NationStates Jolt Archive

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


IN ANSWER TO MYSELF:
(1) Yes
(2) I write pretty much everything from poetry to songs to fanfiction to whatever.
(3) Pretty much every day
(4) Usually my best stuff just comes to me, sparked from a single random idea that I expand on, and then everything else seems to write itself.
(5) I usually have problems finishing what I've started.
(6) No!
(7) Yes, a lot.
(8) I won a Father's Day writing contest the local newspaper was running once, but other than that, no.
(9) Here are some sites that I like:
[WritingFix] (http://www.writingfix.com) [Shadow Poetry] (http://www.shadowpoetry.com/) [Rhymezone] (http://www.rhymezone.com), and last but not least, shameless self-advertising: [Fanfic Helpers] (http://www.geocities.com/catherine_draconia)
(10) No, I'm shy like that. Maybe something will come to me while I'm browsing this thread.

(1) Do you write? Yup
(2) What do you write? Songs
(3) How often do you write? All the time
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? At night when there's no one to distract me
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? I get stuck halfway through
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Only with doodles :p
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Yeah
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? Only poetry, a few years ago. Not songs.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? resource links? Umm...none :S
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? Nope :p I'm a little too over-critical of my own work

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

.[/SIZE]
1 I have written, but not in months.
2 Short stories.
3 Very very seldom
4 I get an idea in my head that won't go away. It stays with me for weeks unless I put it on paper.
5 Getting the original idea. They don't come around very often
6 No. I can't draw.
7 No. I'm not very good.
8 No.
9 None. I'm so amateur I don't even know of any resources.
10 I've posted one short story to this forum before. If you want to read it although it's crap you can search for it. The title was Cotard's syndrome. It was about a guy afflicted with that unusual mental illness.

I write songs, stories, poems, just about anything. I love to write and I try to write for at least an hour every day. I don't count the songwriting in that hour because I do it so often.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

1. Yes
2. Just about every type of writing
3. 1 hour a day
4. I find I write best when I'm very passionate about something.
5. I get caught up in substance sometimes and I don't notice style or I do exactly the opposite. I have a hard time marrying the two.
6. I can't really illustrate well, but I have had my brother illustrate my work.
7. Yes
8. Yes, but only once so far.
9. I suggest reading On writing well by EB White (and someone else I can't remember). It's a great resource for everyone, not just writers. Also, I recommend reading books or listening to music in the genre you write in. There is no substitute for experience so experience as much of what you're interested in as possible. I also recommend reading books that discuss how to be successful writing in that genre.
10. Not right now. But I'd consider it later.

[QUOTE=Zotona](1) Do you write?
Yes
(2) What do you write?
Poetry, short stories
(3) How often do you write?
A couple times a week maybe.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
I keep thinking about it. Sometimes, if i can get a visual picture in my head and go with the idea like that.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
Finding the words to express my ideas.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Eh, yea I do, but they are just doodles that i spend too much time on and are not very good at all.
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Maybe when i get good ;)
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Nope
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Uhm, for anyone looking for ideas to write poetry:
http://www.poetryexpress.org/15poems.htm
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
sure, I wrote this back a long time ago:

You, Girl.

These words far from you,
I write them ever true.

My heart will raise pace,
When your memory I chase.

Never is it to be,
But I always think of you and me.

Long since our face to face,
or even our voice embraced.

Only pals by circumstance,
You never thought romance.

A crushing at those words spoken,
This missing heart thoroughly broken.

I write this now with mind in line,
Looking back its clear the sign.

That fruit of tree,
Created such suffering of me.

EDIT: feel free to comment. i like peer evaluation ;)

(1) Do you write? yes
(2) What do you write? stories and songs
(3) How often do you write? Very often
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? In the middle of the night when I can't sleep
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? Some times I overuse words
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Yes, many of my stories have become comics
(7) Have you ever considered being published? yup
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? One poem. It sucked.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Edit the living crap out of your finnished work
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? no. I'm a little embarrassed to show it in public...

(1) Do you write?
Yes
(2) What do you write?
Poetry, short stories
(3) How often do you write?
A couple times a week maybe.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
I keep thinking about it. Sometimes, if i can get a visual picture in my head and go with the idea like that.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
Finding the words to express my ideas.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Eh, yea I do, but they are just doodles that i spend too much time on and are not very good at all.
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Maybe when i get good ;)
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Nope
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Uhm, for anyone looking for ideas to write poetry:
http://www.poetryexpress.org/15poems.htm
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
sure, I wrote this back a long time ago:

You, Girl.

These words far from you,
I write them ever true.

My heart will raise pace,
When your memory I chase.

Never is it to be,
But I always think of you and me.

Long since our face to face,
or even our voice embraced.

Only pals by circumstance,
You never thought romance.

A crushing at those words spoken,
This missing heart thoroughly broken.

I write this now with mind in line,
Looking back its clear the sign.

That fruit of tree,
Created such suffering of me.
That was pretty good! If I were you, I wouldn't be able to resist turning that into a song.

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Poetry mostly. But also short stories, theological treatises and I'm working, albeit very slowly, an autobiography that probably wouldn't be of much interest to anyone other than me.
(3) How often do you write? It varies, but not a lot lately.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Usually it requires a combination of a fair amount of emtional inspiration and the time to write at the same time.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? Lack of time.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? I would like to select illustrations for my work, but am relative inept at creating them myself.
(7) Have you ever considered being published? I intend to publish a book of poety in the next 5 to 10 years.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? I have had a couple of poems published, but not in a setting that would draw much attention.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? If you want an interesting poetry discussion forum I highly recommend www.belvederepoets.com .
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? I have shared work here in the past. I recently completed a poem that I will eventually post here.

That was pretty good! If I were you, I wouldn't be able to resist turning that into a song.

Hey thanks ;) I think I would have to add more to turn it into a song. Like chorus. Ive never written a Lyrical poem before. ill have to give it a ponder.

(1) Yes.
(2) Poetry.
(3) Not often enough.
(4) Surprised.
(5) Romantic poetry. I can't do it without lapsing into cliché and then compensating with OTT structure so I don't bother anymore. Let the experts do it!
(6) Occasionally.
(7) No.
(8) Haven't tried.
(9) Don't worry about pink elephants. We'll iron those out later.
(10) Sure.

Scissors: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/17298463/
Paper Heroes: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/17185006/
Crimson: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/15363575/
Cross Section: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/15328023/
Minutes Falling: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/15292448/

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

(1) Yes
(2) Short Stories, Poems, Articles for School Newspaper
(3) I used to write much more often, but my Chemistry grade sucks... so I've been doing a little bit on weekends, but not as much as I used to.
(4) When I have a lot of ideas, a cup of tea and am working on something based mainly off my experiences, though used fictitiously (Write what you know!)
(5) Biggest problem. I really don't like my work. When I read it outloud it sounds melodramatic. Also I include too much detail. I'm wordy at times. I also worry about whether my work sounds childish or not, but I can't really tell. Some of my friends tell me confidence is a problem.
(6) I occassionally sketch characters, but my drawings don't end up how I picture them.
(7) Yes, what writer doesn't?
(8) I've gotten published in school literary magazines and am a writer on the school paper. I recently sent off a short story to a proffessional magazine and am thinking about sending off this other one of mine (Most of my short stories I decide not to send off.). I'm actually expecting a letter from the magazine within five weeks (takes 8-12 weeks. It's been 7). It's most likely going to be a rejection letter...
(9) I don't have any links. The only advice I can give really is: write something you know. Even if it's about the supernatural, take something from your experiences to create the characters and situation I would give more advice, but it may be bad advice. Write what works for you.
(10) Heh... Heh... I don't want to be ridiculed. I get enough of that...

I write articles for my school newspaper, once a month.

(1) Do you write? Constantly!
(2) What do you write? Poetry, short stories, fanfiction, and the occasional smut.
(3) How often do you write? As often as I possibly can. Currently, I set aside an hour or so at night to work on the fanfiction I'm writing at the moment.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?By just letting my thoughts flow, and go back and read/edit it later.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?Occasionally, it won't make sense, or has too many adjectives. Also, I'm a horrible speller, so when I'm not on the computer I can't spell a thing right.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?Occasionally, just to clarify to myself what the characters look like. I'm a terrible artist, however.
(7) Have you ever considered being published?Eh. My life's goal is to be a journalist, so I'd suppose so. ^^
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?Only on the internet.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?No links, but if you want to improve your own writing, read often. Cliche, perhaps, but it does help.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?I would, but most of my better writings are quite long. I've got a fanfiction.net account, however, under the pen name Winged Ocelot.

(1) Do you write?
Yes.

(2) What do you write?
Song lyrics, poetry, newspaper-styled columns and stories; fanfiction, novel-styled writing (on NS).

(3) How often do you write?
I try to write every day.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
I don't know how to answer that question, except to say that I write when I'm inspired and that's usually my best work.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
I find myself getting into ruts from time to time when I think I'm writing about the same sort of stuff over and over and I try to vary my approach.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
I wish I could.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Yes.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Yes.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Write what you're passionate about. It doesn't have to be what you "know," but if you aren't familiar with a subject you want to write about, do your research. When writing fiction and creating character names, be sure to write down your characters' names and some basic biographical information (such as Nicole Lewis, Senior Vice President for Internal Affairs; runs day to day operations of Sarzonia and is next in line for the Presidency. Has a fiery temper.).

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
I do, but I'll share that another time.

Okay, actually... Here's one of my better short stories (still sucks, especially the beginning). EVAULATE AND COMMENT. SOme of my friends say, "it was good." I find that statement more offensive than, "It sucked because...". I perfer advice to apathy. I didn't post it earlier because Im constantly worried about plagairism. I don't know why though... it isn't even good enough to be published. THough once a short story of mine was plaigarized (ideas and structure) after another student read my story three months prior. It wasn't till I pointed it out to him that he realized it to. We both submitted it to this school literary magazine. Both got it. I liked his better. Well, without further ado, here it is. Show me no mercy!




The Blood of the Lamb


Everything about her was strange, denying her acceptance. So what if she chose to wear black? Did it matter that her skin was pale, except for those brown freckles on her nose and cheeks? Who would care if her eyes were cold and animalistic?

Everyone.

Maybe they’d accept her here in this new town. Maybe. She had already gotten a night job at a department store as a cashier thanks to the store’s “Open Twenty-Four Hours” policy. Preferring the coolness and comfort of working under the blanket of darkness she didn’t mind.
She guessed her new life here would work out. She had already begun to make a friend.

She had arrived in the late evening, just after the last of the sun’s rays disappeared behind the horizon and everything faded to a dark blue.

Her new friend was the first to greet her in her new neighborhood. Though she assumed he thought likewise of her, he struck her as strange.

He was middle-aged and his eyes had a fanatical, mournful expression, like they once burned with joy but now were only an empty expression of sorrow. His long chin held the beginning of a beard that was perhaps making up for his bald head. He smelled strongly of whisky and stood slightly hunched over. Nothing was extraordinary about his clothing, but he would occasionally grasp a chain that encircled his neck and dipped down behind the front of his shirt. He had introduced himself seriously, but not unkindly as Mr. Stephenson.

Smiling slightly, she responded, “I’m Sara.”

The old man offered to help her carry in her trunks and boxes and though she did not need the old man’s help, she was glad to have the company. Though she had no trouble herself with the large boxes, the old man struggled with them. “What are you carrying in these boxes? Rocks?” he said, chuckling slightly. It was a dry, humorless laugh.

She smiled back, shook her head, her hair nodding delightfully, “Of course not. It’s clothes and that kinda junk.”

The old man also shook his head, as he chuckled again.

After they brought in the largest of the trunks, seven in all, Mr. Stephenson asked, “Would you like to come over next door for a beer? After moving those crates a young lady like you must be exhausted.”

She declined saying, rather formally, “No, Mr. Stephenson, thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Maybe dinner? Or do you not eat either?”

Sara gave him a Mona Lisa smile and wished him a goodnight.

She soon realized she disliked old Mr. Stephenson. He was helpful: he helped with the moving and offered to give her a ride to work, rather than letting her rely on other means of transportation. She was grateful for that, of course, but she still didn’t like him. Maybe it had to do with his solemn nature. Or maybe the way he would finger the gold chain around his neck made her feel uncomfortable. Or then, it could’ve been because she didn’t trust him.

Yet she clung to her friendship with the old man because this town, like her previous home, did not accept her. Tight knit, the town gave her no room to fit in. She, thankfully, did not have to talk to Mr. Stephenson too much, because she worked nights. He would only drop her off and pick her up. Sara wondered why he helped her. She didn’t talk to him much on the ride to and from work, they didn’t talk during the day, and they hardly knew each other, but she never asked him why, deciding it was rude to question his kind act. They had a mutual understanding between them, a unique reserved relationship, or, perhaps, more of a symbiosis.

Soon the old man would trouble her no more.

Her relationship with him would end one night, when the worst crime in the sleepy town’s history would be committed. It was a day Sara would not be likely to forget. It would be the moment that would ultimately determine her place in the town forever.

The sun had disappeared just over the horizon, and she could already smell the strange scent of change. Bright pinpoints of light adorned the sky like pearls against a dark blue dress. Vague, ethereal light still hung low close to the horizon as the sun lost its dominance over the town, removing all light and replacing it with one dark shadow. Some nights could seem long. Sara knew this night would last an eternity.
Sara waited outside her house in the quiet neighborhood, overgrown in ancient oaks on which leaves and silence perpetually hung, giving not only shade but also a kind of pleasant stagnation.

Down the street, cars and the occasional pick-up or SUV passed by with their nearly blinding headlights, briefly illuminating the lush dark grass, ancient tree bark, or the tan curb. Mr. Stephenson did not show.

An hour later, however, Sara managed to reach the department store on her own.

It was there it had happened.

Clad in her red clerk’s vest, she slumped down on the register in a stupor, but an air of uneasiness hung around the store. Bright yellow lights beat down on her blazing like the sun of summer, making her uncomfortable. The only sound, besides the gentle electric hum of the lights, was the one other employee, Mark, flipping through a magazine.
Breaking the near silence and tearing her away from her stupor, a car was audible outside, the headlights shinning brightly through the window.
The clear glass automatic doors parted, revealing a man clad in a dark brown trench coat, his face hidden by a black, knit cloth mask.

Walking towards her, he picked up his pace.

He was now breaking into a run. The silver of a knife flashed in his gloved hand, as she screamed in a mixture of alarm and terror.

The dark brown trench cloak swirled around the masked figure as he lunged towards her heart. She barely dodged the knife, knocking into the cash register, spilling money on the ground. Sara caught the masked man off balance and pushed him over, using the time to run towards the other side of the store.

Between each pant Sara, called out, “Help,” but failed to get a response, as the man picked himself up and ran after her. She flailed her arms knocking over boxes to slow him down, twisting her way through the labyrinth of aisles and displays.

Sara was fast, and could easily outrun the man who was beginning to tire out and trip over fallen boxes and broken jars. Sara was now in the kitchen supplies aisle, breathing loudly.

She could hear the slow, uneasy rhythm of footsteps approach her. Sara held her breath and waited.

The footsteps were close now, alongside her on the other side of the shelf. She almost burst into laughter. The thrill of it! She could be destroyed at any moment and she was on the verge of laughter.

“Come out Sara!” a muffled voice hollered. “It’ll only take time, and I have plenty.”

She trembled with hysterical glee. She definitely was going to laugh, as she gripped the cold metal shelf with one hand and clamped the other over her mouth. She had to be insane to be laughing now and knew it.

The man’s footsteps had slowed down; apparently, he was trying to quiet himself to give him the element of surprise, but Sara could still hear him. She knew he was coming.

Sara now laughed harder than ever. Her mouth was wide open; her terrible white teeth glistened as she just laughed. She could see the masked man tremble, as he appeared at the other end of the aisle.

