It's time to announce the winners of the Creative Nonfiction Contest!
Congrats to the following deviants:
3rd place goes to stardestroyr for her entry Cookies!
stardestroyr wins a 1-month sub from Community Relations, a button of her choice from Community Relations, and journal features from atrue, mode-de-vie, lefting, irrevocablefate, Miss-S-Bird, and book-reviews.
2nd place goes to LadyLouve for her entry Go Forward- A Five Day Holiday!
LadyLouve wins a 3-month sub from Community Relations, a t-shirt of her choice from Community Relations, and journal features from atrue, mode-de-vie, lefting, irrevocablefate, Miss-S-Bird, and book-re
Interview with conorschild
Aprils Question and Answer session kicks off with conorschild, (no joke!) a going on 3-year deviant, forum whore, and for the all intended educational purposes of this article, a writer.
How long have you been a writer, and what first got you started?
I don't think there's been any one thing that got me started as a writer. I've always loved books from an early and at primary school I enjoyed taking part in writing activities, but I don't think I started writing for my own enjoyment until I was around 13. That was around when i joined dA, I wrote mainly poetry then but I never felt it was very good. I branc
Ink Sessions have always been a successful and fun ProsePlease event. These online workshops are held in the #InkSessions Chatroom, created by ProsePlease. An Ink Session is basically, a set of organised informal activities created around a topic. The purpose of an Ink Session is to encourage meeting of writers and more importantly, literature-based discussion and development. All Ink Sessions are logged to provide a transcript for anyone unable to make it. And for the first time ever, Ink Sessions can now be run by ProsePlease members. If you're a member and interested in running a session, here's how.
Note: before noting the Club with your
Interview with lovetodeviate
This months ProsePlease Q&A features Aditi, better known to the literature community as lovetodeviate. A deviant since late 2004, Aditi has been a stand out in the literature community, pushing critique, and organising projects like Writers-Workshop and Advice for a Young Writer.
How long have you been a writer, and what first got you started?
I used to say that I started writing in the ninth grade when I was asked to write an essay and substantiate with quotes: I was too lazy to research, so I made up a poem and attributed it to some nondescript name, and my teacher bought it. Thats the
The Art of Refining Prose
Many writers dread the editing process. Not only does it delay the showcase of prose, it can seem a tedious and painstaking task. Often, editing is more time-consuming than the initial writing and consequently, it is either ignored altogether or briefly indulged. This is a great shame. Sincere editing not only proves a pleasurable experience but invaluable to prose, as this is a wonderful opportunity to buff, polish and tighten the impact of one's writing.
Some might argue that editing is not only unnecessary, but detrimental to the raw concept of ones inspiration. The answer to this is simple: se
Interview With Stjoan
Ali, StJoan, has been a deviant since August, 2004. In this issue of ProsePlease Q&A, this much beloved gallery director and prominent member of the literature community talks with us personally about some of her own prose. She shares with us some issues over writers block, editing, and some of her own personal favourites.
How long have you been writing for?
Ive been seriously writing for about nine years, well, seriously trying to write for that long.
Have you been writing longer than you've been in the DA community?
Oh yes. In fact a few deviants here Ive known for seven years or longer on other
Trouserpress, a twenty year old United Kingdom resident has been part of deviantART since 2004. However, like most others, he has been writing far before becoming a deviant. In this Questions and Answers session, this lover of all things strange and different spoke openly about his experiences as a writer.
How long have you been writing
Its difficult to say One of my earliest writing memories is of scrawling a short illustrated tale about a baboon that lived on a scone. I believe the majority of it was rendered in crayon. I couldnt have been more than five or six at the time, and my penchant for the illogical and ridiculo
Book Reviews are an essential component of the writing industry. It has often been the case that a professional review can make or break book releases. However, while it is often easy to rely on the judgement of professional critics, we as developing writers should develop a sense of critique in ourselves. Being a critique does not necessarily mean we only identify the poor qualities of writing. That's not the goal. It is important to developed a balanced and holistic view towards writing, investigating every aspect of a book to judge its overall merit. The purpose of this article is to guide you as to how best to share a book (whether casual
I am a lover of life, and a day does not pass without my learning something about myself and the people around me; however, when someone asks me for an epiphany, one instance immediately jumps to mind. In my junior year of high school I was given the opportunity to study in Italy for a year. When asked what defined that year in Italy to me, I invariably say the theatre. This astounds most people. The school in Italy is dedicated to the classics, and most people expect me to say something like, "It opened my eyes to the international world," or "I realized that I want to pursue the Classics for the r
Three and a half years. Where has the time gone? Sixteen and carefree way back then, when all that I kept stashed away in my back pocket was a learners permit and a half-eaten pack of gum. I remember the heat starting early that year, right off the bat in the beginning of June. Waves of heated summer breeze blew my long hair in swirls about my head, which irritated the shit out of me.
Long hair back then. Its been awhile.
For just stepping out into the world and about to be stepping into my junior year of high school, I vaguely remember the first half of that summer. I only really remember a roll-over accident I had
Sings-to-Trees had hair the color of sunlight and ashes, delicately pointed ears, and eyes the translucent green of new leaves. His shirt was off, revealing the sort of tanned muscle acquired from years of healthy outdoor living, and you could have sharpened a sword on his cheekbones.
