How To WriteAbstract: an analytical approach to plotting and writing fiction upwards of 1,000 wordsHow To Write8 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Acknowledgements: the potentially amazing Rachel (:devifrozenspiriti:) served as guinea pig to this; go and tell her to finish the product of that experiment, because you'll love it. Chris Widdison (:devtearstone:) approached me indecently with the idea of writing a longer essay (which will still happen, and be a lot more purdy than this here thing), which would incorporate this essay in another form, amongst others. He doesn't need to read any of this, because he already knows it all.
Target audience: young, inexperienced writers, especially those that
The Importance of Being FrankThe Importance of Being Frank8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The Importance Of Being Frank
At the end of this story, a Frenchman will be eaten by African driver ants.
* * *
Silvie closed the stall door behind her; she closed it timidly, with an empty expression on her face. Her hand shook. She paused for a moment, her mouth half open, her lip curled upward, and a frown on her forehead.
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—The Expected Part 1 of 49 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This is a walnut.
The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.
This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.
This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip,
2nd person fiction and YouYou like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.2nd person fiction and You2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.
Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
A new approach to favouritesA new approach to favourites8 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
A rough outline of networked, similarity-of-taste based rating in the context of a deviantART-like site
This is a very long essay (8190 words), starting out from such philosophical concepts of what is art and what is taste, detailing (and I mean detail) a completely revolutionary approach to restructuring the concept of favourites in an art community such as dA, and finishing in a lot of technical details concerning this implementation.
All this was written with deviantART in mind; I intend to post it there, but I might publish it elsewhere as well. deviantART can be found at www.deviantART.com and is possibly the biggest art commu
The Resurrected Part 4 of 4—The Resurrected—The Resurrected Part 4 of 49 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
In a place without time, close to 2005 AD
He makes a telephone in another place ring. He waits. Someone picks up.
"Hello Jacob, it's good to hear your voice."
Someone moves by, someone at a stage where it is hard to tell whether they are someone or something. It, whatever it is, wails and complains. He covers the mouthpiece of the receiver. Then continues.
"You sound tired, exhausted. I am sorry that I had to disturb you in your sleep."
"What with my funeral, yes."
The other end asks a question after a long silence.
"Not so good, Jacob. You have to help me. This place where I am has no sun."
* * *
Draw me as I amDraw me as I am8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
When I was younger I thought death was an end, but now I think it is a process. I see this in the conversion of mourner's black to a trite fashion statement, in wisdom replaced by progress. It is a searching in the sand for words that might save you, while stones fall and understanding departs. It is knowing that most of my grandchildren's generation will not recognise the reference to which I allude, let alone its significance.
The gas heater flickers; orange light beneath plastic coals provides a comforting illusion. No more cinders, no more black dust coating every surface. I suppose I should be grateful.
On the television a man grins in
Oratories and Laboratories...Oratories and Laboratories...9 years ago in General More Like This
A Rebuilt Life
I. A tale of the illegal, the illicit, the illogical
Oratory In the Laboratory - Part 2
"Oh no, Inspector, don't be deceived; that most redolent and pestiferous plague known as 'death' remains irrefutable, life is irretrievable, just as we-" a glance askance to the burgundy-blood-stained lab coat worn by the newly-dead instigated a painful pronoun change, "or rather I, stand before you irredeemable. I embalmed whilst he imbued, an atmosphere imbibed, till catastrophe ensued. The sepulchral saturnine expression frozen to her face became something altogether more morbid." Kneeling, he placed an outstretched palm against the st
The Unexpected Part 2 of 4—The Unexpected—The Unexpected Part 2 of 49 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
A decorative hardened-clay magnolia blossom, with the number 82 artfully worked into it, surrounded the door bell. Jessica pressed the yellow button and waited.
The exterior of the house was painted in an obnoxiously happy pink hue. The small garden surrounding the path from the fence to the door lay in a desolate state of disregard. Jessica checked the small piece of paper in her hand once more and then, shrugging her shoulders, crumpled it and replaced it into the hip pocket of her jeans.
"Who is it?" demanded a voice with a thick Russian accent through the door.
"Sergei Vasiliyevich Avdeyev?"
"Dat is highly u
The Corrected Part 3 of 4—The Corrected—The Corrected Part 3 of 49 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"And it's 10:31pm. We have an update concerning the strange ball lightning sighted earlier today and how we believe it's connected to the storm. On that note, water levels—"
Jacob turned off the radio and unlocked the passenger side door.
"Get in! God, it's pouring."
Paul climbed in and instantly turned around to look out through the rear window.
"So, what's up? What can I—" Jacob began.
"Drive. Please. It doesn't matter where."
The rain pattered down on the plastic of Jacob's blinker, which now rhythmically informed no one else but the rain of Jacob's intention to rejoin the non-existent traffic.
paper-thinThe following story is a work of fiction. All events and inhabitants are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or supernatural, is entirely coincidental. Take my word for it: it's all made up. Never mind what the story says.paper-thin8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
ACT I; Scene 1
This is a true story. I have recorded everything as it happened and have neither added nor removed anything.
We open upon an opened home: imagine an apartment building minus the fašade, like a doll-house, its rooms exposed for the divine female from beyond to reach inside and pose its plastic inhabitants in humorous situations. We do not see the little girl pla
Sunflower FluxSunflower Flux9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
He played hard this month: She played well this month:
Mortgages prefixed sales Chlorophyll quotas left in the wake
and rows of steadfast hotels, of cushioned lovers and tickling tiny noses
plastic monuments saluting a gaudy cannon A row of gently dandling milk
flashing jail-cell smirks warmed by the notion of a golden god
as his firing squad gained two more guns. as they dawdled from nap to nap.
