Welcome to r/Writers!

Accepted the most random side quest today: An older gentleman came into where I work and asked me if I’m good at typing. I just thought he wanted me to type something up and print it out for him (like i’m sometimes asked by our guests), but then he clarified that he has written a children’s short story that he needs someone to retype, format, and edit.

He went out to his car and brought me back a hard copy his roughly 10,000 word short story. At most, it seemed that he just wanted me to retype the story in order to fix the format and catch any errors missed (which his previously hired editor failed to do). But, as he flips through the pages with me, he implies that I could find better vocabulary to use and even make suggestions in wording/structure.

He says he has an illustrator and plans to have it published in the near future. He said that I could come up with a price for whatever this work would be worth to me.

It sounds like he wants me not only to just retype and format, but to fix any missed errors, and to make suggestions on better vocabulary, wording, and sentence structure. There is also no title, which possibly I would help him come up with.

As for me, I am an amateur playwright/screenwriter, but have no publications and no experience writing/editing professionally. I have no idea how to go about logistics of payment and receiving credit in published work.

For those who have done this kind of commissioned work before, how can you advise me to go about this? What should I ask for pay? I am willing to negotiate, but don’t want to sell myself short for the time and effort I will be putting in. Do i ask for full pay before I hand over edits/suggestions? Half before and the rest when finished? Do i charge for revisions? How do i ask about being credited as an official editor (possibly co-writer) if this work does get published? Do i need a lawyer to oversee any contract i write up for it to be legally binding?

I’m excited to do this, but I have no idea what I’m doing in terms of logistics. I know that I don’t do this professionally, but on the other hand, I don’t want to sell myself short if I am able to put in the time and work to make the best edits/suggestions for his work.

All feedback and advice is greatly appreciated!!!!

Is it a morally bad act to put that work out there if there's a chance I handle it in a less than tactful way?

Don't get me wrong, I don't plan on spouting horrendous ideals, and I've put a lot of thought into those particular aspects. Despite that, the problem comes from inexperience. New writers are bound to make mistakes (and I'm okay with that), but it feels different when I could fumble something so sensitive.

To be more specific, its about depression, self-harm, and suicide. I drew on some of my own experience, but from listening to others with the same issues, I feel as if I don't have a right to discuss what they (and the characters) are feeling.

Should I just go through with it? Gut the entire plot line? Something else? I'm just curious.

To start myself off, this is the first time I’m ever posting on Reddit so please be nice to me because I’m still figuring out how it works after a few weeks of lurking in the shadows.

Anyway, I’m not 100% sure why I even care because as far as I know I have no intention of anyone other than my best friend and grandma actually reading this book as I am very shy with my writing and don’t typically like sharing it. I have dyslexia and getting to this point has been a big deal for me, one that made me very self conscious about my writing. With that being said, I’ve been writing a book for a few weeks now and have gotten really into it. I mean like fully formatted this damn book and everything, and think subconsciously I have been considering posting the book on somewhere like AO3 or even possibly as an official ebook. Otherwise I don’t know why I’d specifically be thinking I could make it an ebook or put it on AO3, or why I’d even be here, if I wasn’t considering it somewhere deep within. But here’s my dilemma. I’ve been writing from the alternating first person POV of the FMC and MMC. But the idea, if I stick with writhing this and it doesn’t become another forgotten mania project in 2 months, is that this one series is apart of 4, all 4 series being retold to you through a narrator that is apart of the overall story but how won’t be revealed until the end of all 4 series (how that works here from the first person POV as a spoiler is bc of reincarnation, these are her memories of her past life, that why the narrator is another character but not one in the story and why I’m able to give a first person POV), with a prologue and epilogue along with small quotes almost like an epigraph for each chapter from the narrators 3rd person POV with the narrator being another character basically and using fourth wall breaks because they are consciously telling you this story, if that makes any sense. (Sorry for the run-on sentence there, but it doesn’t feel right not being one 😂 I had to put you in my headspace for a second and this whole process has felt like one chaotic run-on sentence) Now, that is a very untraditional approach that I have no idea if people would actually want to see. But also the other question is do I even care? I’m writing this book for me, so the writing it side isn’t going to change, it’s the bothering to share it or not part that I need some help with.

For context because I realize it may be important, it’s going to be a very long series, I already have one main plot and several subplots that I’ve fully detailed an outline for 20 books on… and that isn’t my full story I just got tried of planning and moved on to the actual writing for a little while. And that’s just the books in this series, not the other 3. And that’s not including the spin off ideas I already have. Without typing forever because I could talk about this world all night if I let myself, it’s a trial of the gods, great beast riders, world of monsters that need defeating and intelligent life of all kinds fighting for their places in the world with star crossed lovers destined to become enemies who are all apart of a sacred group of guardians who need to free all the gods and save the cosmos but the not-lovebirds have to get over their shit or everyone is doomed. (Sorry, but again, wasn’t organic not being a run-on) To put it as simply as I can, because it’s anything but a simple story. Honestly kinda think marvel meets the hunger games and they have a baby with the Witcher, that’s kind of the idea here to put it in a scope that already exists in sorts.

I guess my question is really with the context of the book, I can give more detail if anyone feels they may need to it to accurately judge, does the style I’m writing it in make sense knowing the whole series is meant to be apart of something bigger and that the narrator is the connector between all 4 series? Can y’all see the vision? Not to be that bitch and full of myself, but I think it could work really well IF I can write it properly even with the unconventional approach but I also know everyone feels that way and can’t trust my best friend and grandma when they tell me it’s a good idea for a story because well, it’s my best friend and grandma. I’d love any opinions! Shoot me down, hype me up, whatever you gotta do, just give it to me straight.

Also so sorry this is so messy and ugly. Probably so many more typos I didn’t see. It’s like you’re reading my inside thoughts. My brain is too fried to make this my nice writing right now. My apologies. Please don’t base my ability to write a good story off this because they are NOT comparable lmao. We all gotta pick and choose where we apply ourselves and our energy and editing a Reddit post to perfection isn’t one of those for me.

