Hi there NaNoWriMo is upon us and I took time to plot a story.
I had three criteria points:
A genre I don't I read! (Romance) ~ Row your boats!
A Comfort Genre (portal fantasy)
and ultimately have intensity on both points which (in plotting)
culminated into Smut (that's steamy stuff for its own sake) and ~Drum roll~
Anti War genre which I think was the first portal fantasy.
-------
This is in plotting. in execution meanwhile I think a got a romance Kickstarter
and a seinen approach to drama.
this is my attempt, but for the sake of NanoWrimo and unto 50k (maybe 20k)
can I get some feedback on the site.
https://www.scribblehub.com/series/1254615/tour-de-dungeon-isekai-force/
it's just called tour de force.

On Reddit - May i also ask for feedback on my dimensions.
Did The anticipation come across, did character development load up to 60%
is it investable for my MC.
please mind the timeline - i know nothing about that era and location,
Portal Fantasy will be on chapter 3.

Is it Worth NanoWrimo or should i stick to my Manuscript,
instead of diversifying.

I wonder what would’ve happened if I went

through with it that night.

If it had worked, if I’d done it right.

—

What would you think if you read that letter

that took me so long to draft?

Would you have cried or just laughed?

—

At the end of the tunnel

Would I come across a bundle

Of angles opening the ordinate gates?

I still think about what awaits.

—

At the end of the road

Would I find myself burning in a pit of

despair, or would it be cold?

Would I feel nothing, or everything?

Just give me a sign, anything.

—

Sometimes I think I’m really dead,

But then I wake up and realize it was just a fantasy in my head.

Each night I go to bed hoping I won’t wake up.

I just feel so stuck

And It’s so much simpler than taking my own life

Because I don’t want to ever feel that knife

Bone deep in my wrist again.

I just want this to end

Hi everyone! I'm new here, and have just completed my second draft of a work of romantic historical fiction.

I'm hoping there are a few published authors here who might be able to help me with the next steps of the editing process. I'm a person who works well with a checklist, and the creative writing process has been great, but to really make sure my work sings I'm hoping to create a checklist for going through editing.

Any and all advice is so welcomed. Thank you in advance!

There are now about 6,800 languages left in the world, compared with perhaps twice that number back at the dawn of agriculture.

Can double replace twice in this context?

Also another sentence

The percentage of teachers was 40%, double the figure for students.

Is double correctly used?

When will we meet?

Is it the day I die?

Or the day I finally learn to live?

Will it be the day where I pass by a cafe,

And ask for a seat by the window,

Looking out and wondering what have I really accomplished in life,

When I’m done thinking and get up from my seat to head out,

But end up bumping into you instead?

That sounds like something straight out of a romance novel.

Maybe that's what I desire,

But what you bring to me is a complete mystery.

When will we meet?

Is it the day I finally decide to give up on love,

After patiently waiting

And impatiently praying for your arrival.

Will the moment we meet restore my desire to be loved?

Or will it make me grieve of the time I wasted,

Praying for you to walk into my life?

Will you be the man I dreamed of?

Or the man that I'll come to resent?

Only time will tell from the moment we meet.

So tell me,

When will we meet?

So I can prepare myself for what’s to come,

So I can look forward to meeting you,

Or get a head start on running away from you.

Either way,

I will pray,

That when the time comes,

I'll look at you and say,

We finally met.

I come from a long line of mental illness.

I come from a group of people who never even knew what the word "family" meant.

I come from a line of adults;

who's children's children have surpassed them both emotionally and intellectually.

Shame on those who bare seeds

& refuse to do the internal work.

Shame on those who are okay with how their dysfunctional family unit looks.

Shame on the elders who act no better than toddlers.

