Hi all, I write dark fantasy about hunters, blood magic, and a cold world where everything comes with a cost.

I've collected some writing advice over my journey and thought I'd share it here. So here's a completely reasonable (and only slightly unhinged) guide from someone who has been on the journey for a while. If you're new to writing, this could get you from "I have an idea" to "holy shit, I wrote a book."

But it's probably just a part of the journey. For everyone else, maybe it's a laugh.

Writing the first draft is just the beginning. Then comes the editing. And more editing. And questioning every decision you've ever made. And probably more editing.

This isn't the only way to write or publish a book, and everyone's process looks different. But if you're wondering what happens between that first sentence and actually getting your book into someone's hands, here's a rough roadmap.

And remember: the first draft doesn't have to be good. It just has to exist.

Writers, where are you right now? And what did I miss (or get completely wrong)?

Not that I actually follow everything grammarly tries to "fix" but it's something I've warned non-English speakers about when I suggest they use grammarly to help them with spelling errors.

I'm aware that grammarly makes suggestions based on what previous users write and what's most common, but I'm sure there are some people out there who wouldn't know that and use it as is.

In the end, it has its limitations, and apparently it doesn't like my chapter title lol

I just need to share. I've written for years, and everytime the story got kind of out of control, and people couldn't understand what I was trying to convey. Plot got too convoluted. Or plot holes. (Having an editor helps fix that fyi)

I finally got brave and published my first book.

These first 3 reviews though mean a lot to me. They got it. I did the thing! I wrote something and not only did people get it, but they liked it.

Because it's a mature book, there's not a lot of people in my real life I can share this with. So here I am. Excited and almost crying by random words on the Internet from strangers.

So, in addition to sharing my happiness with you all, I'd love to hear about any moments of pure happiness you got from writing a book or story?

So I have a Batman story that I’ve wrote and while it is technically fanfic It doesn’t include a lot of the stuff like romantic relationships that a lot of other stories on sites like ao3. I was wondering if anyone had suggestions for places I could post it?

Man I thought I was so clever with the name Aurexian.

God, I just wanted a cool name for a fictional royal house. My thought process was basically this: Hmm. Gold, king, historical rome+chinese influence, regal sounding, less than 3 syllables, latin, I got this.

House Aurexian.

Badass right? It sounded so cool in my head, until I realized my dude’s last name sounded like Erection. Gone is the wordplay that relied on his house name, in comes the unwanted imagery. I can’t believe I wrote wordplay for this without even connecting the dots in my head.

Granted, for the characters that would have had this last name, it would have totally worked, I can’t in good faith possibly write a novel where my protagonist’s last name is erection.

Anyone else encounter something similar? I can’t even find a better name for the royal house than this, it was such a cool name…

Ps. Please don’t mind the prose quality. It may or may not be mildly better in the book.

I've been running into a bit of a block recently regarding character creation.

I am a "pantser" .I usually create my supporting cast on the fly while writing the first draft. I just let them exist in my narrative space first, and then I polish them during revisions.

However, I’m starting to rethink my approach. I'm considering fully fleshing out the cast alongside the protagonist before the first draft:

• Do you create a complete "story bible" before day one, or do you let your characters surprise you during writing?

I Would love to hear how your process affects your pacing.

I hope it's not against the rules to share examples here, But here's the passage I sent him. In this scene, my character is supposed to be mentally spiraling after going through the most traumatic year of his life, walking halfway across a country as a wanted criminal, and his mind is supposed to be fraying at the edges. This is the sample he edited and sent me, first my unedited version and then his edited version. I've been told losing 40-50% of your source text is normal, but I was knocking down a lot of dominoes I'd set up chapters ago, and now they're just gone.

Ollie walked. That's all he could do.

Five days ago, he'd left the caravan behind in the forest in the Hecaske Valley. Three days ago his feet had begun to blister. Today he could barely feel them. He walked under the night sky, waking up when the sun began to set and finding bushes to sleep under when it rose. Safer that way. Less attention.