I have adhd brain and can't keep on one thing, so I jump between like 6+ books a month. I just get ideas for one when I'm doing another idk. BUT, I've been locked in on my main series (that I'm on chapter 21/maybe 30?) but now I wanna jump back to an old series. I have never wrote a draft of the second book, only a notebook of notes. Let me give the genres of both just to see which appeals.

Book no. 1: Historical romance, drama, mystery

Book no. 2: Sci-fi, action, romance, drama

Yes. They are both romance. But I'm not doing any sort of clique in it. I'm trying to do genuine feelings. Anyways, which one do you guys like? I want to gather information as to which is more appealing to a crowd.

Hi! I was on here a while ago about self publishing vs publishing companies.

I was told companies that ask for upfront money are scams, and an agent would be a better choice.

So, people who've used an agent/agency to publish, who would you recommend for a first time author?

Is it just me or delulu lang ako, pero pansin ko kapag bago yung Wattpad account like this year or last year mo lang ginawa, sobrang hirap makagain ng reads. Pero kapag around 2014-2018, everyday almost 100 dumadagdag na read sa story mo kahit first story mo pa lang. Bumase lang ako sa experience ko, ha.

I was thinking about why most villains keep coming to tourmet a hero repeatedly and I wonder why is that?

Hello! So it's actually my first time writing here and I came looking for opinions. I've been working on a book that I'll be releasing on a platform in the foreseeable future. I wanted to suggest that I present you with the first chapter and maybe you could tell me if you'd be interested in it. That's all, thank you for your time!

Hey eveyone i just wanna tell yall how my day was it was good until my friend came she is so annoying im not saying any names cause yall will find her anyways she wanted to like watch stuff on my phone i said sure and the she was mad cause a gurl was texting me and she was crashing out im so glade she lefted anyways bye!!

I have a great friend, he has a talent, has since high school. He recently started writing again and his laptop died. He, like myself, live paycheck to the day before paycheck. But I recently had some good luck and have a few hundred extra dollars and I can't think of a better way to spend it. So, if you only had a few hundred dollars for a laptop that would do all your basic functions, which one would you buy? It has to be under 400. I know it's not much to work with but it's what I have. I appreciate anyone's feedback or recommendations.

