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[Supermikhail]

Or if it's too harsh, it can hurt his self-esteem, and he might not want to write anything else. For a long time or at all. Whereas, if you encourage him to continue to write, he is likely to improve through practice alone.

[Jackrabbit]

Notice how Dasleah didn't try and drive him off writing, but told him he needed work. If he's a good writer, then he'll go back and work on it. No need to pussyfoot around, or tell someone you think it's good when you don't.

I understand you do, but I don't and I'm not going to say otherwise for fear of hurting his self-esteem.

[Supermikhail]

Not to "pussyfoot around", but to be constructive. There's got to be positive points in one's writing so one has some kind of ground to build on. Dasleah's post is full of ridicule, as I see it, although the story's author doesn't appear to look at it the same way. Well, I can congratulate him on his healthy treatment of critique.

[Jackrabbit]

Not ridicule, constrictive criticism (sprinkled with ridicule because he's Dasleah). If it's constructive, and the other person can build off it, then you don't even really need positive points, not if you can't see any.

[3]

While I don't mean to be abrasive, I think it may be worth noting that Dasleah's post got a significant response while yours got none at all. That may be because his post actually contained content and yours contained very little of such. But that's really beside the point.

I too fail to see the (supposed) logic in the "constructive criticism requires positive points" argument, and I really can't tell where it could possibly have sprung from... I've certainly seen a good few people argue in its favour in recent years, but only since then.

[Supermikhail]

Oh, yeah, let me be an unfunny prick with a mellow voice and nervous handshake.

And let us stop this nonsense, then, good sirs and dames.

[x2yzh9]

Episode 1, Atlantic-Shmantic. Chapter 1 - The Pact
John woke up. He was losing blood, darkness creeping around his vision - his world. He stumbled out of the alley and onto the street. The infected were everywhere, he was bleeding bad. He was fucked.

He heard hip hop in the background. Unable to support himself, he fell to the ground.

"Great, bandits."

The jeep swerved, running over a couple dozen zombies in the process, but practically destroying it in the process. A tall, middle-aged man with a bandanna crawled out with Uzi in hand. He had a swastika tattooed on his arm. Neo-Nazis.

"Die, infiziert!"

He's German. Apparently Europe's fucked, too. Darkness.

John woke up, his arm bandaged, but scarred. He sighed, he was tied to the hospital bed. His things were on a night stand several feet away from him.

"What are you doing here?" Questioned a man in officer's uniform, several ragtag survivors were standing with angry expressions on their faces in the back of the room. John lolled his head to his left, looking out the broken window. He was above-ground, probably in a hospital.

"Answer me!" screamed the officer, punching John in the jaw, in the process knocking out one of his teeth.

"I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Yes you fucking do!" said the officer, he was getting angry, John could tell. The man went to grab John's gun and held it to his head.

"Answer me, or I'm going to blow you're fucking brains out!"

"I came here to escape to Israel! The harbor!"

The man screamed, throwing the gun at the wall.

"There is no harbor! The Government blew it up when they left for Israel!"

"WHAT?" yelled John. Everything he had worked for, all the land he had traveled, all for naught.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right here and now!"

"I can help! We can survive!"

"Fucking Lies! Yohann, get this bastard out of here!"

The Neo-Nazi stepped into the room, his pistol holstered at his side.

"Wait! Who are you guys?"

"The Lincolns, for gods sake! Who'd you think we are?"

"I thought The Lincolns helped survivors!"

"Funny joke! Whoever told you that was lieing, we've only got space for so many people. Come back when you can contribute!"

And with that, the Neo Nazi took him down to the ground level, pushed him out into the street and untied him without giving him his things.

"Wait!"

"What do you want?"

"Listen, I can help The Lincolns! I came here from New York, I passed my Boston. They have a harbor, but there were no ships left there. Maybe we could construct one?"

"Are you serious? Before we trust you, we want you to make a blood pact. Hold out your palm."

John held out his palm, and Yohann took out a knife.

"What are you doing?" said John, taking his hand away.

"You want to be part of The Lincolns, you have to give up your blood to us, We all have to do it, now stand still and hold out your palm or your not getting in!"

