/lit/ - Literature

>>16865452
let us hope this isn't a trend. We should archive what he has on his https://www.litpublication.com/ page

Why is this chink getting shilled on this board as of late?

>>16865482
One of them is the cringy "essay" where he talks to the barista about how he has a whole "shelf full of notebooks" where he writes "everything and nothing". Since filed this under the category of essay, we can only assume that "It Was a Good Discipline" is 100% fact and really happened. If so, Waldun is extremely cringe when he interacts with women, and his self-perception of his interactions with women is extremely colored.

>>16865515
The power of Waldong scholars is increasing.

The following is for archiving purposes

It Was a Good Discipline by R.C. Waldun

I sat down at the café next to the window. It was a little chilly out, but it was warm inside. The smell of coffee and the noisy steam-machine settled me down and I took out my notebook. It has been a while since I have written anything new. I looked out of the window at the streets with dull eyes. A punk busker was setting up his guitar, but my page was blank. Writing sentences felt like pulling teeth, and none of the stories had any rhythm.

The barista was a short, fair-haired girl who enjoyed hiding behind the glassed cabinet of pastries. The first time I came in I remembered her because she had an air of friendliness that never slipped. The cafe itself, too, had that air. It was a stable anchor against the chaos abroad. I usually sat at a table next to the window, for it allowed me to observe and study the streets without being seen. The page was still blank. I took out my pen and wrote a lousy opening.

“Are you alright there?” The barista came to my table with my coffee.

“Yeah. Lousy times.” I said, “This is the fourth.”

“Fourth day?”

“Fourth month.” I drank from the cup. It burned my tongue, but I didn’t flinch.

“You’ve been here every day. Has it really been four months?” she said.

“Not my fault. Give me a year and I’ll still be here.” I shrugged.

“How many of those do you have?” she looked at my notebook.

“Enough to fill a shelf,” I said.

“What do you write in there, though?” She tilted her head.

“Everything and nothing.” I forced a smile. She nodded and started wiping the neighbouring table. I took a deep breath and looked around me. The store was lit by warm tungsten bulbs. It was dark with a window next to me — it was perfect for writing. Across the street, the busker started playing. He was a punk kid with a leather jacket and uneven chords. I bet he was just starting out — he was having the time of his life.

Writing’s all the same. When you’re just starting out as a writer, it sounds easy enough. Tell a story and write what you know. But in a few years, once you’ve written a few stories and have read a few decent books, you’ll see how inadequate you are. If you read some of your stories from a few years back, you’ll always feel like shooting yourself, metaphorically. The more you write, the more difficult it is to write well. Amateurs think they can pen the perfect paragraph right off the bat. Those with bruises and bumps know how difficult it is just to write an ok sentence.
(1/2)

>>16865493
he's just the latest meme faggot that zoomers post. a while back they were spamming some unfunny scottish fag, then it was some youtuber girl, now its this gook.

>>16865452
shit, he's going through and trying to get rid of all his older work. We need to start downloading and compiling it ASAP

>>16865538
From the lousy opening, I had a page of dead prose. I tore out the page and scrunched it up while the punk kid bowed to his little clan of audience. It was noon — and I had a crappy page. Time to live a little without thinking about writing. Though living without writing is a tragedy, writing without living is just plain silly. The barista waved at me on my way out and wished me a good day. I said thank you and felt the chills after opening the cafe’s door. It was a cloudy day and people walked past with grim faces. It was nicer in that cafe and it was a good discipline.
(2/2)

>>16865452
Did he delete this?

The Lingering Tastes of Prose by R.C. Waldun

When we think of the phrase "having read (insert a great book)", we'll usually picture a person with every detail of a certain book locked away in their head.

This is not a very good way of looking at it.

Schools taught us to memorize passages from great literary pieces so that we can recite them on examinations. Over time, we start to measure how "well-read" someone is with how many exact passages they can recite or how much of the plot they've retained in their heads.

