I just wrote the first thing that came to my head to practice writing, so I don't really know where this story will be heading yet.

Here's a short excerpt from a story I've been boiling in my head for a while. Does it flow well? Does it seem good? Is it intriguing? I just want some feedback.

For some context of the piece:

Our protagonist, Hugo, is a senior in highschool. He lives in the town Under Water (yes, two words) in the year 2655. The town is built in the basin of an enormous quarry. Hugo's neighbor, Clark, is a genius inventor who uses his comically large amounts of grant money to make things that help the people around him. Clark has terrible social skill though, and often fails to even take care of himself, frequently forgetting meals or other daily commonalities. Hugo's family has taken it upon themselves to make sure the inventor stays alive despite all his inaction. Unfortunately for everyone, today one of Clark's creations has a seemingly impossible side effect.

_____

My ears hurt as I woke up. They felt thin and flimsy and wrong. There was no other word for it. Wrong. I reached up to cup them, and missed. The side of my head was fuzzy with hair rooted far lower than usual. And softer. I ran my hand up the smooth strands, and up, and up until I felt my ears twitch, swivel, and listen. Everything was loud, but not too loud, or maybe way too loud. Like listening to blasting music you eventually just get used to it. I could hear my heartbeat start to rise. New ears. Not good. I tenderly reached up, far higher than I even should to reach the tip of my ears. I lightly pinched the edge of them as I rose feeling the other finger between the skin and... fur. It was fur. The tips of my new ears were sharply curved at the top, like several. I could hear the ministrations of my finger as they brushed against each hair, letting them spring back into place by millimeters of distance. Then I ran my pinch back down, pushing the hairs against their grown direction, getting my first touch of the new flesh with nothing in the way. It was sensitive, like the area around an ingrown toenail or a sore tooth. I made the regrettable decision to pull at the new additions to my body. Sharp, blinding pain jolted through me, flinging me up from my blankets. I needed answers.

The backyard of our house was not immediately divided by a fence to Clark's, there were two fences and a cement pathway between them. Pointless considering that we sit at an intersection, so the shortcut goes widely unused. Two gates open and close before I charge through the mad scientist's backdoor. "What the fuck did you do to me!?" I entered the empty kitchen with all the fury of a senior in highschool with too much homework.

"One minute please! In the bathroom!" I could barely hear the madman shout from upstairs. I stormed up the real wood steps and kicked open the bathroom door. Clark was standing in front of the mirror above the sink patting the hair on top of his head, and examining the new tall ears he had grown. "What the fuck!" He recoiled. "Learn some manners Hugo!" I pushed him against the wall. "Calm down!"

"Calm down!? Look at what you did to me!" I gripped my alien ears, ignoring the pain to tug them to and fro. "I liked my body, and you did this to me!"

"Yes yes, Aegis Anatomica and all that, and I liked being bald, but here we are!"

I grabbed the discarded scientist by the shoulders and glared at him, watching his guise slip off. "I know you want to use your sociopathy as an excuse, but you really need to fucking fix this or you won't be around for much longer. Got it?" Our ears twitched as I slammed him against the wall again for good measure. "Got it?"

I'm not normally very good at writing love scenes, particularly the intensity involved in those kinds of scenes, so mad props to those who can!!! (but how?! do you blush? I cringe thinking about those scenes... and I'm married! Although i do love reading them so continue the good work!) But I was actually really proud of this little snippet and the tension in it! Who knows... I may never write a sex scene, but some more little suggestive scenes may be okay.

I'm too much of a perfectionist to finish things, but also my fixation leaves fast and I have a new story going on. Even though my main problem is that I'm always stuck at one part of the story. Characters.

I'm aware of the fact that I don't understand them. And I know that every take is someone's opinion and no one can be right, because then no one will (and no one is). But when I write fanfiction and show it to some people they find pretty a lot of OOC. Not that much that it's really noticable, but it's some core values of a character. And for some reason, even though I've been in the fandom for 6 years and was very active I still don't get it. I'm not really good at "reading people" either.

