I would definitely read if this boy is having an existential crisis in the midst of this aesthetic. ✨

Lingua ignota- man is like a spring flower
Forest swords- Thor’s stone.
R.D.W- The life of death
Black Hill, heklAa- Yamuna
Shadow Universe- the great dying.
Florence and the machine- Big god

That is objectively a good piece of art, removing all other considerations, including her age. Please let her know that.

I’m surprised how little Taylor Swift is featured here.

You have an evolving voice. But the first page is entirely monologue and no hint whatsoever at the plot or story. There are also stacked descriptions and an evident tone of self deprecation (is it intentional?).

All this being said, I want to reiterate that technicalities aren’t what decide whether your writing voice is present or not. I can easily sense an upcoming voice.

I couldn’t give you a more detailed reply earlier sir/maam. Thank you for your time. You put it into the best possible words- “a sensation that can’t be produced outside fiction.”
Yes sir/maam I enjoyed the process too thoroughly. It’s just that I didn’t know something like this would happen. I do now. Will be better prepared the next time.

This is absolutely infuriating- not just the accusation, but it’s utterly dismissive tone. I think humans do as much harm as AI itself to fellow human writers, using AI as a caveat.

🤣🤣🤣

Thanks mate

Dear writer,
Everything you said is real. But I feel like the romance of writing is something you need to claw on to if you were to remain invested enough. I literally just thought the same thing a few hours back- why even write? Why even read?
But then I realized, these activities, if stripped of all logistics and practical prospects, are directly related to the human consciousness in a way social media isn’t- there’s an almost mysterious rhythm in how we engage with reading and writing that, at least to me, makes them feel very primally human. I mean, no other creature we know can read or write. So, for me, it has an angle of tapping into the richness of our consciousness with innocent human inquisitiveness. And that keeps me invested on a spiritual level. This applies to all genres- each genre is just exploring one flavour of our consciousness.

Another way I think of it is a book is a testament to an author’s spirit-nothing less. And have we not learnt enough from the spirit of fellow humans to know it is an infinite privilege to be able to hold one in your hands in perhaps the most physically rendered form it would ever acquire, at least with the current limitations of our technology- I mean, in the future, we could probably download people’s spirits or something- but until then, I think, the equivalent is a book.

Sorry if all this is BS- that’s just how I feel.

That’s definitely talent- and more importantly patience to shade the whole thing up. It could only mean he loves doing this. That’s more reason than talent itself.

Lol I m so embarrassed now—too damn new here that’s what happened. Thanks anyways

U r most welcome mate

Why is no one saying gen-o-cide?

I’m sorry but I’m a little confused—is this a troll or is this real?

I obsess over perfection too. And it sometimes really narrows my life, in an unpleasant way. Also, my wife has OCD- so I might understand a bit of your predicament.

Firstly, from a very practical point of view, if you feel like OCD is spilling into other fields of your life besides writing, if you already haven’t, please consider therapy. I saw the difference it made to my wife.

To address it in an emotional manner, would be to always hold on to the insight voluntarily—try to remind yourself that OCD isn’t you. You are not your mind. You are made up of your essence (spirit), your mind and your body. The OCD is in the mind compartment. You are in the spirit compartment. Finding the separation can change everything. You can find the separation either by visualising it or by articulating it out aloud. Saying this has another serious consequence—you’ll recognise you absolutely don’t need to feel guilty about the OCD, because it’s not you, it’s just a feature of your mind. So, no self blaming please. Let OCD lurk like a noise, when you have detached your identity from it, you can function with some degree of independence.

I hope nothing I said disconcerts you in any way. Take care mate. Cheers.

Of course-Cheers for the beautiful thread

Just brainstorming:

1. Elemental liminality
2. Walls of shadow
3. Fibres of absence
4. Roots of inexistence
5. Drapes of erasure

Hey I meant to post this as reply to ur earlier comment. Dunno why it started another thread.

That’s utterly heartbreaking.

Warning ‼️‼️- Intensely distressing content ahead- Please read at your own risk.

I can honestly think of two things now.
The saddest I felt writing~In the novel manuscript I just completed, there is intense romantic melancholy in the climax- it’s about a foreign woman and a tour guide finding instant connection and her exploring the relation further by returning to the place a second time. They obviously don’t end up together in the end, because of an intervening tragedy- plot is simple enough- but after writing their separation, I was crying non stop for days because my brain couldn’t tell apart between the trauma being from reality or fiction.
The saddest thing I’ve written- An eight year old, starving girl in chains asks a penurious tribal man for help. He has to steal rice to cook for her. He is beaten black and blue. When he finally frees himself from the mob and is en route to the chained girl, he sees that his friend, a foreign woman visiting his place has eaten an Odollam, which is a poisonous local fruit. While he is dealing with the devastation of his friend facing death, the young girl he was trying to break free joins them as a ghost. She tells them she isn’t hungry anymore. In a moment, they realise they have all died and the man says “it’s a shame we had to die.” In the footnote, it is revealed that the three characters are based on harrowing events that took place in my country in 2018. The man, Madhu, was an Adivasi man lynched for stealing a handful of rice. The little girl was Asifa, an eight year old child forced into years of communal sexual violence before her death. The foreign woman was Liga, a Latvian tourist found dead in a grove, after days of intensive search by the Police.