God of Nothing
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2016
This really depends on how long you're making the story. Not really long by my standards.
The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
AI helps me point out my spelling mistakes to get better.
Its like a teacher giving you constant feedback.
If anything AI helped me improve a bit.
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
- Joined
- Apr 10, 2021
I have a tendency to write passive instead of active on first drafts so when I'm revising, sometimes I just get stuck on something, even if I've deleted the line or paragraph and rewritten it. That's when I ask PWA. Most of the time its suggestion is clinical and doesn't work but it gives my brain a way to get back into gear and think differently. A person doesn't need to be involved with that.
The rule of thumb I've seen (and use) is the inciting incident should be about 10-15% of the way in, so you're looking at a book that's 200k long. If the story is flowing and everything seems ok, then just keep going and don't worry about it. Worry about it after it's done and you've read through it in its entirety for the first time.
1. For yourself or the reader? If it's for yourself you should write out what you need, for the reader it should come through organically on the page.
2. & 3. I might suggest starting with a smaller group instead of 8 if you're having issues giving everyone their time to shine? Have a look at Joss Whedon's work. His writing is a plague, but he does know how to make characters interact.
I know its a manga and the Japs aren't known for their deep writing, but this chapter of Goblin Slayer Brand New Day is one of my favourites and it's self contained with setups and payoffs. Give it a study, everything you need to know as a reader about the world, plot and characters is right there on the page. I find the confrontation with the bad guy especially entertaining since everything that happens comes from having the characters personalities having already been set up and you think to yourself 'Of course, there was no other way this could've gone.'
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- Joined
- Apr 28, 2018
Sometimes a little bit of cheese is good for a comic. One of the things you should do when it comes to action dialog is over explaining things and your characters should be able to infer things from very small pieces of dialogue and the acts that the bad guys are doing.
Overall the bad guy’s actions should be inferred from. Sometimes the heroes don’t have to know the full details. It’s up to you to determine if they do or not.
For the cast of characters, 8 might be a bit tough to work with.
Also @Rungle, thank you
- Joined
- Dec 29, 2020
Man, we're talking about the editing process when the writing is finished, not some spastic autocorrect system that's active while you're writing.
You really think someone can't learn from an AI grammar checker? Really?
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
You can in theory, but in practice anything that makes the process too easy will inevitably turn into a crutch rather than remaining a tool. That and there's always the question of how these things actually work and what they're trying to teach you. Blindly trusting them is a mistake, though everyone's addicted to convenience nowadays so doubts like this will probably be seen as backwards or inefficient.
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- Joined
- Dec 29, 2020
The issue I take is that no one objects to these programs until AI is part of it. You'd never begrudge someone for using non-AI Grammarly to clean up a draft because that's silly. You may as well condemn basic spellcheckers also. No matter how skilled you are as a writer, you're going to make mistakes that fly under your radar, and you'll want those corrected if you have respect for your readers.
Maybe they're not all like this, but the AI spellchecker in my writer will give explanations as to why it's making suggestions. Half of the time I'll throw them out because human judgment overrides the computer. It's only a crutch if you don't care about your work and blindly accept every suggestion it cooks up.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
No one is saying you have to use a typewriter but using programs like this can teach you the wrong things. And making errors is part of the process. That's why you develop an inner circle and hopefully get an editor who will tell you the truth. A program might be able to tell you proper grammar but it's not going to tell you the honest truth that what you're writing might be shit.
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
I can see where your frustration might come from, but even older dumb spellcheckers obviously have issues of their own. No tool is perfect. Besides that the idea that everything has to be squeaky clean by the end is its own mistake because that leads to bland and sterilized slop that readers will forget about. "Respecting" readers sounds nice on paper, but it leads to things like sensitivity checks and almost all agents/publishers having boilerplate screeds about how much they respecc duh heccin' pronouns and the rights of swarthy mystery meat mutts to dildo one another up the nasal cavity, so that too is a form of cancer even if that's not the kind of respect you're talking about in the short term. It all snowballs into the same conclusion.
