Embrace The Quirky And Strange

Description: As a writer, you can not be a fully normal person, I'm no expert but there is not one great writer I can think of that could possibly described as normal. And that is why we should embrace the quirky and strange. Here I will give you ideas and links on ways to open your're quirky side, read you're writing and give you feed back. If you have ever wanted to make you're writing out of the ordinary, join.
Group News
A great new exercise I heard about. Take any piece of writing and write it as a sound scape, land scape etc
This means focusing only on the sound made in the piece.
You can also write you  day, morning etc.
You will find some very quirky writing.

Keep writing and commenting.

Try reading a really old, I mean old testemet old, book and whenever there is a adjective, like tall, beautiful etc and change it to A more modern adjective, zesty, sprouting etc, you will find some very quirky writing

keep writing and commenting


 Google is a great tool, because it has eveything and anything, here are some intresting things to google,

old notebooks

sandle wood

rockets made of toothpicks

wonders of single life

marble braclets

the mickey mouse collection

Hollywood is more dangerous you could ever imagine

swing voters rule the world

Internships are evil

reasons to give money to buskers

victorian bathing suits

Why would you name your child apple

rich people and their sock draws

what abstract art really means

attack of the rubbish bins

those are just some of mine, think of your own, you can even use them in you're writing, but just don't uuse mine(:

Group Messages
ND   ND wrote
on 7/7/2011 12:58:42 PM
Reading this book is better than doing drugs If you're looking to get high without the use of illegal, or for that matter, legal substances than reading my book is just the trip you need. AFTER will take you on a mind-bending journey into the afterlife where you'll discover death is nothing like you'd ever imagined. And all this will cost you is a mere $1.79. So, how about it? Are you game for an experience in reading like no other? http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0050Q8D8U

ND   ND wrote
on 6/22/2011 1:36:00 PM
I’ve spent my life surrounded by drug addicts and degenerates Unfortunately, who you surround yourself with and the environment you exist in greatly influences your writing. Sometimes I wonder what my books would have been like if I'd have grown up in a nice quiet neighborhood where there was no crime, or maybe in a quaint country town where everyone knew each other. Then my books might have been more user-friendly. But no... my formative years were spent with the worst kinds of people. People who lied, and stole, and abused illegal drugs. Prostitutes and criminals. These are the poeple who made their impressions on me. These are the people and stories I write about. The dark side of human nature and society. Yeah, sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to grow up normally. Check me out. http://www.authorsden.com/neilostroff

