Word Count
Name Something a Writer Shouldn't Care About But Everyone Else Does for Some Reason
As he obsessed over his word count yet again the author wondered why such an arbitrary, meaningless number, seemed to be so important to so many people. After a great deal of thought the best he could come up with was that humans have an intrinsic need to measure things and believe that a thing which cannot be measured is a thing of less value. He went to bed that night and cried himself to sleep. A thing very typical for a writer like himself.
About the Creator
Everyday Junglist
About me. You know how everyone says to be a successful writer you should focus in one or two areas. I continue to prove them correct.
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Satironical Meta Magical Realism
Narrator's preface: The writer who is the protagonist of the below story includes an author's preface in many of his written works. Generally these are full of psuedo intellectual clap trap that sounds intelligent at first blush, but upon closer inspection is actually nonsense. He was not available to provide an author's preface in this case telling me that he was busy "inventing a brand new genre of writing" which he had dubbed satironical meta magical realism. And there you have it, a perfect example of what I meant with that intelligent nonsense comment. Apparently he was doing this in order that he might produce a story he could enter in a writing contest for some two bit website nobody has ever heard of much less cares about. I told him good luck and offered to dream something up to cover his author's preface for this "story." His fan base which consists primarily of persons recently released from or soon to be committed to a mental institution, prisoners, hobos and homeless vagabounds get very agitated when he fails to include an author's preface in any given story he writes. Of course they also get agitated by anything anyone else considers normal. Ah well. Enjoy the below, or don't, it's no skin off my back either way.
By Everyday Junglist3 years ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker of Whispering Sands
In the heart of the Gilded Desert lay the city of Orizon, a place of shimmering heat and relentless mechanics. In Orizon, the sun never truly set; it hung like a heavy brass coin in the sky, illuminating a civilization obsessed with the passage of seconds. Here, time was not an abstract concept or a natural flow. It was a physical currency—shimmering, chronological sand carried in glass vials.
By Md. Rejaul Karim2 days ago in Fiction
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