Shame

Shame

Shame

A message from the families black sheep.

https://preview.redd.it/znp5i9tvg6yd1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=eca1478b15a7734a02ed2bdfb80cf78c8f21da44

Title: People Like Us

Genre: contemporary/women's fiction

word count: 113k, need to get below 110k, completed

link: message me and we can exchange emails with work

goals/expectations: beta reader for manuscript OR critique partner (can exchange first five chapters and see if we're a good fit)

ABOUT THE MANUSCRIPT

comps: Happy Place, One Day, Sisterhood Everlasting, movie: The Big Chill, Who We Are Now, The Most Fun We Ever Had

brief description: A character driven novel about a group of five estranged college best friends that reunite at a lake house for one member's wedding. The wedding week is interspersed with memories of the previous summers spent at this lake house as we find out how this group met, dated each other, got heartbroken, moved cities, had tragedies occur, and everything else you don't expect to happen to you when life is starting out. They come to terms with the events of their lives and how they've impacted each other, for better or for worse, over this wedding week, along with understanding how much grace is needed when it comes to both love and friendship.

I enjoy stream of consciousness comments and could benefit from comments on pacing, characterization, and plot. not interested in grammar comments right now

This city was mine once. Large and wild and untamed. Yet mine. There was no place where I belonged as much as I did there.

I left, but I left only to come back. Next year first, then in next year again. Then life happened and before I knew it a year had become ten. Yet wherever I went and however I changed I harboured in me, like a seed, the idea of this city as an explanation to everything that was different and strange about me. And maybe, even if I never spoke these words, as a place that will be there and wait for me when I grow up and know what to do with my life. As if it was only me who was changing, and not the city as well.

As I look at the lights of the city now it could hardly be stranger to me. Yet the painful truth is not this eerie, alien strangeness in a place that was supposed to be ever mine. The thing that really pains me is the realization that I no longer dream of coming back. And this realization alone is so full of grief and un-wept tears it makes me feel like I am struggling to breathe.

It is just a city. It shouldn’t be like this.

Only it is not a city at all. It is hope. Was hope. Hope of a world endlessly stretching out in front of me and still only being the gateway to another. A world of freedom and opportunity where you could go where you want, become who you want; find meaning.

It is not, I realize, the city I am so violently grieving. It is a world that was promised to us as our birthright, yet that died in front of our eyes and in front of our powerless attempts to rescue just a little bit of it.

The world has become smaller. More dangerous. We have forgotten how to dream and how to build and how to create. We, humans, have become reduced into something that survives, mends and makes do. As if the years of opportunity were but a blink of light in the bloodlustern darkness of history.

Maybe they were.

And here I am, staring at the city; staring at the world that is both so intimately familiar and so estranged. How can this be truth? How can this be what remains of our plans and dreams and hopes? How can this be all there is?

I cannot find the words. Neither can I find the right colours to put on paper or the right sounds in nature. Nor the breath to breathe through it.

I am living a day at a time. An hour of the time. Desperately keeping myself from doing what I do best: Lifting the gaze and looking at the big picture, connecting the dots. I cannot connect those dots. I cannot see the picture that emerges for there is nothing good to see in it. Not in our generation, anyway.

The painful truth that looms like a storm cloud quickly closing in on us, is our best days are behind us. The path in front leads further and further into the dark forest where predators stalk and not being seen is the only thing that keeps us alive. And the way back seems irreversibly blocked.

So that’s what we do. We keep our head low, keep our thoughts low, walk through our lives making sure not to cause any friction; not to cause any noise that might give us away to the monsters that lurk in the dark.

We cannot be seen or heard. Cannot leave footsteps that might be followed.

We cannot breathe.

We disappear.

Traceless.

As they stood on the small platform, his executioner quietly muttered,

"I will deliver you to hell."

The man, not willing to wait for his turn to speak his last words, mostly because the underling reading his charges seemed like the type to deny him that right, just to feel superior.

"Your strongman leader is afraid of words and ideas. Your orchestrators of fear, the alphas with the most brittle egos, suckle that teat. You here today, to feel good about 'your' choices — hell came when I realized the pain I caused others, after losing freedom over my own words and actions. That's the cost of not wanting to stand out from the herd."