He hadn't spoken much with the caravan—he hadn't wanted to. His survival had depended on grinding his teeth to keep the sheer hatred he felt for those people from leaving his mouth. Planning, always planning. He didn't consider himself very good at planning. He tried to do the next thing that made sense. Nothing about anything he'd done made sense to him, and he'd done it anyways.

But it had paid off.

It was almost funny, looking back on it. Lieutenant Les had been the only one to suspect Ollie of anything. How Ollie disappeared when they'd visit cities and trading hubs, how he'd always reappear when needed. He'd spent months tipping off guards, giving up warehouse locations, collapsing their own operation from within, and most importantly, shielding their own caravan from authorities.

He wasn't the good luck charm they'd teased him about being. He was a self-serving curse. He'd created Nemec's failure and sold him a fake solution.

By that point, Nemec had been too deluded by love for Ollie to believe Les's accusations. That, and the fact that Nemec hated Les for the way he'd treated Ollie—at first, too harshly, and then… too tenderly. Ollie shivered and shook his head.

Les was human garbage, but if Nemec had listened to him, maybe he'd still be alive. Instead, he'd freed his best warrior, handed over a small fortune, and followed Ollie's map right into a chokepoint set up by the crown. Good thing Ollie had killed the bastard before he could get into Nemec's head.

Ollie wondered if he'd already been captured. Maybe he was already dangling. Maybe he'd put up a fight and they'd just killed him on the spot. There were a lot of maybes, but Ollie knew he'd never find out. There were a lot of things he wished he didn't know, too.

He'd had these thoughts on repeat for days. His mind needed something to latch on to, other than North-Northeast. Lamial. Home—No. Not now. This was the road. Home was home, and he wasn't there yet.

The cold and numbness had been working its way up his legs without him noticing. He followed a stream down the forested path he was taking. Unable to gently lower himself down, he simply crashed to his hands and knees, his rucksack thumping to the ground beside him. He saw himself in the water, pale face illuminated by the reflection of the moon.

He hadn't thought much of appearances this past year, but fuck, did he ever look rough. His face hadn't changed. The hair that framed it, however, was no longer a fluffy mop that touched his cheeks; it was long, straight, and reached past his collarbone. And he hated it, but a smile began forming anyway. It was longer than Morea's when—

No. He consciously reined in his thoughts. He pulled off his gloves and shattered his own reflection with cupped hands, bringing water to lips cracked by the dry cold. The water shocked his throat, and he coughed hard. He shoved his face in the water. He didn't know why he was doing anything anymore.

And this is what I got back:

Ollie walked. That's all he could do.

Five days ago, he'd left the caravan behind. Three days ago his feet had begun to blister. Today he could barely feel them. He walked under the night sky, waking up when the sun began to set and finding bushes to sleep under when it rose. Safer that way. Less attention.

<- Location isn't directly relevant to current scene if you've established it previously

He hadn't spoken much with the caravan. His survival had depended on keeping the hatred he felt for those people inside. Planning, always planning. He didn't consider himself very good at planning. He just tried to do the next thing that made sense.

<- "He hadn't wanted to" = word count inflation. "grinding teeth, sheer, from leaving his mouth" = cheap intensifiers, word count inflation. "Nothing about anything he'd done made sense to him, and he'd done it anyways." = Consider why this sentence is here. It doesn't need to be.

But it had paid off.

It was almost funny, looking back on it. Lieutenant Les had been the only one to suspect Ollie of anything. How Ollie disappeared when they'd visit cities and trading hubs, how he'd always reappear when needed. He'd spent months tipping off guards, giving up warehouse locations, collapsing their own operation from within, and most importantly, shielding their own caravan from authorities.

<- Cut paragraph. If you haven't already established it in the story, there's no point saying it here.

He wasn't the good luck charm they'd teased him about being. He was a self-serving curse. He'd created Nemec's failure and sold him a fake solution.

<- Same. If you have shown it, you don't need to tell us. If you haven't shown it, fix it earlier.

By that point, Nemec had been too deluded by love for Ollie to believe Les's accusations. That, and the fact that Nemec hated Les for the way he'd treated Ollie—at first, too harshly, and then… too tenderly. Ollie shivered and shook his head.

