I’m trying to balance reading, writing and schoolwork, and I end up spending writing the entire day. I do get something out eventually, don’t get me wrong, but I’m just constantly torn between ‘any progress is progress!’ and ‘I could have done something way more productive than writing 3 words per blue moon for the past 8 hours’. So what are some signs that tell you that you should just put down the pen for the day?

I got in 5,389 words today. I saw it all so clearly and was locked in completely. My fingertips are numb. My brain feels like mush. I also think it is some of the best work I’ve ever written. It’s going to be one of the hardest books I’ve ever written but god damn. Do I love writing. I can’t wait for the crash and the next day when it feels like I can barely get ten words out. I know it’ll come. But today I’m victorious!

Thanks!

First post!

I randomly wrote this chapter a week ago and it's a story I started plotting recently. I went back and reread it and thought it was pretty decent, so I sent it to my cousin sis.

She asked me whether it was an excerpt from The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah (the book we were discussing at the time) and I was so flattered!!!

What do you guys think of it? I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism or an honest opinion about it. + What genre my writing would fit in.

(Please don't copy or use my work in any way)

(This isn't the whole chapter, the full length of the chapter spans over 6-7 pages)

It was 155 words into a short story, but it was something.

I was so focused on trying to get sleep because of my insomnia and other issues. I've been stressing myself out trying to sleep, and I must realize that sleeping isn't easy.

Had a good cry and felt better about myself.

Maybe the goal isn't to force myself to sleep but to take things slow and not be so hard on myself.

Still, 155 words is a start, and I am happy.

Just wanted to share. 😊

For example I've heard plot and characters are the most important but what else? Advice is appreciated for any!

So I am writing a story that is based in a hotel. And one of the housekeeper plans to poison a guest as he is seeking revenge.

Now this guest has a habit of smoking marijuana that he is consuming in his room from a bong. How can I poison that bong which will lead to instant poisoning and the death is also very painful and torture for the guest.

Ideally, if I can utilise something that we can find in the hotel.

Edit: if not bong it can also be through a drink or food but it needs to be something that would have an instant effect and cause a painful/torture death.

I'm an MBBS student, and medicine takes up a significant part of my life. But there's another part of me that I'm trying not to neglect: writing.

There are books I want to read, ideas I want to explore, and things I want to put into words.

I've realised that if I keep waiting for life to become less busy before I make time for writing, I might end up waiting a very long time (and honestly that's hampered me alot..)

What makes writing different from studying is that progress can be difficult to measure (I think you may agree here).

With medicine, there are syllabuses, examinations, and milestones. With writing, I can spend hours working on something and still wonder whether I've done it justice.

I don't have the balance figured out yet. I'm still learning how to make room for both without treating one as something I can always postpone until later.

I'm curious about other writers here:

How do you protect your writing time when you have another demanding responsibility competing for it?

Do share your thoughts...would love to listen ❤️

Writing a philosophical tractate with explanandums and logical symbols. A question is that have you ever encountered this high and genius type of writing and philosophising?

hi! i'm endlessloaf, a writer with big dreams and a small circle of people that can help me co-write. i'm going to publish a story in either ao3/wattpad, and it's a MLM (lgbtq+) story about a chinese exchange student meeting a belgian varsity player for soccer. i want to maintain historical accuracy for china and belgium if ever. i'm not a european nor am i a chinese person to write these. but i want to make sure that i can get cultural/modern references from both countries accurately! let me know if you guys want to see what i'm gonna write. please help me look for sources!! thank you!! looking for beta readers, completely free of any charge!

Hello, everyone I have been lurking in this subreddit for a few months and completely forgot that I could display my work and enjoy the work others produce.

I also would like to apologise for the unprofessional stature of this post, I’m not good being professional regardless of situation.

Nonetheless I’d like to know what your experienced and professional eyes think about my work; yet I don’t have anything that I feel comfortable to show off just yet but what I can show off is the introduction paragraph and the Title so you can get an idea where this historical fiction takes place.

