Welcome to r/Writers!

Title. You can see how that is not an easy task for a random college kid! So, I figured I would post these questions publicly and hope someone answers, thanks for your time!

1. Why did you choose this career, how did you find this job and what does a standard

workday look like?
2. What are the most important preparations for a role like yours did you do, for example
in life, school, work experiences, and other activities?
3. What is the biggest challenge and biggest rewards in your job?
4. What do you wish someone would have told you before you started this career and
what would you do differently?
5. Given the recent pandemic with COVID19, what has been the effect on your career and
why?

I'm writing a book and have very violent and sexually inappropriate thoughts towards my audience while writing it. Should I expect that people will notice and nobody will want to read it and get someone to retype the book? Or should I just continue with these thoughts and expect that nobody will notice?

I want to get back to writing novel. I started writing a romance novel couple years ago but i stopped because i just didn't have time anymore and also i felt like the plot is cliché and maybe people will avoid it thinking it's some cheap smut. I desperately need some motivation. My main character is a flight attendant, my plot won't have any random sex with passengers or pilots, it s just a search for love. I am worried that nobody will care because from the get go they will misunderstand this story of self discovery as objectifying of women in skirts.

I am an amateur writer and i have so much insecurities but i love my character a lot and i don't want to change her job.

Ps: I apologize in advance for my english, i am not native and don't worry my book won't be in english so no need to jump me in the comments. Thank you

Most comments and posts read like AI even though it’s not been used to write it and it’s actually insane. They all sound like the same soulless person operating under different names.

Is it posisble to duplicate a Bibisco project? ... To use as a template. I have exported an archive, but I wants to overide (even if the file name is changed).

It’s the water’s music that plays at dawn, The half-yellow sun bright at midnight’s haven. So that the mornings are held off for hours, And the troops don’t come home long after the war.

We are the permafrost, Now that leaks into the sea, Our wails hitting the tidal stars, Rumbles drawn out by the ocean’s voice.

And when the morning finally draws in, Like a belly-full python, reluctantly slithering forward, It’s an arm here and a leg there. You call us the fallen heroes.

We no longer keep our frozen selves—we leak. Like cracked skin pierced by bayonets, Pricked by the blazing sun.

Our cries drip in droplets, we ooze, Our muffled pain, sinking into the deep. “We don’t matter,” you have said, “We were meant to leak with age.”

One day, we’d spill the ocean, We’d cover the earth and drown it— But we’re no killers; you made us.

We are the little girl’s father, now fallen, The lost husband of a widow in mourning, The son of a grieving mother, The brother of a broken son.

Yet war is justified, And with the same thoughtless hand comes the warming of the earth.

Please critique this poem. What works and what doesn't. Thank you.

Is it allowed to post a poem here for critiquing?

Just want to check if my idea of good character arc is just a symptom of my head spending seventy-five percent of its lifetime up my ass.

For a bit of background, my story deals with a young man discovering the cyberpunk dystopia he lives in, along with most of the known world, is actually ruled by a secret society of magic users. It's meant to be a pretty standard found-family sort of thing. Mage society is cutthroat and deadly, heavily built on lineage and my protag (let's call him Max) is the only one known without any magical parentage (or the result of horrific lab experiments). I like the tropes.

Anyway, this brings me to my protagonist, Max. He's an asshole. He's meant to be a sort of embodiment of a peculiar flavour of toxic masculinity: He's obsessed with "strength". Mental strength. Self-control. Emotional strength. Being independent and free of atavitistic desires. He's considers life to be darwinistic in nature. It's about suffering, and those who break or falter in the face of pain are too weak to live. The weak and the ignorant are basically animals and if using them happens to fit his plans, he's not complaining. Kid's messed up.

Coincidentally, this attitude towards life makes him an excellent mage.

This isn't where my problem lies, however. There are a few details I left out, but suffice to say I think he ends up pretty well-rounded. My conundrum comes in with the motivations to his personality.

Max comes from an abusive family from basically anywhere in Midwest America (not really, but you get the idea). His parents were, to say the least, unsupportive, and made him deeply insecure about his ability to survive independently and it only got worse when he actually did move out and discovered they were completely correct. To be fair to him, he was mentally ill at the time. But, put short, this deeply affected him, to the point the Big Bad of the story is able to send him into nigh-catatonic depression by simply manipulating him into losing control of his powers.

