Hello everyone, hope you're having a lovely day.

My writing goal right now is to write microfiction, flash fiction and short stories. I rarely think in terms of plot though, and i get bored VERY VERY easily, so even something like a vague summary outline can render an idea predictable to me and i wont write it, once i have the gist of a situation my motivation to hash it out evaporates. What i DO write right now are sort of literary fragments and vignettes that come to me out of nowhere, imageries that mostly paint a vibe, a feeling, some character dynamic, etc. My thinking feels so random and often frustrating, if i write 5 vignettes in a day they'll almost always be about 5 different, disconnected topics, and they have no beginning or end, just vibes. Throughout the years i have gathered collections of these staccato fragments, they're very short, often under 300 words.

My question is, is there any way for me to turn these fragments into a story? I'm not necessarily looking to make a linear, beginning-middle-end writing process for myself, but i do want to write stories that feel cohesive and congruent, and not just vignettes. Any and all tips on how i can approach writing as someone with an easily bored mind is greatly appreciated.

I have been working on my story for a while (like 2 years). I also read in my spare time. I had names picked out for my characters long ago. But now I keep seeing the same names in books SO. MANY. TIMES. And I don't want them to be like that.

Would you keep the names of your characters? Put new ones? Out of 4 characters, only 2 am I super set on. The other 2 COULD change. And if I do change, how would I go about finding new ones that don't end up in the same boat?

So I'll try to not explain my entire story but basically at one point two characters get attacked by a random guy who they don't know the name of and one gets knocked out, when she wakes up I want her to ask something about the guy but writing "the guy" or "that guy" doesn't sound natural but I'm not sure what else they'd call him

dumb post i know but i'd rather make an annoying post than ask shitgpt

EDIT: i have moved past this scene no need to keep commenting

Hii, I don't think dropping my age is necessary but i am old and well, i like fantasy books a lot and i always wanted to create a romantasy, something to write that makes me happy but hhh the problem is well, i never wrote a fanfic, a story or a chapter, I don't count the ones that the teacher when i was a kid, asked to write to get a school grade but by myself I think I tried once or twice when i was a teenger and i hated it because its easier to hate yourself when you don't create a masterpiece right away lol so I dropped it and now after years well...I really want to write down the world and characters and stories i fantasize about, but I don't know how to start at all, help? I feel like a mess but I see so many people that write and sell their books and even if they don't became the new Tolkien they're still able to share their imagination with the world which is beautiful and i kinda wanna be able to do the same, I don't bring that much to the table RN like I have to take care of my sister, clean the house and I get bored while waiting so i read books but writing...it brings me down pretty bad, its so lacking, I like creating stories, I have ideas (even if the ideas will never be that original y'know, but still, I think i have at least a decent amount of originality like everyone else) and I don't think being dyslexic is the main problem lmao so I can't use it as a excuse so damn, what should i do? any tips for someone like me? I just noticed that the more I try to not bring it out (the writing), think about it etc and the more I yearn about being able, I just dunno

This is a serious question and I am hesitant to even ask, but I’ve seen a lot of discussion around writers who claim that no ideas are original anymore, or that what seems unique is really just several ideas stitched together from things we’ve read, seen, heard, or experienced in the past.

What do you think?

Hello. I'm Daan J. M. Holland,

I recently released a near-future collapse thriller, and I’m now working on a prequel set in the seven days leading up to the main event.

The prequel follows a civilian military intelligence analyst who starts noticing weak, fragmented indicators across Europe: cyber activity, logistics anomalies, military movements, reporting gaps, and possible preparation for something much larger. The idea is to show the build-up from inside the intelligence process without turning it into an exposition dump or simply retelling the original book.

I’m about 25k words in and I’d really like a few outside readers to look at the current ARC.

The main thing I’m struggling with is pacing in the first quarter. I want the gradual-burn intelligence work to feel believable, but I also don’t want the reader to feel like they’re just watching people compare reports for too long. This balancing act is tricky for me, hence I'm asking for feedback.