The audience watching the livestream was oblivious. The A.I. programming had transformed his speech into one begging for repentance. Those present, understood, at a visceral level, the need for compliance.

"You're not sending me to hell — you're taking over my lease."

Silence

Two birds, one big, one small, walking aimlessly between the towering presence of human like statues lined parallel to each other, never ending nor horizon be seen. Their legs kneeling and their hands clasped together, as if they are praying. The eyes, looking down as if staring at the birds, yet their heads up high, pointing towards the sky. Statues, with eyes piercing and presence daunting, stared silently to movements of the birds. All throughout their aimless walk, the birds cried. Cried, cried, cried, and cried more, echoing throughout the parallel statues lined far and wide, yet their cries not heard. When the big bird looked above and stared at some of the statues, the eyes of the statues, once staring at them, now looked above. Can statues move? Such preposterous idea for no statue can move, but yet why does the little bird feel a creeping stare from behind? The big bird decided to hop towards one of the statues and stared at it intently, as if examining it detail by detail. The bird, with its examination, began to cry in front of the statue, but it did not answer and only looked above. As the birds cried one last time, still, no working ears heard their cries and has only fallen to the deaf ears of the statues. As they see that their cries did nothing, they continue on their aimless journey. As the birds go on, the statutes behind their backs slowly moved their gazes towards the birds, staring at them, to them, and only them.

I don't know if this is the right sub for this, but I just need to exclaim this to someone, even the void.

This year has been the first time I ever successfully completed a manuscript, I stuck to it, I didn't abandon it. It only took me a little over 3 months of consistent writing to and I am so damn proud. I've been going through the revising process (on the 3rd draft now after taking a break between editing the manuscripts) and from conversations with friends and my partner I've been explaining this book to, I have fallen in love with the possibility of writing a sequel. But one of the big things I know about writing a sequel or trilogy or any number of book in a series is to not write the next before the previous is complete. I'm a little over a 1/3 of the way through my editing of this draft, and still love the story, but more and more I am being attacked by all my ideas of what I could do next.

The new character dynamics, the new challenges and situations, they feel incredible and the ideas are actively combating me as I try to edit and revise this draft. I have more ideas around the sequel than I did when I started writing this book. And I don't even know if I'm going to be able to get a sequel as I will be aiming to traditionally publish as I cannot afford self publishing anytime soon.

TLDR: I have so many ideas for the sequel it is pulling me out of the revising phase of my book.

It comes and goes as it pleases. It’s a shapeshifter who knows my greatest faults, ready to change the minute my guard is down. It’s a poison I have no cure for. It’s the despair of making decisions. It’s the void between the stars in the haunting expansive night sky. I have no control and it thrives on that.

It taunts me when I’m at my lowest and sabotages me when I’m at my highest. No matter how far I go or how much I accomplish, it’s there. The anticipation of the inevitable is so overwhelming I forget that it’s a battle worth fighting. I don’t know when the war started but I have become shackled to the ground by its grim embrace. Sometimes I succumb to the pressure, a point of total eclipse, where even the mundane everyday utensils become weapons of freedom.

Our thoughts aren’t focused on being. Yet why does it plague MY mind? STAND UP. BE SOMEONE. Yet I remain. Falling against the grain of all the others. It restricts my path to a narrow, claustrophobic passage where love and hope don’t dare reach lest they suffocate from apathy. I want to be with them but my thoughts constrict the constitution of my being.

I’m a man who teeters on the delicate balance of optimism and nihilism. The thread that bears my weight hangs above a pit of negativity. Who constructed this place? I couldn’t have. It’s cold and empty. I’m no architect nor do I possess the skills of construction. Yet here I am a bird locked in its cage.

When I’m not there I watch them climb. Higher and higher they go. They never look back. To look back is to feel and to feel is to hurt. When I finally come to, i realize that I’m left alone like the last anemone at the bottom of the sea.

