/crit/ - Writing Critique General

There hasn't been a /ñ/ thread lately so for the sake of keeping this one alive, i'll post part of a chapter i really like.
It's in spic kek
pastebin.com/vHLLuSvw

Here's something I had to write a few years ago for a writing assignment. I remember how painful it was cringing at my retarded story.

Nobody told me that swimming had been cancelled that night, so went I got to the swimming pool there was no one there except for Jeff the college student and those annoying twins. For some reason, those twins were always pestering Jeff about something.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“The meeting got cancelled tonight” responded Jeff, pointing to a sign right behind me.

“Oh well, I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah I might as well get going too-“

“But then you’ll miss us getting to the treehouse!” exclaimed one of the twins in a high pitched voice.

“You guys will definitely want to see this,” added the other.

Neither Jeff nor I wanted to deal with the twins now, but Jeff still responded.

“What treehouse?”

“It’s the magic treehouse where anything you think of becomes true. All you have to do is swim to the deep end of the pool, sink to the bottom, and then look at yourself with this mirror. You’ll instantly be teleported to the treehouse.” One of the twins then pulled out a small mirror out of his pocket.

I thought that was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but Jeff just kept them going.

“Okay then, go for it.” He said.

“We would do it but we can’t, actually. We’ve done it too many times already.”

“Ok, let me do it then.” Jeff responded excitedly. I’m not sure why Jeff would follow along with such a childish story the twins made up, but he did.

Jeff took the mirror, swam to the deep end, sunk down, and I couldn’t believe it, but he actually did disappear. I got really scared for a moment but interested at the same time.

“What happened? This is insane!”

“You should do it too!” cried both twins in unison.

And I did try it as well. I swam to the deep end, sunk down, and the mirror was just lying there on the bottom. When I took it and looked at myself, nothing happened. Did I do something wrong?

When I came back up for air, both twins and Jeff were standing outside the pool laughing their heads off.

“Gotcha! Haha,” laughed both twins.

“You didn’t really think that was true, right?” said Jeff with a smug look in his face.

I got out of the pool and stormed off.

hey /crit/, im getting really worried about making progress in my novel, but two writing sessions ago I took a wrong turn plot-wise and rushed into a confrontation that was supposed to happen later while also leaving out a scene that I think should have happened on-screen and im too afraid to go back because I think if I do Ill get bogged down with re-writing stuff.

Give us a sample of the aforementioned session.

docs.google.com/document/d/16EuluzhqL1gfdFXiOt_ytxEWceZOu-6HXXWUIYimvNM/edit?usp=sharing

I'd like some feedback on this if possible. It's a few chapters in, so it references a few things detailed earlier in the story but for the most part it should be comprehensible on its own. It's just an important chapter because it introduces the central conflict.

The work is meant to be a satire of YA genre fiction

I always hate anything I write with a passion, so I rarely write, but I still want to be an author someday and get over this intense hatred of myself. So here's some shitty short story I wrote for a class in my second year of my English degree (I'm a third year now).

Hartley was working on her topiary again. I peeked through the blinds at her as she quickly snapped her way through the green. I focused on her delicate little white hands as she snap snap snapped, until I felt my jaw start to hurt from my teeth clenching. Then I let the blinds fall, and stood there. I took the medication two weeks ago. It had clearly worked for her; she had a boyfriend now, whom she intended to marry and have lovely little children with, and she seemed happy enough. So I took the treatment. The doctors assured me that it was absolutely painless, that it would improve my life greatly. Neither seemed to be true thus far. The pill certainly did what it was supposed to do; it eradicated all sexual feelings that I had for women and replaced them with a desire for men. The problem was that it didn’t rid me of my love. And whenever my body reacted to a handsome man approaching me, I felt sick.
A beep beep echoed in the empty streets, and I peeked out again, even though I knew what the source of the noise was. My suspicion was confirmed; it was her boyfriend, Andrew. They performed the usual dance; she threw her shears carelessly onto the ground and rushed to him with a cry as he stood there with his arms outstretched. I couldn’t see his face, but I bet he looked smug while he waited, knowing she would always come to him. Bastard. Then they kissed, and a memory pointed towards me and leapt.
We were lying on the bed together, naked and sweaty. We didn’t feel the need or desire to hold each other like some other couples did; just knowing the other person was there was enough. I was looking at her, but she was looking up at the ceiling of chipped white paint.
“Hartley? What is it?”
She still didn’t look at me, but her wide eyes sparkled in the lamplight with the glitter of unspent tears.
“Sinopa, do you think there’s a God?”
She turned to me with those blue eyes that were narrowed in pain, the small river bed, the water racing through.
“Do you think he’s angry at us?”
I held her in my arms, whispering comforting noises into her ear. I slowly breathed in her scent of cranberry while she breathed in the blackberry smell of my fluffy red hair, but I knew that she still looked up.
(cont)

I found that I had stood up, away from the blinds. A quick glance told me that they were inside. The topiary was beginning to take shape; it had the outline of a stag, complete with clumsy excuses for antlers. I wanted to run over to her house, pick up the shears and slash those antlers off, admiring the feeling of rough green bundles and bunches falling away under me. When she would run out, yelling, I would scream that I just wanted to remind her that I exist. But we all knew that I would never do that. So I let go of the blind and went upstairs, to sleep and forget for a little while.

I was running through a path made up of blacks and greens. Shadows towered over me, and howls were behind me. I could only push onward, unable to see what was ahead of me in the piercing darkness, but knowing that whatever it was could not possibly be worse than what waited behind me. I saw a thin crooked path beside me, and I jumped into it, hiding in the dark. I could see a clearing in front of me, and a shadow standing by it, a creature looking in my direction, frozen and silent. I made a move towards it, but something else moved faster. A beast emerged from the trees surrounding us, a hideous thing with hundreds of arms. They grabbed at the frightened creature in the clearing, who gave a loud screech at the sudden movement and tried to fight against it, hooves battering against hands. The beast bit into the creature’s skin while it wailed in terror and pain, the teeth crunching through the bone, consuming it until the screams stopped and there was nothing left of it but the fading stench of fear and cranberries. Then it turned to me.

