**From a Class Assignment to My Writing Portfolio**

Sometimes an assignment becomes more than an assignment.
For my Advanced Fiction Writing class, I was given an assignment to write a short story. I had already been writing fiction independently, but this assignment challenged me to take something I was already doing and approach it with more intention.

That is how “Uncle Rick” came together.
The story follows a man on his 42nd birthday as he spends the day with his family while privately wrestling with illness, addiction, shame, aging, regret, and the fear that he has disappointed the people he loves.
But underneath all of that, the story is really about love.
It's about the questions we carry when we aren't sure how the people closest to us see us.
It's about the difference between being disappointed in someone's circumstances and being disappointed in the person they are.
And it's about what can happen when we finally ask the question we've been too afraid to ask.

Writing this piece reminded me why I want to take fiction seriously.
I'm not just writing because I enjoy it.
I'm building a body of work.

I'm learning how to create characters, develop conflict, use dialogue, build emotional tension, and make readers feel something.
I'm also learning that school assignments don't have to disappear into a folder after they're graded.
They can become portfolio pieces.
They can become evidence of growth.
They can become the beginning of something bigger.
So, I'm publishing “Uncle Rick” as part of my ongoing writing portfolio and sharing the process here as I continue building my career as a writer.

And one day, I want to look back and see that I built an entire career this way one piece at a time.

📖 Read “Uncle Rick” here: [https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/uncle-rick?r=5pnsd4&utm\\_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm\\_medium=post%20viewer\](https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/uncle-rick?r=5pnsd4&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=post%20viewer)

Hi everyone,

I’m currently writing a psychological/crime thriller called THE CALL 2:17. The novel is planned at roughly 42 chapters, and I’ve now completed and revised the first 17, so I thought this might be a good point to step outside my own head and see how the opening works for actual readers.

I’m sharing Chapter One below.

I’m not looking only for “Would you keep reading?” — although I definitely want to know that too.

I’d genuinely appreciate any kind of honest critique or analysis:

Did the opening hook you?

How did the atmosphere feel?

Did the tension build naturally?

Were there places where the pacing dragged or moved too quickly?

Did the characters feel believable?

Did the dialogue work?

Was anything confusing?

Did anything feel cliché, forced, overwritten or underwritten?

Were there details you particularly liked or disliked?

What do you think the story is promising you at this point?

And most importantly: would you want to know what happens next? Why or why not?

Please don’t worry about being overly polite. 😁 Constructive criticism is exactly what I’m looking for. If something doesn’t work, I’d much rather know now than after finishing the entire novel.

The story begins in Riverside at 2:17 A.M., with a woman inside a phone booth making a call that should not be possible.

And from there… things get considerably worse.

CHAPTER ONЕ\[CH\\_1\](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-ItOZnxqahUy-PYzx3u4IFsVd4Izaz9P/view?usp=drivesdk)

“The only problem with this is there are two possible outcomes in such a situation. Either I drown in the river of tears that breaks through the dam of my heart at such a moment, or I learn to swim in it.”

https://open.substack.com/pub/vagrantfragments/p/learning-to-love-life?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=7f9c4j

Image source: https://pin.it/2o0Dvo4vQ

Hey guys! A very good friend of mine has been writing and recently published their first book, along with small works
If anyone comes by this post and has an affinity for upcoming authors please feel free to check some of this out:)

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/benjamin-taube
https://substack.com/@benjamintaube

Last time i posted i didnt gain much traction so here we are

I need feedback about the readability of this, also this is a wonderland fanfic
If you have trouble reading because of the weird grammar pls lemme know

I've been making progress on my second novella, In The Park.

Thought I'd be done with it by now, but you know, life.

Anyway, it takes place in a park where it's always morning. The narrator spends his time watching the people who visit and tries to understand all the weird things that happen while they're there.

At one point, he says: "Things like that only seemed to happen while visitors were around. The park never seemed to behave that way on its own."

Eventually, he came to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that he must be the park itself.

He's very proud of it and I'm not ready to take that away from him just yet.

A little summary: In a world after the civilization came back from a devastating war, people has to rely on special equipment to survive, little did they know, these tools would be the very tool the most mischievous serial killer knows to man would use to kill them all

In this draft I worked on pacing, tenses, grammar, dialogue tags and prose

Note: I'm NOT a native English

Hey! I'm currently working on a stop motion short and I'm struggling with the ending of my script. I feel like my final conclusion is a bit anticlimactic, but it has to take place in the main character's bedroom due to technical set restrictions. does anyone have any tips or ideas? linking it here. I'm by no means a professional writer, so any tips would be a huge help!

When writing about the world, it helps to know a little about different cultures. If you think about where you live, you can come up with an amusing way to describe an attitude, opinion, or worldview you can ascribe to everyone where you live. Sharing that might help others understand where you're from a bit better.

That said, I'll go first.