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2024
1. I've always treated character descriptions in comics as something people with really bad memories check on to condense information that's already in the story. Or to give stats to the autists that like that kind of stuff, like height and weight.
2. Think of it like a movie script. A lot of the information is visual, just in this case the visuals aren't moving. I think it would help to study movies you like with good dialogue. The best dialogue doesn't add context, it works because of the context. If it's too info heavy in and of itself something is wrong. Of course, in comics you do need a bit more than in most movies, but you can still rely on narration bubbles too.
3. Don't make them talk back and forth for too long. After writing the first draft of things go back and see how you can condense the dialogue. A lot of bad, cheesy dialogue is that way because the characters are actually over explaining, it's not just the nature of what they're saying that does it. Don't make the exchanges be for no reason either. If they're talking it's because they think they can actually communicate. The bad guy thinks he can get the hero to believe something, the good guy thinks he can talk the bad guy down or distract him, etc.
As for AI? I wouldn't use it. Programs that do basic spell check and help you pick out typos are great. But anything more complex I would not lean on. It feeds you bullshit sometimes and some of the fixes sound awkward. You have to still know whether or not something is ultimately correct as many programs aren't trained off strict grammar rules anymore but take info from what users consider okay. So to my understanding, you're going off of the average and the average is usually retarded these days. I'm not sure why you'd want to use it for prompts or anything like that either. You should instead train yourself how to come up with ideas on the fly and what story telling patterns to use, mix, etc. Training that is part of what makes you better at writing.
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
Has there ever been a story humanizing Nyarlathotep?
I am considering in my story to make Nyarlatothep not a diety, but more of a confused wanderer in the dreamlands.
He is native to them, but he does not know why he is there neither who created him.
Instead of manipulating Randolph and other people visiting the dreamlands, he asks them questions to find his own identity.
Evetually he asks Randolph about the concept of God, which causes Randolph to justify his own existance and how humans are complex entities, so complex that there HAS to be something that created them.
I am considering in my story to make Nyarlatothep not a diety, but more of a confused wanderer in the dreamlands.
He is native to them, but he does not know why he is there neither who created him.
Instead of manipulating Randolph and other people visiting the dreamlands, he asks them questions to find his own identity.
Evetually he asks Randolph about the concept of God, which causes Randolph to justify his own existance and how humans are complex entities, so complex that there HAS to be something that created them.
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2023
Sort of defeats the cosmic horror aspect doesn't it?
- Joined
- Dec 19, 2022
I don't think there is any "rule" when plot should thickens. From what I have read about writing is either story develops in 3 parts (3 acts) or 5 parts (5 acts). Both methods only merge in 1st Act where main protagonist is dealing with issues that they had in some way (direct or in-direct) contributed. Rest of the acts is either proactive (the main staggering points are developed by protagonist or affiliates) or reactive (they only deal with things they are exposed to). Each act should end with a climax that set how the story is driven in next act.
Think about story in a book like a history of characters that are exposed to a reader just in fragment of their lifetime. They had past and (maybe) they have future. However, every staggering point that is culminating in the end of each act is a result of smaller decisions that had led to it. In other words, best books are written when acts are composed from smaller chapters with their own small culminations. How to keep reader engaged? Well, I think there are many methods which may occupy readers mind but best way to achieve it is to write down every act and divide it to smaller chapters. Each chapter enters with a problem and in some way had to be resolved - or maybe not. Less word used but with more meaning is the goal which should every writer aspire.
When people boast about how thick books they had read I always recall this horror cliche: Last man standing on the planet is sitting alone in a room. Suddenly, he heard knock on the door.
It is a really good example that with lesser words you achieve interest of reader (and his own imagination) of what may about to happen.
Personally, I write a lot but after several pages (my longest streak was 20-30 or so pages) I lose interest or acknowledge that story that was supposedly involving is boring or has nothing to provide at all. Sometimes the idea in mind seems so interesting, but once it reaches a paper it succumbs into itself with problems that can't be resolved.