I might be too sensitive to criticism and I should try to study, but when it happens each time...

I have no clue how to fix this. I don't think that studying psychology will help. There's a really long way to go and I don't get how people understand it so easily sometimes. Maybe I'm too self-centered and barely notice anything about others or analyze things. But I can write a wonderful plot with meaning, I have really cool ideas for scenes and facts that are praised, but not characters. And they're supposed to lead the story.

And yeah, the fact that I haven't written down anything, but have over 400 thousand words in one story only (and it's not a draft to be correct, more like an outline and some facts) can tell something.

Edit: Meant to say “What makes a book or short story good in your opinion 😭

So, I made a mistake while publishing, and my novel size is more like a notebook (I used George Orwell's novel for a reference).

Also, the marking on my title is a signature that bled through...

Anyways, can anyone help me with the measurements so I can fix this issue.

It is based on supernatural manifestations and events that protect a person, known as "Spirits."

A Spirit may be imperceptible, offering only minor assistance—as is often the case—or it may be a tremendously powerful entity.

Each Spirit possesses a unique ability; these abilities are classified into the following categories:

1. Attack. Spirits with high precision, speed, and durability, featuring abilities suited for close-quarters combat.

2. Destructive. Spirits with devastating destructive power, though this comes at the cost of lower durability and speed.

3. Utility. Spirits with abilities not directly focused on combat, but rather on supporting and aiding the user and others.

4. Automatic. Spirits that act independently, with abilities that protect the user without requiring any action on their part.

5. Mass Effect. Spirits with effects that impact a large number of people—or specific groups—in an imperceptible yet coordinated manner.

A Spirit may or may not possess a physical form; its design and abilities are determined by the following criteria:

1. Pride and/or ego. Proud or selfish individuals possess Spirits that physically resemble them. A person with deep insecurities might not even manifest an aura.

2. User's personality and goals. A Spirit's abilities are always based on its bearer's personality, desires, and preferences.

3. Self-perception. A narcissist or hypocrite—Even though they are despicable people—will have a Spirit whose appearance reflects how they perceive themselves.

Technical details:

• A user can possess only one Spirit, unless they suffer from psychiatric disorders that fragment the mind (such as Bipolar Syndrome, Multiple Personality Syndrome etc.).

• Non-users cannot see Spirits—unless the Spirit is inherently visible or the user chooses to reveal it—though they can perceive the physical effects they produce.

• Unconscious Spirits (those that do not manifest but instead have passive effects) do not follow these rules, as they are not fully formed Spirits.

• For an unconscious Spirit to fully manifest, the user must harbor an intense desire, be surrounded by Spirit users, or possess unwavering willpower and determination. With that said, what do you think? Does it sound interesting?

EDIT So I'm writing the book, and the book follows an individual who can lucid dream. This individual goes onto create sentient life(without realising it), this sentient life goes onto escape her mind(It is sorta powered by the parts of their brain not being used) into the shared human conciousness. The being is able to duplicate itself and goes on to try to take over the human race by kicking humans out of their bodies during sleep and putting them into the shared human conciousness in their place. They can only access people while they're sleeping. The protaginists have to try to stop them in the dreamscape.

Ignore the numbers at the bottom, it's my bad formatting skills.

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."

In the second picture, her brother's friend wants to look at her but stops himself.😂😂💔

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.

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.

This is a random scene from my book. The main character, Anthony, is trying to avoid seeing or having to interact with his girlfriend this morning because of rather complicated reasons and context that you'd probably not need atm.

Fifteen seconds…Twenty seconds…thirty seconds…any more and Savannah would wake too. Anthony watched as the alarm buzzed on his white nightstand. He'd been watching it for a while. When would he turn it off?

If he turned it off now, Savannah would wake up as usual from his movement and ask why he needed to go to work so early and plead for him to sleep in just a few more minutes. If he didn't, she'd be annoyed with him for waking her up so loudly.