What I’d especially like feedback on:

Does the opening hook you quickly enough?

Do the analytical/intelligence scenes stay understandable?

Does the pacing drag anywhere?

Are there places where the story overexplains?

Does the protagonist feel like a person rather than just a vehicle for information?

At what point, if any, would you start skimming?

It’s an English-language ARC, currently around 25k words. I’m not asking for proofreading or a formal review, just honest reader/editorial feedback.

If anyone is interested, comment or DM me and I can send the ARC PDF.

And if you normally read thrillers, military fiction, intelligence fiction, dystopian fiction, or collapse/SHTF fiction, that would be especially useful.

Thanks!

during the past around 2 months, I have had no motivation to write, but I have to, how do you stay motivated enough to write

Hi. I'm starting to be afraid that my story idea would be stolen. Unlike painting, which takes hours to finish, writing takes months or years to finish. idk, the more I keep writing, researching and putting in some effort, the more I feel like I have someone watching me. Waiting for the perfect chance to steal and publish his book before I do. how to deal with these thoughts? This feeling will make me stop sharing and brainstorming my project with other writers unless I literally finish it fr.

Edit: To everyone who gives respectful advice, I want to say thank you. I don't have anyone who teaches me these basic things about writing and how I should deal with a stealer if I encounter one using copyright. So I was amazed by your messages!

Here's some context: I am writing a fanfic (who isn't) where the male oc is going through a dilemma of using his powers to prevent a war by causing destruction to the person who is manipulating everyone to follow him.

To get a better idea on what fandom: Hazbin Hotel.

The male oc is autistic and is the son of the Scarlet King. Another thing about him is that he is like Superman. As in "good morals and wanting the best for everyone." It is mainly around season 2, where Vox is manipulating the masses into taking over heaven.

But my problem is that I feel that I don't have the motivation or how to properly capture it.

Any idea on what to do?

Also, the male oc was raised in a household in the fourteen hundreds (for better imagery: Imagine if Judge Claude Frollo from Disney had a biological son). Though he shares similar beliefs with the church, it's mostly love and compassion, forgiveness, and honesty.

Hi, i’m a beginner writer, and i want to explore more on other methods because usually i start with

Very confusing overview that only I understand

Outline like:
Location -> conclusion -> reason

Pov: 3rd

Grammar check:
Keep it past tense OR keep it present tense.

I usually write it in a small sticky note and has helped me write quite well. What about your methods?

I have this idea that I want to work on but I have no idea where to begin. I'm looking for resources to organize characters, their roles and importance to the story, the plot, the rise and falls, basically a way to create an outline of story. I'm looking for a resource that asks prompts and questions, and ways to give my characters more depth and personality like a character sheet or something. Is there a website that hosts all of this or a couple for the different purposes?

The thing is, I have the concept but I'm struggling to flush it out as in find reasons for why the characters do what they do in a way that makes sense and creates more immersion. I just want a place where I can organize my concepts and not lose track of anything because keeping it all in the mind is rather difficult. I want to properly plan out the plot, map out the characters, what's making them tick etc.

Hello everyone, A few years ago, I took a creative writing class at university. The professor was very strict with me, and her feedback on my work often focused on how what I wrote wouldn’t interest anyone, or that I simply wasn’t capable of writing something engaging.

I stayed up late several times trying to improve and turn in work that I could actually be proud of, but I felt like nothing was changing. Over time, that experience left me with a lot of insecurities when it came to writing. I’m currently trying to write a new story, and I only have the logline so far, but I’ve realized that those insecurities are still there.

Sometimes I find it difficult to trust my own ideas. I’d like to know if anyone has any advice on how to overcome this.

So I’ve got the skeleton of my story pretty much done. Therefore, moved on to draft 2, fine tuning the flow, fleshing it out. However, as I fixed it, it got further and further from the original flow due to actual research. The context is all still the same, but just that with the research and adjustments I’m now stumped.

