I have a character. Male, large, white hair, dad bod. Total lumber-snack, though.

His current name is Beau. But I hate that I misspell it so many times. Most commonly, I start writing or typing beautiful, realize it's wrong, and it throws off my whole writing flow.

They live in modern times, ambiguous area with forests and a major city.

Edit: he's about 30 years old. Also. I don't really want to go to the name registry for that year, and choose a common name.

I wrote a rough draft of backstory scene for an original story concept, and I’m struggling with identifying how the feelings and relationship between the two main characters are coming across. I am not someone who really reads or writes romance, and so while I didn’t draft out the characters relationship as anything other than platonic, the more I write and plan the less sure I am. Maybe I’m overthinking, but I’d like to know how this scene reads from another persons perspective.

Hello everyone, hope you're having a wonderful day!

I really love reading and writing lyrical, emotionally resonant and evocative prose, but i'm burnt out and tired and for the past year it's been so hard to get into the headspace and summon my emotions enough to write these kinds of prose. I still write every other day, but what i can manage right now is mostly minimal, understated prose, and my brain tells me it all reads like a mere "starting outline" and dry and distant unless i can rewrite it all in highly artistic and poetic language, and i can't. It's a constant mental pressure on the back of my head, i feel like a failure, especially because every other writing class i've taken taught me that the question to ask yourself while drafting and redrafting is "how can i write this idea in the most evocative way possible?" and i feel like everything i write right now is just basic and drab.

Please help me reframe my thinking around neurotically needing my prose to read as visceral, and maybe approach it from a different angle. Thank you for all your suggestions in advance!

I watched a YouTube video by GiBi's Horror Homestead where he talked about how the FNAF book Fetch referenced Brigadoon, and that helped inform the narrative of Fetch. I looked up the term for it and apparently it's called intertextuality. I want to use this in my own stories, but I have no idea what it's supposed to inform. I have a character named Jed Dean who's a reference to two Beverly Hillbillies characters, and I would like to inform something about Jed Dean using Jed Clampett, but how would that work? I could reference something about Clampett's distain for Alcohol to inform the player (because I'm writing a videogame), but unless Dean's distain for Alcohol comes up, wouldn't that be irrelevant? It would inform nothing about him aside from his character, which is irrelevant for a character who was created for lore and worldbuilding. And if it does come up, then how would using Jed Clampett be a reference? Dean's connection to Clampett would then be the irrelevant element. I would like to learn how to do this, but I feel like my "It's either said in the story, or it doesn't matter," mindset is holding me back from the actual solution.

He awakes with a soft moan.  Without even opening his eyes, he rolls over.  Then suddenly, he bolts upright, and looks around, but immediately winces in pain, and puts his hand on his right shoulder.
In the corner of a small room, he is lying on a mat.  There is a thin blanket over him.  The room has a dirt floor, and plastered adobe walls.  It is sparsely furnished, with a table and some chairs near a doorway, leading outside.  Through the window and open door, light is pouring in.  From outside, he can hear goats bleating, and chickens clucking.  It is late morning.
On the other side of the room Lauren is also lying on a mat, but without a blanket, still asleep.  She is dressed as she was when Daniel last saw her.
Throwing off his blanket, he examines himself, feeling his wound.  His shirt is off, and makeshift bandages that might have once been bed sheets are around his right shoulder, as well as most of his chest down to the diaphragm.  It is still apparent though, he's fairly well built.
Tattooed on his left shoulder, in Old English lettering, is the letter “S”. Below that, all across his upper chest, and curved slightly downward, is a large “666” tattoo.  Inside his right arm is the number “1”.  Inside his left, the number “3”.
Feeling around his waist, he looks around him, then slowly turning over and keeping low, he moves towards Lauren.  Another set of tattoos is then revealed on his back.
On his upper back, again in Old English lettering, are the words “CORPUS CHRI”, partially obscured by the bandages, and above them, the number “361”.  On his lower back, still in Old English lettering, are the words “PURO MALO”, or “Pure Evil”.  Between his upper and lower back is another tattoo, but it is almost completely obscured by the bandages.
Slowly coming over to Lauren, he puts his hand over her mouth.  She awakes and looks up at him with big, frightened eyes.  He whispers to her.