When I opened my eyes, it was dark, and I had left the curtains open. I stood up to close them. That’s when I saw her. Standing in the window across from mine, on the other side of the street. I could not make out her face; she was standing in the dark too, but I could recognise her form anywhere, clad in the nightdress that was the outfit of our many nights together. I remembered it was thin red material that hugged her. She saw me too, and so we looked at each other for a few moments. She placed her hand on the window. The breath from her mouth left a frosty fog. I remembered a mouth dripping with red and fat, and I raised my hand up.

There that's my stupid thing

I saw the teacher setting up a movie, so I lie down on my desk and put on my headphones. I turn on my playlist and listen to the soft sound of a mans voice with the scratchy sound of the drums and guitar in the back. Immediately I am sucked in, imagining myself in a foreign city with the women walking by. Next image flashes, I see a jungle on fire and myself aiming. Back in the city, again. This time the men are staring, angry with solid, unwavering eyes. The wall behind him is black, unusually so.

A poem I wrote tonight about transhumanism. Feedback/response is greatly appreciated.

Technicolour Celluloid

A thousand subjects configure and constitute themselves around a shared synthetic virtual physicalized megastructure. In a millisecond, elongated into a permeable amount of time somewhere between a single second and an eternity, each subject materialised into a new identity, (re)constructing themselves along criss-crossing but divided lines of physicality, temporality, intellectuality, emotionality. In a life-time of a second an uncountable myriad of concepts are brought into being, emerged from a collective unconscious but shaped by a million individual perspectives. A universe of gender lines, personality lines, racial lines are retrieved from the raw essence of creation, and then detonated, sculpted into each mind’s own preference and vision.

Each subject is a God of their own internal universe, which in a flash is brought into the external, into the Real. It is a carnival demonstration of birth, a wave of hello, a gathering of peoples. The megastructure towers into the sky, an unending beam of light projecting into the cosmos, and anchored by the human collective unconscious. A million new beings gather below, beaming into one another’s psyche. In less than a millisecond they comprehend and conceive one another’s totality of meaning and existence. They dance among the structure, exploring the mundanity of greeting. Each subject, each being, becomes a cosmos in itself, and while on the outside world, only a day has passed, in these creature’s perspective a millennia goes by as they explore, reconstitute and shape one another’s summation. As dusk approaches these transdimensional crystal fairies reach the embers of their being. Each becomes an empire in decay, and the beauty of their construction burns the warm hue of oncoming apocalypse. As they dart around the virtuality of the megastructure, as real a construct as anything else, the subjects, senses their approaching demise, dance and dart like burning embers of crackling technicolour celluloid.

The beaming light of the megastructure burns and in instant its light stretches over the globe, and the cosmic (yet human) beings dance around the earth. Having experienced an eternity of reconfiguration and reconstruction they anchor down towards stable ground. They remake themselves anew, this time within more defined parameters. Perhaps they sleep. Perhaps they walk. Perhaps they build. Not a universe, but a chair, a table. Or paint. They are the new born flowers of death and rebirth. Then they walk across the earth on newly chosen legs. Or glide. Or crawl. And they construct a new shared synthetic virtual physicalized megastructure, and they start the process again. In a millisecond, elongated into a permeable amount of

Good stuff in here. Kevin MacDonald edition confirmed for best edition.

>elongated into a permeable amount of

Was this intentional?

I started off with "poem about transhumanism" and immediately didn't want to read it, but then I made myself do it anyway and I actually liked it. My thing is really just old-school poetry but I like that the kind of hypnotic drone of the prose (in my inner monologue it became a kind of monotone, artificial voice) produces a soothingly autistic sense which is very appropriate to the topic.

Thanks for the kind words!

Yea intentional, wanted to suggest a perpetual loop

Well, I think it's pretty well done, you can also take the brevity of my critique as a compliment because no "formal" errors (phrasing, vocabulary, etc.) spring to mind, it all runs very smoothly and I didn't spot anything to break my immersion as it were.

I don't read YA but I like this and would probably finish reading it were I holding a book in my hand. There are some formal quibbles but I suspect that most of those are issues I would take with any YA. I enjoyed the humour and didn't find anything cringe-worthy.

Keep writing it, and watch out for moments where a long, multi-party conversation might get confusing when no names are attached to the lines of dialogue (not a huge issue but I had to double back once when I was wondering why one guy wasn't lisping anymore, and realized it was a different character).

This is really the last thing I've written that I considered passable, and this was two years ago after I finished binging The Kingkiller Chronicles books. Here's a little excerpt from the piece.

The air bodes winter’s approach, the transitional season of autumn ever flighty and quick to relinquish its clutch over the late months. Everything is dressed as expected, however, with shimmering leaves of amber and crimson perched among the tree tops. No soon will they falter and shiver on the branches before cascading on the rich ground floor, as is the way of things.

The animals bustle less, scamper less as they stock up their resources for the cold months to come. A small chipmunk peaks its head out of its burrow, sniffing the air in search for little seeds. Songbirds twitter a melody as they return to their nests. Lunetta inhales deep and strong, smelling both life and decay nestled in the forest. Her bootsteps are muffled by the soft grass, freshly soaked with morning dew. She takes another breath in to savor the rich cacophony of smells. The rotting of wood, sweet berries, changing leaves. The scent of melancholy and nostalgia.

Back in the palace city, if she were to take a stroll on a morning such as this, she would smell the brewing coffee outside of a café, most assuredly a blend seized from the warmer Lazuli Isles. The clean streets would take her towards the scent of a pastry shop, lined with the freshly baked products of the first hour of the working man. Meanwhile the stones would glisten, warming as it catches the first waking rays of the sun, rising on the cornerstone of an empire vast as the sky itself. The city would slowly awaken, and the steady staccato of people would trample on the streets, ready to start the day.

With an exhale Lunetta continues her walk within the woods. Hair like gossamer bellows behind her, a midnight blue coat hidden mostly under the warmth of a red-brown jacket and a thick black scarf. Slung across her shoulder is a small leather bag, a gift the meek servant girl embroidered herself on her return. The contents inside it ruffle and clink.

