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Here we shall discuss what good writing is, and what not to do when writing with an audience in mind.
I've never read Stephen King, but I recently read an article he wrote on The Passion of the Christ film in Entertainment Weekly. And something about his style or the thread of his thought kept me interested the whole time. He wasn't even saying anything that profound or insightful, but every phrase seemed to have a purpose and lead into his next thought.
So it occurred to me, in writing, every bit of it should say something new, should have a point or be building up to something and be entertaining and interesting along the way. It should never say something we've already read a thousand times, or be phrased in ways we are familiar. And each phrase or sentence should setup for the next one so that you are eager to keep reading.
What are your writing tips? What are some dos and don'ts of writing that you have discovered in your readings and writings?
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They called him the Lord of the Sack.
56, pale and wiry but with deceptive strength of cock, Lord was the master of all things in the sack. He was the 1956 Youth Sport Sex God of the Year. He was the 1970 Scottish Sack Champion. In 1989 they crowned him the Lord of the Sack and Prince Charles himself granted him his own 400ft long stretch of Beach in the 'meat market' section of the Scottish Isles.
To the guys he was a God, to the ladies he was the Dream Reamer. His reel was golden and his rod was both long and stiff.
Lord he was, sat upon his throne and eating chocolate biscuits. The room was dark, for Lord was cheap and did not like expending money on electricity. The TV remained silent. Grey light filtered through the dingy Cheesecloth blinds of the Lord residence.
He chewed and glared balefully at the Cheesecloth. It was raining again, and Lord was no fan of water not in hot tubs and beaches. The EU had issued a summons on Lord, forbidding him to fuck. He had single-handedly fornicated the flocks of women, and the children population had reached crisis levels.
Bite and Crunch.
The biscuit vanished and crumbs fell on his tweedy breeks.
Reach and crunch.
Those German assgoblins had stolen his pastime and his livelihood. No more fucking for 5 years.
No more fucking… ever.
No biscuits were left in the tub.
Lord took to grinding his grundle instead and reached for the remote control. The TV flickered on standby before Lord began to trawl through the channels in search of breast.
8.35pm. No breasts for a good 25 minutes yet.
Balls balls balls balls balls.
The fornicating shows just annoyed Lord. Once he had been offered a contract from Lifestyle TV for a 12-show season, titled “Sack Master”. It had been canceled after one show when Lord punched a cameraman in the face and shoved $17,360 worth of sound equipment into the ocean, complete with Melinda McGraw, Lifestyle’s primadonna face and briefly co-star on Lord TV.
Hmmm… car shows… cartoons… national geographic special on sex… news.
News it was.
Some black git with a pair of goggles and a pinstripe tie waffled on about three kids trampled to death in some shithole down in England due to a certain overpopulation problem and preaching on about celibacy. Blah blah blah. Boring, pointless monogomy.
Lord decided he needed a shit.
To move or not to move? Going to the toilet now would mean half an hour of straining and those little painful acid farts. On the other hand, he could just sit and quietly strain in front of the TV, rushing of to the toilet when the Terminal Push was imminent.
Tough one. The wife would complain if the living room was stinking of Lord-gas when she got back… but on the other hand, moving right now was really too much effort.
Fuck it. Sit and stew. Watch the telly.
Train derailed outside Kensington. 57 injured, one fatality.
Geranimo the Panda dies of heart attack during forced artificial insemination.
Gay ass banger terrorizes costal town.
Lord shits pants.
“FUCKING BASTARD SHITS!” he screamed, lifting his buttocks away from his sodden pants and crushing the armrests in anger. Quickly, Lord rushes to the toilet, taking care not to stretch the seat of his trousers and spread the unexpected turd any further across his yellowed ass.
Time passes. There is much cursing from behind the closed door of the crapper. Eventually the toilet roll rolls, there is much scraping and Lord reappears, naked from the waist down and trousers screwed up under one arm. The offending trousers are bundled into the washing machine, along with a load of his wife’s smalls. Tuesday’s Pair of Pants go into the bin, hidden in a tin of dog food. Lord exits kitchen and retreats to his single bedroom to salvage some new breeks.
He is sitting on his bed, trousers halfway on and halfway off, when Lord decides he needs a holiday. Away from his wife, away form the fucking dog and away from Scotland in general. Away from that bastard stepson Niles and all his wanker friends.
Away from the EU edicts prohibiting him from fucking.
Lord needs a holiday. And he knows exactly where.
“Aye, fuckin’ Ass. No more pussy sex for the Lord, I’m going out after the real thing now!”
“But fucking ass fucking,” Niles paused, circling his arms and searching for reason. “Have you not seen Jaws: Cum Catcher?
“Fuck Jaws, this is the real thing! Man versus beast in the ultimate battle of cocks and cumming!”
“It’s a fucking faggot, they’re not exactly noted for wit. They’re noted for biting daft cunts like you in half below the waist and sooking out your entrails.”
“Shut up or you’ll get the back of my cock over your face, cheeky shit. I’m going ass fucking and that’s all there is to it.”