I might have forgotten to mention that Max's magic is quite literally fuelled by his worldview. They only work if he perceives himself as strong.

My trouble is I can't tell if all this... tracks? Max's entire personality seems to be hinged on an overreaction to severe ADHD. I mean, it seems fine at first, but I have no experience with other people with my illness and when I think it over it often comes off as... I dunno, childish, which doesn't fir my vision of the character in question.

Thoughts?

I've gotten some semi-professional feedback on my project and one thing they point out is that at a few points in the story, I'm doing things that is cliché. And they're right, I am.

But that made me think; is it always bad to be cliché?

I mean, clichés become clichés because people use them often, and that's usually because it's a good way to do something.

Sure, it's bad to stack clichés one after another but as long as the story itself is novel and most of it is unique, surely it can't be that bad to throw in a cliché every now and then?

Couldn't it even make the story a bit easier to get through if it's otherwise very innovative?

So, as the title says, new to writing, and since I recently got over writing fanfics and want to start writing original works, what should I do first?

I noticed this on a couple of titles(which I will not name on purpose) that enrage people to an incredible degree. If someone posts something about a book that isn't famous the book is instantly called trash and the profile is accused of being an author in disguise or an AI bot. The book gets instantly called AI trash, poor writing junk, etc...

What are your thoughts on this?

I'm working on a story with a cannibalistic character, please dont put me on the watchlist.

This might be just me but I wanted someone else’s thoughts on it.

Does anyone else find writing some phrases or words feels really clunky or awkward to read even though they feel normal to say out loud? Sometimes when I read back some dialog it feels like it sounds forced. To me it seems evident that “realistic dialog” tends to be “dialog with good flow” not dialog that is similar to real life conversations.

My best example of this is if you read a transcript of a conversation it tends to be fairly difficult to follow and if you speak like a book character you’ll often sound a little insane. The problem is sometimes I feel like dialog is too simple to really flow. Sometimes a character just says a phrase or word and it makes me feel like the flow ran into a brick wall.

Maybe I’m just insane.

I think my main problem is I try to make all dialog meaningful and have a purpose but sometimes interactions are just superficial. How do you guys feel comfortable writing mundane dialog?

(Note: I'm french, please excuse my english)

Hi people, is there a difference between event in a story i mean on a scale level ? When looking into how to books writers love to throw out words like Turning point or Plot point ? Why not calling turning point PLOT POINT ? Unless my understand of the subject is false aren't plot point important event in the story ? Also since stories are tied in a cause and effect manner aren't all event supposed to be IMPORTANT ?

I'm confused, some help would be greatly appreciated ! Thanks everyone.

Just a bored night looking for inspiration or something interesting. Anyone have video essay suggestions they’d like to share?

Life trembling apart, Fear playing its part, Hope the only word to impart, Eyes losing spark than years endured, Gathering inner strength yearning for it to not depart. For there’s no way out than hope, The only escape I call. Hope a word which itself gives the answer.

I was writing this at midnight and thought I was cooking. Is it that cringe? here's the stuff:

That day- 

That horrid day- 

That dreadful day- 

For the first time, I had confronted one stronger than I. 

The field that lay before me, lay drenched in blood,  

My men charged into their deaths, but I could not hear their cries, for my ears rung. 

I lay defeated in the mud, but the sweet taste of death was not mine to taste. 

Then I felt a sword through my chest, yet I lay numb, but here there was pierced through me another sword, this sword that had pierced through me spilt not blood but the realization of strength greater than that of mine, this was the sword that stung that of a thousand swords.  

Then it had all gone dark, and I lay in an endless void. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

“Is it always this dark here?” Vector asked, gazing blankly at the midnight sky. 

“No, not really, moonless night.” his friend added 

An awkward silence had enclosed the campfire place, the fire’s cackles seemed to be the only thing their ears could catch, and the cricket's occasional chirp. 

Vector gazed up at the sky. 

“You know I’ve always wondered, what do you think's up there?” Vector spoke, breaking the silence, pointing a finger at the lone star shining faintly in the still black sky. 

"What, you think I’m some kind of expert?" Storen responded. 

“Were you always this vague?” Vector rolled his eyes. 

