Looking at a positive trend in lit DDs.
Probably the biggest demand authors on this site have is for more constructive feedback. And guess what? One of the ways you do end up getting some great advice is when you get a sitewide feature.
Here are a few quotes from great critiques seen in October's DDs, and yes I have chosen sentences that are offering constructive feedback rather than positivity, so don't assume these critics were pointlessly harsh. I've left them anonymous just in case, but if you recognize your words here, please understand they're appreciated!
I'd suggest incorporating more turns of phrase to keep the language fresh.
I feel as though the action around the beginning of the fire could be a little more clear, and perhaps the setting, too.
I think with a little more condensation, you could make a greater impact upon the reader.
I think shorter would work better, because then you're not adding more 'filler', and shorter sentences work to increase intensity.
Anyway, I'm including these because 1) they're good examples of how to suggest a change and 2) because sometimes people forget that there's nothing wrong with critiquing a DD (I haven't seen it in a while, but there have been posts like 'how could you critique this special snowflake' or 'don't listen to that jerk, this is peeeerfect as iiiiis' and they are most amusing when the artist's own comments say they think they could do better).
Guys, I am incredibly picky. If I were going to only feature perfect things, so far you would see two, maybe three pieces from me over the entire year. Perfection is hard and a lot of people who achieve it shoot for publication, which means it isn't even posted here.
There's nothing wrong with you if you think a DD could use work. Nor is there anything wrong with a person if they think something needs work and you think it's good as is.
And now for all the October DDs with less than 30 comments in case you're suddenly feeling the itch to say things. Hint, hint.
Tonight is different.
Genevieve pauses, watching layers of fog ascend forward from the darkness. The ominous mist slinks onward as it settles against her taunt muscles. Vapor coils along her skin like venom; tangible and prickling.
She allows herself timid inhales of February. Every breath sparks arctic shockwaves through her nervous system. Glacial streaks echo between her tissues; ever-so-silent, sickening her. Genevieve then slows, listening to iced-oxygen as it hardens between blood cells.
The cold feels like boulders in my lungs.
She begins to feel so unexpectedly heavy in her skin. Slu
JayAcorn wedged between bone feet,
In awkward rhythm of white-tipped
Blue tail, there, he precisely
Brings his point of beak, and again,
Again, piercing down; now,
Meat the color of old mustard shows,
And the big head tilts, the crest
Lays flat, the slick throat shuttles.
His bright eyes dart quickly about.
If he had hands he'd rub his belly.
Your Breath (A Little Bird Told Me)I buried a tiny bird today, in the rocky patch
out back, just beyond the gate,
where weeds grow near the garden and
the shade of a young tree hangs
over the sunken hole
and as I buried that little bird,
who was black with white belly
who had white spots, pokadots
trailing up black back and feathered
wings, I watched the wind gently
move those ruffled feathers,
ever so slightly, like flight without
it is funny, for I thought this is
how your breath must be, cigarette and
coffee smell, as you blow smoke out
with a smile, fragile, like porcelain,
so easily broken, like the little body
now buried in the backyard
but still something else, like a final
flight, after the sun light has disappeared,
when all the birds are nested,
save for solely one, still feeling the
breeze beneath outstretched wings,
soaring on the back of soft breath
escaping from your lips
Argus ApocraphexOf the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow. Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space.
His mind reeled from slide to slideimages of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver. The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan. Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him. But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the inside of the lilies on her wrist. A quick rewind to remove the obstruction, but instead it continued to grow across the bare chest of a flexing boy at the public pool. And finally, it consumed the picture and gnawed it to the pit, leaving behind a carcass to rot in its old age.
The man awo
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart
Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness
Anyway, I mostly just wanted to toss a quick shout out in the way of all the people cool enough to drop polite critiques wherever they think one could be used, and also to remind you that if you get an awesome critique you should return the favour.
Till next time, keep calm and critique like a boss.
skin by Infinite705