EDIT:
My fragments that I am working on from time to time (translated via DeepL so sorry if something loses context)
With a lightness worthy of a derailed locomotive, the chancellor's hydrogen-powered automobile negotiated ruts, potholes and a complete lack of pavement on a road that should have long been wiped off the maps. Like an armored road cruiser in an incongruous navy shade, festooned with huge brass exhaust pipes winding through the body of the car and huge filaments glowing with a blinding yellowish light, it crossed fields and pastures leaving behind only the strong imprint of its presence on the pristine road to Ardenus . However, the captain of this majestic vessel was not admiring the surrounding idyllic immensity, as he was busy battling with the unergonomic steering wheel and the eight-speed gearbox, which required considerable strength. The lack of ventilation in the car only completed the picture of the grind taking place in the front seat of the car. Sweaty with sore forearms from contorting the steering wheel, he wondered why he hadn't covered up his illness when a phone call from the Chancellor's Office rang in the middle of the night. He couldn't. The Supreme Leader himself, Wilson Lavelle, had called him. - Such people are not denied... - He thought deeply, casting a wobbly glance in the rear-view mirror, fearing if his thoughts might be drowned out by the noise of the running engine. The marble face of the Chancellor betrayed no emotion. Francine Lavelle stared at the scrolling landscape beyond the windscreen, preoccupied with matters of far greater substance than the imaginings of an interchangeable chauffeur. For the exercise of an eight-year term, she and her husband had devoted more than thirty years of their lives. During this time, one can start a family, erect a house, plant a tree and observe, through the prism of a deteriorating house, a growing child and a growing tree, the transience of one's person, arguing for the fulfillment of an originally instilled duty. The natural course of things. However, she traded this for the two terms that guaranteed her and her spouse a place in the pages of history, which would at first be dedicated to them in the form of a book, then a few pages, then paragraphs, to one day be admonished with a single sentence under a faded photograph - Chancellor Wilson Lavelle with his wife Francine . She was unable to judge whether the nausea that was now emerging was related to motion sickness or the thought that one day her life would only become an anecdote in a history lesson. - Do you happen to have any gum on you? One of the bodyguards accompanying her wordlessly reached behind the breast pocket of her jacket, pulling out a leaf of the well-known confectionery product from Gestahltreich ‘Rim’. Crumbling the silver-plated paper in her hands, she gazed with exasperation at the colorful print of the company's image, which paradoxically had grown from a joyful weave of colorful lines to a very sombre meaning over the years. The company, which she once associated with a college break between lessons, had become one of the symbols of the economic dominance of its southern neighbour, making its mark not only on the rest of Rheimland, but also on the second largest continent, Danishaar. As with other feuds between nations, the scimitar between Gestahltreich and the Saang Padyshariat took place so long ago that it would seem that the echoes of those events have long since spread over the crumbling walls of castles and forts, bitten by the teeth of time. However, the defeat of the Valkyriengard monarchs in 1767, described in their historiography as the ‘bitter peace’, was so severe that the growing revanchism found its outlet almost five generations later in the person of the ambitious and volatile ruler Wilhelm Falkenhausen. When this thirty-one-year-old took the reigns in 1871, no one could have imagined that at the beginning of the new century he would not only put his country back on its feet, but also gladden the hearts of millions of his subjects, eager for historical justice after the ignominious defeat 137 years ago. ‘The New War’, as the 1904 conflict between Gestahltreich and the Saang Padyshariat was called, not only revealed the technological superiority of the Valkyriengard monarch, but also imposed a cruel war tribute on the hitherto Danishaar hegemon, forcing the Padyshariat to hand over most of its oil fields to Wilhelm's native companies. The newly formed oil cartel, together with the rest of the companies in the other branches of the economy, formed the Intercontinental Mercantilist Conglomerate, or Emkomerk for short, thus making Mersin III's subjects waiters in their own country. The rubber manufacturer ‘Rim’ was part of this conglomerate. The Chancellor threw the gum wrapper out of the car window, glancing unenthusiastically at the passing road sign: ‘Ardenus - 8 miles’. - ‘Mrs Chancellor, we're getting there. - stammered the driver apprehensively, fearing to disturb the seriousness of the rear seat passenger's business with his presence. They only exchanged impassive glances in the rear-view mirror before returning to their respective activities. Ardenus is a picturesque border town between Gestahltreich and the Confederation of United Provinces, situated at the foot of the massive Granite Mountains, stretching from the Intercontinental Sea to the eastern fringes of Rheimland. Since the first cottages were erected, the humble inhabitants of this town with its centuries-old tradition have toiled in simple jobs such as animal husbandry or extracting minerals from the nearby slopes. Particularly the latter activity enjoyed exceptional profitability due to the abundant occurrence of veins of beryl, zircon, monazite and quartz. More recently, however, it can be seen that in addition to these two dominant industries, tourism is starting to develop just as dynamically in the region. Despite embarking on a slow path of development, Ardenus was still hurled by regional feuds and the pervasive poverty evident in the narrow streets of the foothills of Ardenus. Its population came from both sides of the border often leading to unnecessary conflicts.
