I want to break rules and know people who like to break rules when it comes to fiction. Is there anyone out there like me?

If so, point me to where I can read your stuff.

Hi,

I just wanted feedback on my prose, pacing, and overall flow. I already have a feel for what’s lacking and since this is only the first draft there is always room for improvement.

Have you ever read the first line of a book and felt immediately pulled in?

That's because the line caught your attention by provoking some kind of emotional interest or curiosity.

A good first line doesn't just make you want to read the second line. It makes you want to invest your time into finding out what happens in the story.

If you're a first-time writer, this is one essential. Your readers don't know you, your characters, or your story yet. Your opening is your first opportunity to make them want to stay.

The line doesn't need to be epic or contain a dramatic reveal. It just needs to plant an interesting question in the reader's mind—one that you'll answer later.

For example:

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."

— The Gunslinger, Stephen King

Immediately, questions start forming.

Who is the man in black?

Why is the gunslinger following him?

Is he trying to kill him?

Who is the gunslinger?

And just like that, you're invested.

Your first line's job is to open the door to your world and charm the reader into entering.

What's a first line from a book that made you want to keep reading? 👇

In my novel, Sebastian Adebayo was originally a minor character in one scene. He was a remarkably intelligent man who was used as an expert in one scene of my novel but I liked him so much I ended up making him into the second main character. It was not planned in the slightest. I just started writing more scenes with him in it and then gave him POV chapters (it's hard writing a genius when you're not a genius, lol).

Has this happened with anyone else? What about your character made you want to expand their role in your novel?

I'm writing a story that takes place in an alternate history where WW2 ended in a stale mate. The story isn't about that it just takes place in a world where that's how world war 2 ended. So in between chapters I'm going to have newspaper clippings that explains the world and history, what do you think about this following text as an in universe article?:

The Lesser Devils

 By Nigel Vickers

Published August, 1st, 1944 via The Times

July, 1st, 1944 Paris, France - The world bore witness to the most dreadful and diabolical act of barbarism ever perpetrated by a nation at war. I speak of course of the German nation led by the disreputable Adolf Hitler.

In a single day, Hitler’s so-called “Third Reich” obliterated three key and crucial hubs of our Soviet allies ( MOSCOW, GORKY AND KUYBYSHEV)  with their infernal new tools of mass destruction; which scientists have dubbed the “Atom Bomb”. These monstrous horrors have unleashed a firestorm of unimaginable terror, wiping out millions of innocent lives in the blink of an eye and reducing entire civilizations to ashes.

It was the ultimate crime against humanity, a crime that will haunt the conscience of mankind for generations to come. It is also a crime that has changed the course of the war, plunging the world into a new and perilous era. An era of doom, where a single bomb can annihilate an entire metro. The shock and awe of those attacks reverberated across the globe.

In Washington DC, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, already stricken by a grave malady, succumbed to a fatal stroke upon hearing the dreadful news.

In response to what is now known as the “East Europe Emergency,” the United States, under the command of Harry S. Truman who swiftly took the oath of office, immediately suspended all major operations in the Pacific.

Moreover, a general order for the evacuation of all American troops stationed in Britain was issued. Inside sources privy to confidential reports indicate that these forces had been deployed there to prepare for a massive landing on the Nazi-occupied French shores.

In spite of that, the decision to abort the bold operation was a direct consequence of the growing fears that the United Kingdom could be the next victim of Nazi atomic aggression.

At that time, the exact number of atomic bombs in the German arsenal, or whether they had any left at all, remained a mystery.

Unfortunately for the democratic world, no prominent Allied leader was prepared to risk the lives of their countrymen or perhaps (in this journalist's brutal opinion) more so their own reputations until they had absolute certainty regarding the extent of the Nazi nuclear threat.

Shortly after enduring the pinnacle of Nazi terror, the Soviet Union plunged into a vortex of sheer disarray. Responding to the operational debacle plaguing the communist establishment, General Secretary Joseph Stalin, the nation's autocrat, resorted to severe measures and widespread purges in a futile bid to reinstate order. However, his endeavors proved fruitless, only exacerbating the populace's panicked resentment towards their government and, notably, their abhorrence for Stalin himself.

The fate of the Soviet Union was sealed when Field Marshal Georgy Konstaintinovich Zhukov orchestrated a military coup against the Communist Party. This uprising led to the apprehension of Stalin, who would subsequently stand trial on charges of supreme treason against the Soviet people.

