Debut Novel

Hello /book/,

I have been accepted to KickStarter in hopes of raising enough money to print my debut novel, "A Burning Youth". I’m attempting to spread the word as far as I am able on the internet, and thought 4chan a good place. The link follows:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1890126167/put-my-novel-a-burning-youth-in-print

The story comes from two questions: what is it that typifies young people; that which they believe of the fervency with which they believe it, and who was right about human nature, John Locke or Thomas Hobbes. The tale is framed around a WTO riot in Denver where a photographer captures the image of two people, a man and a woman, both being restrained by the police but still managing to push themselves into each other to embrace. The picture becomes an iconic image, and the story, told from the point of view of a character who knows the two in the picture, describes the events that led up to the picture and what happened afterwards.

If you like what you see, donate; your money, your time in telling others, anything. Every little bit is appreciated. If you don't like it, here’s hoping you find something you do. Cheers /book/.

1. You seem hopelessly self-absorbed, even for an artist type. Those who write good fiction are more often those with the sensitivities to see outside of themselves and find connections with other human beings. I can't help but think anything you write will be navel-gazing garbage.

2. What have you done? What are your experiences? How do you have the authority to write about this sort of thing?

1. "Hopelessly self-absorbed" makes little sense to me, but so be it. An artist writer must, by definition, be self-absorbed because they are parsing their own experience or understanding into a story. If you genuinely think that "those who write good fiction are more often those with the sensitivities to see outside of themselves and find connections with other human beings" I'd ask why then Joyce, Nabokov, Hemingway, Mailer and Hugo were all considered by their contemporaries assholes. In fact, I'd be genuinely interested in a list of noted writers who fit your description. I am not saying being an asshole is necessary to being a writer;  I am though saying, to quote Cyril Connolly, "Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self"/

2. What I have done and what my experiences are inform the book enormously. As for "authority", one not need "authority" to write fiction that seeks to pose a question, one must only know the details of the question. To that end I hold double degrees in Political Science and Philosophy; have read Locke and Hobbes extensively, as well as countless works of political philosophy, and, since a young age, have been active (both as a participant and an observer) in political protest of all forms.

Wow. You are the biggest self-entitled faggot imaginable.

^^^

Agreed.

^^^

Agreed.

Dark was the night as it shrouded the Medina. Random lights bobbed and dangled from channel markers and from various craft as they made their way hither and yon on sinister business. This served the purposes of Charlie Spitbank perfectly. Dark business for a dark night. His aging, weather beaten body belied his shrewd and masterly abilities as a mariner and seaman. No more needing to haul on ropes or climbing to the top gallant to haul in canvas; his reputation was such that he had any number of young rouges and tearaways always willing to set sail with him.  He simply needed to give the orders and keep a firm grip on the helm.

He glanced to port and stoically watched the night time roisterers downing pint after pint of ale in the taverns and inns lining the river side. Narrowing his eyes and looking ahead once more, he put thoughts of hot food, strong drink and buxom young wenches from his mind; there would be time enough for all of those things after tonight.

In the hold of the Mary Whitehouse, was a highly prized load of contraband avocadoes. These gooey fruits were highly valued within certain circles of the land, which had outlawed all avocados after the young Prince Regent had cut his hand trying to open a particularly difficult specimen.
To even mention the name of “the forbidden fruit” as they had become known, was affront to the sovereignty of Prince George and his poor injured extremity.
Spitbank had an associate currently lodged at the Folly Inn a couple of miles upriver; an insufferable fop of a man called Everard Squitsworth, who was willing to take these aforementioned items off Spitbanks hands for a very reasonable sum. To supplement his meagre inheritance, Squitsworth had recently begun to ferry contraband articles into the capital. The risks involved were usually well worth it, allowing Squitsworth to keep himself in the manner to which he had become accustomed in the coffee houses and whore parlours of Westminster.

He always hated this part of his ventures. Travelling to remote and inhospitable parts of the land and dealing with local criminals was not a pleasant undertaking. He recalled a particular incident in Cornish port of Falmouth. When seeking lodgings in a particularly rough Inn called the Seven Stars; he was most fortunate to escape with his skin after the local drinkers took a dislike to this dandy from the city.
“Rouges, vagabonds and low life’s to man!” Drawled Squitsworth, as he huddled in the lee of a stiffening northerly wind. He sucked on his pipe and looked North. There was a slight tinge to the horizon where the town of Cowes stood; punctuated by several groups of floating green and red lights moving slowly. One such cluster of lights was slowly gaining in size.

What the holiest fuck is going on here?

>>9
looks like OP's posting excerpts from his book.