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Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope. This isn't really the thread to post about how not everyone should write, and you're not going to write, and furthermore, all hope (and juice) is lost.
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Nov 16, 2022 09:17
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The mystical ineffable thaumaturgy of making a chair
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Nov 16, 2022 09:20
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Uranium Phoenix posted:This isn't really the thread to post about how not everyone should write, and you're not going to write, and furthermore, all hope (and juice) is lost. I’m not saying I’m not going to write. I’m saying that empty enthusiasm is cruel and there is no excuse for cruelty. As someone who did teach and tutor writing I happen to have opinions on the matter. I need to write for the same reason I need to excrete. It’s a loathsome, disgusting process best done away from others, but I usually have a moderate sense of euphoria and accomplishment, afterwards. Edit: to the person who suggest writing random chapters, that feels like a useful thought technology. I’ll give that a shot. In media res is everyone’s friend. Marsupial Ape fucked around with this message at 09:55 on Nov 16, 2022 |
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Nov 16, 2022 09:52
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Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope.
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Nov 16, 2022 10:13
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Marsupial Ape posted:I’m not saying I’m not going to write. I’m saying that empty enthusiasm is cruel and there is no excuse for cruelty. As someone who did teach and tutor writing I happen to have opinions on the matter.  Who could create this mysterious contrivance, what sorcery lies in its inception
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Nov 16, 2022 10:15
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Must've sucked for the Egyptians before they invented tables, can you imagine having to deal with every problem as soon as it comes, exhausting.
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Nov 16, 2022 10:24
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Gaius Marius posted:Must've sucked for the Egyptians before they invented tables, can you imagine having to deal with every problem as soon as it comes, exhausting. the very first table maker was touched by the divine, every one since carries a spark of that fire
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Nov 16, 2022 10:27
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I never did figure out how to work with excel
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Nov 16, 2022 10:31
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Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope. Meh. I turned 50 not so long ago. I got an English Degree when I was 19. I read a lot and intended to write. I wrote a lovely, lovely short novel in my 20s, plus a couple of not-good-at-all short stories and realised writing was actually hard. There are much easier ways to have much more fun. I read some quote, probably apocryphal, about a writer who met someone who truly understood their work. The writer asked asked if that person was a writer too, and heard that no, the person was just a reader. "Bless you," said the writer, "I meet so few of them." I should be that reader, I thought. And so I was for, a long time, a mere consumer of 'that magic' and it was enough. Until around the age of, by a curious coincidence, 42 or thereabouts, when a good friend got me into Thunderdome, correctly assuming its format would suit certain dogged aspects of my nature and make me improve. Now I have a much better novel. I work on it when I have the time, before the sun comes up usually. Progress is slow and the end result may not be magic, but it is worlds beyond the trivial thing of my 20s (which, in retrospect, did have a couple of good jokes in it). I am glad it is in my life, for all its imperfections. But that's just me. If you're convinced you ain't got the juice, I'm not the person to convince you you're wrong. Chances are nobody is, especially in a thread subtitled: have u tried being good and not being bad. What I can tell you is you might not always think that way. The years grow shorter and you might begin to consider that maybe it doesn't need to be purest thaumaturgy. Maybe it just needs to be enjoyable for someone else for it to be worthwhile. Because all an author can ever do is put in the work and hopefully improve. That ephemeral, uninvokable magic you're chasing has only ever existed in the mind of the reader. Marsupial Ape posted:You guys are fine, though. Not me, I'm a rotter.
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Nov 16, 2022 11:44
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Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope. Man, I thought I was debilitatingly depressed. Try some meds, friend.
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Nov 16, 2022 12:13
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Marsupial Ape posted:. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice.
