fucking so called girlfriend\boyfriend.. It can be your friend, or any other person.
And you know what is the most ironic thing about these aches is?? The person hurting does not even know most of the times.

read but not wrote ever!!

What should I post? Bad poems, bad faux sea shanties or bad story excerpts?

pls someone answer. I'm drunk and having a crushing existential crisis.

You write for others or your own self? why'd u need feedback?

Whatever you want, man.

My first time posting on Veeky Forums, I'm trying to remove my dreadful thoughts of inferiority after taking a speed reading test (my literacy skills are the only thing I take pride in nowadays).
Anyway here it goes:

Smile

All I see in her are fake smiles.
Her tears, like crocodiles.
And as much as I'd love to believe her,
All I see is a deceiver.
But through her tears of insincerity,
She mutters, "Why won't you believe me?"

okay. This is from the novel I'm writing. There are a lot of passages that need fixing, but this is one of my favorites:

Breakfast is non‐breakfast burritos with off brand tequila flavored beer. Very festive. I feel thematic. It reminds me of a birthday party that ended years ago, when someone threw a goat off a balcony into an empty, full‐size swimming pool. There were a lot of little cactus shaped party lights. The sound of a screaming, broken goat really polarized the crowd- either sobering people right up, or sending people into howling fits of drunken laughter.

Someone jumped in after it, and shot it in the back of the head with a desert eagle, blowing it's head apart and punching a crater into the dusty tiles. Georgia had a pretty sombrero, spun silver on rich blue velvet. And I remember drinking bad beer and lemon pulp.

Your writing style comes off as quirky for the sake of being quirky. "I feel thematic"? Fucking really? What is the point of the goat aside? How does his shitty breakfast remind him of a goat getting its brain blown out? Is any of this relevant in any sense? Somehow I doubt it. In this entire passage, you've managed to say absolutely nothing.

You're trying too hard to be "unique" (and you're not being unique, everyone and their fucking dog tries and fails at stream of consciousness and is left with diarrhetic prose) with your prose and your style, to the detriment of your story. You should find something to say before you worry about how you're going to say it.

No point made

well, that's sort of the point. The whole story revolves around the fact that the characters are wandering, aimless though the world. I can understand where you're coming from, but I think you're also inferring a dishonesty that isn't there.

Also this is only two paragraphs.

The whole thing is basically a cathartic exercise, for me to work off my angst. It's three people who love each other, but they're stupid teenagers with no direction (I'm not a teenager).

I think my question is more if the writing is in any way viable. The plot and where it's going is my problem, so you don't have to worry about it much.

I always like to be constructive when I'm critiquing here on Veeky Forums, but this is genuinely one of the worst things I've ever read.

If that's a shitpost then well done. If real then take the good advice of the above posters as well as learning basic grammar.

well, that makes me sad, but I'm going to finish writing my story anyway.

Good on you write for yourself and for its own sake.

Shits not too awful btw but seriously do fix up the grammar

Don't be sad about my thoughts. We've all written garbage at some point and it's an essential part of evolution as a writer. Just make sure you take the advice here and keep reading and learning from what you read.

Okay sport, fair enough. Now explain what "I feel thematic" means.

>raughing internerry

Yeah, I've always had a problems with that. I always oscillate between styles and tenses- even between sentences, so it usually ends up a mess. I always try to go back and fix it, but considering I'm going for a full on novel this time, getting is full draft finished is what I'm working on now.

Thank you. I'll try the best I can to internalize the critic. Like I said, this story is a catharsis for me, but I would like it if other people enjoyed it too.

???
thematic
adjective
1.
having or relating to subjects or a particular subject.
"the book is organized into nine thematic chapters"
2.
LINGUISTICS
relating to or denoting the theme of a sentence.
"some languages use special affixes to mark thematic and non-thematic elements"

He's got mexican food in front of him, and it reminds him of a mexican themed party he went to. He feels mexican themed. I know I'm not a great writer or anything, but not knowing what thematic means sounds like a you problem.

You can't feel "thematic" you twat. You're making up a usage that doesn't exist.

if you say so

Use sentimental or nostalgic ding dong you can't feel thematic

Take the definition you just posted and replace the word thematic with it. Does that make any sense to you at all?
>The book is organized into nine chapters relating to a particular subject.
vs.
>I feel relating to a particular subject.

You should axe that sentence entirely in my opinion, but if you insist on having something there, you should replace it with "I feel nostalgic". That should achieve the same effect you're going for without sounding totally moronic.

that's boring, tho, innit? Isn't half the fun of writing experimenting with the language? Sure, even if the official meaning doesn't fit 100%, it's still not entirely wrong, and the reader can infer, without any problems, what that's supposed to mean.