“You know what?” Vector continued, impatiently. 

“What now?” Storen sighed. 

“I'm calling it a day, or night for that matter!” Vector said, crashing onto his bedroll 

“Finally, some good news.” Storen said, falling into his own bedroll, next to Vector. 

The crickets shrill had long paused, the sun still deep sunk beyond the horizon, Vector had lost track of time when a deep dreamy blue flashed right into his half-asleep eyes. It had taken him by Suprise, he was quite fatigued, his senses half numb. 

He aimlessly lay staring at the pitch dark ahead of him. 

Then it came back to him; the flashing light. 

He rolled over Storen and gave him a stir and a shake. 

“What-?” Storen said, half headed. 

“What do you want?” Storen said, rubbing his eyes. 

And then he let out a gasp, and both kept speechless. 

The forest lay quiet, as if its life had been gulped down by the pitch black, but before them stood a bright beam of dreamy blue. 

But then Vector broke the silence: 

“What in this realm is that?”  

“I told you Vector-” Storen paused. 

“Yeah no, now that’s something I wasn’t expecting.” he finished, almost visibly shocked. 

Then, Vector had started heading towards the mysterious glow, like a moth to a flame. 

Then it had all gone blank again, into that same vast endless black void. 

And then I had again awoken. 

I lay there spilling blood, watching the ones against me take what was mine. 

My men’s bodies lay stacked up like livestock, thrown one after the other in the flame I wish I had burnt in before this day- 

This horrendous day. 

And on this horrendous day, I see not the reaper, 

Nor the enemy; 

But my own reflection in my men’s pool of blood. 

That face that lay staring back at me, I do not recognize, 

The thoughts that through me I cannot collect, 

And that guilt that runs through me like blood, I cannot stop its flow. 

Who am I? 

I- 

Then, the void had a blue beam illumine through it, piercing its mid. 

“What is this thing?” Vector inquired, not looking for an answer, but acknowledgement of what he was looking at. 

“Some kind of ancient beam emitter thing or something by the looks of it.” Storen responded. 

Also, anything that could be improved on this???

I'm not planning it, and obviously this is just an idea of how I'd write the character doing it first have an alibi,

call the person from a burner phone where my IP address would reflect that I'm located on the place I plan to meet them, have someone else text from my home so that there's proof I didn't leave home obviously with a pre-planned messages I'd most likely answer in my syntax

the tough part is pretending that I'm someone else to getting the victim to meet someone who they supposedly know, in case they share information on who they're going to, most likely a lake to anchor the murder weapon. while wearing disposable clothes and plastic over my shoes

then using a knife one slash to the neck and proceed to drown them until I'm sure they're dead, instead of pulling the body I'll push it to leave no tracks or evidence of my height shoe size or weight

then I'll have to I'd make sure to get rid of their dental records so that they'd stay missing, cremate the body near places with many outdoor camps so it's presumed that I'm camping, the ashes can be disposed in the lake, the extracted teeth will be buried under a tree, all of these things would be done in four hours, I'd head home in a direction the victim couldn't have possibly taken through heavy traffic and on a subway so that I can hide my identity wearing a wig glasses and heavy clothing, and heavy makeup including shoes that are a bit too big so that my pattern of walking would look different,

I wouldn't change out of this until I get close to home where I'd burn the clothing the next day

Started as a poem of sorts, morphed into...whatever you'd call this. Not exactly poetry, not quite a one off. edited for spacing issues .....

The sunlight slips away, taking what little warmth it still holds this time of year with it.

The moon begins to rise and the darkness creeps around us.

The light from the fire dances across your face, and I can clearly see the longing in your eyes.

A war is raging inside me - a battle between what is right, and what I desire.

Slowly a smile slides across your lips - a knowing smile that makes my stomach drop and my heart flutter in my chest.

Time stands still.

Our eyes locked.

Conversing without saying a word.

Soon, no, finally, we are alone and there is nothing but inches between us.

The there's that smile again, and all my will power is gone.

I close the space between us, and nothing will ever be the same again.

has anyone written those, particularly from the woman's POV and not reverse harem? like MFFM, MFMF, etc. am looking for book recs and am not getting much success anywhere else

I'm trying to get a birthday present for a friend who's a writer and an editor. This would be perfect but they don't deliver to the uk: https://www.journalofthemonth.com/#

Is there something similar in the uk/europe? I love the idea of a subscription but book subscriptions feel like I'm less likely to get something that suits her tastes. Is there a literary journal you'd recommend a subscription to?