- Dispatcher to 16-11, over. - This is 16-11, over. - Code 751 male, 146 Cerasorum Boulevard, technicians are already on scene. Others are securing, over. - Roger. - Finishing your sandwich. - On my way, over. Detective Filemon fired up his reentry aircraft, which had long needed an overhaul. The condensation plugs were no longer giving the right kick and the start-up required a powerful battery to ignite the engine. The vehicle coughs up a mixture of hydrogen and biofuel several times before the stabiliser jets gain enough thrust to lift the quivering pile of sheet metal and polycarbonate. Gaining enough altitude to join the aerial urban artery, Filemon entered the coordinates into his satellite navigation system using a prehistoric GPS network. Once in position in the air, the reentry aircraft slowly rotated all the nozzles sharpening the recoil angle of the steam/biodegradable exhaust mixture. It began to sway hurled by the vortices of air produced by the newer, faster versions of the vehicles. This didn't bother Philemon, however, because, like the vehicle he was driving, he wasn't one of the youngest. Perhaps it was a sentiment for things as old as he was, or a simple attachment to inanimate matter, but he couldn't imagine that after thirty years he would be changing the re-fleet with which he had many warm memories. Swaying gently back and forth, he maintained a steady course to his destination in the Opulenti district. It was inhabited by successful people. Lawyers, doctors, neural network architects, artists and all the rest of the heap detached from the drudgery and problems of people like Philemon. As he passed the multitude of soaring skyscrapers, he looked down at the people hobbling around the various platforms of this gargantuan city. He felt responsible for their safety and their lives, despite the fact that he sometimes faced hostility or even hostility from his sheep, which he tried to protect like a good shepherd. He arrived at the address given after less than twenty minutes of flying. He slowly sank down into one of the empty seats when suddenly one of the officers ran up to him with anger written all over his face. - Hola, you can't land here! Please fly away from here! - Oh, I'm sorry... - articulated the confused detective - I thought you could park here... Before he had time to finish his sentence, the young policeman, even more annoyed by the attitude of some older man landing on the scene, started to push Filemon back into the vehicle. - Don't you understand that this is a crime scene! Did you not see the signage exempting this area from air traffic! - I... - Chief Constable Jankowski?! What the fuck are you doing! An angry young officer, as if electrocuted, suddenly stood at attention with pride written all over his face, ready to report on his intervention with some old geezer who had apparently got lost in a jungle of airplanes. Before he could show off his oratorical skills to his superior, however, he had to brace himself for the unexpected from Commissioner Holden. - Are you two Jankowski's fucked up?! You are to immediately apologise to Assistant Commissioner Filemon and let him pass. Then you can walk up to any of the scumbags gathered here, hand over your badge and gun and get the fuck out! - But... - began the panting private. - There is no fucking BUT, you don't understand the orders! You are to fuck off and get out of my sight! The police fry's face went from proud to maroon, as if this twenty-year-old man was about to burst into tears. He looked pleadingly at the detective sitting in the front seat, hoping that the latter would save his still fledgling career in the uniformed services of the city of Tetropolis. - ‘Don't be so hard on the boy,’ Philemon began calmly, ‘I'm not wearing a uniform, nor did I show him my badge. In addition, I'm travelling in my private jet, so I consider the reaction of... - he glanced at the muzzles - of the senior constable to be appropriate, although perhaps overly aggressive. He'll get over it. With tears streaming into his eyes, the boy bloodily glanced back towards the superior officer who, a moment ago, had scolded his intelligence and his dreams of service. After a moment of awkward silence, the commissioner rolled his eyes with pity. - ‘All right, get lost. You'll cry in here, some journalist will see you and think that we have started accepting kindergarten children into the Police. With a look of relief on his face, the