I get where you're coming from, it's not supposed to be some kind of cop out, either, but that's the fun in writing, right?

The horse cantered, a buckler at its saddle. Its rider wore chainmail, rusting at the edges. In his right hand was a spear. He squinted. A monolith the size of a mountain rose from the horizon. But there was something peculiar about it. The rock had limbs, and, as he got closer, they were attached to a sword, buried in the ground.
‘What happened here?’
Whinnying, his horse flew into a gallop. He nudged back on its reins. She wouldn’t stop. Jerking with all his strength, he forced her to a stop, rearing her backwards. The ground trembled. He looked behind him to see the skeletal figure uprooting its arms, blocking the sun with its raised sword. The rider’s eyes widened, then closed forever, becoming one with the red dust beneath him.

desu i thought you just meant that eating burritos and drinking tequila beer felt thematic

Why are you. Writing short sentences. Like this.

>the reader can infer, without any problems, what that's supposed to mean
I stopped reading at that sentence and said "what the fuck" out loud, precisely because it is entirely wrong and doesn't make any sense. I spent a few seconds utterly baffled, then I googled "thematic" to make sure I wasn't retarded, checking to see if there was some archaic usage I was unaware of. Then, after confirming that your usage had zero precedent, I returned to your catastrophe and forced myself to read past it. I only figured out what you meant because you explicitly told us. So, there were problems.

No, not entirely. Eating burritos and tequila reminds him of the party, and makes him feel like he felt at the party. It's sort of an unreliable narrator, in so far that he's relating to his experiences on an emotional level, with very little rationale. What he's experiencing branches off into tangents. The way he thinks is splintered. I don't know, maybe it's not very good without the context of the rest of the story to establish his character.

In rich meadows of shade do lie the lost,
Past lives still summoned by ghostly silence,
No heavens break for the soul still aghast
As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions.
From distant lands her torch rose, plush and bright
Asphodel flowers in hand; as night’s eye
Moaned at drowned fair souls and love blinded sight,
Grains resown; grey bed beckoned for kind life.
Heaven heard woe, yet fall claimed nature’s hymn
As life’s wrinkles fell fairer for burnt souls;
Foe of strife rode high,while darkness within
Left crescent light upon yellowed meadows.
If woe blooms in heaven’s fairest prairie
Her heart stays pure while my love won’t vary.

Don't short sentences add tension to a story?

How to make this less shit:

She was sat in a beautiful, yet uncomfortable, caquetoire. She was clothed in luxurious satin robes; the breeze from the bay windows gently lifting the weaved fabric. Her eyes were covered with a laced mask blindfold and she could only see feint outlines in the chambers she abode.

Basically its about this rapist who lives in a castle and captures women, some of the women are aroused and enthralled by the man, some have deep fear and hatred of him.

The scene is very dry. Usually people have problems being too descriptive or too florid, but you're the opposite. Though that's not to say you should throw in a bunch of adjectives and talk about his chainmail or how long his spear is or something retarded like that. Describe what's actually happening and what the character is feeling. There's no tension to this scene, and there should be. There's no sense of mystery to this scene, and there should be.
>The horse cantered, a buckler at its saddle. Its rider wore chainmail, rusting at the edges. In his right hand was a spear.
"The horse cantered. Its rider wore chainmail, clutching a spear in his right hand."
Get rid of the useless fluff and the passive tense.
>The rock had limbs, and, as he got closer, they were attached to a sword, buried in the ground.
This isn't incorrect, per se, but it is awkward. Throw "he could see" or "he saw" or something behind "as he got closer".
>He nudged back on its reins
Incorrect use of nudged here. Nudge means "gently push". You pull back on reins, you don't push or nudge them. And this doesn't seem like a situation where he'd be doing it gently.
>The rider’s eyes widened, then closed forever, becoming one with the red dust beneath him.
His eyes did? Or he did?

Learn the difference between "faint" and "feint" first off.

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.

sounds cool to me brah but i'm a pleb and know nought of literature

>Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself.

What do I do when I read things like this in books, something where you disagree vehemently and find it cringey but know it's the authors views/intention.

Don't know if this is any good or not but here it goes

The Crusader walked down the beaten, dirt road for the first time in twelve years. Once, he was bright eyed, and wasted countless nights attempting to fight the moon with a wooden sword. Now, he keeps his eyes to the ground.

