Writing Critique General

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harpers.org/archive/2000/09/the-old-dictionary/
pastebin.com/25yC1gPi
pastebin.com/BZnJrRbb
pastebin.com/q0NfCjci
twitter.com/SFWRedditGifs

Will reciprocate

Is this an engaging opening line; and is the emdash the most appropriate form of punctuation where it's used? Or should it be a colon or comma?

>I'll never forget the first time she walked past me in the Starbucks on Glen--that soft brush of air stirred by her movement carrying with it the faint aroma of lavender mixed with embalming fluid.

I don't understand the purpose. Perhaps some of your exaggerated details are important or cursory; I can't tell though. Specifically the keen attention to the old man's skin. Format wise, it reads fair enough, kept me engaged--if not out of curiosity, and was grammatically sound.

Does the speaker smell her hair, or is some strangely omnicient narrator intrude here and tell us what her hair smells like? If the characters are in smelling proximity, flesh it out. What does the closeness of the queue feel like for the speaker? He's in line, she's in front of him. What does the cafe bar sound like? How does she hold herself while waiting? Does she lift one foot onto the other? Are her arms crossed?

Write better, nigger. Worry about punctuation after your prose becomes readable and interesting.

pretty meh, a few too many adjectives. final two words are nice for their surprise effect
it's well-written like the style is clean and simple, but it doesn't feel alive. i feel no sympathy for the passionless narrator or his bibulous hamster. Franzen says he writes about familial relations because a lot of the emotional legwork has already been done, but I still feel the need for more flesh on these characters, especially the narrator, who seems more concerned with describing sights and colors than with his own dying wife. Yeah, I get that doing emotional / interpersonal stuff can be sappy and trite these days, but it's still possible. Have you read Lydia Davis's story "The Old Dictionary?"

harpers.org/archive/2000/09/the-old-dictionary/

Where are you getting hair from? It's perfume. I can only put so much in one sentence. I'm asking if the sentence would warrant reading to the next, which would, I feel obviously, go into the detail you're talking about.

Thanks for the tip

I was wondering if it needs a bit more emotion. Checking it out now, thanks

I float through the city exactly two feet off the ground.
Above black spots of gum. I never step in dog shit.
My legs are weak and my feet have no blisters,
your bed is some wild medicine.

Two feet off the floor my neck snaps every train ride,
my hair gets caught in chandeliers, my crotch gets headbutted,
and every door frame breaks my nose and chips my teeth.
I have scrapes on my back from your ceiling.

There’s gold in my ribs and soup in my valves,
and I have lungs filled with warm friendly tar.
Seven inches below that
are pipes filled with human shit.

If you split me down the middle though,
I don’t know what would spill on the floor.
You could crack my collar bone, drain my veins,
and you might get glitter and silver or salt and iron.

When I’m hauled into a grey building to pay
For the tar and cum and bloodshot eyes I’ve found,
they’ll pull my skin back,
and tally the debris in my tubes and ropes.

My whole catalogue of minerals and fluids will be laid bare,
things naked eyes have never laid on:
muggy days and bad nights and cold mornings spread on a table.
Deijman's stern hands will note all the dirt on my mind.

Gonna give some feedback, bear with me just finishing Gravity's Rainbow for the first time

I've got to agree with the first guy. If that's the whole story then I don't really get it. Why did you focus on the abnormal quality of Mr. Bao's face? Why is Mr. Bao dead too?

Good enough prose though. Simplicity done right. Though there's only a little bit, the dialogue reads well too (something I'm trying to work on).

>It's an unconventional love story
The line is not bad itself, but I do worry where you're gonna take the rest of the story. Muh "girl"

It feels like a very stereotypical black scene to me. The descriptive parts are nice. I find it hard to get into that narrative voice though, but that's just me
Something I'm working on. Not finished yet

I'm an idiot. Forgot to attach my story

pastebin.com/25yC1gPi

>Stereotypical black scene
Yeah I see that, something I was always in danger off - I think as the story continues that gets subverted in quite a nice way, but at the same time it's a situation that isn't far off reality for a lot of black families, at least in the areas I know, so I tried not to let that bother me too much. Thanks I'll check out your stuff!