John held out his palm, and Yohann took a knife to it.

"Fuck!" screamed John, grasping his bleeding hand. He was part of The Lincolns now.

[x2yzh9]

Tell me anything that I could improve on in my writing from the last installment.

[x2yzh9]

Episode 1, Atlantic-Shmantic. Chapter 1 - A plan
"Does anyone care to explain the plan?"
"Of course, sir." said John. This was the long-plan, it was the plan to get out of this life. It had been a week since the pact had been formed, and he had trained. Long, hard, training, and after some expeditions to get remnants of old world maps they had devised something-A game plan, if you will.

"Let's go in order," said John, stepping up to the dusty projector screen. "We'll be stopping at Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City, Boston, Gibraltar - Not the strait, there's a city there actually named Gibraltar, Athens, and then finally we'll try to sneak our way into the Israeli port of Ashqelon. The one problem? Food. Food and fresh water. There's definitely purifier systems in every major city, but food. We'll be constructing a ship from scratch, it will take a few months, but how are we to support the weight of the food and bring enough along for the trip?"

"Ever heard of buoyancy? Thank god for mother nature, no? We'll be doing something rather unusual. I have a friend that I received a letter from just a month ago by our couriers, saying that he had been working on a system for food weight preservation and weight management. That will also be a minor stop. Wilmington Manor."

"Isn't that where the first cases got sighted?" Yohann

"Incidentally, it was. The town was cleared out, but it comes under attack from a few hordes every month, which is why they've seen reason to come move with us to Israel. I think that just about covers everything, any questions?" John asked.

Not a soul raised their hands. They were ready.

Tommy, who John had thought was an officer, was actually the leader. He unlocked a door, and John stepped into the room.

"Jesus Christ. There's.. Humvees, trucks with M.G.'s, it's a fucking army!"

"Indeed it is. We've been accumulating these vehicles ever since we formed, for use in the right situation."

John nodded, and they started loading supplies into the trucks. It took an hour or so to complete, but it was well worth it. Tommy revved the engine of his humvee, and the other trucks started almost in unison. They were rolling out in a convoy, in this order
Truck w/ M.G., Humvee, Truck w/ M.G.

John, riding in the passenger, started a conversation with Yohann.

"I have to ask, what's with the tattoo"

Yohann grimaced, he said "It's something from when I was young and stupid and racist. I was about to go get it removed via laser surgery when the world fell apart. Made me a believer of karma!" said Yohann, laughing at the end. John chuckled.

"Ah, yes. Anyway, how did the Lincolns get a Humvee?"

"Not surprisingly, John, there are a lot of military bases here in D.C. We came upon one that was pretty raided, but we got that humvee and ammo from the place. We're heading to Wilmington, right?"

John nodded, and rested his head against the window, going to sleep.

[Retro]

I'm not going to go through and comment on all the little details that are wrong (and hell, there are a lot), but here's something that struck me from your response to Das: If it's not in the story, it didn't happen. If he asks why the dog didn't get taken and you say "I forgot to say, the dog was taking a piss and they didn't see it and that's why," all you're really getting across is "because I didn't think about it, so instead here's this half-assed on-the-fly explanation." He poked tens of holes in your first few entries and your response each time was "well I forgot to say this" or "actually it's because this." Making up stuff you forgot to address on the spot is poor storywriting, plain and simple. You're allowed to say 'my mistake, I missed it, I'll try and work on catching details like that' - but trying to cover your ass by adding in information not found in the story itself is poor form. And when a reader calls you out on the plausibility of something (eg. the shoes), don't just insist it's plausible. You're the author, nobody cares what you think. It's what the audience thinks that matters, and the audience thinks hell yes, bandits would steal your shoes. If you really think it's important that the bandits wouldn't steal shoes, rather than it being another thing you just didn't think about when writing it, insert some dialogue of narrative that points that out. Again: If you don't say it in the story, it didn't happen.