The rolling hills surrounding him form a miniature gulch, with dying clouds overhead. Dawn has long gone. The Crusader holds his brown cloak tightly as winds begin hurling frost. He raises his head from under the clothing, with only a beard and mangy hair to keep his face somewhat warm. A row of shabby, half-ruined cobble walls a meter high come into sight. They’re dotted along the side of the expanding road. Man is not far.

I wasn't going to say anything, but since I saw it pointed out in the document, I'm not sure that "dreary" is something you'd use to describe a coat.

All I've got really. Pretty well written.

>and wasted countless nights attempting to fight the moon with a wooden sword. Now, he keeps his eyes to the ground.
I like this

I was Noah in the flood. My stand still lack of motion, was my ark and the omnidirectional flow of the mall's ever busy crowd, was the flood that aimed to drown me. I was spacing out near the fountain, after a failed withdrawal at the ATM. I found it weird that there were so many people in the mall, on a weekday, during easter vacation. It had that rush of back to school shopping, which was silly because school only just ended. Might as well get supplies early so I guess the reasoning could make sense. These thoughts weren't at the forefront of my mind at the time though.

Rip me a new one Veeky Forums this is from a novel I'm hobby writing.

...

Crit please

>It was a sunny day and some nigger fucking goes apeshit over nothing, someone probably looked at him funny, anyways; this apeshit nigger ends up getting caught in the act by de popo. Nigger says he dindunuffin, so i guess the moral of the story is: don't be racist.

Waves lapped gently upon the shore, their dull crashes sounding in the night and melding into a chorus with the soft summer breeze. Stars filled the sky, a rapt and attentive audience. There was the Sojourner, who would be away ere the solstice; the Myrmidon, with his great spear; the Tiger and the Hunter, ever at odds. The Wyrm, portent of disaster, loomed high in the sky. But reigning over them all was the Moon, gleaming silver as it crossed the sky with regal distinction.

Oskar stirred. The nigh imperceptible crunch of sand announced an end to his solitude. Lying on his back, he shifted his gaze from the stars to the figure approaching along the shore.

“I thought to find you here, brother,” said a young woman as she walked up to Oskar. She was lightly clad in armor, wearing a small chestpiece and bracers around her forearms and shins.

“Siri,” he said in acknowledgment, then turned back to the stars. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing.” She plopped down into the sand next to him, matching his aimless gaze into the night.

“Surely, you must have reason to come all the way out here,” Oskar said, eyes still fixed skyward. He could faintly smell sweat.

“Need a sister any reason other than to spend time with her beloved brother? And might I not ask the same of you? What reason have you to be here, brother?”

Oskar didn’t deign to respond. Siri didn’t pressure him for a response. The two siblings lay in silence for some time, their conversation replaced with the rolling of waves and the rustling of bamboo leaves.

“You wanted to go with him,” Siri broke the silence matter-of-factly. Again, she failed to solicit a response. She sighed. “Oskar...he will be lord of this house one day. And you know as well as I that for a commoner – not only that, for a foreigner – to serve as a retainer is unthinkable, unacceptable. We should be grateful that we have been afforded official station as servants of Lady Hibiki –”

“I know,” Oskar cut her off. “I know. I always knew”.

I tried
Warning: It's fantasy, take it or leave it, but you knew what you were getting into.


I hate Goblins. Let’s start with that. They’re small, they’re weak, they stink, and you couldn’t find a shred of a heart in all heaven to fit inside these wee monstrosities. Goblins are the spawn of demons, the children of serpents and vipers. They have green, scaly skin, eyes like hot fire, and breaths of coal that steams even in the arctic cold. They’re raiders and pillagers, pirates and bandits, and at the worst – they’re the legions you’d find at the whipping hand of a power-hungry sorcerer. Goblins are fiends, they’re malicious, they’re vile, and if you had any sense of justice or holiness in this unjust and unholy world you’d kill them on sight.
Now let me tell you how I became one of them.
On one Saturday morning I woke as a Brother of the Flame, a holy order of Paladins dedicated to the eradication of sorceries and pagan sacrificial rituals all across the known world. Alcadia was our base of operations, where the youthful spring of the order first bloomed. The seed started as an off-shoot branch to combat heresies within the holy church, but as time went on and more members of the Alcadian royal family converted we evolved into a theocratic police force to keep the peace within the kingdom and by the limits of the law, of course. When magic and sorcery hit an alarming boom in thirteen thirty-four, the year of the lord, we had to hunker down and negotiate for more leniencies with the monarchy to be allowed legal rights to hunt down and turn-in these vile individuals performing the works of the Abyssal One.
Magic, you see, is as evil as Goblins go, which is meant to say – very evil. The otherworldly powers belongs only to Bruno, to God, our lord and ruler in heaven, but sometimes God allows evil to see if we righteous ones have the strength to put it down, to be tested so as to judge if we can bring about a greater good. And from the known records of our church’s history I can tell you straight, so far: we have. Magic practise has been decreasing by eighty-nine percent since The Great Cleansing, and that didn’t change on the Saturday morning I woke up as member of this great, illustrious order. And neither did it change on that same Saturday morning I became its enemy.
Dawn’s light was still cropped by the hedges at the time we were rushed out of bed. There was a great panic as my brothers rushed about in their silks and pyjamas to reach the armoury, pillows and feathers in flight.