This mindset works brilliantly in pretentious, stiff up the lip private schools (funded by rich daddies), but it's not that helpful on your way toward being a true literary connoisseur.
Here's my proposition. To truly understand literature and appreciate all the marrows of a masterful piece of work, you have to treat prose like passing music.

How does one fall in love with a piece of music? On the first hearing, your heart's strings were somehow pulled by a chord, a movement, a prelude, or just a phrase that glided across your mind by chance. From there, you've retained just a mere fragment of the whole piece; a passing whimsy that you can't even put a name to.

Literature is of the same nature. On your first reading, a passing sentence, a metaphor well used, or a scene well-written glided past and stayed with you. You probably do not remember the entire book nor the precise plot, but those little passages stayed with you and became markers of appreciation. So when the name of the book comes up, you can bring up that marker you so loved and generalize the love to the entire book, and confidently call yourself a lover of Proust or Miller.

Over time the little marker grows. It draws you back to the piece of music and deepens your love for the entire piece; not just the little phrase that makes your heart tick. Through the little marker, you came to love the entire piece of music.

Over time the little sentence you loved will grow into a paragraph after a re-read. That paragraph will grow into a page well-understood. Before you know it, you will fall in love with the entire book.

It is not the whole book that enraptures us through our first readings, but those little bits of echos we've encountered by pure chance; the lingering tastes of prose. A book well-read doesn't mean a book well-recited, but a book well-digested.

>>16865558
Yes. He deleted it off of thequirkinquiry and his website litpublication. HOWEVER it is still up on medium. Medium still has around 30-50 of his shitty essays. They date from April of 2019, to July of 2020. Hopefully Waldun can't pull those down. That's the only place where his essays and poems are still left.

>>16865593
currently downloading them now, wont get away with depriving us of his scintillating proses

Waldun wrote an manifesto

Living A Literary Life: A Manifesto by R.C. Waldun

As of writing this I just got back from a trip to an outback town in rural Australia. To put it simply, it was sensory overload. The sensations of this trip are simply too good not to be fictionalized into stories. Being a long time lover of the works of The Beats and the more delicate Monsieur Proust, stories began to form as I raced through the highways in a car full of skittles-fuelled teenagers. All I had to do is to write them down.

This then brings us to what I wanted to write about: viewing literature not just as something you can brag about on Goodreads, but integrate it as a lifestyle. My own writing journey began just with an urge to write down my thoughts. I was at a Starbucks with a new notebook (a birthday present) and a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther, as I found the sensation of jotting down notes of my own inner world exhilarating. It was a drug coursing through my veins long after the writing session was finished. I wandered as the familiar streets of Melbourne appeared as a multi-faceted theatrical, where the manifolds of the clanging trams, the passing cyclists and the shifting crowds all revealed themselves in vivid details. To paraphrase from Burroughs: I was merely a human recorder, sensing the urge to turn the experience into prose; to turn adventures into beautiful tales.

Not everyone’s a writer, but the lucky few that had experienced what I described could really relate to this. When you view your life as a literary playground, everything changes. Books by masters are no longer prescribed medicine by a faceless University, instead, they become moving voices that inform the craft. Writing no longer is a chore done for the approval of a bearded bore, instead, it becomes the paint of an artist. Experiences are no longer something purely sensory, instead, they turn into profound vignettes that will live in print. If a writer is brutally honest with him/herself, all that is written is true, as the marks will go on to inspire, to educate and to astonish.

At some point, like a wide-eyed painter streaming down tears of joy in front of the canvas, the writers will realize that this crap will not leave them anymore. They can’t snap out of it anymore. They were born here to put words to the page, to render the ordinary into the profound. From this place onward, a literary lifestyle is not an alternative anymore, but a necessity. A writer lives to write and writes to live. What is life without creation?