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Nov 16, 2022 12:31
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Okay I wasn't gonna touch this debate but I can't let this go:Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. I used to teach too (post graduate accounting and piano). Marsupial Ape posted:One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. Teaching ability and writing ability are not the same thing. Generally the more technical the field, the more your credibility as a teacher relies on your own technical competence as a practitioner. Medicine, engineering, professional accounting (as distinct from bookkeeping), a lot of trades (e.g. building, plumbing, electricians) are all highly technical fields. Writing—though there is definitely an aspect of craft, technique etc—is not a highly technical field, comparatively speaking. Fundamentally, it is about using prose to convey your intentions. You can learn a lot just by picking apart someone else's writing. Hell, I'd argue a third of teaching writing is to teach someone how to read critically, and another third is teaching them to read widely. Neither of these things have anything to do with your ability as a writer. The remaining third, in my opinion, is to write, take feedback, and revise. And yes, two of those things relate to writing ability. But one of them—and I would argue the most important of them—is an important life skill that has everything to do with self reflection and mindset and nothing to do with writing ability. Marsupial Ape posted:What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. Marsupial Ape posted:I need to write for the same reason I need to excrete. It’s a loathsome, disgusting process best done away from others, but I usually have a moderate sense of euphoria and accomplishment, afterwards. I took music composition classes at Juilliard for a year or two. My teacher had one rule for his class: we were allowed to dislike our own compositions but we had to justify our dislike of it using precise, technical terms. It is the single most valuable piece of advice I've ever received for creative work. The solution to the problem of "my writing is poo poo" is to ask "why" and to not accept "because it is" or "because I hate it" or any of those imprecise variations as a valid answer because those things are not actionable critiques. Bad: "I hate this scene because it sucks" - you can't action that in any way except to weep, bemoan your lack of natural genius or blame the reader, all of which disclaim your responsibility as an author Good: "I hate this scene because the prose is horribly stilted and reads like a terrible Tolkien rip off where every word choice has been selected using a thesaurus for the most obscure and/or multisyllabic option and the sentences have disjointed clauses" - there's at least 4 concrete, distinct things you can do to improve that scene for that reader so go away, do your revisions, give it back to that reader and confirm if you've fixed the problem. If you did, good job, move on to the next problem they had. If you didn't, try again. Repeat until you are ok with whatever problems remain. But if your problem is you really can't kill those darlings, then either accept that by including said darling in your work, you are weakening it and cop the consequences of your creative choice, or find a different place for it where it fits, or accept you don't currently have the skill level to pull off whatever it is you're trying to do, go away and write something else, and come back to the shelved idea when you do. Marsupial Ape posted:I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Nobody here thinks that if you just stare at the page long enough that will result in good words. Good words come from putting in the work to put words on the page and then putting in even more work to make them as good as you can make them. Sometimes you won't be able to make them as good as you want them to be, in which case the answer is to go and read more, get more feedback, then write more words until you get better. Marsupial Ape posted:Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. Marsupial Ape posted:I’m not saying I’m not going to write. I’m saying that empty enthusiasm is cruel and there is no excuse for cruelty. As someone who did teach and tutor writing I happen to have opinions on the matter. This here is the real toxic attitude and I cannot believe, one educator to another, that you hold this belief. Your job as a teacher is to foster two things in your students: first and foremost, a love of learning, and second, a love of (and if love is impossible, then appreciation for) the thing you teach. No, not everybody you teach is gonna have the combination of ability, drive, and opportunity to get to the very top of the field. If you're getting up in front of students and selling a pipe dream that they're all gonna make it big as an author with six figure advances and movie adaptations and win Pulitzers, then yeah, that's cruel. But taking the opposite stance of "you were either both with the talent or you weren't and if you weren't then lol your writing will always be poo poo so why bother trying" is equally cruel and arguably causes more harm because you're locking them into a fixed mindset. I had zero expectations that any of my post graduate accounting students will make partner at a Big 4 accounting firm, let alone chair one of the various international standard