Se propuso a sí mismo que sus obras fueran realistas
Tardaría meses aunque nunca serían vistas
Pintó ojos de iris detallados
Los los trazos más precisos y delgados
Aún así no lo eran;
Ella estaba en frente,
Era inverosímilmente diferente

Era porque lo que hacía el artista esa estático
Y ella respiraba

Entonces la pintó en movimiento
Sus trazos ahora vivos como latidos
Al final también respiraba su creación
Pero no era suficiente

Pintó entonces a sus pares
Pintó a los mares
Pintó las casas a través de la ventana
Pintó a los hombres en sus camas
Pintó sus miedos y sus sueños
Pero cuando se percató
Había pintado un mundo entero

Too cliché and generic imo.

Not very aesthetic, but it's still okay. Your vocabulary seems a bit restrained.

Seems like you wrote something very personal. I like it because of that. But it's too short, maybe expand it a bit more

Very beautifully written, i'm probably not literate enough to understand it in it's entirety, but it sounded nice in my mouth.

You have pacing but the subject matter is cringey, and adolescent at best. Apply the language skills you used here with something interesting, allegorical, or symbolic--really something just more creative than typical pining.

*Con los trazos más precisos y delgados

Sorry I wrote it in a hurry

This sounds straight out of some angsty eighteen/nineteen-year-old-guy's journal-soon-to-be-manifesto.
Learn to be more forgiving and realize life is as selfish as it is giving.
Also, your form is bad, you have little pacing--and what little you have is highly inconsistent, your use of swearing is, well, lame, to be frank; and last-but-not-least the piece is trivial and goes absolutely nowhere and develops on zero percent originality or importance.

Then why are you fucking here?

In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps
Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep
Round the ladder to the cavern out from which climbs the red dawn
Near the children bathing brown in the heat of the rising sun
Walk about the tired men with callouses on barefoot feet
Careful as to not offend the mounted women that they meet
Such the stretch of playlight hours crawls over the baking day
Crossing sparkling city towers where it will be shut away
Just beyond a golden bridge as journeyed men hide out of sight
They'll heave it down a jagged ridge to thrust unto the city night
And drain the colour from the women with the steeds drinking sun
They ignore the frozen children dancing til the coming dawn

>police force
>pyjamas

These jar with me. They feel too modern for a fantasy piece.

>eighty-nine percent
Statistics are again giving me a more modern vibe.

>Saturday morning
This feels odd, like too ordinary or close to our world. I'm supposed to be in another world, but this pulls me back into my own.

I'm beginning to write my first book. As it's my first I thought I'd start out with something simple, so it's basically a kids book.

The door opened to the tune of a jingling bell that was tied to a string above the door frame. It was a small shop, it looked unused, and had a dusty and damp smell to it. A small, portly man walked from the back to stand behind a glass counter filled with various ancient, and expensive looking books. The man frowned as his eyes moved up to meet Fred’s, he was obviously disgruntled he had a customer.

“How may I be of assistance, Sir?” he said in the most pompous of voices.

“I want the book in the window, the Diary. How much is it” asked Fred.

“Oh, you mean the blue one. It’s 2 shillings. Sir”

"2 shillings, that’s more than a weeks wages!" Fred thought to himself.

“Sounds good, I’ll take it” Said Fred.

He was often prone to such involuntary outbursts. His mouth often overriding his mind at the most inappropriate of times. It was a lot of money for a book with no words, but the diary wasn’t for him. It was for Edgar. And every penny of it would be worth it to see his face light up.

“Fantastic choice Sir” said the portly man, now not so disgruntled, but somewhat surprised a man that looked like Fred would spend so much money on such an item. Or indeed, could even afford to.