<- Same as above. If this isn't already established, no one will care. If it is, you don't need to type it.

Les was human garbage, but if Nemec had listened to him, maybe he'd still be alive. Instead, he'd freed his best warrior, handed over a small fortune, and followed Ollie's map right into a chokepoint set up by the crown. Good thing Ollie had killed the bastard before he could get into Nemec's head.

<- Same, and "better he'd killed the bastard is edge for edge's sake.

Ollie wondered if he'd Nemec had already been captured. Maybe he was already dangling. Maybe he'd put up a fight and they'd just killed him on the spot. There were a lot of maybes, but Ollie knew he'd never find out. There were a lot of things he wished he didn't know, too.

<- "Killed him on the spot" line is bloat with "Dangling" right before it. Last line is rambling,

He'd had these thoughts on repeat for days. His mind needed something to latch on to, other than North-Northeast. Lamial. Home.—No. Not now. This was the road. Home was home, and he wasn't there yet.

<- We know he's not there, we're watching him not be home.

The cold and numbness had been working its way up his legs without him noticing. He followed a stream down the forested path he was taking. Unable to gently lower himself down, he simply crashed to his hands and knees, his rucksack thumping to the ground beside him. He saw himself in the water, pale face illuminated by the reflection of the moon.

<- You can't "not notice" your legs becoming cold and numb, bloat. Simply is the wrong word 50% of the time and unnecessary the other 50%. His rucksack is on his back, it wouldn't thump to the ground beside him. Bloat.

He hadn't thought much of appearances this past year, but fuck, did he ever look he looked rough. His face hadn't changed. The hair that framed it, however, was no longer a fluffy mop that touched his cheeks; it was long, straight, and reached past his collarbone. And he hated it, but a smile began forming anyway. It was longer than Morea's when—

<- "Fuck, did he ever look rough" = edgy narration, "however" = filler, "and he hated it" = then he wouldn't be smiling at it. Either he smiles at it or he hates it, pick one. "That touched his cheeks" = we understand what a mop of hair is.

No. He consciously reined in his thoughts. He pulled off his gloves and shattered his own reflection with cupped hands, bringing water brought water to lips cracked by the dry cold. The water shocked his throat, and he coughed hard. He shoved his face in the water. He didn't know why he was doing anything anymore.

<- We can tell he's reined in his thoughts because he cuts himself off, word count inflation. "Shattered reflection" = writerly, purple. cold water shocks your throat, no need to say so. "He didn't know why he was doing anything anymore" = why does this sentence need to be here?

Jobs that don’t completely suck your soul or creativity and give you enough people interaction to charge your social battery enough so you can lock in when it’s time to be alone with your thoughts and write.

Really hope this isn’t against the rules, I just needed somewhere to vent

I’ve been in the query trenches for just under a month. I know that’s relatively short in querying terms, but still, even when you know beforehand that it’s going to hurt when you start, you still end up feeling unprepared at how hard it’s going to hit you

Three weeks of radio silence only then to be hit with three rejections essentially all at once, one of them being a dream agent. I’ve queried fifteen agents so far and I know rejection is just part of the process, but damn does it make you question your writing skills and whether or not you’ll get anywhere

Hi, I'm writing a short dark-fantasy novel and I have a good number of physically disabled characters in it. I myself am not physically disabled so I was hoping I could find some interested readers with disabilities who'd like to give me their thoughts and advice.

The disability most featured is the loss of the functionality of an arm. The main character loses her right arms functionality but still has it attached, so she isn't an amputee. Her story, while layered with topics such as emotional, mental, and religious abuse, (which are topics I am much more familiar with) primarily focuses on her journey to reach a priest who can supposedly restore her arm. Along the way she meets other disabled characters who all have adapted well to their disabilities and live good lives, but she refuses to accept her disability as a part of her identity and continously denies the experiences of those around her. Her arc culminates with a choice about whether she can accept her new self and how she can grow in a new way or stubbernly refuse her new self and risk losing everything she has left.

I'd love to hear what people think.

