Writer's Hub v.1
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NOTE: If you would like to join us, please Smail me and I will add you on the list of users taking part :) There are 7 positions open! Option 1 is for all subeta users - stop by and say hello even if you aren't part of the RP <3 We love all writers!
- 6. (me)
Hey guys so here's how we can make this work.
There are a couple of things we can do on this thread:
- Post writing for constructive criticism - a haiku, a sci-fi story, a pet profile story, a blog article, whatever you want!
IMPORTANT NOTE: This option is open to all Subeta users, not just the users tagged.
- Discuss RP ideas/OCs/Plot discussion/story line discussion before we start an RP thread - Only tagged users will be considered for RPing (sorry, it's not to offend anyone). We will allow a maximum of 13 users for a start so it doesn't get too confusing. Most of us haven't been very active with writing, have we? This is just so that a small active group of us can help each other out. So once we decide on all our characters and choose a story line over here, we can create an RP thread in the right forum.
You are free to share your blogs, reference images (artists are also welcome) and DA accounts. As time goes on, we can implement more functions for our Writer's Hub.
I personally feel that this little group can help us all in different ways. For me, it will probably help me finish my pet profiles!
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10 day poetry/prose challenge (on alternative days, so one post in 2 days) I will edit the date with the topic based on suggestions that the tagged users provide. We can all have our turns deciding what topic to choose for the others. (please tell me if you're all ok with this)
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Provide suggestions for other activities - don't let me lead this all by myself. I'll be happy if you all tell me what to do next :)
To get things kick started, please post one example of your writing work (You don't need to be a tagged user to do so, just a part of Subeta ;D)
Here's one of my poems: Write me down
Turn me into a poem, one of your tainted worlds... a prim rose, a daffaodil an old mountain song a dead little bird An oceanic swirl!
Something you saw, something I'm not. I would give all though I have not, To be one of your words Spilled in ink, tied in strings, Trapped on your finger tips absurd.
Mad poet, boy sunshine, Oh wouldnt it be fine? If I were meaning and you the rhyme, I the alphabet, you each line. Write me down, spin me around You're free to burn those sheets to the ground.
But try if you could what nobody else would, Make me paper thin aloud, Sing in free verse, a song to paint on my hearse. Give me your words, your magic To adorn my shroud.
- Moksha
Pet's name: kimo
Chicken Smoothie
Alright, let me post something as well!
I've been working on crafting a universe for a possible book idea, and in that vein, started a series to expand upon the pantheon.
This one's about the god of revelry
He is a young god.
He did not experience the creation, the moment when time became reality and life started to move. He did not see the way in which the elder gods benevolently watched over the first, the original. And some may say, even the best. He did not see the way the earth itself shifted, just to lovingly tremble under the first's feet. The way the waters lapped at the beaches, inching closer to the being they called their parent. The elder gods drifted in like sea wood, grazing the waters with their feet and the heavens with their hands, the giants of old.
As the first looked down on their children, fondness on their face, so tender and bright that it hurt to look at, they reached and pulled the elder gods into existence. The first was not a creator, they claimed, only a medium through which possibilities came to life. Lives that were just as eternal and beautiful as the ideas and simple chances that they represented.
The humans of new have a saying, the creator tells him, that even the simplest of thoughts can change the most complex of men.
He is born on the eve of survival. He is not a god meant for animals or spirits, or even a higher god; no, he is an embodiment of a human idea. His golden eyes first open when a human decides to live for something that is not simply just surviving to the next day. That instant moment when joy of simply being alive was greater than the joy of not being dead, a moment so clear and vivid in his mind. His first sounds are not words, but music. His mouth opens and what comes out inspires stories and legends, sounds so beautiful that they move humans and spirits alike to action.
As the human race grows, so does he. He watches them with adoration, as without them, he would not exist. Just like the creator, they too are his parents, from the small infant grasping at finger tips, eyes barely open to the wonders of the world to the grizzled old man who has seen what the world can do to those not prepared. His heart is large and open, so full of love and joy that it moves him to dance and sing. Hisexistence does not remain secret for long, for how could one be unaware of a being that loves so thoroughly that it consumes all?