He waddled to the front window, collected the book and took it back behind the counter. The book was wrapped with parchment paper, then thick brown paper, before being tied with thick twine. As he handed the book to Fred, he grasped his wrist as if he had forgotten something.

“Ah you will be needing this to make use of a Diary!” he said abruptly.

The small man reached behind the counter and pulled out an exquisite looking fountain pen, ink well and a small pot of ink.

“What use is a diary if you can’t write in it!”

Is this bait?
Because writing this bad would make for a hilarious novel

100% srs like would be offended if someone stole this idea from me or it's already been made.


I'll try it out now.

Chapter 1:

Suzy means the world to me it's crazy I can't describe it. She's like the sun, her yellow hair moves in the wind and no matter what we've been through shes shining in my memory, like a gold coin at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. I want you so bad ...

This is kinda difficult.

It's not what I believe. It's just core to the story's theme.

Useless and I don't mean that as a compliment but I was able to finish it but then again non breakfast burritos are usually only consumed when it's either really late at night and you don't want to make the effort or it's the only thing at the gas station, and in either case you there, unsatisfied and disappointed, and surrounded darkness.

and what would you suggest??

The carriage rattled along, cold air biting at the coachman’s lungs. His eyes darted from side to side. The trees thrust out at him, contorting into monsters. But every now and then he would see a pair of icy blue eyes. He shivered, glancing back at his wares: salted meats, foreign drinks, tableware made of solid gold. A shitload of trouble would fall on him if he were to see them lost. Gulping, he cracked his whip. The town was up ahead. If he could just wait a few minutes, he’d be striking it rich.

A figure pounced from the foliage, tearing open the horse’s neck. It whinnied as it fell, sending shards of ice into the coachman’s face. With nothing to lead it, the carriage toppled into a tree. Climbing from the wreckage and coughing up clumps of blood, he saw the wolf-like-beast bare its fangs, blood-soaked and sharp. But what struck him most were its pair of eyes, cold as the season.

Want to learn writing, any suggestions??

Write. Read.

If anyone would care to read what I deem my best short story so far I would appreciate any thoughts or critiques.

For convenience reasons and because it is slightly too long for a single post here, I have it here:

saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/

If your grammar isn't solid, read a grammar book. Increase your vocabulary by just reading daily, or even consider just reading a dictionary.

Read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.

Read and write every day. Actively seek out authors known to have good prose. Read and examine how they write, their style. Try to write stuff in the same style they did as an exercise to build up the different ways you can write the same thing. Don't full on copy a writer's style when you're finally writing with proper intent, it will be blatant.

Read up on literary devices. Read up on how to write poetry, it'll help you to make better sentences in prose.

Try to write the same thing multiple times but in different ways. Learn about point of view and how to create internal dialogue. Learn about how to infer things, learn about 'show, don't tell' but don't be enslaved by it, it's a tool not a rule.

Biggest things off the top of my head.

I enjoyed that. Your dialogue is good. I laughed at his reaction to the cloud.

Needs proofreading, there are some errors.

>They want Snacks
capital
>Every moron get’s a novel
remove apostrophe
>accesoire
accessoire? Unless there is a foreign grammar changing the spelling.

>The green-eyed waitress was a petite thing; not much taller than the table
I get you're going for over emphasis, but I feel like it didn't work, it creates the image of a waitress two feet tall.

Hey man, thanks for reading. I'm glad you liked it. I fixed the errors but let the part with the waitress be so others have a chance to comment on it.

What do you think about my ending? I always felt it was a little weak.

>Read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.

Please don't. Annoying and dogmatic puritanism, which is further full of mistakes. Strunk & White themselves frequently make the very mistakes they militate against.

lel.ed.ac.uk/~gpullum/LandOfTheFree.pdf

Thanks for the warning, user. I'm glad you got that far. I hope it got your attention and all, or was at least entertaining enough to not be a chore to read.

>saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/

If that's the end of the story, then its weak. It doesn't feel like a full stop, or that a 'lesson has been learned'. Every problem is unresolved, other than considering (and not even actively deciding yet) to compromise with Jane. How does the date with Kiera go? What will he do when the cloud assumingly returns during his next emotion / mental down point?

It's a very powerful 'And then?', which is exactly what you want at the end of a section of writing, since it means the reader will want to read the next part. Maintaining the desire to know what's going to happen next is a critical part of story telling and you've got it here.

It's a very good beginning of a story, not a story in its entirety.

You don't need to 'fix' the ending, you need to write the next part is what I feel.