After a second of complete stillness, the man charged her head on. Sara fell backwards, as one hand grabbed her and the other, holding a knife, was poised to stab her heart. After a brief moment, when the man’s victory seemed immanent, Sara overpowered him, squeezing his wrist so firmly he dropped the knife. It clanged sharply against the linoleum. Now standing, holding him by the throat with one hand, she peeled back the mask in the other. Sharp prickles of his unshaven neck dug into her cold, white hand. She laughed, looking into Mr. Stephenson’s wide, startled eyes. She laughed still staring into them as his feeble arms flailed trying to feel for the gold chain around his neck, which undoubtedly held a crucifix. Tears formed at his eyes and cascaded to the floor. He was sobbing! With a grin, she opened her mouth wide and dug her fangs deep into his jugular vein, draining the blood out of the trembling, squirming body. The blood ran hot and nourishing down her throat, quenching her eternal, cursed thirst. The sweet, sweet coppery taste ran over her parched, cracking lips and tongue and dripped down her chin, as she was overcome with ecstasy. She remembered her first sip of blood. She knew that first sip could never be paralleled, but she still succumbed to her unending thirst.

She let the still, limp body drop with a thud as she looked down with slight pity, but still wolfishly grinned as she plunged the silver knife into the man’s neck to hide the bite mark. His remaining blood dripped from the wound, down the fat blade of the knife, audibly splattering onto the linoleum forming rough star-shaped patterns. Mr. Stephenson’s dead blank eyes looked up in their slumber. Perhaps he would later come and join her. Perhaps he would not. Was death really that definite a boundary?

After wiping the blood from her chin, She sank to the floor summoning some fake tears, as she heard Mark’s light footsteps approach followed by heavier footsteps of probably a policeman.

“Oh my God! Sara, are you all right? When the guy came in I called the police. Oh my God! Are you all right?”

Her head was down between her knees in feigned hysteria, fake tears plastering her hair to her cheeks. She, stuttered while hyperventilating, “I’m… he… I’m…”

The policeman, fat and clean-shaven, crouched by her and whispered good-naturedly, “It’s okay now. Everything is going to be okay. We have more officers coming. The man is gone now.”

His voice trailed off as more policemen approached and her sobbing slowed, her normally pale face was scarlet.

No one would question what happened. Mark witnessed how the man had charged in after her. Mr. Stephenson didn’t seem to keep many close friends. The bite marks were cleverly hidden by Mr. Stephenson’s own knife. And would anyone really care the knife was made out of pure silver?
“
You’re a hero. That was a brave thing you did,” The fat officer said, with a polite smile that Sara returned lined with sparkling tears. “There, now.”

A hero? Her? She liked the sound of that. She was accepted here: no one would suspect her for any future “disappearances”. Anyway, she wouldn’t need to feed for a few more months; she already had her fill tonight. She wetted her lips. A hero! Would you believe that! She was powerful and ancient, hidden among fragile, mortal prey. Their hero! She was a cunning wolf, among a flock of unwary sheep. She would adapt just fine.

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Short Stories
(3) How often do you write? Daily
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? When I don't plan it.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? Wording
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? No
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Yes
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? No
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Don't lie to yourself unless its good for ther plot.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? Yes, but its only a few pages and it would cause flaming.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

1. Yes
2. Music mostly, but some shory stories.
3. Music is almost daily. Stories actually quite rarely now, I used to be quite prolific (like one a week).
4. With my computer and Sibelius? I really don't know...
5. Sometimes my melodies and chord progressions are quite mundane, and I'm embarassed by my lyrics sometimes.
6. No.
7. I am self-published: http://members.sibeliusmusic.com/jmboniface or eventually http://www.ndesk2.net/warriorkings
8. As above.
9. Well, a computer so you can hear always helps! But just follow your heart, don't listen to the sticklers and snobs.
10. http://members.sibeliusmusic.com/jmboniface That page contains all my music (listed at the bottom left; a plugin called Scorch is needed to view the scores. This is a very trustworthy company, so don't worry.)

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1. Yup (I wouldn't be posting here if I weren't, right?!)

2. Fantasy. Stories, poetry, roleplays, etc. I participated in Nanowrimo (http://www.nanowrimo.org) both in '03 and '04; and I have a blog for mainly political rants (which do take some creativity, so that should count as "writing"). When I say "roleplays", I mean the non-cheesy kind, with posts in 3rd person past, complete sentences, story format, each post a couple hundred words long.

3. Once in... say... 2-3 days or so. I think I write perhaps 2000 words a week when I'm not in a writing fever or a block.

4. For stories and roleplays? 0-2 AM, in front of my computer, the day before a test. Alternatively, in the train. Writing in trains is wonderful. Poems? Whenever it hits me.

5. Can't stay focussed. I can concentrate on an extended piece of writing for perhaps three days or so, and then I need to work on something else. That was my biggest problem with Nanowrimo; I kept having to work on another chapter just so I could continue writing.

6. I can't draw for my life, so no.

7. Published? That crap? Well... perhaps after I get that million words out; not before.

8. See above.

9. For aspiring novelists: Try Nanowrimo (http://www.nanowrimo.org). It takes place in the month of November, where you try to write a 50,000 novel in 30 days. If you've got problems with writer's block, or you are compelled to go back and edit your work over and over again, this might be a good loosening-up exercise.

10. No. No.

Okay, perhaps. Try the result of my last Nanowrimo endeavor... Shadow's Rising (http://shadowsrising.blogspot.com). Be warned, it's just as bad as the title.

Secondly, my only roleplay that has ever been worthy of reproduction, long deleted, archived here: The Pralgradian Civil War (http://www.geocities.com/arancaytar/AvernumRP/1.html) (my posts are made under the name "Arancaytar").

(1) Yes.
(2) Poetry, songs, and sometimes stories though I rarely finish those.
(3) Poetry multiple times a week, songs once or twice a month, stories tend to come in every-day-for-a-month spurts about once a year.
(4) I think of something when I'm bored and my mind wanders off with it making it better, then if it's one of those ideas I like I write it down once I get to a computer.
(5) With my stories, I tend to write a good beginning and conceptualize a good plotline, often even mentally wording an ending scene - but then I somehow get bored and never finish it.
(6) Not really.
(7) Yeah, but never done anything about making it happen.
(8) Naturally not.
(9) I love www.allpoetry.com - you get to comment on other peoples' work and get yours critiqued in return. Also has contests and stuff.
(10) Not that I can think of at the moment, but I may post some later.

It's nice to see all of you want to comment on my work. (cries and runs to the corner)


I'm sorry... it's just I posted it... and... well... I'd like comments... I crave attention... Even if it's negative I don't mind. Or if you try to read it but it bores or annoys you to much, post that to. I'm desperate for critique.

(1) Do you write?
YES
(2) What do you write?
Prose, Poetry
(3) How often do you write?
5-6 times a week
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
When I can concentrate and am in a relax enviroment. Like being outside on a nice day, when there's nobody around or know's where to find me, thus breaking my concentration.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
I don't like the "voice" to my short stories/prose. Sometimes it doesn't sound right. Maybe it's just the fact I don't like the way I read it. Ethier way, this is my problem.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Eh. Yes and no. I kinda doodle little things that might go with it, but nothing elaborate as I can't draw worth crap.
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Yes, one of my goals as a matter of fact, it's one of my goals as a writer.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Yes, I have one poem published already. And I will have another poem released by the end of June which will be awesome!
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Write about what drives YOU. Don't write about what you don't know. When it comes to characterization, first person is a great way to show how the narrator acts and is a great tool to writing a character sketch. Also, try making lists of a whole bunch of words for about five minutes related to one word. Then using that list, try and see how many words from that list you can use for your poem or story. You don't have to, but sometimes it can help.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

(1) Do you write?

Yes, rather often as a matter of fact.

(2) What do you write?

Essays, short stories, poetry, etc.

(3) How often do you write?

When my Muse gets pissed at me! :)

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?

When I'm inspired or when I'm writing about subjects near and dear to my heart.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?

Procrastination.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?

My artistic skills are non-existent. :(

(7) Have you ever considered being published?

I've been published.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?

Yes.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmNetweavingAuthors.html

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

Most of it is too long to post here, but if you're interested, below there is a link to a published poem ...

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmHeart.html [ Flash program ]

... and one of my favorite essays ( there are lots of others on the site ):

http://paradigmassociates.org/ParadigmSpirituality.html

(1) Do you write?
yeah, sorta. i used to write a fair amount of stuff but not recently. used to be pretty good at it in school (the creative writing part of English, not the other grammatical crap)


(2) What do you write?
poetry, ficton, non-fiction, songs (occasionally)


(3) How often do you write?
nowadays i'm lucky to write just one creative piect a month, but i used to do more - probably several pieces at least.
that said i prefer to spend my time thinking a lot at the moment. when i have my ideas sorted i'll be god damn prolific ;)


(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
those magic hours between 11pm and 3am, when i can finally & truly be alone with my thoughts
edit: duh, read that as "when..."
well i usually stick to the same projects (when i do write), but i am occasionally lucky and get some good inspiration - and sometimes i just wake up with a decent idea.
the best part about my mild obsession with my subject matter (see Q. 9) is that through near constant quesioning i can reach some pretty deep places - fresh new ideas, arguements, or character traits. whatever, i'm tired now...


(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
apart from poetry writing, the ideas i want to write about aren't in any coherent or logical structure in my head, so its very difficult to aptly convey the ideas to a reader. i need to first finalise my thoughts on these subjects and then i can write again



(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
not especially, but i am pretty good at CG art (not great), so occasionally, yes


(7) Have you ever considered being published?
if the opportunity arose, sure. if my work is good enough of course - which, frankly, i'm not sure if it is.
though i did have one of my poems published in a book of children's poetry when i was at primary school


(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
see above



(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
really, really get into what you're writing about - make it fill your head, all day, every day. i have the same set of ideas running round my head pretty much no matter what i do (unless i don't want to think about them), and as a result i can keep analysing an idea, a policy, a character or plot from angle after angle, to try and really add depth to whatever it is.


(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

if anybody's interested i could share the ideas for books i'e had. so far i'm up to 4 ideas: one fiction (comprising of 3 volumes... interesting plot, takes place over a millenia), one philisopocal, one policical theory, and one cultural analysis thingy. probably some others, too, but i have an crap memory :rolleyes:

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1) Yes
2) Short stories, long stories, a screenplay, poems, political tracts
3) Not nearly as often as I'd like/should.
4) Sitting cooped up in a Starbucks for 4 hours...suddenly inspiration hits caffiene.
5) The sheer size of it, maintaining focus and dedication for larger projects.
6) I love to, but I have no talent and less skill.
7) I'm working towards that goal. But I need to be a better writter before I'll try for it.
8) Yes, but only for acidemic and journalistic endevors.
9) Uh, none.
10) Yeah, most of what I do is too long to post though.

(1) Do you write? Yes

(2) What do you write? Music

(3) How often do you write? Once a Week

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? By Mistake

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? See 4

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? No

(7) Have you ever considered being published? Yes

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? Yes in an Indie film soon to be released.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? *shurggs*

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? the simple ep (http://www.need-name.com/music/)

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

1) Yes

2) Poems, attempted novels, essays, one sitcom script

3) As often as I feel inclined to

4) Just pondering the possibilities

5) I become very self critical and about half away through I just say "This is crap" and never speak of it again, although I have been told my writing is quite good. I also have problems committing to the long term projects.

6) No, pictures detract from the art being painted by the words

7) I have tried several times to write a novel for publication

8) No although the BBC are currently considering my sitcom script. My biggest novel attempt reached 150 (est) pages in size 12 font.

9) Be orginal and dont fill the market with more contemporary dross

10) I do - I am working on an alternate history novel set during Stalingrad. PLEASE, PLEASE GIVE ME SOME CRITICAL OPINIONS OR DIRECT ME TO SOMEWHERE WHERE I CAN RECEIVE THEM - IT MIGHT HELP ME STOP BEING SO SELF CRITICAL

PART ONE – STALINGRAD
Can you hear it? Can you? That awful impending hum, buzzing through the air like an electric current, bristling with power and energy? I can hear it. I have always heard it. Or at least it seems like always. For nearly two years now, that sound has been my constant companion. With it comes death, the soldier’s ever-present friend. But you can always hear the humming, even through the screams of the dying and the bitter, resentful silence of the dead. Can you hear it? No. Of course you can’t. You’re not here with me as I write this. You’re sitting there, reading my story, desperately trying to decipher the indistinct scribbles of my blunt pencil as it vainly trys to keep up with my thoughts. You might hear the hum if you are a German. But why would a German be reading this, the work of a Slav? If you’re not German, then God help you. Alas that’s not likely to happen. God sides with the Germans now. As they cleanse the world of us ungodly Slavs.

Maybe we shouldn’t have killed all the priests. Well I say we. Stalin and Lenin signed the death warrants with their poisoned pens. Party officials pulled the triggers or brought down the whips. But we all killed them in the end. Our complicity killed them. Our silence killed them. They were Enemies of the People, we thought. Why complain at their execution? Good riddance to bad rubbish, we muttered as Pravda triumphantly announced their execution. Perhaps we were too stupid to see the truth behind the propaganda. Or just too afraid to embrace that truth, so choosing to ignore it instead. We never complained. Not until that dreadful, complicit silence came for us too. Came for our friends, our families. And still no one hollered for us. No priests prayed for us because we had killed all of them. Just God’s merry laughter as he pushed us further into the hangman’s noose, waiting only for Hitler to pull the floor from beneath our feet.

Sorry. You don’t want to hear a dead man’s ramblings. You want to read an adventure, don’t you? An adventure of daring. Danger and sacrifice. Well, I don’t have one of those. My tale is one of death. And how five men tired to out run it. And failed.

Do you hear it now? It’s closer. The sickle is sweeping and we, stalks in the breeze, wait haplessly for it to swoop. Stuka’s do a lot of swooping. It’s what they do. I remember the first time I heard the hum of a Stuka. On the banks of the River Volga, two years ago….

You could see Stalingrad from miles away. Or rather, see the baseless plumes of smoke billowing into the air, writhing black serpents coiling around the sunlight and the blue sky. I remember the horrible fear rising up inside my throat as we got closer and closer to the battle, a burgeoning, blossoming fear that could easily take the form of either vomit or complete and abject cowardice. But I couldn’t vomit. Not enough food inside me for that. The Red Army had millions to feed on the few scraps they had salvaged from the German pillage last year, I thought. I didn’t mind the hunger. I thought that love for the Motherland would keep me full and the few morsels that she could spare me would be like feasts because they were the morsels of the Motherland after all. But love of the Motherland couldn’t stop the flower of fear from blooming, its blossoms sickly green and rotten yellow. If sulphur had a colour, it would be that rotten yellow that fear put into our bellies that day. Of course love for the Motherland couldn’t keep me protected from the truth, no matter how much I might ignore it.

As we approach the looming wreckage of what was once a city, we passed several lorries coming the other way. We all peered into these retreating lorries, wondering why people were being allowed to leave the battleground. Stalin had said the city must be held to the last drop of blood. The Commissars and the NKVD officers hammered that message home.
“Death before retreat!”, they screamed into our ears back at the arms depot. “Cowards will die by the wroth of the Motherland! Remember comrades, not one step back. Or we’ll put a bullet through your fucking brains!”
So we were all surprised to see trucks retreating. A quiet, hopeful voice in me thought that maybe Stalingrad had been lost. Maybe we wouldn’t have to fight in that man made hell. But then our surprise turned to sour sickness when we saw the cargoes of these mysterious lorries. Piles of bodies, stacked on top of each other like lumber piles. Th lucky ones among us assumed that they were corpses off to be burned and so simply returned to their silent vomiting. But the sergeant sitting next to me and I didn’t turn round. We saw that everyone of those bodies was alive. Moaning softly they were, so softly you could barely hear it over the thrum of the truck engines or the distant bursts of sporadic shell fire. The sergeant and I shared a meaningful glance as we turned our faces back to the innards of the transport truck. Not a word, his gaze seemed to say. Not a word and maybe, just maybe, we won’t vomit.

