ITT: Post an excerpt of your writing, it could be anything and any length. Prove you have talent.
>Man transgresses against himself. Each transgression makes the next more necessary, the end comes late and cannot be voluntary. From following to forming the path, a trail of evil candles lit not to illuminate but to blind. It is a rejection of things real, a reprieve against what has been done and what need be done in answer, an entering of a world without consequences by refusing consequences, a desperate place. It is denial in the truest sense of the word and requires insistent tribute, only renewed and ruinous commitment can not affirm but renew it. Such is the nature of sin, brief but consuming, life traced in smoke. The end is sudden.
 |
 Nothing Ever Happens Shirt $21.68 |
|
>prove you have talent
you first
Little sample from the other day
It's like some demented hybrid of McCarthy, Pynchon and PKD, except it doesn't flow or feel organic at all.
Post writing
Bro thinks he’s Cormac McCarthy
What Captain Beefheart song is that?
Anyone so insecure as to post their writing here looking for validation doesn’t have actual talent
>Thanks for ending the thread, moron
How did i do anons? does that feel organic and real? ill make it into a full novel soon
>Harold Bloom
It's funny that someone could devote their entire life to literature and understand nothing at all about writing.
t. no talent nobody
literally nobody has talent
A quiet serenity blankets the secluded path in the woods as two figures emerge from the hush of trees. On one side, a slender man with a general look of bemusement, Italo Calvino; on the other, the American novelist David Foster Wallace. They approach each other, both solitary wanderers in their respective lives.
DFW with his characteristic mid western friendliness says hello. "Hello."
Calvino seems surprised or perhaps intrigued and responds with a wandering gaze. "You are walking through the woods on pleasant morning and a stranger greets you, at least you believe he greeted you, you were not really paying attention; perhaps you were listening to the birdsong or the wind rustling the leaves or enjoying the smells raised by the morning's dew."
DFW not unfamiliar with the futility of communication seems to grow heavy and tries again. "Hello"
"This man seems incongruous to the scene, where did he come from? He just appeared without explanation, did you miss something on the previous page? You turn back a page and you focus on your reading.
David Foster Wallace is walking through the woods on a fine spring morning lost in the sound of birdsong and the smells raised by the morning's dew. A breeze rustles the leaves in the canopy overhead and he nearly collides with a man who looks oddly bemused, not that being bemused is odd in such a situation and he (DFW) likely had a similar expression on his face, just that this man had a general look about him that was bemused in an odd way. DFW says hello. "Hello[1]."
Calvino seems to light up, he is positively glowing. "1. You did miss something, perhaps you were caught up in the memories of some long forgotten morning walk through the forest or perhaps you have never been in a forest and the authors words evoked a yearning for the experience which caused you to forget about the man walking towards you."
DFW not unfamiliar with such literary devices smiles wryly. "Author here. Hello."
"You are now well oriented so you continue on. You say hello and attempt to explain yourself. "Hello! Sorry about that, I was not giving your work the proper attention."."
"That is not to say I am an author in some generic sense (which I guess I am) and I felt a need to share this fact which would be completely irrelevant given the circumstance, I mean what sort of person just walks up to someone in the woods and informs them that they are an author, it is not a sort of thing that happens. By saying "Author here" I was acknowledging a social convention[2], that I must meet people on their own terms regardless of how ridiculous and unproductive they may seem if I ever want to have anything resembling a social life."
"2. You can not help but wonder if acknowledging a convention is itself a convention but you quickly abandon that train of thought and realize you are being led astray again by your own thoughts, you are not focusing on the book. So you respond in kind "Beautiful day we are having."."
Talent and being a popular/bestselling author have very little to do with each other.
>"Frida I know you're in there I heard you screaming. Get out here and pay me my rent money!" Mr. Goldberg shouts.
Both of them float inside of this perverse Ouroboros of excruciation, alienated to the communal frickfest of pain. Trying subconsciously to contain her squalid sense of rationale and anxiety by focusing on her anger, the girl asks the beast, spitting disgust at the sight of the notion of Christ’s involvement with the Deep State:
– I still cannot imagine Christ involved with sacrificial cabals…
>If I have one flaw it is that I am too honest with myself. I can tell others the most blatant lies, as I will demonstrate later in this account, yet I cannot convince myself to turn away from the truth. My friends, it is always good to tell the truth, but if that is not possible then to tell a lie and wholly believe it is the next best thing
>What's required: go into outer space and don't die. That is the essence of change. To exist outside warmth, to deny satisfaction, to deny the instincts and hungers that comprise what you call life. Walk amid the void and go somewhere else, there is the path. That is what you have to do to do something new. No-one does this. Some live on the border, a sort of idiot elite. They cannot move beyond, they don't function in the pain, but they tolerate it, they keep a hand in or maybe turn their back to the beyond while they sit on the border staring at the old edge. These can do nothing but hurt. These are usually called men. They lead lives of sad sacrifice, demented Atlases all, but instead of the world on their shoulders it's an unappreciative family of 4 who don't take particular care not to kick them in the face as they go about their subsidized existences. Whatever consolations these idiot explain and sustain their lot in life with it often seems to be accompanied by drinking. People are very averse to pain, they cannot tolerate hunger, and they cannot not feel. At best most venture a step in the nether but then quickly retreat to light, familiarity, and the usual satiations. That within reach... Eschew it, be nourished by pain instead, don't recoil, see it through, and see the other side. No-one does this.