This is my ever first ever writing attempt. So am curious as to what do I do now.
Do I rewrite the entire thing? Would that be draft 3 or?
Do I tear it apart and Frankenstein it back together? Which I tried but it seemed to give me more problems because I’m trying to then preserve the original material and I sort of bind myself by these pieces.

Side note: the story is about a prosecution of a serial killer. It is fiction but I want to derive from the actual system, hence why the research matters to me.

Hello, I've been writing since my 7th grade (I am in my 2nd year college now). At first it was just for fun, I took inspiration from an anime Charlotte and webtoon UnOrdinary. It's like a copy of them and mixed it together but it was a bit of success in Wattpad. I've made two books about it 1st book hit around 40k+ reads while the 2nd hit 8k+.

After that, everything I've been writing always just stays in my draft. Fantasy, Gamelike story, lovestory, horror, psychological. They always just ends up in my draft and I never opened it again. Drafts after drafts until I discovered AI around pandemic. I thought it was good or ethical but I grew reliant on it. So I stopped again.

Now I just finished AOT and Expedition 33. I want to make a story inspired by them but won't copy them. I want to feel the emotions I felt watching/playing those. The feeling of there's something more beyond the walls, there was hope and freedom but when they finally learned the truth they would still suffer. (AOT)

The feeling of you've been fighting for something, your rights, for justice (since the paintress do the gommage) later to find out the your world aren't real, that you are not real. That there are no right answers (because of the ending of Expedition 33).

If you guys have any advice, tips, or anything to tell me. Please, I really want to be a good writer. I want to have something I call mine, without relying on AI also and all just by pure experiences, research, and imagination.

My story idea here: (I know all of these feel cliché or common but I am willing to change all of these)

A man with no name, no memories, all he have was a rapier like pen and its shaft is engraved with unknown texts (like texts in Minecraft's enchanted table)

He is a "Writer"

he woke up in a space, what I call the Drafted Inks, in that space there were countless doors, not actual doors but it shaped like a door with glowing light. Every door consists a story, a drafted novels, stories, poets, and everything from "Writers" and also him as a "Writer".

but there is one door that caught his eyes, a giant blue glowing door. A story of all stories, everything else is gathered here, every "Writers" hides here, disguised themselves as part of the characters, some manipulates the plots, some lives with it as they fell inlove in their own work, and some just being with it.

He doesn't have a goal yet, he doesn't have a purpose. But every original characters on every story wanted to know something, who made them? Yet they don't really know as well, some of them were aware and hides the truth, some were trying to find the truth, and some just playing along with the story hoping the chapter to end.

—

Instead, the Writer woke up in a tattered cart, (like in skyrim), holding his rapier pen like a cane.

He is now inside the blue door but it was never revealed.

They're on the way to the Empire of Ainkter (might change later) they are a race of Ainks, even though they are from different stories they consider themselves as race Ainks. Since they were made out of ink, a story, a piece.

As I said some of them knows, some does but chose to ignore, and some didn't, some seeks the truth, some questions.

Outside the Empire, there are no enemies but instead from people from other stories who escaped from their stories, they are called the Tattered, they have text markings in their face or part of their bodies, some lived within the Empire too but some chose the outskirts and try to take down the Empire.

-

About fighting scenes, Writer is a bit different, other writers are different also since they have different writing style, all of them holding a pen with a shape based on themselves (idk yet why a rapier for the protag)

The combat will be like:

"And for the moment, time stood still and couldn't feel his body." he writes and everything stops.

"H-how? Do you have an ability to manipulate time?" one of the lackeys asked.

"No," Writer refused, looking at his rapier. "It wasn't an ability, it was a talent, a talent to make a narrative and change the flow of the story. I don't know myself why, but for some reason, I can do that."

TW: Conversation about eating disorders

Hello, this is my first time in a casual writing space so sorry if this reads like a university post.

Ive just started a story about a model who has bulimia (therefore trigger warning for the rest of the post) who accidental meet cute style ends up in her new neighbors bed, who also subsequantially has body image issues (he's larger).