She comes across a stream bank and silently sits under a tree of copper and fire. The water whispers and flows, unaware of her presence.The bag is set gently on the ground beside her, handled with the delicacy of a child’s first breath of life. The quiet sounds of nature surround Lunetta's lithe body, ensuring her of their small but lingering presence. She listens to them. Her ears are attentive and sharp, more like tools of great craftsmanship forged in the cold, invisible flames of silence and void.

Lunetta lowers her head and lifts the flap of the bag. Inside she retrieves a small book, more akin to a journal. The linen covers are of a blue as deep as the depths of the sea, as fragile and expectant of a robin egg, and as mournful as the long departure of a long known paramour. Small specks of silver dot the front cover, like stars in a constellation. A soft scarlet quill is next to be set aside her, followed by a small bottle of ink. The morning chill still permeates the air, the rest of her slightly damp from the wet dew.

Lunetta rests and lies back on the rugged trunk of the tree. Taking small breaths, she adjusts her scarf before turning the cover of the journal. She greets each page marked with past musings, poems, and songs. Words that are from a forgotten time, yet still hang and loom over as if it were yesterday.

A phantasm that silently stalks its host, bolting and bleeding into the shadows at a moment’s notice. It waits until it drapes around her, a smothering done in the dead of night. It strangles her quietly, leaving neither trace nor presence.

The words help her cope with a long forgotten act. A forgotten act, in a forgotten age, yet still echoes and traces still resonate to this day, in the whimpers and scowls of subjects she glimpses at in the corner of her eye. Lunetta settles her back against the rigged and rough bark, sits on the flat grass, and watches the sunbeams shining on the water’s surface. A good enough scene as any for retrospection. She picks up her quill and dips it into the ink well, putting pen to paper.

Bumping the thread because why not.

Any feedback to give?

Already did, my guy. I don't want to keep flooding the thread with my own critiques. But you can go ahead and give your input to someone.

On The Dominant Political and Social Groups of this Era
There were no longer any fascists or communists, only anti-fascists, and anti-communists. Violence erupted in the spring semester of my 12th year at McGill university, and it continued for the rest of my tenure as Professor. At first their conflicts were strictly ceremonial. All of that changed in the spring of ‘26.
Nothing was serious until money was involved. The belief that held the world together was money and capital. All of us were content to play both the activist and consumer. We had our cake, and we ate it too. The mass boycotts started at the end of winter and the tensions began to escalate around March. The Anti-Fascists found every reason to boycott a company, real or imagined, so long as that company’s product did not clash with their own personal indulgences. Some of the reasons were offshore human rights abuse, environmental abuse, and the holy grail of all transgressions: emotional abuse. Serious issues, indeed, but the truth of these transgressions was more messy, complicated, and incoherent than the neat moral narratives that they had laid out for themselves.
The Anti-Communists retaliated with their boycotts a few weeks following. The corporations left off of each respective party’s list were forced to take sides. The corporations that fell into each camp were precisely what you would expect. Most major tech companies rallied around the left, while the right had a massive chunk of the financial sector. This civil war was not like the first one in America’s history. There was no North or South, no Union or Confederacy. Each nation was stacked on top of each other. Two dissonant notes played across the nation. There were isolated areas of control that were exceptions to this rule. Major urban areas with exception to Atlanta, Houston, and D.C. were largely leftist, although significant portions were populated by card carrying anti-communists.

I assume you mean "smothering drone"
Other than that small typo I really liked this piece. It's so imagistic and really gave me a good sense

Sorry posted this before finishing.
This work gave me a good sense of the mood you were working at. I felt like I really had a clear picture of the sensations you are trying to make me feel, which is a very good feeling when writing manages to pull off. I feel like this would appeal very much to young women. The smells and sounds of the streets remind me alot of the Starbucks on my college campus.
What is the story about? The only viable critique I feel like I could give is with a greater sense of the context of the plot. I feel like there is no tension built up towards the act of her being strangled. Her death seems as placid and calm as the preceding paragraph, but this could work if the context allows it to fit.

Contributing something i found in pastebin's public pastes.

Her legs were spread in the stirrups, her plump, pink pussy lips spread for him, and already beginning to bulge with the imminent birth. The patient clutched at her swollen stomach with both hands, rubbing it in slow circles, between contractions. "When I say so, I need you to take a deep breath and push hard for me. Think you can do that?," he instructed.

Sarena nodded urgently as she felt the powerful muscles of her pregnant stomach beginning to contract, bracing herself back against the bed, clutching balled up handfuls of the hospital bed sheets in each hand. She pulled her legs back until her thighs were pressed against her swollen stomach, and threw her head back with a groan.

"Ohhhhhh~!!"

"Another contraction?", Koji asked, even though it was obvious at this point. "Lets go for it. Just like I said honey, deep breath..."

"Aaa... aaaahhhhhh~" She gasped and breathed in as he instructed, emitting a primal grunt as she bore down. Bearing down with the pain of the contraction against the baby boy or girl that was lodged between her hips, she reached up and grabbed her legs on the underside of her knees, spreading them wide, her fingers denting into the soft flesh of her plump thighs from the strength of her grip.

(This needs a lot of work, desu. Wrote it about 6 years ago and it resurfaced recently.)

Sobre cómo no iniciar un día laborioso

La mañana empezó como cualquier otra para el vendedor de especias. Como de costumbre, soltó un largo suspiro para despedirse de Morfeo y su reino infinito, y con esfuerzos admirables logró finalmente separar los párpados. Poco a poco su mente fue reemplazando los recuerdos del sueño de la noche anterior (una agradable merienda con el embajador de Suecia y esa simpática cajera de la oficina de correo) con los quehaceres matutinos.

Había que recoger un paquete del almacén, llevarle el almuerzo a Vicenta en el 302, acompañar a los Encino al mercado por la calle Roma (hace rato que querían comprar un no sé qué y un qué sé yo para el nene), y lidiar con el volátil temperamento de su jefe en la junta semanal del sector. Todo eso antes de las 2, claro estaba.

Pero primero el desayuno.
“Curioso,” pensó el vendedor. “Esta mañana tengo antojo de un café americano, negro…amargo.”

