Writers Group

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Re: Writers Group

Postby thephfactor » Mon Jan 05, 2015 1:50 pm

Wrote the first script of my life for my short film last fall. Felt reeeaally weird sending it out, and even weirder having people talk to me about it. Unfortunately everyone was very complimentary about it. It's going to be worse when people are reading my words when we shoot later, don't know how I'm going to handle it. I'll probably just start giggling.

And my English prof. from last semester said he'd give me a letter of recommendation... Strongly considering the MFA program in Creative Writing at my school. It's mostly correspondence, so theoretically I could get dat paper in the day as a software developer and then write like hell at night and on the weekends. I wanna pull a Nic Pizzolatto, teach at a lil school and write fiction on the side until I have something to pitch to HBO :3. Couple of years to go before that decision I guess, though.

And speaking of paper, the guys at the student newspaper apparently liked my shit enough to pay me as a reporter this spring.

EDIT: I don't know what this thread is about but whatever it is I'm in 100%
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Re: Writers Group

Postby FeministFatal » Thu Apr 09, 2015 2:39 pm

So I've been listening to a lot of the Doors lately so I took a poem I wrote the other day and used garage band to make it all beaty. It's not very original but I would love to hear some feedback on how to do better in the future.
https://soundcloud.com/jessica-mcquarrie/heat
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Re: Writers Group

Postby momjeans » Fri Apr 10, 2015 8:41 am

I wrote a "borgesian style essay" based off of a fictitious romance novelist named Lindsay Memphis for a class assignment. I guess I'm fairly proud of it and I also want to start sharing more of my writing so here goes:

Spoiler:
Despite having written over 968 full length novels in her lifetime, 319 of which have made it on to the New York Time’s Best Seller List, Lindsay Memphis has never found critical success. The average review for her works (according to goodreads.com commenter Marius) is only 2.1 out of 5 stars, a remarkably low number for an author who has sold over 1 billion copies (this, to be fair, is one of the higher estimates, done by Time Magazine in 2008). As she grew older, the speed at which she wrote her novels increased, and the ratings grew lower and lower by proportion. By the time that she was 56 years old, most reputable literature critics made a point of no longer looking through her books (and talking about their decision to do so at every available opportunity), throwing out terms like “unoriginal drivel,” and “uninspired garbage,” as justifications.
In 2009, James Wood, writing for The New Yorker, made the observation that her latest five books were nearly identical, usually involving only a different opening and closing chapter, and of course the names of characters and locations being changed. In 2011, Rolling Stone, released a web app that (with the help of Facebook), turned Chapter 11 of The Pink Scarf (Memphis’ most recent novel at the time) to a love story about the user and their Facebook friends . When Rolling Stone revealed their plans to compile some of these stories into a book, the ACLU (among other civil rights groups) declared this “an illegal breach of privacy” and the application was pulled from the internet.
The slander for Memphis only intensified from that point, until late 2013, when Memphis gave an interview revealing she had been fighting leukemia for the past nine months. Three weeks after that the prolific author passed away. This took the criticism of Memphis out of the spotlight, and with that Memphis herself. While her works were purchased by many, few people looked at them from a positive standpoint, and once harsh criticism became taboo, there was little reason for discussion of Memphis to continue. If those discussions had continued, I believe that literary circles would generally view Memphis as a more credible figure.
At the beginning of her career, Memphis worked with templates, something that she stated as often and as clearly as possible every time she was asked a question about her prolificacy. While this system is unlikely to create the next great alt-lit novel, it is hard to conjure up a legitimate critique of it. As her writing career continued, the novels began to flow faster and faster, until even work with the loose template she spoke of seemed improbable. In a 2007 interview, Mark Malley asked her how she had managed to publish three novels in one month alone. Memphis’ reply was not a great one, she inferred it was the result of publishing schedules, and that in reality the three books had been written over the period of several years. This answer was shockingly bad, as since 2005, Memphis had averaged 2.67 books per month. Mark Malley attempted to quiz her on this, but she quickly evaded the question. It wasn’t until the end of the interview, nearly an hour later, that she accidentally let slip that “most of the words [she] writes today are nouns, and I just fit them in between verbs from past books.”
Had Memphis been a more respected member of the literary world, her comment most likely would have made headlines. Instead, it flew almost entirely under the radar, and as a result, her systematic approach to writing remained untouched by any conversation or critical thought. Had this conversation occurred, I posit that her work would be viewed in a different, much more positive light. Constraint based writing (a category Memphis’ novels undoubtedly fit in) is nearly always respected by critics, even if only for the methodology (as opposed to any of the works produced); and this, I am saying, should be how criticism approaches Memphis. The argument that her work lacks deeper meaning, or fails to serve as high quality art, is near irrefutable, and I will not attempt to disprove this. But I will make the claim that among literary authors, Lindsay Memphis deserves to sit closer to the Calvinos and Queneaus of the world than to the Cartlands and Sparks.