Life changes but it is always there. Pushing me further and further in a spiraling path of self-destruction. In sickness and in health, in the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, through thick and thin, you are always there.

I want my heart to speak. I want the snow to warm me. I want the trees to listen. I want the sky to be clear. I want the stars to be shining. I want my clothes to be lighter. I want my soul back in my body. I want to write something but don't know what.

I make observations. I am in a cave, a igloo made of snow. I am not certain if the cave would collapse or not so I sit at the edge of the cave. I given my one set of clothes to the sleeping one next to me. The fire is burning right in front of us, like a camp. I look outside and see the star in the middle of the bright blue sky, it is still day-time. I see the red trees covered in snow, the whole surface of this world is covered in snow. The cave is small so the sleeping one is near me, very near. I blush. I try to make more observations but my mind is tired. I want to rest but can't sleep. I close my eyes and wait for the next day to come. All thoughts vanish, I am blank, feeling a weird sensation in my body but ignore it. I just want the day to end quickly, I see darkness and try to concentrate on the weird sensation. I feel cold.

In the middle of a barren land,
There grows a lonely tree in the sand.
It was fragile and weak, but tough and shy;
It grew up into the sky, its resilience high.

Climbing through the dance of days and nights,
And the glooms and blooms whose afar it sights.
The sun dries its soul, yet vital for its life’s tries;
Time passes by, and it was unable to bear any cries.

Finally, it started to cry in pain, but no one to care;
For every tear it shed, a leaf withered away, like air.
Into the blank stare—a reminder of life being futile:
The longer we live, the more pain that gets piled.

Soon, the last leaf withered, and hopes turned dark,
The sun burning out its last drop of life, without a spark.
The tree dies and decays into a pointless void,
Yet two new trees grow out of its devoid.

They grow into a forest, making the soul contend—
A meaning for a life that was once offended.

The king, Adoris, was frightened beyond comparison. What had he done to offend a demon like this? Was this divine retribution for all the wrong he had done in his life? The bodies he stepped over to come to power?

What could he do to tell the gods he was sorry; just please come and save him!

As Adoris was preparing to flee his kingdom, the door to his private quarters blew open. However, when the king turned around, he only saw a young boy with eyes that seemed to hold the universe within them; his guards were missing with their locations replaced by ashes.

"Where is your master boy?" Adoris questioned.

Wherever the killer was, if he was nowhere near here, he still had a chance to escape. He would only bring a few riches with him to carry light but live worry-free once he was safe within an allied country, whatever was doing this, he'd have his revenge and it wouldn't be pretty.

"What master?" the strange boy questioned him. His voice was silky smooth and lacked maturity, yet something told the king not to underestimate the child; his voice was laced with power.

The kid had a smell to him, it was his bloodline. Any bloodline that was strong enough for a human to smell must be powerful and ancient, should Adoris escape, whoever awoke this resting titan would suffer consequences like he had given no other.

The realization slowly crept upon Adoris' face once he realized who the mysterious individual staring at him was. A sword in his hand with blood coating the blade, the overwhelming strength, the inhuman slits within his eyes that seemed to look at the world with indifference; we were all beneath him.

"Y-you're the one wrecking my kingdom… What have I done to invoke your divine wrath? Plea-"

Adoris attempted to plead with the child, no, titan. He was certain that one of his lackeys stumbled upon the powerhouses' resting spot and disturbed him in his sleep. If he could lull and appease the being, not only would it spare him, but he might even gain a remarkably powerful backing.

"Where is she"

"Who? I am not sure who you are referring to but I'm sure I can help you find her. You can even have the kingdom, just plea-"

It seems someone has taken a person from him, a consort maybe. If it wasn't human, it might have been a human plaything that someone swept away during his hour of rest.

Adoris silently cursed how idiotic his subordinates were.