>>16865452
Thank god for warosu. I wish we had a pdf of his book >>16865482

cache:https://www.litpublication.com/fiction/those-drinks-after-graduation

not sure if that pulls from local cache or a google cache but if you've been on his site it should work, it does for me.

Shit, it requires an account to view more than three stories on Medium.

I already have
>how watching TV helped with reading literature
>reading the literary canon is kind of like dating
>writing is...
already downloaded in .txt files, as well as all this stuff
>>16865618
>>16865561
>>16865538

Can another anon go on Medium and copy-paste the next three essays before 'writing is...' and save them as .txt files or in a pastebin? I tried just downloading the whole page and it won't let me. We need to hurry anons, before he takes it all down

>>16865678
its not working for me. Can you copy-paste the story here so we can archive it pls?

rice cuck waldumb

Reported for offtopic.

>>16865693
Put that whole line in your searchbar, even the part that says cache:

>>16865693
too long for post

here
paste bin (((dot))) com slash raw slash KxrYXPSh

I have the title of one.

1/5
Those Drinks After Graduation
By R.C. Waldun

Kerouac's words echoed as I roared down the streets of Melbourne's night with Tom and Gaz:

"The only people that interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time…"

It was the end of school. A break in the chain of familiar ways. A permanent shift. Life, is now in our hands, as we will run free into a chaotic future, trying to mold something out of it. In the morning when I was at work, my phone buzzed in the employees' locker room. At the end of the shift, I got dressed hastily and picked up the phone:

"We down for pub jumpin tonight?" Tom wrote. That was the only text bubble that caught my eye.

Normally, I'd consider myself a well put together person with no spikes nor roars. I dress conservatively and wanted nothing more than a fine cup of black tea beside some cafe's windows on a rainy day. But some deeper part of myself was perturbed, disturbed, and agitated. Innocence kept me away from a strange new world. I hesitated for a second at the locker room, and texted yes.

>>16865727
god 4chan filters are a nightmare to get round, sorry it looks so retarded but there you go

>>16865538
See? This isn’t horrendous

>>16865734
2/5
The bookstore where I worked was close to a train station. I took the train as it began to rain halfway through the trip. Darkened clouds rendered the view outside tiring to watch. Drowsiness took over, as the crude rainy, Londonesque scene outside placed me in a short nap. By the time I woke up, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. The stagnant air was refreshed.

I stumbled out of the train into a sea of people. Some just got off work, many heading into the City for a late night's hang out. I saw Gaz at a coffee stance in some NASA T-shirt with a bottle of Pepsi in hand. I waved:

"You're here quite early, where's Tom?"

"Just got off the train, he said." He looked around.

There, coming out of platform 7's gate was a man in a winter coat. Collar popped.

"Hey, y'all."

"Tom, let's ride. Where's Rose? Will she make it?"

"Not quite. Mom said no."

"So, just the three of us then?"

He shrugged and made his way to the exit of the station. Gaz and I followed.

We walked out of Flinders Street's station, as the set of special scenes: the steeples of the church, the passing crowd, and the clanging trams, gave off the rightful impression that Melbourne was right here. We almost missed a tram to get to the harbor of Docklands, but still managed to secure seats for dinner at a riverfront restaurant. I opted for a chicken burger, as Tom and Gaz shared a pizza. The sun began to set as we savored our food. Tom said he'd love more nights out like this. In a fit of consensus, the three of us raised our glasses filled with cider and clinked:

"To all the shit we'll put up with for the coming years."

By the time dinner was finished, it was quite dark and a little colder. Gaz took out his overcoat as Tom and I strolled down Dockland's streets. We were all a little tipsy.

We walked into a park as I ran across the pasture in the dark. A group of other teens was drinking on a bench. I passed them as Tom caught up. In a fit of happy thoughts, I gave Tom a few whacks on the back, as Gaz followed the two crazed souls without saying a word. Over a bridge, we ended up on Southbank's walk. I bought an ice-cream cone that was $8.00 and kept strolling with a dizzied head. Tom and Gaz started talking about politics and I walked before them. Their babbles went over my head completely.