ND   ND wrote
on 4/15/2011 1:44:25 PM
Looking for feedback of my first chapters --YA Paranormal AFTER By Neil Ostroff Chapter 1 I’m not breathing! I can’t feel my arms or legs! I can’t move! “Time of death,” said a tall man dressed in surgical attire. He had cotton-colored hair, a snowy white moustache, and a long beard. “1:17 P.M.” “This doesn’t make sense,” a female doctor replied, shaking her head. She leaned over to examine me. Penlight illuminated my right eye and then my left. A stethoscope pressed against my chest. The female doctor turned around to look at the heart monitor. Hastily, the tall man withdrew a golf ball-size crystal from his front pocket and circled it above my chest. Blue light flashed from its center before he stashed it away. Despite being in a bright, sterile room, snake-like bands of black shadow burst from the walls and dropped to the floor. The female doctor didn’t notice as the bands whipped up my body and into my ears, nose, and mouth. My vision dimmed. Scenes of my life appeared in front of me as if I were standing on the sidelines observing. Everything I’d ever done played like a movie in fast-forward: standing in my crib, learning to walk, to ride my bike, my first day at Whitmore Elementary School, fishing with dad at the pier, my freshman prom with Sarah, getting my learner’s permit last month. The visions ended with me collapsing on the lawn earlier today and Sarah running toward me with a look of horror on her face. Suddenly, I’m back on the hospital gurney. I lifted toward the ceiling; an exact copy of my physical made of cloud. I looked down at my body. My mortal eyes were glazed and half-lidded. My face was a sick, milky color. A luminous cord the width of a shoelace stretched from my human head into the back of my spirit head. Something popped inside my skull. The connecting cord turned to sparkle. “I’ll notify those in the waiting room that the patient passed away,” the tall man said. “The mother, and I believe, the patient’s girlfriend, are in there.” The doctor’s face looked almost as pale as mine on the gurney. “This should not have happened,” she said, as she peeled off a latex glove. “This boy should not be dead!” Sound disappeared. I propelled upward through a spinning vortex of stars. I stopped and suddenly my world was bright and filled with pain, as if my skin had caught fire. I was standing on the front porch of my house. Shafts of sunlight beat down from the clear blue sky. I grabbed at the doorknob and my momentum carried me forward through the wood and into the foyer. Sunlight beamed from the windows like lasers. I ran across the hallway through the closed basement door and down the steps into the dark, cool cellar; and relief. Filamentous illumination drifted off my spirit body. I scratched my arm and my fingertips raked along what felt like real skin. I patted my chest and thighs, they were solid. All my memories, dreams, and hopes were intact. I was an identical blueprint of my former self. I went back up the steps and pushed my head through the closed door. The sun had set and the house was dark, except for the kitchen. The wall clock showed 8:45 P.M. Hours had passed in what I perceived as seconds. I stepped all the way through the door, looked for my reflection in the windows, and saw none. I headed into the kitchen. Glow cast by the overhead fluorescents heated my spirit flesh, but the discomfort was bearable. Ma sat at the table in her ratty blue robe. Her face looked chalky and devastated. Bone-white fingers gripped her coffee mug. “Ma,” I said. She didn’t respond, just stared ahead in a stupor. “Ma!” Her lips contorted with grief. “My husband and my son,” she muttered to the air. “Both gone on the same day. Why? Why has this happened?” She started to sob. I stood in absolute shock. It had been two years since a stroke had left my father in a coma at Pine Brook Nursing Home. Ma and I did our best to keep him cared for and comfortable. I even got a before-school job at Pine Brook cooking breakfast three mornings a week so I could spend time with him, arriving early and talking to him before my shift started, hoping by some miracle that he’d respond. Say something. Anything. He never did. Ma dabbed at her eyes, raised the mug, sipped, and then set it, hands trembling, back onto the table. I reached around to hug her, but my arms passed through her body. “I’ll be right back,” I said into her ear. I turned and walked through the drywall, through the insulation and vinyl siding, and into the night. Crickets chirped. Moths fluttered dizzyingly and bumped the back porch light. A car droned down the street. The world was as it should be. When I stepped back through the wall, 10:30 P.M. beamed from the stove’s clock and Ma’s sobs emanated from upstairs. “You’re coming with me,” said a gravelly voice. “Your time on the Earthlevel is complete.” Chapter 2 I spun around. A cloudy essence of purple ectoplasm materialized in front of me. The shape fluctuated and then solidified into a gargoyle-like creature about the size of a man, with pointed ears, two horns on its head and one on its chin, and a wild mop of dirt and bug infested black hair. Hawk-like talons replaced hands and feet, and a long, serpentine tail coiled around one of its two antelope-like legs. Leathery wings were folded against its back. It wore a green tunic. I backpedaled in bewilderment, stumbled over my own feather-light feet, and fell through the linoleum floor. I caught between the levels of the house and when I pushed down to get unstuck, my hands passed through leaving me dangling from the basement ceiling like a person clamped in a stockade. Currents of prickly energy fizzled through my muscles. The creature grabbed the back of my neck and lifted me up. The tingling feeling increased. My extremities numbed. “What’s happening to me?” “Your soul exists at a certain frequency which allows you to bond with a flesh-and-blood mechanism. Death is no more than a changing of that frequency, a shifting to a higher wavelength, one that no longer adheres to mortality. The rapid playback of your life was to imprint your identity upon your consciousness, to etch your human experiences into your reasoning so you won’t enter the Realmlevels in a state of confusion. The full realization of being what mortals call being dead can shock a soul into nothingness.” My thoughts turned somersaults. “Who are you?” “I am Methusula, your guide into the Realmlevels.” The tingling faded. I turned to look up the stairs toward Ma’s bedroom. “Unfortunately, human emotions and attachments don’t die along with the body,” he said. “A grieving loved one often makes it difficult to move on. The transition into the Realmlevels will be easier if you give yourself emotional permission to leave.” I looked briefly at a framed photograph of Dad standing at the end of pier 16 and pulling against a strained fishing rod. Memories of that trip bobbed into my mind. It had been a perfect day; perfect weather. The fishing was great. It was also the first time I ever saw Sarah and fell immediately and hopelessly in love with her. Methusula clamped my arm, flapped his wings, and pulled me up through the ceiling, passed my bedroom on the second floor, and onto the roof. Moonshine silvered the neighborhood like newly fallen snow. “We must transition before the sun rises,” Methusula said, gazing toward the eastern horizon. “Earthlevel light interacts harshly with the soul.” He faced me and his sight roved up and down. “The soul possesses the ability to create accessories it desires for the body.” I looked down. I hadn’t even realized I was naked. For some reason, my first thought was my blue school gym shorts and white t-shirt. They immediately materialized on me. Then I thought about my gray sweat suit. That materialized. Then I thought about blue jeans and my tie-dye T-shirt. They appeared. I decided to stay with that. “Prepare yourself,” Methusula said, and raised his arms. “Your eternal journey begins now!”