setting bodies for accounting and change the shape of the accounting profession forever. I had zero expectations that any of my piano students would go on to become professional concert pianists, let alone the next Lang Lang. But just because they "ain't got what it takes" doesn't mean it was pointless for them to learn. Marsupial Ape posted:The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope. Somebody please post Neth's recent smackdown on what is/isn't storytelling from the Discord. All I'm gonna say is, if you have the ability to form an opinion that is genuinely your own, then you are perfectly capable of constructing a story. If you are capable of making yourself understood by another person, then you have just engaged in storytelling. If you have been able to convince them of your opinion, then lo and behold, you have made your mind's eye visible to them. Maybe it's lovely MS Paint instead of Monet but you have done it. The rest of it—composition, brush strokes, color palette, etc—all those principles can be learned. You may never paint a masterpiece, you may never found a new movement, but over time through deliberate practice you will be able to produce something that somebody will look at and go "huh, that's a nice picture, I like it". Telling someone they can learn to be a better storyteller is not a cruel abuse of hope. It's a fact, because storytelling is a skill that you can learn and hone like any other skill. But telling someone they CAN'T be a storyteller just because they weren't "made to" IS tantamount to trying to take away their voice. Who gets to be the arbitrator of whether they "have it"? EDIT: and of course while I was typing out  on my phone Muffin says it way more succinctlySurreptitiousMuffin posted:I'm sorry, nah, this is wank. It's not some innate quality, it's a skill, and like any skill you get better by being bad productively for a long time. There is nothing pollyana or toxic about 'practice makes perfect'. EDIT EDIT: Marsupial Ape posted:Good advice, but I would prefer drugs. Like all the other problems in my life, I am acutely aware how to fix this with actual effort. I just don’t want to. Or don’t know how to want it enough to make it happen. Please consider  if you have not already. I put off seeing a good psychologist for the longest time because I was totally fine until I was very much not fine and I should have gone much, much sooner than I did.
Leng fucked around with this message at 12:59 on Nov 16, 2022 |
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Nov 16, 2022 12:44
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:I'm sorry, nah, this is wank. It's not some innate quality, it's a skill, and like any skill you get better by being bad productively for a long time. There is nothing pollyana or toxic about 'practice makes perfect'. We obviously have very different economic backgrounds, personal experiences, and expectations about life outcomes. My strong opinions about the inherent venality of encouraging people to engage in sunk cost fallacy behavior far extends outside the realm of writing as a personal practice. I loving apologize for bringing it up. Christ, I don’t even want to show you guys my Bigfoot erotica, anymore.
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Nov 16, 2022 13:03
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Megazver posted:Man, I thought I was debilitatingly depressed. Try some meds, friend. 10mg Fluoxetine and 300mg Bupropion every day for about 6 years, now. Works wonders. If you are shaming my perceived untreated mental health problem because you have anxiety about your own, please seek help. Life is short and full of trials and you don’t deserve to make it make it worse for yourself. I say this with out snark or any backhandedness.
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Nov 16, 2022 13:24
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Leng posted:Okay I wasn't gonna touch this debate but I can't let this go: Whew, easiest editing job ever. Seriously, less is much, much more and don’t telegraph your insecurity in your own boiler plate arguments by begging another author to please come in and make your own points for you. You were a teacher: rhetorical wheel spinning in a persuasive essay is below your station in life.
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Nov 16, 2022 13:49
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Marsupial Ape posted:Whew, easiest editing job ever. Seriously, less is much, much more and don’t telegraph your insecurity in your own boiler plate arguments by begging another author to please come in and make your own points for you. You were a teacher: rhetorical wheel spinning in a persuasive essay is below your station in life. Lmao Ok imma  MOD CHALLENGE you right now:Your next post must be a 500 word story about someone facing a creative challenge and overcoming it or you will be banned.
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Nov 16, 2022 14:01
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I will add to that, anyone who writes a story on the same theme before you and posts it in this thread may assign you an Avatar of their choosing, the best story being the winner if multiple stories are posted.
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Nov 16, 2022 14:12
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Does it need to be exactly 500 words? 'Cause I just wrote 804. Will edit it down if required.
