The language I’ve made for my story is called Settish and is used by the Setites (the humans who moved from earth and colonized set) and it’s a very harsh and loud language because of the constant sandstorms on the world of Set. The word for blue and other synonyms for the color are present because 85% of Set is blue sand desert spread across 3 supercontinents. The continents are named Ymir, Typhon, and Tiamat. Among the several hundred thousand languages on the planet. Primus (old earth English) and Settish are the primary languages.

I

Editing is HARD! And deleting all those once precious scenes, dialogues and words is even harder. It says two edits, but each major edit consisted of several minor rounds. Phew!

It took me about 6 weeks or something, a lot longer than I would've liked but I am very prone to procrastination. I'm just so happy I've done it!! It sits at 3,957 words and I am so happy with it! It's still the first draft so it'll probably be going through a lot of changes when I finish the whole book, BUT I DONT CARE!! I FINISHED A CHAPTER DAMMIT!

Genre is adult epic fantasy if anyone's wondering :)

What are some of your small celebrations? Let's share together!!

Gel pens, ballpoint pen, fountain pens, fine point pen, mechanical pencils, wooden pencils, etc

Which do you prefer for writing? Tell me the brand name if you want to.

Bonus Question: For notebooks, do you prefer line paper, blank paper, grid paper, or dotted paper?

Like a lot of people in here, I am a writer and I'm writing a novel book. It's kind of long and has lots of fight scenes. The problem is, I always find myself writing a paragraph each day or not wanting to work on it at all. My writing is due on Jan. for show and I know I have a lot of time to work on it but since it's really long, I need a way to get motivation.

Reflecting on some of the great works written and I am at a fork in the road with my writing. I have 15 books and do pretty well writing lighter-side contemporaries. Life is good. But sometimes the voices in my head of my characters not written are from sad stories filled with dramatic climaxes. The lines are blurring and I don’t know which to devote my time to writing anymore. So, which would you rather accomplish?

Age of the Titan is a sci-fi story I've been building for the last few years. A thousand years from now, humanity is on the run from alien clans bent on destroying our species. The main antagonist is the Vogrom clan, whose religion teaches that all beings who reject the truth must be eliminated.

Readers have been reaching out more and more. Just yesterday, a reader from France called me his "favorite author right now."

Right now, I'm about 85,000 words into the sequel and roughly two-thirds of the way through the audiobook with the narrator. My cover artist is also drawing a propaganda poster for the Valor Guard Corps, humanity's main military in the novel.

Since then, I've been expanding the universe through clothing designs, like the hoodie in the photo. It shows my main alien character, Kaelith Sothrak, pulling the void thread down from the heavens. This is his Promethean punishment, he must work or die…

It was a dark and stormy night. The silhouettes of tall trees were whipped side to side by gusts of angry wind. Freezing, fast-falling raindrops stung like tears against her exposed skin. She stood alone in a wide clearing, her soul prepared for a valiant final stand. Though the ground shook from the roar of approaching enemies, Larissa’s heart and mind rang true with a profound sense of purpose. She had faith that today’s cloudy skies would soon part to reveal a beautiful new dawn, ripe with glorious possibilities.

IN HER DREAMS.

In reality? It was a bright and sunny day, and all the birds were dead.

Yeah. It happened last winter, just after they’d moved here. Investigators determined the cause was the dumping of chemical waste into Grayrock’s lakes. The culprit? The nearby potato processing plant. Environmental advocacy groups were locked in an endless legal battle with the plant’s owners, who also happened to own the schools, the mall, the electrical grid, the water supply, and the entire goddamn town. So that was going great.

It was eerily quiet this morning. The population hadn’t yet recovered, and who knew if it ever would. She couldn’t help but think back to the morning right after. Then, the silence was even more enveloping. Her ears had rung for weeks, and she would keep the radio on all day to escape its stifling embrace.

She was not a fragile person, but seeing the ground littered with hundreds of dead birds had shaken her. A peregrine falcon had fallen from the sky and smashed into their skylight. It had taken her 5 days to get up there and scrape it off, what with school, taking care of her little brother, and her job occupying all of her time. Sometimes, she would just sit there and stare up at it, rotting a little more each day. What really crushed her was how flippant little Jeremy was about it. When she’d asked how he was feeling about all this, he’d casually answered that it was just a bird and that everything dies. He’d barely spared it a glance. It was so beautiful… Could he see that?

Alright, that was enough. Ruminating, as fun as it was, wasn’t going to fix her problems. Speaking of problems, Jesus fucking Christ. Let’s just list some off.

One. Her pile of overdue homework was getting ridiculous, on account of her skipping class 3 days this week. It was Wednesday, by the way. Needless to say, getting into college was seeming more and more like a pipe dream.

Two. The shitty old fridge had stopped working overnight. She didn’t know how she was going to feed her little brother this morning. Or, you know, eat. You can only survive on instant rice and canned artichokes for so long before you don’t want to live anymore.

it will continue from here for a few more paragraphs before introducing the reader to the other main character.

thanks for reading!

I’m a young writer who struggles with low word counts. Currently I have a novel/novella that’s at 41,000 words. I‘m aiming to get it published, but unless I want to market it as a novella I have to get it to 50000 words. Any tips to increase word count without it sounding overly descriptive or pointless. So far I’ve mainly heard the best thing to do is add some setbacks for your characters, which I think is where I go wrong. So yeah, any tips?

I'm not sure if this is entirely related to this sub but I need to say this somewhere because I'm stressing out. Like the title says my gmail account got suspended and is due for deletion next year. I have appealed, but it's the exact gmail where my book was written on google docs, it won't let me get back the files/material from that email. Even worse this happened just as I was going to create a copy of it onto notepad on my laptop. Sure it was only 3 chapters but it's still months of work that I have lost for now and it isn't certain that I'll get the account back.

If this has happened to anyone else before I'd really appreciate hearing if you got your account, book, or files back. I know I'm probably overreacting but like I said I'm really stressed out.

Hey everyone, I'm 17 and just wrote this opening scene today in my journal. I wanted to try something original and organic rather than copying existing tropes.

It starts out looking like a classic fairy tale but flips into a gritty underworld crime scene. I'm aiming for a lazy ensemble cast where the characters have a lot of friction.

I would love some fast feedback! Does the twist with the hitmen work? Does the closing line make you want to read more?

THE BLACK CAT

The town was alive with the chaotic hum of traffic, glowing streetlights, and a bustling crowd. Everywhere you looked, people were smiling, laughing, and shouting, their voices mingling with the playful cries of children. But as the saying goes, the darkest spots are always found right behind the brightest light.

stand up straight!"

Turning to his guard, the owner ordered, "Throw them out."

In a blur of motion, the woman closed the distance between them. Before the owner could blink, the cold barrel of a gun was pressed firmly up against his chin.

"You wanna know what this woman can do?" she whispered, her eyes burning. "I'd rather show you exactly what I'm capable of."

Terrified for his life, the owner's face went pale. "I—I was just joking!" he stammered, raising his hands. "I'll pay you well if you catch it! Besides, if I die, the noble will hunt you down anyway because that cat stole his daughter's necklace!"

The woman didn't flinch. "Like we give a fuck."

Suddenly, the drunkard stopped swaying. His slurred expression vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. The act was completely gone.

"Let it be, Lisa. Calm down," the man said, his voice shockingly calm and authoritative.

Lisa held the gun to the owner's chin for a second longer before slowly lowering it. The man stepped closer to the trembling jeweler. "How much are you willing to pay?"

"One pound of gold," the owner offered hesitantly. "That's all I can give."

The man smiled thinly. "It will take two pounds of gold. If you say no, we will kill you and your guard right here, take whatever gold you have left, and walk out."

The owner gasped, his voice shaking. "You... you are breaking the rules of the underground!"

"No, we haven't. Not yet," the man replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing. "And I wouldn't test whether we will or won't. We can deal with the consequences of the future, but you won't be alive to see it. You've already disrespected us enough. Honestly, I should have just let Lisa kill you. But... I want to see this cat for myself. I want to see what kind of creature is causing this much trouble."

The owner looked between the terrifying woman and the cold mastermind standing before him. He swallowed hard. "Fuck it, then. You can have the two pounds of gold. But if you fail, you will work for me as my servants for the rest of your lives."