Thanks, man. I'm really trying to focus on churning out good prose and style first and foremost.

as for your and 's points, I'm a fan of kind of strange occurences and open ended stories. My attempt was for you to just get a weird/off vibe from Mr. Bao--and he kind of implants this death in the wife and takes her with him. Then a connection results from their death between the protag and the hamster. It's all supposed to be intentionally open and vague and I'm trying to get a feeling for if it's so vague that it's bad or if it's just something that isn't exactly your cup of tea. So I really appreciate the input

>pastebin.com/25yC1gPi
(I'm the first poster)
Right off the bat it feels a bit unedited. At least two of your first few commas are unnecessary. Then there's lines like this:
>There was a smoker’s bench outside a bed and breakfast which they sat on.
Which should be "They sat on a smoker's bench outside a bed and breakfast"
Simple things like this can do a lot for your style.
> It was all very unromantic.
Show, don't yada yada. What you had before that was fine--IMO you don't need to say this. Maybe if you're trying to get a more speculative narrator approach than to my taste it works.

Also, I'm wondering, are you trying to emulate russian lit? Your "glad of the fact" "proved a finnicky machine" "seemed to me a measured man" etc. seem almost russian to me, though not in a bad way. As for the story, I found it to be pretty boring. I'd dig deeper if I were you

Regarding your story, I'll take your word for it. I tend to look at these threads a lot so if you post the following parts when they're ready I'll be sure to take a look at them and see how it becomes subverted.

You're right, it is largely unedited, thanks for pointing those areas out. I'm not consciously trying to emulate Russian lit at all, though you're rather perceptive to pick that up. Russian literature is my favourite, Tolstoy got me into classic literature in general. It's funny, this is my first piece written in what I considered a very modern, Hemingwayesque style; I am actually pleased that my love for Russian lit still manages to come through.

Anyway, sorry you thought it boring. I've only written about half. Hopefully I can change your mind once I've finished

I'm Mr. 9888201. I think you've defended the concept well enough then. If this was in a collection of short stories with similar themes then perhaps I would've treated it differently. But without that context it left me feeling somewhat confused and blank

I'm the first guy who replied to you. Though I said it was engaging, I would ultimately say it's too vague, and is therefor bad. There just needs to be something else there. Even through the concept of asceticism, this still leaves a sense of connection to be desired--if that makes any sense.

I hope I've made it more personal. I don't expect a re-read, but I figured I'd post the update anyway. I like it a lot more now based on the suggestions

Unlike everyone else, I think I get that Mr. Boa was sick and that's what that was all about. The end was kind of meh, underwhelming really. It may work if you kept going with it, launching into something else, and maybe working back around to an emotional punch.

It's good as just a little Drabble to showcase proficiency, but you need to find an engaging plot. You may be able to build off this, don't know what you would do, but then again that part is up to you.

It's alright, don't worry about the me dash, a lot of the time the choice is merely aesthetic whether to use it or not.

I'd change Starbucks to just coffee shop, and add a comma right after lavender. Don't know what the story is going to be about, but I suggest not getting wrapped up in some enough romance bullshit, it's trite and no one ever likes it besides the person who wrote it, and even they learn to hate it over time

Keep on,
for by God, there is kingdom and out.
Kingdom is easy as a children's walk, marching silly in a sidewalk puddle.
The trouble in your gait is not unnecessarily,
and children can help, I have no doubt.
Keep on, odd and miscellaneous.
And on, sharper than a wounded lover.

I think you could benefit from reading Kurt Vonnegut and Jim Thompson.