El vendedor nunca tenía antojo de café americano, negro, amargo por las mañanas. Debió haber reconocido ese arbitrario y caprichoso antojo como lo que en verdad era, un mal augurio de lo que le deparaba esa mañana, pero no lo hizo. Sin levantarse aún, cogió la llave del cuarto que estaba sobre el bureau adyacente. Finalmente le llegó el valor suficiente para ponerse de pie, moviendo las piernas cuidadosamente hasta que quedaron parcialmente afuera del colchón. Con más precaución puso un pie en el suelo, luego el otro. Estaba consciente que esos primeros pasos tempraneros habían matado a muchos hombres en el pasado.

1/2

“Esta vida me va a matar,” dijo en voz alta, pero dirigido a nadie en particular.

Cual caballero medieval prepara su espada larga para el duelo final, el vendedor estiró un brazo en dirección perpendicular al cuerpo, con la llave del cuarto sostenida hacia afuera. Caminó en dirección a la puerta, retándola como si fuera un contrincante. La llave-espada apuntando directamente hacia la chapa-corazón de la puerta-rival.
Con esta acción, que tantos desenlaces pudo haber tenido, el único que no había cruzado por la mente del vendedor fue el que se manifestó en su realidad. Un desliz Freudiano de los buenos: la llave ni siquiera pudo entrar en la chapa; como si no fuera la llave correcta; como si su labor nunca hubiera sido abrir esa puerta; como si la puerta y la llave se mofaran del vendedor, lentamente destilando placer a expensas del pobre hombre, disfrutando los efectos de la dosis de sorpresa y humillación que le habían propiciado.

El vendedor intentó de nuevo, la llave otra vez se rehusó a atravesar ese corazón.

Le reprochó a la llave, “¿Cómo puedes hacerme esto? Por 5 años has tenido la misma rutina: cierra la puerta en la noche, ábrela en la mañana, repetir ad infinitum. No es una labor difícil ni ardua. Llave, ¿cómo te atreves a hacerme tal barbaridad?”

Pero la llave no obedeció.
Y esa mañana no pudo recoger el paquete del almacén, ni llevarle el almuerzo a Vicenta en el 302, y nunca más acompañó a los Encino al mercado por la calle Roma, y no lidió otra vez con el temperamento volátil de su jefe en la junta semanal del sector.

Y el vendedor de especias nunca jamás pudo saciar el antojo de café americano, negro…amargo.

2/2

Thanks! I was hoping to evoke those sorts of feelings. There's no plot right now, but the piece is supposed to convey her current mindset after something she regrets doing a long time ago. The penultimate paragraph was supposed to be the personification of those feelings and how it threatens to engulf her. I may have to work on it more to get the point across. But thanks, I feel like my descriptive writing is the only thing I'm passable at putting down. Around this time I was looking at some oil paintings for inspiration, and I think I did have some coffee while I was writing it.

Neat. I wouldn't read anything more from you though, no offense. Seems like an entire novel would be an hour of the life of the character and I have normie-tier patience for reading in Spanish.
I still like the idea of the daily life of the seller. What was he selling?

Spices

Here is your (you) my friendo amingo.
Also.
>spic
>Spain = Europe
>Mexico = North America

sound the mantra out loud:
I'm different
I'm unique
I'm loved
I'm complete
then think about the last time someone called you special
and quietly ask yourself what that means—
sourpusses and bitterants alike
lend themselves to a harsh nobility
that decries the soppy vicissitudes of caprice
captured at each moment by rhubarb rumbles
quaking through the infrastructure of the social id
so much more powerful than the ill-named superego,
but let's stick to the first syllable of psychology—
carry on careening about with the lower level chariots
racing to the beat of sunlight fading by into the bright night
turning dark days into a whiff of the glory daze
destined to collect dust like Earnie your uncle collects retro video games
the poster orphans of obsolescence in sentimentality's cape.
The zoo cages animals, the riddle reminds of compartmentalization,
the stranded shout for bars to rattle,
the prey beg for fears to battle,
the losers fail to fail in their muddle,
the winners lose and reflect in the puddle
the right turns left behind their emblazoned trails
while the bystanders lose themselves off the rails
and pause as a single hermit uncovers the holiest of grails:
dying a Senna death, a Mozart death, a sewer's breath.

Your cantankerous cunt of a grandmother is just scared,
loosen her gravity and change her Dependz.

The theme is always the same, the death and impossibility of the protagonist to live to his ideal of imperfection, in both cases fails miserably.
The mirror in which his face is barely reflected is superfluous, liquid and encapsulated by a non-existent half, its only exit; it is also partially a total exit.

Moving on to an optimistic view - innocence - it is much simpler and more direct.
Choosing to say everything as a memory and an analogy makes everything much easier, even for those who don't have the basics to deal with meta-cognition. A much better developed syntax. The plot is convulsive and contains a remarkable climax.

In these inconveniences, many aspects of the protagonist's contemporaneity are analyzed and this creates an opaque and disturbing reverberation that catapults the reader towards a reality that is difficult to bear.
There is no doubt that there is a clear cover, under a repetitive and infinite loop.

For the preamble of a will, there's a testimony of what is known to be meagre and of what one has accumulated, is completely different from what was expected. The exceptions here are given, therefore everything is consumed. Another chapter of this story is written tonight. The icy wind is discovered.

Is "Fuck the US' internationalist policy" and a depiction of US/NATO military as heartless invaders in foreign conflict zones a powerful theme to work with, or will I just seem edgy?

I just typed this in an /x/ thread. Do you guys think I should expand on it? Like maybe make a shot story? It seems like a really interesting idea.
>Heaven and hell are both real
>But we have it the wrong way round
>All the good go to hell and all the bad go to heaven

You see what really matters is what your opinion of your life is. And good people always second guess their past decisions in their mind and blame themselves for what went wrong. Good people are only good people because they go through life knowing that they are fundamentally imperfect and need to change that. While the truly evil people are evil because they have the power to justify all of their actions to themselves and only see themselves as acting in the right.

>All those that were kind, loving, and forgiving in life are eternally tormented in death by the demons they saw their past selves as
>All those that were selfish, sadistic, and cruel in life are rewarded in death for how great they saw themselves as.