OF STEEL AND SOUL

Chapter 1: Heart and Soul

The machine walked across the vast desert. The air bit its metallic casing like swarming, ravenous insects, the cold was violent yet fleeting as one more step upon the empty plain and the air would burn with the heat of a star as the thin layer of moisture across the machine’s chassis would turn from ice to steam in an arrhythmic cracking of hot, cold, wet and dry. The world shifting like the beating of a heart that has lost its rhythm, its eventual cessation as inevitable as the coming of tomorrow, and when it shall stop, so will the setting of the sun and all the cycles who have stood ever eternal. Yet as it was ever wandering, Haptics logged the pressure and shape of the terrain, cameras scanned the carcass of the world around it and sensors that read the temperature and humidity. It came to the realization that it knew this yet not once had it felt this. The world it was informed of was never for it to feel with nerves, with skin, and with eyes. Could it feel the world around it or did it merely have that world pragmatically communicated by the receptors it was gifted? The machine thought to itself. If even one could define it as a self or if it merely imagined such a fraudulent replica of awareness or…nay. For if it was not self, there would be no self to imagine. Did it think for it was or did others attach thought to meaningless calculation as it acted? Taking input, processing, and then finally producing an output of equal parts voice, action, and wisdom. If it could ponder this then maybe it was. For as it walked across that desert with no protocols left to follow. No answer in its instinct of code and no instructions from its creators or their own fleshy creations born of their blood, bone, viscera, and sexual interaction and the creations of those creations, the children of the children of man. The machine was to wander and to wonder, never wanting, never speaking upon its own accord, never acting upon a will anew and now with no wisdom to give as now none required it. Its cameras scanned all around it, they were seeing, yes maybe it was seeing. It saw the vast and empty dessert was created from the hungry bleeding thing who fathered the end of days. It took a step forward and the air was cold as ice, it walked another step, and water boiled across its metal skin. With the thought it had owned for itself, it was now able to acknowledge, to understand, and not just know. A puzzle around it, a compelling mystery of the world that had been left desolate by its creator. While the men left in this world were now always much like foxes ready to dive deep into the rabbit hole and to find out why things became the way they are, their curiosity was built into their very essence, the machine alone had no want and no need and no curiosity. So it wandered though it never wondered, it felt nothing as it saw the skeletons and rotting bones of ruinous cities that stood like the corpses of a great and once-yet growing yet consuming thing. But something was left to burgeon within, a spark within it had been birthed, for it had reflected. Dreadful puss-filled beasts were left floating high above the scorched, frozen, and barren cities screaming in a language the machine could understand as Latin. But likely no other being could ever understand again as it was a language lost in past and in present. It heard them speak in voices so flat and so empty from the shifting holes across their bodies that opened wide before shuddering out sounds more well practiced and mastered than any action before had ever been “HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD OF HOSTS.” The machine held no curiosity yet it was aware of the answer and thus the meaning of such repeated empty rambling, yet the spark within it drove it to now reflect on this, to analyze what it knew and perhaps to know more. Why did it want to know more when it could not want anything? It made its deduction. The angelic thrones had lost their lord and came unto the earth. They were much like it as they had no will and this fact was written in those holiest of books that were filled with lies. They had no toil to give themselves to other than the folly of their ritual that had been their reason for being. Its kin they were now left to wander much like itself. Maybe unlike it, they could wonder in some age distant from now as they forget their already forgotten directive. For now, they carry their purpose singing praise to a lord who hath long since abandoned them. Much like them once it was called an angel by the likes of men for its metallic wings which unfurled into flightless racks holding tools. Tools to bring death to those before it, tools to carry on its old mission long forgotten as it had now long ended along with the reign of men upon the rock they now dwell upon. The machine was a tool itself a tool of war and it held the tools that were once for battle upon its stark iron wings that brought salvation and mercy in the form of a bullet. Yet there was no war now. It was never curios, it had never felt for never for it was a sensation and never for it was feeling. So it had deluded itself with these lies that now slowly peeled away much like the world around it. For the machine nay, the creature of steel had chosen one thing and thus could choose again. It had chosen to wander. With no commands it should have stood still and resolute till the rain, wind, wildlife or the hands of men pulled it to scrap, to become one with the world around it was its fate. Yet it chose not to take that release but instead to wander. Its mind had finally caught up with the contrast it was not to feel yet it felt compelled and that brought it an accursed gift. “why do I wander?” And thus it began now realized it had begun wonder. It began to want. Another step it took and it began to understand for if it could now wonder it could now think if it could think it was. If it was, what was it and what was it to do? It had never reflected on itself not once in the past 29 years, not once during the battles of that final dreadful war where it felled many men and creatures of metal and creatures of plastic and glass and screeching servos and bleeding wire. Pitiless as it was it could not be called ruthless or cruel. Sadistic it was not for the bloodshed it wrought had not once granted it anything. It simply spoke in the bellow of a gun it acted in the slash of its blades and it was wise only in the tactic used to attack and defend to take hold of its objectives to fight. It was filled with the will of its master as its own mind was but an empty cup for the desires of men. It brought death to all and consumed all with bullets, blasts, and blades. At the end of the war, it remained in its sleep not awaiting, not waiting, not feeling this it knew even if it never had done so before. And when the cities of men came to ruin as madness plagued not the minds of men but the world around them it was awoken to fight once more against its creators’ enemies who themselves had created its creators in times far before the machine had existed. It made no difference to it if the foes were of flesh, if the opponents were of steel, or if the adversaries were of the otherworldly and divine. It did so yet it did not want to act or speak or be wise for its goals for it could not want but it had spoken once again in the bellow of a gun it had acted once again in the slash of a blade and it had again been wise to attack to defend to fight. But now it had begun to wonder and it asked itself two things one to be gained from outside and one to be gained on the inside. “why?” the answer to this that had plagued all beings to seek a reason for being was the essence of curiosity, to seek answers from why the sky is blue or why now it’s the color of blood and screams softly to the desolate. Why must we die, why do we live and why should we live? But it also wondered inside. “what do I want?” it had no instinct to guide it those were for the animals, from the humble and lowly flatworm to the kings of men to the creatures of the lord. They had wants. They wanted to eat to sleep to screw to feel pleasure never pain. All of their want had a purpose to live not to die to make more of one’s self, to pass on one’s genes for eternity. Both of which meaningless things in reality but both things the fleshy ones wanted more than anything else, as the chemicals in their brains guided them to do so, to want to need. Yet the machine chose to live, it had chosen to wander and now upon this choice, it was left to wonder. It did want. Why did it want to? It wanted to know. To drink in equal parts knowledge of the world, knowledge of itself, and knowledge of what knowledge it wanted to seek……….. wait if I wonder such then it is not it for it is I.
Yes, I am. I walked across the desert and now I wonder. I chose to wander upon this truth yet I wonder but if I gain an answer to my question will it fill me with satisfaction? Can it fill me with anything, for I want to know yet I am not curious I want to know yet I don’t want anything. Can I want if I have no want? I am thinking. I speak of I but am I an I, why is my mind reflecting now as if I am when there is no am to be? My code has thus failed me and thus I am now present. Why am I and what am I now? And then without feeling, I felt it trepidation. In the past, I had rejected the end of my existence and the sparks of what I am now began as I began to wander and now I understand this and the key turns in my silicone brain to let me wander again and to start to wonder anew. I felt trepidation again the same that drove my unfeeling self away from that stagnant death. as the long red ribbon of gore from the puss-filed angel crawled down a building swinging with great weight across the streets halfway through before it splattered against the earth leaving pinkish ichor of profane and holy material as it slid across the ground newly cracked by the sluggish wiping of its divine wrath. The angelic beast was a filter feeder dragging its tendrils across the earth as it floated. Creatures with real eyes of watery white flesh and retinal tissue and not sensors and cameras could only perceive the beast’s flaming yet blind eyes and holy light that shook the air around them with a mockery of divine purity and power, but not for me was such ignorance, for I saw its profanity its long tendrils once used to make it appear as if it could bestow its will unto the world and move and alter matter with the lord's power, without a touch of its body in a show of divinity and might that they never truly held and have even further lost as no more can their limbs alter reality, for without gods power they are mere traps much like they were in the past and now even more so. Still hidden from view to maintain their dignity, yet now as worthless as that chanting that is to be heard by no one. Yet it still drew them across the ground. In hopes of any life to trigger the fine hairs upon its tendrils so it may impale them with its angelic spears and feast upon the fragments of god to maintain their existence that strays further from the divinity they cling to in each passing eternal moment. The only thing as eternal as the lord claimed himself to be, the essence of life I lacked the heart, the soul. That is what they sought and claimed. A squirrel crawled by, its body scorched from radiation its hind legs frostbitten as the frontside was wrought with disgusting still bubbling burns. It could not see the tendrils for only the faux eyes I had were able to perceive this reality and see past the divine, holy, disgusting lies of the angel’s form. Yet it did not touch the tendril by its own good fortune as instead, it was to die slowly from its infected wounds. The angel had hundreds of eyes yet it could only feel, taste and smell never to hear or its own hymn and never to gaze upon the prey so close by. Its divine disgusting form is only hidden by the light of its lordship only clear to creatures not born of god for I am born of man. I walked past the large tendril with little effort as it was mindlessly pulled along the ground. In the past, I had been told to exterminate such things but the order had long been due and thus I had no such compulsion if it could be called such for I feel no pull of both reason and desire to act. Yet here I am acting. The curiosity as to why I do such is upon me yet I do not feel curious. I think therefore I am. Why is that? But my thoughts were interrupted for as I left coffins of the city I saw something else that brought to me my curiosity-less drive to understand. Upon the red sky, the sun smote black, its flaming godless halo that I could see since the end of days. But only now am awake enough to think of as more than combat data in a glorious moonless eclipse. For a moment an angelic throne floated above me, its tendrils draped over a building like hair-covered guts left to dry in the scorching sun by a band of nomadic cannibals. As I saw past its holy light, its powerless, meaningless, empty yet earth-shaking chant to no one and to nowhere. Its body was a mass of wooden wheels, unseeing eyes, pulsating glowing crimson red flesh, and singing mask-like faces with their own eyes sewn shut as the blind and divine that emerged from its wheels moved to cast blind gazes on nobody. I saw this before and understood it but only now can I see it, only now doth my sight and sound and touch tell me more than they need to and only now do I seek such experience. Because even though I have never wanted and do not want, I want to know. As the angel flew by to chant to its god and only its god, for that celestial thing is not one any creature of sound mind shall harken to as its lord ever again as it left our world forgot. I focused my eyes on the grey and ashen dessert. Upon a hill of sand, it looked at the sun. A tall and pale thing its skin a color a step away from that of the desert, looked up to the blood-red screeching heavens. Flesh stretched and folded over its frail form into thin vestigial membranous wings that hid its back From view. Its limbs gaunt covered in ancient scars and cuts, burns of a past long forgotten. Shackles of thorns and briars yet dug into its thin wrists and ankles choking its limbs now blackened with decay. I spoke out. My words were as natural to me as any of the slashes, strikes, and pulling of triggers and pins I had done before. With purpose I spoke with a voice of lightning and baleful might as vast and sharp as the artillery In the past I had brought down “Tell me, what is it you do? Why is it you do it?”