And on the topic of how long shoes last, I hate to invoke age, but... when you're talking to people around a decade older than you and about twice your age, nobody is going to accept your word as greater than theirs when you say "shoes last a long fucking time, believe me." All shoes wear out over time, and if zombie-apocalypse-guy finds a dude with better quality footwear (or anything-wear, really) than what he's got on, he's damn well taking it. Who knows the next time a better pair of boots is gonna come around?

Also, I'm not sure why every entry's episode and chapter numbers are the same. Wouldn't you want it to advance numerically with each entry?

[x2yzh9]

I'll own up, those excuses were on-the-spot things. I sort of just felt overwhelmed(Mainly because Das was a bit, I don't know, harsh? I can understand critique but the way he said it was just.. Hm

Well, I thought I had conveyed the point that he had walked the entire New York State to Washington D.C. route with those shoes and that they likely weren't in better condition than the bandits, but I guess I didn't do that very well if at all.

I just try to keep it witty, but I'll start going numerically in my next one.

[Medicine Man]

Typing as I read.

This is ...not very good at all. Simple things like spelling, grammar. Learn the difference between its and it's. The organisation of the paragraphs is all over the place - in one spot you start a new paragraph with a comma, for instance. Random capitalisations everywhere. Odd mood swings - you seem to try and use the prologue to set the 'oh man everything is so dirty and bad and pretty much exactly like Fallout 3 only with ZOMBAYS' mood, but the first line of dialogue we get from the protagonist is "OH BOY C'MERE MY BESTEST PAL DOGGIE!!!! WE CAN MAKE IF WE ONLY BELIEVE IN EACH OTHER AND YOU'RE CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO GET KILLED OFF IN A COUPLE OF CHAPTERS FOR CHEAP DRAMA AT ALLL!!!!!" And calling cigarettes the 'opium for millions' doesn't sit right. Opium was the opium of millions. You're trying to inject some anti-tobacco connotations there by comparing it to a substance that is much, much worse. It's like saying that video games are the LSD laced with Cocaine made from dead baby hookers for this generation. It's cheap and there are far better ways to get across the fact that "THIS DUDE IS COOL BECAUSE HE SMOKES EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE REALLY RARE AND HE COULD GET A LOT OF FOOD IN TRADE FOR THEM?".

The bandits (which doesn't need to be capitalised, you know, unless they call themselves The Bandits, which is kind of redundant) attacking is weird too. Our hero WAKES IN TEARS ;-; for a spot of cheap drama, and then they mug him and take his shit, fair enough. But if things are as hard as you seem to want them to be, they'd probably just kill him, or at the very least kill and eat his dog. No point in leaving a prisoner made of meat. Anyway, his gun and shit gets stolen, and he pulls a spare out of his boots (which is bullshit - in any post-apocalyptic setting, a pair of good walking shoes is one of the most important things ever, so they would have been the first thing they would have taken) and decides "Hmmm. I've got this gun now. But fuck that shit, what I need is a spear, which is far more effective at hunting!" Also why didn't they take the knife off him as well? And why is he sitting around literally contemplating nature? Where's all these god damn zombies.

So if the toy store alarm went off, things can't be all that bad, because whoever is left in the city seems to have enough capacity to generate a stable supply of electricity to dish it out to things that aren't even remotely useful for survival, like making sure zombies or looters don't steal toys. Where the hell is his dog in all this? Oh and hey, he starts crying again.

Okay so we have a flashback. Suddenly people are totting hundreds of hunting rifles! They must be very talented, but unfortunately the hunting rifles were everywhere, devouring the neighbourhood. His first reaction upon seeing hundreds of rifles or zombies suddenly appear (these must be STEALTH ZOMBIES, god damn you military scientists!!!!111!) is not to jump immediately back on his phone to try and contact this Emily person who he presumably cares about, but to suddenly open his convenient Everything You Need To Survive cupboard and scarper off into the woods.

So yeah, not good at all. This needs a lot of work.

Damn it... You left me with nothing to ridicule.