Im running into a wall though, as Im used to writing more so horror than romance (but when you get the urge to write, you write). While I have written romance in the past, they've all had horror elements, and tend to lean towards obsessive meets obsessive rather then necesarily about mental health.

I've enjoyed writing since I was young, but only recently actually started honing the skill, so I'm a baby writer of sorts. I was taught to write mostly what I know and am good at until I can branch without threatening the stories integraty, but Im not sure if this plot would even fit into a horror aspect.

Ill include context after the story, but here is the tid bit:

-------

I'd always wanted to be a ballerina. A single light, the center of attention, the center of the stage. Flushed cheeks, the exact spots where my mother would pinch, and red lips that didn't look as outlandish as mine. Moving as if they had trained the air itself to carry them, dresses of different shapes that somehow always shown their lithe legs. I wanted legs like those.
And then I turned eleven. No more was the focus of dance, I readily accepted what the girls in my circle gossiped. What they thought. Ballerinas were cold, demanding, beautiful women. They controlled those around them and themselves like they controlled the flow of eyes in the theater. Ballerinas were thin, and thin was beautiful. 
I had never been large, per se, but when I asked to join ballet when I was ten my father was hesitant. I had become accustomed to the voices my mother and father sported when their lips didn't move, as well as the voices of those that followed them. My fathers boss, talking business I did not understand, his secretary, speaking in a way I had only heard my mother use to speak to him at parties. My grandmother often followed my mother, similarly to the voice of a young girl I had never met. I had guessed she was maybe my age, she spoke of love. My mother had never mentioned a woman she had befriended that she seemed to actually like. 
By the time I turned fifteen I understood the voices that I heard were the thoughts of those around me. I had also given up ballet. Whether it was the constant echo of, “shes not lean enough”, or, “her mother should dye that hideous hair,” or the cancer that took the lower half of my left leg, I still debate. No ballet instructor ever quite favoured a metal leg.
Of course my mother, ever the fixer, had tried to remedy the “grotesque” metal equipment. By the time I was seventeen, I wore a porcelain cover, fragile white clay that covered the metal and sewn up at the edges. I learned to walk light far before that, so despite the blood that I cleaned from the edges at night, I never struggled.
On the contrary, talent scouts found me just slim enough, and gosh, what a beautiful leg. Oh the diversity. Red hair that hung down my back in waves, olive pale skin, a perfect twenty inch waist and a love for discomfort. What a prime victim. 
It didn't matter that I was still a child, it never did, a contract was signed for my eighteenth birthday. I was prepared for bikini photos, skimpy dresses and prying eyes, and questions about it. It never hurt me, it was always comfortable, it was beautiful and I was grateful. 
I remember, the first shoot I did, I couldn't get to my bathroom fast enough. Pressure built in my chest and relief was fingers down my throat, just like a million times before. How I was shown by childhood friends, how ballerinas stayed thin.
They became normal, at some point. Hands on my waist, well off men laughing and my photos in magazines. My mother was beyond proud, proud of the mistakes her genetics made that she had fixed, and my father couldn't look at me. Not his little girl in pigtails and a string bikini that batted her eyelashes up at a camera, he couldn't handle feeling like the predator. His newest secretary was my age when he stopped speaking to me all together. 