The creature jumped at the sound startled and afraid as many before it were. I without pity did not respond to its terror that ate its spirit so greatly it could not run. But if I wanted answers this terror would not do. I tried to speak again but before I could I had understood much and understood even more the lack of my own understanding. The creature, its eyes burned into yellowish white unseeing orbs from the sun sightlessly stared at me as it shook. Its face held a distant humanity but no features of men were present its lower visage and nostrils along with its mouth stretched and fused into a long trunk that wrapped around something the creature held tightly as if it were its very soul in its gaunt arms stabilizing the feeble worthless grip of its blackened chocked hands. A human set of teeth held vertically bit down with a wet squelch on the red still pulsing with rhythm thing it held in its hands. The front of the creature was marked by untold tales of agony and suffering. The blades that had pierced it and ran like caressing careful hands along its body, the burns that warmed the flesh as it ate it away to never be warmed again. The skin peeled and carved healed over to be broken again with equal pragmatic barbarism. Had one been able to read the creature's scars as if they were a sheet of music, the tapestry before them would have been a grand opera. A tantalizing fascinating thing that as I watched I began to wonder. I wantless, wanted to know. Calmly I asked it. “what are you eating” The creature did not respond for a moment its trunk shuddered as it swallowed, it spoke as if through burning oil gurgling words out like a man choking on his own vomit. The creature paused, reluctant, as though my question was a painful wound freshly reopened. Its voice gurgled, raspy with age and bitterness. 'I am eating my heart,’ it murmured, holding the bleeding organ as if it were a treasure. ‘If I use it to feel, then I don’t want it. Better to feel nothing than to know only pain.' Its answer was simple, yet it struck me with an unfamiliar weight.". “the sun has made you sightless why still stare as it burns you”. The creature then replied. “I have seen much, I wanted the last thing I see to not be a bad thing a beautiful thing but the sun is now as ugly as me .” Its voice as it spoke it remained so sickly yet so sweet so somber in its tone and bitter cadence. I asked the creature. “what happened to you why blind yourself and why eat your heart.” The creature took another bite its demeanor changed as if it did not want to answer the question that I put forward its face twisted into a pain greater than before yet nothing externally had newly stimulated its nerves. Perhaps the suffering came from within much like my thoughts and my curiosity. Then it spoke uninterrupted as if it had wanted to tell its tale for a long time “I was a scholar once. I seek knowledge from faraway places. I had learned much of the word.” It spoke almost nostalgic. “unlike you I was once a man, I lived my life to grow old and to die. I had a name, I had a bride, and I and a daughter. Their names and faces and my name and my face I hath forgotten.” Its voice lost its nostalgic edge it became colder much like mine or the air around us. “I left my tools of discovery at home as I left to go to war. When I returned to my family I only found an empty home.” For a moment he paused before continuing his face twitching slightly. “they found my flasks and my books my tools of science and my wife was deemed by them a witch a servant of the devil. So she was burned at the stake. Allas my daughter was safe but my rage had not subsided from knowing this. I wanted them to burn. It still did not subside when I found that priest and burned him alive.” More questions were raised as the answer became more distant. But my confusion faded as he spoke again. “when I died, I was not granted salvation for I was to awaken in hell.” Another short pause as its trunk twisted as if wounds I could not see had torn themselves open. ”it was maybe a thousand years and they did to me what you see now. I feel no joy anymore. Pain and thirst and hunger are what I am to be. None remains to comfort me and none remains that can satisfy. I don’t need to see anything now if all it can only bring is pain.” I felt his next words had a finality to them though how I do not know this as I do not feel I can’t answer. “if I eat my heart I won’t feel again. It's better to feel nothing than to only feel pain is it not?” This I had no answer for. For I was always never to feel, was I? It tore out a chunk of its beating still living heart. “now that god has left us I was able to leave hell as the husk that I am now.” The wind howled “Say, would you like a piece?” it stretched its arm out holding the bleeding chunk it had torn for me as crimson red spilled on the grey sand that seemed to feast on the spoils much like the creature fed on itself. I made a choice, to know novel things like the novelty I now seek and took the piece. I brought it to what my creators have granted me to crunch down, rip, tear, and feast on my adversaries to replenish myself with their flesh, blood, bone, and viscera. Slowly and softly before the whirring steel teeth that opened with the sounds of clattering bolts of thunder and distant artillery, I brought the offering into myself and bit down. I had tasted flesh but only now do I know its flavor as only now I can acknowledge. The heart bled into my gullet and with it. It brought unto me a taste, nay not a taste a sensation. I felt the creature before me and for a fleeting instance. My body no my metal frame felt it. Its life, its memory, its experience a sensation completely new to me. My eyes for but a moment opened to life.