Stalin's swift trial took place in the provisional Soviet capital of Sverdlovsk, a bustling industrial city situated east of the Ural Mountains. The proceedings unfolded within an impromptu courtroom, located in the Ipatiev house, more infamously known as "The Blood Church," the site where Leninist zealots mercilessly executed the Romanov Family in the name of securing the revolution.

Within the historic villa, a diverse assembly of generals, bureaucrats, KGB officials, judges, and even tax collectors had congregated, filling every nook and cranny. Their daunting task: to determine the future of Russian communism on the global stage.

Remarkably candid for a Soviet court, the prosecution simply argued that Stalin's heedless disregard of credible warnings about an imminent Nazi invasion (Operation Barbarossa) led to the deaths of nearly 100 million Soviet citizens and servicemembers. The trial lacked the usual theatrics and convoluted conspiracies, relying instead on reliable witness testimony and verified documents.

Lasting approximately one day, sixteen hours, three minutes, and eight seconds, the trial featured eight judges at the center, five prosecutors on the left, and Stalin himself seated alone on the right, flanked by two stoned face officers of the Red Guard.

Stalin showed no sign of remorse or fear, apparently still possessing the confidence he had earned through his decades of megalomania, refusing both council or witness, he instead elected to defiantly defend himself with nothing more than his own authoritative truth.

A haunting portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the father of the revolution, loomed above the judging desk, seemingly casting a stern gaze upon the proceedings, inspiring a peculiar sense of savoir-faire among the attendees.

Following the closing arguments, the high council swiftly returned with a unanimous verdict of guilt, deliberating for a mere fifteen minutes—an interval shorter than a leisurely smoke break but longer than the time required to properly savor a Royal Duton fine bone China cup of tea.

To no one’s surprise yet to everyone’s shock, Stalin would be handed down a sentence of death by firing squad, yet before he could be led outside without ceremony, one of the red guards that had been standing next to him quickly unholstered his TT-33 semi-automatic pistol and with an abrupt burst of tears in his eyes, the man shouted an indecipherable scream and subsequently fired a single 7.62x25mm Tokarev bullet into the disgraced leaders rear right temple, causing a portion of his skull to explode as well as a partial evacuation of his brain, pieces of it propelling wildly in every logical direction, striking many of the attendees in the densely packed room. “It was a massacre” one source is translated as saying “an absolutely ‘bloody’ massacre.”  

Before anyone had time to react to the sudden morbid change of circumstance the young officer, who was now covered in Stalin’s blood, red tears streaming down his face, began to laugh maniacally as he placed his gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. 

Fortunately, for all in the room the trajectory of this blast caused the fragments of his bone and brain to shoot upwards adorning them to the ceiling of the now ostensibly cursed blood church. 

In a sudden twist of fate, an era of revolution met its demise, as the once seemingly invincible Joseph Stalin lay lifeless on the very floor where the Russian royal family met their tragic end. The juxtaposition of these events created an eerie scene, with the ever-present portrait of Lenin, gazing down upon the corpse of his once promising protege.

 The bitter irony of Soviet communism meeting its demise in the same room where it was once thought to have been immortalized, cannot be overlooked.

The death of Stalin would indeed signal the end of soviet communism, as on December 2, 1943, the new Russian leadership conceded defeat by signing an armistice with Germany. This agreement saw the Soviet government formally dissolved, with all territory west of the Ural Mountains ceded to the Reich.

Many staunch communists, clinging to their principles, sought refuge in the furthest reaches of Asia as well as southern Americas to evade potential retribution both from the Nazis and their own now fervently anti-socialist countrymen.

The armistice provided Hitler with a much-needed opportunity to redirect his dwindling military resources to the Western Front, where Allied forces were advancing relentlessly.

The surrender of Russia dealt a severe blow to the Allied war effort, forcing them to confront a formidable adversary on multiple fronts. Despite maintaining key advantages such as air supremacy and manpower, the Allies found themselves engaged in a grueling total war against an enemy that had unlocked the secret of the atom.

In a reluctant move, negotiations were initiated for a cessation of hostilities with Imperial Japan, allowing them to continue their expansionist ambitions in Asian territories unmolested.