Specifically:
Cat's Cradle
Savage Night
A Hell of a Woman

My vonnegut phase came and went a few years ago, but I will check out thompson. Thanks!

pastebin.com/BZnJrRbb

>inb4 "you write like a YA author"
i know.

will reciprocate criticism.

The sky burned red and the smoke carpeted it making the air thick and difficult to breathe. The horse and wagon clattered on, driven by the prospects of escaping the cursed city and partly because its driver was whipping its ass into an en plein air. A tiny ginger sat in the back and beside her was the powerful frame of a soldier.

‘Cover your head’, Alex said. ‘The soldiers probably won’t recognise you, but best to be safe’.

Lyta scowled. ‘I’ll do what I want, servant’.

‘My apologies, princess’.

Soon, they reached the wall (if it could be called one, made up of a few wooden poles driven into the ground) and a line of soldiers that stood by its gates with their spears pointed at them.

‘Nobody can leave until—’

He was cut off by Alex who took no hesitation in jumping off the back of the cart, drawing his bow and sending an arrow through his throat.

‘Run’, Alex said.

And tucking the princess under his left arm, he charged them with his right shoulder. It proved too powerful for mere guards to handle and he got two on the ground before making it through. Not stopping to look back, they ran for fifteen minutes until the city was hidden by the dense treetops of the forests. Then, he sat her down. She glared at him and crossed her arms.

‘Did I give you my permission to be carried?’

‘No, princess. But if you pardon my breach of etiquette, we’re probably in serious danger if we stop moving. Most likely there are scouts out for us’. Alex looked to the ground, suddenly finding interest in a particular leaf. ‘I’m sorry about the king. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him’.

There's a lot of adjectives, but since you're describing something it should be fine. Just lay off of them for the next paragraph or two.

“There’s always snow. Always. Uncle John died in November, and we made the trip up to his house the day after Dad got the phone call from Aunt Penny.” Peter Smith shifts on the couch. Talking about his childhood has always made him uncomfortable. “The entire way there, all I can think about is building a snow fort, maybe having a snowball fight with my sister. When we arrive, it’s way too dark for anything like that though, and Dad makes us go right to bed. After that, it’s all a blur.”

Dr. Mason glances up from her notes. “Were you and your uncle close?”

He shrugs and she scribbles something down, then starts tapping her pen against the notepad. This is only their second session, but he had already come to understand that the noise meant their time was at an end.

“How about your sister, were you two close?”

“Yeah, we were.”

“Losing both of them so close together must have been hard for you. I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere, but her condolences ring hollow to his ears. “Peter, do you know what a dream journal is?”

The three most prominent characters will be connected through relationships, but "love story" is not but a basic plot point. It will help set the foundation for many overarching themes which are much more central, and what the plot is there to merely support in context.

Just a dumb YouTube comment. Is this wrong in any linguistic way?

Hey guys, new on the board is this a right thread to get advice into how to start to write? I have a idea of a romantic novel stuck in my head since a long time ago, got kinda the structure and some points in the plot but nothing else, or if you can point me in thhe right direction i will kindly fuck off

>implying a normal person knows the smell of embalming fluid

>Try to summarise the synopsis in a few lines if possible. Not necessary tho.
>Write an outline of chapters. This will give you an idea of number of characters and scenes. Invariably the idea is shorter than you think. Doesn't merit a novel. Maybe a short story. So this step is important.
>Get coffee. Start with Chapter 1.
>Post the beginning passages here.

Good Luck.

someone critique this

>it's
>it is
Fix those.

Thanks for the friendly advice, i dont think it can be short because is kinda based on my experiences (cliche i know) and goes from childhood to the late 20's, also English is a second language as you may notice so im not sure if it will be the best to post it here but spanish forums are really cancerous so and i like the kind of criticism that comes of from anonymous forums, is there some other /int/ anons around with that some kind of trouble? Also do you guys write in note pad, word or some other text processor?

Small excerpt

Want to know if I did Third person Limited correctly.