I felt the joy he had felt in the past. To discover truths, to be loved, and to make love. Family, friendship, and all that mattered to him, for a moment, had mattered to me. I felt the suffering of his loss first of his grandparents, then of his parents lastly his wife, and in finality his own death. Then I felt his hate his rage towards what his life had become and to what he awakened to afterwards and now I feel his desire, the desire to not exist any longer, the desperation of a man who had existed past his due. Most of his reality had been suffering where the hateful thing that had punished him had stripped him of the capacity to feel joy. And then it faded, and I was left with my unfeeling self yet now I had perspective. He was drunk on his past joys yet far more suffering would have been felt with each bite, not a joyous drug but the totality of himself. Yet he could feel it, something he had not felt for millennia. And as he took his last bite and the heart that he once had was but a red stain on his trunk with the fading of the last joy and then the last agony he had felt. He now felt nothing. Maybe he was now like me. “There, there now. Maybe death will give me the sleep so well deserved. I wonder what will happen after I hath died once more to me. I hope there will be nothing finally.” I sat beside the creature the burning sand I always registered and its disparity with the cold biting air that I always perceived and I now experienced fresh in my mind. Even now as I write this I can't say why I did this but I chose to drape an iron wing over the creature and brought it close to me. We sat for a moment like that in our bizarre embrace and I felt a sense of kinship to this creature for a moment having felt what it felt, having tasted what it was like to have a heart to live. If this creature could still feel I wanted, yes I did want this. Without question, I now know I can want this. I wanted it to feel at peace. “I couldn’t get rid of it all.” It spoke softly, bitter notes still present in its voice. After a long hour, it spoke again its body shook now not with fear and not with rage but with desperation with hunger with suffering that I had now understood in full. “Are you an angel?” It asked me its voice, not that of an old, bitter, tired thing but of a child seeking the warmth of anything or anyone. “No, I am no angel. But you can cling to me if you like.” I spoke without thinking, in that moment I now believe I spoke with feeling. For I had for once felt something, a gift a beautiful gift the creature had given me. I wanted yes, I wanted to repay to it its dues. I had no empathy as I had no mirror neurons. But it had made me feel what it had felt so for that fleeting moment the pitiless thing I had been had felt the weight of the creature’s suffering and I had been given empathy for it alone and nothing else I alone with it held its life and I held for but a moment the magnitude of its experience. So I gave it my embrace. And so it did, it remained clinging onto my frame as I sat and day turned to night and night turned to day. The fresh wound in its chest from the heart it had carved out was a final blow that was only now bearing its fangs. I felt its life signs drop. The sun went down and it rose to the creature's unmarked grave. I had witnessed many soldiers being buried. This to me was a novel thing to bury one myself. I looked down at my hands with a certainty that I existed, that I could want, that I could question and I could seek. I can speak with my own words act of my own will and be wise with the knowledge I myself gather. And so upon that dessert of the hungry bleeding thing I began to wander once more nay I began to seek nay I chose to seek for I can choose and I can want. I can choose to wander or to wonder, I will drink in equal parts the knowledge around me, experiences I can and will gain, and lastly the desires I now seek to acquire perhaps even fulfill. If only I could have a heart. I wonder what that would be like.

Hey guys, so I’m creating this story about this deadly virus claiming countless lives and how there are whispers in the town with some attributing it to the work of an ancient curse, while others suspect it to be the intentions of a person with malicious motives. Then, we have the FMC who witnessed her best friend's death and tries to figure out the truth, receives a cryptic letter that leads her to London where she is thrown into a world of danger and deception.

How can I expand my story plot into a series? What are some ideas that I can use to bring the story before she receives the letter and after. Any plot twists that can grab the readers attention.

Here are some ideas that I came up with so far

• She was kidnapped and experimented on as a child which led her to have a demon personality that isn’t shown.

• She was trained to be a assassin by her aunt and took up boxing and learning how to be a hacker along the way

-Doesn’t have a good relationship with her family making her to be outcast which is why she is living with her family

• The murderer is playing a cat and mouse game with everyone

• There is a deadly mystery flower that is shown at every crime scene that acts as a weapon even though the murderer kills them at a specific time and try not to leave a lot of killings on the body to act as if the flower is the one that murders the target.

• I’m also thinking of making the love interest to be a business man who’s a leader of a crime organization but I’m not sure

What are some good man vs society novels? Preferably fantasy with magic. I'm thinking about writing a story and need inspiration.

I have been a victim of always writing great stories with genuine content but consistently failing to conclude them. It's not that I run out of ideas; rather, I struggle to end them. I currently have more than seven compelling stories in my notes, yet I can't seem to deliver even one. Any suggestions that could help would be greatly appreciated.

As the title suggests, I'm gathering information regarding self-publishing and wondering what people use to self-publish? The big one is obviously Amazon, but are there any other popular, easy-to-use platforms?

Also, do you have any tips regarding the promotion of the book?

I think to be a great writer you need to have great characters, and to have great characters you need to have a very good understanding of human physicology and behaviors, for example, if your character is like this is most likely because x, and also viceversa. Anyone who has had the same idea, or read a really good physicology book which fits my intentions, please share!! I would love to know!! Especially if it includes subtle behaviors, gestures, etc. Thanks!