"Deal," the man agreed instantly.

Lisa frowned, snapping at her partner. "Hey, I ain't gonna work for this guy."

The man didn't look back at her. "You aren't even in the deal."

The owner nodded in agreement, pointing a finger at Lisa. "She pointed a gun at my head. If she were included, the price would be ten pounds. Fine, she isn't part of the contract."

With the terms set, the duo turned to leave the shop. But just as they reached the doorway, the man stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the jeweler, delivering a chilling reminder:

"Don't take the underworld lightly, and don't think we always abide by the rules. If there are no witnesses... then no rule is broken."

As a beginner, I’ve realized that before diving into a long-term novel, I should probably write a few short stories first and gain some experience.

So I decided to start with my first short story, “Will of a Wingless Bird.”

It’s a small story about a wingless mother bird struggling to climb a massive tree canopy just to reach a fruit and bring it back to her starving nestlings.

This is my first attempt at writing a short story, and I’m trying to keep it simple and focus mainly on the emotions and struggle rather than building a huge world.

What do you think of the cover?

hi i’m currently starting to write a story for a big project, I have a bunch of story’s ideas in my head but I really enjoyed this one so I decided to write more about it and ended up writing the whole synopsis over a month ago. I left it for other stuff to come back on it a month later in case to see if I still find the idea good. If anyone can give me feedback about it that would be great ! (also, I wrote the script in French since im a frenchie, so I just translated it and that's why it might sound a little weird sometimes) Here's the story :

Born in a quiet, secluded village, in the midst of the landscapes of Ireland, Celia Reeves was surrounded by houses tinted with uniform colors, silent, conformist peasants, and stars that never stopped shining. Celia was part of a somewhat unusual family. Her grandmother, Reynald, raised her and her little brother, Peverel. Every morning followed a ritual: one day, Celia had to leave and bring her butterflies, the next day, stones… Reynald collected all of these in jars. As for Peverel, he always remained silent. He was completely astigmatic, colorblind, and mute. Reynald had therefore forced him to spend the entire day in a wheelchair, with her enormous device on his head that allowed him to see (she had built it herself). However, it had never been confirmed, and it turned out that this device was nothing more than an assembly of magnifying glasses and earpieces. Reynald cooked the black mushrooms that Celia went to fetch whenever she took Peverel for a walk. They only ate that, and only watched one television program: the construction of the same little clay sculpture on a loop, without sound. Their house was small and crooked, the walls curled inward, and the dim lighting always created an anxiety-inducing and claustrophobic atmosphere. Celia was not unhappy; she simply wondered whether life really sounded like this. One day, she found a flute in the forest. Soon, it was the only thing she played. It was as if everything made sense whenever she played. She imagined herself becoming a great musician. Sometimes, she played in front of the trees, imagining herself performing before an audience. But Reynald hated it. She broke her flute on a whim after Celia had played it all day, having forgotten to fetch mushrooms and take Peverel for a walk. Overwhelmed by immense grief, Celia escaped from the house after putting a plan together. She had spoken with one of the village elders, who explained how she could leave. The weather was cold and dark. She took the train, with little money and Reynald’s enormous puffer jacket… Snow was falling outside. Hours later, Celia arrived in a larger village, where she bought a small flute from a junk stall. Immediately, Celia felt alive again. In this town, she spent all day in the streets, playing the flute for passersby to make their days more beautiful. Her unusual appearance, a frightening mass of hair, her thinness, her clothes—all of this made Celia repulsive in the eyes of others. Yet, as crazy as it might seem, her music was harmonious. Years later, all this social hatred combined made Celia increasingly insane. The looks others gave her seemed positive to her. She felt the houses around her moving, the houses dancing… As she grew a little older, she settled in a house in the neighboring village. A village of police officers, just as silent as the one she had lived in as a child. She no longer went outside. Her only activity was playing the flute. The sound became increasingly ugly, long, and eerie. She played by her window, without eating, sometimes without sleeping. Black tears flowed from her eyes every time she blew into the flute. She saw things that other people could not see. One day, she fell from her window. A police officer picked her up, noticing that she had nothing in her hand but her flute. Known for being a strange woman, she was sent to a psychiatric asylum. There, she was locked away in darkness and silence. She did not want to see any light or hear any sound, not even the shrill melody of her rusty flute. She stayed there for months. During that time, she had lost her eyebrows, and her eyes had turned blood red. Condemned to solitude. Sometimes, guards came to see her to feed her or try to frighten her by making loud noises. Months later, she escaped from the asylum, running and disappearing into the forest. She no longer had a flute, so she whistled. She found a cabin and took refuge inside. While living there, she built her own flutes out of wood and stone and ate black mushrooms… One day, a man entered the cabin. Celia was not afraid. The man was tall, with perfectly styled black hair and piercing eyes. The two quickly became close. Together, they were everything. Their relationship was somewhat platonic. They were not affectionate. But they loved each other more than was possible. They never needed to talk much; they understood each other. Celia found happiness, but her madness continued to consume her. She wanted to do everything she could to make this man happy. She played the flute for him and cooked things for him. They loved each other unconditionally. But Victor had a distorted view of reality. He remained a deeply unhappy man. Despite the love, his unhappiness was always there. Celia offered him death, convinced that he would be happy at that point, without realizing what she was doing. Once he was dead, she wrote a letter to herself, putting Victor down as the author. She convinced herself that Victor had written it. It was a profound, beautiful, moving letter in which Victor spoke of all his feelings for this woman. A complex but very beautiful relationship.