He was saved from being a young maiden's fantasy—unless she was a very peculiar young maiden—by the fact that he was buried up to the shoulder in the unpleasant end of a heavily pregnant unicorn. Bits of unicorn dung, which was not noticeably more ethereal than horse dung, were sliding down his arm, and every time the mare had a contraction, he lost feeling in
There was a knock at the door - it was her date.
"Dear God, you're fat," he said.
It went downhill from there.
A rhino followed me home from school today. My parents wouldn't let me keep him. They said the octopus would get jealous.
Sometimes, at night, I look up at the beauty of the universe and wonder why anyone actually cares. Then I watch TV.
John had a drinking problem.
"Stop drinking," his wife said.
"Hey, that just might work!"
He stopped the next day. Problem solved.
Ed's baby was no fun. It always cried. He tried putting it back where he found it, but his wife got mad.
The young writer sat at his typewriter, a smoking cigarette in one hand, a perplexed look on his face.
"Miss Rhea," he murmured. "You just had to go and complicate things." He tapped the butt of the cigarette against the desk, scattering ash like his dispersed thoughts. "My dear, why don't you like Cassidy?" he asked, as if speaking to the woman herself.
And, after the initial hesitation, there came a reply:
"Cassidy?" Lady Rhea scoffed, her beautiful blond curls glinting in the sunlight. "I have many more suitable men courting me." She paused. "Ones that don't make such lewd suggestions."
He couldn't help but blush faintly. "Well, Miss R
Bonjour, Je mappelle Marie.
She likes French, you know? Shes being studying it since she was 6. Sometimes she likes to whisper things to my ear. Of course, I cant understand her at all. Everything Ive ever learned was that particular phrase she likes so much.
Marie likes to talk a lot alone. She likes to experiment as well. Some say shes a genius. She makes up new colors and smells in her mind. Some say shes not from around here. Shes somehow addicted to her piano. Some say shes not even real.
Marie, elle aime les étoiles. She says that a lot. It means, Marie, she loves the stars
I saw it in a shop, I barely remember what I was doing there now. It was one of those shops full of useless odds and ends, knick-knacks, good-looking junk. I think I was shopping for an aunt, letting my gaze sweep across the tacky wares in the hope of spotting something inspirational. There it was, in a crowded display cabinet in the back corner of the shop. A glass teardrop.
It wasn't one of those cheap pieces of glass on string, nor a faceted crystal teardrop. It was suspended inside another block of glass somehow, with other shafts and angles intercepting it, but not splitting it or spoiling it. I stared at it for countless minutes trying
She was beautiful, he said, fingering her picture on the mantle, its golden frame coated in a thin layer of dust. He wagered she was not nearly as beautiful anymore as he looked out the window in the direction of the nearby family tomb, a large, stained concrete dome with a single tightly closed door, and clusters of violets springing up from the ground around it. Everyone knew they were fake, though. It was always impolite for flowers to wilt when they were placed over graves, he thought, although it was sort of ironic. People didn't want to see that sort of thing. It reminded them they were going to die, too, just like the people they were
I loathe the word hospice about as much as I loathe the meaning. When speaking it, it gives off a false impression that one is about to refer to a friendly hospital, a place where people can heal, but once the I is reached, the –tal is skipped and all you're left with is a spiteful cliffhanger, the word ice: cold and dead, just like all of us are going to be sooner than later. A hospice is, essentially, the ignored, unloved brother of the hospital. It is a place where the word "terminal" is needed in the description of your disease, and where your percentage chance of recovery can be counted on your fingers and toes.
Unfortunately, it is my
A desert road.
A body lies on the road. SAM is sitting on it. It is his corpse. He gets up. Looks at the body, and looks at himself. He feels himself for fat. He goes stage LEFT. As he reaches the end, he stops. He then goes stage RIGHT. He stops. He looks out toward the audience. He goes upstage. He goes downstage. Finally, he glumly takes a seat on his body again and sighs heavily with his chin in both hands, elbows on his knees. He stares at the ground and takes no notice of his surroundings.
Enter CHARON, stage RIGHT. He is wearing simple brown robes and a walking staff. Middle-aged and balding. He drags his feet, hun
#LITplease has officially launched, which means there will no longer be any updates here on the ProsePlease account. We are keeping the old prompts here for your inspiration, but we will no longer be accepting submissions for them. We hope all our members will join over at #LITplease and enjoy our all new contest. The first Nonfiction Nook prompt has also been posted! Thank you for your loyalty over the years and we promise you won't be disappointed by the new arrangement over at LITplease (https://www.deviantart.com/litplease).
Where Did You Grow Up: It's no mystery that we have deviants from all parts of the world. In an ever-growing community, it wouldn't be too shocking if you chanced upon a fellow deviant from Easter Island. So where are you from? What was your neighborhood like? Did you grow up surrounded by the ocean? Sand? Skyscrapers? Tell us about your part of the world!
Texas 1957 by rlkirkland (https://www.deviantart.com/rlkirkland)
It's Halloween: Is 0ur October Nonfiction Nook prompt, write about A childhood memory perhaps, that wild party, a unique costume, classroom or office hijinks. Funny, or spooky it doesn't matter... write!
Pumpkin Paranoia by rlkirkland (https://www.deviantart.com/rlkirkland)
Away From Home: