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(constructive) criticism thread. Post only...
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(constructive) criticism thread. Post only a sample of something you're working on.
only read the first paragraph

there's too much exposition in too few words going on there. it's definitely not poorly written at all and i quite like it, but it looks more like you're just throwing out a list of things than writing a narrative. avoid the "She does X, she thinks X, I feel X" format. your writing strayed from it a bit but I still got that same artificial sense from it

>Summers never treat me well. Last summer in particular...
do yourself a favor and either delete this entirely or do some major rearranging. starting off with that is juvenile. if you find it so important to mention the season then find a less forced place to put it, and definitely not right in the beginning like that

not sure what you're going for here and if i did i'd probably be able to give better criticism but if it's "dramatic teenage lovey feelings" then good job you nailed it.
I actually don't entirely like that line either. This story is actually based on a real person, so I was trying to write things that that person would agree is true, enough that I can imagine he'd say it. And so the mention of seasons are pretty necessary. I'll keep what you said in mind, though.

This is set in high school, so I suppose I nailed it. I don't want it to be a generic "dramatic teenage lovey feelings" story though. It's hard to write honest teenage stories that also sound mature and not-cringy.
We enter the elevator of my apartment where I live on the 8th floor, so it’ll be about 20 seconds until we reach the first floor, giving me enough time to turn around, kick Lopez in the knee and grab the gun out of his holster, shoot both of them so that when the elevator opens on the first floor, they spill out in a heap, and I have to step over their bodies and then run out of the building and hijack the nearest car so I can drive to Canada where I’ll live out the rest of my life in hiding.

“Come on, this guy is clearly deranged,” is what I can already hear you saying, but these types of thoughts are not actually uncommon or indicative of any underlying psychological issues(there's a chain of footnotes in the story but I'll forgo those here). It’s only a problem when these thoughts are no longer intruders, instead becoming houseguests that comfort you when you realize the lack of control you have over your own surroundings, making you feel momentarily powerful while you imagine the various ways you could drain a bustling coffee shop of its collective effervescence with an AR-15 or maybe a pipe bomb, inaccurately equating fear with respect, but knowing that it’s better to have one than it is to have neither. But I don’t think that way anymore.
The first paragraph is a run-on sentence, and it's rhythmically stale. I'd recommend you try to look at poetic elements when you write, because they provide fluidity to your writing.
Thanks, I've been trying to do that. My prose is very low-level but I've barely written any fiction. It's supposed to be a run-on sentence; that I don't care about.
What the other anon said. The second paragraph is better but it suffers from an odd word choice (effervescence) and frankly, not being all that interesting. Consider making the second to last sentence two.
my shit:

Deep within the pasta aisle at Joe's, George Decanter was lost in a self-contained argument as to whether one could actually get drunk off the vodka cream sauce. It had been nearly six, maybe seven, years since he had even thought about picking up a bottle— cream or marinara. The prospect of getting drunk whilst eating pasta intrigued him in a way pasta had not since his coworker had directed his attention to that TED Talk about Moskowitz— he couldn't remember the exact details, but he did feel a sudden craving for extra-chunky, also something about a bliss point; though that could have been that thing about three scotches for creativity, four for sleep .
Over in aisle six (Mexican vegetables) Jane Smith pushed her cart with the passive aggressive fury unique to sexually repressed suburban women with a taste for jumpsuits only matched by fictional Russian immigrants. Her hair was done up in an unintentional tribute to the worst of 80's mullets, while her knuckles were whited onto her cart full of non-gmo grains, and sixteen gallons of apple cider vinegar— homeopathic intestinal lubricant. She was turning onto five when she noticed a rather heavyset man gazing intently at a bottle of Prego vodka cream sauce. His hunched stance, coupled with his long suit jacket, took up around two feet of the three and a half foot aisle. Jane was in a hurry, so she recalled her basic math, and figured she could fit her cart through with a politely enunciated excuse, and still get by only grazing the back of the man's suit jacket.