I've been writing for decades but finally got back into it the past 2 years. I read the first 3 chapters to my wife and she was like, you need to finish it and get it published. That put a fire under my heel, so I'm writing and looking at publishing companies. I even did the cover art a few times. Who is your cheerleader?

What do you think?

Title: Toast to the Eternal Night

On this calm land, there was nothing unsettling. However, Leika had not left the house for a long time. He tried to avoid interacting with people, and even felt an irrational fear of breathing the air outside. Leika lived in his late aunt's house, and the last time anyone had seen him was six months ago. Now, people even had reason to believe that Leika had already died.

When Leika first came to this peaceful and serene plain, he thought he could awaken, or perhaps be reborn, like a country ravaged by war. The unfamiliar and entirely new environment often carried a deceptive charm, leading one to form absurd and laughable illusions. During the first few weeks, Leika frequently attended social gatherings in the town, and people viewed him as the elegant and beautiful successor to Maria in the social scene. He, too, felt refreshed, surrounded by crowds and awkward jokes, sitting on his favorite sofa, watching the lights shine like stars, as if just within reach, the dance steps seemingly never-ending, sweet words and illusions revolving around his dreams, forever spinning…

Come, let’s toast to the eternal night!

Day after day, the passing time not only took away all of your beauty and vitality but also extinguished the passion you thought could last forever, and it did so at an ever-faster, irresistible pace. As people grew weary of the "King" Leika, he seemed to appear less and less frequently in public view. But whenever he did show up, his face always bore the familiar smile, which made people happy and satisfied their feelings of pity and sympathy for Leika. After all, they were a kind and simple folk who would often reveal such expressions as if to say—“We can't do anything, but we will always remember you, poor Leika.”

It seemed almost natural that people no longer saw Leika, but every Friday night, the ball at Lily's house was still brightly lit. Laughter and singing passed along messages of joy in the warm air, and no one mentioned Leika, as if he were a taboo. Yet, you could still catch glimpses of unease and awkwardness in an empty sofa or in the unchanged smiles of the guests, but it didn’t matter. People would quickly forget those small discomforts and find true happiness. After all, they, too, were an optimistic and progressive people.

Leika squandered all the money Maria had left behind (the townspeople had elegantly called it "the nourishment of happiness"), but by the time he realized it, it was too late. He was so eager to seek happiness in life, and for a while, he thought he had found it. But he should have understood that happiness needs to be nurtured and "nourished." And when the best nourishment for happiness ran out, the result was—losing happiness.

Leika was a complete romantic. He refused to wake from his utterly romantic dream. He kept his door tightly shut, and no one knew what he was doing inside that sealed house.

Finally, one day, a plumber reported to the town police station that he suspected there had been a death at 130 Garden Road. His reason was that, while inspecting the nearby water pipes at Leika’s house, he had smelled a "strange and unpleasant odor." The Friday newspaper also reported the “news,” and the small town was immediately in an uproar. Leika's name was brought up again, and his place in the town’s history sparked great interest from the media. The police station quickly launched an investigation.

People spoke as they walked, discussing Leika’s dance steps, his lovers, and his eventual end. They mentioned his smile, describing it as "so full of warmth and brilliance," and some could not help but cry—“He was so good, we loved him so much.” Now, standing behind the police cordon, people gathered, stretching their necks and making strange noises with their noses. Someone turned and whispered to the crowd, "Ah, poor Mr. Leika." He paused, sniffled, and lowered his voice, "I can smell it. It seems this is it. Poor..."

The deputy sheriff, with a police dog named "Barbie," stood in front of the door. "Barbie" did not react as the officers had expected. One officer said that "Barbie" might be sick, and the deputy sheriff cursed, "Stupid dog," before pressing his nose to the door crack and sniffing from top to bottom just like "Barbie." He then turned and nodded gravely to the officers.

The officers broke down the door, and the people craned their necks even further, waiting with bated breath.

The officers' expressions froze instantly, like statues.

"They've gone inside! They've gone into the house!"