Also, I'd really love some critiques and/or comments and compliments / questions / any other thoughts you have.
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Re: Writers Group

Postby Cowboy » Sun Apr 12, 2015 12:40 am

Redacted
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Last edited by Cowboy on Sun Feb 26, 2017 11:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Writers Group

Postby rublev » Sun Apr 12, 2015 7:56 am

i wanted a plum
but ther
e was
only a mango left
alone
in the fruit bowl
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Re: Writers Group

Postby Cowboy » Mon Apr 20, 2015 12:01 pm

Redacted
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Last edited by Cowboy on Sun Feb 26, 2017 11:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Writers Group

Postby rjbman » Sun Feb 26, 2017 10:35 pm

bumping this - who wants to get in on writing some cool short fiction based on our S.U.T.O. and LOOK ARENA threads? I'll put together a list and we can start taking turns.
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"Let's be vagabonds." - Yohji Yamamoto
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Re: Writers Group

Postby rjbman » Mon Feb 27, 2017 9:06 pm

Up next:
I choose @thephfactor

On deck:
soko
bels
CMYK
Cowboy

Resting:
rjbman

We'll keep it chill (I know people have commitments besides writing stunning short fiction based on internet fit pics) and give people a week to post.

If anyone else wants in, just comment / rep saying so and I'll add you to the roster.
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Last edited by rjbman on Tue Feb 28, 2017 9:22 am, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: added new participants
"Let's be vagabonds." - Yohji Yamamoto
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Re: Writers Group

Postby thephfactor » Tue Feb 28, 2017 12:46 am

last night i got super drunk and read 2 poems to my friends and they said they were good
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Re: Writers Group

Postby Cowboy » Tue May 23, 2017 9:36 pm

Bella, a dog I knew well and loved, died today. I wrote her a story, in the spoiler below.
Spoiler:
One White Paw

A light in the world has been snuffed.

There was a day just recently where I opened my door and the world exploded. The air had a crescendo to it on this day, and the tune lifted and turned as time marched. Gnats zipped by as I took steps on the porch, a small enclave that shielded from the grass that surrounded the civilized oasis. The oak tree was heavy, its branches lush with leaves and sustenance, and as it gulped my breaths, I took deeper ones to inhale the music. The hedge ringed the porch, short but strong, and a cat slinked through the base of the tangles. He was thin, white, with piercing eyes that turned to me, only to disappear as he shot through the hedge and out into the wilderness, out to the trees that lined the edge of the wire that marked land. Nature was alive and well, and the world was settling from my door opening- from the intrusion that flew from that knobbed gate.
She ran through that door with energy. Energy in its purest form. There is a strength to existence for the sole purpose of existence, and this strength bled into her gait, shined in her fur. She sprinted through the door with a sole bark, and reached the hedges with speed, dashing to the cat that had escaped her maw. Her brother dug into the hedge beside her, with a strand of saliva dripping as he panted. His lips were turned into a smile, and his tongue lolled about as if it was its own being, and as if he was far too busy to contain the urge for escaping prison formed by jaws. She was out of the hedges, with him close behind, and as I walked towards the fence line, they darted into the greens of the open grass.
I took a seat on the edge of the porch on that recent day, and I listened to the tune of the world. She walked through the grass sniffing, employing a snout that knew where to find the scents that excite. Something in the grass was important, and that importance can only be known by the depths of scent. She sucked in that depth, and found more to every note than I or any other human could ever know. The bugs spoke to her as she inhaled them, and they told of her of the world that they lived in, of their lives and of their hopes. They whispered directions to her, and promised her endless scents at the location that was anywhere but theirs. A twig cracked nearby, and her head shot up, dirt displaced onto her nose. This was the first time I saw her rigid. Her back legs were straight, steel throughout as she pointed herself towards the twig. Her tail was lifted slightly above her body, held tight by the inexplicable that she searched to understand, still as the tune that faded slowly in respect to her hunt for the twig. She was slightly leaned, and her body was statuesque, bathed in a setting sun that would soon introduce a dark as dark as her fur. She was black marble set against the green, brilliant in her own color, contrasting everything she chased in the fields that formed my sliver of the world. Duke was equally still besides her, speaking to her through his mirroring of her pose, telling her that he was prepared to find the twig, and to find that snap that made them pieces of art. He shot towards the sound first, his tongue gasping as it once again was freed, and he pounced upon the twig as she watched. She remained marble, and began to melt into softened tension as the mystery of the twig, now in between Duke’s teeth, was settled.
A butterfly landed on her nose as the tree line marked the horizon of the disappearing light. She stopped melting as her eyes crossed, and the butterfly flickered its wings once, a soft hello. He was taking a break from his flight, and her nose was simply the best place to do so. She understood nothing: presumably, she could not speak to the butterfly. Just as she ignored the pleas of the ants from before. He was settling his legs, stretching away the aches of his journey throughout the world. She snapped. As she lifted her head too fast, -much too fast- the butterfly was swept from the nose and floated, stretching, at the gates of her jaw. Her teeth collapsed, and the clatter of that snap made Duke a statue once again. She licked her lips once, shut tight as her teeth claimed her prize. I watched the butterfly languish in the air slightly above her face as she savored her kill, and he was soon gliding through the air once again, his break cut short by a host that wasn’t as favorable as he had hoped. At this point, she came to realize her failings, and the butterfly came into view of her now uncrossed eyes.
She chased that butterfly throughout the fields, her teeth gnashing as she jumped into the air and flapped her legs, flying for the snack that was unfortunately winged. Her brother had joined her, and the two waltzed with the fly through the home of the bugs as the trees began to shield the sun, and the tune became a lullaby. The butterfly left them at this point in the hopes of a better home, and the gnats were settling around me in a cloud, finding me an interesting point in a now dark world. I tired of them, and called to Duke and Bella as I returned through that door that disrupted the world outside of the oasis. She vaulted onto the couch next to me and kissed my cheek, leaving a trail of love in her wake. I wiped away the trail as she settled into my lap as best as her large frame could, panting and excited, picturesque and beautiful, with one white paw dangling off the sofa.