Just as he'd hoped, the people finally see him and as they start to enjoy life, the stronger he becomes. He enjoys the offerings, receives the prayers and does his best to live up to the title they'd bestowed upon him; the god of revelry and music. His name echoes through the countries and people, spread by those who are both innocent and guilty, drunk and sober. He doesn't care where his followers are from or what they do with their life; he only knows that he is there for when they look for him. Just as he reaches for humans, so do they reach for him.
However, it is not long before the first taste of violence taints his wine. So removed from the pantheon, so absorbed in his life revolving around humans, he does not hear the drums of war, however loud and aggressive they might be. His fellow gods greedily lap up the prayers and offerings the humans make as they march against each other, often spiteful of peace and ignorant of despair. How would a god know of human plight and suffering?
While the taste is not to his liking, he still loves the human race even if he cannot understand them, their actions absurd, laughable even. He does not consider the individual life, but the greater echo of it; he sees people, not a person.
You too are mortal, just like those you watch, says the creator.
He scoffs at the absurdity. A mortal god?
Oh my friend, they sigh wistfully, you are bound to their fate.
He watches humans with increasingly less adoration and more spite. Why should he be held accountable for what foolish, stupid, naive humans do to each other? Why would he be dragged down with them, when their existence crumbles to nothing? Time laughs at him, whispering of the days in which humanity would be but a whisper of the past. The thought strikes him as strongly as a blacksmith strikes the hot iron.
I, too, will die some day.
He drinks his wine, wanting to forget that his freedom is limited, that his time has an end. Spite runs through him, clenching his fists and drawing him into darkness. He scorns the gods, damning himself to a solitary existence.
Even as his people die, he continues to sit on his throne, singing a melancholic melody for as much as he wants to hate, to despise them, they are still dear to him. His music and dance become less of a revelry of a day alive and more a requiem to the end.
Thus, he sings and cries for them and himself.
I really, really like your poem! It has this subtle tenderness to it, that I find great. I especially love "I would give all though I have not, To be one of your words Spilled in ink, tied in strings, Trapped on your finger tips absurd."
Very nice!
thankyou so much <3 this one is very special to me!
I like your writing style a lot. I can't write prose like that :| I love the concept involving a god's own personal demons. LOVE the description in the beginning "The way the waters lapped at the beaches, inching closer to the being they called their parent. The elder gods drifted in like sea wood, grazing the waters with their feet and the heavens with their hands, the giants of old."
The imagery is beautiful. Keep at this, it's a great start :)
hey guys, haven't heard back from you. Thought I'd give this a bump. Are you'll still up for the RP and the writing group?
Pet's name: kimo
Chicken Smoothie
Hey! I am so sorry that I didn't see this thread made sooner, I was traveling without my laptop. But I am here now if you'll still have me! :)
Hello! Sorry I didn't reply sooner! I'm still down ^^ Congrats on the name change by the way.
For you
I'm going to just go from the beginning to end and say my thoughts :) If you'd prefer I do good things first followed by criticism (like two separate sections) just let me know, and I can try to organize that way next time.
"Turn me into a poem, one of your tainted worlds..."
I absolutely love the beginning. The implication that a poem is a "tainted world" just says so much in so few words. I mean, it's line 2 and you've already made a really interesting metaphor for the reader to think about. It's a subtle thing but ending it in a "..." was, I thought, effective because it makes a pause that emphasizes what you just said. It gives the reader space to think about it before moving on.
The next four lines are nice, but to me they had a lesser impact because the imagery seems to lack a clear direction. First, there's two flowers followed by mention of the mountain song, which are fairly cohesive nature imagery. Then, the dead little bird followed by the ocean... I'm not sure what to think or feel at this point. Each piece of imagery is brief and doesn't seem to follow from "tainted worlds". Maybe you could try to build multiple images - or even a single, strong image - that carries on the "tainted worlds" idea?