"No need, I'll just keep killing you scum until I find her, and if any harm has come to her, I'll raze this entire kingdom into the dirt"

The king believed he could do it, the aura radiating off of him screamed a higher life form. Although he looked human, he was anything but. Luckily, the king didn't care for his henchmen enough to attempt at saving them from the youth's wrath.

Especially if he might ruin his chances of buying his way into the good graces of someone so wise and ancient.

"Y-y-yes sir, would you like for me to find you a much better place to rest and see to it that no one disturbs you in your sleep again? I-"

"No, I don't want any help coming from you filthy, disgusting humans. I don't sense her here, so I will continue my search"

The king failed at his attempt to curry favor with the being, but as long as he lived, something could be arranged at some point. No one couldn't be bought.

"However, I smell her on you."

This made Adoris stiffen and began shaking at the implications of those words.

"Anyone who touches what's mine dies."
The last thing Adoris saw was the youth raise his sword and condescendingly peer down with his starlike gaze as he swung, severing his head.

There’s a monster in my house, Not in the closet or under my bed, but close enough to douse My air, breathing beside me, stealing my space, Sleeping on a pillow, barely inches from my face.

A monster without feelings, no hint of a heart, No sense of empathy, not a part. When I see his eyes, I feel the hate for who he was, And who he is now, though I don’t know the cause.

Hate from me to him, from him to me, As if he doesn’t know his impact, cannot see. Words grabbing my throat with cruel intent, A cold fight for justice, relentless and bent.

In his stare, I feel anger and disdain, As if I’m the one who’s caused his pain. Why does this bond feel like a trap, like a fall, Bound with chains, kept in a dark hall?

Mind consumed, feelings suppressed, I walk, head bowed, hoping for rest. Tears in my eyes when he shows me some praise, Or agrees with me, rare as those days.

In his world, he’s the king, I’m a pawn, He sees me as small, until he’s moved on. Just a simple “you’re right” or a “well done” Fills me with endorphins, makes my tears run.

Perhaps it’s the fog from this monster’s gaze, Letting light through in brief, fleeting haze. But unlike other monsters, he’s always here, Sometimes gone but always near.

In my mind, he shouts that I’m not enough, That others have it harder, that my life isn’t tough. He doesn’t hit me, but his words and his stare Cut deep like knives in moments we share.

I want to escape his comments and scorn, But he’s part of me now, as night follows morn. “Why me?”—the words echo again, Familiar as family, a song of pain.

The hurt he causes can’t be erased, Keeping strong while wanting to cry, a race. Every ounce of life, of joy, stripped away, As he pretends to be kind but leads me astray.

Whenever I think or speak for my own, I’m reminded I’m worthless when we’re alone. The monster knows my weak spots well, Secrets I shared, now dragged into hell.

Everything’s a mirror, a dark, twisted view, Not good enough in his eyes—never true. Better we both drown than he sinks alone, For that’s his goal: he’s claimed my bones.

Knowing what’s next if I speak my mind, Knowing it will hurt, yet feeling confined. I want to be happy, pure and free, But he won’t let me; he won’t leave me be.

I want to tell him I used to care, But his darkness pulls me, it’s always there. Now it’s a shadow I cannot shake, Dragging me down with each mistake.

All I want is to cry, cry for what I’ve done, For falling for him, for needing someone. But now there’s no comfort, no embrace, just a hollow hole, A space that traps me, steals my soul.

Every time I try to believe it’s anew, I trust again, but it’s never true. Mama, I’ve failed in his arms; I’m lost, For every embrace, there’s always a cost.