>>16865734
This is a genuinely decent short story desu. He’s objectively getting better

>>16865550
Dont talk shit about Q hes the realest fuck in here I saw his and a vagrants cock

>>16865743
3/5
"A good little girl…" said Tom, "Robin looooves…"

"Oh, would you give it a break!" I said.

Gaz stayed quiet, but a little grin soon appeared. He wasn't that into our talks about relationships; the grin came from something else.

"Guys, we're here." Gaz's grin turned into a smile.

Berlin Bar was the sign. We were in a side alleyway halfway down Chinatown as we were in the company of a few men with cigarettes between their fingers. The pub had a small entrance. The stairwell took us to a locked door with a green button on the side. It made me quite uneasy. The claustrophobic stairwell and a locked door… Someone in a vest coat came to the door and unlocked it.

"Just… three?" He only half-opened the door.

"Yeah…"

"First time?"

"Yeah…"

He paused briefly. The three of us waited for some other whacky questions.

"Well, come in, fellas." He swung the door open and we walked in and were delighted by the little bar. Just like how cozy rooms could exist in squalid looking buildings, a warm little bar resided amidst all the sketchy means outside. The vest coated man came back with the menus, as the three of us sat around a candle-lit table, quite confused as to what to order. I took off my tweed jacket and settled my elbows on the iron-surfaced table, enjoying the aesthetics of the little bar. Loud music blended with laughing patrons as the motions of the bartender played to the beats of the tune.

After a while of fumbling through the menu, I ordered a double blend whiskey cocktail. All cocktails had some funky name or another so I couldn't recall the name of the drink. The other two ordered two other blends; the waiter went away with a smile. He returned in five minutes, carrying a plate of three drinks.

"Here we are." Tom wavered his palm across the drinks. "Let's do it."

We clinked and sipped a sample of our drinks. My particular cocktail had a hint of whiskey's burn, but soon the burn was replaced by a very fine sense of engineered sweetness. At times it was hard to believe there was ever any whiskey in the drink. If anything, the burn blended too well with the subtle sweetness. I looked up at the two whilst the drink coursed through my chest; the two of them also seemed to enjoy what they've ordered. Upon finishing the drink, we all looked at one another and laughed. We were still stupid, stupid boys.

Can't wait to tell my grandchildren how I, a layman, encountered the great RC Walden on an anonymous Congolose literature forum. Born at the right time

>>16865760
4/5
We went back out into the streets. I wanted donuts as the other two rolled their eyes at the suggestion. Over a crossing, Gaz, being overly sensible, was caught at a traffic light as Tom and I ran to the other side of the street. I got my donuts at a Seven-Eleven as Gaz waited for the light to turn green. By the time the three of us got together again, we continued down a side street. There, a few girls were taking photos. I hurried past them with a giddy grin and heard a string of chuckles from them. Tom caught up with me and slung his arm around my shoulders as we danced down the street, tipsy and frank.

A side turn took us to another bar's entrance. The guard was tall and was in a long wool coat. His hands were covered in tattoos and his hair was tied up. His smile greeted us with some sincerity I've not seen awhile as he wished us a good time. We walked down the stairs and entered a bar lit only by candle lights. It was spacious. People freely scattered with drinks in hand, entertaining the blues from one manned band. We settled as three beer jugs arrived after our order. Tom and I made a bet. Whoever finishes last had to be slapped by the other. The two of us raised out jugs and began downing the brown in the glass.

Afar next to the one man's blues band, a gentleman with a white sailor's cap was dancing with a blonde lady in a black dress. Music along with their quickened moves lightened the dimly lit bar. Tom and I settled out jugs, I won, but I didn't slap him then and there as I was too joyed by the blues. Gaz sat across from me and struggled to finish his drink in the jug. I smiled as I stared into the candle at our table and accidentally blew it out. The space around our table was plunged into darkness.