Give me an idea for a short story /crit/.

I needed some time to fill, so I looked for the most bizarre thing a market could sell. I found a booth that sold garlic, in five different varieties.
"The stuff you buy in the store? That's planted in hew-man shit. This here's the real deal. It'll clean your sinuses right up".
He handed me a piece of bread with butter and raw garlic on it, and he was right. Give a teenager some money and they'll take it as a challenge to use it up. I put six dollars down on garlic gloves that day. Big Rock, Greek, Czech, anything but the Chinese stuff in hew-man shit.

Rub it against your skin, and you can cure herpes. Chew it and you can cure gingivitis. Kill a vampire with it. Devotees of Vishnu aren't allowed to eat it. They are all potential vampires.

Better than everyone else itt but there IS a poetry thread unless this is supposed to be prose-poetry. Either way good job, keep writing.

If one person passes judgment I will critique ten people itt without just shitting on your work.

[I]
Distant shade showers comfort on towers made to touch the sky. When the light blinds those too small to find the sparkle of the stars, too far from lands both scarred and shone, a happy wanderer sits alone on his throne below the fields and above the sea, where he sees the heavens touch his Earth. He lives and dies and no one cares but someone cries. Some dare to live their lives as he tried. Others reach high, while one touches the sky.

He finds no meaning among the stars nor method to heal his scars. He is crushed and reborn; burned and turned to glass; disfigured and perfected over and over until the last turn of the road brings him to gates long closed. An eternity comes and goes and there he waits, frozen in time and place. The stars fade and then the lights come back on. The universe opens and closes like dusk and dawn. His patience wears thin. To him each passing second is a lifetime, while down below time winds on: he is only gone for a few moments. When he returns he learns the fate of the one who came before him. The happy wanderer has waited just as long for his return and though he cannot be seen, he is clearly heard.

"YOU ARE FOOLISH TO ATTEMPT MY PATH."
"At last! What must I do to breach the unknown?"
"YOU CANNOT. MY THRONE IS MY HOME--NOW AND ALWAYS. MAKE YOUR OWN."

[II]
The bones of men and women and children killed by his own hands littered the Wanderer's home. He removed each one and made offerings to the sun. From then on he was alone, shedding himself of all he owned. He gave and helped, begged and starved; approaching death he met a young bard, the keeper of the Gate.

"Live not, you suffer for a purpose."
"My end has always felt close but I never arrive. Death is a hopeful lie."
"And to me life is a dream. It seems you are ready. Come and see: the gates open for you and me."
"I do believe, but my time has come and gone like an endless song. I refuse to leave."
"You choose to stay. Have it your way."

With each beginning and end the man began to mend. He made many friends and wandered alone, forgetting all that he'd once known. In time, atop Earth that hid ruins long dissolved, he built a throne below the fields and above the sea, where he played and stayed. He lived. When he died, just before passing into the beyond, the bard played him a song, and he finally knew why death took so long to arrive.

Wrote this today

At last,
Plants can live without sunlight
Humans can live without love
The Gods have an appetite
For money and blood

We keep them satisfied
And they reward us well
We are all purified
And the sinners are sent to hell

There were people at the party. I was wanting to dance. I surveyed the room. It was filled with ugly ass bitches. Against me they stood no chance. I caught a glimpse of some gentlemen who looked at me as if they wanted to get in my pants. Their hoes were getting mad. The first man approached me. He placed his hands on my hips. I dropped it as though it were hot. I felt as though my attentions were working their intended effect, for he was licking lips. His back was pressed against the wall. My ass was pressed into his bulge. We remained there, I continued grinding. Little did he realise that he wasn't the only one in this couplet who was getting firm. His inattentiveness has betrayed him. Because what you see isn't always the truth. "Baby boy" I spoke "I have all the same parts that you do"

Weird tips I've learned.

You're not allowed to use adverbs.
> quickly
Weird isn't it. Also you should use as many unique words as possible.
>little
>little
It sounds bizarre, but even a little repetition like that can mess things up.

I think the idea of a pill that turns you gay is cool, enough to make a story on. Line about memory leaping too impressionistic. Tell me things straightforwardly first of all.

>lie
should be lay. Also, you switch tense.

Stop trying to conjure, stop trying to be a magician, and tell a story.

The cult of show don't tell makes writing like this. The point of telling a story is to describe events without boring people. If you take three or more lines to say "I put my headphones on," you'll be boring people. Don't pretend you or really anybody has enough thoughts in the time it takes to put on some headphones to fill up three or more sentences.

big words are actually bad

Don't start with the weather, Senpai. I don't read genre stuff as a rule, but I'll say that much. Sorry I couldn't give you a more positive critique. Ok, how's this.

Damn I just read more while my mind was wandering and it's very nice. Walking through town and all. Needs more polish, but it's nice..

either make it a poem or don't, otherwise it sounds like slam poetry

You realize only self loathing losers hate slam poetry right? I've met so many fun girls doing slam poetry because most guys are terrified of it.

Short poem I wrote.

Your voice lilts, middling treble clef
Matching each my pins and springs.
A twist, turn
and I am undone.

hey thanks man, that means a lot

cookie chps and braces eroded
in a dirty sailor mouth
by sea salt air

the toothless breathe through a cheesecloth
and my priest anoints a prostitute
named Chastity

the baritone bounce house
full of candy sticky finger hellions
reads Free Candy

in reference to the incarcerated stripper
who went Wuornos
unlike her sister Chastity

and the eclipse forgets itself
like Mima while sundowning
and bakes one more batch

just because I loathe myself doesn't mean I'm wrong

>You're not allowed to use adverbs.
How on earth is that a rule? Every writer uses adverbs, a lot of them. Is there something I'm not getting?

The first poem on Veeky Forums I actually like.

I mean, it strikes me as extremely conventional and a very "safe" position to take, but it will probably continue to sell well

Dripping space, expanding time
a whirlpool from a straight line
The door is leading to itself
an infinite corridor or just blank space?