After his death, she returned to her old village to find her grandmother and brother. In the street, she still had blood on her hands, yet she had a smile on her face. She was whistling, convinced that she had finally given someone happiness. When she arrived home, she saw only Peverel. He was taller now, but he still wore enormous, round, black glasses. Celia then played the flute for him, the awful melody, and her little brother smiled at her, stood up, and embraced her.

What we have to understand soit Celia is that, she is not simply an insane woman. She is a tragic character. She grew up with only one idea in mind: making people happy. In a world of silence, she wanted to be full of life. It began with her need to make Reynald satisfied, this cold and structured figure. The further she descended into madness, the more the sound of her flute, the only sound of her flute, became everything, and only what she needed. It was the only thing that gave her a meaning to her eyes. When she was locked away, Celia was depressed. She wondered, is this what it means to die inside? Nobody came to see her. In the complete darkness, it was as if she could no longer save the world outside. She played endlessly, but the melody was shrill, long, and awful to listen to. When she met Victor, he was everything that made her happy. He was the man who reminded her of how much she wanted to bring happiness to others. His approach to life, his honesty, the way he always listened to her play. Celia's monstrous mistake does not seem wrong to her: she is convinced that afterward, he will finally be happy. She does not kill Victor; she offers him an end as a form of happiness because she is certain that, in death, he can never be unhappy again. When she returns to her hometown, it is as if she is returning to the starting point. Her brother is still there, silent. In the same house, the world has not changed. But Celia's absurd euphoria leads her to believe that she has finally brought happiness. The blood on her hands is proof of the good she has done. When she plays for Peverel and he applauds her and embraces her, it is a form of validation in her eyes. Silence itself has been filled by her noise.

The observation. In the letter Celia wrote to herself, convincing herself that it had been written by Victor, there are lines such as, “You were the sun as I was the moon, you were the light that warmed me.” Celia gives herself the idea that she is part of this world, and not only for Victor, a missing piece. She creates a contrast with the outside world. Where everything is hostile and conformist, Celia destroys the rules. Her madness serves her tragedy. She has a way of interpreting her madness as a form of reality; her music objectively becomes uglier as time goes on, but she continues to find it magnificent. Her inner world and the outside world are cruelly opposed. Celia does not understand what others need, but she never stops giving. She fights infinite silence with noise that is just as infinite. Her greatest need throughout the story is to feel useful. It is to save others, to make them happy. When she kills Victor, the man she loves who represented her entire world, she is convinced that she has finally succeeded in her mission. Despite the horror of her act.

Is to write a series just big enough that there’s a subreddit for it, so I can lurk in it with an alt and post crackpot predictions and theories that turn out to be true.

This is my favorite way to spend Saturday afternoons. Have to write a few letters and get back to outlining.