"And now…" Tom knocked on the table, "This is… Now?" He looked around him not sure what to make of it. I shook my head and smiled, "No more uniform, Tom. No more school."

"Yeah, that's the bizarre thing…" He rested his elbows on the table. The candle was still out and I couldn't quite make out his face. Gaz shrugged and he might've smiled. The three of us were silent in the boisterous bar. That was it.

"I appreciated tonight…" Gaz mumbled. He still had not finished his beer.

"You two need to make me a promise." Tom knocked on the table again, "This, continues no matter what happens next."

"Hopefully." I smiled. Tom probably didn't see it. Gaz stayed quiet.

>>16865760
i already posted the pastebin stop shitting up the thread lad

>>16865775
5/5
Sooner or later after rounds of blues and country music, we wrapped ourselves and went back into the streets. The drinks placed us in a weird mood so we didn't end up talking to each other for a while. We soon arrived at the train station where we had to go our separate ways. Though we were smiling and whacking each other on the backs we knew after tonight nothing will be quite the same. Will we get to chase down those familiar glances in the faceless crowds or will those friendships simply fade like the burn of whisky? Gaz made a turn to Platform 3 and waved us goodbye. Tom's train was about to leave in 10. People brushed past us as the two of us stood still. Tom smiled at me one more time and mumbled: "Promise." A wave of people rushed into the station and soon enough he too faded into the crowd. The last glimpse I caught of him was his popped collar.

I exited the train station and headed back to my apartment. At a road's junction I stopped. Standing in the chilly air, Kerouac's words still echoed: the people that interested me were the mad ones. Kept promises were only loose guides to the mad. We were young and nothing was written and nothing stood in our ways. Who knows when and if we'll ever cross paths again?

>>16865779
that shit's for faggots. we better have a backup here as well.

cache:https://www.litpublication.com/fiction/u26pr93gxirlml51sxkmedslcpmx8v

This should pull up the deleted short fiction piece "Tomorrow's A Big Day". It's the one about the cute girl at the bookstore and the annoying Old man who cock blocks the clerk.

1/3
Tomorrow’s A Big Day
By R.C. Waldun

"Hello, Hutchinson's bookshop, how can I help you tonight?"

"Who's speaking?"

"Rick here, speaking."

"Oh, Rick! I was just about done with the…" The reception was really bad.

"Hello?"

"Ah yes, it's me. Erica. Look, this entire thing is…"

"Erica? Look, I can't hear you that well."

"Ok steady. You know you said you can’t work next Monday?"

"It's Labour Day," I said. The front door of the book store opened. A girl entered, paused a little, and took a turn into an aisle.

"Yes. But we're still open for business." She said, "They didn’t roster people on so if you're not here I gotta have to do a twelve-hour shift!"

"Hmm…" I kept looking at the girl that just came in amidst the isles. She looked confused. "But Erica, on Monday I have classes and there's a…"

"Sorry, you're cutting out." She said.

"I said I've classes and there's someone in the store." She still looked confused and came to the counter, "Hey, I was wondering."

I pointed at the phone and she nodded. Sarah's usually at the back stocking books so I rang the bell but she didn't come. The girl stood there looking bored and I felt bad.

"Erica, I'll have to put you on hold."

"Sorry? Oh, yeah that was the thing. Ok, you said you couldn't work on Labour Day but have you looked at the rates? Holiday! Double the wage! Stripper money, Rick, Stripper money!"

The girl chuckled a little.

>>16865847
2/3
"Erica, I've got classes on Monday and I have a customer."

"Stripper money, Rick. Think about it ok? Oh, you've what? Ok, I have to go now. Have fun!" She hung up. I placed the phone back and turned to the girl, "Well, sorry about that. How can I help you?"

She still had a smile about and shook her head, "Yeah, I was wondering if you can help me find this…" She gestured left and right, "I think it's a classic but it might've been placed somewhere else."

