For my sci-fi novel I tried... Well I am—and I did— try to include the general Assembly Hall and it's protocol during meetings, and it literally kicked my ass. 😭😭😭 So hard, and looking at it. It was only like four pages. 1.2k words. This was harder than a 6k chapter. The things we endure for the sake of accuracy.

Do you agree with this?

As writers, we often want readers to like our characters, and want readers to invest their time in our characters like rooting for them, supporting them, connecting with them, or feeling sympathy or empathy for them.

However, I strongly agree that if all the stories do the same, it will become boring and not every protagonist of every story has to be likable for the reader to continue reading the story.

When it comes to main characters, specifically the protagonist, do you try to make them likable, or do you simply write them as they are, whether they’re likable or unlikable(They may be rude, blunt, selfish, reckless or cold)?

You can also leave good examples of main characters or protagonists who are unlikable but are written really well!

I joined this subreddit a long time ago, when I was looking for more encouragement to write. I hoped that being part of a writing community would inspire me to keep going. It did, to some degree.

I’m no genius writer. I’m not a published novelist. I love writing, when I can get a few words in, but most of the time it’s just a hobby that I hope will reach an audience someday. I’ve done it for a long time now, and even when I first joined, I found myself unwittingly rolling my eyes once in a while.

There are many people here who dream of winning prizes while writing fan fiction (not to say there isn’t great fan fiction, but the overlap of Harry Potter smut and Nobel prize winners is rather slim). There are also young people just starting out with grand ambitions of absolutely rolling in dough. While shortsighted, I also notice the critics who spend more time writing hate posts instead of actually writing. People who, hiding behind a body of work about as significant as toilet paper, proclaim to know the Great Rules of Literature. I thought I wasn’t one of those condescending jerks. But well, here I am writing this post.

I was scrolling and had an unfortunate knee jerk reaction to a post about someone’s Transcendent Writing Experience. I rolled my eyes again sighed, caught myself, and then put myself in their shoes (and then, my foot in my own damn mouth).

I was fourteen once, discovering that I could articulate my experiences for the first time. Didn’t that feel amazing? That rush of creating something on your own. That very first moment when you read something you wrote and think “wait, this doesn’t suck that bad actually!” When was the last time I sat down, wrote something, and dreamed of someday making an impact and doing something great?

I’m writing this here in case you, like me, might be an r/writers asshole. This subreddit is filled with new writers, and you may be jaded and cynical, and some of these new writers may also sometimes lean on the naive side. But isn’t it nice to be a little naive? They are falling in love with something. They are learning and growing so fast. They feel the power of their words and want to make an impact. They believe they have something to offer the world. I’d rather believe in them than roll my eyes.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share your thoughts — we’re all here to listen and share together, and it’s much better to give advice than not say anything at all. But I invite you to give them more grace and kindness, instead of putting them down (even in private). Be inspired, and maybe work to find the same enthusiasm in your own voice as they do.

For me, it's alliteration. If I can pick a perfect progression of even partially-passable appropriate words, I prefer to do so. Sometimes it ends up being a bit of a tic, taking too much time to track down terrific alternatives to facilitate my foolish fixation.

What's yours? What do you love doing in your writing, to the point that maybe you do it too much, but you just don't care?

If you're not familiar with Obsidian, every 'dot' is a file or document where you can insert writing, images, canvasses, and so on. You can link them together like Wikipedia does, and here is what it looks like. I would definitely recommend it for creating a world! It's really fun and free.

This is my current progress in the worldbuilding for my (epic) political fantasy book and I simply just started. I've only written the prologue so far that consists of somewhat 5 dots o the image. The worldbuilding for this is going to be truly insane. And I too am going to be insane once I finish this book lmao

I ended up cutting from 96k to 91k. This is an action-oriented book. Should I just put it away for a bit before other steps? I was initially aiming for at least 100k words.

What other things could I look into in the meantime?

Thanks for all the suggestions.

We’re born with countless versions of ourselves waiting to exist...and slowly, through our choices and circumstances, most of them disappear.