young policeman saluted the commissioner and his saviour. Seizing the opportunity, he quickly moved away in a disingenuous work atmosphere from the unfortunate location. - ‘You're the one who can destroy a man with a single sentence,’ began Filemon, unwrapping his lollipop. - If you were in charge of a bunch of dumbasses thinking with a dick instead of a gap between their ears, you'd also lose any empathy for these dumb trepidation. - All right, tell me what we have here. They both started walking towards the door to a beautiful villa surrounded by a majestic French-style garden. The enormity of the property was truly impressive even to Philemon, who had been to many places full of splendour, but he had yet to visit such a special location. The massive oak doors seemed to weigh over a hundred kilograms, but they were perfectly balanced and, after pressing the handle, a gentle push with a finger was all it took for them to swing open, revealing a sumptuous hallway hidden from prying eyes. - Impressive, isn't it? - said Holden with a wry grin. - Let's go to the back of the house. I'll tell you everything there. Before Filemon's eyes appeared a room of one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred square metres, which could accommodate several families. Entering guests were greeted by a pair of marble stairs climbing like a vine to the first floor of the building. They were separated by a fountain with a sculpture of a fish spitting out a lashing stream of water. On its head was a globe with a sentence written in Latin. The entire room was lined with a floor of jade, full of thick white veins cutting across the floor like a blood system. The walls were even festooned with the number of paintings from various eras. On the tables, cupboards, countertops and glass cabinets placed here and there, one could see trinkets collected probably from all over the world, costing a considerable fortune. - Has anything gone missing? - asked Filemon still struck by the wealth around him. - I'll surprise you. No. - sardonically commented Holden, obviously amused by the sight of the old detective, whose lollipop almost fell out of his mouth. - Who does this... palace belong to? - To our victim, Janis Verufaks,’ he said, opening the door at the back of the hall. Their eyes revealed a garden at the back of the house with an Olympic-sized swimming pool with an electrically controlled cover. On the edge was a small stall selling spirits, sun loungers, umbrellas and a shower to rinse off. As you approached the scene, you could see the body, still floating on the surface of the water. - The gardener, who also maintains the pool, claims that he came to work in the morning, switched the levers controlling the reel and saw the drowning body. He called the emergency number, these notified me, and you know the rest of the story. - recited from his notes Holden. - Last night who was closing the pool? - Asked Filemon squatting over the edge. - Gardener. About twenty-two, but he assures me Janis wasn't home yet then. He was at some rave or some other hen party - presented the commissioner matter-of-factly, slightly colouring the story as was his custom. - The coroner stated the time and cause of death? - asked the detective further, observing the body floating face down. - Roman is only just arriving. He's had stork daughters or fuck knows what and now he's fucking hungover in a casing like some fucking notabl,’ he fired up a lime flavoured e-cigarette. - He should be here soon. - Fingerprints lifted? Any signs of burglary, robbery? - Filemon, increasingly intrigued, began nervously sucking on his lollipop. - Our technicians went round the whole house. They've taken a gazillion photos, and we've got the same number of fingerprints. I doubt we can identify all their owners. But that's not the most interesting part. - He took a deep breath. - The pool's covering sway is as clean as a baby. They both approached the mechanism on the bank. Apart from a simple electric motor remembering the days of the first corporate war and levers labeled ‘OPEN’ and ‘CLOSE’, there was nothing else. - A very primitive device for a property worth several hundred million credits, don't you think? - he blew out an ostentatious puff of smoke, glancing at the turn-of-the-century archaic equipment standing before him. - An idiot admires complexity, but only a genius will appreciate simplicity.... It was only as he finished his sentence that Philemon