"Well, let's have a look then." I walked over to the classics section and picked off a few editions of the book and handed them to her, "There's quite a few of them. Translations are a little different but other than that they're all the same." The phone rang and she chuckled again. I went to the phone, "Hello Hutchinson's Bookshop, how can I…"

"Rick! I just figured! You don't have to fill in that shift on Labour Day. Janet said she could work. So, don't worry about it now, but money! You're missing out on…" I shook my head and looked at the girl. She came over to the counter with the book she chose.

"Rick? You there?"

"Yes, of course," I said and scanned the book for her and whispered the price. She nodded as she handed over the money for the book. I opened up the till and gave her the change and placed the book in a paper bag.

"Now I'm heading over to yours and we're going to close up. Tomorrow's a big day Rick. How's the store looking?"

"Hmm, Sarah's at the back stocking and I'm holding fort." I handed the paper bag to the girl but she didn't leave.

"The switches? Were there any more boxes that came in?"

"Erica, I have to hmm…" She was still waiting. "I emptied the boxes and Sarah's stocking back there now."

"Ok, I'll be there in 5. Keep holding fort!" She hung up. I placed the phone back on the receiver as an older gentleman with glasses holding a newspaper cut out walked up to the counter, "Good, hmm, good evening. I heard about this new book on the radio and I was wondering hmm…" His voice was low like he didn't want to bother anybody.

I looked at the girl. She shrugged and tucked the paper bag under her coat and gave me a wave as she exited the store. I wanted to follow her but I was the only one at the front counter. The older gentleman continued: "I checked it on your website and it said you have stock."

"Ah, yes indeed." I looked up the book in the catalog and found where it was. I got the book from the shelf and checked it out for the older gentleman, "That'll be 22.99, thank you, sir."

>>16865847
>>16865904
My favourite

>>16865904
3/3
"Thank you, thank you." He took the bag and nodded, "Now this is such a lovely store. Can I sit and read somewhere, by any chance?" It was quiet and there was no one in the store so I said yes. "Splendid. Alright, I'll go and read a little and…" He mumbled as he walked towards the fireplace. I rang the bell again and saw Sarah coming my way.

"What's with that bell?" She was a little worn down by all the work at the back, "I said I can't get to you if I'm taking stock!"

"Sorry, but I have to hmm." I pointed at the door, "Would you mind staying at the counter for a bit?"

"I still have stuff at the back, Rick."

"I know, just for two seconds. Ok?" I rushed out of the store into the streets. It was a little chilly out that night. The restaurants across the street were open. People laughed with drinks in their hands and fries in their trays. I couldn't find that girl who waved at me seconds ago. Then and there a car pull into the parking space of the bookshop.

"Rick?" Erica got out of the car, "What are you doing out here?"

"I was…" I gestured at the store.

"Your shift's not over yet, buddy." She walked up to me, "Where are you going?"

"I was just…" I looked across the street. Among those people that enjoyed their evening meals, I saw her waiting in line at a food stall. She faced me with her back and there was that little paper bag in her hand.

"Well, champ, get back in there." Erica tilted her head towards the store, "Told you I'll be here in 5. We'll close soon, but Rick! Big day tomorrow, big day, it's crazy."

"Yes, of course." Erica always had her ways. I opened up the store's door and went back to the counter. Sarah returned to the back of the store for stock while Erica stayed at the counter with me and we were about to close the store. The older gentleman read the book he had just bought near the fireplace and it was a soothing night. I looked out of the window at the food stall and the girl was long gone. It was fleeing but it was real, but I still had a job to do and tomorrow's going to be a big day.

>>16865915
>I opened up the store's door
This is such an awful sentence. "store's door" flows horribly and you don't "open up" doors.

>>16865751
I'm guessing he had just finished On The Road and was inspired by it. It's a good influence for him right now. His trouble before was meandering purple prose. This here is straight, more like On The Road, and much more readable.

What do you will happen if Waldun studies Philosophy?