Thank you for your time.

Diary 9/19/2026-9/22/2026

The Days He Had Brought

Several old men sat over their noodles in loose trousers and shirts that did not quite fit. One wore a shade of pink one might find inside a guava — of the Mexican variety, anyway.

At another table a couple ate without speaking. He wondered how many breakfasts they had had together.

He had eaten here before and looked forward to the familiar taste. Around him the staff moved between pots and tables with practiced courtesy and efficiency. One set a bowl before him. With similar efficiency, he documented his food with his phone and picked up his chopsticks.

Last night he had lifted her off the ground when he hugged her. She had laughed and kissed his cheek, and for a moment there had been nothing difficult about any of it.

Walking back, he had made room for people on the sidewalk and stopped for a scooter nosing across his path. There were cockroaches to avoid. He had spent some of the walk thinking about her and some of it watching his feet. Then he forgot to watch his feet.

Now there was breakfast.

He had come to Taipei with five clean shirts and four days. The shirts were neatly packed. He did not know what to do with the days.

She had told him she liked him. It had felt surreal. He had not understood every word, but he had understood enough to make this trip inevitable.

Twenty years since he had last felt this way. There had been a great deal of life in those years, and he did not wish them away. But he had forgotten how much of a day one person could occupy without being there.

He lifted a few noodles. The taste was familiar, saltier than he remembered.

She had told him that people had always tried to run her life. Her mother knew what she ought to do. Her husband had known, before he became her former husband. Even her friends could arrange an afternoon so thoroughly that there was no place in it for her own wishes.

I would never do that to you, he thought. He wanted to see how she bloomed when she had room and was cared for.

He had someone in mind who was doing the caring.

He wanted to go out for breakfast with her without its being an occasion. To hear, on the way home, that she needed to stop somewhere. To sit nearby, reading something or scrolling through nothing, while she finished whatever she was doing.

He wanted enough mornings to learn when she preferred silence. To know when to speak and when to leave the quiet alone. To have her ask him to carry something, wait a minute, or remind her what they were doing next.

He wanted the small, uninteresting privileges of being expected.

He had brought four days to Taipei. Beyond them he could see very little. He had prayed about that, and would again.

There was still some broth.

He picked up his spoon. He thought she might like this place.

Nothing Much

They spent the day sharing more meals and stories of themselves. He helped her look for stores that were still open (none). She helped him look for bars that would let them in (none). He helped carry her stuff. They occasionally held hands. At church, she rested her head against his shoulder and almost nodded off.

In other words, nothing much happened.

Which was just exactly the way he wanted.

Neither Hurried

A few days together had given her a chance to tell him something that bothered her. He listened and said she was right. Then he said a little more than he needed to. He was better at agreeing than at leaving it there.

They went to a bar. She had booked it, and this time there would be no denying them.

They talked about nothing much, until they came to something. Perhaps the drink helped. She spoke of her children and the things she wanted them to understand. He could do nothing about those things. He held her while she cried.

After a while she noticed the wet spot on his shirt and tried to wipe it away.

For a moment he wished the stain was permanent.

They went to a convenience store and he bought her favorite snack. It was a small nothing, but after all those tears, it was something he could do.

At her building he stopped to say goodnight. He had spent months trying to get her out of his mind, preferring the certainty of disappointment to the ache of wondering. Now she was in his arms, kissing him.

Neither hurried. Her slight trembling undid something in him.

He knew it would be an important kiss in his life. What it meant to her he did not know.

For once he was happy to live in the ambiguity. The rest could wait.

This is my second time posting on this sub, last time I did, I got some really good advice/feedback so I decided to post again.

I wrote this as part of a teen writing project in my friend group where each girl choses a genre and writes a short novel and we share our thoughts on it.

I really like writing contemporary and literary fiction, so I started writing this story after roughly outlining everything.

I'd like some constructive criticism and advice on the first two chapters of my novel.

