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    (Original post by miser)
    Just come across this soc. Is this for all types of writers, or mainly for fiction writers?
    Everything. If you call yourself a writer come along :yep:
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    (Original post by greeneyedgirl)
    Everything. If you call yourself a writer come along :yep:
    Don't know if I'd really call myself a writer but I try to write essays. I recently started a website to encourage myself to do more of it and to force myself into writing properly if I know it's going to be judged by others.
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    I desperately want to be a writer - as in be able to live off writing, not just writing for fun instead of doing homework :3 - and trying to finish a book, but need some other opinions on it --> could anyone help me out please?
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    (Original post by GoldyEl)
    I desperately want to be a writer - as in be able to live off writing, not just writing for fun instead of doing homework :3 - and trying to finish a book, but need some other opinions on it --> could anyone help me out please?
    Hey, I feel the same as you! I love writing but also suffer from terrible self-criticism which is halting the progress of a novel.. And I'm kind of accepting that I won't be able to make money solely from that unless a miracle happens. But yes, I would be up for having a read of your stuff and giving you a second opinion! It's always good to read peers' material and I'd love to help x
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    Was the Writers Society ever made lol? I've kind of been a little bit of a writer all my life, but I really got into the craft when I was 12 and I have been obsessed with it and loved it so much ever since!
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    (Original post by Lucy-marie97)
    Was the Writers Society ever made lol? I've kind of been a little bit of a writer all my life, but I really got into the craft when I was 12 and I have been obsessed with it and loved it so much ever since!
    A Society simply exists within a thread, this is the society.