>>16865452
I feel sorry for him. He should be proud of his oriental heritage and stop trying to be a westerner. All of the books he reads are from Europe or America and it seems very unlikely that his hair is naturally like that. Embrace who you are, Waldun. Love your people. Also please get out of my country.

>>16866621
He would solve it and be placed alongside the greats like Papa Plato

>>16865452
where is this guy from and why does he still have a residual gook accent?

>>16866665
He's aussie though

>>16865452
jesus fucking christ, get help.
this thread is off-topic

>>16866665
Aussies always fucking complain about Gook and chink immigrants. It could be so much worse. They're industrious but soulless bug people. You could be dealing with Loz Aztecos demons who chainsaw people's genitals off or Abduh Abduhlmap and his gang of machete wielding imams.

>>16866022
I hope he doesn’t permanently dumb down his prose and get scared of trying anything more complex. We don’t need yet another “short simple direct sentences” Hemingway clone

>>16866740
Me neither, but I'm glad he's at least experimenting and realized what he had before wasn't "it". It'll take him a long time, and evidently a more books read, to finally find his style.

>>16866722
Go back to editing L'Academie Waldo-kun

>>16866740
As much as like to mock me, I honestly want to see him become a good writer.

>>16866788
*him not me

>>16866740
>>16866788
I also see potential in him and actually want him to succeed. You can tell he reads books for the right reasons. He has a mind for the aesthetics. He just needs to focuse on the prose behind the “authentic passion” rather then the other way around, because you can clearly tell on the way he talks about Proust or Joyce/Beat Generation, it’s about how these books made him “feel” without investigating how they got him to feel those things by the construction of their prose. Someone should really send him some of Nabokovs/blooms lectures. He should particularly have Nabokovs saying “a good writer should have the passion of the scientists, and the precision of the artist” tattooed unto his forehead.

>>16865934
>"store's door" flows horribly
How would you say it?

*meant for you as well >>16866748

>>16866735
America has always been ours, gringo. You just didn't know it. Keep crying, though. Your tears are delicious.

>>16866864
I'm black it's just sad that everyone is gonna live like us in 40 years with the exception of the hapa jew masters.

Oh btw waldungang his book is actually in stock on Walmart apparently https://www.walmart.com/ip/The-Learned-Disguise-Paperback-9781646061822/380477604

>>16865452
Oh so it was this "Jannie" person who banned me for no reason a couple days ago. What a dumb bitch who won't ever be a woman. Amidoingitrite? In all seriousness. I actually read that short story. It wasn't bad. The kid just hasn't experienced anything. It's kind of cringe how he feels about alcohol. He needs to sow his wild oats and maybe then he will have something to say.

>>16866788
Me too. I think he could easily make it. He just needs to stop posturing and breathe reading and writing. His largest weakness is also his greatest strength. i.e online presence.

>>16866912
Doesn't change the fact that America is ours. Hop on our bandwagon darkie. So we don't destroy you like we are going to do to the Anglo.

>>16866929
Digital? How do you get into all these marketplaces?

>>16867154
>Weird spic poster is back
You're a weird spic

>>16865538
Hey, this isn't bad. Waldun could probably write a good noir story if this is anything to go off.

>>16865730
>mfw i saw that title

>>16867193
Rope it is, then, nigger.

waldo-sama... why would you delete all your precious fine works of proses?

you just know hes been browsing lit...the fucking dozen ereader threads everyday

NOW CHANGE YOUR GLASSES WALDUN. GO BACK TO THE SMALL RECTANGLE ONES TEHSE DONT SUIT YOUR ROUND FACE

>>16866832
Not Waldun but can you give me link to Nabokov’s lectures on writing? I’ve read his book Strong Opinions, he discusses his process a little in that

>>16865915
Bruh this just dollar store Updike
Still not that bad for a 20 year old

>>16865618
>and the more delicate Monsieur Proust
Incredible. You can't write parody this good.