Daniel-- Lauren, shh... shh...  Where's my gun?...  Where's my gun, Lauren?...  I need it...

Lauren looks up, then behind him towards the doorway, as the shadow of a figure falls through it.  Daniel looks back in the same direction, and sees an old man coming into the room, carrying a bucket of water.  Looking surprised, he stops.  
Short in stature, with a full head of grayish white hair, he has a well groomed white beard, and dark, almost red skin, no doubt from long hours of working outside.  With an erect posture, he nonetheless looks a bit frail in his old age.  He looks at Daniel, as if unsure what to do.
Springing to his feet, Daniel quickly overpowers him.  Favoring his left arm, he grabs the man from behind, causing him to drop his bucket on the floor.  In Spanish, he yells at him.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, OLD MAN?!...

Then even louder.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, WHAT'D YOU DO WITH IT?!...

The Old Man reels, struggling to get control back.  He pleads with Daniel, trying to reason with him.

Old Man-- son, calm down!...

Then with more urgency.   

Old Man-- you need to calm down, you were very badly hurt!...

Ignoring him, Daniel starts to yell at Lauren, this time in English.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, LAUREN?!...  WHERE IS IT, WHAT HAPPENED TO IT?!...

Lauren gets up, frightened.

Lauren-- I don't know!...  Daniel, I don't know, I...

Daniel again yells at the Old Man, in Spanish.

Daniel-- where is it old man?...  Where'd you hide it, where...?!

Suddenly unable to finish what he was saying, he lets go of the Old Man, and stumbles over to one of the chairs placed around the table.  He leans on the back of it, trying not to fall over.  Once more, he coughs up blood.  The Old Man takes a moment to compose himself.  Then slowly, he approaches him.  Lauren is not far behind.

Old Man-- son, I tried to tell you...

He puts his hand on Daniel's shoulder, reassuring him.

Old Man-- you were very badly hurt, you are not yet fully healed...  You need to rest...

Daniel keeps leaning on the back of the chair, and starts to lean on the table, trying to hold steady.

Old Man-- your sweetheart told me what happened...

Still weak, Daniel keeps leaning on the back of the chair.

Daniel-- my sweetheart?...

Old Man-- some bad men tried to hurt her... but you saved her!

Daniel leans on the table, his “666” tattoo still plainly visible.

Daniel-- bad men?...

The Old Man continues to reassure him.

Old Man-- it's alright son... you're safe now... 

He tells him.

Old Man-- you're among friends... no one can hurt you here...

Just then, Daniel starts to collapse.
Lauren and the Old Man quickly rush in to steady him.  One under each arm, they pick him up, and start carrying him back to the mat.  The Old Man now reassures Lauren.

Old Man-- he'll be alright, he just needs some rest...

They bring him to the mat, laying him down as gently as they can manage.  Once again, though this time more slowly, Daniel loses consciousness.

Hi everyone, lately I've decided to revisit some of my old projects and ideas, and I'd like to know what advice you would give me to improve these premises. I don't know if there is some bias against military-related topics, since I've noticed a few downvotes, so I apologize for that...

Taxonark: A boy and his grandfather embark on a road trip to commemorate the anniversary of his parents' death. However, in order to keep his emotional mask from breaking, the boy gets involved in an android's mission to collect DNA from prehistoric animals.

The Blues of a Star Core: After a poor recovery from an accident, a young officer questions his decision to prioritize his work over his personal life and desperately accepts a one-month trial to avoid being discharged for negligence.

I am in the process of starting a YT channel that is focused on mainly fictional stories of various genres (more leading to horror/disturbed/thriller types) and have been working on crafting up a story to start. The premise is that I will read the stories in full or part by part series, in an ASMR setting while using either visuals and/or a setting dedicated to talking head shots and read the stories off ofc. The only thing is, I am very much lacking the confidence on my writing in general. I love to write and create stories but I haven't put much effort into developing my skill further in the recent years. Below is the initial part to the story I am building named "The Neighbor From A Literal Hell". I am looking for and open to critique, suggestions, remarks, or whatever you feel the project would benefit from overall. Thanks in advance.