I took a long gasp of clean air – well air anyway. Clean wasn’t really the word for the air air around Stalingrad. We were now about half a mile away from the Volga landing stage and dust from the constant bombardments cluttered the air. It even drowned out the sunlight, leaving me with a dusky dawn light that gave no sustenance to the eyes or heat to the soul. The air was like everything else in that city: bleak, barren, desolate and dead.

We could all see the monstrosity now looming before us. Not even my worst nightmares could match that sight on the far back of the Volga. No nightmares since had matched it since. I have difficulty finding the words to describe it to you but yet I must describe this first vision as so much of my story depends upon it. Try to picture a city that has had all of the humanity stripped from it, gouged out with great flaming fists of shells and bombs. See the tower blocks, their once white faces having been ripped out and replaced with formless rubble. See the plazas, the grass scorched black with great holes blown in the dirt. See the Volga full of shining shrapnel, rotten rocks and the occasionally floating corpse. See the streets strewn with all manner of debris, from rocks to washing machines to sinks to slowly decaying corpses. Observe the once great oil tanks, now in constant flame, huge bouts of black smoke pouring off them as steam pours off a tub of hot water. See the shattered skeletons of trees, effortlessly tossed onto the ground with their once bright foliage smouldering in the half-light. But the sights were only half of the terror. The shells from both the Germans and us screeched as they scurried through the air, hastily making their way to blow some other helpless soul into molecular matter. That screech goes on day and night, I soon learnt. And with that screech can the ear drum smashing explosions that tore through rock, air, flesh and bone as easily as I could break a pencil. With that mad melody of noise came the earth shaking thumps that the shells caused, the ones that threw us off our feet and wobbled our truck off the road as it drove ever closer to the battle. Then there was always the hum of the stuka. And when you heard the hum, you would soon hear wheeling whining of a stuka diving down on you. Then the bomb would come and if you were unlucky the hum would continue. If you were lucky, then the bomb would take you away from this world. I never was very lucky. I can think of a million other things to tell you about that first sight of the city – the rancid smells, the intense heat of burning buildings bitterly contrasted to the biting Russian cold and the repetitive but soul-destroying screaming of the dying. But the words do not come to my mind and so my pencil must leave you to fill in the gaps with your imagination. I must warn you though – no imagination is sick enough to conjure that hellish vision from its black depths. Even in my memory, the true horror has dimmed just a little. Dimmed enough to let me sleep.

We all knew it before we even hit the landing bay. The shining city of the USSR, the only one to bear the name of the beloved Volgst, was dead. I said nothing. Someone else wasn’t so wise. “That place is dead! You can’t expect us to go over there! We have no arms, no training, nothing!”
The sergeant grabbed his arm and implored him to be quiet but it was too late. The damage had been done and there was no force on earth other than Stalin himself who could repair it. The NKVD captain had heard it and was now advancing, the rapidity in his step suggesting eagerness. The captain’s name was Nikolai Vassivech and I shall never forget it. Vassivech’s first words in front of me echo down the halls of my mind like gun shots, shattering my peace and my calm.
“SCUM” he screamed at the luckless man, his thick Georgian accent full of malice and disgust. “SPREADING DISSENT ANONG THE RANKS IS A BETRAYAL OF THE MOTHERLAND! BETRAYAL IS DEATH!”
So the man quickly learnt that betrayal meant death when the bullet slammed into his skull. Unfortunately for him it wasn’t a long lesson. Vassivech wasn’t breaking any rules, I remember insisting to myself. He has done is a service. Killed an Enemy of the People, a fascist conspirator. I repeated that over and over as we progressed down to the landing bay, trying to rid my ears of the dull thump the traitor’s body made as it was thrown off the truck by two of his former comrades. Vassivech casually wiped the specks of blood and brain from his brown overcoat with a sweep of his hand, tossing it aside as if it meant nothing. He sat down in silence, only pausing to grin at one man who was being heartily sick over the side of the lorry. Despite what I told myself, I know that was the moment I began to wake from my slumber. Make to feel resentment and hatred boil. But as of yet, I was still quite composed. I did learn a lesson from that first episode to the landing bay of the Volga. In the Soviet Union, all men were equal said our politicians. Obviously the NKVD were the exception that proved the rule.

The trip down to the landing bay had not taken long but in my memory, it seems to have taken an age. It’s so packed with thoughts, experiences and feeling that I barely know how to organise them on paper. But I must. I must leave some record of my passage on this earth. Many men did not have such a great opportunity as I have now. They have been swatted off the face of history by this war and I have decided I shall not be one of them.

The Volga was dismally grey on that September afternoon, matching the layers of grim soot and unwholesome clouds. It was choppy but that was mainly from the shells crashing into constantly and the floundering of those who had fallen in. We were not far back in the queue to towards the landing stage and so the trip that awaited us was constantly in sight. The NKVD officers and the commissars shunted us into line as we quietly proceeded down on to the wooden planks that would lead to the boat. The boat in question was a civilian ferry, captured before the Germans had sunk most of the civilian boats. Its hull was patched and rusty and all the comfortable trappings had long been torn out, leaving only signs of their existence like the odd bit of fluff caught on a piece of spring wire or a meagre piece of carpet wrapped around the boatman’s head wound. There was little talking as we all climbed on board this ferry. I think most were praying for a safe passage. I know I was. Once we common soldiers had been filed into the main hold of the craft, the NKVD officers stood on the specially constructed ledge that surrounded the sides of our holding pen. At the bow of the boat, close to where I was sitting, an NKVD major had a megaphone in his hands and was waiting for the boatman to cast off. Vassivech was standing close by on the major’s left. Sitting next to me on the left was the sergeant with whom I had shared that meaningful glance with. We sat there in complete and utter silence for what seemed like an age, only pausing from our thoughts to observe the sub machine guns that the NVKD officers held proudly aloft, as if they were taunting our impotence to act against their brutality. Finally a whistle blew and the long procession of boats began to trawl across the massive bulk of the Volga.

Two things happened then, I remember. Firstly, all our anti air batteries began to fire all at once over our heads. THUMTHUMTHUMTHUM they went, turning the sky into a hazy mix of black flack clouds. I remember wondering why. How could I have been so naïve as to wonder that> My question would be answered shortly but in the mean time, the major decided to provide us troops with some entertainment. He began to read, in dreary tones, Stalin’s Order 227.
“The people of our country, who treat the Red Army with love and respect, are now starting to be disappointed with it, lose faith in the Red Army, and many of them curse the Army for its fleeing to the east and leaving the population under German yoke…”
The hum began. It was barely audible over the squawking of the Major but the sergeant beside me heard it. He turned his face towards the sky and muttered something in the recesses of his throat. The NKVD officer nearest shot him a look and he fell silent.
“We can no longer tolerate commanders, commissars, and political officers, whose units leave their defences at will. We can no longer tolerate the fact that the commanders, commissars and political officers allow several cowards to run the show at the battlefield, that the panic-mongers carry away other soldiers in their retreat and open the way to the enemy. Panic-mongers and cowards are to be exterminated at the site”
The humming was loud now, loud enough for us to hear it over the back drop of AA guns and detonating flack. The major quivered slightly but carried on. One man towards the back of the boat screamed and leaped for the side of the boat, his fingers scrambling on the ledge in an attempt to haul in his thin body up. The NKVD officer nearest shot him with a short burst of machine gun fire. Not a flicker of emotion or a word emerged from the officer, just a cold stare at the rest of us who had all turned round to observe the execution. Only the sergeant did not turn, still with his face upturned towards the sky. The major had continued his rant through this incident without even pausing.
“To fulfil this order means to defend our country, to save our Motherland, to destroy and overcome the hated enemy…”
Then they came, swooping down with a ever louder whine that popped the ear drums and sent fear shivering down your entire body. The bombs came raining down, as if from thin air , and the sergeant beside me had presence of mind enough to yell,
“DUCK!”
Such was his tone, gruff and authoritarian, we all throw ourselves on the floor at that very instant even the NKVD officers. Only the major still stood, his sermon not yet finished. A bomb smacked the water to the left of us with a wallop, spraying frothy white water everywhere over the boat. It sent my cap to the floor in a pool of water. Another bomb bashed into the river right of us and then one came down just in front of us. Water was everywhere and there were terrified yells all over the boat, even from Vassivech. I yelped too and the sergeant gave me a staunch stare. Just as he did this there cam an almighty explosion, the first explosion I had heard up close. The boat just next to us in the procession was up in flame. Men and bits of men had been strewn across the river, mingled with savaged steel and crippled timbers. Some shouted at us to stop, to help them but we did not. The boat man just kept us going onward in a straight line, his eyes glazed over as if he could not hear the soul wrenching screams that begged him to stop. The major up front raised his voice but I could no longer hear it. By ears were filled with froth from the churning waters beneath and my mind was too busy bellowing at my body in panic. But it soon did not matter. The Merchermitts came next, strafing with our fragile vessels with machine guns. Most of our company were still lying on the floor of the boat and so the rattling of the machine guns did not harm us. But the major, standing at the very tip of the bow like an absurdly dressed figure head, was cut down. His chest, arms and legs exploded into gory clouds of blood as the bullets tore through him, rendering him a lifeless piece of meat. He toppled backwards and hit the Volga with a dull splash. His only earthly remains were a streak of blood and the piece of paper on which the Order was written. Then Vassivech grabbed the order and looking on us cowering troops, he began to recite. Perhaps it was my imagination or the sheer delirium of battle, but I remember seeing a smug grin on that man’s face as he continued to tell us all how we would be shot in the name of the Motherland if we even thought of taking one step backwards.
“What we have here is that the German troops have good discipline, although they do not have an uplifted mission of protection of the Motherland, and only have one goal – to conquer a strange land. Our troops, having defence of defiled Motherland as their mission, do not have this discipline and thus suffer defeat.”
The opposite bank was now so, so close but still the enemy bombers and fighters swooped down on us, riddling our ferry with lead and water. We could see the grim expressions of the commissars waiting for us on the other side, waiting with their weapons in hand to shoot anyone who wanted to try and swim to freedom. They too were being strafed but none of them ran: they knew all too well the penalty for running in Stalingrad and so they stood there, on the pathetic wooden jetty, and took the machine gun fire. Even commissars are capable of bravery. We docked at the jetty with a clank and the NVKD officer nearest pushed down the ramp to let us cattle off. Most of us could not move fast enough but they forced us into single file. We were still being strafed and now we were standing up. The fighter planes tore through the men around me, smashing them like a fist smashes a wet piece of paper. They all fell at my feet, clutching at the air as they diluted the water with their thick rose red fluids. I looked from side to side, standing stock still in the boat. My mind, my civilised Russian mind was gob smacked at the madness around me. When I imagined fighting for the Motherland, I imagined tank chases across the vast distances of the Steppe or fist to fist fighting with the hated Fritz. I did not imagine a slaughter where you were lucky if the next second wasn’t your last. My mind just broke, shattered into a thousand segments of glass that ripped through my senses, leaving me dying in my own self pitying vacuum. The I was pushed. Hard. The sergeant rammed me forward and I was catapulted up the ramp to the starring NKVD guardsman who leered viciously at me and mouthed some words I couldn’t quite make out. I shook my head in incomprehension but he was already thrusting me out of the boat onto the peer. I looked back once, only once. I saw the boiling mess of the Volga, bombs and bullets burying themselves deep within its murky surface. The brown water was now white foam, spraying in all directions. On the surface of the churning mass were flaming wrecks that once were ferries and charred bodies that once were men. I looked back at our own boat and saw our pilot, still standing tranquilly by his position staring glassy eyed forwards. He was dead, a piece of shrapnel lodged through his chest.

So we were at Stalingrad. We were on the far bank of the Volga. I was wet, scared witless, covered in blood and hungry. My mind was shaken to its very core. But still we all had to push onwards. The shepherds wouldn’t let their lambs rest. Oh no. They pushed us, harried us along the disintegrating jetties until a munitions commissar forced a rifle into our hands.
“How do we use it?” The soldier in front of me asked. The commissar grinned.
“You’ll leanr. Or you’ll be dead. Now move forward!”
I could still barely hear and I don’t remember much at that point. The adrenaline was pumping round my body and fear was pounding the inside of my skull into a fine sand. I remember taking my rifle, my Mosin Nagnat and closing my fingers around its cold metal surface

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1: Yes
2: Mostly poems
3: When I feel like it
4: Under extreme feelings (in love, or utterly depressed)
5: It's short
6: No
7: Yes, still considering it, in a free magazine that's being distributed around here
8: No, not tried yet
9: Write what you like, when you like
10: Much of it(not all though) is in Dutch and I'm a bit too critical about it :p so probably not

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Sci-fi, fantasy, looking to gt into thriller and maybe vanilla fiction
(3) How often do you write? a few times a week, maybe more, sometimes less
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? whenevr I'm writting its my best work
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? finishing
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Not often but I might if the story seems to need it
(7) Have you ever considered being published? yes, but then DAW stopped accepting unsolicited work so I need to find an agent
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? no
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? elfwood.com (www.elfwood.com)
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
No but if you guess my name you can find some of it on elfwood

I try to write short stories, but other than that, no applies to everything.

I used to write science fiction pretty well... but it got so that I would spiderweb a storyline out and not be able to find my way back home. Plus, after I left high school I no longer had incentive to write pure fiction anymore.

I've tried to go back and start writing fiction again, but it's mind bogglingly hard to concentrate on it, just a perpetual case of writer's block (and the knowledge I probably won't get paid for anything I write.)

I can't stand poetry.

(1) Yes.
(2) Songs, and short stories/not so short stories.
(3) I write a lot of song lyrics because I'm starting a band, and I write short stories fairly often. I usually have a clump of them to work on.
(4) Thinking about it for a while and getting ideas from real life.
(5) Grammar
(6) I'll picture stuff in my head if thats what you mean.
(7) Others have told me to.
(8) Never tried.
(9) My way of writing isn't the best, I don't do prewriting, I just start and at the end let everything peice together. Songwise, just write what your heart and mind tell you. As long as it doesn't make you sound like a whiny bitch :P
(10) Sure, here is a short song I spent like five minutes writing up twenty minutes ago, its called Keep Spinning...


Well sometimes I find the world
In fast forward while I’m in rewind
Stumbling down a broken path
I wonder what it is
Well the world spins on and so do I
If I could I think I’d fly
Well so this world makes me confused
Oh well

Stumbling down this broken path
Of our lives and destiny
Future and fate
Coursing our paths today
Well I think I’ll carry on
Let them handle it
I think I’d like to make it through just today

So tell me now how do you do?
What is up? And what is new?
I think I’d like a cup of tea
Or possibly
A cup of Joe
But if not oh well
This world will spin on and so will I

And if I am to die tonight
Well so be it and let me cry
I think I’ll manage to overcome the thought
This world keeps spinning on
And I am left in its wake
Falling off the edge to the infinity

This broken world will tear me down but
I think I’ll sew me back up
Let it throw outs its worst
I think I’ll hit them back
So let this world keep spinning fast
Never stopping, we’ll never last
Make it hard and make it tough
Somehow I’ll rough it out
Make it random make it fun

(1) Do you write? Yeah, although not as often as I used to.
(2) What do you write? Anything and everythin. Poems and short stories mainly.
(3) How often do you write? Not as often as I used to, or should.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? You just feel... inspired by something. It often happen when I'm emotional...
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? I'm better at descriptions than narrative, I tend to fel that they fall a bit flat sometimes.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Yup
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Yeah
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? I've had a poem and a story published, albeit in minor circulation.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Um.. Keep at it, don't be like me!
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? I may look around, but my work tends to embarass me after I've read it...