The crowd could no longer wait. They easily broke through the cordon and rushed into the house—only to find nothing. Nothing at all. Neither the living Leika nor the dead Leika was there. The house was empty!

All the windows and doors were opened, and only when the dark house was filled again with sunlight and air did the stunned people feel complete disappointment and anger. They cursed God and swore to burn the house down.

That night, they would revel until dawn. They gathered around the house, watching it burn, singing, crying.

Come, let’s toast to the eternal night!

A platform that allows people to make money from writing small to medium bits of content. Some kind marketplace for small bits of writing content. Basically X but for discussing topics and ideas instead of arguing politics. Or Reddit but with the ability to monetize.

I’m currently writing a Short Story in the form of an Epistolary Novel I personally really enjoy reading epistolary novels but I’ve never read a (Short Story Epistolary) before I’m sure they already exist but my question is I’m already around 10,000 words and at the end of the last chapter in your opinions do these two things go together or are they just two different to work in the long run Eventually I do want to write a Full on Epistolary Novel

For context, this is the first thing I’ve written with serious fervor in some years. I’ve had four people killed in the first 25 pages. Not some cop out thing like a car accident but four separate incidents of people dying. I’m wondering if I came out of the gate too early and wonder if I will be able to capture that momentum back. Anyone else have this issue?

This is the first time that i write something that is intended to be read. Ive always written short stories and peoms etc.. but I've never tried sharing them to the public. It was all personal. I have always been encouraged by the close few who read my writings to publish. (Along side my teachers from highschool and professors who remarked my vast imagination and unique style.) And now I am working on my first novel and i need feedback on how i am doing. Where can i seek this feedback. I don't want to spoil the surprise for my friends and those who know me so i turned to reddit. Any ideas?

Written by T.D.B.

Chapter 1

“Oh no, you got torched by a dragon! Oh no, you gotta work on tax documents! Here comes the barbarian! Raaaargh! I’m going to kill you! ‘I don’t want to go to America!’ he says! ‘People’ll make fun of my accent!’ Here comes the lich! ‘No! Your father got a perfect job opportunity . . . in raising the dead!’ ‘Well, he’s about to go down!’ said the barbarian. ‘I’m gonna grapple ‘em and put him in a headlock!’ Okay, you got your initiative, and you have advantage. Roll your dice.”

Billy Beckett slumped, his back making the shape of a misbegotten slug. He felt like an undead without a master, shuffling along the barren wastelands of Ibur R’nack with no purpose. (He came up with the name. [It used to be a flat land of sand, but after a dragon torched the area and killed all the soldiers, it’s just a glass floor with shambling undead. {There’s a castle that stands on top of it - where the lich king lives.}])

No one wanted to play with him anyway. There wasn't much to do out in the middle of the continent. Small towns. There were churches, so there were a lot of religious people. Billy believed, but he never understood why they hated anything cool.

Writing! Writing! Yes, writing! Go back to the writing.

Nobody will play anyway I gotta go back to the writing You sure somebody will like it? Nobody will like it or ever.

Papers scuttled across the dirty floor, dancing and twisting through the air. Plain paper! But everything’s used! “Keep my wife’s name out of your filthy mouth!” Spawn growled from the television, its flicker one of the only light sources illuminating the room. I have to find it! I have to find it! There!

One lone street light bathed Billy’s room in a silver veil of fluorescent fumes. It buzzed like an insect on a quiet, star-less night. It had always been the sole reason Billy couldn’t sleep, but the TV was on, so Billy kept the window open. The wind blew the curtains halfway across his room, fluttering like Spawn’s red cloak. The warm summer breeze hit Billy’s face. He thought of hell, where Spawn would always end up, and wondered if he could ever have peace. For the characters they create, could they ever have peace? No, peace was boring in stories. It was excellent in real life, but you have to torture your characters for the audience to find any real meaning in them. You always gotta make them the underdog. No matter how powerful they were, you gotta stack the odds against them. Even with the Hulk, he and Banner always struggle for control. Hulk says he wants to be left alone, but he needs someone who understands him. Banner needs to learn to accept the Hulk. Bruce should lash out because the Hulk is in his body and swaying his emotions just by existing within; that way, Bruce looks at the Hulk like his worst failures come to life. But for them to find peace, they must accept each other.