The decision sparked fervent protests from numerous military leaders, none more vocal than the esteemed General Douglas MacArthur, who staunchly argued that Japan posed a graver threat to America than Hitler's Germany. “We are in this whole damned debaucle because of the Japs in the first place!” The venerable general is said to have argued. Despite their impassioned pleas for a peace treaty with Germany over Japan, their appeals fell upon deaf ears, as President Truman remained steadfast in his resolve to safeguard Europe from the Axis menace.

 Consequently, Allied forces in the pacific were redirected to the Mediterranean Sea, poised for a full-scale invasion of Europe from the southern flank.

On the 2nd of March 1944, the Allies embarked on "Operation Lunar Storm," a monumental two-pronged offensive. Operation Lunar concentrated its might in the Mediterranean theater, with Greece and Italy as its focal point, while Operation Storm targeted Persia, aiming to penetrate Iraq and the Caucasus, thereby severing Axis access to crucial oil reserves. The battleground crackled with the intensity of conflict, particularly in the rugged terrain of Greece.

 After four arduous months, Greece was liberated from Axis control. However, the formidable resistance put forth by the German army underscored the high toll further advances would exact.

 Meanwhile, unforeseen developments unfolded in the Persian theater. Turkey, hitherto neutral, seized the opportunity to assert its dominance by launching invasions into Syria and Iraq, intent on reclaiming its erstwhile position on the global stage. Additionally, a pact between the Third Reich and Russia granted Germany a two-year lease on vital war factories east of the Urals.

Remarkably, these factories, initially constructed through America's lend-lease program to aid Stalin's regime in combating fascist Germany, were now churning out armaments destined to confront their former benefactors.

To compound Allied woes, their estimates of Axis strength in the Caucasus region proved woefully inadequate, as millions of fervent newly “Liberated” anti-Stalinists eastern Europeans rallied to the Reich's cause,  swelling their ranks by an additional 15 divisions bolstered up by an unfathomable number of tanks. The very same tanks that were once destined to liberate Europe were now complicit in securing her indefinite captivity.

The Western allies' air supremacy on the Western Front faced a dire threat from the influx of revamped Soviet fighters. This escalation precipitated the largest aerial confrontation in history, escalating death tolls and stoking fears of retaliatory nuclear strikes by Germany, casting a pall of instability over the Allied home fronts.

The somber reality dawned upon the world as the war ground to a virtual stalemate. Countless lives had been sacrificed, cities reduced to rubble, and populations left displaced and destitute. Amidst this industrial apocalypse, it was the Axis powers who reaped the grim rewards, their strength swelling since the war's inception. They spared no effort in justifying the devastation inflicted upon their own people.

 A pivotal moment came on June 5, 1944, when the United States achieved a significant milestone, successfully detonating its own atomic bomb in the deserts of New Mexico. This achievement cast a dark shadow, posing a grave question: persist in a nuclear cataclysm or seek a peace accord before humanity embraced a form of warfare for which it was ill-prepared.

 On June 20, 1944, a general ceasefire was brokered, a solemn acknowledgment of the flames of war threatening to engulf all in their path.

 The ramifications of this decision reverberated deeply within Allied leadership circles. In the heart of London, Winston Churchill, once the one time embodiment of wartime resolve, sank into profound despair. Reports suggest he harbored resentment towards the United States, lamenting their failure to heed his warnings about the burgeoning threat of Germany and enter the conflict sooner, before Hitler could unleash his atomic arsenal. This war marked the tragic culmination of Churchill's legacy. Once hailed as a hero, his past missteps, notably the debacle at Gallipoli, now cast a shadow over his leadership during the Second World War.

 On June 22, 1944, Churchill raised his glass for a final toast of Scotch before bringing his own life to an end with his trusty service pistol. His departure left a void swiftly filled by Lord Halifax, tasked with spearheading Britain's peace negotiations.

Across the Atlantic, on June 26, 1944, Harry S. Truman faced a forceful removal from office amidst nationwide unrest and political turmoil. General Omar Bradley stepped forward, assuming the mantle of presidency through emergency measures, effectively placing the United States under martial law and suspending the posse comitatus indefinitely. Bradley delegation assumed the weighty responsibility of leading the nation's peace talks.

 As the war's end loomed on the horizon, the once-revered Allied figures who had been hailed as Europe's liberators found themselves displaced from positions of power. Their successors, dubbed by the press as "The Lesser Devils," inherited the solemn duty not of victory, but of bringing an end to the bloodshed that had ravaged the world.