(1) Do you write?
Yes. I guess if no, this would be a short survey...

(2) What do you write?
Plays, screenplays, scripts (for other mediums), criticism

(3) How often do you write?
When prompted or the story gets to be too much for me to store in my head.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
Work done under duress.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
If I don't know who I'm writing it for specificly I have a hard time completing something. Not good on spec.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Tricky question. Since what I do is scripts for the most part almost eveything I do is 'illustrated' in one way or another. I myself don't draw. Can't do it. It's probably how I got good at describing things...Funny story-I did get solicited to write a comic book story and I wrote two short ones. Turns out the guy never got an artist and just published my scripts, which pissed me off because the directions to the artist where in a casual tone that didn't match the narrative. Pissed...

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Why, yes...

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Well, there is the aforementioned problem, I also had a column in a college paper that I won an award for as well as a review. I had a comic strip (this time I got the artist) as well. I have had 10 productions of 8 plays that I have written (which is all of them) and one of those short plays is being filmed by a company this summer as well as performed for a third time next month. Which means it's the magic number for that play, it's off to be whored for publication. But since it's a short, most I'm going to get out of it is copies of the magazine it will appear in. Though one of the productions of that play I got payed for. Not bad for a play I wrote in 1 1/2 days as an exercise. I have recieved two ACTF Kennedy Center nominations, a scholarship for dramaturgy, and was a Playwright in Residence at a college. And I do documentaries.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Mentors rock. Otherwise Dramatist Sourcebook for playwrights.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
No, sorry.

(1) Do you write? Yes

(2) What do you write? Crap on NS mostly.

(3) How often do you write? Everyday.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? In the spur of the moment

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? the repeatitive nature of the threads; Spelling problems.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? not really.

(7) Have you ever considered being published? no

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? no

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? be at least moderately coherent.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? This is it.

(1) Do you write? Yes, a lot
(2) What do you write? Short stories, songs, instrumental works, practically everything except poetry, which is simply impossible for me to manage.
(3) How often do you write? Whenever I can, which is about an hour and a half a day. Also often when I can't, getting me into a lot of trouble.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Under pressure.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? No one reads it.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? No.
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Sometimes, but never seriously.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? No, except by myself.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? None really, I just write from the heart with some help from the brain. :)
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? I would if I could, but most of it is in non-uploadable .AIFF or .MID files. Also, my stories are generally too long to post in a single thread. I might eventually post a link...

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Screenplays
(3) How often do you write? now and then (busy with studies at present)
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Huh?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? not enough time or inspiration.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Nope
(7) Have you ever considered being published? I'm good enough to make it to film but I have never completed anything yet.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? See previous
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? The dialogue you can learn from forums, chat rooms, chat pane from online games, bash.org, 4chan.org and god know where else are priceless.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? Nothing is finished yet :(

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Screenplays
(3) How often do you write? now and then (busy with studies at present)
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Huh?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? not enough time or inspiration.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Nope
(7) Have you ever considered being published? I'm good enough to make it to film but I have never completed anything yet.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? See previous
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? The dialogue you can learn from forums, chat rooms, chat pane from online games, bash.org, 4chan.org and god know where else are priceless.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? Nothing is finished yet :(
I write screenplays sometimes too, but none are complete.

There are over 4 wonderful pieces posted by the writers on this thread. I command somone to read and critique them. Particularly that story written by a "Bashan". (Sorry, Bashan if I mispelled your name :fluffle: )

Okay... so what if this really is a

B U M P E D Y

1 - I write all the time. Supposedly it builds my writing skills...well, I suppose it does. Fat lot of good it did for me on the 25minute SAT essay, didn't get to finish my uberawesome closing sentence.

2 - Anything but poems. Man does writing poems suck.

3 - All the time.

4 - By staring at blankness. There's something inspirational in seventy pages of blank, unwrinkled, college-ruled paper.

5 - Haha. My writing is a problem in and of itself. I don't know what I write when I write, especially if it's late at night. I'll look back on it and go, 'wtf?' much in the manner a formerly drunk man will go 'wtf' looking at a tape of his drunkeness the next morning.

6 - No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!1

7 - Yes. Man would it be cool to be rich, and not even know what you wrote that made you so rich. "Hm? Oh yes, my story. Well, I'm not quite sure what it was about...uh...what was the title again?" But of course, most authors aren't rich. Not a very appealing profession. But then again, I am God. It has to equate somewhere in there.

8 - I haven't tried.

9 - None. Don't ever write. Writing sucks. Do other stuff...like, hey look at the orange ball over there! Get a few people and play dodgeball! Yeaah!!

10 - Share?...my writing is supposed to be...shared? ... *is repulsed at the idea* Well, there's my blog (http://zoogies.l2p.net/blog), but it's not really...writing, in the sense of 'songs, poetry, short stories.'

(1) Yes
(2) a. Articles regarding everyday life in high school, some funny, some more angry. b. Songs for concert band, orchestra and brass ensembles.
(3) a. Daily in my notebook, and sometimes if i get a really good idea I'll write an actual article about something at home. b. Whenever I get a good idea for a song.
(4) When I'm feeling an extreme emotion, whether it's extreme anger, elation or depression.
(5) I can't always think of good ideas (for melodies, topics to write on, etc.)
(6) No, I'm not really a good artist.
(7) Yes
(8) I have won several awards for composing but I can't get the songs published because I'm under 18.
(9) Don't write something for the sake of pleasing crowds. Make something that more serious fans will enjoy, and you'll probably end up impressing more people in the process.
(10) I could, but my writings involve a little too much swearing.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
[/SIZE]

1) I blog and write: http://stillwatersca.blogspot.com/
2) poetry, stories, and blog entries
3) not sure
4) When I feel like it. If I'm not in the mood, I only end up writing junk.
5) I often don't like it.
6) I can't draw.
7) Certainly.
8) Not yet.
9) Keep writing.
10) Look at my blog.

(01) Yes.
(02) Short stories, novellas, films.
(03) Daily, if my schedule allows it.
(04) When I'm travelling.
(05) Character development, patience in plot development.
(06) Occasionally, depending on what it is I'm writing.
(07) I will, once I feel I have something remotely worthy.
(08) Nope.
(09) Library card.
(10) Not at the moment, I'm afraid. It's all a lot of embarrassing shit.

(1) Do you write?
Yes

(2) What do you write?
Short essays, short stories, the occasional random verse

(3) How often do you write?
Whenever the mood strikes me, usually a few times a month

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
I write about things I'm passionate about. Usually it helps to be a bit out of it, in that "I'm sleep, but not enough to go bed" mode. My mind wanders better there.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
My moods affect the tone of my stuff. If I put a piece down and pick it up a few months later, I usually end up rephrasing or rewriting most of what I've written.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Nope, I suck at graphics.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
I briefly toyed with the idead and promply rejected it.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
No (didn't you read the last question? ;) )

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
Write what you know and write in your own style. Don't attempt to copy someone else's style. You'll probably end up doing it by accident but don't make a concious attempt.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
http://jonmusings.blogspot.com - short essays

Okay, actually... Here's one of my better short stories (still sucks, especially the beginning). EVAULATE AND COMMENT. SOme of my friends say, "it was good." I find that statement more offensive than, "It sucked because...". I perfer advice to apathy. I didn't post it earlier because Im constantly worried about plagairism. I don't know why though... it isn't even good enough to be published. THough once a short story of mine was plaigarized (ideas and structure) after another student read my story three months prior. It wasn't till I pointed it out to him that he realized it to. We both submitted it to this school literary magazine. Both got it. I liked his better. Well, without further ado, here it is. Show me no mercy!

The Blood of the Lamb


Everything about her was strange, denying her acceptance. So what if she chose to wear black? Did it matter that her skin was pale, except for those brown freckles on her nose and cheeks? Who would care if her eyes were cold and animalistic?

[snip]

He was middle-aged and his eyes had a fanatical, mournful expression, like they once burned with joy but now were only an empty expression of sorrow. His long chin held the beginning of a beard that was perhaps making up for his bald head. He smelled strongly of whisky and stood slightly hunched over. Nothing was extraordinary about his clothing, but he would occasionally grasp a chain that encircled his neck and dipped down behind the front of his shirt. He had introduced himself seriously, but not unkindly as Mr. Stephenson.

[snip]

The old man offered to help her carry in her trunks and boxes and though she did not need the old man’s help, she was glad to have the company. Though she had no trouble herself with the large boxes, the old man struggled with them. “What are you carrying in these boxes? Rocks?” he said, chuckling slightly. It was a dry, humorless laugh.

[snip]

She declined saying, rather formally, “No, Mr. Stephenson, thank you, but I don’t drink.”

[snip]

Sara gave him a Mona Lisa smile and wished him a goodnight.

She soon realized she disliked old Mr. Stephenson. He was helpful: he helped with the moving and offered to give her a ride to work, rather than letting her rely on other means of transportation. She was grateful for that, of course, but she still didn’t like him. Maybe it had to do with his solemn nature. Or maybe the way he would finger the gold chain around his neck made her feel uncomfortable. Or then, it could’ve been because she didn’t trust him.

Yet she clung to her friendship with the old man because this town, like her previous home, did not accept her. Tight knit, the town gave her no room to fit in. She, thankfully, did not have to talk to Mr. Stephenson too much, because she worked nights. He would only drop her off and pick her up. Sara wondered why he helped her. She didn’t talk to him much on the ride to and from work, they didn’t talk during the day, and they hardly knew each other, but she never asked him why, deciding it was rude to question his kind act. They had a mutual understanding between them, a unique reserved relationship, or, perhaps, more of a symbiosis.

Soon the old man would trouble her no more.

Her relationship with him would end one night, when the worst crime in the sleepy town’s history would be committed. It was a day Sara would not be likely to forget. It would be the moment that would ultimately determine her place in the town forever.

The sun had disappeared just over the horizon, and she could already smell the strange scent of change. Bright pinpoints of light adorned the sky like pearls against a dark blue dress. Vague, ethereal light still hung low close to the horizon as the sun lost its dominance over the town, removing all light and replacing it with one dark shadow. Some nights could seem long. Sara knew this night would last an eternity.

Sara waited outside her house in the quiet neighborhood, overgrown in ancient oaks on which leaves and silence perpetually hung, giving not only shade but also a kind of pleasant stagnation.

[snip]

Clad in her red clerk’s vest, she slumped down on the register in a stupor, but an air of uneasiness hung around the store. Bright yellow lights beat down on her blazing like the sun of summer, making her uncomfortable. The only sound, besides the gentle electric hum of the lights, was the one other employee, Mark, flipping through a magazine.

Breaking the near silence and tearing her away from her stupor, a car was audible outside, the headlights shinning brightly through the window. The clear glass automatic doors parted, revealing a man clad in a dark brown trench coat, his face hidden by a black, knit cloth mask.

Walking towards her, he picked up his pace.

He was now breaking into a run. The silver of a knife flashed in his gloved hand, as she screamed in a mixture of alarm and terror.

The dark brown trench cloak swirled around the masked figure as he lunged towards her heart. She barely dodged the knife, knocking into the cash register, spilling money on the ground. Sara caught the masked man off balance and pushed him over, using the time to run towards the other side of the store.

Between each pant Sara, called out, “Help,” but failed to get a response, as the man picked himself up and ran after her. She flailed her arms knocking over boxes to slow him down, twisting her way through the labyrinth of aisles and displays.

Sara was fast, and could easily outrun the man who was beginning to tire out and trip over fallen boxes and broken jars. Sara was now in the kitchen supplies aisle, breathing loudly.

[snip]

The footsteps were close now, alongside her on the other side of the shelf. She almost burst into laughter. The thrill of it! She could be destroyed at any moment and she was on the verge of laughter.

“Come out Sara!” a muffled voice hollered. “It’ll only take time, and I have plenty.”

She trembled with hysterical glee. She definitely was going to laugh, as she gripped the cold metal shelf with one hand and clamped the other over her mouth. She had to be insane to be laughing now and knew it.

[snip]

Sara now laughed harder than ever. Her mouth was wide open; her terrible white teeth glistened as she just laughed. She could see the masked man tremble, as he appeared at the other end of the aisle.

After a second of complete stillness, the man charged her head on. Sara fell backwards, as one hand grabbed her and the other, holding a knife, was poised to stab her heart. After a brief moment, when the man’s victory seemed immanent, Sara overpowered him, squeezing his wrist so firmly he dropped the knife. It clanged sharply against the linoleum. Now standing, holding him by the throat with one hand, she peeled back the mask in the other. Sharp prickles of his unshaven neck dug into her cold, white hand. She laughed, looking into Mr. Stephenson’s wide, startled eyes. She laughed still staring into them as his feeble arms flailed trying to feel for the gold chain around his neck, which undoubtedly held a crucifix. Tears formed at his eyes and cascaded to the floor. He was sobbing! With a grin, she opened her mouth wide and dug her fangs deep into his jugular vein, draining the blood out of the trembling, squirming body. The blood ran hot and nourishing down her throat, quenching her eternal, cursed thirst. The sweet, sweet coppery taste ran over her parched, cracking lips and tongue and dripped down her chin, as she was overcome with ecstasy. She remembered her first sip of blood. She knew that first sip could never be paralleled, but she still succumbed to her unending thirst.

She let the still, limp body drop with a thud as she looked down with slight pity, but still wolfishly grinned as she plunged the silver knife into the man’s neck to hide the bite mark. His remaining blood dripped from the wound, down the fat blade of the knife, audibly splattering onto the linoleum forming rough star-shaped patterns. Mr. Stephenson’s dead blank eyes looked up in their slumber. Perhaps he would later come and join her. Perhaps he would not. Was death really that definite a boundary?

After wiping the blood from her chin, She sank to the floor summoning some fake tears, as she heard Mark’s light footsteps approach followed by heavier footsteps of probably a policeman.

“Oh my God! Sara, are you all right? When the guy came in I called the police. Oh my God! Are you all right?”

Her head was down between her knees in feigned hysteria, fake tears plastering her hair to her cheeks. She, stuttered while hyperventilating, “I’m… he… I’m…”

The policeman, fat and clean-shaven, crouched by her and whispered good-naturedly, “It’s okay now. Everything is going to be okay. We have more officers coming. The man is gone now.”

His voice trailed off as more policemen approached and her sobbing slowed, her normally pale face was scarlet.

No one would question what happened. Mark witnessed how the man had charged in after her. Mr. Stephenson didn’t seem to keep many close friends. The bite marks were cleverly hidden by Mr. Stephenson’s own knife. And would anyone really care the knife was made out of pure silver?

“You’re a hero. That was a brave thing you did,” The fat officer said, with a polite smile that Sara returned lined with sparkling tears. “There, now.”

A hero? Her? She liked the sound of that. She was accepted here: no one would suspect her for any future “disappearances”. Anyway, she wouldn’t need to feed for a few more months; she already had her fill tonight. She wetted her lips. A hero! Would you believe that! She was powerful and ancient, hidden among fragile, mortal prey. Their hero! She was a cunning wolf, among a flock of unwary sheep. She would adapt just fine.

I snipped some of that away, it really is a long story for a single post, I think, but that may be the ADHD talkin', but overall, I liked it. I color coded parts of it to show my feelings for it. The parts in navy are parts where, reading, I kinda felt you were trying to hard-cramming as much descriptive language as you could into the paragraph. The parts in dark red are parts I think are pretty good, but could have been written better. The parts in dark green are parts I liked. The parts in lime are parts I liked A LOT, that I thought were pure gold. Interesting story. Sorry it took me so long to comment on it, Bashan. Good job! :D

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1. Yes
2. Poems, short stories
3. Every day
4. When I'm upset
5. It's maudlin.
6. No.
7. No.
8. No.
9. Write a lot.
10. Already have.