But peace is boring. (Can they find peace, and we can give them a new obstacle?)

Even as Billy put the pencil to his paper, he felt his heart sputtering like an old Volkswagen in those Bugs Bunny cartoons. It flittered and raced, running in place, causing him to lose his place. His train of thought halted in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly, he knew everything, but now, he knew nothing.

Ibur R’nack used to be a major trade route where the people of Ardenia could travel the lands and trade with one another. It wasn’t just sand but had many caves and cliffs that housed dangerous creatures. That’s why warriors were always with the trade routes, to protect against the creatures - and the bandits.

There was a long history of bloodshed along those routes. For a thousand years the (what was it again?) Ardenians thrived through their trade routes, quickly becoming the dominant economy in the region. But the hostile trade route called Ibur R’nack (translated from their tongue, which means The Death Road) remained a thorn in their side. They had unique warriors called the Únak who were specifically trained to fight the beasts that lived in the area. But even with these warriors, they lost a great deal of profit, so they made the rash decision and employed a dragon to kill the creatures of Ibur R’nack.

The dragon, named Ishgar, accepted and laid waste to the creatures. But after his deal was done, he torched the many kingdoms of Ardenia, stealing their treasure for himself and living amongst the filthy creatures.

With Ardenia now in ruin, leaving an enormous power vacuum, the neighboring kingdoms yearned to seize that power themselves. When what was left of the Ardenians called out for help, attempting to mobilize for the dragon's destruction, everyone agreed. Together, dozens of kingdoms rallied their forces to kill Ishgar. The dragon rained fire upon its helpless residents, only for the -

Only for the . . . .

Come on, think! Think!

Please . . . please . . . think . . . .

He couldn’t think anymore. He racked his brain, trying to come up with the next words, but he’d have better luck slamming his head against a wall. He sat down in bitterness, the brief euphoria now gone, replaced with a cold loneliness. Once again, he was on the ground, suffering, sniffling. It would only be one more week until school started—high school. Dread began to fill him. From the pit of his stomach it slithered its way up through his heart and past his throat, settling into his head right behind his eyes.

He had a migraine, and his stomach didn’t feel too good. The thought of school made him sick and nauseous. What had once been a group of individuals he had known all his life now turned into a group of bullies that were hellbent on making his life miserable. He had attempted to go to arcades, even a comic shop and book store, but wherever he went he was always picked on for his accent and unfamiliar mannerisms. He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb.

But now that school was almost here . . .

He was tired of it all, the bruises and cuts. They always gave it to him where they could be hid, and he always hid them from his parents in fear. He wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth their attention. Why else would they have come here? They could have gone to New York or Los Angeles, but instead they came here, to good Ol’ Brandywine. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere next to the prison and the asylum - sandwiched, you could say. Apparently the best place to leave convicts and the mentally ill was where nowhere was - except right next to Brandywine, ‘cause at least the view would be nice.

• only for the residents of Eldana to rain fire right back, but nearly all of their arrows splintered themselves against the dragon’s hide. It took the Ardenian’s specially crafted ironwood arrows to puncture through the dragon’s hide and pierce his wings. Once the dragon had fallen, he proved to all men that the beast was still a ferocious animal, bathing them in fire and blood. “When I speak, I shake mountains! When I breathe, all shall be silenced! And when I maim I bring terror!”

Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe put that quote in when he is flying above them. Much more dramatic.

A soft click hit the edge of his window. Billy’s head jerked toward the sound, his eyes wide with terror. He was now fully aware of his heartbeat and how quickly it was pounding against his chest. It felt like a balloon rapidly swelling against his chest, ready to break open and burst. He could see the edges of a ladder poking just above the windowsill. The quiet mumbling of Wanda Simmons from television and the iridescent buzzing of the street light were but distant memories. There was a rapid motion of feet upon the ladder, growing closer and closer toward Billy’s window. His mind became filled with the abnormal - the inhuman - acts of ghoulish creatures preying on helpless children, springing them out of their windows by their ankles and tossing them into their sacks for ungodly acts that must never been seen. Let it be known that on this day Billy Beckett was strung by his ankles by the demon Abzhethoth, who eats souls of children to grow his long claws which -

“What’s up, dude?” Sally exclaimed, popping her head into view with a big ass open-toothed smile. “Waaagh!” Billy shouted, his whole body jolting as if electrocuted. Each of his limbs straightened out, sending themselves in four opposite directions. “Woh-hohoho!” Sally laughed, pointing at him. “You should see your face, man! You were all like, ‘Waaagh!’” Sally threw her hands in that air and stood on one foot. She cast her weight behind her, forcing the ladder to shake and wobble. Attempting to straighten herself, she caused the ladder to lose its footing and fall. Anticipating this, she grabbed onto the ledge of the windowsill and propped her feet against the wall. The ladder fell to the ground, crashing against the Beckett hedges.