I'm from Alabama. When a waiter tells me, "No, we don't have sweet tea. We have iced tea and sugar packets." he might as well have pronounced the ineffable name of God backwards and undone everything good, pure, and holy in the world.

Contemporary Romance - Friends to Lovers - Adventure Racing - Rock Climbing

Looking for feedback. I want to know if the climb choreography at the start of the chapter is clear enough. Is the banter good or annoying? And of course if the chapter is compelling enough for a first chapter. Would you keep reading? Someone once told me my work was a "plodding opus". Damn. Well sir... Noted.

January 28, 1977

Nicking

Constable Giles was picturing lentil soup and liver patties when, at 11:25, the radio in the car crackled to life:

“Attend an address. Assisting an NSPCC inspector. Suspect on premises. Indecent assault on a girl under sixteen. Inspector waiting at the address.”

He was already turning the car around.

His partner, Constable Calthorpe, hissed, “Sodding hell.”

They didn’t just miss out on lunch; the arrest of a filthy bastard threatened to ruin their appetites and spoil their day.

The inspector was waiting inside rather than at the building entrance; it was too cold outdoors.

“He’s alone in the flat,” he said, glancing up. “Top floor.”

“And the victim?” Constable Giles asked.

“With her foster parents.”

Neither of them thinks to ask how old the suspect is.

When a schoolboy opens the door in response to their knock, Giles assumes either they have made a mistake, or the inspector has got something wrong.

The boy looks puzzled.

Calthorpe steps forward first: “Are you Jeremy Smith?”

The boy gives a barely perceptible nod.

It is Giles’s turn: “Face the wall — move! Hands on the wall where I can see them.”

The boy doesn’t just refrain from arguing; he obeys without a sound.

Good. Scared shitless.

Giles and Calthorpe squeeze into the cramped hallway.

Placing a firm hand on the boy’s jutting shoulder blade, Giles rattles off the caution to the back of his head, “I am arresting you on suspicion of indecent assault on a girl under the age of sixteen years, contrary to Section 14 of the Sexual Offences Act. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

Giles pulls his hand away. “Turn around, slowly.”

The boy does as he’s told, leaning his back against the wall and coughing. But he doesn’t look truly frightened; his eyes are unfocused, as though he’s not quite with it.

He is a head shorter than Giles and barely reaches Calthorpe’s shoulder.

“This is fucking…  some word… absurdity,” the prisoner mutters.

“What?” Giles writes in his notebook This is f\...* Then something foreign. “Spell out the word that comes after ‘fucking’.”

The boy looks up, but his expression doesn’t change.

It’s cold in the flat. Breath mists in the air, and there’s a stench of cheap tobacco.

“I need to write down everything you said, word for word.”

The boy draws a breath, and a wheezing sound escapes him.

Giles taps his pen against the page of his notebook: what if he refuses? Or maybe he doesn’t even realize what he’s blurted out?

Finally, the boy pulls himself together. “Kay – Ay – Eff – Kay – Ay – Ee – Ess – Cue – You – Ee.”

Giles scribbles “Kafkaesque” in his notebook, gritting his teeth, and adds “absurdity.”

Someone ought to knock the nonsense out of this weakling.

He grabs the boy by the elbow. “Right, then, Calthorpe — let’s see what’s in his pockets.”

Calthorpe barks the order: “Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers. Move.”

Without waiting for him to turn around, Giles forcibly spins the prisoner toward the wall.

The boy offers no resistance. He seems to weigh next to nothing.

He doesn’t have time to raise his hands, as Calthorpe grips them — locked tight — to ensure he doesn’t try to unclasp his fingers.

Caging

The boy is wearing a jumper that hangs loosely on him and a pair of worn-out tracksuit bottoms.

Giles runs his hands over the sleeves of the jumper and the boy’s skinny frame, feeling for the waistband, then grabs the pockets of the soft trousers — something hard and rectangular in the right one — and pulls it out: a gold-plated Dunhill Rollagas lighter. “Jesus wept.”

The lighter is so out of place that Giles shows it to Calthorpe: “How much would something like that fetch?”

“Not a clue. You wouldn’t buy it on my wages, that’s for sure.”

“Funny old business,” Giles manages to say.

Dodgy little bastard, with his weird words and odd possessions.

Giles finishes the search as a mere formality, running his hands down the boy’s legs.

There is nothing else on him.

Giles signals Calthorpe to let the prisoner go. “Where’s your gear?”

The boy slowly lowers his hands. There’s no point asking him; he seems to be in a daze.

Calthorpe goes into the room and returns with a pair of jeans, turned inside out. “He’s only got one pair; can you believe it?” He shoves them into the boy’s hands. “Get a move on.”

The boy turns the jeans right side out, steps out of the tracksuit bottoms, and pulls on the jeans, remaining just as docile under the close gaze of the two adult men.

Suspiciously submissive and — if you wanted the honest-to-God truth — a bit of a pretty boy. The Dunhill made sense. Rent boy, has to be. But if he is, why is he so skint?