    I have been partaking in NaNoWriMo, and when I have something I am a bit happier with I would love it if some of you guys were able to have a look at it for me and critique it.
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    The tranquil cloud that hung from nowhere floated aimlessly above Laila’s head, in harmony with her muted spirit. A stretch of deformed pavement, the familiar fragile cracks, appeared in front of her. The sun glittered on what seemed like a million identical ripples, the stream of deep glossy brown flowed unhurried under the bridge and it was beautiful. Laila suddenly felt her spirit lift and then an unexpected upsurge of impatience swept her walk into a light jog.
    ‘Pride is last, is like a child alone’ this had become the refrain to Laila’s thoughts for the journey home and would form the template for her thought the rest of the night. Earlier that day Laila studied Thomas Dylan and this strange and familiar sentence was all she got and could remember.
    There was no one at home, her mum’s car was not in the drive way and she was delighted to think she would be alone at home for at least thirty minutes. She ran upstairs and into her room. Everything was unapproachably crisp and neat. She lay on her bed unchanged and with her shoes still on and then sank submissively into to discomfort. Looking up her ceiling gave way and she dreamily ushered in thoughts too vague to pin down. Pictures started to form, and she remembered. A mother with a husky cigarette-worn voice who was sitting on a park bench staring distractedly into the distance. She exhaled playful ribbons of smoke that swam through the air at a gentle pace, upon seeing this her children excited, waved their fingers through the air and at last were entangled in a lacy stumbling mist of grey. She also remembered a dead bird she saw lying on the street in the morning that had gone when she came back. She thought of who made the call to have it removed and who and where you had to call to have it removed. At this moment she realised that there would be so much of adulthood that would remain an enigma to her as she grew older. Her day consisted of a series of mundane observations that as usual made lasting impressions on her. What made these mundane occurrences significant and worthy of recollection was their existing without the knowledge of her observing them, they were significant because they nourished the feeling of independence and idleness in her.
    Laila’s thoughts took a different course after fifteen minutes, she thought of Richard. Richard use to be a shy boy when he was younger but now that he was older this label became pale and obsolete, people now only described him as a recluse. He became a writer of a novel and then a journalist and then wrote a few short stories. At first he wrote passionately with the wholly dedicated heart of a young idealist, then grew weary and indifferent became feckless and noncommittal. He deserted the Marxist views of his youth in place of nothing, and this was because the strength of his heart was feather-light, his flickering spirit couldn’t gather enough strength for motivation. The strength of his heart was feather light and this dawned on him cunningly and gradually. His position was faint and irrelevant in the world he wanted to be a part of. It was a world that with age he began to look on as imaginary and dismissed as a fashion of youth. He lived alone and was gaunt, had a bad diet, and became detached. He gave up, he told himself it was all inevitable – the rightful destiny of a writer, and this didn’t comfort him because he didn’t believe it. He looked older than he was and this too (he thought) was expected of a writer. His house was full of unused rooms and in spite of this one room was used excessively, out of habit. This room was full of books, staked on the floor on chairs the shelves had some space but Richard had a habit of taking books down and only putting back half. The room was also full of old newspapers and this made the small room untidy but cosy, cosy in a way that put reins on and eased the growing feeling of loneliness.
    When he was eighteen Richard believed wholeheartedly that he would become successful as a writer, there wasn’t the faintest doubt in his mind, he couldn’t imagine being anything else. When one day his sister jokingly asked him what he would do if he – for some hypothetical reason – didn’t become a writer, he fell silent, contemplative, questioned his own strength his own determination to seek out and materialise his own dream then answered ‘I don’t know’. He was destined to become a writer and that was that. That now seemed like such a long time ago, realisation of reality, that he deferred in his youth became ruthless and visited him his forties to reap the amount owed. All of this seemed brutal for such an honest person. If there could be only one word to describe Richard it would be honest. In Laila mind there were two worlds the cunning and the honest Richard, she knew, was part of the latter. From their first conversation Laila knew this man was incapable of a great deal, a part of him was still undeveloped still very much the dreamer that was unprepared for the real world so many years ago. Like many lonely people trying to salvage a severed connection to society Richard took the bus, however Richard sometimes went for long walks during which he frowned, shrunk in heart, and gave into and was harassed by memories. He remembered his novel, how he barred artistic licence and how predictable his novel had been accommodating the fashion of the time. This was all due to the rejection of an earlier novel he had written and to which he dedicated himself entirely. Richard recalled this period of his life reluctantly acknowledging the overwhelming motive that burdened him during its construction: success. This meant sacrifice and more importantly (something he didn’t acknowledge) this meant the betrayal of his youth, his dreams. During his walks he admitted to himself something he had twenty years ago: success did not constitute solely of being published.
    He left the city along with it’s cynicism behind. From his days as a journalist he was unnecessarily critical. He would write masses of derisive fault-fiinding articles and the more he wrote the more he transgressed from the passionate sincere nature of his childhood when he was good enough to understand and take on the burdens and problems of others. Something penetrated into the core of his being, sat there uninvited, independent, uncontrollable and fiddled. He was kind-hearted and faint-hearted, it was the latter quality that prevailed and with that he became a journalist and altered himself to the point where he could no longer recognise he had undergone a change of character and therefore was incapable of reasoning himself out of it.
    Something of the dreamer still lingered about him. He would read masses of poetry relighting the passion that had engulfed him in his youth. He suspected the night was better for reading poetry because your heart was capable of so much more feeling so much more emotion and so much more of God’s gift to mankind. This was one theory amongst others that were neither confirmed nor argued since he never kept close friends. During the night Richard wrote endlessly and the next day having read them over bury them away having found them out of place in the light of day.
    Laila was Richard’s only regular visitor; she didn’t mind the strong smell of his house but always braced herself before she went in. Laila’s regular visits were also good for Richard because it fed his uncontrollable desire for routine the comfort of routine and the familiar (he ate the same meals everyday, and there was no distinguishing feature in his holidays to set it apart from any other day) filled the role of family. Without a routine his heart, mind and spirit would all fall out of harmony. The comfort of routine replaced the warmth and sanity of family life. Laila was the same way. Richard saw the good in everything and reason as if duty bound on other people’s behalf, he never admitted this to himself because he saw himself as primarily pessimistic, he was a pessimist who had unpredictable surges of passion and love for everything. When Laila spoke to him about problems, problems in general (which she hardly did) he dissolved the accusing arrow and no one was to blame. He would say ‘there are so many things to consider, and most of them are beyond of our control’. Laila never forgot this, it was as if he had collected up all her discarded thoughts and reaffirmed their significance. During these talks with Richard Laila realised she didn’t have a mind that couldn’t be shared and a feeling overwhelmed her as if her most cherished and private thoughts had been made public.
    When he was younger he sometimes thought thinking quite morosely about the contents of his chest that his heart was growing dim and even shrinking from unshakable sadness, which he was convinced he was born with this too was unconfirmable but for different reasons.
    As if revolting against both her discomfort and the self governing objects around her Laila suddenly jumped up from her bed and ran downstairs, she felt a sudden urge to talk to Richard, to be around him, bear the stench of his crowded room to sit on a pile of newspapers.
    When Laila reached her door she heard her neighbour pull up. Although she liked Mrs. Ahmed Laila didn’t want to be held up in conversation and her mood was uneasy that she thought it would be unfair for both her and Mr. Ahmed to be held up in awkward conversation. In previous conversations with Mrs. Ahmed she would smile, agree (Mrs. Ahmed liked long conversations) and the whole time was afraid that the cracks in her false smile and irritation would show it’s self through the weaknesses in her disobedient and reluctant nose and eyes which twitched with childish impatience.
    After Mrs. Ahmed went in Laila ran all the way to Richard’s house. The blanc-faced innocence of the sun’s light over the motionless and satisfied street over whelmed her. His overgrown front yard grew visible. The weed growing through the cracks in the pavement were a sun-toasted shade of green. Green: the colour of compromise. She watched the weed and dandelions growing shadow under her foot as she approached the front door. She imagined he would be in his room surrounded by his books, unsuspecting and jump up at her knock, thrilled. His eyes were a shallow pool of green, eyes that once in his youth concealed passions and all that were offensive to his own shyness. His hair was messy and had reckless varying tones of brown, yellow and white he wore the same green jumper on since she met him. The deep wrinkles on his face and the hair on his hands justified this.
    Laila could never come to terms with what she saw next, horror that immersed her whole existence as she pushed open the unlatched door. Richard’s lifeless body hung still, his eyes shut with unfelt relief.
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    Hey everyone. I just randomly disappeared for a while.