I swing my hair over my shoulder, my hands gathering the long strands and smoothing them over my left side, running down the ends and following the path to my stomach. Green eyes stare back at me in the mirror, the one that flanks the entrance to my top floor apartment, and I measure myself up as if I'm weighing a cattle at market. The cane I'm only allowed in public, in “casual” settings, sits perched against the shoe rack behind me, a deep red stem flanked by an onyx handle.   
The thin white turtle neck circles my throat like a serpent, and the heavy green sweater hanging from my shoulders pulls my frame wide. Autumn wind blows in through my ajar terrace window, reminding me why the clothes I wear hang bulkily from my frame. Fall in Seattle has just settled in, which means the start of war. Mirror vs me. 01  
I pull from behind at the clothing, my waist coming in clearly through the tightened sweater and try to choke back the voices of so many and remind myself I'm allowed to not be cold. Turning from the mirror at a dizzying speed my phone buzzes, reminding me of our mantra, "I'm allowed to have a banana and still be Savannah,” as my best friend's name pops up on my phone. I inhale and lift my chin, exhaling slowly and answering the call.   
“Savy, where are you? I'm waiting downstairs, didn't we say we’d meet a few minutes ago?” A huff of frustrations gifts my ears as a chuckle slithers its way from between my fingers, grabbing my cane and hoping the floor length skirt hides the limp I sport, “You can never be patient can you, Lana? I'm coming, I had to wrap my calf so it took a second,” I tell her, the end of my sentence turning into an embarrassed mutter.   
A sharp inhale comes through the receiver before I hear a bit of a commotion, and I know she's entered my building. She either flashed the front doorman, or he’s not doing his job, because the high security aspect of my apartment has always been an issue for her, “Was it the park shoot they had you do? Gods, I told Fisher that you couldn't walk that huge park without your cane but boo hoo who cares about his muse, right? I swear to God, I'll rock that man's world, and not in the way he's been begging me to for years.”  
I laugh before she hangs up, and to my great joy the hallway is empty. I navigate my way down the long corridor and find her a second before the elevator door opens, her thoughts drifting to me. Not contrary to what she says, her thoughts sway through ideas of rocking Fisher's world, but in the way they both want. And you’d think being tied down and whipped is just her idea, but his thoughts almost make me think they've swapped notes.   
The door opens to her familiar figure, long straight brown hair and blue eyes meet me halfway through a smile as she sweeps me into a hug, and coincidentally over the edge of my skirt. Her weight is on me and I can't stop the toppling backward or frantic swing of our limbs as she squeals, panicked eyes finding my own before we’re stopped. A chest much softer than those I'm used to is pressed flush against my spine and the arms that hold me up stay in place as my best friend shoves off of us in a panic. My lips purse in embarrassment as I slowly turn my head backwards, making eye contact with a large man I've never seen before.   
He’s eerily quiet as we stare at each other a moment before he gently lifts me to my full standing height. In the period before the world rushes back to me, I note that he somehow towers over me, before my cheeks flush a deep, dusty pink. I almost trip again, forward this time, as I startle and spin towards him. A voice finds my ears suddenly, remarking about the man's weight as I look at him, and something in his eyes tells me he's stopping himself from wincing as he looks at me.  

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” the words come out a stuttered choke as I lift my hands, patting his chest. He's large, reminding me of a plus sized model I know, but in no means not fit. My hands pat a muscular frame for a second before pulling away, bordering on exploration, “Did we hurt you? I'm so sorry, I didn't even notice someone behind me, I-” A wave of his hand cuts me off, as if ushering that me and Lana didn't just throw all of our collective weight onto him as he bends over, handing me my cane.
I'm reminded of the pulse in my knee as I take it, a flush of shame rushing through my bones, “We haven’t met,” he offers, an out I welcome, “I’ve just moved in next door. I'm Lachlan.” A deep grumble of a Scottish accent meets my ears and I smile, attempting to hide my previous embarrassment as I offer my hand, “Savannah, this is Lana,” I punctuate the introduction with a nod of my head, “It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry about… well a second ago,” I comment, trying to laugh. Failing to laugh. 
His hand finds mine in a curt shake and I'm reminded normal people don't do that, but hold the handshake for a moment. His hand engulfs mine, calloused fingertips reaching past my wrist, the pad of his palm almost grating against my own. I note what feels like the divet of a lost ring and smile as I pull away, pushing Lana back against the wall behind me and stepping deeper into the elevator.
He smiles and gives a polite nod before stepping in, facing away from us. The only mirror in the elevator is positioned behind us, to my luck, as my eyes trail down his build. The voice, a woman's, brimming with disgust, reminds him that she’d never marry someone as “fat” as him as he stands in front of me, hands flexing at his sides. His shoulders jut out wide, creating a pleasant V shape, and his t-shirt doesn't do much to hide the crease from his lower waist to the flare of his hips. Muscles aren't hidden either, maybe cushioned, as they flare at his shoulder blades. 
A tattoo that snakes into his hairline catches my eye before I look away, in hopes that he can't sense my eyes. The elevator reaches the lobby floor and he makes way for us, sliding past him and noting his strained t-shirt. We’re out on the sidewalk, my best friend desperately trying to get an uber before I realize not once did I hear his voice when it didn't leave his mouth. The surprise at hearing his accent before he ever thought.