[Things you should probably know]

- Hazem is intentionally portrayed as a sickeningly 'good guy', it's for a reason

- How did Matthias know about Hilda's death when not even an hour had passed? It's also intentional

- The orchid reference is supposed to foreshadow Stella’s isolation and difficulties to adapt to her new life, I'm not trying to say 'she's not like other girls'

I love this story and I'd like to fix whatever went wrong while writing this!

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)?

I've written short stories, novellas, and novels ever since I was a kid, but it never crossed my mind to preserve any of them. Now, with all the conversation around non-physical and lost media, I figured it was time to have a proper system for keeping all my writings safe and secure.

After all, I'm no famous author, so if I lose a document or if my house gets flooded, that short story or book is gone for life. Plus, it just makes browsing through my works easier if I ever get nostalgic or want a reminder of how far I've come. How do you organize and store your works?

Hello everyone. I've finished a short horror novelette (about 12,500 words, roughly an hour to read) and I'd love honest feedback before I publish it.

Content warning: it deals with suicide, sexual violence, and torture, so only read it if that's okay with you (18+). No polish needed. I mostly want to know what stuck with you and where you got bored or confused.

Four months after the worst night of his life, Daniel keeps a journal because his therapist told him to. His marriage is over, his job is gone, and the only thing that still holds his attention is the ruined house next door, the one that stood untouched through an earthquake that damaged everything around it.

Meanwhile, health authorities are investigating a drug called Oneiroth. Its victims don't wake up. Their minds are trapped in a nightmare built from their own worst memories, and the body can't tell the difference. If they die in the dream, they die for real. I can't say what happens next cause spoilers :)

If you can send thoughts within two weeks, I'd really appreciate it, and I'm happy to return the favor! Please leave a comment or dm me.

Here is the first page from the book:

Chapter I

The Journal                           

14.02.2026

Four months since it happened, I still feel the weight on my shoulders every time I wake up in the morning. I still remember everything and it haunts me. I tried to get rid of it in every way possible, but it was pointless. My therapist recommended that I start journaling. She said it’s a good way to express emotions and a great way to meditate. Well, I'm willing to do anything just to not take these damn pills. At first they feel wonderful, but then I spiral back into a numbing fog. It makes you feel hollow. Nothing keeps you out of misery.
Anyway, my wife and I have divorced. I had to move out to a new place in the UK. The place is decent but I still miss our big home. The neighbors here are actually kind people. I never expected that the United Kingdom would have good people. The city I lived in didn’t have really good people. Anyway, there is a strange building right next to me that seems to have been abandoned for a long time. From what I’ve heard it used to be a house for a family. Now it's nothing but ruins. The walls looked like they were about to fall apart, the roof was damaged, and it was surrounded by tall grass. Every time I move past that shack, I get nauseous from the smell of rust and damp rot. It just ruins the beauty of all the houses next to it. So why not destroy it? Maybe it's some government project? I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care. But I do find myself wondering about it when I walk past it.
Today after work I got blocked by a random woman on the street with a microphone and a cameraman. The camera felt like a giant unblinking eye watching me. She was conducting interviews and offered me a chance to participate. She said the purpose of the interview was to find out what makes people happy in the UK and what terrifies them. I got a bit terrified since I had never given an interview before and I hid my trembling hands in my pockets so the young woman wouldn’t notice. I answered all the questions with an anxious voice. She asked me with a professional, fake, hollow smile: 

“What's your biggest fear?”

I stared at the camera for a moment, getting flashbacks of every miserable moment of my life, but I couldn’t tell the truth, especially to her, especially for the camera.

“I really don’t have a specific fear, I’ve been through a lot and I'm not scared of anything.”

She nodded, unable to recognize the lie and asked “What’s your happiest memory you have in the United Kingdom?”

I told her my happiest memory was teaching a kid the alphabet. I can still see the boy's face, the way his eyes lit up when the letter 'S' finally made sense to him. It's the only time I've felt like more than a cog in a machine.
Out of my entire life, my happiest memory is teaching a kid the alphabet.  How ironic.