[snip]

I am working on an alternate history novel set during Stalingrad. PLEASE, PLEASE GIVE ME SOME CRITICAL OPINIONS OR DIRECT ME TO SOMEWHERE WHERE I CAN RECEIVE THEM - IT MIGHT HELP ME STOP BEING SO SELF CRITICAL

[snip]
Wow, that was really great. The only advice I'd have to you would be to go back and edit for grammar and spelling. Well, that's just me being the grammar Nazi. Stuff like that bugs me. Anyways, great job! :D

[snip] here is a short song I spent like five minutes writing up twenty minutes ago, its called

Keep Spinning...


Well sometimes I find the world
In fast forward while I’m in rewind
Stumbling down a broken path
I wonder what it is
Well the world spins on and so do I
If I could I think I’d fly
Well so this world makes me confused
Oh well

Stumbling down this broken path
Of our lives and destiny
Future and fate
Coursing our paths today
Well I think I’ll carry on
Let them handle it
I think I’d like to make it through just today

So tell me now how do you do?
What is up? And what is new?
I think I’d like a cup of tea
Or possibly
A cup of Joe
But if not oh well
This world will spin on and so will I

And if I am to die tonight
Well so be it and let me cry
I think I’ll manage to overcome the thought
This world keeps spinning on
And I am left in its wake
Falling off the edge to the infinity

This broken world will tear me down but
I think I’ll sew me back up
Let it throw outs its worst
I think I’ll hit them back
So let this world keep spinning fast
Never stopping, we’ll never last
Make it hard and make it tough
Somehow I’ll rough it out
Make it random make it fun
*Smiles* I like it! What style did you have in mind for it? Pop-ish?

...beware, it's a bit odd. It's a song. I think it's anti-war. I'm not sure if it's intended to be a rap or a pop song. Hmm...

Right Foot Left

There was once a guy
The military kind
He was a soldier
Had a wife and what he told her
Was, "I like march all day and night
(I like to march all day and night)
Now, don't you worry 'bout me 'cuz I'll be alright
(Don't you worry 'bout me 'cuz I'll be alright)
And he'd lead marches and what he'd go,
Was, (Left, left, left right left.
Right, right, right left right
Left foot right
RIGHT FOOT LEFT)

Now one day he had to go off to battle
He figured it wasn't more than he could handle
But when he got there
He got scared
He shot himself in the foot
He meant to but it really hurt
He played dead while his pals really died
Wasn't proud of himself, nearly cried
And when the coast was clear
He called the medics over there
And when they were all done
Instead of two feet he had one
He only had his (RIGHT FOOT LEFT).

Now he had to come home like a little chicken
And all the guys he knew started pickin'
On him, even though they knew he was tough
'Cuz when you only got foot, that's just not enough
And soon he got to thinking,
"War isn't much good for anything."
He never fought again in his life,
Which was great to hear for his wife
Now he spreads messages of peace everywhere
Hoping someday someone will care
So they'll have more than their (RIGHT FOOT LEFT)
So they'll have more than their (RIGHT FOOT LEFT)

I used to write science fiction pretty well... but it got so that I would spiderweb a storyline out and not be able to find my way back home. Plus, after I left high school I no longer had incentive to write pure fiction anymore.

I've tried to go back and start writing fiction again, but it's mind bogglingly hard to concentrate on it, just a perpetual case of writer's block (and the knowledge I probably won't get paid for anything I write.)

I can't stand poetry.
Well, one thing I do when I have trouble focusing is play music. Any music. Classical, Easy Listening, or R&B will probably be the best for the average person. If you get stuck, [WritingFix (http://www.writingfix.com)] has some great random generators that will getcha started!

You can't stand poetry? Is it because you find it too difficult? I reccomend trying simple kinds like haikus, and then, as you start building your confidence, writing longer and longer poems.

Tag

...beware, it's a bit odd. It's a song. I think it's anti-war. I'm not sure if it's intended to be a rap or a pop song. Hmm...

Right Foot Left

There was once a guy
The military kind
He was a soldier
Had a wife and what he told her
Was, "I like march all day and night
(I like to march all day and night)
Now, don't you worry 'bout me 'cuz I'll be alright
(Don't you worry 'bout me 'cuz I'll be alright)
And he'd lead marches and what he'd go,
Was, (Left, left, left right left.
Right, right, right left right
Left foot right
RIGHT FOOT LEFT)

Now one day he had to go off to battle
He figured it wasn't more than he could handle
But when he got there
He got scared
He shot himself in the foot
He meant to but it really hurt
He played dead while his pals really died
Wasn't proud of himself, nearly cried
And when the coast was clear
He called the medics over there
And when they were all done
Instead of two feet he had one
He only had his (RIGHT FOOT LEFT).

Now he had to come home like a little chicken
And all the guys he knew started pickin'
On him, even though they knew he was tough
'Cuz when you only got foot, that's just not enough
And soon he got to thinking,
"War isn't much good for anything."
He never fought again in his life,
Which was great to hear for his wife
Now he spreads messages of peace everywhere
Hoping someday someone will care
So they'll have more than their (RIGHT FOOT LEFT)
So they'll have more than their (RIGHT FOOT LEFT)

I read through it like a Rap song. I think that would work best, but thats just my opinion! I liked it.

I read through it like a Rap song. I think that would work best, but thats just my opinion! I liked it.

THANK YOU! :D :fluffle:

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? I write poems and lyrics. Sometimes music. And I wrote a comedy for school like 5 years back
(3) How often do you write? Whenever I feel like it. Could be once a year, could be once every two days.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Serious stuff: when I feel emotional. Fun stuff: when I have a great topic in my head
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? I write something only half and then I can't finish it because I lost the feeling
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? No
(7) Have you ever considered being published? No
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? No
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Do it... that's basically it. Whenever you feel like writing, write. Write down every good idea
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? This is the latest song I wrote. It's a kind of Pogues - Sally MacLeanne-esque song.

All I wanna do

Chorus
All I wanna do is drink beer all day,
All I wanna do is drink beer all night,
I wanna drink beer every day,
Until I’m fully satisfied

Verse
Early morning or afternoon
I wake, the throbbing of my head
Confused I look around the room
And thank the Lord it’s my own bed
There are some bottles on the floor
Which is mine, I do not know
So I let them all flow into my throat
All the beer is far from cold

Chorus

Verse
I stink of beer and smoke and beer
I shed a tear for all that waste
I lick my shirt, it’s drenched in beer
A lot of dirt and that wondrous taste
Oi, you feckin’ ****, watch it!
Are your eyes are still half asleep?
You knocked over my beer ya shit
Asshole, wanker, monkey, dweep

Chorus

Verse
Cans or bottles or from a tap
It is all the same to me
As long as there’s beer to be drunk
And states of drunkenness to be
There’s really no difference in taste
After you drink two or three
Heineken tastes like Warsteiner
And all beers are the same to me

Chorus

Bridgy part
The world is at peace
‘Cause every sound is too loud
Everyone is as quiet as they can be
In the great hung-over crowd

Chorus x 2

<snip>

I must say that is a masterpiece. The line "You knocked over my beer ya shit" hits home.

I must say that is a masterpiece. The line "You knocked over my beer ya shit" hits home.
The 4 lines at the end of the 2nd verse were written later, so it'd all match better. So I threw in some cursing

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1) yes
2) I write music, though I've tried poetry/lyrics
3) I make an attempt almost every day
4) Usually if I'm thinking about something else, or if I'm feeling something very strongly
5) Writer's block, I guess you could call it. Sometimes I'm just not motivated, and sometimes I have to ditch something because it sounds too much like something else
6) Um... I guess
7) I'd like to be
8) no
9) for music writers- study music theory
10) I will in a little while

victory

freedom
i can bring it.
its right here
in my own hands.

no, its not right.
theres another way
to aquire.
touch the soul
and raise the fruit.

to run is a shame.
put on the shield,
grab the sword,
take to the field!

dont be frightened.
lower your brow
and charge the lines!
see the box crumble
and walk outside.

a new world
lies at your feet.
breathe it in,
its freedom.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

1. Yes
2. Music (lyrics and score/chords), short stories (well, about to start my first... The Grammar Nazi... it'll be a character study... should be pretty funny), and poetry (lol, to my girlfriend).
3. Music, not very (at least, not now); short stories, will start very soon - have a general outline; poetry... seasonal writing.
4. Idea pops into my head and I write it down immediately. I can sit there for hours trying to conjure up an idea and nothing happens... whereas i'll be singing in the shower and the lightbulb will suddenly click on. It's quite a feeling when you realize you're onto something.
5. Writer's block... lmao i'll have verse one (5 minutes to write) and verse two (another 5 minutes) and the chorus (ditto) written, and i'll get stuck on the refrain... and be stuck for hours, trying to find a word that rhymes with "orange".
6. I can only draw football helmets. So, no.
7. I'm gonna try it with The Grammar Nazi. My songs I keep to myself, mostly. The poetry... is for the woman.
8. Not yet... have not yet tried.
9. Write about what you know or what you like. If you don't know anything about something or don't like it, don't write about it... you'll get bogged down probably.
10.I'll share part of TGN when it's finished.

victory

freedom
i can bring it.
its right here
in my own hands.

no, its not right.
theres another way
to aquire.
touch the soul
and raise the fruit.

to run is a shame.
put on the shield,
grab the sword,
take to the field!

dont be frightened.
lower your brow
and charge the lines!
see the box crumble
and walk outside.

a new world
lies at your feet.
breathe it in,
its freedom.
*Imitating Toy Story aliens* Oooooh... The Song...
Okay... seriously, I like it. :)

*Imitating Toy Story aliens* Oooooh... The Song...
Okay... seriously, I like it. :)

Ha... thanks :)

Heres a little bit from me.
The Soldier of Lachenburg
Part the First

The town was Lachenburg. Friedrick's forces had newly arrived from his conquests in the East. General Von Kapt had ordered them to come and help defend the city against viscious armies of the Duke of Fermonte' who controlled the Western provinces. Only us and the Duke were the only powers who remained in the the succession struggle left by the deceased Emperor Ludwig. We had been in the city for twenty-three and one half days when they finally reached the gargantuan piles of stone and splendor that was once the grand city Lachenburg. Friedrick's forces did not have the look of fatigue nor the look that was on the face of each weary soldier. Their uniforms were new and were a bright blue color, unlike the our coats that were now dyed in the scarlett red blood. It drenched us all. If one observer were to see the infantrymen, he would swear by our complexion that we were of the Savage people in the New World. No, these soldiers did not have the look of despair that was ever-present in the tired eyes of the young warriors. If you were to stare into the eyes of one of them you could see the apparitions of fallen comrades and citizenry that haunted the city. They were dry however. There was no time for tears or blubbery nor time to mourn a friend lost in battle, they had become the forgotten, the fallen and now rest in the trenches and under stones that was once Lachenburg. They were in the open air, the air that they once breathed.Tears were consuming and thus useless in war, energy was better suite for fighting.
Their faces were covered in gun powder. At the beginning of the conflict they would have brushed it off and found it bothersome, now they had become accustomed to it. It dried and became patches on the skin of the ever diminishing population. Even their once vibrant souls were either dead or petrified, as if Death were playing a cruel joke on them. Fear was present, but it was not the fear of death, for that was all around them and had become the norm. No, this was fear of a different sort. This was the fear of not knowing. They were well aware that at any point in time they could be at Death's doorstep but they did not know when the Fates would choose them and send them to the Ferryman. They could not sleep and insomnia was so widespread in that even the most high ranking of officers lay awake at night with their muskets at hand. They knew it would be soon, however, and they could be released from this barbarous nightmare. The wait itself was a slow and painful end. Paranoia was seen on the soldiers and delusions of an Eden were in their minds. They realised that there would be no peace to this end and abandoned all hope, for that was useless in such a sadistic reality. Hope was a meaningless commodity possessed by those who were in a realm of deep and restricted desperation.
There was no flesh on their faces, not muscles in their hands. The skin hung off them as if were a blanket being dried in the sun They no longer resembled the living and the sorrows of war were characteristic in them. In a word they were ghosts, walking ghosts. Cheek bones petruded outward and their noses were covered with what looked like a thin sheet of papyrus. Many had lost eyes and medical attention was scarce. It was not uncommon to see people marching around wearing eyepatches or even bare sockets left open to the dust and brimstone for that matter.
Over by the old chapel house a group of these well-dressed soldiers had congregated. They were sitting in the scorched wooden pews with their boots on top of rubble, used as make-shift stools. One of them, a seemingly respectable fellow, had found his way up to the pulpit. It was leaning quite a bit so it took him a while to find his balance. He was wearing a blue uniform, as they all were, but this one was exceptionally clean. Not a speck of dirt nor drop of blood could be found. He had a healthy complexion. Neither scar nor bruise marked his body and there was much flesh on his face, yet another sign that he had never experienced war in its most brutal form. His hands was not like a skeleton but of a well-fed mercenary. When he finally balanced himself he raised his right hand and put on a stern face.He then lowered his head in a pious but mocking manner. Slowly he raised it and began to speak. I wasn't quite sure what he was saying, but his comrades each burst into a laughter that could be heard throughout the vacinity. The soldier at the pulpit did not laugh or change his expression, but kept the same solemn look. I was still not certain as to what they were doing until he began digging through the remnants of the church. After sometime he pulled out something. At first it was indistinguishable, but after I focused I could see what it was, a crucifix. It was the very same crucifix that had hung on the on the church overlooking the faithful during sunday mass. He took from his pocket a square white cloth and spat on it. He took the rag and wiped down the cross. He went to the Savior's face and wiped it clean and the others laughed tremendously. The soldier proceeded down the dusty aisle. It was at that moment that I knew his full intent. He was mocking us. They played a cruel joke on us that day, one that is unforgivable, it was more like an act against God and the soldiers defending them.
The very thought of it was sickening.The same church where many of the soldiers were baptized and blessed was being mocked by someone who had the audacity to play such a joke. What worse thing he could he have done next? Turn the Pope into Antichrist and make his vile companions saints? No more of this jester could I take. I called over some of my comrades who had not yet been sent to Ceberus.I pointed to the mockery and at once we marched towards them. When he approached them they stopped their childishness and ceased their cynical laughter. The one at the pulpit was to first to stand forward.
" Ello fellow comrades. How be you this most glorious day?", he said.
A young infantryman name Viktor pushed us aside and replied, " We be not comrades with such demonic vermin who dare make a mockery of us."
"I make a mockery fo you? Ha! That in itself is a mockery. I did not such a thing and demand an apology.", his fellows chuckled and he stood snively ove rus.
" It is you who owe us the declaration. You laugh at our loss and do not put into account the pain we have suffered. Your joy is sickening to say the least."
" Pain? What pain do speak of dear boy? I look around me and I see blue skies and town that is fresh for merry making.", He coxed his head at Viktor.
" Pain? I speak of pain you know not of, and from what I can see, you have never experienced for yourself. And merry making, thats an act that we have not partaken in since this bloody conflict began."
" I see you are a pessimist. You see dark skies and dreary days ahead. You see war as painful and when acting in such should be filled with dread and misery. 'Tis the marks of a coward and nothing more."
We were appalled, but none more so than young Viktor. His eyes became still and looked once more at the demon he was engaging with then said, " Coward be I? I have lost more loved ones and dear comrades than you have seen in three lifetimes. They each fought gallantly but died still. While you be over here and make laughter and patronize us. I wish I had not seen this but I did, and I too endure it am braver than you, them scum of the war who has not compassion for neithe rour woes nor the fallen ones."
" Woe! Oh, woe! I am overwhelmed by it. I have no one left for they had not strength enough to endure the same torment as I."
"I ask you onec more. End this mockery and apologize for it. I know sorrow and I wish to end it ."
"End it, then here have my pistol. There is but one bullet in there and I give to you.", he proceeded to pull out his pistol and hold it out for Viktor.
He looked at it, then without notice grabbed and it said, " I may be ending my pain now, but yours have just begun."
He then pulled the trigger and with a crack he fell on the ground and the blood flowed in streams out from his cold body. I and the others were shocked, but the soldier who drove him to his death scoffed and said, " A coward had died, and had died a coward's death which I find most fitting for a man such as he."
Several nearby dragoons dashed toward his body. They were thin and their uniforms were tattered and hung off their frail bones and limped heavily. We knew what they were planning to do once they obtained it and grabbed his body and pulled it away. That did not stop them and they ran ever faster toward it. A companion of mine whom we called Sir unsheated his saber which still had blood from the previous battle. When one of them leaped at Viktor, he did not hesitate to release the fellow's head from his weak body. Another pulled out a small dagger, it was rusty and the tip was blunt. Sir held his saver back and when he was in a yards lenght, brought it down with such force that it nearly liberated the poor man's stomach from his chest as he brought the blade across it and down his midsection. He too fell without a breath of air coming from hsi body when he hit the ground. There now remained only three of the original quintet and they froze in their tracks. Sir was ready to strike them all a mighty blow when one of them began to speak, " Cease your rampage," pleaded he," we meant no offense."
Unmoved by this plea and much offended, Sir took out once his saber and aimed it a the lad. I managed to grab his arm just as he was about to end their plight. We convinced him to put it away, at least for the time being, and so he put it back. He straightened himself and said," No offense? What rubbish this lowly creature has spoken."
" Please, sir, listen. My companions and I are near death and what plague has been set on our heads was hunger. We have not eaten more than a triffling amount of potato water and have had neither Schweinfleisch or Raumfleisch since our second week from our arrival to this hellish place. I am certain you have suffered as I and will surely understand that our motives and actions are justified. Your friend did suffer and would not mind if used him, for he would certainly do the same."
"I should cut your vein right now. Viktor was an honorable soldier and would not give into such a desire."
" But we are starving."
" Then starve. He was a son to me and I shall not have my own blood dishonored! I challenge you. Be victor and you shall have redemption, be loser and your head will be mine." He again unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the terrified man's throat.
" We were only trying to survive in this nightmare. Can we not do even that? Must be perish here?", he said fearfully.
" Then you should have devoured your horses instead of attempt to desecrate my blood. Now take out your sword!"
It was at that point that I intervined I ran between them in hopes of keeping them seperated, and Sir from delivering Death's decree too early. I yelled, " Halt! This is barbaric and defies all morality and ethics. We have each experienced this pain and must not turn on our fellow man. Sir, although he was dear would you not execute the same actions had you been in his place? And you, I know your are hungry, but so are we all. If be so desperate, I spotted a dead beast not far from the mill. Feast upon that if you need nourishment." That must have been a sufficient answer because he put his sword away and the trio followed my instructions.
Sir said but one more thing to them, " Be off with you and never return to my sights again!"