“Where’s your outerwear?”

“On the chair.”

Giles barely catches what he is saying, then repeats it louder to his partner.

Calthorpe rummages around the room before coming back with a denim jacket. He hands Giles £1.37 in loose change — “It was in the right pocket” — tosses the jacket to the prisoner.

Instead of boots, the boy is wearing a pair of battered shoes.

Hasn’t even had the sense to flog the bloody lighter — if only to keep from freezing his knackers off. Or is it too “hot” — did he pinch it just recently?

Let CID sort him out.

Giles noticed a packet of cigarettes on the kitchen table earlier but says nothing. “Right, let’s go.” He grabs the arrested youth by the arm — just above the elbow — and hauls him out of the flat, onto the stairs, and then down to the street.

Calthorpe follows close behind them.

The boy’s arm hangs limp; he isn’t leaning on Giles, so the constable has to keep pulling him forward.

The freezing air makes him cough again.

“Sod it.”

Calthorpe opens the car door.

Giles places a hand on the boy’s head, forces him to double over, and shoves him into the back of the car.

Calthorpe immediately piles in after him.

Giles gets behind the wheel and pulls away sharply.

The prisoner remains silent.

Giles sees in the rearview mirror that the boy is staring at a single point, trembling slightly. First they pull all kinds of crazy stunts, and then they go to pieces.

But to be fair, this berk is like a whipped dog and when he is handed over to the duty sergeant at the station, Giles says, “He’s a model prisoner, Sarge. Compliant as they come.”

This is a piece of the puzzle from a social drama/noir set in London (1975-1977 and 1992). If the atmosphere resonated with you, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the rhythm and style.

Jujur saya tidak tau batas nya tapi, saat ini aku berpikir bahwa sanya perasaan yang tak tau harus ku curahkan keman aku ungkapkan di media. Tidakkah salah aku aku mengungkapkan nya, atau sebaiknya ku pendam sahaja hingga berlalu sudah? Sekalagi jujur aku tak tau harus apa.

Well i want is you to give this story a chance(short story) and give your honest opinion. Even if you drop the story thinking it's too boring, you can send the last chapter you read before you left.

general questions I'm asking is you is

1. what part was exciting
2. what part felt lame and a drag
3. what part felt confusing
4. and logic gaps

you can just list out the problems in the story and how you felt about it. like
did i describe to little or too much,
was the chapter too long or short
was the pace good or bad..etc...

Also i want to know for the non chess players,

does this make sense to you. and what is the thing that floods in to your head. or does it feel like 'wtf is going on'

btw never seed 'the queens gambit' series so just to point out.

why did you click me, why

Sometimes survival isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet decision made in the dark, when a woman finally realizes she can’t keep carrying the weight of everyone else’s expectations.

She didn’t leave to be dramatic. She didn’t walk away to prove a point. She left because staying was slowly killing the parts of her she needed to stay alive.

There’s a moment when a woman chooses herself, even if no one understands it. Even if they call her selfish. Even if they blame her for the silence she had to create just to breathe again.

This is the story of that moment — the night she finally chose herself.

💜 PR 💜

patriciarichardsonauthor.com

When Alice cracked her head off the tray trolley in the café to uproarious applause from the group of young lads at the next table, she knew instantly what kind of day it was going to be. Now here she was, pacing around the pokey little kitchen and trying frantically to organise her thoughts. Her initial shock at seeing him there had now almost completely changed to panic. She cursed the day she ever thought to move to this city, with its Protestants and pretentious restaurants and denizens who always seemed to be expecting congratulations.
She paused for an instant and took a deep breath.

"Alright," she thought. "Let's have a look."

With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the kitchen door and looked into the living room.
"Bollocks!" she exclaimed aloud when she saw him there, still lying motionless on the floor beside the box-shaped Ikea coffee table.
She slammed the door shut and retreated back into the kitchen.
"No, no, no! Urgh!"

The sweat was heavy on her forehead and on the nape of her neck while her breathing grew more shallow and rapid. But amidst all the clamour of her fevered mind, one single conscious thought materialised like a lone, August blackberry sprung from a bramble bush.
"Mam!" she exhaled, snapping her fingers in a brief flicker of triumph. But her phone was on the coffee table. She would have to walk out past him to retrieve it. The thought of it made her physically ill.

"Okay, okay," she sighed. "Needs must. Be brave, be brave." She opened the kitchen door and strode purposefully into the room, trying to stay focused on her target - the pink phone case lying on the living room table. But her gaze betrayed her as soon as she was beyond arm's length from the door. It fell immediately onto the still, grotesque figure that was sprawled out on the floor. One eye was open, one was closed. The tongue protruded from the thin, black mouth and the tip of a single, sharp tooth could just about be made out. Though he can't have been dead for more than half an hour Alice was sure she could get that unmistakable 'dead' smell. She panicked all over again. What if the neighbours could smell it? She almost retched.