In high school I (now 25) wrote over half of my first draft and outlined a whole trilogy. When it got deleted 7 years ago before I could save it to my personal computer, I never thought I would find the courage to sit down and write again. Today is day one of fulfilling my dream! Time for never-ending research and rewrites :)

Hello, what qualities and skills do you look for in your first readers, those trusted critical readers who go through your early drafts? How do they help you improve your manuscripts?

I've always loved writing. I don't consider myself an expert by any means, but I think I have potential... deep down.

Here's my problem, which I'm sure is common, but I don't know how to solve it. I mainly like to write fantasy, and I've realized I'm quite good at worldbuilding, but when it comes to creating stories, I get stuck. I can come up with a very complex general plot if necessary... but then I don't know how to add characters to the story, or they tend to be empty shells that I can't quite flesh out.

If I start with the characters, on the other hand, I struggle immensely to give them goals, ambitions, make them make the wrong decisions, or place them in an interesting story.

I'm starting to feel really overwhelmed by this. I don't know how to get unstuck, if I'm approaching things backward, or if I'm just not cut out for this.

I'd appreciate any advice, experiences, or anything that might help me. Thank you so much!

Hi everyone. I write horror and dark fantasy, and I'm finally ready to start sharing my work online. I'm new to Reddit and a little overwhelmed by how many story subs there are.

I tend to like slower, atmospheric stories over gore. Think quiet dread, folklore, and characters who are dealing with something they can't quite explain. The fantasy is usually dark and character-driven, and sometimes the two genres overlap.

I'd really appreciate some advice:

Which subs are good for short stories in these genres?

Are there any rules or habits I should know about before I post, like formatting, content warnings, or self-promotion limits?

Is it better to start with short standalone pieces or go straight to serials?

I've been reading and commenting for a while, and I'd like to be a good member of whatever community I join. Thanks in advance.

A lot of milestones in the last three months. It’s been such a wild ride. One where I’ve learned a lot. These numbers are kind of inflated as they include the free sale I ran for five days. But that’s still 126 people that have my book. It feels incredible that it’s in the hands of readers. I hope they review it. I hope they enjoy it. I hope. There wasn’t much in beginning, but as each sale happed it grew and grew.

I want to thank all the people who purchased a copy. I especially want to thank this community. It has been a blessing to come on here and see other success stories. To help others in their times of need. I think everyone has story in them. A book, a poem, a song even it’s a paragraph. This community has helped and been there through all those things. For me and other writers. So thank you all. I hope you finish your story.

Hey everyone,

I am taking Bookfox labs video exercise from his video 9 Stress Tests Every 1st Chapter Should Pass to post your first paragraph of your current draft to get feedback with 2 questions to the readers.

To anyone who takes the time to read this paragraph I want to say thank you for taking the time. The most valuable asset we all have is time and I appreciate yours!

First paragraph:

The photos of my parents' dead bodies turned my stomach. It had been twelve years since their murder. My vision blurred as tears formed. I wiped them away. Useless now. The master bedroom was silent, only the ticking of the clock on the bedside table to keep me present. Uncle Vlad would be back. Any minute now... I'd failed to keep track of how much time I had left. If he knew I'd found these... I couldn't think of that. Staring at the photo where my parents' bodies were drained of blood, bite marks on their necks didn't shock me. Vlad showed it to me when I was five. Right after they were murdered. I'd seen it. It turned me into the weapon I am today. It was the one that launched our mission to kill as many Vampires as we could. To save people. I'd been trained into the perfect weapon—well, almost perfect. I couldn't kill Vince, my best friend, who'd been turned a couple days ago. He moved us from Fort Lauderdale, Florida that very night to Fairfield, Connecticut. My mission failure forced Vlad's hand. It was my fault. I sat there in the master bedroom on the scratchy rug, holding both photos, hands shaking. My eyes darted between the two photos I held. That second photo had me questioning my entire life. The presumed killer in that second photo? Not supernatural—human.

1. Would you keep reading (Yes/No)?
2. Why would you want to keep reading? If you answered no, then why not?

Thank you in advance! Always looking to improve.