ND   ND wrote
on 4/6/2011 1:01:44 PM
KINDLE SAVE ME FROM THE DARK, LONELY ABYSS THAT IS WRITING So, I’ve decide to publish my first totally electronic book. Now, I know that many of you are old hands at this, but for me this is something new. See, up until recently I was staunchly opposed to e-books and what they have done to the publishing industry. After all, how could I accept this change? I spent most of the last two decades painfully querying agents and publishers and then sending out the requested partials and occasional manuscript. Thousands of hours spent in libraries scanning the LMP (for those of you that don’t know the LMP or Literary Marketplace was the bible for authors trying to find an agent), standing in line at the post office, and buying ink cartridges for my printer. Twenty years of marketing myself and my books just to get a shot at the big time. Fortunately, for me it paid off. Sort of. I did get a major NY agent with a good reputation for selling and a track record that gave me butterflies. I got the phone calls that publishers were interested in my books, and I even got close to an actual offer… but then IT happened. The electronic revolution. I’m not saying the internet and all its wonders aren’t great, I’m just saying it killed my writing career. Or did it? Since leaving my agent I decided to self-publish my own stuff and market it myself. I’ve gone the POD route and been happily satisfied with the results and even had a fair amount of sales. And then KINDLE came along and changed the game yet again. Now authors have the opportunity to publish and sell their own stuff through the KINDLE store. But that’s not the best part. You can set your own price and keep a huge percentage of the royalties. Now, I’m not going to go into the Amanda Hocking rant of selling tens of thousands of copies through KINDLE and nothing less will satisfy me… but… nothing less will satisfy me. Just kidding. So, what I’m getting at is that I am going to blog about my experience putting together an e-book for KINDLE from scratch. Maybe this will help someone out there make an informed decision of which publishing route to follow, I don’t know. If you’d like to read about this process of my putting the book together from scratch and then promo and marketing it you can follow at: My blog: http://neilostroff.blogspot.com My website at: http://www.Neilostroff.com Or follow me at Twitter: @Neilostroff I’ve decided to publish my tween paranormal AFTER. Stay tuned. -- Description: There is continuing existence after death and seventeen-year-old Nick just entered the afterlife. It’s nothing like he’d ever imagined. Things are sorted and structured and incoming souls are placed on various Realmlevels according to how they lived by the Rules of the Source while mortal. There’s only one problem. Someone erased all record of Nick’s human experiences.

ND   ND wrote
on 4/1/2011 11:51:43 AM
HOW DO YOU CLASSIFY YOUR BOOKS GENRE? By Neil D. Ostroff One of the hardest things most writers face is figuring out just what kind of a book they have written? For some hard-core genre writers the answer is easy; crime, suspense, romance… but for most of us our novels are a combination of genres, maybe part love story with a vampire police force or a YA adventure with magic and time travel. So what do you do when the inevitable question of genre is asked? For me, I make up my own. Well, not exactly. I call my books gritty noir thrillers, which isn’t exactly an original category but one I’ve rarely seen used. Why use this unique tag? Well, if you read my books you’ll know why. Here’s a quick synopsis of just three of my books now available everywhere in print and electronically. PULP- A clairvoyant prostitute, a psychotic soldier, a broke newspaper writer, and a dismembered body; what could go wrong? Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/PULP-novella-N-D-Ostroff/dp/1462001750/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1299512091&sr=8-5 DEGENERATES- Each degenerate overcomes incredible obstacles working in a restaurant named City Café, until a psychotic co-worker changes everything about their lives. Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/Degenerates-N-D-Ostroff/dp/1440173028/ref%3Dsr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1299436405&sr=8-3 FROSTPROOF- Niles Goodman is on a weeklong trip into madness as his best friend kills indiscriminately and then explains the philosophy behind his actions. Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/FROSTPROOF-N-D-Ostroff/dp/1450251439/ref%3Dsr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1299261592&sr=1-1 Of course, longer descriptions and sample pages are available at my website: http://www.Neilostroff.com. So when it comes to figuring your books’ place in the writing community I suggest taking the main plots and coming up with something unique. Say, supernatural cyber-punk, or historical paranormal love story. With the new wave of Indie publishing and writers taking control of their own destinies, why not twist the meaning of genre and come up with something unique?

Group Owner: VeraWinters
Group Type: Open
© 2014 WritingRoom.com, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED