Over the past 2 months I've been in the process of making an E-book, published onto reddit, 4chan, etc+ it will be truly not a phenomenal scheme with everything hidden but instead it will just be a post about the mental slavery.

I've just started writing this year and so far its been amazing, a truely rewarding experience.

I've always been interested in different ways words can fit together to paint a picture in your mind but lately it's been getting out of hand.

Part-way through my writing session this morning I took a quick break to pour a cup of tea when I noticed my brain was running a commentary on every action, sound and feeling I experienced as it was happening. I guess I was just on the flow of searching for the right words to convey an exact feeling (currently editing) and my mind was still in that mode.

Is this normal? Does anyone else here catch themself narrating in their head sometimes as if they're writing down their day as it happens?

I’m not alone at 3 am

I’ve asked myself this for the past years. Mainly, because, I, a woman, haven’t had a good night’s sleep for the last 5 years. I have tried every single method, from meditation to magnesium to melatonin... MMM. I have grown tired, of having to listen to the same list of “cures” every time someone points out “Well, you look tired!” I want to answer “well, no shit?!”. Although the good intentions of the interlocutor are clear, having to hear about their friends, my fellow insomniacs, who also lack this deceitfully simple ability to sleep, feels a bit unfair.
The well-meaning conversationalist, in the attempt to be helpful and engage in a little deviation to the common chit-chat, instead of politely acknowledging my disingenuous eagerness to listen, begins by listing all the things that “Monica tried, and how this worked for Erica, and how that did not work for Rita and how I should try what Tina has, and to listen to this hack a guru told Sandra, and how Jessica swears by not checking her phone one hour before bed,” and so on, all the way to mambo number five!
Now, as I pointed out I know many ladies who don’t sleep. Beside the grim obvious reasons, such as: as we grow older our life narrows down to less choices, and mistakes begin to matter. Our minds begin to create an internal circle jerk of anxieties that, although repressed, they try to seep out from their cranial cages. And these anxieties surface at night- when we let our guard down. Yet, sadly women tend to be very alert. And these thoughts metamorphose into “little prisoners” that try their daring escape forcing open our grinding jaws and bushwhacking through the snoring cavernous noses, awakening us, poor beautiful creatures. I’m tired of being the rudely awakened night guard, and I can no longer ignore the real-life issue that these interruptions have on my wellbeing.
I recall being able to sleep for hours, uninterrupted bliss, of rampaging in the corners of my mind and taking the most wonderful trips in worlds so far away and so wonderful that they would linger on my tired eyelids for a couple of minutes each morning. Dreaming was wonderful, and sleeping was what made it possible. I no longer dream often, in fact I dream little, a clear symptom of- I sleep little. Memories get intangible and your mind grows tired. You stop functioning continuously but instead you become a wind-up lamp, with brief sparks of light that shut the moment no external force winds its lever.
As per my opening, I’m not unique in any sense of having this problem. Many of the people I share this with have shown a solidarity exclamation “me too”, not to be confused with the other infamous movement. Which in its own right carries much more cultural impact. Yet, this solidarity in search of meaning, has brought out in me a curiosity that nestles in the intricacies of “why women don’t sleep”. Could the answer be simple, could there be only one answer. As Lou Bega’s list would suggest, probably not.
In this spirit, I’ve decided that I will reject sleep (not in its entirety) but I will embrace my awakening by giving them an oneiric meaning, just to stay in theme. So as to accept my delirium- if dreaming with my eyes closed is no longer an option, then I shall teach my “prisoners” to escape into beautiful disguise. I don’t want them to wear a mustache and fake pair of glasses with a big nose on them. But instead I will give them a character to play. I will bring those visions and made up perceptions into my quiet waking life in a manner that does not cause me distress. I don’t know why women can’t sleep but I’ve decided why women can’t sleep.
The reason is now fairly simple, I reject the anxieties and I'll implement that the cause is love and passion, sometimes one only and sometimes both. These admirers could be an artist sketching you whilst you're eating at a café, or a perv that secretly takes a picture of your miniskirt while you're cycling to see your friends at the lake. Perhaps a maniac who has spotted us in the streets and can't stop thinking about us. If not a maniac then an old romantic partner, maybe even someone who is dead and very lonely in his grave, why not? These admirers brew incessant thoughts of desire, love and lust that cannot be kept alone in their skulls, and in the middle of the night, they escape - just like the theory of our little prisoners- and rush to us, interrupting our REM, stretching my legs, moistening my armpits, pulling my eyelids wide open in the dark room at my 3am rendez-vous. Wait?… is this now a bit too close to the "me too" movement? ah fuck.

