My smut

[P3nT4gR4m]

Cain,
was also crap at writing, once upon a time.

Don't believe it for a minute. I'm sure if we dissected your mom we'd find your earliest prose, scratched into the walls of her womb.

An I bet the syntax would be perfect too

[Genocide Device]

I would suggest Open Office (Spell Checker) and more paragraphs instead of indentations.  Indents are much harder to read, especially on the internet.  Beyond that, I would also say read this in order to help give more fluidity and presence to your writing style: http://www.lifehack.org/articles/lifehack/fifty-50-tools-which-can-help-you-in-writing.html

Cain,
was also crap at writing, once upon a time.

Haha... if all else fails cheet... or throw money at it... thx for thine help

[LMNO]

Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.


Please.

[Cramulus]

my smut my smut my smut
my lovely lady smut
check it out



That's what I hear in my head every time I see the title of this thread.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled thread, already in progress.

[Genocide Device]

Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.


Please.

no but when i comes right down to it i'm too lazy to spell right all the tiem any way so.... fuck it

[Messier Undertree]

Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.


Please.

Is it weird that I kind of like it?

It has a sort of Engrish charm.

[Genocide Device]

Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.


Please.

Is it weird that I kind of like it?

It has a sort of Engrish charm.

engrish... i lke that and i'm afraid bad english is the only engrish i'm good at 

[hunter s.durden]

/quote]

Spelling and typing correctly all the time improves you.
You may want to make more of an effort to enhance your writing.

[Triple Zero]

it's true. i gave up correcting spelling mistakes over chat once, after one of my many drunken chat sessions of old i figured friends would still understand me even if i as much just bashed the keyboard and roughly aim at the right keys, and it would save me time.

never really got better i still make loads of spelling mistakes in chat, accidentally switch a few letters due to clumsy typing and, nah, just press enter, they'll know what i mean

on this board i try to fix the spelling errors as much as i see them. i should also apply that rule to proper capitalization and sentence structure .. you wouldn't recognize me i think :-D

[Genocide Device]

Funny that my spell checker has improved my spelling more than college,Ķ it forces me to pay more attention,Ķ what I meant though is not that I don,Äôt try to spell properly all the time, its that I do try and just suck that bad,Ķ for that you will have to forgive me.

Yes I am fully aware that my technical skills in writing are god offal,Ķ what I do have is the ability to tell one hell of a story the rest I can improve with practice.

I was more than perfectly aware that you guys would jump right on that, how else am I supposed to learn.  All the same, did any one find it interesting aside from the bad grammar?

[P3nT4gR4m]

god offal,Ķ

Okay I just did a complete u-turn on the spelling thing. Yuor spelling pwns!

[LMNO]

To be honest, it sound like reheated Raymond Chandler.

Example:

"I went to the kitchen to make coffee.  Yards of coffee.  Rich, strong, bitter, boiling hot, ruthless, depraved. The lifeblood of tired men.  It was a couple of hours later when he called me.  'Ok, wise guy,' he said, 'get down here and suffer'."

[Genocide Device]

Indeed I see where you are coming from,Ķ first person is always hard to make a good narrative out of,Ķ it sounds so campy when the narrator is telling you in all the silly details of life, what he is doing,Ķ especially when he tries to make something as boring as coffee seem fantastic in any way.  But there in lies the trick, the coffee in the first piece as an essential description of the purgatory the mane character feels he is a part of.  I cant just say ,ÄúI sit down and drink some shitty coffee.,Äù  I got to make it sound like something it isn,Äôt,Ķ suggestions?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer,Ķ her his a sample that involves no gore,Ķ I,Äôm working up to the good stuff