Trees, nothing but trees and bushes, with the occasional humming of birds perching on the branches on the forest ceiling and other forest animals. An environment which Astrid a young chieftess of no more than sixteen was unaccustomed to, and at times loathed it, due to how difficult they were to traverse.

They’d been following a beaten dirt path in the forest for over an hour, sixty in total, concealing themselves among the dense thicket of bushes and trees. Hunger brought them further and made them bolder than they normally risk, but supplies were nearing to an end, and small game was no longer adequate in sustaining their group.

Astrid never liked going on raids. Especially those lead by Rolf for Rolf was a brute always looking for an opportune moment that involved killing.

...

Mierda

this is hot, id like more

lol

Bad?

por que, loco?

Por paisa.

...

Nací en la meseta castellana.

Most high school students and jr college students will dissect at least one animal

They won't remember it though.
Maybe say something relating to new car smell, because the idea that new cars smell like embalming fluid is well embedded in the public consciousness by Fight Club (regardless of accuracy).

Dude, if you don't remember the smell (of formaldehyde particularly) then idk what to tell you. Very distinct and everybody always talked about it. Your fingers smelt like it all day; and nursing students would flat-out just smell like it after cadaver research and exposure.

Puajjjjj

Keep going chum. I really enjoyed this and would enjoy reading more. You keep a great pace of varied phrasings.

Literally from a Nobel laureate buddy

Feel free to tell me how bad this is...

Freshly brewed tea sloshed within the mug held by a pair of trembling hands as the steam rose up, kissing a chilled nose, blunt and thick just as its owner, Randall. He’d been jittery for the past hour, stuck with a green blanket draped over his shoulders as he sat hunched over. While it was not the best idea to sit on a wooden chair, especially when so close to the fireplace that he could hear it crackle, he was too cold to bother moving into another seat. He wanted the fire’s warmth to engulf him, just as its dim, orange glow had with the rest of the cabin’s interior in nebulous illumination. Even if the chair were to catch on fire, it’d take it’s time to burn, not burst into flames like the movies show. Honestly, he wouldn’t mind if it did so he would finally warm up.

The situation Randall mindlessly put himself into, wandering through the swirling winds of chaos in a grey and white tundra, was stupid on his part and he knew this. Despite his error, though, he’d not even have to lose a toe for his mistake. He’d consider himself lucky were he not so miserable. Perhaps the cold was punishment enough.

If 1-10 was great-mental anthrax, this is a solid log of shit resting at bottom of the piss filled toilet bowl that is a 7.

This is the first in a series of poems about water. I'm posting it because it's the oldest. Any suggestions on images and word choice would be lovely

Water lily drifting in rusty water
Weeds wrapping barbed wire
Twisting to the surface
Water pooling from an unknown shining
Shimmering over, sunshine wave
Sunshine leaves spinning on the crest
Crisp wave sounds, gleaming
Muddy eye drinking light

Katz, towering above Isi with a bag slung over his shoulder, extended an arm for a handshake. Without saying a word, she awkwardly held out her hand and Katz's unmatched grip took ahold of her - the handshake making her feel like a fish out of water, flopping in place and trying to breathe. Once they pulled away, Isi subtly rubbed her hand in pain.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it?" Katz's ear-to-ear smile still hadn't found a way off his face, she noticed.

"Er...yes, yes, it has," Isi mumbled.

She had always been a bit uncomfortable around Katz. He had good intentions, that much was certain, but the overly cheerful attitude could give her the creeps from time to time. It didn't help that he was almost a foot taller than her, Katz having no shame in the fact.

"I trust that you've been well? It can't be much worse than my recent endeavors," Katz asked as he adjusted the bag now trying to escape his shoulders.

That off-hand comment surprised Isi. Katz? Having bad days? It almost seemed impossible. Perhaps that never-ending smile on his face had become a veneer for something quite unpleasant.

"Of course, Ryloc has been treating me well. What, uh, what 'endeavors' are we talking about here?" Isi was interested now.