I buried you today Bella. I lurched into that field with my car, and opened its door. The world did not respond to this door, and the gnats were nowhere to be seen. There was no tune, no cadence, and no sound. The oak was heaving, gorged upon the flesh of my breaths, and it was disgusting, bloated and miserable. My dad looked up at me as I walked to him, and he asked me to help with the hole. You were halfway in a heavy-duty bag, too large to fit. Your tail was out, and nothing held it high to mark your curiosity. I touched your back and felt you rigid once again. This was different. There was no energy in your skin, and you were not marble. You had become rock in your rigidity. A stone that held nothing. My brother walked into the house, through that dreaded door, and onto that dreaded sofa, with tears in his eyes, his face red with the agitation that came with meeting death. I was stoic, and my dad returned to the oval that he had dug by the fence, a pile of dirt next to him and his shirt covered in sweat. We had no shovel, and a pick sat next to the hole as he jabbed with a spade at the jaws that will imprison you. It was a deep hole, and there was little progress to be had as the earth told us the limits to our probe. I took the spade as he spoke; his words lost to me, and smashed at the earth with the end, taking the morsels of dirt that were bequeathed to us. To my left was the bag, and as he took the pick to loosen the ground I turned and saw the other end of your new home split open slightly, a towel sticking out with a spot of crisp blood and a hint of the white fur that covered your chest. There was soon a root exposed at the bottom of the hole, unyielding, and the digging, although not creating a hole deep enough to truly house you, was over. He took the bag and placed you in the hole as I watched, and he took that stone that possessed your back leg and forced it down, pushing you into the hole so that you would fit. I used the spade to cover you, and dad’s hands finished smoothing the dirt as he kept telling you to chase rabbits, and as he kept telling me that you were just asleep. That you were dreaming. I saw that butterfly in your dreams as I picked up a rock and put it on top of that dirt, and I saw you snap at those fluttering wings as we covered the hole with branches heavy enough to keep the coyotes from tearing at your stone skin. We ate dinner as my dad asked your brother what happened, and he panted with his lips turned up in a smile, until he sat next to me on that couch, a paw dangling on my lap, a picture perfect twin, with white skin that had foiled your black. He knows you are gone, and he cannot understand. I drove home tonight, and I write this now.

I see you smiling at me, and I feel your tongue on my cheek. You were always a guest in our home, and you were only a visitor in the times that I knew you. I feel so much for one I barely knew.

I see no afterlife for you, no ethereal grass that houses you as you endlessly explore the home of the bugs. The world is not that pure. I see nothing beyond the fields you traipsed in your short life, cut to an end inexplicably, and far, far too soon.
I hope, however. I find hope in the comforting feeling that you would find solace and peace in my tears. You will live on forever in our hearts, and memories of you will sustain you as you chase that butterfly in the depths of my mind. Sleep well Bella.
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Re: Writers Group

Postby alexander delarge » Sun May 28, 2017 10:11 pm

WOw, I did not know this thread existed--Super cool--Here is a poem of mine that was accepted into a midwest-only publication called twig. If any of you are from the midwest, you should consider submitting poems to them!

Spoiler:
Legs


Lightning/storm fires across the prone bellies of hills.
Fever/dreams of legs striking sultry toe-tip ballets through trees.

Legs/slender streaks/legs, legs/beautiful edges
whittle/legs, into Walnut. No, Cherry,
Sandalwood, maybe Lace,

legs/sleek and deadly/legs. My heart
cracks with each split down heaven’s staircase.

My world, atmosphere: clouds hovering instead of raining
upon trees, to save leaves, roots: seeds too burn from legs.

Thunder/calms ashes, double genuflecting my knees to wide open overcast.
Weight/less hips plant electric thrusts into arabesque-legs overhead while I melt.
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