began to realise that those few words might have just buried his long career in the police force. He was already thinking of rescuing himself from the trap into which he had hurled his position when Holden took out his notebook with a smile and asked intrigued. - ‘Good, what's this from? - he waited with a ready pen in hand. - ‘I used to dig this quote out of the depths of the internet archives before the AIs made it another battleground,’ he replied with a palpable relief in his voice that he had escaped this unnecessary attention this time, ‘Who is this... Jonah anyway? - he quickly changed the subject. - Janis - his superior corrected him. - Janis Werufaks. Billionaire, philanthropist, patron of the arts. Does the name Kabbalah tell you anything? - I think it's that world security system... how did it go... - he tried to remember the name while biting down hard on a lollipop. - A computer-assisted bio-organic artificial life form? - Exactly. - confirmed a slightly surprised Holden that his detective was still up to date with world news. - ‘The guy was one of several engineers involved in this project. - ‘Then why isn't some three-letter world agency dealing with this but the Metropolitan Police! - continued the thread annoyed Filemon - If a man in a prominent position dies you don't hand over the investigation to a bunch of random people, one of the many underfunded constables just because it's in their area! He didn't even know when he started to raise his voice. He felt that the pressure of the situation he was in was slowly starting to overwhelm him and he needed to give vent to his emotions even if he had to start shouting at his immediate superior. - Unless that is what Kabbalah wants. - calmly responded Holden handing Philemon a sealed envelope. - Open it in a discreet place away from prying eyes. After reading it, burn the message and do not pass the information on to me or anyone else. Not even if it was an order from the president himself, the emperor, god or whomever he brings to you. From now on you answer directly to history. - he inhaled while finishing his e-cigarette - Are you happy? Philemon was stunned. He felt faint from the harmony of the questions in his head, which, like the most disjointed choir in history, were shouting at each other from across his chest. He could not even make out what the commissioner standing a foot away was saying to him, patting him on the shoulder. All he could perceive was the silent movement of lips from which words of encouragement were probably coming. He was only snapped out of his catatonic trance by a fatter man who bumped into him with the ease of a wounded rhinoceros. - My deepest apologies. The balding man held out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. He was dressed in a hurriedly badly buttoned suit, a blue shirt with darker sweat stains on the chest. In his hand he held a worn-out eco-leather briefcase and around his neck a stethoscope that had seen its better years. - You're welcome.- the detective shook the coroner's hand in gratitude for snapping him out of his lethargy. - Mr Roman, as I understand it? - I'm sorry I'm late,’ he breathed out without answering the question. - I was supposed to have a day off, but it turned out to be business as usual. - He replied with dissatisfaction. - You can't be on duty, you might say,’ the detective interjected. - Skinny - the coroner allowed himself to joke about the envelope crumpled from nerves held in Filemon's hand. - Yeah... the energy crisis spares no one, not even sugar daddies. - he patted his superior mockingly on the back. For a moment, he feared if he had overdone it by making fun of the impassioned commissioner. However, Holden's face did not betray some deeply hidden resentment over an inappropriate joke. With a glance at Philemon, he guessed that it was merely a smokescreen to end the unprompted topic of the envelope. Other than that, it was even a successful prank. The gentlemen gathered by the pool reacted inappropriately, as if they had found themselves at a neighbourhood barbecue. Only after a while did they notice the technicians and police officers securing the area glancing at them. Having got his humour under control, Commissioner Holden measured the eyes of the officers standing nearby with a grim look, who were commenting on the inappropriate behaviour of their superiors in their midst. - Hey, you there! - he growled threateningly - If you have nothing to