writing groups
what have your experiences been like?
where do you find a good one?
or are they a complete waste of time?
writing groups. what have your experiences been like? where do you find a good one? or are they a complete waste of time?
writing groups
what have your experiences been like?
where do you find a good one?
or are they a complete waste of time?
I am looking for a good writing group too
Let us start one!
sure but where?
Let us draft the rules first.
Rule No. 1 - You must submit your work to the group at least 48 hours before the scheduled critique session which will occur every Sunday without skipping. If you fail to do so, you will be fined $10 (paid in crypto of your selecting) and your work will be deleted from the group folder.
Rule 2- You must read and comment on every sentence of every piece of work submitted by other members, using the group’s standardized feedback formatting. If you skip or skim any work, you will be docked points and your report card will suffer.
Rule #3- You must follow the group leader’s advice and suggestions on how to improve your work, even if they contradict your own vision and style. If you question or challenge the group leader, you will be demoted to a lower level group and your work will be subjected to harsher critiques.
Rule 4: You must not take any feedback from other members personally or emotionally. If you show any signs of hurt, anger, or resentment, you will attend the group court session and state your case and receive your crypto fine which will be capped at $50 for the worst offenses. Mercy will be an important virtue in the group.
Rule 5 = You must not share or publish your work outside the group without the group leader’s permission and approval. If you do so, you will be in violation of the group's NDA and considered as a traitor and a thief and your work will be reported to the relevant authorities and you will be expelled from the group.
Perfect
Sixth rule: no girls in the treehouse!
>Rule #3- You must follow the group leader’s advice and suggestions on how to improve your work, even if they contradict your own vision and style. If you question or challenge the group leader, you will be demoted to a lower level group and your work will be subjected to harsher critiques.
is this a joke
idk anon but i like that you cant tell =^)
Oh yeah that's the objectionable rule lol ok
Sure, I'll try to communicate the moronic insanity of joining a writing group period too lazy to type this out on my eye potato so whatever text to speech period Here we go colon I found them online and I met them at the library every Thursday like a dozen aspiring writers who shared their current projects and offered feedback etcetera period they called themselves the penmen and did shitty novellas poems essays and memoirs and when the pandemic and the lockdowns were imposed the library closed and we tried to keep in touch on telegram but the vibe went downhill badly with isolation frustration boredom whatever period we all literally lost our motivation to write and critique space space space one of us comma a college kid came up with an idea he had been working as a bail bondsman for his uncle's company but hated it period and he decided to use his skills and his contacts to start a paper business period he would forge documents for us like passports driver's licenses birth certificates diplomas bank statements literally anything period a few of us started helping out with it at his apartment writing up the bull shit period
people experience shit like this and still claim they don't know what to write about
Sorry got tied up in work crap anyway so we started attracting a fair amount of attention and attention leads to trouble usually but there was basically no serious consequences despite the dumb ass risks we were taking until the guy started fighting with clients over stupid shit and we started finding out about rivals in the area period anyway this all led to a whole lot of lying like lying to family and normal friends and to each other and with that shit morals start turning into word salad and I started noticing these guys were scum and I had become scum too period space space space one night comma we were on a public bus heading to a drop off point at a bar kind of outside the city and when we were followed by a group of I guess gang stalkers or some shit who worked for another paper business running in the wider area and these idiots knew the whole drop open parenthesis the whole thing was bull shit top to bottom close parenthesis and demanded our documents phones money everything we were carrying not open brandishing but it was threatening enough and a fist fight broke out on the bus one of our guys grabbing a random guy from a seat and shoving him between us and these weird sweatpants burnouts I got my nose broken before the bus driver slammed the brakes sending us lurching but it was thankfully on a crowded street I'm covered in blood and we get over to the Applebee's just to be somewhere busy to call ubers and we have all this illegal document shit on us and we have no idea how long until the cops find us if they're even coming
>we all literally lost our motivation to write and critique space space space one of us comma a college kid
i'm dying
what are your experiences with groups in general?
that should tell you if a writing group is for you
I usually dominate the conversation quietly. People either like it or leave the group. I think and talk fast and this is a bit much for most people. I feel like if it were a critique group people who come under my high power perception would either submit to what would improve their writing or would be envious and angry. And frankly, I need writers who are on my level if they're going to be exposed to my works and they would have to sign NDAs.