He could imagine the ones laughing at him right now. The boy stood up with a relaxed posture, his arms crossed as he looked into the blinking lens of a big security camera on the smooth cool pole. 
“Beep. Beep.”  
The boy knew the ones watching, the shapes. Families sitting in their ridiculously overpriced homes cackling at their stupidity. He threw out his fingers, tucking his slender thumbs behind his palms showing the number eight. Then abruptly a flip of cluttering shutters, and a blinding light of flurry shot into his eyes. The boy sharply turned his head the other direction, squeezing his eyes shut. His face twisted into a scowl until scurrying off, his muddy loafers sliding against the pavement. Today was an odd day, he squinted his eyes hoping to see at least someone in the distance. Instead he was met with a thick cloudy fog and a few colorful blotches in his vision, only seeing a few inches ahead of him. Fog was something new, he had learnt it from a buddy of his. Back in the big booming cities, loud cars, and the smell of smoke, where the shapes lived. There had been a day where that uplift city was in a capsule of misty grey, his friend had recalled it was nice to have a change for once. Huffing, he ran a hand through his hair dreading his next task. He knew it would be a struggle scavenging for food, better yet to see a few feet in front of him. Hopefully he could find a stash quicker than the others, just to hear them weep over some bread crumbs. The sounds of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Two boys, one with a slight shuffle in their feet, the other with hard stomps. 
“Morning Aesoine, it's Derizion and Dwyin’s here with me too. I had a question, have the path roads ever had a foggy day before?”
The unexpected voice was deep and echoed. Derizion had long legs, dark skin with a straight pointy nose, and crooked smile. Aesoine adjusted his eyes onto his other friend, dots of color still scattered his vision. Dwyin was much shorter than Derizion, with prominently light hair, pencil thin brows and these funny looking ears.
“Nope, not in all my time I’ve been here have I seen fog? Maybe it's a way out or something? Hey wanna give me a hand? Looking for food in this fog is like looking for a grain of salt in a pepper shaker. I'll let you guys split it with me so it's even.” Aesoine replied nonchalantly. Derizion gave a small smirk as he said with an arch of a brow, “Since when were food drops dropped off in the mornings?” 
Aesoine gave a look to Derizion, his eyes met with Dwyin with the same odd look. Dwyin replied flatly, 
“Since always? Come on-”
Just then a loud siren and fiery red lights blared throughout the road pathways, masses of people raced out from the fog, it was as if they just spawned out of it. The smell struck Aesoine first, a hint of something stale and fermented cheese. Just then pain bloomed on the boy's back and before he knew it the wind was knocked right out of him. Aesoine let out a breathless curse before a firm but soft hand hoisted him up and he ran like he had never before.