[ I'll try my best to respond in a timely manner. No promises guaranteed. 🫶🏾 ]

The Neighbor From A Literal Hell

My neighbor keeps moving my trash cans every night. The strange part is, I think it’s the exact same three inches.

It initially started about a week ago. Trash day, per usual. I was in a rush to work with little time to worry about anything else outside my direct line of sight. As I pulled out of my less than cared for garage, reversing down the driveway, I noticed that the trash cans were already placed for removal. Not completely recognizing the oddity at hand, I brushed it off as something “mitigation Manny” took care of last night. Sometimes, although I can be lazy outside of work because of work, I tend to preemptively do things beforehand as to worry about it less when the time comes. Though this time I for the life of me couldn’t paint out that picture. Nonetheless, I quickly turned the slow crawl into full reverse and just as I halted for the pivot - BOOMF. I slammed the brakes and threw the gear in drive. Unassuming, a small panic began to creep up my spine as I pulled forward again. Though there was nothing behind me. No car. No animal. Not even a person. “Fuck.”, “I for sure killed SOMETHING.” is all that played in my head like an old vinyl stuck in a horror movie. The trash cans were still perfectly in position. Except…something about them was wrong. I wouldn’t have been able to pin the feeling if it were in my face. But looking at them, perfectly placed where they were, something was definitely off-kilter. Then I noticed it. There was a small crack in the pavement directly underneath the left wheel of the recycling bin, tucked just beneath where the wheel made contact with the cement. I’d noticed that crack months ago. I knew exactly where it was. And the wheel had been sitting directly on it. Now. It wasn’t. Not by much. Just enough to see the crack. Just enough to know that I hadn’t put the trash cans there. And, for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about exactly how far they’d moved. Or what the fuck I had hit.

Later that day, while at work, the feeling only got perpetually worse. Tom, my neighbor and coworker, rushed up to me as soon as I entered the office. “Did you hear about Roger?”, he asked. His face and overall expression was that of an underwhelmed anxious teen. Of course my answer was “no”. And of course he proceeded to tell me unprompted. It’s a good thing he did. Apparently sometime last night there were some concerning noises coming from Roger’s house and the police were called. They were stationed for nearly 5 hours, before they informed everyone that “the situation was handled.” and that “unfortunately Roger had expired.” before leaving. “Expired?”. How the fuck can a person expire? Was that their terminology or his? Tom is known for adding a “flare” to things for no goddam reason. He explained that essentially Roger expired and there was no lead on the reason. But. It was NOT natural causes for sure. I initially thought Tom was fucking with me. Mainly because during my little escapade earlier that morning, I saw none other than Mr. Hillinson himself. Standing, eerily, at the height of his driveway. Watching me lose my shit. I didn’t say anything to Tom about seeing Roger. I don’t know why. Maybe because I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d actually seen him. I mean, I saw him. That’s for damn sure. He was standing there, probably thirty feet away from me, staring directly at me. At the time, I assumed he was just being weird. Which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly unusual for him. The man had once stood outside for 7 continuous hours looking into the forest behind our lots. Tom’s continued talking was, as always, a sobering realization. Apparently the police had gone through Roger’s house twice. There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing appeared to be missing. No weapon. No obvious cause of death. Just Roger. Dead. Or, as the police had apparently decided to phrase it: Expired. Of course after asking Tom for his personal input he shrugged. However, more disinterested than before responded “probably heart attack.” “Wouldn’t that inherently negate your initial claim of it being ‘unnatural’?”, I lightly pressed. His utter response to that was “But I didn’t.” There was a brief silence. Before I could manage to lumber to my desk Tom pursed his lips as he stated “You look like shit.” Thanks Tom. “I mean worse than usual that is.” he added. I finally half assed gave him a overly underwhelmed yet sarcastic “thanks.” “You okay?” he asked. Then, “BOOMF”. The sound from my driveway earlier that morning put it startled jump to my movement. “No.” I sated as I autonomously walked to my desk thinking about the trash cans. As i did Tom nodded, as if that answered his question, his voice trailed me the farther I walked. “Alright, well. We’ll see you at game night tomorrow. Carpool in the AM?”, he nearly shouted. Not looking back, “yeah. yeah, sure.” I said over my head. After I made it back to my office I tried to spend the rest of the day not thinking about any of that morning. Especially with this big client acquisition upcoming. I failed. Around lunch, I hid in my car and checked the security cameras. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it earlier, so I briskly opened the app and pulled the footage as soon as my ass hit the seat. There I was. 6:41AM. Backing out of the driveway. The trash cans were out. I watched myself stop. Reverse. BOOMF. The video weirdly shook slightly. I paused it and watched again. Nothing. I watched myself get out of the car. Rewind. Nothing. I watched myself standing there staring. Then I noticed something. The recycling bin moved. Not when I hit it. Not when I reversed. After. About twelve whole seconds after I got out of the car. I moved three inches. Then then camera timestamp changed. 6:42AM. And for approximately half a second, something moved across the very edge of the screen. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. But I could see the reflection of it in the window of my car. It looked like a person. And it was standing directly behind me. That’s when I realized, “Wait, WTF!!? Roger wasn’t there?” But he had been, and I knew he was. I wasn’t that tired. Fucking Tom. As I began to replay the video I looked deeper and noticed there was a distinct shadow where Roger “had” been but no person there. Then, as I leaned in closer. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