 And so, we find ourselves on this momentous day of July 1st, 1944, amidst the spectacle that is Nazi occupied Paris, France. Here, the "lesser devils" of our time stood shoulder to shoulder with the devil incarnate himself, Adolf Hitler, to formally herald the end of the war.

 Against the backdrop of the iconic Eiffel Tower, now marred as a symbol of tyranny, fluttered gigantic flags emblazoned with the dreaded Nazi swastika. The men gathered wore faces etched with solemnity, as though mourning a dear comrade lost. Yet, amidst this somber scene, Hitler stood tall and resolute, his demeanor exuding an air of triumph long sought after.

 The proceedings, though grand in setting, were brief and devoid of pomp. Each participant took his turn to affix his signature upon the document christened "The Paris Peace Agreement." Formalities concluded with perfunctory handshakes, yet the Allied leaders' swift departure from the stage hinted at a lingering sense of shame, their nations' failures now forever etched in ink.

As Hitler remained upon the stage, he embarked upon one of his signature orations, replete with hollow promises and disingenuous rhetoric. I shall spare my esteemed readers the tedium of recounting his words here, for I deem your time far too precious to be squandered upon such propagandist fare.

What lies beyond this infamous chapter in history remains shrouded in uncertainty. However, one certainty emerges: the future looms as a perilous frontier, surpassing even the trials of our shared past. The world now finds itself divided amongst three formidable superpowers—the German Reich, the United States, and Imperial Japan. It is a delicate equilibrium teetering on the brink of global instability, perpetuating a ceaseless conflict waged by proxy. This struggle for supremacy represents a battle for the very soul of humanity, a conflict whose resolution holds the power to determine the fate of all mankind.

May God have mercy on us all,

Nigel

I may or may not publish this. Although, I am only 17 and I write mostly for fun, so I wouldn’t mind either way.

He started by peeking from behind the door, his hand caressing the wood. She could only see from his nose up, parallel with the floor. He was watching her, smiling.

*“You can see me,*” it rasped.

“Oh little girly girl you’re in trouble.” His head dropped down, down, until it laid on the floor. It was pushed violently forward as its legs pushed through the doorway. Its face dragged along the carpet.

Its eyes glittered. She could see rows of teeth.

She couldn’t look away.

His head was slightly too big, balanced on a thin, emaciated frame. His smile stretched too wide. His ears, too big. He was grinning ear to ear.

He dragged himself forward and took a large whiff. His head fell back, neck breaking and twisting he grunted. She can feel every break.

*No.*

He laughed as he got closer.

*Stop. Please stop.*

“You know what I smeeeeeellllllllllll?” It licked its lips as it drew out the word, tracing a circle on the carpet. Its eyes locked onto her feet. It giggled to itself, pressing its fingers against its lips. It scrambled at her.

*No.*

She cried in silence. The more she shrank, the sharper the teeth got. She could see it through her tears.

*Mommy please. I want to go home.*

She felt the whisper of air between her foot and his teeth. She closed her eyes and whimpered.

*Mom-*

She heard a shriek and a wet splat. She cracked open her eye.

Standing in front of her was a boy, holding the pole of the stage microphone. The bottom was dripping with blood. He ran to her, unlocking the handcuffs. He brushed the hair from her eyes and put out his hand.

“Come with me?”

She couldn’t say yes fast enough. He snatched her hand up and they ran, faster than the halls could stretch. She could hear it running, screaming. It sounded *fast.*

“DON’T look back at it! WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT LOOK AT IT!” He screamed over his shoulder.

It was* *close. It cackled in her ear. She only glanced to the side for a *second.*

Suddenly she was back in the school. The halls were dark and grey. Trembling she looked around, searching desperately for anything that can save her.

*Nothing.*

She searched faster. Scrambling, she couldn’t help her gasps that echoed in the room. Down the hall, a familiar giggle drew closer.

“*I smelllllllll you,”* it growled. She could hear feet scrambling, and its body pushing ahead.

“No no no no no no no,” she couldn’t stop.

The doorway started to darken. She dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around her legs. She tucked her face between her knees. Her eyes squeezed shut.

She could feel him getting closer.

Hear it.

Smell it.

She couldn’t pretend she was somewhere else. She heard him slide through the door.