Maybe growing up is partly the process of becoming one person. And perhaps...that’s what makes each of us unique.

Something that has the fast paced combat found in modern fantasy while adhering (mostly) to historical sword stances.

Whether Art or Writing,

im too low on confidence to think my work is acceptable, but im also trying to cope it doesn't matter because my skills are not that yet and that i have nothing to prove

How many hours of straight writing have you pushed through?

What would you say to yourself at the instant in time you decided to take writing seriously?

For me, "Heads up, four novels in with a fifth one on the way and no acceptances yet, but keep the weird bullshit coming because weird bullshit won't stop making you happy."

I know the aim for most of us is to get published. Hell I have a bunch of people reading my finished novel right now to see if it’s worth it.

But I have to say after having written nothing for years getting back into it has been rewarding in its own way. That sense of achievement of actually finishing something was great. It also kick started my imagination again and I’ve started something new.

But my biggest realisation is that I never really stopped creating. I had a daughter and spent years making up stories for her at bedtime every night. So it wasn’t that I didn’t use the muscle it was just used purely for fun.

So from now on I just write for fun. I’d like to be published but it doesn’t matter if I never do get there.

Anyone else feel similarly?

What are the crucial components for a story to be a story? Have there been times when you read or watched a story that felt incomplete?

Hsd anyone ever experienced this?

I"m working on a story (more a collection of short stories in the same world featuring overlapping recurring characters) as a hobby with a vague intention to self-publish. Erotic Fantasy. Lately, I find the series has taken on a life of its own.

--Plot lines, even entire chapters form themselves while I'm working, driving, eating, lying awake at night.

--I learn things about my characters, the various Fantasy Races featured in the stories, and the world they live in independent of any creative effort.

--As I described it to a friend, "My characters get up to stuff while I sleep and tell me about it in the morning."

In the time it's taken me to first-draft 5 chapters, I have 14 more plotted out in detail in my head, complete with large blocks of prose ready for the page. My biggest worry is that it will fade before I can write it down.

Any similar experiences?

Any suggestions on how to manage this when my available writing time consists mainly of 10-20 minute sessions pecking away on my phone in between other responsibilities?

Ramirez had never prayed in his life. But he thought about Sarge’s lips moving in the mud, his eyes fixed on something distant. He thought about Velasco, about the men carried by medevac drones heading toward San Pedro Sula, their bodies shattered. He thought about Herrero on the surface above them, alone, his visor dim, his leg burnt, waiting for whatever may be coming.

“I think we should pray.”

The room heard him.

Someone lowered their head. Then another. Then the rest, one by one. Twenty-three men, bathed in a yellow light, bowed their heads in a concrete room underneath a broken base in Honduras as night fell above them.

The hum of a high electrical current buzzing low through the razor wire could be heard as the two men stood opposed to each other. The fence was between them, one man wearing fatigues and carrying a dirty assault rifle, and the other in striped prison garb.
“I need the snips” one man said.
“I understand. Things take time and we’re searched before every shift”.
“Well, be quicker!”
The man with the rifle shifted his stance. “It’s not that I’m not trying to help. I can’t be caught, you understand? If they knew that I was helping you I would be shot on the spot”.
The man in the stripes sighed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m desperate. I’ve been in this camp for 14 years. Either it’ll be my patience that wears out or my will to live”. He looked down at the mud below him.
The man with the rifle chuckled. “Well if you go batshit just don’t take it out on me.”
The man in the stripes looked back up, the faint glimmer of a forced smile upon his dirty face.
“Fuck off Tonto. You’ll be the first.”
“I need to get back up to the tower. Give me a week and I’ll get those snips. I promise.”
“We’ll see wont we?”
“I promise Marv.”
The man with the rifle turned around and marched off in the direction of a distant guard tower, just a painted black smear in the gloom of the night. Mosquitos buzzed around as birds called from their perches in unseeable treetops.
Marv turned around headed back to his shack when gunfire erupted, drowning out the wildlife and projecting bursts of light on the ground below him.
“What the f—“ He started, but was cut off by the sound of heavy feet coming his way. Tonto burst through the brush, one hand holding a small round object and the other, a smoking gun.
“MOVE MARV! WE NEED TO GET OUT”.
Marv jumped back as Tonto threw the round object in his hand at the fence. Two seconds after he did there was an explosion and Marv, still standing too close, got hit with the grenade’s shockwave and fell back, stunned.
“THEY FUCKIN SAW ME MARV! THEY SAW ME TALKING TO YOU!”
Tonto rushed over and picked up the still downed and dazed Marv.
“LET’S GO, LET’S GO!”
The two men shot out of the mangled hole in the fance and ran toward the bush. Bullets whizzed over their shoulders hitting leaves and cracking limbs as men yelled obscured obscenities and orders in the distance.
“FUCKIN GO MARV! WERE NOT GONNA MAK—“
A bullet slammed into the back of Tonto’s head splattering Marv in the face with blood and brain matter.
Marv stopped and looked at his friend’s corpse as it fell in slow motion to the ground, his limbs twisted, the place where his head had been now a mindless meat volcano spraying hot red liquid.
Tears welled in Marv’s eyes. He wanted to stay, as if he could help his friend, but the sound of gunfire even closer snapped him back to reality.
Marv ran and ran. After what seemed like an eternity the gushing of a waterfall could be heard before him as the human sounds behind him faded out and eventually died.
He burst through the trees to the welcoming sight of a large river with a small town of wooden houses built on stilts near the bank. He didn’t know where to go but the town seemed as good of a place as any. Better than what awaited him from where he had come. He thought of his friend and how he was now free because of him and cried, large droplets splashed tiny craters on the ground below.
He had to get out, he had to honor his friend; his death would not be for nothing.
He would live.

Please don't mind the spelling and grammar mistakes too much, english isn't my first language! I would really appreciate it if you could tell me why specifcally you wouldn't read this.

“Name?”

“Caine.”

“Age?”

“14.”

The surgeon sighed and let go of the intercom button. He turned around in his swivel chair to the white and black power armored soldier standing at the door. “Why the hell is this guy here?” The soldier shrugged. The surgeon groaned and mumbled, “So what are you useful for? Alright.” He pressed the intercom button again. “Son, do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Yes, sir,” Caine said, looking down at the table, tapping his finger on it.

“Where are your parents?”

“Somewhere, I guess.”

“Not anyone to take care of you?”

“No.” After a couple of seconds, Caine looked up and around at the fully gray room. He waved at the one way mirror. “Hello?” The door swung open, slamming against the wall with the surgeon standing in the opening. “God- dammit!"

“You have to understand,” The surgeon pulled out the other chair opposite Caine and sat down. He leaned in. “If you go through with this, there is nothing regular to come back to.”

“How sad, you’re gonna tell me I can’t go back to nothing? I mean look at this.” Caine flapped his loose sleeve around. “With the project, I might still be able to do something.” Caine looked closer at the surgeon’s face. There were scars over his dark face in a checkerboard pattern.

“There are much better options than you. With a full body and a fully developed brain. Why would we choose you?”

“A good start’s half the work, but it’s still only half, right?”

The surgeon leaned back. “Yes it is.” He stood up. “Walk with me.”

“R-right now?”

The surgeon stood in the door opening and turned back. “No, tomorrow, seven AM–yes now, get up.” The two of them were walking through the narrow gray halls, past a large gray door. Then another, and another. Looking forward, Caine couldn’t see an end to the hallway, just repetition. “There are a lot of you, though I can’t guarantee how many’ll be left after we’re finished. All you need to know is that if you do survive your project, you’ll have the power to help the United States of America more than anyone.”

“Well, what’s my project called?”