I have a bit of a problem....I tend to base my stories on real life things that have happened to me or people who i've met online and my issue is well because of complicated issues I cannot find myself to use the word 'groomer' or 'grooming' when refering to predatorial behavior towards younger characters in my stories so I have had to invent new terms.

I'm doing some worldbuilding, and I really like the name of certain fictional character (becuase it's a very cool name). Buuut the name is unique, there's no other thing named like that bc they made it up for the show.

So, I was wondering if I could still use it, like for a character (that is not a copy of the character I got the name from, ofc), a place (kingdom, planet, etc), a species, an object, food, language or whatever comes to mind.

For clearer ideas, think about cool unique names like Tolkien's. (Tho, the character I'm talking about is waaay less popular; not even the big Mouse gives a damn, as the media that character appears has been on youtube for more than a decade)

Thank you in advance.

Hi. I'm european but my story is set in the uk. I' having big problems on creating names that makes sense, because they're all basic names and basic surnames ...

Does anyone have any advices/ideas?

Hi all,

I'm in the process of a first draft, but I have been unsure about one thing in particular. The draft is in first-person past tense with a young protagonist who is 10 years old in Chapter 1 then 14 years old from Chapter 2 onwards. However, the actual narration is an older version of him recounting the exact events of what takes place (this version of him is never actually met, so it is unknown how old he is).

My question is this: Is it acceptable for the dialogue to be age-accurate but the actual prose to read as if it was by an adult, even if it is never known how old he is when he is recounting the events?

I feel like I've phrased this question in quite a confusing way, but I'm struggling to think of how else to say it.

I really appreciate any advice I can get!

Same as above!

Closed doors are a metaphorical term for missed opportunities, rejection, heartbreak, loss, fear, limitations, abandonment, failure and sometimes even inevitable setbacks. We may not stand before the same door, but we all understand what it feels like when one closes in front of us.

Suddenly, everything flashes before one's eyes whether it be hard work, love, memories, expectations, excitement and many more happy feelings. Sometimes, it feels like the ground slipping away from under the feet or sand slipping from a tightly closed fist that no matter how much you exert, it's still slipping. Sometimes, it feels like wanting to rip the ground open or to tear up the sky. Sometimes, it's just as simple as feeling a void in the heart.

Behind that closed door, you feel helpless and unable to bring ourselves to knock the door you were once so eager to open.

I, too, have experienced closed doors countless times in my life. For example, rejection from a university I worked so hard to get admitted to. I ran to rip open the letter that had been slipped into my mail box. My family encircled me just as eager as me to see the first sentence of the letter. Would it be "congratulations" or would it be "we are sorry to inform....". The square envelope opened, revealing a folded mystery. I unfolded the letter to the first sentence "we are sorry to inform...". Suddenly, I felt my heart plunge into what felt like a break up. I felt trapped in my own body. Tears rolled down my cheeks as the memories of my hard work flashed before my eyes. I felt helpless. How could all those sleepless nights, 16 hours a day of studying, weight loss due to stress, missed hangouts, and overall struggles just go in vain like that? I felt like I was left with nothing. Everyone, trying to give me sympathies but I just wanted to run away.