[Dasleah]

I'll own up, those excuses were on-the-spot things. I sort of just felt overwhelmed(Mainly because Das was a bit, I don't know, harsh? I can understand critique but the way he said it was just.. Hm

I come from an opposite school of criticism than Superdupermikehailpants or whatever. I'm not going to stroke your ego or give you an eBlowjob over something that needs work. Growing as an artist means separating yourself from as many Yes Men as possible. The second you start to believe that you're doing an ok job, then you're basically dead as an artist. You can be proud of something you've done, sure, but to believe that you're honestly as good as you're going to get? That everything you do is golden and wonderful and doesn't even need to be edited or peer-reviewed? That's just plain out bullshit and will make you go backwards creatively. There is nothing constructive at all about telling someone they're better than they are. It's the opposite - it's destructive. All they'll do is believe your bullshit, continue making the same mistakes as always, and finally throw a huge fucking tantrum when someone like me doesn't buy into the hype. Sure, if you don't agree with me, raise some points, debate, whatever. Defend your works. But fucking learn from it.

If I say something's shit, then think about it. Evaluate it. Come up with reasons why it's not and articulate them. Explore them. Debate them. And if you honestly think you're in the right, then stick with it. But don't just throw it away because you don't agree with it. Don't ignore it because it hurts your feelings and I didn't laud you as the next Big Thing. Just learn from it. Go ahead and prove me fucking wrong about everything I said by writing something awesome.

I'll critique the more recent entries when I get more time.

[x2yzh9]

Episode 1, Chapter 2 - 1
John woke up. It was raining, heavily. Zeds always liked the rain, he could tell it was going to be a bumpy ride.

Yawning, John said "Are we out of D.C. yet?"

"Aye, we should be pulling into Baltimore in a few minutes. Apparently Tommy messed up the directions, we'll have to pass through Baltimore first to get on the road to Wilmington." Said Yohann.

"Right, let me hop in the back and grab my pistol."

John reached into the backseat, looking for the case they brought along for gun storage. He found it, entered the code, and opened it.

Let's see, he thought. A pistol and sniper rifle. Guess it was a apology from Tommy for beating him up earlier. He holstered the pistol and picked up the sniper, making sure the safety was on.

The rolling grassland gradually gave way to small suburban houses and homes, and on the horizon, John saw the skyscrapers of Baltimore. The convoy slowed down and stopped.

"What's happening, Yohann? Why are we stopping?"

"Some Zeds, probably. We don't want them to see us and moan, if that happens we'd have more than just a few zombies. Wait here."

Yohann stepped out of the truck and walked up to the Humvee, and him, Tommy, and some others started talking. John peered out the window, the rain had let up. Good luck, maybe? Yohann got in the truck, and as the convoy started moving again he explained,

"We're taking a detour, so to speak. We're going around Baltimore instead of through it, it'll waste some gas but I honestly think it's better than being devoured by thousands of Zeds. We're heading through Ellcott City, which isn't too big."

John nodded, and after passing the countryside for a few hours, they arrived.

"Fuck, Zeds!" yelled Yohann, "Man the M.G.!"

John got out of the truck and hopped in the back, turning on the M.G. and aiming it at the horde.

"Watch out for the recoil!"

Bam, pop, pop, a few more Zeds were dead. The blast of the gun deafening, he slowed down and picked the last one off. Dead body parts and blood spattering the small gravel road, he sighed. He had a massive headache.

"Good work there, John. We lost the Humvee and truck but we'll meet back up with them at Wilmington, that's what the contingency plan was. Until then we're alone."

John sighed, and got off.

"Well, let's stop by their Wal-Mart or Target or whatever and see if the scavengers left anything."

"Of course, John. Let's go get ourselves killed. We can stop by one of their gas stations, but a large store like that? Hell no, that's practical suicide - I speak from experience."

"This is a small town, not D.C., there's not going to be a horde inside a store. There'll be some, but that's a given."

"I'm not doing it John, you can do it yourself, but I'm not. I'll meet you at the Gas station, but if your not there by sunrise you're shit out of luck. I'll be leaving at dawn, with or without you."

John, flustered, stepped out of the bed of the truck, grabbed his Sniper and put some food and fresh water into his bag. He started travelling down the road. Ashbury Avenue, one big-ass street, and a lot of Zeds.

[Willfor]

I come from an opposite school of criticism than Superdupermikehailpants or whatever.

Actions can sometimes speak louder than words.