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Nov 16, 2022 15:06
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sebmojo posted:...anyone who writes a story on the same theme before you and posts it in this thread... No. Jarick pushed away from his desk and pressed his forehead against the hot glass of the far window in his office. He’d done this a thousand times, and taught a thousand more, for no less than eight magistrates now. He knew how to tell a story, for gently caress’s sake. The dreary drizzle of dark downpour gently caress this. Jarick left his desk again for the window. It wasn’t even eight yet. The skylarks and songlizards were still screaming their morning cacophony, and the dawnsun hadn’t yet finished its rotation. A story, by week's end. An original, simple loving story, and he’d earn a break. He'd only taken six days already. Jarick pressed his knuckles to his eyes. A break. Lightening the load of the endless duties of the Horalgum. Each new magistrate had brought a sack of promises they’d made to the crown, and each promise somehow needed less students, more spells. Rain shot stars through the poo poo gently caress gently caress this poo poo The magistrates never needed to help out, either. They sat in the tower and demanded. Cleaner. Faster. More. We can’t allow you to use magic for that, there’s a limited supply, and it is needed to keep my rear end powdered. Entrance me. Excite me. Entertain me. Something fresh. Something new. It was a Jarick stared at the words on his parchment. It was a. It was a. He pinched his nose until it hurt, and rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. Three lovely little words, but they’d cast an anchor in his brain. It was a. gently caress, this is the worst writing yet. It was a lovely task. It was a hosed up life. It was a welcoming noose. He swore and threw his quill across the desk, before making for the door. The magister had taken every one of Jarick’s students and thrown them from the top of the Horalgum for their bullshit stories. It wasn’t fair. They’d been taught by the best, yet none of them had the calling to make a story. This wasn’t his fault–and yet, with each death, it was his responsibility to pick up their slack. More cleaning. More shelving. More pampering. Enough. He wasn’t going to play these games any more. Magister be hosed. He was done. It was a horrible, lovely, dark loving life he–wait. There. A spark. Jarick took his hand from the door and stormed back across the office, using up the last of his mana supply to send the quill flying to his hand and clean the ink splatters off the wall. It didn’t matter. He was about to earn a loving battery full. The magister would be blown away. No, not just him. The world. He began his opus. It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents.
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Nov 16, 2022 15:57
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eh gently caress it, I wrote it, I'll post it. I didn't write it for the prize, it just seemed like it might be fun. ------------------- “Yeah, hello?” “Taze! Hey how you doin’, it’s me, Mike. Hey listen, I don’t know if you remember me but I used to be pretty regular.” “poo poo yeah I remember you dude, what he hell happened? I honestly figured you were dead or went away or something--” “Yeah no, I’m fine,” Mike interrupted. “Things just changed, life, you know. Hey listen, I need a little something, can you still hook a guy up?” “Sure. The usual, like you used to—” “Yeah that’s perfect. Because listen, you know how I used to write and poo poo? I have those two novellas I published on Amazon, I dunno if you remember them, but anyway I stopped writing for like years, because I got to thinking that to be honest it’s not exactly like I’m loving Faulkner and if you’re not loving Faulkner then what’s loving point in even trying, you know?” “You okay man? You sound—” “Anyway I started writing a little something again a couple weeks ago, I just kind of got an itch in my brain and had to work it out of my system, you know? So I’m writing this story about this girl who finds this sword, except it’s set in the modern day so a sword is a really weird thing to find, then she comes home and finds her mother’s loving catatonic and her sister’s missing, right?” “Dude, I read that one story for you like ten years ago but to be honest I was stoned out of my mind when I agreed—” “And then, and THEN, there’s a guy in her kitchen, he’s opening and closing the fridge over and over like it’s some kind of alien poo poo, and he knows her name and says he’s Charlemagne and he needs her help. But the thing is, he really is a time traveling Charlemagne, and—” “Wait, hold up. How the gently caress can they even communicate then? That dude was French and I’m pretty sure English hadn’t even been—” “No there wasn’t any such thing as French back then either but that’s not the point, who cares how they communicate, it’s magic okay? Anyway, that’s where I’m stuck. I got this whole zany time traveling adventure all mapped out in my head and it’s loving awesome but I can’t figure out how to realistically get her to listen to him long enough for some exposition, instead of screaming and calling the cops or pepper spraying him or something. I thought about the pepper spray thing, it might be pretty funny, but it doesn’t quite fit. So that was, like, a week ago, and I’ve been just loving depressed ever since. I tried posting about it on reddit but those loving nerds are so high on their own farts it’s no use talking to them. There’s this thing called talent, you