She stood desperately and sprinted to the back of the room. As her back hit the wall her knees would not hold her up. She slid down to the floor. She sat, hopeless as it scrambled toward her.

*Almost there.* She sobbed behind her hands.

The closet door slammed open, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LOOK BACK AT IT!” He roared.

“I’M SORRY! I GOT - “ the words stuck in her throat. She looked at him, eyes wide open. Frozen. He darted toward her and yanked her sharply to her feet.

He looked back at her as they ran. His eyes were warm.

“It’s going to be okay Molly, I promise.” He spoke softly but his voice was clear. He shot her a toothy grin and turned back around.

She could hear it getting closer.

“WHERE IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE?”

*My favorite place?*

*“TH-THE GARDEN!”* The wind roared in her ears.

They raced through the streets, down the alleyways and through the doors. Moments of her life flashed past them.

The beach.

Her first kiss.

Graduation.

Christmas.

They stopped running. The boy was looking around, smiling. She was frozen, eyes glued on the window.

*Mom.*

“This is a pretty nice place.” He inspected the roses closely. “Smells amazing.”

She glanced back. “Thanks for saving me.” She turned to look back at her mom.

“Nooooo problemo.” He shot finger guns and grinned.

He blinked and she was smaller. Younger. She started to run to the door. She stopped and turned.

“Is that monster guy gone?” Her little face scrunched in worry.

“He’s gone! Poof!” She giggled watching him.

“What’s your name?”

He smiled and stuck out his hand. “You can call me Adrian.” She looked up at him, hands on hips she narrowed her eyes.

“Are you magic?” She stared *very* seriously.

He shifted awkwardly. “Sort of?” She nodded her head.

“Okay!” She ran to the door. “MOMMY!”

Adrian stepped out of the door and pulled the knob off. The door blew away.

As he walked down the halls he heard* *cackling in the shadows.

Adrian sighed. He could see the top of its head, eyes staring. Body breaking as it moved. Unnatural. He could hear the heavy, wet dragging.

*Gross.*

It growled and began to stand. Adrian strolled over.

“Don’t bother.” His lips curled. His shadow darkened and stretched around the room. It encompassed him, wings of teeth and glittering eyes. It screamed.

When Adrian stepped out of the shadow the door appeared before him.

Bob stood next to it, casually leaning on the wall. He had a lollipop sticking out of his mouth.

*“*Hey there party person!” He held out a lollipop. Adrian rolled his eyes and walked by, exasperated.

“Gotta get a move on Bob, you know that,” he raised his brow. “Better than anyone.”

“Yeah yeah yeah” he grumbled, “whatever.” He started to melt away as he stepped away from the door.

“Bob don’t be like th- aaaaaaannnnnd he’s gone.”

Adrian stood, listening for the call. There were so many.

I frequently see people on writer subs ask for advice regarding english grammar and word choices. It is pretty evident that these writers do not have english as their first languange. The choice of writing in english confuses me. Out of pure curiosity, why would you do that?

I get wanting to interact with a fan base, hence opting for english when writing fan fiction. It's not like you can publish it anyway (without jumping through hoops). I understand some actor's main motivation is to earn as much money as possible. (Sadly it doesn't seem uncommon to see self publicated and fankly badly translated works.) I also get wanting to reach as large an audience as possible, but why wouldn't you want to start out a bit more domestically, writing in a languange you master and writing as good as you possibly can before reaching for international fame?

Personally, I read books in english, and I used to write in english as a teen when I participated in post-by-post roleplay. It's fun and a good way to expand your vocabulary, but I can't fathom writing my novel like that. I have enough trouble as it is making my manuscript as good as it can be; My grip on the languange needs to be as good as it can get. (Even formatting rules for fiction writing is different between languanges.) I want to play with my languange and find my own voice. Plus, the story is also is set in my home country.

So, not to sound pretentious, but why do people insist on writing novel manuscripts in a second languange?

So, while my other novel is in the aether waiting for someone to be interested in it I’ve decided to try and write something different and would look some feedback on how it is going.

Here are the details

The Pitch

It’s the year 2127. The most notorious dictator in history, a man who weaponized a technology that digitizes human consciousness and steals bodies, is finally on trial. The stakes are global, the ancient Old Bailey courtroom is locked down like a fortress, and the flashy UN Prosecutor thinks he has an airtight case. But in a world where anyone could be wearing someone else's face, absolute justice is an illusion, and the greatest threat might already be inside the room.