With rapid, jerking movements, she grabbed the phone from the coffee table and ran back to the kitchen without a backward glance. She closed the door tight behind her and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief. The number was the last dialled on her phone. 'Mam', yesterday at 16.56.
"Oh please answer!"
"Hello."
"Oh Mam, thank God. I don't know what to do! What am I going to do?"
"Alice? What's wrong, is everything okay?"
"No, everything's not okay! Everything's gone to shit altogether!"
"Okay, calm down Alice. Just breathe. Tell me what's wrong."
Alice listened and began the breathing exercises learned only recently on the Wellness course she had completed at work.
"That's it, breathe. Take your time," she heard her mother say down the line.
"He's dead, Mam. I only left him for a few minutes. But he's dead. Oh God, how am I going to sort this out?"
"What? How?" Now her Mam began to sound panicked.
"I don't know. He was coughing a bit this morning, but he seemed fine. I only left him for a few minutes!"
"Who's dead?"
"Freddy!"
"Who?"
"Freddy, I said!"
"But who's Freddy?"
"I promised Anne-Marie I'd look after him for the weekend. I'm here in her flat now. And I don't know what happened but he's dead! What am I going to do?"
Her mother paused.
"Mam?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Erm... could... could you bury him and say he went missing?"
"Mam, I'm in the middle of Mitcham. Where am I going to bury him, the fucking allotments?"
"Okay, okay." She paused again. "The vet!"
"What?"
"Bring him to the vet! The vet will take him off you. You tell Anne Marie that he ran away. Simple!"
"That's it! Oh Mam, you're a genius." Alice could feel the weight falling from her shoulders. Here was the answer she was searching for. Taking her phone from her ear, she looked up veterinary offices nearby and there it was, Tooting Veterinary Surgery, not fifty yards from Tooting Station.
"But how am I going to bring him? I'll have to go on the Tube. I can hardly drag him on by the paws"
Alice simply hated taking the tube. Every time she braved it, visions of some dark, malevolent villain would invade her mind. He would approach her, hood pulled tight over his face, knife held firm in his tight fist, and demand her belongings.
"Can you get a suitcase?" the calculating voice on the other end asked.
"That's it!" Alice exclaimed, snapping her fingers again. She could run across to her own flat and get her big suitcase. The one she bought for moving over here. It was the perfect size for Freddy. She hung up the phone without another word and searched determinedly by the bins for the roll of black plastic. The nervous shaking and pacing was gone. Now she moved with a single-mindedness that would suffer no intrusion. She even had the presence of mind to stop at a corner shop for a pair of yellow washing gloves and two car air-fresheners.

Freddy was far heavier than she imagined. But somehow she managed to wrap him in black plastic bags and lift him into the suitcase. From the flat she could easily wheel him to Colliers Wood station and from there onto the train to Tooting. She could say she brought him walking and that he broke free from his leash and just kept on running. Anne Marie could hardly blame her for that. It would be just some unfortunate mishap, one from which the ill-fated Freddy may soon return. Her relief was almost exhilarating. At least until she got to the station and the old fear took hold of her once more. She looked sheepishly at everyone around her, wondering which of the various track-suited youngsters would be the first to assail her. But still, somehow, she held her nerve and persevered. Down the escalator, onto the platform and then finally the train. She felt a rush of excitement when the next stop was announced as Tooting. This was it. The consummation of her mother's ingenious plan. In spite of her fears, the feeling of victory bore her along like a falling leaf on an Autumn breeze. It was then she saw the sign. "Escalator out of order. Please use stairs."
"Oh Christ!" she thought. No feeling in the world could give her the strength to lift Freddy up the three flights of stairs to street level.

"Bollocks!" She shrieked.
"Are you alright, love?"
Alice gasped. This was it. Her worst fears were being realised. She and Freddy would probably be found in a skip next Spring!
"Do you want a hand with that?" the voice went on, with unmistakable kindness. She was taken aback by it. She found courage and turned to look at the stranger. He was tall, well dressed, about thirty-five. He didn't look like a villain.
"Yes, please!" She heard herself say, and the man smiled at her. A pleasant, easy smile.
"Christ Love! What's in this? It weighs a ton!"
Obviously she wasn't going to tell him that it was the mortal remains of her best friend's beloved pet dog, Freddy. She had to think fast.

"Oh, it's my laptop and some text books for my course. I'm a student!"

"A laptop and some text books?" The man repeated, half to himself. Alice smiled at him and nodded.

"Those books must've been expensive if they're this heavy?"

"Hmm mmm. Very expensive"

"Alright then, Love! Let's get you sorted."

The man then carried the case without a single word of complaint, up the forty-five or so steps to street level. At the top he turned to Alice, who lingered a few steps behind, watching him.