Katz hesitated for a moment, scratching the back of his head. "Well, you see...I've just gotten myself wrapped into something I wanted no part of. You understand. Contracts and the like."

"You struck me as the type to take any sort of job as long as you got paid."

"Usually that's my adage, but even someone like myself has limits," Katz held out his arm and glanced at his watch. "You don't know of anyone named Pennington, right?"

Isi could tell there was something wrong in Katz's inflection when he said that. "No. Why?"

"Ah. Good. You're very fortunate then...I-I should get going. It was nice seeing you again," he replied.

With that, Katz hurried off - never once looking back at Isi. His demeanor, his out-of-line apprehension, it all worried Isi. When Katz of all people was getting upset, there had to be something wrong.

Not making any pretenses, I won't pretend I'm exactly knowledgeable so take my critique with a grain of salt.

To begin with things I noticed, even though you didn't explicitly ask about them (I just thought I'd bring them up, can't hurt, it's what your readers would see anyway), I can't exactly tell if you are using a meter or not. If you intended to, it seems to be broken very often, where it might perhaps be better to save such breaks for the most vital points. But I think that, out of the two options, you probably didn't intend to have a set meter, which is... okay. Anyway, there's also an alarming lack of punctuation, perhaps this is supposed to invoke a sort of "flowing" feeling, characterizing how water runs and flows all together? It sort of causes the verses to feel less and less coherent, however, and the same goes for the words and imagery used. The first line begins the poem with a simpler image, but by the last line the reader (or, at least, I) would become a bit confused as to what, exactly, I am supposed to be seeing. The latter half of the poem kind of marks this decline into seemingly arbitrary combinations of words. Maybe this type of poetry just isn't my thing, I don't know. If it makes sense to you and to other people, then that's great. I'm just not seeing it, though.

If you want actual advice on imagery and word choice... I don't really have much to say because, as I've established, I'm truthfully not sure what parts of it are supposed to be. Anyway, I like the s/sh sound device in lines 5-7, you have good ideas going with the "crest" and with "drinking"... The one thing I feel is a bit out of place is the barbed wire, it imposes a rather harsh inorganic object into what otherwise is a poem largely centered on more natural things.

It's pretty bad. "Nebulous illumination."

It just appears like you're showing off that you know the word nebulous.

Thanks! was not expecting positive feedback lol

You have terrible diction.

Pls critique me

The longing for stagnation, for everything to be as pristine and beautiful has it had been in his youth, remained inside him. It was a cancer he couldn’t cure. It broke his heart every day, bringing him closer to what he could only describe as the death of soul.
But it was all long ago. Those memories were no more than pieces of a jigsaw that was no longer a cohesive image. He was losing himself, losing his values, and losing his mind. He leaned back in his chair, sipped on his gin, and closed his eyes. He wondered what had gone wrong in his life, if he was alone in this war waged against one’s own ego. Sometimes he thought he was stuck in that adolescent glow; he certainly felt he was.
All the people he was around seemed so careless, so free of their history. He often felt himself wise, old for his age, but now he wondered how wise the unhappy could be. Perhaps he was the greatest fool, an individual unwilling to allow himself contentedness. A man drowning himself in emotion and embracing melancholy and tragedy over passion and benevolence. Still, he bobbed up, gasping for breath and grasping for someone or something to grab a hold of his hand and save him.
And, of course, that hand would never come. There were women who at times would rush into his life and he would feel momentary ecstasy. It would fill him with feelings and thought he had never had before. He would instantly reach out to love, to some omnipotent overarching theme or feeling that would draw him into an ever-deepening hole. He was, quite frankly, a romantic just like his father was. It was not by any means a good trait, he had decided long ago. Romantics end up wanting too much, and their hopes almost always fall short. His dad had left his mother when he was a child. He had run off with some woman he had thought he loved more. He had been unsure, in the time, and only confirmed those thoughts later in his life. In reality, his father only chased after that beginning of a relationship, that initial burst of feeling and emotion. When it was gone, his father had wondered if he had really ever loved at all. It always amused him how much he had understood his father. He had been so close to his mother, and yet the enigma that was his father was so easy to transcribe. Perhaps they were just similar, perhaps he was just a predictable man.