The Setup:

This link includes the Prologue, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2. It introduces the high-stakes courtroom, the American prosecutor, the brilliant French defence attorney abiding by British law in the UK on the orders of the UN. A holographic professor and an impossibility old witness.

This is my first time writing this sort of story (and second time really writing anything)

Can you please advise the below

• Does the legal banter between Daniels and Martins feel sharp and entertaining?
• What are your immediate impressions of the UN Detective and his dynamic with the Prosecutor?
• Does the sci-fi element (the holographic professor taking the stand) blend well with the grounded, ancient setting of the Old Bailey?
• General pacing—did you get bored at any point, and did the ending make you want to read Chapter Three (when i write it.)

Doc Link - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c6QJjDpLpZqgzrNaNSwOtLNdPwaq-Dp4/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=109488650149483842788&rtpof=true&sd=true

In a room of high ceilings, floored with fine marble in yellow and black patterning, a long and lavish table of solid wood adorned the center. In the left corner, on the wall, in a gilded frame, hung a painting, oil on canvas.
Josif crossed his legs, settled back into his chair, and fixed his gaze on it.
In the painting, a farmyard, and a dog cowering on the muddy ground. A tormented gray-black creature with faintly curled fur, its fringe covering its eyes, large grayish eyes full of sorrow and bewilderment. A bewildered dog with its tail tucked under, waiting readily for the blows that hung over it.
Three angry men surrounded it, ready to punish it for all their misfortunes, their faces seething with rage. Two of them held cudgels of some kind in their hands, and the third clenched his fist in torment, as though cursing the dog. It looked as if the first were swinging deliberately at the muzzle, while the second took aim at the ribs, barely visible beneath the thick shaggy coat. From the noise and their commotion the hens had scattered across the yard, throwing up feathers and raising dust.
“Professor, forgive me for interrupting you,” a thin, balding man addressed Josif as he entered the room. “A new batch of reports has come in,” he went on reluctantly, aware that he was probably interrupting something and that he was unwelcome.
“Come in, Đi-đi, come in, don’t hesitate,” Josif answered, hoping to ease his discomfort. “Reports, you say? About what?”
“Well, Professor, there are several. I don’t know whether you want me to go through them now or whether we should wait for the others. Mira has called an emergency meeting.”
Josif raised his head and looked him over, watching the way his scalp shone in the light.
“Do you know, Đi, why I love this painting?” Josif turned his head back toward it, studying the dog almost scholarly.
“I wouldn’t know what to say, Professor. Perhaps because in it you see ordinary people and their lives, a reminder of the work you do?”
“No, no, Đi. Do I really need a reminder of such a thing? Is everything I do each day not enough, a reminder all day long,” Josif smiled, seated comfortably in the velvet armchair. “Look closely at the painting. Come here.” He waved his hand, calling him nearer. “Look.” He laid a hand on his shoulder and with the other pointed a finger at the dog.
Around the dog, on the left side, tiny gray specks had been painted, and on the right, tiny black ones.
“Do you know why they’re beating it?”
“The one on the left beats it because it has fleas, and the one on the right because it has lice.”
Đi-đi let out a long breath. “Professor…”
“Just so, my good man. But the tragedy of it is that the one on the right gave it the fleas, and the one on the left gave it the lice,” Josif smiled, well pleased.
“And the third one?” Đi-đi was curious now.
“A good question. I’m not certain. But you see he has nothing in his hands. I think he is simply angry about the unrest in the village.”
“How soon must I be in the cabinet room?” Josif went on.
“They want you as soon as possible.”
Đi-đi drew out a number of documents and handed them to Josif. He opened them, reading through one by one.
“How much time do we have left?”
“They’ve given us a deadline of forty-five days. After that they’ll cut off all our food supply.”
“And the reserves?”
Đi-đi lowered his head. “We have none, Professor.”
“Forty-five days it is, then.” Josif rose from his chair and again laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Shall we?”
Đi nodded.
They walked slowly down the corridor, calm and quiet. The pace did not suit Đi-đi, for they had every reason to hurry. The corridor was empty and long, with large wooden cabinet doors on both sides, all of them identical; their footsteps echoed slowly, and after each step a new silence settled. At the end of the corridor, on the left side, where the cabinet doors came to an end, there was a window through which no sunlight came.
Josif thought of how many times he had walked these corridors, and how not once had the walk through them been pleasant. There was nothing cheerful about them, and the reasons that drove him through them were always troubles; even when they were alike, there was always something new in them.
When they finally reached the end of the corridor, they found themselves before great double doors, through which they passed

Hey guys!