>they're shit
>you share with peers or not at all
>you share with non-litgays to get a different angle, preferably with their own artgay competency in another medium either making it or appreciating it
Editing and proofing is another beast entirely when it comes to getting something presentable, more when it's not more or less complete already and it becomes more collaborative. All those difficulties are compounded when there is no simpatico with the persons or their tastes or their technical proficiency.
Have it done or most the way before soliciting critique and feedback, and don't bother with academic 'creative writing' types whatever their level they've chosen the path of least MFA resistance even if they have chops
You sound like you've had a lot of experience with this. Any tips? jk it sounds like you've never interacted with a group of humans irl ever jfc you're not fooling anyone
More importantly, how do you find one without non-autistic women?
“What is it?” asked the girl. “Who is it from?”
“Your matka.”
“What’s it say?” Jane said eagerly, and she stepped forward to take the envelope. “How is mama?”
“Why are you so interested all of a sudden? I thought by now that she would be dead to you.”
“It is my mama! She misses me surely.”
“You can stay here until you’re eighteen,” her grandmother said, and she held onto the letter tightly.
“Yes, babcia. But I would like to at least see her.”
“And what do you plan on doing afterwards?” the owner said, and a dark cloud passed over her raised brow, “end up like your mama?”
Jane shook her head. “No, babcia, I will attend university like mama but I won’t drop out. I’ll travel too like mama. But for now I will stay here and continue to help you on the farm.” Then, gripping the letter with her dark, sunburned fingers, pulled it toward her with child-like impatience. “Please, babcia, let me read it now. I want to know what my mama is thinking.”
“That woman has not been good to you,” replied the old woman sourly, clinging resolutely to the envelope. “She has only given you a rotten childhood.”
“Yes babcia, but she is my mama all the same.”
“And this farm is yours once I retire.”
“Don’t say that,” the young girl said.
The owner relaxed with a considerable sigh, and at once the mysterious letter slipped from her own hand into the sweaty palms of the child. The young girl gave a look to see that her grandmother was not at all offended by this snatchery, and bit into the envelope, tearing it open with the same feverishness she would soon use to read its contents.
“And what does it say?” inquired the owner.
“Oh babcia, it says everything. My mama says she has not only divorced but she has remarried to an English duke."
>these are the people recommending books to you
Part 1
I am JamaHuba, the son of PapaHuba, whose father was PappousHuba , conceived by LipoPusy, who was the daughter of NoePusy, who was impregnated by NoeHuba, the founder of our tribe. They - the people of the Krustaruphy tribe, they claim to have settled here first and that we should leave and not touch their women. But when we started to settle, they lived in dung huts, and we taught them how to build with stone. Now our merged tribes live in stone houses on flat floors paved with stone, it was my great-grandfather who dug a hole as long as ten houses and as wide as ten houses and paved the ground at the bottom of the hole with stone, then started building houses - where their huts used to be. They can live with us, I don't mind, but they should be grateful to us, because thanks to us they now live in stone houses instead of dung houses, they should thank us for that and offer us their women for fricking. We deserve this, and I want to frick and I won't wait any longer for what is rightfully mine.
The stone houses are built closely together and are very similiar to each other. At night, when you go outside and walk in any direction for a long time, you can get lost as if in a labyrinth. Their women often get lost like this when they go to the well for water, or to collect firewood, or to gather fruit for food. They often cannot return, they wander and wander, they enter dead ends and exit them, they go left and after some time only then it dawns on them that they are going the wrong way, and then they go right. Once I saw one of them. Hair long to the belly, twisted into a braid, her lower body almost on top, large breasts hanging heavily in a linen bra, like two big melons. When I saw her, I wanted her very much, I couldn't restrain myself and I started running after her. She's lost, running into these dead ends, she has no chance against me! I catch her, take off what she has on, frick her, she resists, scratching my back, I break her fingers! There you have it, prostitute! She cries a little, then stops, she stops resisting. I feel in my wiener that I'm reaching the climax, just a few more thrusts, just give me a few more seconds, don't move, prostitute! I feel my heart beating fast, my legs becoming soft, I can barely stand, and my manhood moves up and down as if on a string. A wave of warmth, I feel weak, she breaks free and runs away. I let her go, I'll catch her again someday.