Oh God you need to read your sentences out loud after your write them. This is awful just on diction alone.

Real quick, someone tell me:

Is "they debate on how to save the poor" grammatically correct or should I omit "on"

Either one is fine, just use what sounds natural in the context of your writing.

Take out the last sentence or change it to something less cliche. I agree somewhat with that there doesn't seem to be much to it by itself. But if I read and I saw there was more I would keep reading. Maybe do some research on hamsters/Thailand? I think the hamster could make for a good symbol.

You hooked me with "your bed is some kind of medicine" great stuff man

Aw thanks. I've been working on this one more than I usually work on stuff and it's really nice to see that putting work into something is getting positive feedback.

...

My contribute to the thread will reciprocate any feedback

Thanks for all the thoughts you offered.

Yeah there was no set meter or scheme, and to be honest it's more of a fragment than anything. I like to evoke rather than directly narrate or speak. You're right about the barbed wire thing, I think. I might expand this more later, but for now I like it.

As for reading, I dunno I just like pictures man.

Replace "the Starbucks" with "that café".

If you could post the text or put it in a pastebin or something like that I'd be happy to read/edit! Current format is difficult to read for me and I can't copy+paste stuff to show you what I'm talking about.

Clouds break, and a throaty cry opens up. From the inside of car, from the netting on the porch, menthol flitting between the holes. The clouds break.

These are a few of the fake headlines I just sent to a comedy news site looking for writers. They all had to be related to gaming. Gaming certainly isn't my primary interest but I think I know enough about it to cook up some fine jokes, and I would really love any excuse to regularly flex my comedic muscle.

How'd I do? Looking past the fact that it's ""gamer humor,"" of course.

i like the last one. the others are wordy and take too long to get to their point.

>the others are wordy and take too long to get to their point.
Rats, I knew they were still too long. Brevity is still something I'm working on in my writing, comedic or otherwise. I shortened the headlines as much as I could think to without ruining the jokes but I think I still hung on to too much.

I remember the first time I saw a one dollar coin.

It was in a house, somewhere in inner Sydney, that found itself transformed into a watering hole for thirsty users. At the time, of course, I was just an innocent child intrigued by the gold token in hand - newly pressed with images of bouncing kangaroos and a lady's crowned head.

I was standing in the lounge room at the front of the old terraced town house. A large, central arched window gave flow to gentle gusts of light that seemed to dance across the sky-blue walls, around the soft velvet curtains, and were soaked up by the bright, giggling faces of Mum's friends. The whimsical bunch of characters sitting, as usual, along the boundary of the room, sunk in a ramshackle of couches of varying fabrics and state of wear, and indulged in an opiate infused stupor that, to my wonderment, seemed to blur the distinction between adult and child.

I would often take advantage of their anchored bodies and lofty minds to step on stage in the centre of the room and provide some playschool-inspired entertainment consisting of myself and a small backup cast of stuffed animals.

It was after one such show that a regular guest had handed me the freshly minted coin.

"Have ya seen the new dollar coins?" He queriedthe sun-soaked room with a laboured, drooping turn of gaze that gave the impression his head had grown too heavy for his body to bear.

Intrigue passed slowly among the faces of the sedated audience, delayed reactions only admissible within the realm of the Heroin user.My young, freshly formed ego keen to marinade on the honey-like curiosity seeping about the room; I circled, holding the coin out for all to see, stopping to allow closer inspection of what was, for most of us, our first encounter with a shiny new age: The transcendence of the Australian one dollar currency from paper to coin.