Still deep in thought, but now over the suspicious origins of vodka cream sauce— drunk Russian, or adventurous drunk Italian, and don't even get him started on the Polish variable, let alone those wily Ukrainians. George failed to notice the blonde train wreck of a mother hurtling towards him with the blind intent of a CN train slamming into a drunk. He did, however notice her— as the drunk usually explodes– when the cart's prow sent him to the tile. His head bounced, and he faded into dark.
Waking up, he felt a gooey mess under his head, fearing the worst, and believing the women was going to get away with this fucking excuse of a manslaughter, George removed his newly polished Glock forty five, and ensured her lungs were as perforated as her brain surely was. Turning his head to look at his success, his own blood seeped over his tongue,hmm, he thought, vodka.
In my way of thinking, this spell at May's had reached its conclusion. Employment is arduous and demoralizing, as your continued relevance depends solely on your alleged popularity. Rarely amiable with coworkers, I seldom had anything nice to say.
What with the overweight General Manager, who will hire only the most attractive, unreliable and all around good for nothing specimen . . . his pugnacious assistant, parading her teeny pissing mutt around like the child she will never bear, things seemed at all times in a state of tipping over . . . perched slightly on the cusp, the threat of falling prevented only in the absence of viable competition.
Imagine, for a moment, the last diner you attended . . . smutty; I don't care what anyone has to say about the food. Now, attach a bar to the other half of said diner: it was foul, a damn sight worse than most would deem unacceptable. In the end, I was ahead of willing to split entirely from the place, however delirious at the outset, brimming with foolish ambition. It was a misapprehension to think I could've received proper training from anyone there . . . and in any case, my interest in bar tending had dwindled.
Employees were treated like supplies, the last morsel of vitality extracted from an empty decanter. The turnover rate immense, as was my indignation . . . it only expanded.
What little money I had when I left went straight into the landlord’s pocket, but you couldn't have convinced me to stay. In an establishment that seats at least 3,000 in any 24-hour period, I fall short of an adequate explanation . . . the amount of stress, the hemorrhoids and my terrible sleep. Physical labor is intolerable when you’ve slept badly, and I did, most of the time. Support staff, such as myself, were required to complete a list of 'side work' each day upon leaving . . . a list long enough to keep you two or three hours. It was improbable to leave before these tasks had been completed . . . and you were often never compensated for the over time; contractual larceny.
I think after the third demand to rid an assortment of bodily fluids from various areas of the bar in an hour, slowly asphyxiating, I chose to walk out on my shift. I'd just finished mopping a puddle . . . I looked up as I heard this awful retching and gagging . . . this lurid, unrestrained expose of projectile body cleansing: it flowed out across the table from a young Filipino girl. I remember thinking her a minor when I noticed the empty cocktail glasses next to her, speckled with insides; her food was also drenched. She jerked about intricately, in epileptic movements; wiping the bile from her tits . . . she raised her hand as if a child waiting to be called upon, still and insidious. Her acquaintances took no notice of her inebriation or the fascinating presentation.
Customers looked about repulsively, refusing to eat. People are always looking for some pretext to shade their unwillingness to pay.
Link to a story written in the style of HP Lovecraft
Posted it on /tg/ a few days ago, didn't really get any feedback beyond "good"


I really like your word choice, you're very descriptive. I feel like sometimes you get a little caught up in the phrasing, as in the start of the second paragraph (apparently the "sonic* embodiment of stress" is an instrument? that is contained within the symphony which was previously described as distinct from that stress?). I'm also not sure "loud" is the most efficient descriptor for a flower, given that flowers are usually pretty silent. I understand what you're getting at, but I think a word like "vibrant" or similar would serve better. Think: what about a flower catches and demands your attention?

I think the description of Annie at the end is great, and think it really ought to go towards the beginning; it helps us build a better picture in our minds when you describe the way she acts. I think the blurb about her hair is a little lacking, compared to the rest; everything else is whimsical and dramatic, and then her hair is rather matter-of-fact.

With a bit of editing, this could be really good
Please be nice. This is my first time doing this.

If one examines neocapitalist dematerialism, one is faced with a choice:
either reject surrealism or conclude that consciousness is used to oppress the
underprivileged. However, an abundance of narratives concerning not discourse
per se, but postdiscourse exist. Foucault uses the term ‘the precapitalist
paradigm of reality’ to denote the bridge between sexual identity and society.

Thus, several theories concerning surrealism may be found. Sartre’s model of
the precapitalist paradigm of reality holds that truth, somewhat ironically,
has significance, but only if the textual paradigm of context is invalid;
otherwise, discourse must come from the collective unconscious.
I'm sure *you* know what you're talking about, and it's very well written. But you assume that anybody reading this is already familiar with all of the these terms. People who know what they mean will like it, cynical people who don't will think you're pretentious, and positive people who don't will be impressed for the wrong reasons.

Your writing is good, by the way. I have to reiterate that because what I've said sounds mean.
I'm a very poor writer, I realize. Figured I'd post anyway.

Failing to take notice of the time, Werner passed out of his apartment and, slightly under two minutes later, exited through the lobby’s revolving door. His building was handsome, unlike Werner; his grey eyes pressed into his skull, similar to a weight on a pillow, and his thick brow ran parallel to the street on which he now walked. He sensed a man (the footsteps were thick) slightly more than perpendicular to him, a glance right confirmed another shadow had joined him. Now he rotated his head east to an outline of the man’s head and the sudden realization that it was dawn. He stopped, the man overtaking him, and began to return home; twelve hours later he would repeat the process.

I think the first paragraph is a bit of a poor medium between choppy and conversational. I get the sense that you're trying to convey a sense of effortlessness and of planning ahead, but I can't really tell. I'd either go full methodical, mechanical approach or full conversation.

The second paragraph I think is better, your sentences are just structured sorta oddly. Like using "...that comfort you" instead of "becoming houseguests, comforting you when...". The use of effervescence is kinda jarring when you don't use any other flowery words. I like the word actually and the way you used it, it's just weird in context.
remove comma and then we'll talk
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