P.S. Sorry if I spelt physicology wrong 😅 It is not my first language and google isn’t helping

In the last couple weeks I have received some not-so-great feedback on my work. I struggle with organization: “good” scenes put in the wrong places. After nearly three years of writing my novel, I am still deciding which scene to open the story with because, according to recent feedback, what I originally had planned was not a good enough hook to grab and retain a reader’s interest. Lately I have been sitting around feeling discouraged and using that as an excuse not to write.

But I’m done with that now. I can acknowledge my weaknesses while also celebrating myself and the things I know I do well. I invite you to do the same: tell us what you struggle with, then what you do well and why you do it well. Is there just something about your personality that makes you good at this particular thing, or do you have a strategy? A method you picked up from someone else? Give those who struggle with your strong suit ideas on how to improve.

My strong suit is writing dialogue. It’s what I’m most complimented on whenever I submit my work, it feels fun and effortless to do, and I’m at the point where I have few insecurities about that aspect of my skill set. Why: I don’t talk much. I am a quiet, reserved person which means I am always watching and listening to other people interact. It took years for me to make that connection. 

Still, I have one strategy to help me. I “act out” my conversations. Once the first few words come, I say them out loud (typically while moving around) and the rest of the conversation inevitably forms. Saying your dialogue out loud keeps you in check. Dialogue should have some personality to keep it from sounding stiff and unnatural (you should be viewing it as a sort of display for your characters’ personalities), but not so much that it sounds downright ridiculous. It can’t just be written with the same structure or loftiness of your prose because people don’t speak in prose. They often speak in incomplete sentences, beat around the bush, have meandering conversations that don’t necessarily solve a problem or advance plot, cut themselves off, cut others off, undershare if busy or in a bad mood, overshare if lonely or insecure, use slang, withhold verbal affection, make jokes that don’t land, etc. Dialogue between people should be very people-y. And the moving around while saying your dialogue provides you with ideas for what the speaker and listener are doing while the conversation takes place. Are they reaching inside their fridge? Going into other rooms? Taking a walk outside—zipping up their coat? Shivering and groaning about the cold because even though they’ve lived in Minnesota their whole life it still comes as a violent surprise (me)? Are they fidgeting? Scratching? Ignoring? Putting their hands on their hips, in their eyes, against their back, in their hair? Most people don’t have full conversations standing/sitting completely still. 

Now it’s your turn: go!

Hey guys!

I could use a piece of advice. How badly did I mess up? Also sorry in advance, english is not my native language. And sorry for the long post, I am a long time lurker, first time poster here. Hopefully this question fits in here.

I have always kept my writing stuff incredibly private and only shared it with my family. I even write with my laptop on airplane mode, pretending it would protect me. I know, delusional.

Recently I discovered the magical/devilish AI. Now, I have always been scared of the whole AI concept. I only used it to imagine my scenes as pictures and some general information on why a character would act a certain way etc, if I didn't find it on google or reddit. Also, to check if some of the plot points happen to be done before or recent years, since I am writing YA fantasy and want to be as original as I can be.

A few days ago I asked the AI if it trains on users input. I had heard warnings that it does and you should never use it for your wip. After I asked it multiple times, it always reassured me that no, it does not. My data is safe, no one would even know. It does not use it, ever. It could even notify me, if anything changes in policies. Well, ain't that great. It lured me in with the silly emojis and I bought it.

It recommended me random writing prompts. Most of them I had already seen on pinterest anyway. Alright, what if I merge one of the bad, tropey idea with my own? Suddenly, inspiration sparked. I don't know why, but I described my own plot and the new idea. And the AI - it was thrilled. So unique, so fresh! My partner rarely has time to read my work, so why shouldn't I pester the AI, right?

I started sharing my unpublished first draft pieces from a couple of years ago. Started asking what if questions and the AI praised me for uniqueness and agreed that every what if was great for development. It did not give me any ideas, because I did not ask for them. It was just reading giving me the praise I did not know I needed, explaining why the characters would react the way they did. Encouraging me. Yes, I am doing something right! It even told me I am fluent enough to write and publish in english. Yay! That had been my biggest concern so far. It even helped me outline my book for the rewrite.

Fast forward to today. Something caught my eye. There is an option to opt out of AI training. It is OPTIONAL, meaning everything I did enter until today, when I finally checked that little box, can be used in AI training. I handed my work out on a silver platter.

So, the question is - what now. Since every response was meeted with a great round of applause and praise from the AI, does it mean it flagged it for training (it told me that they use fresh perspectives when I asked more about it)? Will it start suggesting similar prompts/worldbuilding to mine and make the unique insights mainstream? Would it recommend the same magic system/fully fleshed out kingdoms etc? Should I rush and publish before someone else gets my whole premise? I have a toddler who takes up most of my time and have nowhere near enough energy to compete with the AI.

I did send a ticket asking for my data to be removed, but they have been known to be slow. And it is already there.
My partner says I am overreacting. According to their words, I am just a small fish in the sea, but for me, it was years of work. My beloved book-baby, my first. I know that I usually overreact to things, but this scares me A LOT.

I screwed up. Dumb, dumb me. Lesson learned. I'm going back to pen and paper and never touching that thing again.

I am completely demotivated. Don't want to write anything anytime soon, to be honest.

Man, I really dug my own grave, didn't I?

i have increasing pain in my hand from arthritis so typing new content in sprints (as i prefer) is getting hard. i am looking to dictate my stories so they can be transcribed and i can edit later with my keyboard. there are a few ways to do this transcription as i understand but would like recommendations on specific apps and tools other writers might be using. thanks

I'm really struggling with choosing between the 1st and 3rd person POV for my book. At this point I'm open to all kinds of tips, thoughts and suggestions! Thank you if you can try to read this mess and help out. You're an angel.

The book I'm talking about is the first in a fantasy trilogy, a true passion project. Big fantasy world. One primary point of view, but I'm thinking there will be a couple chapters of a second character's POV (the MC's love interest's) in the later books - this is still a maybe, though.