I want to live again as a young person. Not to inhabit their body, but their lifeforce. So much ahead of them to experience for the first time. I want to not be able to sleep because in the morning we are going on an adventure! To chase the sun into the horizon. To experience a masterpiece. To taste lemon icebox pie for the first time. Not to eat lemon icebox pie. You understand? To taste lemon icebox pie for the first time. It is a different thing. Not to sense the mystery. But to experience the sensation of sensing the mystery. A different thing. To see a beautiful woman naked. To love. But not only the young. Old people have a lifeforce all their own. They do. To feel that mournful pang of nostalgia for missspent days of youth. Love, loss, and then regret. Do you remember your first loss? When it hit you. You know? The feeling like you were spiraling into a black hole. Where every step forward felt like moving through black molasses. The ache of it. We cherish all these things. They are a precious, precious gift.

It’s not healthy to run.
You aren’t facing your problems—how will you grow?

Grow up, get over it. The world keeps turning, you’ll be fine.  Be an adult, face your fears, quit sulking, pitying yourself.

Quit fucking up and blaming the universe.
Quit being a bad friend, taking out your insecurities on others.

Don’t you have a loving family?
Good health?
Opportunities?
A good education?
Friends who care?

Why can’t you just be happy,
content,
calm,
patient,
responsible,
level-headed,
respectful,
rational,
stable,
loving, grateful.

Why can’t you just shut the fuck up when others are trying to speak - Do you love the sound of your own voice? Do you think you’re better than others?

Why do you keep hurting yourself—falling, breaking, drinking, drugging, crashing?
Is it a Freudian thing or was it the bullies.
Bullies that everyone has, except for the few.
They exist, but not in my world, not anymore.
I learned well. 

Move across the country to forget malingering suburban trauma—a blearing phantom limb.

New songs of your sorrow will catch ears out West. Go there and, when they find out, leave again.
Leave no trace, just like trash — you pollute.

Why don’t you just go find Christ.
Pick up tired books behind church pews and sing to the heavens bleating hymns that could rock a meth head to sleep.

Stop pushing people away. Stop.
Would it make it easier to kill yourself?
No, no, no. Then I’d truly be running from my problems. 

Maybe I could find God.
Not anymore,
but at one point, I could have.
I would have.

Here’s what I do know:
AWARENESS never absolved anyone of anything.

So stop asking me why.
I couldn’t tell you either way.

She doesn’t forgive easily.
Same with others,
time as proof.

If you love something, let it go.
This is my greatest act of love.
If only I had done it with the others.

I don’t seek forgiveness; this is the end of the road. They were right.

If a house catches on fire, don’t go back and fix it.
If you lit the house on fire, don’t go back and rebuild it.
If the house is on fire and you walk by, don’t stop to save it.
If you burn down a home, don’t expect to go back inside.

A shitty analogy, but I’m no author, and this isn’t a sonnet.

I wrote this to say goodbye. You mean much more to me than words.
I’m cutting out this tumor before it grows.

If you love something, let it bleed.

My husband and I own beautiful acreage, which has been the biggest blessing of my life. I never dreamed I would have access to acres of natural habitat. For three years, I have spent countless hours alone amongst untouched forest and wildlife. The land hadn’t been logged in 50+ years. It was pristine, like something out of a fairytale.

I became deeply acquainted with all of the trees and had five main “sitting logs” where I would sit and talk to the trees or ponder about life. But 2024 took a hit on our land. Our family decided it would be in the best interest of the forest to get it logged, which fair. It helped pay off the land and it does help rebuild a stronger ecosystem when done correctly. However - it is UGLY! They leave so much debris behind, which the forest needs to heal itself...but it’s unsightly. The loggers only took the giant ones…the ones I fell madly in love with because they’re natural attention grabbers. I was devastated. I cried for a long time and refused to step foot on the property!