I enjoyed the rhythm the poem took on starting in the second stanza. The rhymes didn't feel forced, they came smoothly and it was pleasant to read. I really liked how you used a comma to sort of split this line in half: "Spilled in ink, tied in strings". I think poetry is a lot like music, every poem has its own rhythm, and you're clearly very good at controlling the flow. While I'm there, I have to remark the contrast between freedom (spilled) and restriction (tied) is wonderful, it made me think how true that is as a description for writing (and many forms of art).
"Mad poet, boy sunshine" is amazing. I think some would say "mad poet" is cliched, but honestly I didn't feel that way. I think it was offset by the unexpectedness of "boy sunshine" and just how you put these four words together. Again, with very little words, you've hinted at a lot. Just four words and you've characterized the boy and his writing, you've also characterized the speaker and their relationship and adoration/admiration for the boy.
I love the rest of this stanza. The only part I found unclear was the last line mentioning burning "those sheets to the ground". I interpreted "sheets" to refer to the paper the boy writes poetry on. But usually when I hear something "burned to the ground" it refers to a structure, like a building or house, literally burning until nothing is left standing. I could see it as a metaphor but to me it was too much of a stretch, since you can literally burn paper as well, but it burns differently - It disintegrates and blackens and curls, releases smoke like snakes into the air, it doesn't burn to the ground but it burns to dust.
The last stanza is so lovely. "Make me paper thin aloud / Sing in free verse, a song to paint on my hearse" just said so much without actually saying it explicitly. I took it as the speaker asking if the boy could help write the speaker's truth. The phrase "paper thin" usually means see-through, they're asking the boy to see through them. "A song to paint on my hearse" should be a song that defines you, maybe a song that can tell things about you that weren't clear to many in life. I love the image of magic adorning a shroud too, and I saw "shroud" as referring to the same hearse.
I really liked this overall, and I could feel the adoration and longing in the speaker's voice.
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wow this was SUPER useful to me and it gave me chills to see how well you analysed this :D
Certain things you've mentioned, I've taken note of and it makes so much sense, like the next four lines after the first having lesser impact. I understand how its important to hold the reader's attention with the same amount of power that the first line held. I got caught up in flashing images that came to mind...so I thought, what would the poem be, that he writes? about a mountain song? or something that has died...or the ocean? But clearly, this did not come out right. I'll keep that in mind. A single strong image would work well here, as you mentioned.
"Spilled in ink, tied in strings" expresses the relationship exactly as is, so I am so happy you were able to feel that.
Burning the sheets to the ground, in my mind were 2 different sheets...the sheets of paper and the relationship as a whole, the comfortable blanket around us. But again, not clearly portrayed. I really appreciate you explaining to me how you feel the burning of the sheets should have been described - blackening, curling and being released into the air like snakes sounds SO COOL! I wish I had used that but I will surely write something with this imagery in mind or fix this poem later with that imagery...I could even compare the fading thin snakes to fading lust/attraction.
I'm so happy that you got the last stanza. The whole poem...with the contrasting images of constriction and love, dead things and the beauty of nature...I wanted to end it with something happy concerning my death...so I wanted it to be like, give me something to die with, a memory of us, write me a song that I can put on my hearse/grave stone...that was the direction I wanted to go in but again, strayed lol, yet it seemed to work out quiet well. I like how you see it.
Thank you so much for taking the time out to tell me all this! Will share more soon <3
Pet's name: kimo
Chicken Smoothie
I'm glad you found my feedback useful. I really enjoy giving feedback and believe-it-or-not I don't often get the chance to do it. I've noticed that a lot of people who post things on popular poetry-sharing websites just want praise and not actual analysis. I also don't have any writer friends IRL so I'm pretty happy to have met you here. Not to mention I genuinely do enjoy reading what you write.