Enjoy
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode by which we travel, than that rode is lined every quarter century with out of the way purgatorial truck stops such as this.  The twang of blue grass country music adds a strange comfort to the half empty restaurant.  I dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with.  The coffee however is fucking spectacular.  Not one of those over priced immaculate French monstrosities; the type that are half foam and half sugar as only found in down town caf?©s.  No, this is of those good old Columbian black tar brews.  A coffee that stains the porcelain of the cup on contact and can only be purchased for consumption at run down greasy spoon dives such as this.  To drink it is to wage total war on your internal organs and central nervesystem.  It starts with a mad dog blitzkrieg on your stomach.  There it will dig trenches and begin a volley of chemical warfare to the remaining digestive system.  Throughout the day it will continue with a war of attrition slowly advancing all of its heavily armored forces until every organ in sight has been annihilated.  In its wake it spreads the fascist propaganda known as caffeine to each and every one of your blood cells until they revolt, storm the brain, overthrow its governing body and degenerate its underling factions into total anarchy.  Couple that with what ever the hell Nina gave me and you can kiss your hangover, as well as your liver, good by.  The waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist.  It is my fifth.
   ,ÄúSon, ya,Äôll look justa,Äôbout have,Äôn had ta,Äô watched yer dog die.,Äù The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
   ,ÄúThanks for those inspiring words, I had a hell of a night.,Äù These conversations generally go quickly.  I do my best to act casual and play along so I can get it over with.
   ,ÄúLooks ta me like yer a,Äôman question,Äôn the very principle of his worth.,Äù She fills up my cup, then a second and sits down. ,ÄúWhat,Äôs got,Äôcha bit on the buns hun?,Äù
   I have dealt with this kind before.  The lost out in the middle of no where down to earth goo roo of the simple life southern variety.  These people have a uniquely accurate understanding of how overly complicated we as people have made things.  They have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came.  She is a bar top shrink who has heard it all and knows more than one way to make a total freak of nature feel comfortable for the first time in his own skin.  She has never met me though.
   ,ÄúI,Äôm suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.,Äù I lean heavily on one hand.
   ,ÄúOh I see, your son a homo or somth,Äôn?,Äù she fiddles around in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a match.
   ,ÄúI just spent last night having the best sex of my life and when I woke up today I discovered that this girl was the daughter of a woman I brutally tortured, raped, and murdered about thirteen years ago.,Äù  She goes to light the cigarette but stops dead in her tracks, the flame of the match burning just off from its target.
   ,ÄúWell now I have heard every thing,Ķ it,Äôs on the house.,Äù Mortified she stands up and walks away.

1.  Do not give up your day job.

2.  Run, do not walk, to your local community college.  Sign up for every creative writing class they have.  A remedial English class might help, too.

3.  Resign yourself to the fact that nobody wants to read about your torture fantasies.

4.  Take up macrame.

[Genocide Device]

I think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer… her his a sample that involves no gore… I’m working up to the good stuff

Enjoy
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode by which we travel, than that rode is lined every quarter century with out of the way purgatorial truck stops such as this.  The twang of blue grass country music adds a strange comfort to the half empty restaurant.  I dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with.  The coffee however is fucking spectacular.  Not one of those over priced immaculate French monstrosities; the type that are half foam and half sugar as only found in down town caf?©s.  No, this is of those good old Columbian black tar brews.  A coffee that stains the porcelain of the cup on contact and can only be purchased for consumption at run down greasy spoon dives such as this.  To drink it is to wage total war on your internal organs and central nervesystem.  It starts with a mad dog blitzkrieg on your stomach.  There it will dig trenches and begin a volley of chemical warfare to the remaining digestive system.  Throughout the day it will continue with a war of attrition slowly advancing all of its heavily armored forces until every organ in sight has been annihilated.  In its wake it spreads the fascist propaganda known as caffeine to each and every one of your blood cells until they revolt, storm the brain, overthrow its governing body and degenerate its underling factions into total anarchy.  Couple that with what ever the hell Nina gave me and you can kiss your hangover, as well as your liver, good by.  The waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist.  It is my fifth.
   “Son, ya’ll look justa’bout have’n had ta’ watched yer dog die.” The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
   “Thanks for those inspiring words, I had a hell of a night.” These conversations generally go quickly.  I do my best to act casual and play along so I can get it over with.
   “Looks ta me like yer a’man question’n the very principle of his worth.” She fills up my cup, then a second and sits down. “What’s got’cha bit on the buns hun?”
   I have dealt with this kind before.  The lost out in the middle of no where down to earth goo roo of the simple life southern variety.  These people have a uniquely accurate understanding of how overly complicated we as people have made things.  They have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came.  She is a bar top shrink who has heard it all and knows more than one way to make a total freak of nature feel comfortable for the first time in his own skin.  She has never met me though.
   “I’m suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.” I lean heavily on one hand.
   “Oh I see, your son a homo or somth’n?” she fiddles around in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a match.
   “I just spent last night having the best sex of my life and when I woke up today I discovered that this girl was the daughter of a woman I brutally tortured, raped, and murdered about thirteen years ago.”  She goes to light the cigarette but stops dead in her tracks, the flame of the match burning just off from its target.
   “Well now I have heard every thing… it’s on the house.” Mortified she stands up and walks away.

1.  Do not give up your day job.

2.  Run, do not walk, to your local community college.  Sign up for every creative writing class they have.  A remedial English class might help, too.

3.  Resign yourself to the fact that nobody wants to read about your torture fantasies.

4.  Take up macrame.

1.  thats why i still have one

2. am still in and doing my best

3. wrong and deal with it... people have read and enjoyed it... not my fault they had no taste

4. will do when i can