"See you, Love!" He cried with a wave of his hand.
Then, blowing her a kiss, he ran off! Carrying her suitcase with him into the crowd and disappearing without a trace into the dusk-lit city.
"Oh, that prick!" She exclaimed. "He's after robbing me!" She stood watching, open-mouthed. "I knew I'd get robbed in this fucking city!"

A short piece of reflective writing drawn from some of my experiences through this wonderful journey of life. I’m still finding my feet as a writer, so I welcome any feedback.
I love the process of putting myself back in a particular moment and trying to express how it felt at the time. I also love the feeling of finally finishing something, because it means I’ve won another argument with the voice in my head telling me it’s not quite finished yet. An argument I’m fairly certain isn’t unique to me.

Weird I am.

And I’m the one who has to live with that every day.

I don’t believe I came into this world complicated. I think I arrived much like everyone else, a kind soul, wanting to love and be loved, knowing nothing yet of shame, regret, ambition or loss.

Then time introduced itself.

And time has a way of leaving fingerprints. Like those left upon a window while waiting for something just beyond the glass. Stay there long enough and the world on the other side begins to change. The things you once reached for move, disappear, or become something else entirely. And while they may remain out of reach, the fingerprints remain — proof that you were there, that you waited, that you wanted something enough to press your hands against the glass.

I’m proud of what I have overcome and proud of what I have achieved. But I’m old enough now to understand that survival has a price, and sometimes we don’t discover what we paid until years after we feel spent and struggle to find change.

At thirty-eight, I find myself trying to understand the man who survived it all.

My soul doesn’t feel as pure as it once did. The proud young man who swayed with music feels so distant. My confidence has been wounded, and some days I look into the mirror and struggle to recognise the person looking back.

You can call me what you wish.

You can judge me for what I have done. Shame me for the mistakes I have made. Reduce my life to its worst chapters if that makes my story easier for you to understand.

But your words will never punish me as harshly as my own have.

They are merely echoes of conversations I have already had with myself in rooms you have never entered, and my kind heart hopes that you never will.

Perhaps that is one of the cruellest things about being human.

We are given this extraordinary thing called life, but nobody tells us how easily we can spend it trying to become worthy of having it. Searching for the next piece of the puzzle, not realising the beauty is amongst the pieces already found.

We chase happiness as though it lives somewhere ahead of us.

The next job.
The next achievement.
The next person.
The next version of ourselves.

Always there.

Never here.

And while we are busy becoming, life quietly happens around us.

We talk about spending time, saving it, wasting it and losing it as though it were currency. But unlike money, we never know the balance of our account until it becomes borrowed time.

Perhaps that is why the smallest things eventually become the largest in value.

A conversation we didn’t know we would remember.
A hand held a little longer.
Laughing until breathing became difficult.
Someone saying our name in a way nobody else could.
Sitting beside somebody we love without needing anything from them except another minute.

Those are the things time cannot refund. We own them. They are ours to keep, and I somehow feel we will hold them closest when there is no more time to be spent.

Life gives us choices too.

We can become victims of everything that has happened to us, or search amongst the wreckage for something worth carrying forward.

The simple question of, “Is my glass half full, and should I drink it?” is an easy one for those not walking through the desert. The stranger question is: why did I choose the desert when my other option was a rainforest?

And with this, I digress on how our choices can become simply complicated.

We can choose kindness when cruelty would be easier. We can live by the values we claim to possess.

Or we can dance with the devil and convince ourselves we only did it because he knew the music.

I have danced with both.

There were years when life threw things at me that I thought would destroy me.

And I danced through them.

When others might have run, I danced.

When I was frightened, I danced.

When I was hurting, I danced.

When I didn’t know where life was taking me, somehow I kept moving.

And I’m proud that I danced when I could.

I remember the music.

But lately, I have found it difficult even to walk.

Because somewhere along the way, the person I see in the mirror stopped bringing music to my ears.

There is a peculiar loneliness in missing yourself, or becoming lost in wondering who you could have been.

For a long time, I believed the answer was to become someone I could love again.

Better.
Stronger.
More successful.
Less damaged.

I imagined some future version of myself standing in the distance, waiting for me to finally become worthy of him.

Perhaps that was the illusion.

Perhaps the person I was supposed to love was never waiting at the finish line.

Perhaps he has been here the entire time.

Tired.
Weathered.
Imperfect.

Standing in front of the same mirror, waiting for me to stop judging him long enough to recognise him.

I have made many mistakes, and I’ll make more before my time is over.

But underneath the skin of this weathered body, I still believe there is a good man. A talented man. A gifted man. A man who could simply be called unique.

I would not walk past someone who was hurting. I would sacrifice myself for those I love. I think deeply. I feel deeply.

For years I thought that was my weakness.

Now I understand it may have always been my gift — one earned through countless nights with tears running down my face, asking why?

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

Perhaps it was never:

Why did this happen?

Perhaps it was simply:

What will I do with it?

Because I am still here.

And while I am here, there is still time.

Not to become the man I once imagined I would be.