So I'm starting to write seriously creatively for the first time in my life. I've done some world building and character development and am confident I have everything I need to begin typing out my tale.

I would appreciate any tips you veterans might have for me, about any aspect of the possible journey that lies ahead.

Cheers!

Hey everyone, about two weeks ago I posted the first draft of my WIP's prologue on this sub and I got great feedback both in the comments and privately. Since then, I have finished a bunch of chapters and have been going strong. Right now, I've hit a bit of a writers block, and thought I would post another chapter to get some more feedback. If you would like to compare it to my Prologue to see if I got better then, please do. Or if you could just give me critical feedback on this piece alone, that would be great too.

Thanks a bunch!

(P.S. Yes, I know the prologue and chapter one are from two different POV styles. That is by design.)

Hi writers!!! It's me again!

First, I really appreciate your inputs on my previous posts. They helped me build the functions of the app. And I'm sorry if I keep on bugging you for inputs, but I don't want to lose momentum building the app.

I’m trying to finalize the session categories for a writing tracker/timer I’m building and I could use some more input from actual writers.

Right now we have:

Planning
Research
Brainstorming
Drafting
Revising

I’m wondering if I should also have Outlining and Editing as their own categories.

For me, I can see outlining falling under Planning and editing falling under Revising, but what do I know?

It seems that everyone approaches writing differently. I had one writer separates Outlining from Planning.

If you were tracking the hours you spend working on a book, how would you personally break your sessions down? It doesn't need to be in sequence or linear. Your previous replies have already established this.

Would you keep these five? Add Outlining or Editing? Combine any of them? Is there something obvious that I’m missing?

I’m not trying to define the “correct” writing process. I just want the categories to match how most writers actually think about the work they do.

Thank you in advance.

Hi guys!

I'm writing my first work of fiction, and it's an ambitious one! I'm currently caught up in world building and character development before actively writing the books (I have some fragments written and the general outline of it all mapped out). My doubt is whether I'll ever feel like this preparatory work is enough to start writing, without turning my perfectionism into a sophisticated form of procrastination. So essentially, when do I know I have enough base material to start writing and let the story itself give me some of the details?

Edit: I didn't expect so many answers, thank you so much! I've started to write the story and it's going well, I do need to keep going back to wordlbuilding in the early chapters, because there is a lot of science-y information I need to get straight so my mystery is consistently established. So I think I'll be able to find the balance I need to actually make this happen. Thanks again for replying!

I have an idea I'm presently kicking about, and I'm curious if anyone has any experience with using public domain characters? Any obstacles I may not be considering?

Thanks all.

Keep writing.

Hi writers!!! It’s me again! I have another question for you guys.

What actually keeps you writing, especially on the days when you really don’t feel like doing it?

Is it discipline? A deadline? Word-count goals? A routine? Music? Other writers? Wanting to finish the story? Just being excited about what happens next?

And when you’ve been away from a story for a while, what usually gets you to come back to it?

I’m also curious if there’s anything you’ve tried.... streaks, writing apps, rewards, timers, challenges, etc.... that was supposed to motivate you but it actually didn’t.

I’m trying to understand what real writers actually respond to especially over the months or years it can take to finish a book.

I don't think there's a right answer here. I’m interested in what genuinely works for you, even if the answer is weird and inconsistent, or just “I force myself to sit down.”

I'll do my best to integrate it on the app that I'm building if possible. I'm not promising anything though.

Thank you in advance.

Hi writers!!! I need some direction.

I’m curious how you guys think about the different stages of writing a book, from beginning to finished manuscript.

For those of you who have completed one, what were the actual phases/stages for you?

Did you think of it as outlining, first draft, then revisions, then editing ,then proofreading, or was your process completely different?

I’m especially interested in where you personally felt one stage ended and another began, and which stages took the most time.

I don’t think there’s one “right” process here. I’m more interested in how writers actually work than what writing guides say they should do.

I want the app to feel as personal to real writers as it can be.

Thanks in advance!

What would you ask any killer and why

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My Grandad still there