“Crap!” she cried out. While her heart raced she was able to keep calm, looking up at the window for her solution. She pulled herself up easily, albeit with some minor grunts. And when she had finally arrived into Billy’s room, standing tall, she looked a bit proud.

“Don’t worry,” she said, putting her hands up. “I may have destroyed your hedges, but I can get you new ones. I know a guy.”

“Dude, that was like a movie!” Beckett yelled.

“My life is a movie,” she yelled back. “Besides, it was more like the action scene of a book.”

Billy blinked, dumbfounded. “You like books?” Sally nodded. “Damn straight. Ever heard of the Wheels of Time?”

Billy shook his head. “Nope.”

Sally paused, her face stuck in a freeze frame. Billy could see that she was trying to find a way to explain it, but couldn’t quite find the words. “Uh . . . it’s a lot. I could lend it to you.”

Billy rubbed his neck. “I don’t know. I don’t really like to read.”

Sally gave him an up-nod, squinting her eyes. “I’ll give you something more digestible. Frankenstein.” “I don’t know,” he said, looking down at his papers. “Seems kinda lame. Seems like it’s more your thing to like them than it is to mine.”

Sally crossed her arms and looked away. “I didn’t say I liked them.”

Billy looked up from the floor. “Then why did you read them?”

Sally sat on Billy’s bed, putting her hands on her knees and giving Billy a gruff scowl. “‘Cause my dad has made it his sole mission to ruin my life at every turn.”

Billy scoffed. “Why?”

Sally shrugged. “Why not?” She looked away again, letting out a hot sigh before looking back at him. “Some people choose to be the way they are because . . . well, I don’t really know his reasons. I’m not sure I really know the real him.”

“What do you mean?” Billy asked, leaning closer. Sally got up. “I’ll tell you on the way. Come on.”

Hey everyone so this isn’t a post bashing spec fic or anything. I grew up reading it and still read to this day, hence my critique; I feel like spec fic in general lately has had far more boring prose. Fantasy and sci-fi in particular since I like Haruki Murakami and Margret Atwood. Compared to 20th century writers like Gene Wolfe or Ursula K Le guin, the writing seems so plain and boring. This sucks for me because I like spec fic but I also like really deep and thoughtful prose. I think it stems from writers like Brandon Sanderson, while I respect his output and world building skills his lack of good prose puts me off his work.

Simple language isn’t a bas thing. Hemingway was a master at making you see and feel every emotion and his stories are rich with subtext. In a farewell to arms it hardly ever uses the word war but you can see with each sentence how it impacted the characters lives. It feels like modern spec fic is just getting to the point and doesn’t really use prose to communicate subtext, they just state what happened and go to the next event. These novels are much more like screenplays than novels. In fact for most spec fic writers I notice an active disdain for the medium in some cases. Even literary agents prefer a dumbed down style.

My words might seem harsh, but I really want sci-fi/fantasy to do well since I love it so much. But I can’t read most modern books because the prose is just so plain and boring, and while yes, good stories and characters matter, prose is the key ingredient that makes them sing.

Is it bad to only give readers two options of where a story should go when telling a letter which way is better?

When I present a story to readers they will tell me what is wrong with it and what to do instead. Then I will do that and make the changes but then they will read it again and change their minds and doesn't think it works at all, even though they seemed to think it would work in the first place.

But I don't want to of course keep inviting him more options because then the story takes forever and any option is on the table and therefore it doesn't get done. So I am wondering if I give the readers the choices between the two, the original story I came up with, and the new changes that came up with, is it unfair to the story of me to present them with just the two options at to ask which one is the better way to go?

Thank you very much for any input on this! I really appreciate it.