They scratched his name into a plaque,
Bound to WoodBound to WoodBound to Wood8 years ago in Transgressive More Like This
He'd been doing a lot of that lately. When you are in quite a lot of pain, first you scream, then you cry, then you shiver. So shivering was nothing new to him at this point, but the little girl was.
When she ran her tiny fingertips along his exposed flank, his first thought was that it must have been a drop of sweat running down his side, or maybe a drop of blood. Then he remembered he was no longer upright: he was lying flat on his back, hands and feet bound to wood.
It seemed to him that his body could no longer distinguish between pain and any other type of sensation; where her tiny fingers should have
On submitting proseOn submitting prose8 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
Okay. So you've written something. Part of a story perhaps, or a description. A prologue or a novel chapter. You want to post it as a deviation on dA.
You want comments? You want people to take your writing seriously?
Show us you take your writing seriously then.
1. Proofing and Polishing.
If you apply for a job and your CV is full of typos, spelling mistakes and poorly worded sentences, you won't get the job. Your application will go in the bin.
Most people on dA don't know you. If they randomly find your work and it looks like you dashed it off, wrote it between lessons, and submitted it just as it is, most people won't b
How to Write a StoryHow to Write a StoryHow to Write a Story7 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
For all you aspiring young authors, and even old pros, who are looking for a way to improve your skills, this is for you. In this manual I'm relying on my own experience as an author and as an avid reader. First I'll start with the five major problems faced by most authors.
1. Writing a Beginning. The most remembered part of a story is the beginning and the end. The beginning sets the mood for the rest of the story. If you start off on the wrong foot, readers might just put your story down and look for a different one.
2. Writing an Ending. For a reader, the ending of a good book is an action-packed
Voices... For and About KidsVoices in Writing For and About KidsVoices... For and About Kids5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Well, the title of this piece promises a guide to writing for and about kids. This is an all-encompassing phrase that, I hope, will grab anybody who wants to write for or about any characters between the ages of about nought and eighteen. So, is this the part where I reveal that this guide is actually more limited than that? No it is not! At least, I have done my very best to cater to all possible needs, with the following handy headings:
Issues and Obstacles
The Voice of the Child: Advice on Writing Dialogue
Childrens Literature and the Narrative Voice
Young Adult Fict
drowning out westdrowning out west9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It has not been so bad here -- warmer than home and they call the place differently than we do. You know how we always said Mizzery?
They call it Mizzera.
Auntie J and Uncle Agner have made the attic comfortable for me. From my window I can see hills fattening in the distance and the river veins away from them -- winds right through the pasture.
Tell mother I wear the cardigan she crocheted and no one can tell yet. Auntie looks hard, cause she knows I should be blowing up, but she's disappointed. She tells me eat right cause she wants her new baby healthy and she heaps enough food for two grown-ups on my plate; I eat as
Annie Comes Home to RufusAnnie Comes Home to Rufus9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Annie tumbles from the car
and onto the driveway.
I watch from behind the curtains
as Mother and Father trudge behind,
dragging duffles full of god-knows-what
(sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars
of bitter white pills and injections).
"Daddy – keys!" she cries,
and his mouth stretches, baring teeth
(he smiles, he thinks)
as he tosses a jingling cluster.
The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.
I hover in the kitchen –
I never know what to say.
She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.
"C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend
I'm happy to see her
Cthulhu's Night OutThere once was an outworldly horrorCthulhu's Night Out8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Who feasted on torture and sorrow
But one day every year
He ate chips and drank beer
And was spooky again come tomorrow.
Time, as a GodTime, as a God9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to know Time
as a man who tiptoes
between my eyes while I'm asleep,
wearing socks and walking softly,
trying not to disturb me;
a telephone call
from an ex-lover
where hanging up
is always an option,
despite the repercussions.
I want to know Time
as an alarm clock
that rings only when I want it to,
and willingly shuts off
at the touch of a button.
Or else I'd know it
as a garage sale, where I could
pick through items that interest me
and leave the rest to other strangers.
Instead, I know Time
as a fresh man in a suit,
who stands in front of me
with a nametag over his heart.
He always wants to shake my hand
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry3 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory a
How to write a novel - OldHow to write a novelHow to write a novel - Old6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
A crash-course by someone who's done it before and will do it again
Step one will be getting rid of all the "I can't write a novel because *something, something, blah, blah*"isms. Here's a short list of the most used ones and why they're lame:
I can't write a novel because I'm too busy.
Wrong - All human beings need rest - and I don't mean just sleep. Come on, admit it, you spend some time each day reading, watching TV, surfing the internet, et cetera. I'm not going to ask you to stop doing these things, I'm going to ask you to consider doing more than one thing at a time, and maybe cut down some of the time you spen
How to Write About VampiresHow to Write About VampiresHow to Write About Vampires5 years ago in Writing More Like This
There are a lot of stories out there about Vampires. But not too many of them make their characters touchable or human. The characters are usually so out of touch with their humanity that the reader really cannot connect with the character. That happens to be one of the main sticking points.
How can I make my Vampire more human?
Well for the Vampire, dont make them too into themselves. Vampires cannot see themselves in a mirror, so how can they be vain? Believe me, if you ever read any of the classic horror novels and do you see any vampire with the ability to see themselves in the