I didn’t know how this place could ever feel, or look, good again. I felt horrible for the trees. They lost their leaders. They lost the giants who protected and guided them. I felt bad for the meadow because it was torn to hell. The long blades of wild grasses blowing in the wind always made me feel like I was in a movie when I was walking down the lane.T

hen a few weeks later, the worst storm in over 60 years blew through. Our newly open tree canopy created vast empty space for the high winds to rip/bend/twist/mangle trees. I wanted to puke. I screamed so loud the entire county could hear my guttural shrieks. I cursed in utter defeat. I thought it was punishment for getting the area logged. I didn’t want to go there anymore. I avoided most of the property for 5 months. It’s like seeing your loved ones mangled right in front of you. I only saw pain, darkness, and negativity. My eyes were only drawn to the ugly, rotting mess littering the forest floor. I couldn’t see the beautiful green canopy that still remained. I didn’t stare long enough to see the blades of grass poking through the clay dust.

This used to be my favorite spot. It was filled with massive trees and the canopy was 100% full. It was breathtaking. It enveloped me in the most beautiful dappled shade. The first picture with the tree wrapped around another tree is about 50 feet to the left of this tree, which I have now dubbed as String Cheese. What are we even supposed to do with these? They are a death trap for novices like us to try to remove. We definitely would have to hire someone, but we can’t afford it. There are acres of forest like this!

I remember the first day that I spent time there. I was alone and bored, so I hiked. My husband had been working like crazy to clean the place up, but with a full time job and no help from me, it was a slow process. I decided to walk over to my sacred space and see if I could just be with it. To my amazement, I spent an hour there…the blazing orange fall leaves and cool temps definitely helped.

I stood in awe. These two massive trees that are broken beyond repair and normally an eye sore captured me. I couldn’t help but admire them. They have significant battle wounds that they can’t come back from. No tree envies the state they’re in. But aren’t they something? It’s hard to look away. They force you to envision the tremendous amount of wind that took their strength away. They are proof that nature can be a beast and it doesn’t discriminate. It literally chewed them up and spit them out. There was nothing they could do to prevent it from happening.

However, they are magnificent and unique, even in death. They will always remind me of the year that nearly broke me. They will be the perfect reference point to remind me of how far I’ve come in life. I hit rock bottom the exact time that they were being torn to shreds.

With the giants gone, the others have taken advantage and grown more than I thought possible. Their beauty this fall has brought peace to my soul and allowed optimism to creep in. It looks like the forest can breathe, whereas before everything seemed stifled and set. There wasn’t enough light or nutrients for new trees to grow big and strong. Now there is empty space everywhere for new growth. The tree tops left behind by the loggers, while ghastly to look at, have created an enormous influx in wildlife. I have never seen and heard so many animals!

Isn’t life just like that?

We feel grounded and strong, then life comes along and rips us out of our comfort zone. It knocks us down, leaves a mess at our feet, kills our loved ones, and leaves us with permanent scars. But we find others along the way that make the journey bearably beautiful. We find space to share with others who have also experienced pain. We share nutrients and support with others. We bend and bow, but always grow upwards. We grow together and build an entirely new canopy. It’s not better or stronger than the one the giants occupied. It’s its own thing. It experienced horrific devastation and loss, but chose to keep growing anyways.

So I'm asking this as a new writer since this is the first year I am seriously committed to writing on a consistent basis. I have been writing a few hundred words a day for the past few months and I have been trying to read a bit each day since that helps keep the brain sharp.  I'm not delusional I know i'm not a great writer and I have a crap ton of different ideas for stories but I'm terrible at planning and i'm not really sure how to get better at writing , planning or to just write more actual story but I would like to get better, i just don't really know how.

If any of you guys have been in this for a while or just have something to say, is there anything you would suggest I do each day other than just write a few hundred words and do some reading. Is there anything else I can do each day to get better at writing as a newbie?

Thanks!

Hi everyone,I'm a native French speaker, and I've recently translated my short novel from French to English. I'm looking for native English speakers to give me honest feedback on the translation, especially in terms of flow, naturalness, and readability. Since this is my first time translating my work, I'd love any tips or corrections that can help improve the overall quality.

You can access the document here 👇

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P05QGfdLfRQH0PRLje5DIN6c5oNBpojG8aHs9pdsFXY/edit?usp=drivesdk

If you enjoy helping out or are passionate about reading, I'd be grateful for your insights! Thanks in advance for your time and help!