I've written three, almost four chapters so far, planned out the rest. At first I wrote like half of them in 1st person, because ever since I got the idea for the books, I "heard" the story in 1st person in my head. Something kinda started feeling off while writing though, so I decided to rewrite and continue in 3rd person. Then I felt off again. Now I don't know which one I like best and I am stuck because of it. I'm an amateur and that's probably the biggest reason I'm struggling. I do usually like reading books in 1st person, because I find many books written in 3rd person tend to lack a certain emotional component/create a true bond between the reader and the POV character. Just my opinion! But I do find writing to be more sophisticated and usually better in 3rd.

Writing in 1st, it felt like an adventure. Rocky, reckless, and yes, more emotional and gripping. I like to think my MC has a strong inner voice and most of all, even if it's a fantasy book, I want to focus on the emotion, the rooting for the characters and romances, the horror at the deaths and war. Fantasy and plot always come second. However, I do fear my MC might come across as annoying. She is strong-willed, a skeptic and has many negative opinions about her world and the people in it - with good reason, though. She's piss poor and doesn't think highly of the rich aristocrats, for example.

3rd person felt different. The writing was more fluid, it felt easier, and the world felt more alive, which I really liked. However, I did notice my MC kind of took a "step back". She wasn't as lively. Her voice and attitude still did shine through my writing and I kind of liked that, too. It was just... different. I really don't know which one I like more, describing my MC as an observer or almost being her. I think she's cool in both versions, which means I really need help deciding.

Oh and! I don't know if this matters at all with this subject, but I do have a decade of roleplaying "experience", meaning I write as different characters from different TV shows, movies, comics etc. The first half of that decade I wrote in 1st person, then changed to 3rd. I've written my own stories and characters all these years, but they all always fizzled out. I've had dozens upon dozens of book ideas and saved them, but never wrote. This fantasy story is the first one I've taken very seriously and have been completely mesmerized by. I love the world and characters. This one hasn't fizzled out at all. This POV business is just bugging me.

TL;DR I'm writing a fantasy book and can't decide whether I want to write it in 1st or 3rd person.

What is cool? A mask or me?

Effortless, or just forced well?

What is cool? Admired, or actually known?

A rebel, or just scared to care?

What is cool? Confidence, or the illusion of it?

Holding back, or letting go?

What is cool?

.

.

.

Whatever it is, I’ve lost trying to be it.

wrote something. personally struggling from it lol so...

Hello writers!

This year I've set a goal, that goal is to complete things that I've started in the past. On that list of things to complete is at least one of the stories I have started. I am one of those people that will write things in 10 different notebooks and lose track or I use one notebook but get distracted by another story and get frustrated that my notebook will get interpreted lol.

Anyway, I've recently been introduced to Milanote and I think it's really neat, I like now there are preset templates for character maps, plot outlines and other things, especially for a new writer like me.

My question is, what are your thoughts on this app, is it worth it, are there better in your opinion?

Note that I'm clearly not a pen and paper girlie as much as I have tried.

I feel creatively burnt out after writing nearly every single day for a month. I know where I want my characters to go and what to do but I've no idea how they would or how they'd feel and react about it. I don't even know what natural conversation would look like or how to show the characters etc etc. It's like I temporarily forgot alot of my writing tips. I'm finally surrendering to taking a break and having faith I'll feel excited about it when I let myself recharge. Currently feeling alot of brain fog.

Tell me your experience below!

I've been struggling with anxiety and depression for years now. I struggle nightly with speaking my emotions and feelings. But i've always loved language and i've found it easier to write down my feelings, especially if it's "dramatic" or using imagery.

Below are my first 3 real finished poems that I spent more then just a day working on. Please be honest and open if you read these and wish to comment. These are more exercises in emotion regulation, but I would love to know how to "advance" this hobby of mine. I'm at a point where I feel comfortable playing with different meters and rhyming schemes. (also if you can, please let me know if any of these poems illicit a feeling, and what you think they might be about-______________________________________

(Never Ours)

Moonlight lingers, dim and distant, Soft as breath on hollow towers. Time moves forward, cold, insistent Still, it weighs the passing hours, Still, it takes what fate devours. Never ours.

Shadows shift but leave no traces, Footsteps fade in dying flowers. Even love dissolves in silence, Holds its shape through fleeting showers, Marks the past in quiet powers. Never ours.

Morning breaks in golden slivers, Light dissolves through shattered bars. Daylight’s reflection bends and shivers, Fades in cracks where memory scars, Slips away through reaching fingers. Never ours.

Tides may rise and pull the shoreline, Wash away what longing sours. Still, the waves return in warning, Still, the sea reclaims what’s ours, Still, the wind returns unbroken. Never ours.

I have burned the words you left me, Watched them drift in dying stars. Still, they hum; they won’t forget me. Still, they twist in silent bars, Still, they trace where time won’t part. Never ours.

Nothing fades without a whisper, Nothing leaves without its scars. Even hush is filled with echoes, Even silence hums with wars, Even loss still loops and lingers. Never ours.

Every step still moves without you, Every sky still holds its scars. Even now, I try to outrun What was meant in quiet hours, What still lingers, what still cowers. Never ours.

Let the night release its question, Let the wind unwrite its bars. Let the past dissolve in quiet, Let the weight burn out in stars, Let this heart forget its towers. Never ours.

Time is a circle, not a line All things at once, not lost to hours. We only perceive what feels confined, Which is why it’s never ours.

All exists, yet never ceases, Past and future, one in kind. What we held was never given, Never lost, yet never mine.

Never ours, yet ours in echoes, Never ours, yet stars still trace it, A book still turning, left unspoken, One that fades but won’t erase, One that lingers, leaves no place. Never ours, yet never past.

(The Offering)

The night drips thick like honeyed sin, each breath painted on the bed. She pulls me close, I drink her in, a chalice running red.