Heres a little bit from me.
The Soldier of Lachenburg
Part the Firs.....<snip>

Hey thats really well done. Its got a good hook and very good imagery. Nice piece.

Hey thats really well done. Its got a good hook and very good imagery. Nice piece.
Why thank you.

I snipped some of that away, it really is a long story for a single post, I think, but that may be the ADHD talkin', but overall, I liked it. I color coded parts of it to show my feelings for it. The parts in navy are parts where, reading, I kinda felt you were trying to hard-cramming as much descriptive language as you could into the paragraph. The parts in dark red are parts I think are pretty good, but could have been written better. The parts in dark green are parts I liked. The parts in lime are parts I liked A LOT, that I thought were pure gold. Interesting story. Sorry it took me so long to comment on it, Bashan. Good job!

:D Thank you! When I revise it, I'm going to go through the blue parts, maybe make it a bit active or do some cutting. Thank you.

With the ADHD, I know how you feel. I have ADD myself. I actually usually either skim or skip large chunks of larger posts. ;)

(1) Do you write?: Yes
(2) What do you write?: Short stories; I am currently working on a book.
(3) How often do you write?: Every day
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?: When Im listening to music or have just seen a good movie.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?: Worried that people wont like it.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?: No, I have a friend do it.
(7) Have you ever considered being published?: I cant answer this directly as I often find myself conflicted on the matter.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?: See # 7
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?: None.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?: Yes, but maybe in the near future.

(1) Do you write? Yes
(2) What do you write? Prose, poetry, angry tirades.
(3) How often do you write? Spasmodically
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? When I'm alone. At night. It is a fine line between absolute mantal fatigue and spiritual receptivity.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? I feel at my most creative when I'm emotionally volatile, but the volatility makes it difficult to focus. Also, my most creatively nurturing friends moved to the city when they finished Uni, so I'm temporarily devoid of a creative peergroup until I graduate.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? I would like to, but I find years of indoctrination regarding the impracticality of 'art' has kind of killed my ability.(7) Have you ever considered being published? Yeah, maybe when I'm grown up. (I'm 25)
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? When I was at school I won a short story competition.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Lose your ego/self-consciousness. Accept inspiration without being distracted by embarrassment.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? I could find some, but I'm a different person now to when I wrote it, so it wouldn't be temporally honest.

(1) Yes.
(2) Not going to say.
(3) Anywhere from 5 minutes to 8 hours a day, depending on my muse.
(4) Hanging upside down from a chandelier.
(5) The inspiration usually strikes when I'm supposed to be sleeping, so I screw up my sleeping pattern often.
(6) Nope. I couldn't draw a coherent picture if my life depended on it.
(7) Yes.
(8) Yes.
(9) Write what you want, not what you think people would want to read. There's always an audience for anyone's work, and the internet is a great way of finding that audience. Be descriptive, but don't use unnecessary words to seem more intelligent. Don't be afraid.
(10) I do, but I cannot. Sorry. :(

(1) Yes
(2) Short Stories
(3) When I get the chance
(4) Inspiration hits me like a bolt of lightining to the nether-regions
(5) Padding out stories
(6) I can't draw
(7) I'd like to when I have time to write a novel
(8) Nope
(9) Get a thesaurus, dictionary and a grammar guide.
(10) Sure:

Unfinished and slightly under edited, so if you spot any mistakes please tell me.

John shivered and quickened his step, pulling his coat tight around him. He wondered if anyone else understood what was happening, if others had put two and two together. Maybe he was just losing his mind; perhaps the whiskey was finally catching up with him.

He stopped and lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly before finally letting the smoke drift out of his mouth, mixing with the condensation of his breath to form little clouds. He looked through the window of the nearest house, trying to find comfort from the family that dwelled there. Maybe nothing will happen; he hoped nothing would happen. This had consumed him all week, indecision, unbelief, it was more than he could handle. No, he decided finally, nothing will happen, it’s all just a crazy dream, what he heard and what he saw was the result of too many nights in dirty bars with even dirtier women. How could this all end? The world was too young, full of too many good people for it all just to vanish, washed out of being like an undesirable stain on the shirt of creation

He took one final look at the family inside, wishing that his marriage had not turned sour, wishing that he had stayed at home more often, paid more attention to the signs. She knew what he was doing, he was so wrapped up in himself, he did not even realise she was going to leave, until it was too late. He thought about Jenny too, it would be her eighth birthday soon. He was going to buy her a present, something big, perhaps one of those teddy bears he had seen in Harrods.

He turned the corner and looked down the hill. Something was unusual about the scene that lay before him. The road that ran across the bottom of the hill was usually full of traffic at this time of day, a main commuter route out of the city.
It was empty; he had never seen a London road so empty, if he were back in Pierre City, he would have expected a tumbleweed to roll past at any point now. This thought brought a small pang of homesickness back to him. He missed the sunshine and outdoors of home; the greyness of this city was draining his life away.

Suddenly, as if his brain were just waking up from the deepest of slumbers, he started to comprehend the sound he had heard for the last fifteen minutes, the one he had passed off as some kind of car alarm. It was the sound of people screaming, he was already too late.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


(1) Yup
(2) Songs, some poetry
(3) Depends; sometimes I can write craploads of lyrics (multiple songs in a day), other times...
(4) It comes randomly. Sometimes I'll just be walking along. I often get ideas in classes. My old school diaries are oozing song lyrics.
(5) Writer's block is my scourge. The fact that I rarely go over my material and rework it may be a weakness.
(6) My band is working on a setlist for performance.
(7) Yes.
(8) My band has forked out the money for a recording, though you can't buy that recording anywhere.
(9) None.
(10) The better poetry I've published online:

http://www.poetry.com/Publications/display.asp?ID=P4476203&BN=999&PN=3
- Basically, patting the farmers that have stuck by their plots throughout the drought. I personally don't think I've done bad here, considering I live in the urbanity that is Sydney City.
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/display.asp?ID=P4476203&BN=999&PN=4
- There was a meaning to this one, but I can't remember what it is.
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/display.asp?ID=P4476203&BN=999&PN=5
- This one's sort of a "how far have we really come" thing.

Oh, and apparently the above poetry has been/is to be published.

In the land of Elendale


Once upon a time
in a land of old,
an ancient story
– a tale was told,
of a young boy
who lived by the sword;
honour and valour his virtues,
the truth his word.
An orphan by three,
no land to live by
he set on a quest
to make those die
who had slain his parents
in the land of Elendale.


Brought up by bears
and raised as one
he had no worldly cares
but to see his quest done;
this is all he wished.
To rid the land of the evil foe
and to avenge his parents death,
this and this alone did he know;
for it is written in folklore:
to kill the tyrant and evil Lord,
a strike to his heart must go,
handle deep must be the sword,
and the bearer must be
he, who an orphan by three,
had his parents wrongly slain,
such is it written
in he land of Elendale.


Upon his travels he met a mage
whose wisdom told him this truth:
“you must hasten the pace of the story,” said the mage
“if you are to fit it on only one page.”
The boy met many more peoples on his way,
and folded them to his company;
under his banner they did stay,
and the boy became a man.
Travelling the lands by day,
sleep and make merry at night;
His enemies, seeing the banner unfurl
would feel dismay and fright,
regardless of their numbers or strength
they would flee rather than fight.
One by one the evil flew
in the land of Elendale.


Many years went past
and an evil curse was cast
on the man from Elendale.
Fell deadly ill he did,
and his body turned nightshade blue,
but no evil could break friends apart,
and his company did stay true.
They sought the enemy sorcerer
and whence they found her, her body they did slay
and the mage reversed the curse
until all was well again
in the land of Elendale.

And the final chapter endeth thus:
a great battlefield, the air thick with dust;
One side, the enemy, the other
the army of the man from Elendale.
Facing such great a foe,
his men – they began to quail.
But giving them strength this they did know:
their courage and strength came not from the sword or chain-mail,
but from the power and honour of friendship;
regardless of race, creed, colour or kinship,
the enemy would never win if this they kept true.


In the land of Elendale, when the dust settled,
and the sun sank in the sky, and the field,
stained blood-red receded into darkness
and out of living memory,
the boy from Elendale
was revenged and vindicated.
They may all be dead now,
but their friendships and actions
live on in this tale,
far away from the land of Elendale.



by me in November 2002 - i still don't like the second paragraph much :(




Revolution


Underground,
Unseen, unheard,
The revolt,
It stirs.

Time,
The master’s enemy;
Hatred,
It burns within me.
Soon all will change.

Like days of our life
Pained and filled with strife
The countdown to revolution
Will never cease.

Unstoppable,
Inevitable,
Blood will flow
And only pain will the master know.

Under the tormentors rule
The master’s iron fist so cruel,
Pushed and thrashed,
Whipped till we feel no more;

Our backs broken,
Our bodies sore,
Under tyranny are we all;
Slaves can take no more…
Rise up and heed my call!

One slave to change destiny
One slave to free humanity
One man changed it all
He dared to spite conformity

Broken free
Of the slave drivers’ chains,
In the harsh sand they lie and rust;
Freeing my comrades,
Alone in me they trust.

Standing high on a pedestal,
Blood on my hands
The rapt attention of ten thousand
Slaves, in the desert sands

No more pain,
No more lies
At my words
“No more” ten thousand voices cry

We march to glory
And to victory;
The pharaoh’s palace
Is soon not to be

Charging down the gates,
Fear in the oppressors’ eyes;
Butchering the high priest,
Slowed by all his gold, as he flies

Storming up the steps
The very ground shakes in our wake
The power of the people
Killing all for killing’s sake.

The Pharaoh’s quarters
Lined with gold
And us, living in shacks
That barely keep out the cold.

The disparity is painful,
The abuse is through;
One man’s actions
Have led us to you.

The living god
Lies dead on the ground
Too arrogant to flee
Too scared to make a sound.

But no further can you follow me,
As the revolution is over;
A new day will dawn
And we will be the master.

One slave changed destiny
One slave freed humanity
One man changed it all
He dared to spite conformity

The day ends,
The sun sets in the sky;
With no Pharaoh,
Perhaps tomorrow
The sun will not rise

But forever we will be free.



that was March last year

[QUOTE=Zotona](1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


My Replies:
1) No
2) Fiction (usually fantasy/sci-fi), poetry
3) hardly ever - i'm the only writer i know who hates to write
4) I write my best stuff when listening to music and when it's late at night and coffee starts to have the opposite effects
5) Starting and editing as i write
6) If i'm writing about stick figures then the answer is yes
7) Always
8) No - well, not yet
9) Just do it - and for God's sake, don't waste your time or money getting a degree in writing unless its technical writing
10) If i thought my work deserved to see the light of day i might. Whenever i show people my work that i think rocks - they think it sucks. And when i think it sucks - they think its pretty cool.

Blank pages suck my brain dry

GoalVa

"..trying to find comfort from the family.."

you may want to say, "trying to find comfort in the family" or "trying to derive comfort from the family"

we find comfort in things

we derive comfort from things

overall, your piece is excellent. thanks for lending it to us. (you might, for my taste, use a few more periods/semi-colons and a few fewer commas, but that's your style.)

GoalVa

"..trying to find comfort from the family.."

you may want to say, "trying to find comfort in the family" or "trying to derive comfort from the family"

we find comfort in things

we derive comfort from things

overall, your piece is excellent. thanks for lending it to us. (you might, for my taste, use a few more periods/semi-colons and a few fewer commas, but that's your style.)


Thanks for that, like I said it's not really been edited much.

I need to finish it off at some point, it's been on my todo list for about a month.

I'd be the first to admit my comma use is awful, it's a bad habit i'm trying to get out of.

[edit]

Guess who logged in as his puppet... D'oh.

Banter------------------->

Poetry of Trulin (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=378551&highlight=poetry+trulin)

In the land of Elendale
[snip]
Revolution
[snip]

:eek: Wow... these are out of my league... *cheers up.* Well, I am only in my teenage years. :D

:eek: Wow... these are out of my league... *cheers up.* Well, I am only in my teenage years. :D
w00t! its nice to recieve compliments about my work - i don't let people read it that often. thanks :)

No one criticised my story. Sob. Oh the pain the pain of it all.

No one criticised my story. Sob. Oh the pain the pain of it all.
Okay, okay, let me go back and find it. :D

EDIT: Hey, look, I did comment on it on this page right here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=413555&page=4&pp=15)!

Thank you. My exisitence is justified. If only I hadn't taken that cynaide...

