|Please use this in conjunction with my Publishing Resources Journal!|
How to Comment - Pointers and ExamplesThis guide was written by ProjectComment as a Group, by deviants for deviants. Not only have we sought suggestions from our volunteers, but we have examples of constructive comments from the rest of the community as well, making this a true, collective effort. After reading this, it will be hard to not write a constructive comment.How to Comment - Pointers and Examples by 3wyl
Each category of art has its own set of pointers in alphabetical order, suggested by our volunteers. If you have any more to contribute, spot a mistake, etc. please feel free to contact us!
General Pointers for All Categories
(Contributors: AGBBibag, Anjellyjoy, art-acheiver-4eva, CyberChristFF, eldestmuse, Kaz-D, leannecoleman, MachinesBleedToo, pullingcandy, seventysevenpercent, xblackxbloodxcellx, Zombienvy, 3wyl)
Atmosphere/Mood/Feelings created – Does the artwork evoke any feelings and emotions within you? What kind of atmos
Freud and Broken Christmas TreesShe spilled the news on me before I even had the chance to react. And what would you even say to that, anyways? I'm sorry? Geez, that sucks? How's it feel to be an only child now? No. Never. You don't say that kind of stuff. You will never be able to find the words to say until it happens to you, too. God forbid.
And she just kind of stared at me. That look was piercing, haunting. It froze my tendons and turned my thoughts to dust. I was a nothing, I was worse than the dirt under her shoes. Because I couldn't solve anything. Because I couldn't make it better. Because I was just as helpless as she was, and she hated me for it.
The feeling wasn't a red, or a black. It wasn't any colour I could really name, but it wasn't a gray either. It was a block of things, a puzzle, the outline of a crumpled soda can. Edges poking inside to spill the remains out through the tiny pinpricks, the fractures in the metal. I could go on and on into metaphors but she – I don't have words to describe her eye
Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:
When the blue jacaranda mocked the sky
Sleep bound is she, the drowsy brilliance
below the whispering branch.
Her Caño Cristales hair,
strewn amongst wild blue and green;
Though her eyes
tell of time waiting,
when the wind was lonesome and
slaughtering butterflies in its chill.
They turned, almost at once
Eyes gray, yet dancing with the frenzied
glory of cosmos.
Striking out at her wanderer, like a warm
crash of wave.
She understood, "Your laurel leaves speak of death
but I still need you."
And he wept, "Your garland
speaks of the flowers, streams
and the meadows which is our home."
"Here, is where I still love you
this place, where arms renounce arms
with care, warmth and adoration."
"My arms tangle in shadows, and
my mind only imagines; night falls
on my face within the whirlpool;
Your spark is the farthest from me; distraught
and left desolate, in Ithaca."
(She holds all his hopes)<
Any morning of the week you can walk into your local knock off brand grocery store and find stacks of newsprint papers on your left as you walk in, wiping snow dust off your shoe onto the mat before the crystal flakes melt past the leather into your now soggy black cotton socks.
Not one minute in the dairy milk perfumed air after you walk in through automatic sliding doors, then past windows barring gusts of snow dunes, and there are newspapers. Newsweek, Times, Global something are all there but you pass them for the local paper.
The winter moisture that had soaked into your skin now has already evaporated and the paper grates against your skin as you pick up the local paper. You look up and feel for silver change in your pocket and walk over to the counter where no one else stands before the cashier. At 7am everyone is either in school, on their way to work, at work, or sick in bed. Except for you, because you're different. Your skin is as dry as everyone else's but since last night
The Final PunishmentNo thoughts could enter his mind, but if he could wish for something, it would be for nothing at all. There was no longer any desire in his heart, for at last it's flame had dissolved in streams of blood it had ignored. The monster inside him was gone, as too himself.
Their grip tighten around his wrist, and they pulled him forward deeper against the stone pavement. He could feel the glares of the imperial guard intense with hatred run across his browned bare back and almost singe his white speckled wings to pieces. Their powder white uniform were purelessly clean, the buttons reflecting the high noon sun also evilly.
Thrown onto the silver platform, guards surrounded his busily clicking chains around his feet, hands, and finally his neck. Ropes rubbed angrily against his feathers, and a few fell to the ground sparingly. He looked up into the face of his undiscovered equal.
People of White called him their steel hero; People of Red called him the brutal monster. His eyes were black as
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My name is Kate, and I'm a writer.
I'm a native New Yorker, but I moved to Washington, DC and got a BA in English and Creative Writing from The George Washington University in 2013. I now live and work full-time in Arlington, VA.
I have a lot of varied experience in being published and working in publishing, so if you have any questions about how to get published or how to work in the industry, feel free to send me a note!