Abstractions of the dark drowned by the sun
coloring the scene in it's own way
But in a world where everything's painted without my say
do I close the curtains, or choose to be numb

Some milk in my coffee
It doesn't really taste different
looks sorta decent outside
Maybe I'll take a jog later

wrote something after a small bout of insomnia:

Entering an empty seminar room to greet a grizzled-veteran of the digital age.

The man in a neutral-colored sweater put his hand to greet the student with a deep “hello”.

Embrace and sharing occurred; human contact appreciated.

The veteran pulled out a chained time-keeper from his front khaki pocket and held it out to the student.

“You left your pocket-watch in here yesterday evening…”. The veteran spoke in warm tones and with a deep crackle in his lungs.

Eager to destroy the facade, the student answered “how could you know this accessory was mine. I’ve never been seen with a pocket-watch nor would I like to be. There are tens of other students in this class, why me?”

”Why, because you are my only student, and I know no-one better to gift this item to.”

Feeling as though arguing with-himself, the student accepted the trinket and muttered thanks. An indescribable urge to destroy the piece was welled up inside of him as he began to put the watch in his own pocket.

The dim yellow of the seminar room was abrasive to the poor boy’s eyes which had seen very little of how truly inconsiderate this room’s lighting could be.

The young man then turned and left the room.

How do you come up with character names? I want a strong name with a concrete meaning related to the character, but I feel like using something like "Achilles" or "Atlas" would be far too direct a reference to other media and would come off as weird in a modern or futuristic setting.

...

fuck did you say about my nan ill bang you out cunt

This might not be the right thread to ask but, where do you guys post your stuff for help/criticism if you still want it to be publishable so that excerpts from your text don't turn up on their web searches?

>Kevin Macdonald edition

post pastebin link, you can set it to expire after a week

pastebin.com/fWSB25YF

Critique would be appreciated.

I've always wanted to write a fantasy novel, so any help or advice is appreciated

I take it, it didn't go so well?

>be me
>check Veeky Forums
>wonder if the Culture of Critique user is still on here 24/7 shilling The Culture of Critique
>yep

The NEET rose from his basement and drew his katana.

'Mother, leave this humble otaku's sanctuary,' he commanded.

I actually read most of it and also really wondered if I was getting memed or if he was serious

shitty book

read e michael jones jewish revolutionary spirit instead

Hey, was that really necessary? If you're gonna give me (You)s, at least give me some proper feedback.

>You realize only self loathing losers hate slam poetry right

>behindthename.com/

There's also a surname version of the website. Gives you names and meanings of names organized by culture/nationality.

If you want to name your character after someone specific, go more obscure so it doesn't sound eye-rolling. Pick someone else from the Iliad with a similar meaning who's less of a household name than Achilles or Hector, maybe anglicize the name somewhat so it's more scifi-y

>Madeline
>See,

If you don't want to come off as YA, consider not doing either of those

Also, the explanation of golems is kind of something I would rather be shown than told, unless you much more clearly establish that this is a first-person narrative and who the narrator is in which case s/he can say whatever in whatever manner seems fit.

Finally, needs some more proof-reading, too many minor but jarring errors here and there. In chapter 2 it's kind of annoyingly unclear that the two characters primarily referred to are Madeline's parents.

Overall it's very Young Adult-y in tone, so if that's what you're going for then you succeeded. The brevity of the chapters reinforces this impression. Aside from just kind of "setting the scene" there's not a whole lot going on that seems significant, which is ok for introductory chapters as long as what comes later makes them significant. Aside from that, I don't know if there's really enough to hook me in the first chapter, but it doesn't really seem like it would be my cup of tea even were it flawlessly done so I can't definitively say that's a problem.

Try reading a book or two specifically for prose-inspiration, rather than plot-inspiration, if you want to take it out of YA territory. Edging close as it does to a kind of victorian fairy-tale tone (and with steampunkish overtones already present) you could push it over the edge in that direction and read Dickens or George McDonald. If you want it to feel more wry and tongue in cheek, you could try Pratchett or Wodehouse (It seems like the intention is fairly light-hearted, so I'm not suggesting anything dark or tragic).

Once you develop the talent, you can absorb prose-influence after just a few chapters instead of reading a whole book. An exercise I picked up in college is copying a particular passage by hand if you want to really absorb the tone of the prose.

Mind you, that's if you aren't happy with a "YA" dismissal, as it were. Also note plenty upon plenty of genre fiction is published that is full on Young Adult tier (while being presented as serious fiction), so it's not necessarily a bad thing, it depends on your target audience. Also, even if you do try to improve your prose, it's probably better to just keep banging away at it in the meantime, since it's easier to edit and improve an extant work than to pick back up where you left off after a hiatus, for me at least.

Is there software for writing that has built in git-like features?
I'm particularly looking for something like those archives showing the edits made to news website articles, especially the ones with highlights, notes, and strikethrough text, with timestamps for edits.

Also what are the best books on story/literary/narrative structure in general, and composition of sentences or... effective communication. I feel like when I write things it comes across as too much like technical reference when I want it to be more accessible.

>Is there software for writing that has built in git-like features?

uh, git?

I want all or some of the edits to be viewable on the same page, without the directory structure.

I staggered from my bedroom, nine square feet of floorspace below a twenty foot high ceiling because the property managers had a wry sense of humour, into the loft's kitchen. It was some time after noon on a Wednesday. I had cut class, as I often did, and was high as a kite on at least cannabis, I cannot recall for certain if anything else was involved. I wished to cook breakfast, which I had put off to use my computer, but my forty-three-year-old meth-addicted roommate (whose fondness for late-night usage of compact, urban chainsaws within his bedroom was a baffling inconvenience to me) had invited a pair of homeless drug-addicts into my living room, allowed them to sit upon our couches, which he had rearranged upon moving in, without my permission.

They saw me. It was too late to turn around and flee. I tried to fry my egg, my gardein patty, my whole-wheat burger bun, swiftly, cranked the heat up to ten. I don't know what they said to one another, I only remember that one, who was quite old and looked rather like Kenny Rogers (a man with whom I am familiar only due to Will Sasso's admirable MAD tv portrayal), approached me as I was tapping Tabasco sauce atop the still-frying egg. He was shorter than me. He violated my personal space. He peered around my shoulder and said, breathing heavily, "Tabasco sauce? That's from New Orleans—just like me!" He smiled dreamily. I feared he wished to violate more than just my personal space.