Part2
For the next ten nights, I do the same with their daughters, mothers, aunts. Young, old it makes no difference to me, as long as it's warm for my wiener and I can feel lightheaded and satisfied again! They become increasingly clever, they study the village maps during the day and get lost less often at night. You can hear their parents calling out from their houses at night – it's easy for them to find their way back, they run towards the voices. Clever. More of them are slipping away from me, but most of them I manage to catch. One of them is particularly nasty – I grab her by the hair, throw her on the ground and she suddenly turns around and scratches my face, leaving me with four bloody scratches on my cheek. She escapes from me this time and I return home and fall asleep wanking myself in the darkness, focusing only on the pain she caused me. I like when it hurts.
The next day there's a village gathering. One of their women is giving birth, an old woman spits into her lower body and smears it with a smelly ointment and we all watch it, it's our tradition. Her father and brothers are also in the gathering, they stare at me. They pray to their gods, praying that the father of the child comes from their tribe. I know what I know, I sit quietly, enjoying their misery. Suddenly the father's face changes as if struck by lightning, he points at me, screams something in their language. Damn it! These scratches on my face betrayed me!
They chase me with knives, I have to run. I jump over fallen branches, stones, thorny bushes scratch my skin. The chasing of their women has given me good condition, I'm faster than them, more enduring, but they're driven by hatred, I can't lose them. I don't know how long I ran. I could've circled our village a hundred times and still not have gone as much way as I did escaping from them . I finally reach the beach, I have nowhere else to run, I hear them close, but I know that my grandfather built a wooden bunker nearby, for protection against sea invaders. I know where it is, they don't know, they can't build bunkers or stone houses. I hide, watch through a crack what's happening, they curse their gods for a while, finally they leave.
I hear their steps go quiet. I leave my hiding place, and soon I hear soft crying and weak sighs. The sounds come from the beach, just a few steps from here, behind the last tall thicket I need to push through. I walk toward the crying and the soft sobs turn into a loud wail. I go through the thicket ready to fight, ready to kill the madman who will attack me. But instead, I see a madman rolling on the sand, shouting, but about what, I don't know. Nobody is attacking him, he doesn't look hurt.
Part3
Suddenly, the man is quiet, turns his head left, then right, opens his mouth, tries to scream, but can't make any sound. He grabs his face, pulls his knees up to his chest, rolls onto his side. Other people lie on the beach around him, all acting the same. They all look different, their skin is white, some have black hair, others have gold hair like the sun, some have blue eyes like the sky. I've never seen people like this before. I remember the old women and shamans in my village. They would drink a special brew and then try to talk to the spirits. They acted very similar to the people on this beach.
My eyes find a big iron bird in the water. I see it's open and inside are boxes with bananas. I sneak in unnoticed, I go inside the bird. I don't know what to do, I can't go back to my village because the girl's family wants to kill me. Maybe I should stay here and at least eat until I'm full.
On the beach, there's an old man, their version of a shaman. He's making food over a fire. He blows a whistle a few times, waking up the people on the beach from their nightmare. They come to the fire, eat, talk, laugh, they're calm now.
Then they go inside the bird through a different entrance without seeing me. I stay inside because I'm scared of how they'll react if they see me, and I still don't want to go back to my village. Suddenly, I hear a loud noise, the bird shakes a few times and moves so quickly that I fall on the floor. I look through the window - I'm in the air! This bird can fly! I am flying! The jungle, the beach, the rocks become smaller and smaller - the island is now a tiny island. Soon, I can't see it at all, the island is gone, eaten by the endless blue ocean.
The bird lands at a place with many other birds (later I learn this place is called an "airport"). I'm scared to go outside, they come inside and see me. People in blue clothes come to me, ready to fight. I try to defend myself. In my village, not many could beat me in a fight. They have long sticks with blue lights at the ends. They touch me with these lights, I get a shock, fall to the ground, and pass out.