I'll post a little something of my own in return. It was written a couple years ago though so I'm not really looking for critique, as I don't plan to revise it. But I'd love to hear your response, interpretation, etc.
Poem
it's hard to write a love poem
when my hands are potted plants
rooted with blood.
they will move, but not to the sky I dream of. and when they push, it's with a fragile push that doesn't know what it wants.
your mute fingers against my eyes hold a longing that isn't even desperate. you are just bored.
still i find myself swollen with your soil. nourished by your dirt lust.
you, too, are despicable. but you, too, are potted.
I'll try to find something more recent for you to critique soon :)
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This is beautifully morose
"your mute fingers against my eyes hold a longing that isn't even desperate. you are just bored."
Those words made my heart sink, I felt the pain of the forced affection, that something/anything the poet keeps pouring in to fill the void. The best thing about this was how it started and ended, both characters caught in the same situation, seeking depth in a relationship that is otherwise founded on imaginary prospects. I could be wrong. But that's how I see it.
I would like to know why you used the words "rooted with blood." I can't put a picture or emotion to it, but surely I understand it means something to you. Maybe it could have been..."rooted with distrust." Just a suggestion :) Blood is still intense, but as you had mentioned to me about the sudden off throwing of imagery in mine, I thought you would be able to understand why I do not get that line although it sounds cool.
Overall, a beautiful, beautiful poem that I enjoyed!!! And I don't enjoy too many these days :) You're a beautiful poet and I'm glad we're getting to meet on Subeta and share our work. I'm getting a very nice vibe off of this connection <3 Please do share more when you have the time and reply to me whenever you can.
P.s I'm sorry if my critiquing abilities aren't up to par. I will get there as I keep doing this :) Feels great to be writing/reading again!!!
Also, for now, I will share two haikus I wrote:
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Kiss my lips, bittersweet bliss Dance on my tongue I need another swig of rum.
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I am no seeker. I live by my poisons and Will die by them too.
please do join us love :D You were one of our invites! Can't wait to read your work ^.^
UPDATE
We've all been quiet for a while so I decided to give this a bump and see if anyone's up for posting some of their work this week :3 no pressure though!
I'd also like welcome a new member, who needs our help to kick the block xD
Here's one of mine: Let's hesitate, shall we? You are art in motion You are music in silence You are addiction in control You are a thousand stories untold. You are the storm to my still days; You are abstraction, a comforting haze. And you may prefer I never tell you so, But this just to let you know You are both strength and weakness Breaking down all reasons. You are an angel… Dancing with my demons.
Pet's name: kimo
Chicken Smoothie
Super glad to join the group! I am loving the content so far. I’m happy to share one of mine. I have recently been thinking about going to my local spoken word poetry open mics, but lack the confidence/motivation to actually get up there on stage D:
Undermining myself, not defining myself Who am I? What do I crave? What is it that will finally break the shackles free the slave I have become Stuck in routine, body feeling numb Lost in an endless wave of distraction On social media all this fake satisfaction I can't show compassion when we're passing up friends to scroll on instagram and pretend that we're happy But deep down we are sadly aching, We are breaking Getting harder to maintain that Kodak smile we've been faking Hands are shaking When we look into the mirror Eyes embedded with tears And the greatest fear imaginable Is losing touch with ourselves and each other A thought so unfathomable
Again, I appreciate being a part of this and am open to any and all constructive criticism you may have. ^_^
[Tree=Babe]
Eeeeey, a writer's hub! I'm totally interested in participating and I'm a little curious about the rp you guys can be tagged for. Can you elaborate more on that? Anyway, I'll post a piece now! I think I'll do a little short story/flash fiction on the pets I have now.
Lusheeta Toel was gazing at the night sky, her stare intent as she studied the stars. Sitting on her haunches, she continued to stare, this Sheeta's gaze a little wistful while counting the stars in the sky. Three hundred and two, three hundred and three, three hundred and four...
"Princess? Up so late?" She stiffened as her counting was interrupted and jerked her head to the sound of the perpetrator's voice.