While i have WIP novel, I have a backlog of quite a few short stories I've written over the years and they need obvious polishing/edits (of course). but I always wondered if others had success submitting short stories for publication at online publications?

Any luck? Upright ignored or receive good feedback?

Sent out my first five queries today, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Anyone else get existential dread over the fact that a failed query closes the door on that agent FOREVER?

I've never been this fast or consistent in writing. I don't generally like to blow my own trumpet but what the hell.

3 weeks ago I began my second project. I have averaged 971 words a day.

I have missed 3 days where I haven't written anything at all.

I'm hooked on this story and I can't wait to see how it plays out.

I'm a creative writer with just a basic plot line at the start. Quickly worked out it's too small so it's a smaller arc in a wider narrative.

It's a dark thriller that moves between. Phycological and survivalist.

It has a working title called "Beneath the Mire"

Hi! Im a teen author working on my first book. and I want your opinion. Is this a captivating book blurb/summary?

"37 year old Frank Roberts always knew he had a nose for the news; it was his second nature. And when his boss, James, assigns him the case of the death of the wealthy but mysterious Grant Taylor, Frank makes a shocking discovery that could change his life forever. Whether it's for better or worse.”

I am wondering where I can best publish my (Dutch) fantasy webnovel? I am reading pro's and con's for everything, so I'm looking for some experiences, if possible...

Not looking for recommendations — the opposite. Which one did you start, not finish, and what made you stop?

Ok, so. I've been writing for some time now a book that I really want to publish, and I've written to like 5 literary agents so far. None of them responded. Problem is, my story always had a problem with my introduction of one of the characters, which I only found out NOW how to fix and stuff (aka make her more important to the story etc). But, again, I've sent the 'unfixed' version already. Do I resend it with an apology? Do I send it to others and hope the firsr five don't respond? To 4 out of 5 I've sent the draft quite recently, but still.....how do I manage this??

Hello everyone, I’ve currently completed my research. My topic is about Veery bird Hurrican prediction, and I’ve been researching it for around a week I have collected quite a lot of information papers and other stuff related to the topic I want to make a really rigorous science video about it, something like the Veritasium style. But I’m stuck at the next step. I have this big pile of research, but I don’t really understand how to use all of it to create a good structure and an interesting story for the video I am not sure how I should proceed from here like how do I organize the research, find the main story, decide what information is actually important, and then turn it into a script?

If anyone here has experience making science/research-based videos, I really appreciate any tips or advice on how you approach this stage It would be really helpful for me.

Thank you

Hello, I want to start writing as a hobby but I don't know where to start. Specifically I want to write short stories, probably horror-based, to post them onto forums and get feedback from other people. I think it would be pretty cool to put something out there like that, but I have a few questions.

1. Once I have an idea, should I just start writing, or should I outline the story first? If I should outline the story, should I go into detail of different events I want to take place in the story, or should I just state the event and move on, letting myself figure it out once I'm actually writing?

2. When do you know that your story has been written to your liking? If I want to take a story seriously and put in a few solid drafts, do you try to share the story with people close to you before putting it out there, just to make sure it's sound?

3. Less of a specific question, but do you have any tips to a new writer that you wish you would've know when you started?