Heart pounding in my chest, I murmured something along the lines of "Oh, really? Cool," slapped a slice of swiss cheese on the egg, stacked it with the gardein on the bun, excused myself somehow, fled, just as the other two were beginning to lurch to their feet, my wretched roommate whose name eluded me then, as it does now, his faceless companion.

Through my paper-thin door, I heard the roommate muttering through gritted teeth, "I'm a tweaker who hates tweakers, heh heh heh!"

I sought safe harbour within my enveloping headset, the shrill titters of the outrageously flaming homosexuals who composed my essentially-imaginary online friends. In the absence of real friends, who graduated the past fall (whilst I foolishly remained for the spring), these outwardly beautiful but inwardly repulsive degenerates kept the emptiness of my soul at bay, like a starving belly filled with Pringles.

They were younger than I, and immature beyond the distance of years, and we all took pleasure in the post-ironic embrace of the most deeply homosexual interests, mannerisms, and stereotypes. I was closeted (literally within that tiny bedroom, and figuratively within my mind) but too stoned to care what the three tweaker hobos in the living room heard from my end of the paper-thin door.

The young queers in my headset tittered, as I have said, about this and that shallow and empty subject, adopting the persona of teenage girls with a precision, expertise, and mastery that, to be frank, eludes the female sex. We watched pirated episodes of Drag Race while mocking transsexuals for their insanity; each of us possessed at least some articles of female clothing for various totally unserious (honest) purposes (I had the most, a veritable wardrobe) and makeup as well (though I was the only one who tried for a full female appearance, privately of course) foundation, eyeliner, eyebrow pencils and so forth utilized with artful subtlety (again, a kind of discipline to it beyond the capacity of its intended users) to enhance their "masculine" features.

Over the course of our association, I began to adopt effeminite mannerisms, not entirely by intent, began also to fear that these habits were jeopardizing my terrible "secret", and, worse, to fear that I was beginning not to care whether I kept that secret.

Some time passed, as we childishly teased each other (I could dish it out but I couldn't take it) or ruthlessly eviscerated outsiders (this I preferred, though I could never admit it to them). I inherited what I cannot describe as anything but my bitchiness from my mother, and the sense of power and of being "cool" (to use a lame term) or admired, which I felt when these simple teenagers were impressed by my cattiness, was almost as intoxicating as the various intoxicants with which I dulled my social anxiety. I learned shortly after the birth of my social life not to wax intellectual, even before I entered the realm of these queens, and many substances served admirably to dim my IQ, temporarily (I hope).

I heard a rumbling, lifted an ear of the headset, "If ya do it in here, I'll kill ya," my roommate mumbled to his new compatriots through my door.

* * *

That evening, myself and the Queen Bee alone remained in the chatroom. Neither of us had anywhere better to go. He was not in school, and his work hours were part-time. He was snorting a great deal of Adderall, and he always drank enormous quantites when he snorted. General a fifth of vodka over the course of an evening. He stood about five foot five inches, weighed little over a hundred pounds, and never once puked on camera, which I respected then as now.
We were watching Paul Verhoeven's timeless "Starship Troopers," the Netflix playback timed carefully for near-synchronization. He was being a little fruitcake, and I was in a more deeply homosexual phase, where I felt him too effeminate for sexual attraction (I wax and wane in these predilections), but I did feel a kind of pity, and perhaps a big brotherly affection (as the oldest of four siblings, and one who tends to attract those younger than himself to his social circle without any intent of so doing, this is an instinct of mine at most times) for him. I knew better than to preach about his abuse of narcotics, and I was hardly one to judge (being about a third of the way through a handle myself, though taller and heavier than he), but I didn't want him to die on me, mostly for selfish reasons.
Of course, if it hadn't been Adderall it would likely have been opiates, and an ex of mine, The Ex to banish the memory of all others, had the habit as well, and it had played a role in our parting which began at my insistance and concluded against my will. For these reasons, I had a particularly aversion to opiates and the users thereof, which was probably for the best because I have an addictive personality.
Still, in him it elicited pity and concern, not disgust or aversion. Tonight, I was smoking a cigarette in my room, blowing the smoke out the second floor window into the streets of Athens, whilst he lolled on a purple-clothed bed that engulfed him, surrounded by walls of a green shade more hideous than any I have ever seen. Why did we need to look at one another over webcams whilst watching a cheesy movie? The better to fill that gap in the soul, of course. We could pretend that we were real friends that way, you see, that we were not separated by a gulf of miles and our mutual (though distinct) social neuroses.
We were discussing plans to attend the San Francisco Comic Con in crossplay (costumes of female characters) where we would stay with his sister, and I knew, inebriated though I was, that they were idle speculation, because he wouldn't think it was a good plan when sober, and because I hadn't the money for such a trip. He was picking out a pair of shorts fixed with a rubber buttocks, a kind of wonderbra for the ass, because he was self-conscious about the flatness of his own, and I was trying to humour his plans while talking him out of the fifty dollar expense, but he bought it anyway.

As I flicked the butt of my American Spirit (no, I am not a hipster, I merely pay more for cigarettes in the belief, grounded in a possibly psychosomatic effect, that they are less addictive than, say, Marlboros, and therefore I would save money in the long run despite paying more per pack) at a passing police car in the street below my window, rising from the sill and squeaking into my ancient desk chair, as I did all of that, this boy who was never really my friend but for whom I once felt affection, and felt it returned, I think, was half-asleep, mumbling, his eyes nearly closed.

"Can I ask you a question?" he murmured.

I assented.

"Would you marry me?"

I was taken aback, coughed on the thick, sickly sweet smoke of my truest love, Mary Jane. I was (and am) self-loathing. I didn't (and don't) believe in gay marriage (this was before its blanket legalization). Obviously, it was a more meaningless proposition than the invitation to San Francisco. But I hesitated, and then, as I did to the girl who with whom I shared my first kiss, decided to respond dishonestly for the benefit of the propositioner.

"Yes. Sure."