"...Rebellion," she said, adding a small "humph!" at the end of her sentence. The Bloodred Harvester took no notice of her attitude as she floated and sat down beside her, her legs dangling from the building's edge as she regarded the Sheeta. "What do you want, protector? A peasant like you shouldn't be so casual with a princess like me!" The Harvester shrugged.
"I was merely wondering what you were doing up here. Polaris herself is asleep, yet here you are, staring at the night sky." Lusheeta looked back up at the sky.
"...Counting the stars. Thinking of home. What, is that too much to ask?" From the corner of her eye, she could see Rebellion slowly shake her head.
"No, it isn't. I myself do not completely understand the practice of stargazing and what's so fun about it, but if it's special to you then it's special to you."
"Humph! Of course! The sky is my home and what better way to connect back to it then to gaze at it?" She let out a scoff at the other's idiocy as her gaze flickered back to the sky. There was a moment of silence between the two girls.
"...Tell me about your home, Princess," Rebellion asked suddenly as she wiped the dried bit of blood staining her cloak. That got her attention.
"...My home? Why, you never heard of the kingdoms up above?" she asked.
"As far as I know no one has ever heard of your 'kingdom.' So tell me a little bit about it."
"Humph, fools, the lot of them. Alright, I suppose I'll tell to a peasant like you. Where to begin? Up above...clouds and stars dance together each night in magnificent balls. The Star, your sun, may be harsh and unforgiving, but my people have devised a way to combat against this. The clouds, they manage to block the light and let it stream forth in little star beams-"
"Don't you mean sunbeams?"
"Who's telling this story, you or me?" Silence. "I thought so. Now let's see, where was I? ...Ah, yes! Our people are dressed in dew dresses, stringed together with lightning. The clouds can be bunched together to form scarves, perfect for the constant chill in the air. My people have long since grown used to the wet and the cold up above, but to those staying within the castle, why, they are more radiant in their dew dresses due to not being outside constantly!"
"What's castle life like?" She let out a snort.
"Boooring. Boring, boring, boring. Nothing but tutoring and exploring the dungeons. There is a new person there every day, you know. All of them fools for breaking the laws of our land! Though I dare say, they deserve it. I wouldn't want to touch such criminals with a delicate hoof!" More silence.
"...Oh dear. Er, what are your crimes like?" Lusheeta's head jerked to the Bloodred Harvester.
"My crimes or the crimes of the peasants? Watch your tongue, for I might just get Polaris to cut it out." Rebellion quickly shook her head.
"No no, I meant the laws of your people. I worded that wrong, do continue."
"Good, you've noticed your mistake. Our laws...well, they are far too lenient. Peasant children cluttering the children with their awful noise, giving too much to the needy when they should be working for it, my father and mother going out daily to discuss with the townspeople..."
"Sounds like a paradise." She quickly shook her head.
"It's not, my father and mother are too soft. They care too much for the poor, spending our funds to make their lives easier. Really, they should be earning them, not just taking and taking without a thought to their king and queen!" She let out another huff. "They need to be ruled with an iron fist, to understand that they can't just take without giving with interest. The king and queen, my father and mother...they do not understand this. They just see the false hurting of the people and respond to it. They don't realize that the peasants whisper behind their backs greedily..." She slowly got up and stretched. "I'm done here, my nostalgia is gone. Rebellion, let us away. Unless...you want to stay up here?" She watched as she rubbed at another bloodstain on her cloak.
"...I was thinking of staying here. To quiet my thoughts, forget about my sins. But in any rate, goodnight, Princess. Maybe...you'll take us to your kingdom one day."
"Humph! Perhaps, you are here to protect me, after all. But once I ascend back to the throne...do know that you won't be needed any longer." Rebellion gave a curt nod.
"Understood. Goodnight, Princess." The Harvester watched as the Common Sheeta stomped away, wondering if the princess' views were just twisted or things were actually as "bad" as she had described them.
Alright, some critique will be nice! Let me know what you guys think!