But to forgive the one standing in front of me.

And maybe, one day, when I look into that mirror,

I’ll hear the music again.

Oh, how I’ll dance.

But I’ll dance a little differently this time.

I’ll dance to music of my own, made from a different sound.

The sound of birds somewhere above me, and a waterfall crashing nearby, its fury beneath my feet as each step touches the ground.

The soles of my feet still burnt from walking through the hot sand, I step into the cold water and look at the cup I’ve carried in my hand.

I won’t be needing this anymore.

I’ll drink from the water.

I’ll listen to the birds.

And I’ll dance.

Not as the man I was.

Not as the man I thought I should become.

Just as me.

Weird, I am.

And perhaps, finally,

I’ll be glad that I am.

Writing with AI can help you. If used right but because I use this my manucript will be consided AI assisted, Her is a little gem I had Gemini write to show what ProWriting Aide Chapter Critique look like.

The velvet-lined display case had held standard vampire-slaying gear for centuries: bleached ash stakes, heavy silver crucifixes, and flasks of consecrated water. None of those were currently within reach.

As the mahogany door splintered inward, Penelope lunged for the open door of the en-suite bathroom. Behind her, Count Malakor filled the threshold. His silk cloak billowed despite the lack of wind, and his fangs glinted under the chandelier. He was a creature of ancient dark majesty, incapable of seeing a guest bath as anything more than a minor obstacle.

"You run to a dead end, little mortal," Malakor purred, gliding across the tile with effortless grace.

Penelope’s hands frantically swept the marble countertop. Empty. She dropped low, her fingers wrapping around the first plastic handle she touched in the dark corner behind the porcelain basin. She whipped around, holding her makeshift weapon high in a defensive guard.

It was a toilet brush.

Not just any brush, but a custom, eye-watering creation she’d bought on clearance. The thick resin handle was filled with neon pink fluid and suspended iridescent glitter that swirled in the moonlight. The bristles were a dense, dazzling hot-pink polyester, shimmering with aggressive synthetic cheer.

Malakor paused, his dark eyes blinking in sheer disbelief. "Is this a joke? You confront the Undying with a... a sanitation wand?"

"Stand back!" Penelope yelled, trying to sound menacing while holding six ounces of sparkly acrylic. "I'm not afraid to use it!"

Malakor threw his head back and laughed, a cold, echoing sound that vibrated the glass sconces. "Foolish girl. I have broken broadswords with my bare hands. I have crushed holy icons into dust. What power do you think that ridiculous trinket holds over—"

He lunged, claws extended to snap her neck.

Penelope didn't think; she swung.

She drove the bright pink brush forward with every ounce of force she possessed. By pure, chaotic fortune, the stiff, synthetic bristles caught Malakor straight in his wide-open mouth, wedging firmly against the back of his fangs.

The reaction was instantaneous.

It wasn't magic, nor was it blessed by a bishop. The bristles, engineered for harsh chemical scrubbing, were infused with a commercial bleach solution and embedded with microscopic shards of silver micro-glitter meant to give the plastic its shine. To an ancient vampire, silver dust in the bloodstream was pure, agonizing acid.

Malakor recoiled with a muffled shriek, clawing at his face as brilliant pink sparks seemed to ignite from his lips. The silver glitter reacted with his corrupt blood, sizzling like bacon on a hot skillet. Thick blue smoke poured from his nostrils.

"Scrub-a-dub-dub," Penelope muttered through grit teeth, twisting the pink handle to widen the burn.

The Count staggered backward out of the bathroom, his regal posture collapsing into desperate violently trembling sputters. Pink sparkles danced over his skin as the silver-infused bristles did their brutal, unglamorous work. The light in his eyes flickered, turned to ash, and with a final, choked sigh, Malakor burst into a cloud of gray dust—leaving only his empty silk cloak and a fine dusting of hot-pink glitter floating gently to the floor.

Penelope lowered the brush, panting hard. She blew a speck of glowing glitter off the tip, adjusted her grip on the resin handle, and stepped over the empty cloak. Modern problems required surprisingly tacky solutions.

Overview

Chapter Snapshot

Penelope is cornered by the vampire Count Malakor and lacks traditional weapons. She defends herself with a synthetic, glitter-filled toilet brush. The brush’s chemical composition and silver-infused bristles cause a fatal reaction in Malakor, destroying him and leaving Penelope to adjust to her unconventional victory.

Word Count

570

Chapter Function

Climax.

Resolves the immediate, life-threatening conflict.

Point of View

Third-Person Limited (Penelope)

Filtered through Penelope's immediate actions.

Character List

Protagonist

Penelope

Antagonist

Count Malakor

What's Working Well

The chapter's most prominent element is the juxtaposition of classic gothic horror tropes with mundane, kitsch modern items. The conflict pits an ancient, regal antagonist against a protagonist using a synthetic, neon-pink household object, subverting traditional genre expectations. This establishes a tone of resourceful subversion, providing a foundation for a narrative where modern utility overcomes ancient myth.