I wake up to a man with colorful clothes, a beard, and gray hair with flowers on his head. Beside him is a woman, also dressed in colorful clothes. They shout at the guards, calling them "fascists" and "racists". They tell me everything will be fine, that it's a police state, but I'm safe with them. They tell the people in blue clothes that I will live with them. Nobody attacks me anymore.
Part4
I've been living with these people for a few years now, they treat me like family, I'm good here. They taught me the language, so I can write you this letter, I apologize for the mistakes, I'm still learning. They showed me what cinema is, they showed me what the internet is, they showed me what yoga is, how to smoke grass, they told me a lot. They told me that I should look within myself, they kept repeating this word 'identity', a word whose meaning I couldn't understand for so long, because it didn't exist in the language of our village. We never cared about identity, we only cared about fricking, wars, and stone houses.
The Man gave me his old laptop, for learning purposes. I quickly found out how to check browsing history, and that's how I found forum.zoophile.com, where I learned that white women like to frick dogs. It's strange, but it would explain why when the Lady posed with her butt up during yoga, her German shepherd shoved its nostrils in her pussy. Weird, white people are so weird!
This forum had a button labeled "Offtopic" - I found a topic started by "sunnyxxxgothbawd" about whom my letter is about. That's how I met her. She wrote that she has a fantasy of being fricked against her will, she would like a stranger to attack her in her own home, gag her, throw her body to the ground, use it as a toy. I immediately thought to myself - this is a job for me. I DM'd her saying she could count on me, sent her a picture of my dick, she gave me her address, only asked that I visit her unannounced, maybe even wait a few weeks before visiting, so she could forget that she ever invited me.
A week later, I found her apartment. The door was open. She was doing laundry, kneeling, putting clothes into the washing machine. I quietly approached her from behind, walking on the bathroom carpet without shoes, so she didn't hear me at all, or maybe she pretended not to hear me. I covered her mouth, she didn't try to scream. At first she was terrified, then her shiver of fear gave way to a shiver of excitement. Her body melted in my hands. I fricked her from behind, pulling her by the hair, greedily as if it were my first and last fricking, she howled with pleasure. We finished lying on each other in paroxysm of ecstasy, our bodies glued together with sweat. Breathing heavily, she turned to me, looked me in the eyes and said, 'Thank you.' That was the last word she said to me before her death.
I'm now writing this letter to you, asking for the highest punishment for the incel who killed her. Or give him to me and I will kill him with my bare hands. I can't forgive him for what he did to her and although they keep repeating big words to me like 'karma' and 'non-attachment' I know nothing about. I don't know what identity, karma, sin, forgiveness are. I only know what fricking is, it's the only thing that exists for me. And she was the only link between my old world and the life I'm living now, she convinced me that there's not that big of a difference between me and these white people. She was my favorite pussy to frick.
In college I feel in with a cool group of legitimately talents people and we all pushed each other, with a few of us even "succeeding" (published a book/poems, working in the industry, landing creative writing contracts). 10 years later I think we're all still doing our thing, just professionally--and we kinda write "for fun". No one turned into the next Hemingway or anything but I think all of us became conventionally successful.
My advice would be not to force, you can probably tell real fast whether you're with cool/good people and if this is going to be beneficial for you, or whether its a waste. If you're looking for an ego boost just ring up your mom and let her tell you you're special. I think writing groups at their worst are full of that lazy, contrived type of person that's only there to have others validate their supposed creativity, rather than excel in or ideally master something. It's fine to go into it with a goal of being social--just be honest about what you want out of this thing.
10/10 cringe bait i kneel anon
Apart from the accidental typos I don't know why any of that could get decoded as cringe. It's just my experience though: if you take writing as a serious endeavor, making sure any group you affiliate with shares your values will be paramount to enjoyment and success. As well, you can support one another professionally and keep each other abreast of opportunities, or get each other in on stuff. One thing I wish I learned to be better at when I was younger was networking as an artist, instead of seeing myself as some special talented exception that's above it. Def. not conducive to success.
Different nationalities have different opinions on the matter as well. Where I'm from is very "we're all in it together" where more slavic countries can be a bit more "struggle alone for your art" kinda vibes. Again, just my experience.
>GTAWTX
Not as funny as the first post 6/10 wew