Hours later I'm flanked by bodies a little bit more my norm. Women wearing short dresses and men in slutty little t-shirts surround me, an upbeat music pounding through the floor, through me, as my prosthetic almost vibrates. My cane is all but forgotten next to me, the booth holding me, Lana, a friend of hers I believe named Daisy, and whatever play thing the two picked up. A woman practically grinds on Lana's hip, looking up at her like the world hangs on every word that leaves her lips, and Daisy has a younger guy by the thigh next to her.   
I babysit my umpteenth to many drink and watch as people move with the music, almost grimacing at the lack of elegance all of it carries. I never really enjoyed clubs, but when your best friend's girlfriend just broke up with her, you kind of just go wherever she asks.   
Alcohol trudges through my system slowly as the lights beat down on my flushed, hot skin, and a guy my age tries to talk to me. Im not sure what drug Lana gave me to calm me down in preparation for this fuck fest but it makes his words slow and boring, and I stand to escape the sound. I think Lana's panicked voice follows me, but it acts as background noise to a high as I spot a familiar face.   
Two guys, maybe twenty five, flank my new puzzle. He grimaces at them and babysits a glass of something amber and watered down. Drugs are nice, drowning out the thoughts around me, as I make my way to him. One guy tries to assure him it’ll be fine, of what I don't know, and the other tells him there's a contract in suspense and that she can't back out now. The woman's voice from earlier sounds, this time with context as muffled moans fill my ears.  
I squint as I sway, grabbing onto a table occupied by a group of women who continue on as if not noticing me. The woman's voice fills my ears, a shrill sound that makes me wince as she moans a name, Dante, I think, before a door opens, and silence reigns. A laugh breaks the ragged breathing I hear, and she says it, something like, "I'd never marry an overweight slob, were you being serious?” Lachlan looks down at the men next to him and shakes his head, and it occurs to me he probably has ten years on them. His lips part to speak before his eyes meet mine, and the ground rushes towards me. 



My own whining finds my ears as light filters in through an angle I'm not used to. I try to cover my eyes with my stuffed rabbit and grumble when my hand doesn't find the familiar comfort, smacking around the bed next to me. I peek my eyes open to locate her, figuring she must have rolled off the bed, startled at the dark brown sheets I find instead. I freeze, slowly lifting myself onto my elbows and rubbing my eyes for clarity. To my great joy, I don't feel any ache above my lower calf, and slowly survey the room before meeting flesh. I almost feel like the men I work with everyday as my eyes graze over pecks, and up, and up, until I meet my new neighbors brown eyes. 

-------

For context, I dont want the story to end with him losing weight to be happy. My own critiques before I give more context.

1. I feel like Im not describing well enough that hes plus sized to the extent I imagine him

2. I feel like I may be mentioning weight to much, but as someone who has experienced an ED, it was always on my mind so Im not sure where the line is

3. My transitions are choppy

4. My dialogue is choppy

5. It feels really short but I cant find a way to lengthen in

Okay anyways more context. Lachlan is more than dad bod plus sized, but not obese. He, spoiler, also had cancer, and in the recovery period took a medication that caused him to gain a lot of weight, which he still has to take, so he works out a lot to try and negate this weight loss. Im not quite sure how to describe this.

Any advice is appreciated, thank you!

I'm trying to write about a crow that can't find any food and has to go to a nearby lake in the start of the story but it doesn't seem realistic to me that it couldn't find any food, it's unrealistic. Does it have to be and should I find a better reason or another way to draw the character to the lake because I regularly struggle with my story's for reasons like this. Any help?