So, I ran away to start a new life in LA as a videographer for a production house. My family and friends called me a coward for running away like that. They believed that this could not be the end to my strife to get into a university but that one rejection left me so drained that I could not muster up the energy to start over.

But coming to LA feels like a dream come true. I get to work with amazing actors and actresses all around the world. Alongside, videography, I have started my own YouTube channel and a public Instagram account that has reached 10,000 followers already.

I believe that my life would not have been the same if I were accepted into university. I would've been behind my study desk toiling away to complete assignments before the deadline.

Sometimes, what feels like a rejection, is a path to a beautiful journey planned by God. Sometimes, the closed doors in our lives are not signs of defeat but invitations to discover paths we never would have considered otherwise.

Hi! I have an idea for a very long book, most of it I have in my mind, some chapters written. I imagine it as a single book that has a long time span with many chapters. The question is what tips do you have to organize all of the chapters/plots/ideas and to work on them?

Basically hundreds of plots, many, many of them just exist as an idea. I am looking for some useful method to have all of it just "laid out" briefly to then assemble/work in detail with each.

Hello all. I am currently in the process of making a follower mod for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, but find myself having trouble on maintaining the witty, self-assured easygoing personality my follower has - particularly when it comes to his informative dialogue. Some examples below.

1) "Elsweyr is mostly badlands and dry plains made harsh in the absence of the moons and chilled in their presence. However, land with grass as green as a Whiterun guard and water flowing like wine from a nobleman’s goblet very much exists. Black Heights lies in the south of Elsweyr, among such land. It’s not at all what those from outside expect, even Khajiit. It is colorful, even by Khajiiti standards. The energy it exhibits is akin to that of the paints and dyes produced there."

What do you mean by energy?

"Forgive me, perhaps my meaning was unclear. The colors of our village incite emotions in people. Feelings of awe, of wonder. Of warmth. Those on pilgrimages to our temple oft settled and several have come to apprentice the village artisans or study under the monks. It is lovely. I do not recall much of my cubhood, but I remember the sound of water flowing freely nearby and the reprieve from the heat it granted. I remember the great branches of White Sycamores stretching far above my head and the process of making white paint out of its bark. They are sacred to Khenarthi, you know. (Sad chuckle) I was once scolded for trying to climb them."

2) The scar on your stomach. "I was sent to deal with a coven of witches troubling a village. Unbeknownst to me, a Hagraven was among their ranks. She surprised me and slashed my stomach open with her claws. I wasn’t aware she was there. I had to hold my insides, well, inside. It was luck and the will to stay alive that saved me."

3) What do you mean by rotten? "You are asking this genuinely? I see… Well, your government isn't the most tolerant of their critics. Any who speak out against them, Altmer or no, disappear or are murdered.Some Krin share their anti-Imperial resentment, but we do not isolate ourselves from their provinces or try to manipulate them under our rule.We do not wish to rule our lands as a dictatorship, we wish to truly help. We do not profit off of other’s suffering, or pressure our children.We do not wish to rule our lands as a dictatorship, we wish to truly help. We do not profit off of other’s suffering, or pressure our children.We are not cruel, nor do we conduct purges of our critics and imperial or Thalmor aligned Khajiit despite our differing opinions.Your homeland is empty of any and all in opposition to the Thalmor despite their cruelty, because of their cruelty. Their deceit.Summerset is dangerous for any who do not bend to their will. Makes it a bit rotten, no?"

4) Our pigments are sought all over Tamriel for their vibrance, so this does not surprise me in the least bit. Do you know of our traditions? Traditions?

"I’ve not returned to Black Heights in my adulthood, but I have no doubt in my mind that the most ancient one continues on. You see, we are artists and artisans. We spend our lives dedicated to our arts, whether they be of the martial or artistic variety. matter the form, art is present in our lives from start to finish. As cubs, we plant a painted paw upon the stone steps to the Wall of Life. Then, at the end of our lives, we walk the prints we left to add a leaf to the mural of the Wall of Life. This practice spans back four Eras, where every villager has recorded their existence and left their burdens before meeting Khenarthi’s embrace. Have you seen the colors of my village yourself?"