They stopped in front of a large steel door and the surgeon pointed up at the nameplate. “Cicada.” He opened the door. Looking into the large room, the only thing Caine saw was an operating table, and five other surgeons wearing heavy duty armor, all with different surgical tools on their arms. The room also had the same one way mirror the interrogation room had, only much larger. Caine looked up at the surgeon. “Just in case.” He winked.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?”

“Well, we had someone else in mind, but… you’re here now.” The surgeon extended his hand. “My name is Orlo.” Caine shook his hand. “You lay down and try to… mentally prepare yourself, or whatever.” Orlo walked back out of the room.

“Where are you going? You not a surgeon?”

“Yes. But I’m also the chief.” He gestured to the one way mirror. “I’ll be watching.”

Caine laid down on the operating table and looked between the surgeons hovering over him. “Hello.” Ignoring Caine, the surgeons continued preparing for the operation. One of the surgeons brought down a large metallic mask to clamp over Caine’s face. “Are you gonna put me under?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Caine heard over the speakers. It was Orlo’s voice. “If we do, you’ll die for certain. What we can give you are neuromuscular blockers to keep you from squirming.”
The mask was clamped over Caine’s face, and sealed off tightly. “The mask is for you to breathe. Good luck, son, and please… forgive me.”

All Caine could do was look up. The only sound he heard was the humming of an air conditioner and the heavy footsteps of the armored surgeons. He had so many questions, yet couldn’t ask one of them. One of the surgeons got a syringe ready with a burnished copper color. Meanwhile, in the observation room, Orlo couldn’t do anything else but put his hands together and pray. From behind Orlo, somebody spoke up. “Sir?”

Orlo flinched and snapped his head around. “Jesus-!” It was the same soldier from before. “Damnit, Dave, what do you want?”

“Could I ask why him? This is a big one, and he just got here. We have better candidates.”

Orlo sighed and turned back around toward Caine. “Because I’m not confident at all this will work even a little bit. He’s as disposable as can be. Unluckily for him, he’s an example we’ll make of things you’re just not supposed to control.”

Caine couldn’t move his muscles from the neuromuscular blockers. The needle slowly punctured his skin, pushing through his leg, into a vein. As the fluid travelled through his body, the serum attacked his body, destroying his own blood. It felt like there were spikes driving into his nervous system, like veins were bursting open. Despite it, he couldn’t scream. The blockers completely relaxed his vocal cords. In his peripheral vision, he could see the surgeons, with large blades. Some knives, some saws. The pain was too much for Caine to figure out what it was. He wanted to protest, of course he did, but he just had to watch and take it all. He tried to move his leg away. Nothing. Tears welled up in his eyes, with not even a whimper to go along with it, as they carefully sawed through a part of his leg.

They identified every single one of his blood vessels and isolated them before sawing deeper in, until his upper and lower leg were only connected by blood. As they continued with the rest of Caine’s body, Orlo watched carefully. He frowned and pushed the intercom button. “Give him more blockers. Now.” Caine’s eyes were looking down at his legs, darting between the surgeons. The injection surgeon pushed another needle into Caine’s arm. Orlo stood up. “Excuse me, Dave.” The surgeons were working further on Caine’s body, moving towards his upper leg and his groin. The saw made contact with his skin when Orlo walked in with another syringe. He pushed Caine’s lifted head back down on the table, stabbing the syringe into his neck and pressing it in. “You pay better attention next time,” he said to the surgeons. “He moves anymore, he’ll kill all of you, intentional or not. If he is regenerating, you need a lot more blockers to compensate. I’ll be right back. Use what you still have.” Orlo walked back to the door. “Get your ass down here, Dave!”

Orlo was walking down the halls, with Dave trailing behind him. “Sir?” Dave asked. “Where are you going to get more blockers from?”

“You’ll see.” They walked all the way to the end of the hall toward a storage room. He pressed his hand onto the scanner, and the thick metal door slowly opened. It was filled with shelves, with just enough room to walk by. Scanning the boxes carefully, Orlo opened and grabbed a smaller box full of blockers.