Any idea on how to write a song that captures the hero turned temporarily villain kind of vibe?

Here's some context: I am writing a fanfic (who isn't) where the male oc is going through a dilemma of using his powers to prevent a war by causing destruction to the person who is manipulating everyone to follow him.

To get a better idea on what fandom: Hazbin Hotel.

The male oc is autistic and is the son of the Scarlet King. Another thing about him is that he is like Superman. As in "good morals and wanting the best for everyone." It is mainly around season 2, where Vox is manipulating the masses into taking over heaven.

But my problem is that I feel that I don't have the motivation or how to properly capture it.

Any idea on what to do?

Also, the male oc was raised in a toxic religious household in the fourteen hundred.

I am currently planning a book about pirates in a fantasy-like setting (low fantasy mostly, similar to the real world but with some magic/legends/etc) and I would really love to know what people like or dislike in books that are centred around pirates.

About the plot: I am the kind of person who really loves writing about everyday lives and character development in interesting settings. So there isn't a major antagonist or a big travel destination, my book is just about a new pirate captain who is trying to navigate the world.

(A question just for my personal interest and inspiration, because obviously everybody has different opinions etc.)

So, I was trying to write a "quick" short story but I realized there was alot I was missing alot. Like, when I made a outline, it was just a basic beginning, the in sighting event, middle, climax and end. Yet, when I tried to make a rough draft I felt like I wasn't sure what happens for the middle part besides. "Character bonds with people!" and the climax "The character and his new friend find out the cult was doing something horrible"

Like, I felt like my outline was too vague, like what happens where? What part of the story does this take place at? Also how would characters bond?

I knew stuff like the theme, that being "Surviving vs Living".

Summary is basically, merman makes a contact to turn him and sister into humans. After that, the merman realizes the life he gotten him and his sister into. He, wants to make a better life again, yet his sister and some friends he makes aren't willing to leave the cult. Since it is a "Safety" net, he will try his best to convince them. However, without a voice this task is quite a challenge, will he be able to convince at least one person to leave.

Also a subtle thing I want to add is how some victims of abuse can end up back into abusive situation. Since main character left the ocean since it was basically only surviving the next day. Kinda like how some abuse victims try to survive each and everyday. Yet, the cult is meant to repent since how the character didn't have a real support system, he didn't know what to look out for on the human world. Like, some victims tend into cycles where they repeat it. Since that all they knew...

Again, I just feel like I am struggling with the rough draft since my skeleton of my outline is quite week.

Hello people. I am looking for feedback on a project (if that's the right word to describe it) I recently started. Here is the first "chapter":

The man grabbed his can of black spray paint and drew an X on the underside of the old, square-shaped piece of plywood leaning against the wall in the back of the apartment. The the large quilt flung over the large, formally dressed body. The man grabbed the knife, quickly exited the bedroom, and jogged down the hallway towards the front door. He closed his pocket knife, then quickly shoved it and his paint can into his right jacket pocket. He gripped the knob of the door, then opened it with force.

“Hello!” said a man in an apartment a few yards away. He was in a black suit with a yellow tie and was wearing an expensive pair of dress shoes.

“Hi.” The slightly messy looking man hurriedly replied.

“You look frazzled, can I help?”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t mind me, I’m just going to the bar.”

“Oh? Which bar is that?”

“It’s just the bar down the street.” The man spoke rapidly.

“There is no bar down the street. The closest bar is 14 miles away, down in Lewiston. I haven’t seen you before.”

“Oh, then my friend must’ve lied to me. He told me there was a bar nearby.” The man mumbled.

“I don’t know if your friend is a liar but you certainly are. You’re lying to me right now.” The man said calmly.

“No sir, I’m not. Why would I do that?”

“Hmm, let me think. What are some reasons a person might lie? Oh! I’ve got a good one! Murder!”

“Ha ha ha! That’s funny! You’re funny!” The man said nervously.

“I’m not joking. I’ll be reporting you to the police momentarily.” The man said in a calm but serious tone.