do then get the corpse out of the pool! The sulking subordinates entered the water, pulling the slim body of the fifty-year-old engineer ashore. The coroner knelt over the corpse, donned nylon gloves, a silver ion mask and, as if in a trance, began his duties. He started with a general obduracy. He checked for any damage to the head before death, whether there were any bruises on the skin, and carefully looked at the hands of the deceased. - Oho, look gentlemen. - he lifted the dead man's hand pointing to the chipped fingernails. - Tortured? - Asked an intrigued Holden. - Probably something more mundane. - Filemon pointed with his lollipop at the pool cover. - ‘I'll only be sure when our brave lads...’ - smiled at the soaked policemen. - They unrolled the tarpaulin. The officers punishingly, albeit reluctantly, approached the windlass rolling up the fabric. All they needed to pull the cover out was something sharp to break the rope pulled along the guides embedded throughout the length of the pool. Having irretrievably broken the device, they dragged the soggy canvas, weighing several dozen kilograms, in a heavy drift. When they had emptied the reel they collapsed, like the dead greedily fighting for every breath. Philemon unhurriedly approached the unrolled tarpaulin and with great care began to examine it. Sucking on a lollipop, he closed himself off for a moment in his world, where only he and the one thousand two hundred and fifty square metres of the former pool cover existed. He stood up. With a clumsy movement of his hand, he signalled to the others at the pool to come up to him. - Do you see this? - He pointed to the rubbed area. - The material along its entire length bears no visible signs of wear. They are only here, in this one specific spot. Commissioner Holden called to one of the still lounging cops to run for the technician. Not even a minute had passed when the officer, with his tongue hanging out, returned, accompanied by a police photographer. - Hmm... as if something is trying to tear it apart... - muttered Holden under his breath. - ‘Or,’ interrupted Filemon pulling the lollipop out of his mouth, ‘someone was trying to get out of the pool, but from the inside. The photographer hovered with his camera over the ragged area and took a few pictures. The silence was punctuated by an artificial shutter sound added by the manufacturer out of attachment to that distinctive clicking rather than pragmatism. Having finished with the tarpaulin, he approached the drawn-out corpse of the drowning man, taking great care to document the body just after it had been pulled out of the pool.
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- Joined
- Apr 17, 2018
I like to lean more to the existential horror part of lovecraft and how creatures, Alien or not deal with this.
I am planning to make Nyarlatothep, out a sense of Jealousy, trick a desperate Randolph to use a relic called the silver key that is supposed to "Merge himself with the Dreamlands".
Once he uses it, he immolates in both the real world and the Dreamlands, erasing his self from both, giving Nyarlathotep a way in the charred vessel of him.
He eventually realizes by spectating humanity from afar that Randolph's words were flawed.
There is prayer, there are diety, yet whatever man does, they get no response or guidance.
Thats why he decides to pose as a god himself, as some kind of twisted sense of empathy, yet also a desire to control.
- Joined
- Jul 22, 2020
I think that if you do this, it may be better to make OCs otherwise we end up subconsciously having expectations of the characters you're using.
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- Apr 22, 2015
The prose does not work. It comes off as "I'm going to use big words to sound smart." And doesn't feel natural. It's just clunky. You need to find your voice.
- Joined
- Dec 19, 2022
It surely depends on the recipient. That is why I mostly write and then put my work away, never returning to it. I have sent my 'beta' works to one of the most prominent magazines in my country, and the reactions were quite different from yours. However, they aren't finished, nor do I feel any urgency to wrap them up
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- Apr 21, 2021
- Joined
- Jul 22, 2020
thanks. was intending to use poetry in this style for NPC/Lore bits in a TTRPG I'm GMing.
Trying to keep the melodramatic tone to maybe a Poe-level because it's easy to go overboard.