It sets up the interesting premise of the story and provides a lot of information very quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Instead of direct description, you should consider creating a dialogue-heavy scene, and infer half of the information through conversation and actions. Otherwise it ends up like reading a history book instead of a story.

Your idea sounds interesting and unique enough, the question is whether you can execute it. Your point of view and internal dialogue adequate, but work on inference through speech and action.

Look at the starting dialogue in 's story, and see how he infers information about the characters through it.

Thank you for this. I am appreciative.

Thanks again, will do when I get the time.

Yes, I was in love; I was in love with her, because of her dirty wooden floors; I was in love with her, because of her father’s sad, sad face and bushy moustache; I was in love with her because of her moth collection; I was in love with her because of how her part of town was always the shadiest, with choice islands of sun; I was in love with her because of how cold the wind was in those days, and how bold and blusterous were the rocks on the mountain; I was in love with her because I saw a toy soldier in a museum in Massachusetts, once; I was in love with her because I heard a woodpecker, singing; I was in love with her because of the little holes on the bottom of a mushroom’s white cap; I was in love with her because it was springtime, and it would have been foolish not to be in love with something; I was in love with her because I felt my skin might scab over and rot off at any moment, leaving raw, sterile meat; I was in love with her because if one train leaves Chicago at 12:00 pm and moves at 50 mph, and the other leaves at 12:30 and moves at 75 mph, when will they meet? ; I was in love with her because she was a transexual cyclops with a sack full of butchered Nobody; I was in love with her because I wasn’t sure whether somebody would explode or crumple up like a ball of paper if they swam to the bottom of the ocean; I was in love with her because sometimes you get started eating a really sugary cereal and it’s all you ever want to eat and you can never know how long that will last, until one day it suddenly switches and the golden cereal now tastes like silver and piss; I was in love with her because I imagined myself as a bird and became bored; I was in love with her because of wondering what was that stuff in the corner of your eyes; I was in love with her because of how I invited friends over, only to wish that I hadn’t; I was in love with her because of how she looked at frogs; I was in love with her because of the ease of putting her in little boxes to be sold on the mass market; I was in love with her because of that time I went fishing and caught nothing, but that night dreamt of the sea; I was in love with her because of castle candelabra’s way of negatively illuming the subfusc; I was in love with her because I was an elf, once; I was in love with her because of my great aunt’s chair; I was in love with her because of sad suburban strip-malls; I was in love with her because of the idea of going to a circus; I was in love with her because of the smell of camphor; I was in love with her because of mythopoesis; I was in love with her because of the Wild Hunt; I was in love with her because of the veterans begging in the streets; I was in love with her because of the disgustingly pulsating music swallowing me; I was in love with her because of niceties which made you vomit; I was in love with her because of sand on white pants;

I was in love with her because of finger-painting, imagined or actual; I was in love with her because of erasing a pencil mark and marking it over and erasing it and marking it over until it cannot be read; I was in love with her because of the past tense; I was in love with her because of ground-floor windows; I was in love with her because of reading stories about hail the size of cars; I was in love with her because of chalk’s marvelous abundance; I was in love with her because of a hobo nickel I found in the mud; I was in love with her because of tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones; I was in love with her because she was replaceable, but not nearly as much as me; I was in love with her because America; I was in love with her because of couches, and all they entailed; I was in love with her because of the transition from incandescent to fluorescent light bulbs; I was in love with her because of house centipedes and their primordial air; I was in love with her because of crushing acorns; I was in love with her because of ice on the river; I was in love with her because of old men riding bikes; I was in love with her because of the dead seasons; I was in love with her because of ----------------------; I was in love with her because of her crepuscules; I was in love with her because of decay; I was in love with her because of her liminality.

>was

try to use that word less. It isn't a bad word. Use it sometimes. But if every sentence is 'was this, were that' you wind up listing things instead of describing things.

Also you start two sentences with she in a row and one with her.

Also who is PoV? If it is the woman, she's describing all this stuff as beautiful yet she's blindfolded. If it is an onlooker, you have a PoV error where you describe what she sees. Get rid of the words beautiful and luxurious, fill in some feeling.
It felt like it should be elegant sort of chair. Intricate patterns pressed into her back, yet they did nothing for the soreness of her hips. A caquetoire required thicker clothing to act as padding and her captor hadn't seen fit to deliver. Instead, he clothed her in a thin dress made from satin that kept catching the breeze from the bay windows, only furthering her discomfort with the cool air. Had he not wrapped a cloth around her eyes, she might have at least been able to enjoy the view. She had heard rumors of this man. Some spoke in excited whispers, others in fear. Obviously the latter women had been right; What kind of gentleman left his guest in such discomfort?

>was

try to use that word less. It isn't a bad word. Use it sometimes. But if every sentence is 'was this, were that' you wind up listing things instead of describing things.

Also you start two sentences with she in a row and one with her.

Also who is PoV? If it is the woman, she's describing all this stuff as beautiful yet she's blindfolded. If it is an onlooker, you have a PoV error where you describe what she sees. Get rid of the words beautiful and luxurious, fill in some feeling.

>Better formatting
>and typo corrections

It felt like it should be an elegant sort of chair. Intricate patterns pressed into her back, yet they did nothing for the soreness of her hips. A caquetoire required thicker clothing to act as padding and her captor hadn't seen fit to deliver. Instead, he clothed her in a thin dress made from satin that kept catching the breeze from the bay windows, only furthering her discomfort with the cool air. Had he not wrapped a cloth around her eyes, she might have at least been able to enjoy the view. She had heard rumors of this man. Some spoke in excited whispers, others in fear. Obviously the latter women had been right; What kind of gentleman left his guest in such discomfort?

First time posting here, I've started reading a lot more literature lately which has given me an interest in writing myself. I haven't really focused my efforts onto one particular idea/story so I have a few fragments lying around, one of which is as follows:

Originating from the ancient Greek term for ‘irregular mind’, paranoia is defined as the feeling you are in danger from attack or betrayal, despite any evidence to confirm such a threat. It has long been considered a malaise of the thoughts, a sort of mental illness. As an avalanche may be triggered with a clap of the hands, a bout of paranoia can begin with a misinterpreted look, a simple statement taken as a duplicitous one; it may even be the machination of an isolated mind, conjured through pure imagination alone. As with an avalanche, the delusions suffered by a paranoid build exponentially, as all interactions with the world and its inhabitants are viewed under a warped lens built from perverted impressions of previous interactions. The paranoid thus enters a vicious cycle. The conspiratorial web spun in the past cannot help but catch flies; the spider grows ever larger and the web grows ever wider. Eventually the spider will make a wrong step, ensnaring itself on a strand of its own fortress, writhing and thrashing and bringing it down upon itself and freeing its host from his unwitting captivity.

>PROVIDENCE

The Valkyrie’s braided locks whisper, “Choose me.”

Her body twists in Godly patterns. She wraps me in warmth. My neck begins to burn with her excited, ropey touch. I hold my breath expectantly. I’ll forget everything soon, lost in our love. But another arrives, sybaritic like me. Baby’s got dangerous curves and skin like ebony. The blond slithers away into obscurity; the obsidian girl approaches, we drink Chablis. I fumble with her then turn her over to me. My lips press against her chamber. She’s one to recoil with screams, I assure. Strangely enough, she always looks like a panther in motion even when still. I look at the blond girl and think twice. The black girl’s hammer reels back. She purrs in my ear, “Choose me.” But I can’t decide who to make it with. So I stow away the Rapunzel noose and the sable Glock, selecting the red¬lipstick pills instead. I’m coming God.

She was snoring again, and this time the shuddering of her nostrils were not fake. There would be no awakening this time, no perchance intervention. He peeled the bedclothes back, fingers trembling and threatening to send ripples of incriminating fear onto her bosom. Her hair fell softly to one side and hung lamely over the bedside. The sight of her bare navel tempered his courage, and he drove on. Unseaming her from just beside her belly button, he revealed her internal organs to the air for the first time. The scent both aroused and nauseated, and the sight of the bodily fluids bubbling and coagulating in the air accentuated this. Still, he had a dream to fulfill. He squatted over this new orifice, pleased to be actualizing his desires. She was oblivious to both her mutilation and his naked scrotum hanging just a foot above her, still in the throes of an endless sleep. Finally he began. Squelching first, the feces came sliding down his small intestine. It reached his rectum after a minute's suspense, and he felt his arousal heighten. At last his child slid out. A perfect, 10 inch turd slid into the hole in her stomach and sat cosily between what looked to be two vital organs wrapped around each other. He patted it lovingly into place, as both bile and blood bathed his creation, and he saw some of the feces break off in the surrounding blood and be carried off into the unknown frontiers of her body. Soon he would be all over her. He swallowed the saliva that had built up in his mouth, and sutured the wound up. Sweeping the hair back under her pillow, he left her there in the night, unknowingly tampered.

The next morning she arrived at the breakfast table. "I feel a most unusual sickness in my abdomen, father," she said.

I've been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, and this is pretty neat. I haven't experienced this in my life, but I wasn't turned off by your interpretation or anything, simply different. I like it, but the spider analogy is a bit much, I might change the ending somewhat. Overall, good job.

something interesting, allegorical, or symbolic--

pastebin.com/qTa9jAy8

There was this pseudo-essay I wrote on happiness some months ago when I wanted to kill myself over a breakup. I remember the conclusive parts were shit and open-ended and I hated it. Imma go find it.

you've piqued my interest

pastebin.com/8LEiiBw0

Have fun, user

It's shit, obviously. I mean, this is Veeky Forums, and I wouldn't be hear if I knew how to write. With that out of the way...

The beginning, first two paragraphs especially, is the worst part. It sounds like when somebody is trying to start an essay, so they just say some shit like "People throughout the ages have pondered this very interesting question". That's weak, obviously.

I'm not sure what to do instead, though. My best idea would be to look at some Hazlitt: THERE is a spider crawling along the matted floor of the room where I sit... (On the pleasure of hating). or Where there's a will, there's a way. - I said so to myself, as I walked down Chancery-lane, about half-past six o'clock on Monday the 10th of December, to inquire at Jack Randall's where the fight the next day was to be; and I found "the proverb" nothing "musty" in the present instance. (The Fight) In my opinion you should own the fact that these are your personal reflections, and find an engaging way to relate them as such, rather than an overly broad philosophical screed.

So I would say to try and hone it in and make it more personal, cut back on the generalities and rhetorical questions, and clean up the metaphors a bit (pot of gold, light at the end of the road, whatever).

Hope that was at least a little bit helpful. It wasn't that bad, really, and I liked some of the ideas you brought up near the end.

Thanks for the feedback, man. I'll keep it mind for next time, whenever that'll be.

pastebin.com/a6LphrVa
Here's a short story I wrote a few years back in my junior year in high school. The assignment was to write a story that took place in a dystopian future, because our summer assignment was to read Fahrenheit 451. Pretty sure I wrote the longest one out of my whole class. I don't plan on being a writer, but I thought this would be a quick read for you guys.

I'm happy that you pointed out the weakness of the end of the section, I wasn't too happy with it either but I thought I'd throw it out there to see what other people thought, will keep working on it. Regarding the spider analogy I have extended it into the second paragraph so will try to police myself to prevent it becoming too heavy-handed, appreciate the feedback user

Anyone here read/speak polish ? It feels really hard but I've been trying to write in it again after like a 10 year gap of only writing in english.

pastebin.com/cuUudhN3

Let me be alone
It’s not you
Just need time and space

Stay away, stay back
Let me be
DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME

I came here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now

G watches me because mom and dad work. She is the oldest person I know. She has a hole in her head. She had a heart attack a long time ago, but her husband’s heart attack killed him. He was a painter and she tells me she wish he knew me. We go outside when it’s hot and stomp on ants. My dad doesn’t like it. He asks me how would I feel if a big shoe went and stepped on mom. I tell G and she says well he can let all the spiders in the world crawl on him if he wants, then. She picks up a small yellow flower from the lawn and holds it up to my chin. Because it reflects yellow it means something good. I have a cleft on my chin like the grandfather, who painted, who was in the navy, who died of a heart attack, who I never met.

too many articles

this is what your poem reads like

> the blah and the blee and the bloo and the bluh
> the this and the that the thing the the the
> the the the the the the the the the the the

double digit IQ facebook relationship status update tier

I am angry.
ANGRY ABOUT GOBLINS

Ode to Lauren Southern

I love Lauren Southern.
Her soft voice let's me melt away
and makes me want to shove my hard cock
in her tender mouth.
I just want to bang her like
'bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang '

He gingerly puts his fingers like a peace-sign up her nostrils and bites her ear to show dominance. This causes her to start farting uncontrollably inside his cock, tickling him.
'Hehe' he says.
She starts shitting in his penis

>promotes traditionalism
>wears jean shorts so tight they spread her pussy
what did she mean by this?
youtu.be/HFW0z0Y5TR4

The wide, round rump straining against the purple lycra pants of the white woman in front of him in line at the corner shop stirred in D'Quan dim, dreamlike memories of the Serengeti buried in his blood, setting his heart pounding like a jungle drum and his long coal-black pestle nudging the fabric of his basketball shorts.
“Muh dick,” he mumbled wonderingly to himself. “Muh dick...muhfugga.”

Jesus Christ how horrifying

Intriguing. You captured the voice of a child well with the straightforward not entirely related statements.