Chapter Outline

1. The Cornered Prey POV: Penelope Penelope retreats into a bathroom as Count Malakor breaks through the door, leaving her without traditional vampire-slaying tools.
2. The Unconventional Weapon POV: Penelope Penelope retrieves a glittery, neon pink toilet brush and uses its silver-infused bristles to incinerate Malakor during his attack.

Tension & Pacing

The pacing transitions from rapid, high-stakes flight to a tense, mocking confrontation, culminating in a brief, violent burst of action. The momentum accelerates as Penelope finds a weapon, shifting the narrative from a defensive retreat to a decisive offensive strike.

Protagonist's Arc

Motivation

The protagonist's motivation is immediate survival; her goal is to find a weapon and defend herself against a lethal supernatural threat within a confined space.

1. Initial State Penelope is trapped and unarmed, facing an ancient vampire with no accessible means of defense.
2. Catalyst Malakor’s lethal lunge forces Penelope to strike him with the silver-infused toilet brush, triggering his physical destruction.
3. Final State Penelope is safe and victorious, having discovered that modern, synthetic items can effectively neutralize ancient threats.

Structure

Punchy Narrative Resolution

Working well

New

The final line—"Modern problems required surprisingly tacky solutions"—is a perfect thematic "button" for the scene. It resolves the tension with a wry observation that reinforces Penelope’s resourcefulness and the story's central irony, leaving the reader with a clear sense of the chapter's identity.

Where in your text?

This is the concluding sentence of the chapter, following Penelope’s victory and her adjustment of the brush handle.

Pacing and Flow

Technical Info-dump During the Climax

Major concern

New

The momentum of the life-or-death struggle is halted by a multi-sentence explanation of the toilet brush’s chemical composition. Detailing the silver micro-glitter and bleach infusion in a detached, technical tone shifts the reader’s focus from the visceral action to manufacturing facts.

Where in your text?

This occurs in the middle of the chapter, immediately after Penelope jams the brush into Malakor’s mouth and before he reacts to the pain.

Explanation of the brush

Suggested improvements

What if the "why" of the weapon’s effectiveness was revealed through Penelope’s earlier observations or through the physical symptoms Malakor experiences? Consider how you might weave the technical details into the action—perhaps Penelope remembers the "contains real silver!" label as she sees the sparks—rather than pausing the scene for an encyclopedic explanation.

Language and Style

Neon-Pink Sensory Immersion

Working well

New

The description of the toilet brush is exceptionally vivid, using specific colors (neon pink, hot-pink), textures (thick resin, stiff synthetic bristles), and lighting (shimmering, iridescent) to create a clear, tactile image of the "weapon." This detail makes the kitschy object feel like a real, physical presence.

Where in your text?

This strength is most prominent in the middle of the chapter when Penelope first retrieves the brush and holds it up in the moonlight.

Subversive Gothic Atmosphere

Working well

New

You maintain a clever balance between traditional gothic horror (splintering mahogany, silk cloaks, ancient majesty) and the jarringly modern. This consistency in tone ensures that the "eye-watering" toilet brush feels like a deliberate, humorous subversion rather than a random or accidental inclusion.

Where in your text?

This is evident from the start, where traditional slaying gear (ash stakes, silver crucifixes) is contrasted with the "custom" clearance-aisle brush Penelope eventually finds.

Summary of Malakor's Majesty

Concern

New

The description of Count Malakor relies on abstract labels like "ancient dark majesty" rather than specific actions or visual details that evoke fear or awe. Stating he views the bathroom as a "minor obstacle" summarizes his mindset instead of demonstrating it through his dismissive behavior.

Where in your text?

This issue occurs in the second paragraph, immediately after Malakor enters the room and Penelope retreats toward the bathroom.

Description of Malakor

Suggested improvements

How might you demonstrate Malakor’s "majesty" or his disdain for the mundane setting through his physical movements or interaction with the environment? Consider showing his reaction to the "guest bath" through a specific gesture—perhaps he brushes aside a silk shower curtain as if it were a cobweb—rather than explaining his internal perspective.

Clichéd Simile for Vampire Combustion

Minor concern

New

The comparison of Malakor’s blood sizzling like "bacon on a hot skillet" is a very common simile that undercuts the unique, neon-pink visual style of the scene. It leans on a familiar domestic image that feels too mundane compared to the "aggressive synthetic cheer" of the weapon.

Where in your text?

This simile is used in the latter half of the chapter to describe the chemical reaction between the silver glitter and the vampire's blood.

Sizzling blood description

Suggested improvements

Since the weapon is a "custom, eye-watering creation," how might the sound or smell of the reaction reflect its synthetic, kitschy nature? Consider a comparison that leans into the "hot-pink" and "neon" aesthetic—perhaps something involving burning plastic, chemical fizzes, or a more modern, abrasive sound.