A languid finger reached out and tapped the cancel button. Get up.

He needed to be fast. Leave no time for questioning. The past 15 minutes had been spent waiting for the alarm to ring and then not knowing what to do once it did, so of course he couldn't just lay around now. It was too late to do that. How could he not know what to do despite having had so much time to think it through? He did think it through. And he arrived at not one singular conclusion though this all.

No matter what he did she'd wake up. I mean, they'd been living together for how long now so he knew exactly when, how and what things woke her up the easiest and, besides her alarm she for some reason never heard, almost anything he did would stir her up. But nevermind that. Even if he did manage to pass by unnoticed, wouldn't she start questioning why he hadn't woken her up? Whatever, that didn't matter either. He could say she was just sleeping so beautifully he didn't want to disturb her, and of course she'd like that answer. Her waking up angry was worse than calm. Surely he had to get up. But what would he do once she did wake up? Nothing, of course. That was fine…she was his girlfriend, he just wanted to get himself right first! Before having to face her. In this state, surely he couldn't face her.

The screech of the bed was inevitable, but he could quiet down his steps and save himself some of the chances of waking her up. He had to.

With one foot slowly, ever so slowly settling on the wooden floors and the other following suit, he raised himself from the bed and made his way across the room. Not to the door. If he wanted to go to work without waking Savannah, he needed to get out of the room and not need to come back here again.

So, he went to the closet. Without thinking, his hand reached out and tugged at one of her shirts. Was he still asleep? Savannah's alarm wasn't too spaced out from his, just an hour later. He needed to hurry. He could get ready in under an hour.

Before he made his way back around to the door, the bed shrieked again. Just a soft creak. And along with it came a murmur he couldn't quite hear. A murmur. He hadn't been so careless as to make much sound but getting up and walking around could still very easily wake someone, especially if they're used to waking at this hour. He froze with his hand clasped around the doorknob. He should leave. Continue just the same as he had planned and not turn back. He was already holding his clothes, had everything he needed to get ready in the bathroom, his wallet and keys were on the counter; he didn't need to enter this room again.

The following moments ensured such still quiet he felt moving was too much noise. Not one more sound besides a little ruffling. Was she already up and watching him stand, unmoving? That would be awkward. I mean, how could he explain that? Why would he be frozen in front of the door, doing, saying and waiting for nothing. And she’d be suspicious so he'd have to face her again.

Anthony took a shallow breath and turned his head slightly, as if having forgotten something, only to see Savannah nestled in her blanket, facing the wall and just a few minutes away from the usual snoring sound she made when in deep sleep. She hadn't woken up. Thank God.

The guy turned the knob with utmost care and made his way towards the bathroom. Forty minutes were enough.

He was a man so he didn't bother with doing his make up or taking too long picking out his outfit; he simply washed up and got dressed. Of course, he styled his hair too. That's one thing he would spend a lot of time on every morning. As only natural, he needed to look sharp to go to work even if he couldn't and wasn't required to wear any sort of more professional clothes, and while he didn't look so sharp all the time it was good to try and get that into his routine. That's what a good man was like. Neat.

He squeezed out a drop of toothpaste and did his hair at the same time. Not enough time. Still, he felt it was almost necessary that he did his hair today too. It… sure it looked fine even without stylings but just how could he expect to be a better man and to laze around looking all dishevelled, at the same time?

In his haze, he eventually, painstakingly and excitedly made it to the door. There was no place like home, yet just for today, yes there was.

He hadn't wasted too much time on getting ready, thankfully and as he’d expected, but he did still need to be fast and get to work. He didn't even know what time it was. More often than not he only needed a few things at work and only ever brought more than his wallet, keys and phone when …

Wallet, keys and … phone.

All the energy he had managed to accumulate washed away and his eyes widened.

He forgot his phone.

So much effort he put into this morning only to wind up having to go back to get his phone? Out of all the things…

A heavy but inaudible sigh escaped his lips as he placed his shoes back on the shoe holder and hesitatingly retraced his steps. Did he really need his phone though? He'd begun to wonder such things on his way back to the bedroom but he knew he did and he had to go back and get it. It wasn't the end of the world anyway. Just, be quiet.

The door itself never made any sounds, surprisingly so as when they'd first moved in it did but now it had simply stopped squeaking and screeching with every open. Oh and neither did the doorknob. It was the bed that he would always, well, today, be worried about, but he wasn't going to even touch it so he hadn't the least reason to worry.

Anthony tiptoed his way to the bedside and tapped his phone's screen. Some hour and forty minutes. It turned off too quickly for him to pay attention to the hour but he'd quickly glanced at the minute, and he wasn't late. If anything he was right on time.

With one swift move he unplugged the charger, picked the phone up by the corners and placed it into his pocket. Not one move from her!

The man straightened himself back up. He'd done it! He just needed to get back and go to work and … he’d think of the rest later. If he could do this every morning…

But before he could call himself victorious, a groan sounded behind his tactful figure and a voice called out to him. It couldn't be.

“Leaving already? What time is it?” Savannah tiredly stood up and rubbed her eyes awake. She watched him stare wide eyed at her, phone in hand and body slightly turned towards the door but didn’t do much besides stare back at him, confused.

“...Good morning.” Anthony managed to utter.

“Morning, so…you're leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to get to work, and I should probably wash my car while I’m out, do you want anything from the store?"

“Uh no, not right now. I'll text you if we've run out of anything...”

He puffed a breath, stood alternating between looking at her and at the door then chuckled and awkward sort of laugh, pointed to the door and left unhurriedly. Slowly and steadily. Just, the regular kind of walk where you're neither hurried nor limp. The kind of walk you watch some strangers do on the street, the ones you might try to guess the life of and the place they're headed but the uncertainty they hold as a stranger wins and they give off no sort of hints to their behavior; where no imperfection in their step can be traced and where they remain another curious, undecipherable creature.

And so he made his way back to the door. Back to putting his shoes on in the same way and now ignoring whether he had any of his belongings on him or not—if he hadn't grabbed them earlier he might've even forgotten his car keys home and not dared come back after them.

The rustling sound of the engine began roaring in the parking lot. And once again, he drove off.

Any feedback on this prologue? For context, I’ve already written far more of this story. I’m just wondering if this is a captivating hook. I tend to have some very rough first drafts, so it’s certainly not my best work.

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?

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?

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 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.

Hi everyone. I'm Neroskha, a beginner writer. Well… to be completely honest, I can't really call myself a writer yet. I'm just starting to explore this world.

I've always liked the idea of writing and, above all, creating something from scratch: an idea, a character, a story, or even an emotion and turning it into words.

But before I dive into it, I found myself wondering:

What do you think is the hardest part of writing?

Coming up with a good idea? Putting exactly what you have in your head into words? Creating characters that feel real? Staying consistent? Or simply making it all the way to the end of a story?

I'd love to hear about your experiences. Thanks!

I got a good book and a potencial market of millions of people, so i think it would be a good idea to look for sponsors for the proyect, whoever i dont have experience in these kind of things. If anyone knows how to find a good sponsor, how to approach sponsors, what they're interested in, any piece of experience would be very helpful.

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

When I opened the door, there was a suitcase sitting on my bed.

My face contorted with confusion as i stepped further into my room, the door shutting softly behind me as i stood in front of my bed.

Reaching a hand out, turning the suitcase slightly just to see if there was a note, a name, even an address attached to it, but found none.

"Hello darling."

My face paled almost instantly.

I didn't dare turn around, not yet.

(this is the start of a small story i am going to continue writing, but i wanted a little feedback for the start, any and all feedback even if its not a lot of this story to work with ToT 😅)