• Project: Publishing "The Micro-Kickstarter Strategy"
• Primary Goal: Finish the first draft Deadline: April 2025
• Plan: Establish a writing routine. Continue working through my outline until the first draft is complete. Don't worry about getting it perfect, that's what editing is for, worry about getting it done.
• Accountability: Update this group chat weekly with my progress.
• Progress: I have increased from 15,627 words to 16,966
• Notes: Really glad I was able to squeeze this work out. I did figure out that writing before I do chores, rather than after, makes it much more likely that I get some writing in.

Will Of Light-

“All of the pieces are in place” murmured The Queen as she stared at the glittering cascade of glass, falling like feathers into a silver pool. Reaching out a thin, lithe arm, Queen Titanja tenderly cradled a cut of glass. Images shivered and twisted between past, present and future. Looking up with rainbow eyes, Queen Titanja regarded the two figures in the glade with a blank stare.

“Have you contacted the mage?” her voice was sombre yet musical, like a lamenting ballad.  

“Yes, your excellency” Bramble replied, the iridescent wings fluttering. “The seeds have been sewn in his mind”

Bramble bowed deeply, her wiry curled hair clinging to the dead leaves nestled there. The leafy armour did little to restrict her movement and a needle-like sword hung at her hip. Beside her stood a stinking lump of a creature, Bloodthorn the redcap. He was of short stature, reaching just under four feet and thick with muscle made for tearing and hacking. With bloody war paint streaking his mottle grey skin and filthy animal hides draped over him, his presence was overwhelming yet Queen Titanja seemed unaware of his unpleasantness.

“The Unseelie court has noticed the Foul Ones on the move, with the humans. When will we see the bloodshed promised to us, harlot?” Queen Titanja made no motion that she had heard, only looking back to the glass in her palm. But Bramble’s wings turned a burning red, and she unsheathed her glimmering needle-like sword, her lips curled into a snarl, showing her razor sharp teeth.

“How dare you speak to the Queen of the Seelie Court like that? As if you have any right to be here? Beg her for forgiveness!” 

“Back to your cocoon, bug!” snapped Bloodthorn, reaching up to squash the little sprite. Flames burst between the two, making them recoil in shock. Bramble’s leaves were singed and Bloodthorn’s eyebrows were smoking as he put out the flames.

“Are you mad!?” yelled the Redcap as he glared at the Fairy Queen.

 Queen Titanja had crushed the memory glass in her palm, sprinkling the dust in the little pool. “Your thirst for blood will be answered when the royal sin has been burnt away” she said coldly, walking towards them. Her long iridescent dusty rose dress flowed around her ankles like mist as she walked, stalking towards Bloodthorn like a predator. The Redcap felt his blood run cold and compelled his stiff body into a bow as the queen approached, still talking.

 “The earth will be scorched by a fiery justice and the Alethium Ekleips will burn to the ground. This, I promise.”

Book or Bust is an inclusive discord server in the spirit of NaNoWriMo, except that writers set their own monthly writing goals all year round and compete on teams to reach them. This November, we hope you will join us for our more traditional NaNo-style writing challenge, BoBvember:

✏️ Track your word count with our google sheet, example here, which updates your word count on our #bob-progress channel.

🏆 Compete on a team! Each month, the three teams that achieve the highest percent of their goals met are announced winners.

⚔️ Sprint with us! Every word you write in sprints helps us defeat our bot-run enemies, such as The Block and his many minions.

💬 Join our dedicated #BoBvember channel with time-honored threads such as “Your progress in gifs” or “Plot bunny adoption station”.

BoB has supported writer productivity since 2020, and our members have finished manuscripts, edited, gotten published, queried, and started whole new projects. We hope that if you join us in November for a month-long sprint, that you’ll stay with us for the multi-year marathon that is a productive writing career.

Link to join!