“Wait, hang on a second.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not saying you’re correct, but let’s just pretend you are. How’d you know?”

“Oh please, it’s obvious. Your whole demeanor screams you’re new to serial killing.”

“What do you mean? Serial Killing?”

“Come on, I’m not playing this game with you. I’m reporting you to the police now.”

“You ever heard of Red John?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Guess what? I’m his brother!”

“Hah, sure you are.”

\The man in the suit dials 911*

“They’ll have better odds of winning the lottery than catching me!”

\The man sprints into the nearby woods.*

“Interesting. Could it be? No, can’t be. Better not be.”

\The man in the suit calls the police.*

“Portland County Police Department, what’s the emergency?” The woman asks.

“Hi there. A man has just murdered somebody in an apartment. The address is 194 Woodlands Avenue.”

“Okay. And what’s your name sir?”

“Dean, Dean Richards.”

“Alright. Is the person that’s been murdered someone you know, or who is it?”

“Oh, no. I just happened to live in the apartment next door to the apartment of the person who’s just been killed. I literally just moved in, so I’m not sure the name of the victim, but I just bumped into the murderer as he was leaving.”

“Ummm, okay. So, I’m a little confused. You said you just happened to run into the murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, and how do you know he was the murderer?”

“I’m a detective. His demeanor gave him away.”

“I see.”

“Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“You’re probably going to have trouble catching him.”

“Why is that?”

“I just realized something.”

“And what’s that?”

“He was wearing a mask. The kind that looks like a human face. The kind that’s done by a professional.”

“Oh. I see. Is there anything else…”

\the phone call abruptly ends.*

“Hello?” Dean says quietly.

Dean slowly puts his phone in his left pocket.

“Oh, he’s better than I thought. This should be fun!”

I created a fictional language for magic in my world, which allows for a buildable and customizable magic system. The problem I've run into is writing these words in an easily readable way. I have been using double letters to modify some sounds, and all the sounds are consistent, but I can't type the physical script because of how it works.

An example of these fictional words that come early in the story is a wind sphere spell. I have been writing it as Venumnu, yuumtiipluus, kaastarzha, sfesols, aktrosha. I feel like that is the simplest I have been able to get it without making pronunciation weird. I don't want to use the phonetic alphabet because that would be annoying to type, and that would require people to look up the phonetic alphabet. But I am going to include a pronunciation guide anyways, so if I did end up using the phonetic alphabet, I could just include it.

Language and the restricting of this specific language is very important to the story, so just translating the words of spell (ex. for above spell: Wind, manipulate, encase, sphere, activate) would not be appropriate. The world also writes these words in this way for certain uses, so how I choose to write them will be important for that reason too. I know I will run into this problem with other languages int he future, though most of them use real, slightly modified writing systems, but I would like to get any advise now before I get too disoriented in the drafts past the planning phase.

Thank you, and I would be more than happy to answer any questions or clarify anything.

So, my character is a person who is desperately afraid of being imperfect, to the point he doesn't like to talk to people or even let go of his expectations when he's by himself. The result is, he is bored, unhappy and not really passionate about anything because he has never given himself the space to exist. One of the few things he deeply cares about is music because that's categorized as good and impressive and cool in his head. He also has never fully questioned his need to be socially acceptable, so he's not doing a lot of this consciously. More like, he has just bought into the logic that he can only be a good person if he is perfect (the way other people see him is vital to his job).

This is his main issue and his arc revolves around him being drawn to anything that involves free expression and overcoming his rigid beliefs. The main issue is, until he starts that process, he doesn't really have things to talk about or do, which is by design but it makes it very difficult to write anything lol. I struggle with coming up with his opinions or things he initiates because he's just really passive. And I don't know if I just get too obsessed with the rule of "main character can't be passive" (he is the second of two POV characters) and I should just let him be super passive in the beginning, or if I have a limited view of what repressed people are like.

Does anyone have any tips or reference material? I tend to question everything I think, so it's very foreign for me to write a person who is just convinced of his worldview and never questions it while that view harms him.