    Anyway, anyone here keen on hearing a pitch for my WiP? I'm far enough in that I think I can pitch it.

    Also: Land-based, I'm working on a crit for your piece. Is it okay if I PM it to you by tonight?


    This was posted from The Student Room's iPhone/iPad App
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    Hey again everyone. My writing has slowed down recently :sad: Damn you assessments!!!
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    (Original post by madders94)
    Hey again everyone. My writing has slowed down recently :sad: Damn you assessments!!!
    I know what you mean. Got half-way through a short story and haven't touched it for ages. A short story! :emo:
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    No matter if novels or short stories: without an idea you can't go on. If I go on, my problem with writing is that I get more ideas than required. And than I must take care that I don't write too much. In terms of assessments I want to say that it may a help for the writer, as it show you up which effects cause your writing at the reader/listener. If your intention was understand, I would nothing change at all, unless you want to change your style of writing.
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    Anyone here ever come across serial webnovels?

    Thought I'd have a go at my first peice of writing since year 4 (they seemed to stop letting us write stories in english after that -_-)

    http://agreyworld.wordpress.com/

    Any feedback would be nice ^__^
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    No posts since I started my serial! Got half a novels worth now...

    Need to learn grammar though, grammar is hard -____-
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    Heeey I've started writing a lot more recently - to the point where I got something published (eek!) - so figured I'd pop in and say hi Tend to write kinda factish fiction, little stories.
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    (Original post by twinlensreflex)
    Heeey I've started writing a lot more recently - to the point where I got something published (eek!) - so figured I'd pop in and say hi Tend to write kinda factish fiction, little stories.
    Wow, a published writer! :adore: What do you mean by 'factish fiction'? :holmes:
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    (Original post by Abiraleft)
    Wow, a published writer! :adore: What do you mean by 'factish fiction'? :holmes:
    Under a pseudonym and all :cool:

    It's the only way I can think to describe it In its kinda more anthropological sense factish is combining fact and fetish with an element of falsification, and I start from fact - things observed first hand - and falsify it until it's almost entirely fiction. Sometimes just adding on or sometimes writing things how I'd have liked them to have been, kinda odd yeah There's probably a better term out there, but it's not quite fiction and not fact either haha
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    (Original post by twinlensreflex)
    Under a pseudonym and all :cool:

    It's the only way I can think to describe it In its kinda more anthropological sense factish is combining fact and fetish with an element of falsification, and I start from fact - things observed first hand - and falsify it until it's almost entirely fiction. Sometimes just adding on or sometimes writing things how I'd have liked them to have been, kinda odd yeah There's probably a better term out there, but it's not quite fiction and not fact either haha
    That sounds very interesting, I'd love to read something you've written. :holmes:
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    Hi all

    I don't think I've contributed to this thread yet, and being a writer myself, that's probably poor show. So my apologies for not getting round to it

    As for my interests - I like to concentrate on social aspects that exist in our society. The book I've written, entitled Fat: A Cognitive Study studies myself, as a very open fat admirer (or someone attracted to overweight / very overweight people), and people like me, to really understand what the sexual aspects of behaviour is caused by - and why society views fat people in such a harsh and bitter way.

    The next book I'm writing focuses on work addiction, as a relentless workaholic, to exploit my struggles against compulsive overworking, at the detriment to my health. The third one I'm writing wants to understand the social aspects of why we seem to treat teenage prgnancies... less than magnaninously.

    This is different from other books on this because it's based on interpretation. Feel free to call it "pop psychology" if you wish - I'm certainly no sociology scientist, merely, a teenager who has an interest in how society functions

    I'm also a scriptwriter too, I've penned about seven scripts all in all xD

    (Sorry for the self-promotion guys, only way to get myself out there )
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    (Original post by Abiraleft)
    That sounds very interesting, I'd love to read something you've written. :holmes:
    Fat chance
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    (Original post by Sir Esh)
    Sounds like a good idea, and I was shocked to find out that there is none at the moment! :eek:

    However, that is something that I wish to remedy quickly enough. Would anyone else be interested in joining such a society? The aim would be to talk about the things that you wrote / are currently writing / plan to write, give advice, help and support each other, give tips, encourage people to get their work published, and how best to go about it, and all that sort of thing. All while having good fun! What more could you want!?

    If you are at all interested, please post and say so, so that we can get this society up and running!

    (If you feel that this society is a complete waste of time, you are, of course, welcome to say that too )

    I figured this would be the best place to have the thread for the moment, as most people potentially interested would browse around here...

    ~ Sir Esh
    I love this idea. It would help alot
 
 
 
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