He emitted a humming girlish sigh of contentment and lost consciousness. I watched him sleep for a moment, closed the call, shut off the movie.

I felt very alone.

no one is gonna read this past the first paragraph dude, i wanted to bail on the first sentences but forced myself a couple before noping out

At least I was let down quickly

docs.google.com/document/d/1W_mEphQw8SvQmDGsUC6fpA1VuRlShpYwnFZbnVKeH3U/edit?usp=sharing

It's pretty long, but I hope you like it.

words too big

That's a point of criticism?

Viva Peru

Tried writing in English, please fixate

There was an old man,
In the corner of the room,
He saw two men, two children,
The children were both good, and evil,
While two men were not,
The two men look at the children,
Their mouth sticking out, their jaws breaking out of their skin!
The old man yet stayed in the corner of the room,
And there was no fear.
The old man in the corner room did not fear.
He wore a black and a long scythe with his face grim and pale,
The old man watched in the corner of the room,
As the two men played,
They play and tumbled, with the two children,
With their hands dyeing red,
The two men then stopped for a while, as they laugh in disdain
The old man with the scythe then whispered, which was followed with an embrace,
Two whispers replied, the old man then went away.
The two men then laugh, as the smell spreads away

It's pretentious and verbose in all the right ways. I read the whole thing and feel it's the most publishable thing I've ever read on this board. For critique, all I can say is that the pacing felt very slightly rushed at the end (final quarter? Maybe less), and the ending itself was a bit abrupt. I would read it expanded to a novel or novella, and I think there's enough there to do that if you wanted to, but it does work fine as a short story.

Quality of prose, as I said, is precisely what I personally enjoy, admirably polished, and a little old fashioned which makes the contemporary setting perfectly jarring. I didn't feel that any part of the plot was predictable despite constant foreboding, which is exactly how it ought to be. In fact several of my little guesses about where it was headed were proved wrong, which is a good thing.

Overall, please keep writing.

Oh, also I should mention the word "Bourgeois" in the title triggered my autism and made me expect some hamfisted Marxist navel-gazing but you absolutely did not bludgeon me with your politico-philosophical thesis, to the point that I can't necessarily pin down one preachy moment, just a fairly believable series of events and a plausible villain with some themes relating less to class than character as I read it at least. Also dances around the Bildungsroman without ever doing so eye-rollingly. It feels like a contemporized Victorian novel in plot and prose which is exactly what I want from literary fiction, anyway I should stop sucking your dick but still.

I am the air, you are the water
I am lesser and you all the better
You exist to lecture compassion
I persist and never learn my lesson
Two hearts sharing one sickly mind
You’d never get yours if I never got mine
You’re such a princess, you cannot digest
All the bullshit that leaks from a world so malign
I am an insect, I live to protest
Turn my back on the world if you weren’t so divine

Why did I have to be born effeminate. With my weak frame, doe eyes, and thick thighs I would have been blessed if I were a woman. While thinking on this I discreetly adjusted my cock in the panties my sister let me borrow avoiding the eyes of other subway goers. This plan had better work.
I arrived around noon to Gulianni's Pastry Shop, and began adjusting my wig whilst practicing my feminine voice,"Hello Mr.Licetti, my sister told me that you were hiring for a waitresses position, and I know that I'm perfect for it!" It sounded stupid, but sis said it'd work, and she's always been helpful with my...condition.
I opened the door and as the little bell rung the portly Italian man smiled. "Hello, Mr.Licetti I heard you were hiring and-" he cut me offf "Ah, you must be Anna's little sister. It is great to meet you!" Little sister...I'm four years older than her."Yes sir, um about the job position." He suddenly came over and hugged me tightly. "Yes absolutely after how much of a help your sister has been around the shop, I can guarantee that you will have the position." Christ kill me I'm half-mast. I get him off of me as quickly as I could before sitting down on one of the booths. I didn't even mat down my skirt, so now my ass is freezing. He sat down as well and began telling me about my hours, the general responsibilities of the job, and when my uniform would arrive.

Alacritous minds we walk,
Through the gates of Heaven.
The arduous and uneasy journey,
Palliated by pleasant company.

Our hearts racing and imagination pacing.
On paths many a men have treaded afore.
Passing a labyrinth to reach the pedestal of glory.
My imagination dwarfed, my extol derisory.

Succulent snow surround the peak
Frolicking in the midst of Heavenliness
Lapping it up in the snow of grandeur
Punctilious in creation and selection by the master Connoisseur.

The allure of something not made by men
Divine in its creation.
Enticed by the mystique behind the veil of cotton
Unheeding all boundaries, men march-on.

A ship sailing high in the air
Ferrying memories over the lush beauty hills
Another ferry across the creek, by the mountains gated
The surreal sacrosanct splendour unabated.

To not pay homage to the Stalwarts of charm,
Sacrilegious it'd be.
No matter the relinquished gain,
Radiant Remembrances Reign!

i liked it

ok someone read my poem:

Broken grammar sonnet
She looks over under her hair and whispers,
And the mist of the tension between us falls,
The sound of her breathing make then my vespers,
Her blink a fragment of that which my soul calls.

Narrow eyes in the hushed darkness pull away,
Effacing the bluntness of the communication,
As the spangled thoughts so ideal float loll and sway,
The knowledge of what is gone, missing, frustration.

Her sigh echoes liquid the overflowing impossibility,
That I will never live to articulate it,
That she is for my heart my one tranquility,
Rescued from the grammar to which I commit.

The nascent love furrows deeper among my singularity,
Rising incipient for the light that it knows as austerity.

I wrote this story if anyone will care to read it
pastebin.com/2pady6CC

it was inspired by a song I heard but then when I wrote it I think it turned into something else. there's no deeper meaning in the story by the way.

I wrote the first chapter of a (fantasy) book if anyone would like to read it. I haven't written anything in the three years since I graduated college, and even then I never wrote anything creatively. Only research papers and such. I don't really know where to share this and I'm way too fucking embarrassed to show my family, so hopefully someone here enjoys it.

It's a survival story of a dude exiled onto a remote island and brutal penal colony. Fair warning: chapter one is 4k words.

exilestoriesblog.wordpress.com/