Mum was in the "back room" oblivious to the historical events unfolding in my domain. The back room was strictly forbidden to children. It was where the drugs were administered.It was also where Mum would generally hang out until she had sobered up enough to venture out and face her inquisitive and guilt-inducing son.

(Continued)

I didn't know what Heroin was. I didn't know what Mum was doing in the back room. I knew Mum to be the foundation of my world. A sole parent, protector, and provider of lavender-scented cuddles that seemed all-powerful in their ability to wash away the woes of a child born into the tumultuous life of a Heroin user. She was a woman of delicate intricacy, who's dramatic range could cast her anywhere from writing books of poetry; pressing flowers in the rustic kitchen of a friend's farmhouse;filling a city bus with her son's laughter by whispering linguistic riddles in foreign languages, and, that sunny Sydney afternoon: An unconscious, vomit stained body of overdose, oblivious to my screams of horror as her lips turned blue, the life in her face drained toward unnatural shades of the opaque, and her limp body was carried frantically out to the pavement. The looming approach of ambulance sirens providing a high-pitched crescendo to my desperate cries of bewilderment. Thick tears clouding a scene barely conceivable as blurry-outlined figures in bright, reflective uniforms set upon her unconscious body in a chaotic spectacle of intimate hands and sterile apparatus.

I screamed for them all to disappear. The paramedics, Mum's friends, the crowd of onlookers,the flashes of cars passing by. Everyone. I wanted to drag her away from the horror of the pavement. I wanted her to open her eyes and spring to lifelike a Magician's assistant after a crowd-shocking performance. I wanted to sink into her arms and breath again.

The cold, steel legs of the body-laden stretcher crashed and folded upon the floor of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut. I found myself smothered by embracing arms and reassuring words that wavered with their own fear and shock.Wrestling fiercely to fix my eyes upon the departing vehicle, I sobbed and murmured as my mind pleaded frantically for it to turn around, and once again my fanciful pleas were answered with unyielding reality. The ambulance turned the corner at the end of the street and was gone from sight.

The crowd of onlookers dispersed. The retreating sirens grew silent. Mum's friends reassuringly embraced, and in their arms I sat and stared. Unable to process what had just occurred. My mind as empty as the space on the side walk. The space amongst her friends. The cold, empty, shadow of space once held bright by my Mum.

...

Lemondrops by Marco Diaz

I puddle
I poop
You tear my heart out
Break it into a trillion trillion pieces
You're full of lemondrops

*pool

it's fine. readable. the prose is clear. simple. i feel like my evaluation would depend on how the story plays out; there isn't enough here to really judge. i am definitely following what you've written though and that's a big plus.

in a couple places i feel like i would have liked more detail. like here:
>Soon, they reached the wall (if it could be called one, made up of a few wooden poles driven into the ground) and a line of soldiers that stood by its gates with their spears pointed at them.
>‘Nobody can leave until—’

It's not totally clear who is saying the line. it'd be better if it were like:
>...a line of soldiers that stood by its gates with their spears pointed at them.
>One of the soldiers stepped forward. "Nobody can leave until—"
for example.

A butterfly flaps its noble wings, signifying the end of its metamorphosis. There is no doubt about the transformation, for each step is evident throughout the change. A caterpillar's growth is transparent, and its potential certain. The success of its journey lies not in wisdom, nor knowledge but merely intuition. Intuition in its ability to soar in the sky, unrestricted from the confinement of its former vessel.

A caterpillar will devote time and energy in becoming a pupa, a necessary step, but also the most vulnerable. It will risk a life of comfort, and familiarity in order to achieve the ultimate goal. All butterflies follow the same path, regardless of where they came from. It is the pattern inscribed on their wings that tell a more personal story, one of ambition.

A butterfly leaves its shell, and with it a past life of boundaries. A butterfly can never be insecure for it knew its purpose from the very beginning, with its form representing its progress. Butterflies are feeble, and often have very short lives, but that is a consequence of achieving their intuition.

Any tips to make my prose more beautiful? I'm a big fan of prose stylism but I can't seem to imitate it well.