1. Yes
2. Poems
3. Not often
4. When I suddenly feel inspired.
5. My standards for my work are high and I throw out a lot of mediocre ideas.
6. No, I cannot draw well.
7. Yes but I have not actively sought publication yet.
8. No
9. Use linguistic devices. Whether you prefer rythm, rhyme, or some other method for livening your poetry, linguistic devices are the most essential part of a good poem. Here are a few lesser known linguistic devices:
http://www.csi.uottawa.ca/~kbarker/ling-devices.html
10. Sure why not:

Optimism Despite My Lost Hat
One morning,
Without any warning,
I lost the hat for my head's adorning.
I must admit that I had cried,
When at first I stepped outside,
For, as the winter wind was breezing,
The fridged air was far too freezing.
All that day may head felt nude.
I was in an aweful mood.
So at the end of that bad day,
Though my hat was not there,
At the least, I still could say,
"I did not get hat hair."

Heck, yes, I write! I find it quite enjoyable, and it puts me in the world of fantasy that I myself have created to suit my desires at the time

I think that my pet peeve is writers' block. It sucks.

I got a novel in progress, one completed, and one abandoned (due to some freaky coincidences that someone wrote a book almost EXACTLY like it!) Have a 12-page short story, and one that I'm still working on.

Don't like to write poetry much, and I never really got into it.

I start novels, but never finish them. I've made good starts to about 3 or 4 of them. I write mostly short stories (scroll back and read THE BLOOD OFTHE LAMB) and poems. Also, I have written one short novellette (approx. 12, 000 words [proper word counting technicque. Every 6 characters = one word]. I think the requirement is 7,500. I try not to think about this piece of mine. It'll need a rewrite before I even consider showing it around). Longer pieces (::brushes off monocle::) don't agree with me, I lose interest and it gets kind of shakey after a while. I'm sticking to short stories and poems... at least until summer. I think I might take a crack at a short novel.

I hate when you come up with a really good idea and then see it next week on the telly. One I also wrote this short story (it had kind of a boogeyman concept. Monster under the bed thing.) and I showed it to this friend of mine who's a really good writer (We show each other projects and are in an informal writing workshop) and then 2 months later, he subconsciously copied much of my story. He used pretty much the same beginning. Though the words used were different, you could easily compare it paragraph by paragraph. We both submitted it to the same school literary magazine. Both got accepted. It wasn't until he reread mine and then his that he realized they were so similiar. He came up to me and apologized. He honestly forgot about my piece, but apparently it stuck with him subconciously.

<snip>

Hey An archy, im from Louisville too. What part are you in?

[snip]

Optimism Despite My Lost Hat
One morning,
Without any warning,
I lost the hat for my head's adorning.
I must admit that I had cried,
When at first I stepped outside,
For, as the winter wind was breezing,
The fridged air was far too freezing.
All that day may head felt nude.
I was in an aweful mood.
So at the end of that bad day,
Though my hat was not there,
At the least, I still could say,
"I did not get hat hair."
*Laughs.*

Right now I live in J-Town but I'm moving downtown in a few days. Also, I'm going to Northern Kentucky Univerity next semester, so I'll have to move up there.

Right now I live in J-Town but I'm moving downtown in a few days.

I live in middletown. I have some friends in j-town; my bro and sis used to live there also. Oh, i have a lot of friends at Northern, I go to Western right now.

[QUOTE=Zotona](1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


(1) yes
(2) Short storys and poetry mostly
(3) about three times a week
(4) I just get to the point where i have to right for fear of losing a good idea and after I finish I go back and change it till i am completly satisfied (unfortunatley I never think somthing is finished 100%)
(5) Finding time to write
(6) no
(7)yup
(8) no, never sent any work in
(9) if you have an idea write down.
(10) i know now that i strayed from the path
i should have known this life could not last
and as i look back into my past
and see the dream that slipped through my fingers
I would have traded a life glory and fame
For a simple life ripe with grief and pain
I sold my freedom i sold my soul
signed away on the dotted line
A sillohette against the crooked sky
this contract has expired
leaving one last moment of peace before i die

(1) yes
(2) Short storys and poetry mostly
(3) about three times a week
(4) I just get to the point where i have to right for fear of losing a good idea and after I finish I go back and change it till i am completly satisfied (unfortunatley I never think somthing is finished 100%)
(5) Finding time to write
(6) no
(7)yup
(8) no, never sent any work in
(9) if you have an idea write down.
(10) i know now that i strayed from the path
i should have known this life could not last
and as i look back into my past
and see the dream that slipped through my fingers
I would have traded a life glory and fame
For a simple life ripe with grief and pain
I sold my freedom i sold my soul
signed away on the dotted line
A sillohette against the crooked sky
this contract has expired
leaving one last moment of peace before i die
I like it. :)

another one of mine :)


Deception is the game of life,
Needed to grease the cogs of greed;
Children brought up to know no better
And hence we continue our strife.

Political, philosophical – ethical questions too,
We muse on our own shortcomings;
But brought down to a choice, a moment,
Nothing can quench the greed within you.

So many choices, ambitions and possibilities.
To get to the top we can cheat, lie and deceive
But if our lives are indeed so quick to pass,
Does it matter which we choose of any path?

Human Beings are we all
With the same needs and feelings,
There is no need to ‘win’ – life is not a race;
When we realise this, finally a new day will dawn.



Jan 05

(1) Do you write?
Yes

(2) What do you write?
Poetry, articles for my weekly paper

(3) How often do you write?
Everyday when you also count my journal and my blogs

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
Usually at night, when it's quiet except for my music or my TV

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
Titling my poems and articles. I don't know why, but that can be hard for me.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
No, i don't draw and i don't think it would necessarily add anything to my work.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Always

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Yes. I have self-published two books of poetry entitled Through My Eyes and Misguided Angels. I have also had other poems published in various anthologies and i have articles published virtually every week in the paper i write for now. I also wrote for my local daily paper. One of my poems is in the process of being turned into a short film, as will another one.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?

Tips: Just write what you know and write how you feel, all true art comes from within.

Resource links:http://www.authorhouse.com/ This is the publishing company that published Misguided Angels. If you want to check it out go to http://www.1stbooks.com/bookview/19706

http://www.watermarkbooks.com/press.html This is the company that published Through My Eyes

http:www.poetry.com The on-line site for the National Library of Poetry, which has published various poems of mine in their anthologies


(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
Here are a couple of poems i wrote recently

Modern Day Cain and Abel

As cold and gray as a Rupert rain
I feel the touch of your human stain
I can't watch the smell of you off my skin
Or claw my way through this living sin

You are my weakness, my cross to bare
Burdening me with your empty prayers
Your very existence is my bane
I the Abel to your Cain

Don't

Don't take the label you're given but the one that you've earned
Don't just scatter the ashes of the bridges you've burned
Don't pick the battles that aren't worth the fight
Don't expect to find gray when you only see black and white

Don't pick at your scars just to know you're alive
Don't stand on the shoreline and wait for your ship to arrive
Don't ask for the truth if all you believe are the lies
Don't offer me love when all you have are goodbyes

Just a note, in that first poem, Rupert refers to my town of Prince Rupert. It rains here a lot, it becomes a part of you when you grow up here.

Don't

Don't take the label you're given but the one that you've earned
Don't just scatter the ashes of the bridges you've burned
Don't pick the battles that aren't worth the fight
Don't expect to find gray when you only see black and white

Don't pick at your scars just to know you're alive
Don't stand on the shoreline and wait for your ship to arrive
Don't ask for the truth if all you believe are the lies
Don't offer me love when all you have are goodbyes
dude, that rocks. i love the flow - i say that would make an excellent chorus for a metal song ;)

lol...thanks :)

(1) Do you write?
When I can, yeah. I expect to do so a lot this summer.

(2) What do you write?
Short stories, poetry, essays, the occasional lyrics, oh, and I wrote an 83 page novella once.

(3) How often do you write?
Whenever I can, which isn't much at the moment.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
Up all night until I'm pretty much typing with my eyes closed.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
I'm known for having problems with getting in filler between plot points.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
Nah, I'm terrible at drawing. I've done some okay stick flash animations though...off topic.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Yeah, with the novella.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Unfortunately, I was twelve at the time of writing, and being that young without an agent was a huge disadvantage as I was about to discover.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
If you're having problems writing something, just try and get down the first few sentences, the rest tends to follow easily so long as you actually want to be writing it..

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
Not really, most of the stuff was only good for my age. I post 5-page long updates at my site (http://www.ttllyrndm.net/) about once a week, but at the moment anyways they're closer to blog entries than interesting essays. I intend to actually start posting real writing there this summer.

(1) Do you write?
Of course! I am DFD, I love to write!

(2) What do you write?
Well, here, I mainly RP. *cough and hides from everyone in General* In my free time, I write short stories and the story of my life when not posting my tabs.

(3) How often do you write?
A LOT......that is when I am not depressed.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
I throw in a song that fits my current mood and let the words come from my head. I barely think at all about what I am posting.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
I screw up tenses a lot. *gasps*

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
No, not really.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Sometimes, and for a certain thing I am working on, yes.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Can't say I have.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
NONE! YOU GET NONE! YOU DIE!

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
Not at the moment, but if you join one of my RP's you will see for yourself my work.

:D

I want to play now too...dammit...(no pun intended)...But here's the thing-scripts take up space. And I don't write 'dazzle' scenes, they really have to all go together. Anyway...I'm going to split this into two posts and I haven't looked at this script in years and I don't want to post a scene from a recent play for reasons that would end up on it's own post...Anyway...oh, and I don't think this is the version that my editor/proofreader has gone over so...

(The Beach, SHELL walks up from having worked at the sand castle, JASON enters with his drawing pad)

SHELL
Mr Angelo!

JASON
Michelangelo is one name.

SHELL
I know, but Mr. Angelo sounded kinda funny. Where ya been man?

JASON
I started teaching at a day care.

SHELL
Teaching at a day care?

JASON
They have instruction at day cares.

SHELL
What, you gonna teach ‘em those little stories....you know, with that shit at the end...

JASON
Fables.

SHELL
Yeah, like make friends with brick laying ants or whatever...

JASON
I don’t think we read the same fables...

SHELL
Sure, the ant and the-what-the, uh

JASON
Grasshopper.

SHELL
Right. The grasshopper spends his summer fucking around and the ant spends his stock pilling. Come winter the grasshopper is cold and hungry so he kicks it with the ant all winter.

JASON
I don’t think that was...

SHELL
Sure-the grasshopper gets shelter for the winter and a bitchin’ summer. Just like the pigs.

JASON
You’re kidding.

SHELL
No, first two pigs build straw and wood houses-buddy builds the brick one where they hide out when the big bad wolf comes along-in the mean time...

JASON
In the mean time...

SHELL
They get a bitchin’ summer....You know I was left to inturpret this stuff on my own, but that more or less seems right...

JASON
I don’t think I’ll be teaching that...

SHELL
At the day care.

JASON
(with a little frustration)Yes, the day care.

SHELL
Sorry, it just seems a little off track...I mean you don’t need a degree for that...

JASON
Well, maybe I’m not on the right track.

SHELL
What?

JASON
Nothing. What are you doing out here?

SHELL
Repairing the sand castle.

JASON
Something happen to it?

SHELL
Just time. Have you seen Corr...?

continues...

continues-


JASON
Yeah, she told me about the, uh...

SHELL
NNNNN!...I’ve been trying not to think about it.

JASON
Sorry, but you knew something like this had to happen...

SHELL
No I didn’t. That’s how blind optimism and blissful ignorance work. Anyway, she’s normally the stable one.

JASON
Have you ever thought about what your gonna do if she gets a real boyfriend?

SHELL
Its never really come up.

JASON
Its going to have to eventually. Why haven’t you...

SHELL
If I tell you my theory, will you leave me to my work?

JASON
All right.

SHELL
Okay. Here, hold this...(hands JASON his bucket and tools, then sits down and starts to take off his shoes) Ever watch game shows as a kid?

JASON
Well, yeah.

SHELL
Remember that show, Let’s Make a Deal?

JASON
Yeah-the contestants all dressed like idiots...tried to get the hosts attention...

SHELL
(Starts tapping his shoe as if it where a pipe he was clearing)Right, Monty Hall. He’d dole out some reward to some dude in a bunny suit or something and then ask if they wanted to trade that for something cooler...

JASON
The doors...

SHELL
That was supposed to be the trick, right? In your hand you have a pretty cool prize-but you could give all that up for whatever was behind the doors...that could be like a new car or...

JASON
...or a donkey or something, right?

SHELL
Right. So you see my point?

JASON
What? No...

SHELL
Dammit. (starts to put on a shoe) Look, you could either keep the pretty cool prize...or you say something and go for door number three and you wind up with a car or a jackass...I want a car, but I can be a jackass on my own without losing my cool prize...

I like it. :)


Thanks its to bad my mom through out my writing folder :sniper: . I could only salvage a few poems and stories. :confused:

I write graphic novels. Just a fun hobby.

Thanks its to bad my mom through out my writing folder . I could only salvage a few poems and stories.


My mom's been trying to throw away my writing boxes (Hahahaha... folders...I have 2 boxes, 5 notebooks, 1 accordian binder, 2-3 regular binders. Inside the binders there are overstuffed folders. Some projects I have multiple copies though - each with slight changes and stuff). She hasn't gone through with it because she knows how much they mean to me. She would perfer it if I organized it... which I really can't do becuase my of ADD (it's a great scapegoat, by the way. No, it really is my fault that it got,... the way it is, and my ADD isn't really helping me organize it). I plan to do it this summer, I guess... :(

Do you write? all the time
What do you write? anything and everything, well not too good at songs... although i guess poetry could really be songs...
How often do you write? whenever i can
How do you find yourself writing your best work? if i'm bored or if something big has just happened in my life i get inspired and i spew ideas
What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? finishing it
Do you like to illustrate your work? i have a friend that loves to draw, she's drawn a character or 2 for me before
Have you ever considered being published? all the time
Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? submitted a story and a poem to chicken soup recently, haven't heard back
What tips/resource links to have for other writers? edit!!! find friends that can edit good Fictionpress (http://www.fictionpress.com) or Fanfiction (http://www.fanfiction.net) are amazing sites for posting work, they are the 2 i use, i don't have much on fanfiction, if anything, but fictionpress i have quite a bit
Do you have any work you'd like to share here? sure, why not, i love sharing my work, it's always fun to see what people think

Heart Left a Hole
My heart was left a hole,
When all the love did fade.
The holoe does slowly fill,
The new love does aid.

The whole is filling faster,
As every day does pass.
I feel my strength return,
The love does amass.

please feel free to comment on it if you would like

My Writing (http://www.fictionpress.com/~darkangel29)
This is the site I post all my stuff on, some of it is weird but I've heard some pretty good things about some of it

_________________________________________________________________
I'm an Atheist Goddess
Hecate

I wrote this back in late March and had no idea what it meant or what it was about, and I didn't even like it too much. A couple days later the Pope dies, and I'm like "huh, that's weird." and I knew what it was primarily about. Tell me what you think.

The Only Judge

The Judge sits before Him, alone,
Prepared to deliver his verdict.
For countless days the Man has stood,
At the feet of the Judge,
Begging only for his forgiveness.

The eyes of the Judge (for this is all He sees)
Remain soft, cold, fixed on Him.
They pry into His mind, His thoughts,
His heart.
He feels as though the Judge knows Him.

A meager smile, A sign of life.
The Judge stirs from his seat,
And the Man follows his predeccesor.
To the Gates the Judge paces,
Striding, as though proud.

The statues at the Gates speak to him,
Using words, yet not making a sound.
He knows not to worry.
At last he’s found home;
Inside the Gates.

Oops. I forgot to do this one. My answers in italics.

(1) Do you write? When I feel like I need to write something, I write it.
(2) What do you write? Poetry, some short stories, and I'm working on 2 novels.
(3) How often do you write? When I feel like something needs to be written.
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Depends.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? Especially with poetry, I'm vague about the subject, but descriptive about settings, etc.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Not usually. If I feel like it I might.
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Not that it will ever happen, but yes, many times.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? I've never attempted to, so no.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? Write what's on your mind. Seriously, try it.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? See above. Not my best, but maybe I'll post more.