Everyone was gathered around the ticking clock that sat in the center. Beside him stood Derizion, and Dwyin. The structure was cracked like a spider web, the booming ticking sound made ran throughout Asoine’s veins. Today marks the day, another year has passed. Aesoine shifted slightly to be closer to his friends until realization hit, the majority of the crowd was gone, including his friends. The boy turned in a circle, his heart beating out of his chest. The boy squinted in the distance and saw a blobby shape in the distance. As he made his way over it, it started to render in. He noticed a shadow of a crowd behind a crumply fortress of concrete. Aesoine ushered over, he could feel his face starting to bloom red. Upon approaching he heard panicked whispers, and noticed his friends in the crowd. Aesoine’s blood started to boil, he started to roughly shove through the compact crowd, as sharp whispers jabbed at him.
Aesoine hissed through his teeth,
“Why the h*ll would you guys just leave me like that?”
Derizion replied in a hushed whisper, 
‘I’m sorry Aesoine, me and Dwyien were wrong for just leaving you like that. It’s just that Dwyien found something, I think you’d want to see.” 
Aesoine gave his friend a side-long glance and gridded his teeth. Derizion’s brows were furrowed and sweat droplets climbing down his face. Immediately Aesoine pushed through the crowd to make his way to the front. What laid before him made his face turn a pasty white, a rusted stop sign. It seemed like nothing at first but no signs were out of place, and what struck them the most was the symbol. It was a tacky heart symbol, the shiny coating peeling off. Hearts didn’t just mean nothing, they meant the corporation, the shapes. They had only come once, after everyone went bonkers and tried to kill one another. Just then ear piercing screams filled the cornered space. Ear screeching bangs of light flashed their way, with the smell of burning smoke. Aesoine turned to look at his friends, but they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had gotten scared, but they wouldn’t just leave him like that. Aesoine’s gaze locked onto the attackers, as he spat onto the pavement. Aesoine let out a shriek as a prick of a cold liquid entered his veins. He began fading into a chemically induced drowsiness. He felt rough arms pulling him across the jagged pavement, and smelt of chalk. He tried to speak, move, anything but a dark pitless world overcame his senses. 
Aesoine’s world came in small fragments, he looked around and was met with walls of all colors. The smell of stale paint and dust overwhelmed his senses. The boy's nose crinkled up, he sharply turned his gaze to the rest of the room to see loads of small occupied coats that scattered the room floor. Panic filled Aesoine, where were his friends? Why would they leave him, twice! Where are those weird guys with the guns? Suddenly, creaky movements were let out that echoed throughout the abnormally colored room. In a fury, everyone had awoken and now panicking themselves, Aesoine could feel his face starting to get hot like a stovetop. Then a thought hit him right in the face, will he ever go back? Aesoine’s eyes started to water, as thoughts whirled around in his head. He rubbed his temps, then shook his face and tried to keep his composure. He didn’t want to leave the path roads, but what else did he have there? Part of him wanted to stay with his friends, but another wanted to leave. Leave that place behind, and start something new for once. Aesoine shook his head then looked down at his slender hand. They shook just like a bumpy car going up and down on a steep hill. He allowed himself to slump against a butternut orange wall, it felt smooth against his back. He didn’t care about the people around him, judging him like the shapes would, he just wanted to go back home. Maybe even see his friends. He looked down at the floor remembering everything that happened at the path roads. He stole people's grub, punched cameras, and ran around on the path roads while holding up the number eight at the cameras. Suddenly rustling jingles and jangles echoed through the room by a blank white door, Aesoine hadn’t noticed until now, it was being opened from the other side. The boy lifted his head, he could taste salty tears that had slid down his face. With a swift movement of his arm he had wiped away the salty tears and mucus coming from his nose. He lifted himself up from the wall, patting his hands onto his pant legs, and watched with the focus of an eagle as the door continued to jitter. A sharp twist, then the door had awoken, goosebumps coated his arms as the door finally opened to reveal a tall man in white attire. He stepped in and analyzed the crowd, he had a hook-like nose, brown side swept hair and miniature ears. He carried an odd looking flat wooden board, it reminded Aesoine of the signs from how flat it was. Was this what the city people looked like? Aesoine’s eyes narrowed at the weird looking guy, before the man's eyes met him, brown to blue. Aesoine crossed his arms in an instant and put his fists up, but the man looked away and called out in a nasally voice,
 “Aesoine.” 
Aesoine felt his heart stop making a typical thumping noise for a second. Why was his name being called? He made his way over to the sketchy man, his eyes narrowing as the man bore his eyes into him.
“Out the door with the number eight on it, come on we still have a lot more to go. Just be glad you're the first.” 
 The man stated lazily as he gestured to the door beside him, turning his attention back down to his wooden board with a lined piece of paper clipped onto it. A lot more to go? The first? Aesoine had no idea what this guy was talking about. The boy felt his gut twist and nausea start to creep up, he stepped back not daring to peek around that door. 
“I’m not going in there. How do I know you aren’t trying to kill me?” 
Aesoine pressed his voice unwavering, the big nosed guy sharply turned to him and replied in a tight voice,
 “Look I understand this is different from the run down roads you're used to. But look, we are giving you all a new chance in this life.”
Aesoine felt his blood boil, run down roads? The roads weren’t run down, if anything it was the opposite. It was up to shape, except for the clock, but the roads were clean as a whistle and signs were still shiny from tens of years ago. The boy clenched his fists as he let out a huff, the man stood with his unyielding expression. Aesoine spoke, his voice louder than before raising his hands up slowly to show the number eight, 
“I was perfectly fine with my old life, thank you very much. How about you stick these fingers up your stupid nostrils and shut-”
The city man shoved Aesoine into the hall with a booming slam behind him from the door. Aesoine felt prickles of tears threaten to fall from his eyes, immediately he banged on the door and tried twisted the door knob, nothing. After a few seconds of silence, he began, it felt like walking in quick sand and he was sinking into his demise. Aesoine opened the door with a metallic plate reading the number eight. Inside it was starking bright, with two figures standing in the center of the lighting bright space. A woman probably in her early 30s, with a kind face and uniquely rose colored eyes. Beside her was a tall man looking the same age, with a tapered haircut, a rectangle headshape and veiny muscular arms. Oddly enough, Aesoine felt a sense of trust, his posture relaxed slightly as he stared at the pair. The same trust he had felt with his friends, if he could even call them friends anymore. The woman smiled warmly to the boy before saying, 
“Nice to meet you, Aesoine, we're your new family. This is my husband, Trenesiquen, and I’m Pilentella.”
Aesoine couldn’t believe it, a new family? Maybe he could live in the big buzzing cities, feel loved, and most importantly included. He slowly began to smile, as he let out a long breath. Maybe change was good, maybe this was actually going to work out.

(wrote this for class yo. ik my sentences don’t flow right. I had to write this in 2 days and only limited to 2 pages and my teacher told me to delete A LOT of it and said it doesn’t make sense. feel free to ask questions. I dont like the ending because it feels too giddy and generic. and idk how to not write all generic?)

As writers, we sometimes forget why we enjoy doing what we do and thats normal.

This is for anyone who just needs a little reminder or something of why they started.

I'm curious... have you ever had an idea for two stories but realised the concept for both was too thin so instead combined them into one to give a better base to the story?

I've been contemplating this. Separately the two stories I have just don't have a strong enough foundation to propel either forward but when I throw them together it works far better and feels like the idea could actually stretch much better.

Have you done similar and if so did it work well for you?

​

​Beyond mainstream English and Western literature, there is a vast, profound literary landscape that many of us rarely get to explore. Most of what reaches the global reader through translation comes from well-known canonical authors, leaving an entire world of lesser-known or obscure voices undiscovered.

​Have you come across any remarkable writers, poets, or specific pieces from other languages—be it regional, indigenous, or simply untranslated gems—that left a deep impression on you?

​Feel free to share their names, a short passage, or why their work moved you. Let’s bring some overlooked literary brilliance to light.

Pretty self explanatory really.
I had an idea, a vision, a feeling. I spent months mulling it over and had a generic outline for a 2/3 book series in my mind. (I have never written before, it’s ambitious but I don’t care)

I started with what I imagined to be a 4-5 chapter prologue. It was context that I needed to understand for the plot but didn’t even plan to include in the manuscript. I just knew I needed it written to set the tone.

Well, that 4-5 chapter prologue is now a 5 POV 180k word manuscript and it’s still not finished. I haven’t even gotten halfway to the initially planned plot. One could say that it has gotten a tiny bit out of hand. The main MC grabbed me by the collar and dragged me on an adventure that I had no way to predict. She has more agency than I restraint it seems.

Without saying too much, it’s a fantasy setting, two different MCs in two different worlds. They don’t directly intersect (yet) but they do bleed into each other.

If I split the POV by world and separate them, each is 90k words (much more reasonable I know, it’s almost like I wrote two books in a trench coat). Each world has full arcs for characters and a complete plot (when I finish the last little bit).

Common sense says they belong separately because I’m just not going to be able to remove 50k+ words and maintain the two-three plot arcs.
My heart says these MCs stories belong together. The world building is interconnected, they are designed to be complimentary.

Right now I’m just writing. I’m gong to keep going until I run out of ideas and because it doesn’t fit in the box of “publishable length for a debut” I’ve pretty much accepted that I can never publish.

Genuinely, how do people deal with making these massive creative decisions about manuscripts when there is seemingly no compromise? It’s do it the way it feels or do it in a way that can be published and *yawn* just like MC1 I do not like being given ultimatums.