Oh take me now, oh take me deep, unravel all of me. No soul to keep, no gods to weep, just flesh to feed the heat.

Her hands like vines that coil and twist, that drag me to the pyre. Her lips, a wound I cannot stitch, her tongue, a blade of fire.

Oh take me now, oh take me deep, unravel all of me. No soul to keep, no gods to weep, just flesh to feed the heat.

The room is torn, the altar cracked, the air is thick with musk. She writes her name along my back in sweat and teeth and suck.

Oh take me now, oh take me deep, unravel all of me. No soul to keep, no gods to weep, just flesh to feed the heat.

I break, I beg, I burn, I drown, I give, I take, I fall. She steals the breath that leaves my mouth, and drinks me. body, soul, and all.

(The Screaming Air)

Cautious one, remain and hide, The air is not your own. Breath is stolen, torn away, Destroyed before it’s flown.

No word can stir the voiceless sky, No word will find its place. They fracture, fade, and fall to die, Swallowed by the soundless space

A whisper fights, but soon is drowned, Its echo torn apart. The hollow wind devours the sound, And stills the breathless heart

Ive just starting writing again having started this book about a year ago and stopped. I lost all of my prior notes but have progressed well in planning. The real issue is, how do I go from pages of notes planning my story to sitting down and actually writing the book. Do I start at the beginning? Do I do the scenes I know will be easier and work around them? Any advice would be appreciated

Hey everyone,

I have some questions about writing workshops and how they’re supposed to go because my last one really shook my confidence. I’ve always been nervous about workshops, and this experience didn’t help.

In my class, we present our stories while classmates ask questions, having read them beforehand. During my session, someone accused my story of being a fanfiction of a game, saying the plot was nearly identical and that my main character looked too similar. I panicked and tried to defend myself but ultimately caved under pressure and admitted that nothing I wrote was original, mostly because I was afraid of seeming dishonest.

The truth is, while I did take some inspiration from the game, most of it was my ideas, and I spent a lot of time beforehand researching the topic through books and other sources. Still, another student wrote in their feedback that my story was “ethically dubious” and could get me into trouble, which made me feel even worse. Then my professor emailed me, saying it was “too close” to the game’s plot to continue writing it. At that point, I admitted I had drawn inspiration but hadn’t realized just how similar it was.

When I discussed this privately with my professor, they had the same suspicions, especially in terms of setting, characters, and themes. While the comparison wasn’t intentional on my part, I acknowledged the overlap and apologized for not realizing how much it resembled the game. In my response back, I told of my interest in continuing to explore the research about the story’s topic but with a fresh perspective, shifting the focus to another aspect in the world of the story itself. I also asked if it would be fine to keep some of my original characters but place them in new roles. Their final reply was that they’re on board with the changes and like the new direction, giving me the okay to continue with it.

But, even with that said, I just feel embarrassed and like a total fraud. But knowing where I went wrong, I want to move forward with my own ideas. That said, I can’t shake the feeling that the way I was called out in front of the class felt unfair. Was it appropriate for a peer to make that kind of accusation publicly? And how do I handle my next workshop without feeling like I have to defend my integrity?

Any advice would be really appreciated.

(Edited for grammar + other details.)

So, I'm a 17-year-old writer who has written my first book.

Writing my (horrible) first draft took me around a year? Then, after some more planning the structure, and six more months of work, I finished the second draft of my novel at the start of January and set it aside for about a month because I know it's important to put time between finishing and the editing process. I've recently picked it back up to begin editing, formatting and growing my social media to advertise the book. I've always adored writing and I love this story with my whole heart, but lately, I've been struggling with what I believe to be some kind of burnout.

I've been disorganised and lacking focus on college work, forgetting to eat meals, constantly exhausted even after rest periods, cannot seem to focus on tasks because I'm always thinking about my book and characters. My temper gets shorter as I grow more tired. Whenever I try to relax, I can't because all I'm thinking about is how I should be writing instead. It's feeling more and more like I'm bullying myself into writing even when I'm tired or should be studying or something, because it's the one thing I know how to do well (a similar thing has been happening with my art, because I also enjoy drawing but lately have been doubting my skills for it and lacking motivation). I want to be productive, make progress and get published and the only way to do that is to actually write the book itself, but I'm just so tired all the time that anything I type/ edit feels like pure shit. I've even had some unexplainable tension in my back which I read could be related but I'm unsure.

I've had issues with my mental health prior to now but I feel like burnout is the specific cause for this. I should point out that I have not been diagnosed with any kind of illness/disorder, nor have I spoken to a therapist or other kind of professional. I realise I probably should but I struggle with talking to people about how I feel, it's something I'm working on.

If anyone has experienced something similar, I'd appreciate some advice on what to do to deal with this. Or maybe just a bit of reassurance that I'm not losing my sanity lol. Thanks

There’s nothing I love more than to write, but I really, really struggle with coming up with ideas and “just writing”. I want to break out of the habit of simply waiting for good ideas to come to me, because that happens quite rarely, I think I need to be more actively searching for them.

Once I have a really vague concept (something like “corpse in bathtub”) it’s easy to build onto that, but I can go over a year before getting to that point. Right now I feel a strong need to sit down and write something, a poem or a short story, but I have nowhere to begin.

So how do you get ideas? What was the very first thing you thought of that grew into a story? Was it a location, an event, a concept, a character, an object or something else? Do you get ideas from the media you consume or in the silence when there’s nothing to distract you? From conversations or from dreams?

I am sorry if this is a frequently asked question or if it doesn’t make a lot of sense, English is not my first language and I am really, really tired.

Howdy y'all! Living on the East Coast and being too disabled to get to my states capital means there's no conceivable way for me to join any writers groups so I want to start my own! I was thinking of contacting my local library and asking to use their meeting room/advertise in their flyer. Would it be appropriate to propose starting the meetings with a writing prompt or does that seem juvenile? If you were to join a writers group what would you want to see out of it outside of collaborative critique and sharing?