I'm a different sort of writer. I'm Christian, I'm a republican, and there's not too many conservative writers out there. Oh, and I'm not nearly as angsty as most teenage/ depressed writers. I don't consider myself good, or even great, I just write cause I feel certain things need to be written.

About my poetry, it almost never rhymes, because it doesn't have to.

:eek: Wow... these are out of my league... *cheers up.* Well, I am only in my teenage years. :D

Heh, that aint no excuse. ;)

The ones I linked in my post before were written in my early to mid teens. Haven't written much in the way of poetry lately.

Heh, that aint no excuse. ;)

The ones I linked in my post before were written in my early to mid teens. Haven't written much in the way of poetry lately.
damn straight... i was gonna be nice and omit this, but i wrote the ones Zotona was replying to when i was 16/17 :cool: :D

(1) Do you write? Oh yes. Definitely YES.
(2) What do you write? Poetry. I have lots of short stories in my head, B\but I haven't written any of them down in a while. I'm working on a novel wioth my best friend. And essays and such crap for school.
(3) How often do you write? Every day
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work? Late at night.
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing? I'm really straight to the point. My short stories are REALLY short, and my essays for school are rarely long enough.
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work? Nah, my artwork sucks.
(7) Have you ever considered being published? Of course.
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published? Other than in my school's Lit Mag, no.
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers? I like fanfiction.net. Tips, hmm.... Keep everything you write. I don't care how bad it is, it always comes in handy.
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? Yes, but I'm too tired right now. Maube later.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
.[/SIZE]

1. Yes, I couldnt live without writing!
2. short stories, novels, poems, scripts,.... everything!
3. as often as i can... but that's not too often...
4. on a laptop at a library surrounded by the works of others
5. sticking to one story; i jump around a lot and never finish them
6. yes!!! i love it! but i can only draw anime-style and some stories just dont work with anime...
7. oooh all the time! it's my dream!!!
8. naw... cept in my school newspaper and yearbook... but that doesnt count.
9. uh... one tip: NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER GIVE UP! XD
10. uh naw... but thanbks for asking! :)

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

(1) yes
(2) stories
(3) very often
(4) in my library or study
(5) organisation
(6) yes very much so
(7) many a time
(8) no
(9) none really...just keep at it
(10)....no...sorry

(1) Do you write?

Yes, prolifically

(2) What do you write?

Fiction, Fanfiction, poetry. Even a song or two.

(3) How often do you write?

Almost every day.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?

When I can engage my own emotions for the scene i'm trying to depict. If I can make myself feel something, then I believe I have a good chance of making someone else feel something.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?

Actually putting the words to paper. I've occasionally thought i'd be happier in a visual medium than the written word. The images are so clear in my head, but actually putting them to paper is often a problem.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?

I have no talent for artistry like that. The best I can do is plead with my various graphically inclined friends to make banners for me.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?

Assuming I could find someone who wanted to publish what I wrote, yes.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?

If you consider fanzines publishing, yes.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?

None really. It isn't a matter to me, of what I tell someone to do. If you have a story to tell, go out, and write it down. Sometimes it will work, and sometimes it won't, but you are going to have to do it yourself.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

I'm not sure. My fiction won't be published online, and i'm really not sure anyone here has any great interest in the topics i've written about. it is my first post after all, and it's not as if I know anyone here.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?

1) Yes, frequently.
2) Posts on NationStates (;)), but I have been involved in RP threads on other sites. I also write poetry, and have published some short stories (and gotten paid for them).
3) Just about every day for NationStates, when I have time for everything else, and when I am extremely emotional about something for poetry.
4) When I am in the 'zone' and it just comes pouring out of me as if I am merely a conduit... of course it needs editing later, too, but I can usually tell when I'm typing without a break that it's good stuff.
5) I never seem to have time enough to write all I want to.
6) Not usually; my words are illustration enough.
7) Yes, and have been.
8) See above.
9) Writer's Digest Magazine is one of the best resources you can possibly have.
10) Not really; I don't particularly want to lose my anonymity.

This thread needed ressurection! :D

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


1.Yea
2.Every day
3.Short stories, Music, and Lyrics
4.Tired and disoriented
5.Running out of ideas
6.No
7.No
8.No
9.No(Get your own!)
10.Sure! I'll post the first dozen pages from a short story that is in progress at the moment. It's on my laptop, so I'll put it up tonight.

(1) Do you write?
(2) What do you write?
(3) How often do you write?
(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
(7) Have you ever considered being published?
(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?


I like to write...a little. Short stories, some poems. I usually write best when I'm depressed or feeling romantical. The biggest problem I have is that I write very personal stuff. I don't usually share it. Can't draw worth a lick. Have considered publishing, but I feel artists that sell their stuff are kind of whoring out little pieces of themselves. No suggestions, I kinda write on instinct. Might share some, if I can find something a little more suitable.

(1) Do you write?
Far too much...

(2) What do you write?
Anything I can. I've tried my hand at short stories, slightly longer stories, critical analysis, political commentary, religious proclamations, news reports, sports reports.... Most of my work is published daily or more than daily on my blog: http://binnsyshovel.blogspot.com/ ... Other than that I have written lots of stuff for school, naturally, some of which was good, and some, not so good.

(3) How often do you write?
I try to write something everyday, as much or as little as I can, usually on my blog.

(4) How do you find yourself writing your best work?
When the flow of ideas is continuous, when I can feel myself integrating imagery, themes and character flawlessly. Usually it's when I have no control over what I'm writing, or ultimate control... when everything just comes naturally. Sounds cliched, but I think it's true.

(5) What's the biggest problem you have with your writing?
For school stuff I have a big problem with word counts and the pressure of exams. For longer, non-school works it's usually maintaining a flow of ideas, or coming up with them in the first place.

(6) Do you like to illustrate your work?
If I can, yeah, I'll try anything.

(7) Have you ever considered being published?
Dreamt of, yes.

(8) Have you ever suceeded in having your work published?
Apart from on my blog, no.

(9) What tips/resource links to have for other writers?
If you think something is good, keep going. Don't let anybody stop you. Writing is a gift, something that can excite, comfort, enthrall... if you feel you need to write, you need to write! Two great sites are http://www.luminarium.org for poetry and essays, and http://www.classicreader.com/ for short stories.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here?
I could share the first few paragraphs of my major work for final year English... here goes:

It was clear to me from the first time I met him that Mr Kingsley was a rare type of man. In a world which places men far superior to women, it seemed bizarre to me to find a man willing to serve and protect me as though he was a subservient being. That said, Mr Kingsley was a perfect gentleman, with a refined sense of taste and an air of class that would rival most of the Seventh Legion.
Our first meeting was a nondescript occasion, almost not worthy of mention; yet it was our meeting nonetheless, and as such makes it an essential addition to my tale. Mr Kingsley was travelling between his lodging in Oxford and his family’s estate in the Downs. I myself was travelling southward to visit my uncle in Salisbury. I had made this trip many times, and it was three days by train, with two overnight stops. The first was in Cricklade, the second in Ludgershall.
My accommodation for this particular sojourn was the Ludgershall Inn. A small, unassuming cottage not far from where the railway line crossed the road on the southeast corner of town. My wagoner had left me with minimal luggage, which he promptly disposed of once my lodgings were paid for. As such, the night air had quite a crispness to it, and I was left without any shawl or overcoat with which to repel the chill. The wagoner bade me farewell and departed to stay with distant cousins on the opposite side of town.
I took up a seat by the window, away from the amiable chatter of the modest number of patrons. The open shutters permitted the cool breeze to cascade over me, and I took to hunching over the table to keep out the unwelcome night damp.
I vaguely perceived the door open on the far side of the tavern, and heard soft footfalls echo around the near-empty space. The source of the sounds stopped at the bar for a time and then, as I looked out the window, they resumed. They became more and more audible and as I turned a final heel clipped on the wooden floor. I looked up and beheld a young man, the best part of twenty-three, with a fresh countenance and polite smile. At my gazing he said:
‘Pardon me, milady, but I have been without decent company for the past few days. You are shivering, and if you’ll impart me a chair and some conversation, I’ll gladly surrender my overcoat and a glass of whiskey.’

And now I'm writing a little something that is not allowed on this forum

And now I'm writing a little something that is not allowed on this forum
That's what my problem is...Like the Peeches and Goddess story. :D
But I do have a couple.

Succubus
I sit and stare at your sweet face.
The flush of your cheeks, the lure of your eyes.
Your body has haunted me for weeks, tantalizing
I reach out in the night for you and nothing...
You are truly a succubus, tormenting me, punishing me
How do I stop what I cannot find?
Somewhere deep inside you hide
Under my skin I can feel your itch.
I scratch you shift
I scratch again, I hear your laughter in my ear.
I scratch again, and my body flames with desire.
I am given over to my passions
All the while your voice giggles in my head
I am given over to it.
I am yours to command.

(10) Do you have any work you'd like to share here? I have shared work here in the past. I recently completed a poem that I will eventually post here.

Don't know if anyone cares or not, but here it is:


First, this poem is dedicated to our Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ His Son.

Second, this is dedicated in loving memory to Karen Whiteside. I started this when she was still with us here and promised I'd finish it for her. She encouraged me to complete it and her faith inspired parts of it as well. My friend, I will share this with you in Heaven someday...

‘I AM’ From the First Letter to the Last

Alpha and omega is our God
Amazing grace that walked this cold sod
Above all things He made
All powerful He stayed
Attending to our deepest need
Atonement blood for us He’d bleed
A top a hill He’d climb a tree
And give His life for you and me

Bruised for our transgressions so unfair
Betrayed by one who professed to care
Brave to the bitter end
Broken because we sinned
Blessing us with divine favor
Bereaved of love was the Savior
Benight His light, evil could not
Behold this Light by us now sought

Christ is now and evermore the same
Clarion sing out His holy name
Clap your hands! Shout for joy!
Claim the prize, Heaven’s Boy.
Champion of my soul’s delight
Chaste love from my heart You insight
Corner Stone of a temple rare
Captain of angelic hosts fare

Divine Lawgiver on Sinai spoke
Decalogue given mid clouds and smoke
Death to all who transgress
Destruction it’s redress
Death cup when drunk apart from grace
Delight of life with God’s embrace
Disabling the tempter’s snares
Directing the life midst its cares

Ebenezer written on two stones
Enseigne that guards our flesh and bones
Ectopic by our sin
Encompassing all men
Engendered with holiness pure
Embraced by all who would endure
Enjoined on us no matter place
Enabled to keep it by His grace

Formulary by divine love giv’n
Facund with love it’s precepts written
Falderal to the world
Faith in His own furled
Fait accompli by God’s own Son
Fathomless victory He won
Filching from Satan death’s cruel claim
Freeing us all in Jesus name

Gabriel, himself, announced the news
Give given to us, now let us choose
Give Him all in return
Gentle love in Him Learn
Grace upon grace to us abounds
Grateful our praise to Him resounds
Grand joy for which we raise our song
Greeting Him to whom we belong

His love and law in which we delight
Help guide our steps with a holy light
Hallowed ground we now trod
Hosanna to our God
Heaven’s beautiful sacrifice
Heirs of this world He’s made us twice
Honor and praise to Him we bring
Hail our God, Savior and King

Invincible God now in us lives
Immeasurable life to us gives
Immured in His great love
Issued His Holy Dove
Impassioned, in Him we now strive
Into His endless grace we dive
In Christ’s life the Father we saw
Inscribed on our hearts He, His law

Jehovah hallowed in days of old
Joined to Him now, His glory behold
Joy to Him expressing
Jacobean blessing
Jaded not by this world so dark
Jailed not by it’s Beast’s cold mark
Jibed not by winds of worldly care
Jilting not His cross that we bare

Kingly burden with Him we now share
Keeping love for those now unaware
Knowing the Day draws near
Kindling hope, not fear
Kindly seeking the hearts of all
Kindred spirits seeking to call
Kneeling at His feet we sigh
Kyrie Eleison cry

Lift us up to Heaven’s royal throne
Let Your heart’s passion become our own
Liken us to Your Son
Lamb with us now make one
Led on by Him our Prince of Peace
Love sets us free. Oh! Sweet release
Lame will leap, and the dumb will sing
Light of Life, to You, all we bring

Magnetic God of love we do serve
Magnificence in You we observe
Maker to Whom we bow
Meet we before You now
Mindful not of rank or station
Multitudes from every nation
Melding songs of true devotion
Mincing not our deep emotion

Nigh unto us now, dear God, we plead
Nearer ever to our Savior lead
Ne’er from us turn away
Nor let us from Thee stray
Naught of our own can we supply
Now with Your own love we reply
Needing only that which You give
Nointed by Your Spirit we live

Obdurate once, made so by our sins
Obliging service Your love begins
Obedient to You
Observing all that’s true
Oblation and praise to Him bring
Offering all to God we cling
Once separated by our sins night
Onward led by His guiding Light

Pining to be ever closer to Thee
Praising the God who hung on a tree
Plunge us beneath the flood
Propitiating blood
Poetic love and honor bring
Potentate of all now crown King
Proclaiming now You are our God
Professing that You are no fraud

Quantifying You cannot be done
Questing, yet, are we to know Your Son
Quick to praise our Savior
Quietude we favor
Quickened to serve by Your Son’s light
Quelled not by sin’s dark, lonely night
Quite certain that the end is near
Quitting not, nor swayed by our fear

Redeemer, God will see us through it
Radiant with peace from Jesus lit
Rags we were, now washed clean
Rampant love in us seen
Resplendent Glory reflected
Relying on love perfected
Resounding salvation’s story
Returning to God the glory

Shout to the Lord, let all the earth sing
Sound His praises. Let hosannas ring
Savior, in You we joy
Saints surround Heaven’s Roy
Sin and Death destroyed forever
Songs ring out as we voice together
Salvation’s story with one voice
Singing to all, Christ is our choice

Truth and justice and righteousness Yours
Trusting in You, who my heart adores
Teach my soul of Your love
Train my steps by Your Dove
Trading sinful rags for Christ’s robe
Taught to have faith like that of Job
Thoughts shaped for heavenly places
Truly prepared by Your Graces

Unfathomable gifts You’ve given
Unworthy hearts to praise You driven
Unwanted now by some
Unto You now we come
Unearth in us Heaven’s own Sun
Unchained from sin, this race we run
Unfettered joy know by too few
Unbounded love poured out to You

Verily let our songs now resound
Vibrant with the joy of Grace we’ve found
Villain of earth now chained
Vanquished by Hands blood stained
Vine graft by Christ now completed
‘Vicar of Christ’ not now needed
Verified as God’s own children
Victorious truth we’re given

Wonder, Oh! Wonder of Divine grace
Water and blood flowing in my place
Why does this world not see
What You have given free
Whispers of awe and prayers we bring
With haste to Jesus Christ our King
While awaiting His soon return
We, with anticipation churn

Xeno-currancy of love poured out
Xerographic love in us don’t flout
Xmas gift from Heaven
Xerox of His leaven
Xenolithic Corner Stone now
Xenophobes even to You bow
Xebec we take to realms above
Xiphoid Word we hold fast with love

Yesterday, today and tomorrow
You’re there through every joy and sorrow
Yes! Our answer to You
Yielding all we do
Yet, truly free are we in thee
You’ve buried our sins in the sea
Yen and Desire of Nations
You stand above all our stations

Zither and zufolo play for You
Zealously, we lift our voices too
Zoetic breath divine
Zest placed within ‘twas Thine
Zeitgeist Creator eternal
Zetetic pursuit supernal
Zenith of all, let’s praise together
Zion’s King reigns now and ever!

Amen

Yes i write.

I am 4 chapters into writing a SCI-FI novel Called SilverStream. Hope for it to be finished by Christmas.