Any feedback on my introducing paragraph would be greatly appreciated.

I like these.

Fantasy, Time Travel, Jonah and the Whale, Groundhog Day, Re:Zero story I'm trying to do right now.

pastebin.com/q0NfCjci

Sorry, I don't really know how it works either. You might try writing out a work you like by hand and trying to analyze the sentences/paragraphs.

This right here, in your head, is Gideon Jamal Smith. He stands caramel at 189 centimeters on two legs that have both been broken in his 17 years. His eyes are his father's and his nappy hair adds ten or eleven centimeters of height. He was born to a mother who did not marry his father, who himself had married to a woman uninterested in reering, four months prior to his son's birth. His wife is Gideon's aunt-in-law, or auntie for short, and they have all lived quiet, comfortable and mostly ordinary lives in each other's company with two exceptions: the baby arrangement (described above) and Emily Smith's father Gerald Smith given life imprisonment for conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism. The self described recluse has eluded popular culture's hoard mentality and thus far resisted any attempt to recover any documentation that may reveal his motive(s). His art, still beloved by many, has been both tainted and elevated to each extreme, and for ten years he has been the most sought after subject for journalists, psychologists and freelance artists alike. Here stood a man who everyone knew as a loving and caring person, now guilty of trying to kill perhaps tens of thousands. Since the time of his arrest the man has said exactly seven words to a human outside his limited answers to the court--"I wish I coulda finished that house," answering if he had any comment on his arrest and the charges brought against him--except his grandson, who visits him once a month at the request that he not talk to anyone about their conversations. Gideon may be my puppet, but damn it, he also happens to be my friend, so try not to hate on the kid. It's been rough. Now dance, my creatures, dance!

For me, it feels like you're overusing commas too much, it throws off the throw of a sentence, when you could split it into two sentences, or use a semi-colon. Just to illustrate.

I've been writing a mystery, and recently have come to realize the magnitude of a narrative fuckup. One of the main view points is that of a character who has all the answers. Is there a way to continue on this trajectory without cheapening the end reveal? Or do I have to do some major rewrites?

kill off the character who knows everything towards the end, find another way to reveal the reveal. unless it's explicitly stated that he knows everything, in which case u might have to rework the narrative.
good luck friend

How was everything else? Clean?
How would you rate it so far?

Use a synonym for Android at the beginning after "cream-white", the repetition sounds ugly. After "trailing him by a couple metres", write him instead of the Android. And then in the next sentence use he. And in the next sentence after that use he. And so on and so forth.

...

>This right here, in your head, is Gideon Jamal Smith. He stands caramel at 189 centimeters on two legs that have both been broken in his 17 years.
Very clunky and awkward wording throughout both sentences.

Pay more attention to where you're using commas. They litter your writing and many are used incorrectly or unnecessarily.

>This right here, in your head...
>the baby arrangement (described above)
I'm not trying to be a dick, but you're sacrificing clarity and quality in order to sound clever. You're not being honest with the reader or yourself.

Who the fuck is Emily Smith?

>The self described recluse has eluded popular culture's hoard mentality and thus far resisted any attempt to recover any documentation that may reveal his motive(s).
Train wreck. Are you saying that he lives an ascetic lifestyle? With little possessions? If so, unclear. If not, wrong kind of "horde" and also unclear.

Okay I'm not going any further because it's more of the same. It's word salad. From what I can tell you like Vonnegut and are trying to emulate him with rapid fire, smooth, knowing, and sincere but still tongue and cheek exposition of your character. I'm not telling you not to write, keep going, but this comes across as incredibly insincere.

Write more clearly
Don't TRY and be clever
Stop using so many commas
Stop doing that self-referential stuff
Write more honestly

please be honest.
I don't really have any aspirations as a writer.
The above is just an extract of my personal memoirs that I write for therapeutic motives.

Beautiful. I agree with all of it. Thanks my friend

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