Is any of you a writer?

Yes..started writing poetry last year..had my first book published in January..now working on my second book..which is almost complete..

I wrote a book called "Freud Had Sex With His Mother". I even added it to Listal. I also write a bit of short stories most of them sort combination of erotica and existentialism.I'm working on my most exostential so far, called "Natalie", after the girl I love

Alot of what I write draws heavily from Beckett

I'm working on a novel called "24 Hours of V.D.", which is composed mainly of existential rumination, part postmodern psychedelia, and part anti-eroticism (I made that term up; it means that much of the book deals with sex, but it is not erotic and, rather, disgusting). There's also comedy and much alliteration and puns and shit. It sort of sucks so it will remain a manuscript, but it's only my first novel so I'll see how it fares and then write following ones.

My writing basically sounds like the mentally retarded child of Kafka and Joyce.

I gave up writing 24 Hours of VD and am now focusing on my first serious novel, which is currently untitled. I'm only a couple of chapters into it, but I think it could work out, not necessarily as a published work (but that would be great, obviously, if it did get published, and I'll no doubt try) but as a keepsake of my own and a vessel of boasting to my friends. It's heavily inspired by Pynchon and his "postmodern encyclopedic" narratives (I'm currently reading Gravity's Rainbow and it's so super gud), focusing mostly on a detective tracking a serial killer who kills invariably every night in the same exact style and pattern (it tends towards the supernatural, ghosts and demons and whatnot, eventuating to the ever-inconclusive debate on the existence of God). It also has a few subplots, the most notable one being about a man who sees another man whom he killed years ago and is scared shitless. It's also part comedy and existentialism.

I want to title it The Possessed, but unfortunately that's the title of a so revered Dostoevsky novel, and I haven't yet read it, so I would be afraid many would believe me to have counterfeited it. I honestly fail to conjure up a title that can connote something interesting

Freud Had Sex With His Mother has since undergone heavy revision. Natalie, that callous slank I wasted two months of life (months I'd hoped to spend reading The Recognitions) chasing the tail of only to see it had been torn long before, and all that remained was a festering wound promised to another too stupid to see the ugliness of it, no longer plays a role. The novel centers around a pseudo intellectual who, after finding himself abandoned by his wife, shunned by his family, and verbally battered by the ghost of unpublished author Arthur Fulgrend (death by severe head trauma resulting from repeatedly slamming his face into his keyboard during a breakdown after realizing his inability to write what he, 12 years prior, swore to be his masterpiece to the dying mother he consciously lusted after), comes to realize his own worthlessness. Attempting to humble himself, he takes to living in the dull suburbs of Ohio. Stagnation begins to set in, till he's exiled from the town after vomiting during a Sunday service and exclaiming "Felgrund is God!" in a drunken and feverish delirium. Disgusted by the very falseness he hoped to free himself of, he finds escape in vice, dubbing himself the "God of Disco" and living in an artificial paradise of unsatisfying sex, gag worthy alcohol, and music he despises. Like all prior endeavors, however, he comes to humiliate himself and finds himself in a state of acute isolation. His terminal is the van of failed Las Vegas comedian, Jim Smiley ("the only man capable of downing more alcohol than I"), who he comes to bond with after the two put together the two half bottles of cognac they have (a rather heavy-handed symbol of vagabond unity). Smiley, after realizing happiness has become an unachievable, ends his life by opening his wrists with a shard of tinted glass from the van's side window, and the main character becomes desperate to do the same, but can't, out of the self love and egotism all forms of degradation failed to rid him of. So he waits, sitting without thought, hoping that if he could banish happiness, then he could just as well banish sadness.

Abandon all hope ye who enter the realm of lengthy fictional prose under the age of 30