know? And they don’t have it. And neither do I, I got to thinking, so maybe I should just scrap the whole thing.” “Dude, I really need to—” “But then this afternoon it hit me—I need drugs! And booze. I just need to get really hammered and then do an 8-ball and inspiration will hit me and I’ll crank out some awesome poo poo, I know it. That’s what Stephen King does and I mean, he’s Stephen loving King. So that’s why I called, I’ll swing by your place on the way to the liquor store and then we’ll be rolling, baby!” To Taze’s astonishment Mike actually stopped talking. There was a long pause. Taze was reflecting that he wasn’t so sure he wanted this guy coming to his house. “Are you sure that’s—” “I’m just so loving frustrated right now, you know? Like, 21st century American girl teaming up with Charlemagne, it’s so awesome. But God, how can I get there, how can I get her to actually listen to him when—” “Dude, I DON’T GIVE A gently caress, okay!? Just have her be stoned when it happens and say what the gently caress ever, she’s stoned, she’s rolling with it. I don’t care! Do you want this poo poo or not? I’m busy!” Silence. Thirty silent seconds passed. Finally Taze ventured to speak. “Hello? Mike? You still there?” “Taze! That’s loving amazing! She was high! No, drunk! No, maybe both—no, no, just high. You’ll go with any kind of poo poo when you’re stoned. I hadn’t actually thought of her from that angle, but that totally works! By the time the high wears off she’ll already be back in early Francia and then poo poo can just fly. That’s awesome. I’ll call you back, I’ve got to go write this right now.” And that’s how the call ended. Taze stared at the phone for a long moment. He shook his head, and blocked Mike's number. e: ...dammit Wungus. Eric the Mauve fucked around with this message at 16:04 on Nov 16, 2022 |
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Nov 16, 2022 16:00
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Marsupial Ape posted:We obviously have very different economic backgrounds, personal experiences, and expectations about life outcomes.
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Nov 16, 2022 17:04
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Re anyone who thinks writing is some ineffable thing and it can never be a career for them: I think it's possible to be really good, amazing even, at a kind of writing that you personally don't like to read. I mean, sometimes the words just flow out, then you look over it later and go, "What the hell was this?" Or you'll write something you do like, give it to a reader, and they say they particularly enjoyed the bits that you hated the most. Some people take that to an extreme and become tortured up-their-own-rear end writer types who scoff at the public for enjoying unchallenging pabulum while rejecting the things that I, myself, thought were brilliant! These then evolve into writers who let it become drudgery, feel like they're selling words by the pound, and become super cynical about art in general. Now if you don't mind what you write, great! Your skills and tastes have aligned. The stars are aright. But if you really feel like you've honed your writing skills and it still isn't working for you, hot or cold, maybe you need to change it up. Break what you thought were rules (because they aren't; little writing tip there). Don't follow trends. Plot a story in a genre you don't usually think about. It doesn't matter if you've read anything in that genre even, just use your assumptions and go hog wild. Be cool with failure. Don't even think about success, in fact. This isn't about winning or losing, it's about doing what you need to. Yes, in many ways you're starting over. Yes, you'll slip up and write garbage and people will look at you funny for a while. But you gotta get out of the mindset that it's over. It's not. It can't be. The writing world is too big to think that this little rut you're in is the only one.
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Nov 16, 2022 17:08
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hello! so i know switching tenses in writing is generally, like, kinda iffy, but i would like to get y'alls opinion on something. i'm writing a story set predominately in past tense- "I woke up to a pounding headache." "If I was lucky, it usually mellowed out before class started."- and it deals with the main character's life, y'know, as the story happens. however, sometimes the narrator starts to talk about her life more broader, as it's always been and theoretically how it is right now. if that makes sense. so like, i'll have a passage in third person but then the next paragraph would start like, "I think I’m secretly a morning person, though, as loath as I am to admit it. I like being up before the rest of the world rises." and then the rest of the paragraph will be in present tense before switching back to past tense. do y'all find this annoying or confusing as a reader? like, obviously that's how human speech always works- switching between past and present tense, things that have happened and things as they are right now, and even things that will happen- but i've never really consciously observed it before in writing. i like my narrator to have a more conversational tone in general, so is it just a stylistic thing? maybe i'm just overthinking things right now but anyways. would like to know what y'all think. thanks! (obviously don't want to post like whole paragraphs right off the bat, but if i have been unclear about anything, do let me know, and i can try to elaborate/provide more in-context examples.)
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Nov 16, 2022 19:42
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This should be fine. In first person, there can exist a narrative present, the time when the story is being told, even when it's not something the narrator will eventually digetically write or tell someone, and ongoing conditions that still hold in that narrative present are fine to put in then present tense.
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Nov 16, 2022 19:53
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Beaten by several hours, but here's the story I wrote for the challenge: The Oracle Jackjaw was an oracle. All dogs were, or so they claimed. Their messages were all crude and simple, and one hardly needed to be an oracle himself to know that they would come true. They all predicted that the sun would rise and then set and that they would return to their sacred places each day at the prophesied times. Of course they would, though, because their Masters dragged them on chains to those places with uncanny regularity. They were all frauds, of course. Dogs in the thrall of the Masters could not be oracles. Everyone knew it. But Jackjaw had no Master and was therefore a true oracle. He lived in a dusty alleyway behind a terrible restaurant. There was always plenty to eat and it was paradise. The sun had barely touched the tops of the telephone poles when Jackjaw woke up from a vivid and terrifying dream. He had foreseen the end of the world. Everything would end in fire, and soon. Jackjaw panted nervously and let out a whine. He licked his balls to calm himself down so he could think properly. He didn't have much time. How could he get the word out? How would he even describe his vision? It was far vaster and more complicated than anything he had foreseen before. He had to tell everyone. It was his duty as a true oracle. Jackjaw wolfed down some restaurant scraps before taking off on his mission. He trotted up and down the blighted streets, looking for someone, anyone, he could warn. Then across the way he spotted a dog with his Master. A golden retriever with bad hips. Probably not too bright, but beggars couldn't be choosers in a part of town where dead warehouses heavily outnumbered Masters’ homes, and Jackjaw needed to tell everyone he could. “Hey rear end in a top hat!” Jackjaw shouted. That got the retriever’s attention. “What? Also gently caress you!” “The world is going to end! I’m an oracle and I saw it in my dream. And gently caress you too!” “Bullshit! I’m an oracle too and I didn't see the end of the world in my dream.” The retriever’s Master was becoming agitated by the shouting. Idiot. “But I’m a true oracle. You're not. Please listen - the world will end! In a fire! Tell everyone you can!” The Master squawked a silencing spell and the retriever did not speak again. He gave Jackjaw a last glance before being pulled away by his chain. “gently caress,” Jackjaw growled. That didn't go well. He’d have to try again. He ran through town, shouting to all the dogs he encountered, warning them about the end of the world. He couldn't find the right words, and the other dogs laughed at him or told him to gently caress off or were silenced by their Masters. He sought out other free dogs, but they had all been captured. As afternoon set in, Jackjaw stopped to rest under a ragged shrub adorned with garbage. He was failing in his mission. How could he make them understand? What kind of oracle was so pathetic and utterly incapable of telling the tale of prophecy and imminent doom and making them believe? “What troubles you, Jackjaw?” An unconcerned voice drew him out of his despair. Butterknife was sitting beside him, watching with either bemusement or contempt. It was always hard to tell with cats, especially a cunning lord of the streets like Butterknife. “They won't listen to my prophecy. The world is going to end and I need to warn everyone.” “And so you've been shouting your head off all day like a loving lunatic?” Butterknife laughed. “I thought you were smarter than this, Jackjaw.” Jackjaw sighed. “What else can I do?” Butterknife licked a paw. “Isn't it obvious? Overwrite the words of the frauds. They're everywhere and they stink. And they're insipid. ‘Chump was here.’ ‘Peanut likes peanuts.’ ‘Bella’s butt smells nice.’ Give me a break.” Jackjaw’s eyes widened as it dawned on him. How could he have been so stupid? The means to spread the prophecy and tell the story had been with him this entire time, stored in his very loins. He leapt out from under the shrub, energized by his renewed purpose. “Thank you, Butterknife! I will go tell the prophecy and all will be warned!” Butterknife shrugged. Jackjaw bounded down the street towards a fire hydrant. With his nose he could read the countless vapid messages of other dogs, all of them frauds. But now he would overwrite all of them with the words of a true oracle. He lifted a leg, for the story of the end of the world would be written in piss. The End
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Nov 16, 2022 20:18
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barclayed posted:so i know switching tenses in writing is generally, like, kinda iffy, but i would like to get y'alls opinion on something. It’s totally fine to write how people talk, particularly in first person narration. You find this style a lot in literary fiction, like Booker Prize winners and such. It’s a big part of what people mean by voice And seconding this Thranguy posted:This should be fine. In first person, there can exist a narrative present, the time when the story is being told, even when it's not something the narrator will eventually digetically write or tell someone, and ongoing conditions that still hold in that narrative present are fine to put in then present tense.
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Nov 16, 2022 20:38
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sebmojo posted:The mystical ineffable thaumaturgy of making a chair you know who else was a carpenter and a thaumaturge *flips chair around*
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Nov 16, 2022 21:06
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Luigi Thirty posted:you know who else was a carpenter and a thaumaturge *flips chair around* yeah, he thought he was really good at telling people stories but the people got so mad at him they murdered him, so the moral is dont ever tell stories
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Nov 17, 2022 01:22
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I don't think I'm ever going to write transcendent works that will stand the test of time, even if I tried. The best I believe I'm capable of is competent genre fiction; works that will entertain some people and maybe make a few of them feel a little less alone for a while. That is all I really aspire to do. My problem is even with these managed expectations, I still keep second-guessing my creative decisions and stalling on doing the work. What the gently caress am I waiting for? Hell if I know!
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Nov 17, 2022 01:48
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Marsupial Ape posted:I'm a 42 year old man. I have an English Degree with a creative writing education emphasis. I used to teach writing. One day I realized I couldn't and shouldn't. What's the point of killing your darlings if they are all abortions, anyway? By pass the miserable still birthing all together. I really feel like this polly-anna 'you can do it if you Care Bear Stare long enough' attitude towards writing is incredibly toxic. Not everyone is equipped to be a storyteller, no matter how much they throw themselves against that wall. Divine muses or not, if you ain't got the juice, you ain't got the juice. The real tragedy of it is that most of us are perfectly equipped to appreciate art, to interpret and ingest it, but not to synthesis it into something new. Story telling is thaumaturgy, is wonder making, and not everyone is made to invoke it. To make someone believe that can actually do that magic, make their mind's eye visible to another person, but always be just out of their reach is a cruel abuse of hope. :gettherapy:
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Nov 17, 2022 02:08
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I write about my tabletop characters and my friends love my creative output, that’s good enough for me.
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Nov 17, 2022 02:12
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Marsupial Ape posted:Christ, I don’t even want to show you guys my Bigfoot erotica, anymore. Bigfoot erotica writers are better than you because they loving wrote something, you insufferable weiner
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Nov 17, 2022 03:37
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Antivehicular posted:Bigfoot erotica writers are better than you because they loving wrote something, you insufferable weiner And there's value in their work, 'cause even the audience just uses it to get that nut, it still made a positive contribution to their lives
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Nov 17, 2022 03:54
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Nae posted:yeah, he thought he was really good at telling people stories but the people got so mad at him they murdered him, so the moral is dont ever tell stories counterpoint everyone's remembered that guy for like 2000 years so i mean if you want a legacy...
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Nov 17, 2022 04:04
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Pththya-lyi posted:And there's value in their work, 'cause even the audience just uses it to get that nut, it still made a positive contribution to their lives Yes! There isn't some kind of magic bar of audience worthiness that makes writing "real." lovely erotica writers are telling stories and enriching people's lives. So are people writing godawful self-insert fanfiction where they and their BFFs kiss hot elves. So are eight-year-olds making up silly stories to make each other laugh. All these people are way better writers than this chump who won't loving write!
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Nov 17, 2022 04:25
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All this poo poo I've been seeing in here lately about makes a REAL WRITER is horseshit, the only difference between thunderdome and trad pub is that thunderdome never made me wait a year for crits
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Nov 17, 2022 04:28
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Sorta tickled by 'oh you think creative endeavour is worthwhile? Guess you're rich'. I'm poor as hell and I learned to paint anyway
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Nov 17, 2022 05:02
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HopperUK posted:Sorta tickled by 'oh you think creative endeavour is worthwhile? Guess you're rich'. I'm poor as hell and I learned to paint anyway yo momma so poor she qualified to make art
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Nov 17, 2022 05:05
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sebmojo posted:Lmao sebmojo posted:I will add to that, anyone who writes a story on the same theme before you and posts it in this thread may assign you an Avatar of their choosing, the best story being the winner if multiple stories are posted. This is me playing ball and ‘buying in’. I’ll ignore all the petty and rather childish mental health shaming previously leveled at me. The Thaumaturgy of Chair Making “Pardon, my friend. I don’t read your local script, so well. Your slate shingle, it says…do not touch Magic Chair?” Copis looked up from the dead patch of grass he’d been staring at, moderately startled at the stranger’s accent. Nobody ever made it this deep in to the artisan quarter of the agora this late in the day. Especially not a well dressed traveler of obvious means. The man smiled genially at Copis, his grin an ivory slash in the black coils of his beard. Friendly people never made it this deep into the artisan quarter any time of the day. Surprising himself, Copis made an effort to be gregarious. “Aha. Yeah, that thing,” the pitiful thaumaturgist chuckled as he lifted his bulk from his usual, very non-magical seat and swept crumbs from his robe. “I made that by mistake one night while drunk. I thought about destroying it, but people love it.” The gentleman cocked his head at the chair and considered it for a moment. “That is a fine enough looking chair, my friend. But, and I do not mean to offend because it a perfectly formed chair, it is plain looking. What makes it magic?” Copis rubbed at the back of his ponderous head and said, “Truth be told. I had just come from the symposium and was still deep in my cups and grousing from petty arguments. Most nights, really. Anyway, I was figured I’d swing my scroll around and whip up a Tripod of Apollo in my work shed.” The gentleman grinned thinly at Copis then eyed the chair again. A finely curled eyebrow arched. “This is a divine seat of power? You were going to conjure an object of prophecy while drunk in your home?” “That is correct, sir,” Copis nodded. “Except, it was my shed and that is not, of course, a Tripod of Apollo.” “My friend, that is also not a tripod.” Copis closed his eyes for a moment. “As I am often reminded. I didn’t realize quite how badly I had failed until the morning. In my stupor, I had not closed the door to my work shop and local children were parading it aloft by the time I was awake, noontime. I didn’t have the heart to destroy it, after that”. The gentleman walked a slow circle around the chair. His sandals padded soundlessly on the cobbled floor of Copis’ meager stall. He then turned his attention to the rest of Copis’ wares. “What of the rest of your chairs? They look finely made, too. Better, in fact. Are they magic as well? Why are they covered in such dust?” The gentleman ran a brown finger along the arm of a near chair. He held it up to show the dirty grey cottening to the pad of his digit. Copis brightened up. Well, he became less dim. “Not only are those chairs intentionally magical, indeed, I consider them my art,” a sliver of pride kept into Copis’ wine strained voice. “I have contrived into these pieces of furniture my life’s work. My…my personal philosophy…my hard won thoughts on opinions from having lived as long as I have…these are my Thaumaturgical Chairs of Truth.” The gentleman passed Copis his frilled kerchief, so that the thaumaturgist could wipe the single tear from his eye. From another pocket, the gentleman produced his coin purse. “Please, my friend, tell me what this truth is this? It is only fair that a man know what he is about to pay for.” Copis stepped behind his finest chair and gripped the back of it with both balled fists. “Sir, when you sit in this seat, this throne of self gnosis, you will know an Objective Truth. That you posses an rear end in a top hat. My vision is to have one of these seats placed in every office of authority, so that any ruler, righteous king or petty tyrant, may —-oh, he’s running away.” Copis returned to his very non-magical seat to contemplate his dead patch of grass. End. Post script: even my typos are well read references.
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Nov 17, 2022 05:07
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| # ? May 9, 2024 21:48 |
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Hey guys, I hate to interrupt this bullshit but as promised back in August we're doing a contest and submission rush to Flash Frontier. If you have the time and energy to write 250 words on WONDER, please jump in.
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Nov 17, 2022 05:55
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