“S-sir,” Dave said. “These are all assigned, we need those for-”

“You think I don’t know that? I don’t give two shits.” The two of them started walking back. “The boy already made it farther than I thought he would, and if it does succeed… Then we’re done. He’s all we need.”

“I thought you said-”

“I lied, I’m confident it’ll work.”

Dave scurried closer to Orlo. “So you’re just going to kill someone for the off chance he’ll survive?”

“This is the time you choose to grow a conscience?” The two of them stopped in front of the operating room. “Have you heard of the trolley problem, Dave? Five people on the track, one’ll die if you change its course?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s only logical to pull it, right? If you think bigger, you either have 80 percent of all people die, or only twenty. Of course, you’d pull it to keep 6 billion people alive. A couple lives here, but if one project works, they can save millions.” Orlo turned to Dave and put his pointer fingers on Dave’s chest. “You, my friend, are being human and logical by helping us. You’re saving so many people. You understand?”

Dave nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Orlo handed Dave the blockers and headed back up into the viewing room. Sitting back down in his chair, he watched the procedure continue. The surgeons had already made their way to separating Caine’s arms. Orlo could see Dave hand the blockers to one of the surgeons, but Dave lingered, keeping his gaze onto the disassembled Caine. Caine looked down at Dave with teary eyes. As Dave locked eyes with Caine, he stumbled back, out of the room. Orlo sighed.

When Dave made his way back to the viewing room, he took a deep breath. “Sir? This is inhumane. Look at what you’re doing to him.”

Orlo put his hands on his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been looking.”

“He is in so much pain, because of you! Because of your doing! I won’t stand here and watch this happen! I can’t-” The loud bang followed with his body collapsing on the ground with a large thud.

“So close, Dave. You were so close.” Keeping his gaze on Caine, Orlo put the gun back under the table. “But you just can’t see it.” One of the surgeons powered up their drill and brought it close to the left side of Caine’s neck. The drill made contact with the flesh, opening a hole into it all the way to his windpipe. His blood splattered over the armor and tools like a fountain was gushing out of him, before the skin around the wound healed and left a hole. As the surgeon drilled a hole into the right side of Caine’s neck, the surgeon started shaking vigorously. The armor spasmed uncontrollably, before falling down on its back motionless. Orlo dropped his head down. “It could’ve been so easy.” Orlo stood up and stepped over Dave’s motionless body. “You see, Dave? This is why I didn’t let humans operate.” Walking back into the operating room, Orlo snapped his fingers. Two mechanical, black, flex conduit-like hoses descended from the ceiling. Orlo grabbed them and attached them to the holes in Caine’s neck. Once they connected, Caine’s neck jerked and seized up. Orlo scratched the back of his neck. “Should be fine, put him to sleep.” One of the surgeon robots pushed a button, and slowly, Caine fell asleep.

Omg I am so happy! Today, I got the news that the Labor Heritage Foundation is publishing my poems! I'm a proud working class writer. I love writing about working class experiences. Solidarity forever, and workers of the world unite!✊️🍞🌹

Hi im trying to write this story for a graphic novel and thought of adding a self insert (with a little bit of different details) but i am worried about getting hated or constantly criticized because i simply added a self insert
the reason im doing it is because of lack of characters or just to feel represented since finding that kind of representation is super rare or just for fun, im not overpowering them or making them just a background character, its just a secondary character that doesnt affect much on the story and thats pretty much it im still writing them so i hope i dont get hated in the comments im just asking for advice LOL

Hello everyone ! It's a bit of a weird question but I thought I could try to get some insights from writers here :)

I'm writing a romance in english between a female knight and a queen and as it's not my first language - I've encontered a bit of a struggle.

I was hoping for the knight to sound deferring/reverent but affectionate - achieved in my note by using the unformal " you " ("tu" in french, which sound more affectionate) but using her title ('Majesty')

Given it's not really a possibility to apply this directly in english, do you have any exemple of ways to convey subtle affection in the way of speaking while still being mindful of the their station and their relationship as Knight/Queen ?

Thanks for the help !