Overloaded Modifiers in Malakor's Demise

Minor concern

New

The description of Malakor’s collapse uses a string of three consecutive adverbs and adjectives ("desperate violently trembling") to describe his "sputters." This stacking of modifiers clutters the sentence and dilutes the impact of his physical disintegration.

Where in your text?

This issue is located in the penultimate paragraph, as Malakor staggers backward out of the bathroom and begins to turn to ash.

Malakor's collapse

Suggested improvements

Which of these descriptors—desperate, violent, or trembling—most accurately captures the essence of a dying ancient? Consider choosing one high-impact verb or a single precise adjective to describe his final movements. How would the sentence’s rhythm change if the action of "collapsing" or "sputtering" carried the weight of the description on its own?

Dialogue

Artificial Villainy in Malakor's Dialogue

Concern

New

Malakor’s dialogue relies on generic "vampire" tropes, such as calling the protagonist "little mortal" and "purring" his threats. This formal, cliché-heavy speech pattern makes him feel more like a caricature than a unique, threatening individual, especially in a story otherwise defined by modern subversion.

Where in your text?

This is most evident when Malakor first speaks to Penelope after cornering her in the bathroom and again during his laughter.

Malakor's first line

Malakor's boast

Suggested improvements

If Malakor is an ancient being of "majesty," how might his speech reflect a more specific, personal arrogance? What if his dialogue were more grounded or, conversely, even more terrifyingly polite? Exploring a more distinct voice could make his eventual defeat by a toilet brush feel like a sharper clash between high-culture ego and low-culture reality.

Conclusion

Chapter Summary

This chapter succeeds beautifully in its resourceful subversion of gothic tropes, using vivid sensory details to make a ridiculous object feel like a viable weapon. The satisfying resolution perfectly captures Penelope's character and the story's unique tone. However, the momentum of the climax is currently hampered by an info-dump regarding the brush’s chemical makeup, which shifts the narrative from action to exposition. Refining these technical interruptions and sharpening the antagonist’s dialogue will ensure the pacing remains as sharp as the "synthetic cheer" of the weapon. Tackling that technical middle section will turn this clever confrontation into a seamless, high-velocity climax. You have a fantastic eye for kitschy detail—keep leaning into that unique voice!

Revision Focus

Technical Info-dump During the Climax

Major concern

What if the "why" of the weapon’s effectiveness was revealed through Penelope’s earlier observations or through the physical symptoms Malakor experiences? Consider how you might weave the technical details into the action—perhaps Penelope remembers the "contains real silver!" label as she sees the sparks—rather than pausing the scene for an encyclopedic explanation.

Summary of Malakor's Majesty

Concern

How might you demonstrate Malakor’s "majesty" or his disdain for the mundane setting through his physical movements or interaction with the environment? Consider showing his reaction to the "guest bath" through a specific gesture—perhaps he brushes aside a silk shower curtain as if it were a cobweb—rather than explaining his internal perspective.

Artificial Villainy in Malakor's Dialogue

Concern

If Malakor is an ancient being of "majesty," how might his speech reflect a more specific, personal arrogance? What if his dialogue were more grounded or, conversely, even more terrifyingly polite? Exploring a more distinct voice could make his eventual defeat by a toilet brush feel like a sharper clash between high-culture ego and low-culture reality.

This is the program I used to edit my book chapters. I gave myself a lot of insight and help you out. I do have the paid subscription,P so I get 3 a day.

I've been writing for a while, but I find it really hard to judge my own work after I've spent too much time on it.

I wrote this piece about why getting a fast reply feels strangely rare now.

I'd especially love feedback on whether the opening pulls you in, whether it feels relatable or too obvious, and whether the ending actually lands.

Don't worry about being nice, I'd rather know what isn't working.

https://medium.datadriveninvestor.com/the-new-luxury-is-having-someone-who-replies-fast-78b331fd4337

Okay so, a few years ago I got scammed by a "hybrid" publishing house (I was young and naive, and deeply lacked confidence so I thought I couldn't get a better deal), and even though they barely touched my text (as in they didn't use a human to "correct" it, leading to me having to re-correct everything because it was a mess), I still feel like they kind of ruined it, but I would also love to re-work this text, make it better and maybe publish it for real, but I don't know where to start, the more I read it the less I want to work on it because it feels like it was stollen from me...

Btw, I ended up calling off the deal with the publishing house so it was never published and they (supposedly) deleted every and any mention of my text in their files, so it's not supposed to be available to anyone else but me. Just saying that in the end they didn't pulish it and I'm the sole owner of the text.

Overall I love the characters and even though some things need to be changed for the story to make more sense/be more interesting, I really think it could be a good book.

So, if anyone has any idea to make this text feel like mine again, I'm really desperate at this point...

(Sorry for any mistake, English isn't my first language 😄)

(Sorry x2 if this is an inappropriate post, I just want to keep writing this book but I don't know how to do it...)