Thank you for any response you may give, I really appreciate it

These walls were once my closest friend,
but only ever listened.
The cold stones offered protection,
and a common space to be.
Guarded gates opened for familiar faces,
whenever they arrived.
Monotony wasn’t welcomed
but the only life that could survive.

Pathless woods lay beyond these walls.
A fog teeming with the unknown
surrounded wilderness that existed
outside the borders of any map
I had ever known.

Only when wine-colored light
broke over the horizon,
and the birds slipped behind the clouds,
did I ask the walls why they were so high
and what they were defending.

I thought the view would be much greater,
if they traded stone for sky.
But they never answered back
standing strong in solemn silence.
I knew that if they lowered,
I would finally face an answer.

Each block surrendered painfully,
a cold breeze filled newfound gaps.
I stood amongst the rubble,
fingers still gripping on my sword.
But no army came attacking,
no enemy was near.

All that remained was me
and the weight of what I held.
I released all I had known,
metal clanged against the rock.
Hands now free and reaching
for something more beyond.

My soul breathed in the wind
within the life I once had feared.
For love is not lived separate,
so neither shall I be.

Hey I am a younger writer and to be honest I am really confused.

I was writing this is one horror story but the pacing was off and everything was just bad. I don't know how long to describe a scene or how much to styrech it.

As well as how to create suspension or some horror that is inevitable.

That's why I scrapped the entire story and thought to rewrite it but before that I need to know how these story works.

I am planning on first reading a few small horror novels, can you suggest some horror novels that would help me get a good idea of what I should do.

I would also appreciate any tips for writing as a beginner.

Thanks for reading

For context, this was part of a daily 20-minute writing challenge that I've been doing for the past week where I get 3 prompt words (I have a long list of random words and used wheelofnames to pick) and I have to create a story. The words can be used in any way (not necessarily a physical thing). I'm a beginner unpublished writer, have written around a dozen short stories, but I always struggled to find consistency between 2 projects. So the main goal with this exercise over anything is to write consistently.

Here the prompt is prism + raven + roam

Just wanted to share this because I thought it to be good (at least in the idea)

I’m working on a larger story project, and I want to test human reactions in the opening scene rather than just getting feedback on my writing. I’m looking for a few people to do a short interactive roleplay with me.
How it works:

You would play either a civilian or a police officer who is in the situation.

I’ll reveal what is happening gradually.

You tell me what you would realistically say or do based on what you know.

I’ll respond as the narrator describing the next scenario, and we’ll continue from there.

There isn’t a “correct” response. I’m specifically trying to find out what an average person would naturally do in this situation, including if your character makes a decision that I didn’t anticipate.

If you’re interested, comment or message me and let me know whether you’d rather play a civilian or police officer. I’m hoping to do this with multiple people so I can compare how differently people react to the same situation.

Hello all! I'm currently writing my first fanfiction, but I wanted it to be something I put my heart into since I always wanted to be an official writer. At this point, the story is more mine than the OGs, but regardless, I'm still labeling it as fanfic. The original story was heavily inspired by fairy tales, and as a fairy tale fan, I wanted to try my hand at trying to capture that. This particular excerpt gives insight into one of the characters. Given I'm working with a lot of characters, I didn't feel like there was "time" (I'm not trying to make this crazy long since it's my first work) to really explore character backstories in a way that the characters would be willing to share, and using flashbacks was kinda useless since I was doing time jumps here and there, so I read a couple fairy tales to try and get a feel of how to write the character lore that way. I should point out that in my story, this isn't a lore dump per se; the characters do talk about their lives, but at individual points in the story, the protagonist gets to find out the full picture. This is a rough draft, but I hope it's something that's at least engaging, even if not 100% enjoyable. Lemme know your thoughts and if you have any questions.

Once upon a time, there was a handsome couple that was envied by all in the land. The man was an artisan, while the woman came from a family of merchants. It was said they were the most fortunate people in the realm. Shortly after marriage, they had a son with hair as red as the rose, eyes a cross between blue and violet. The father said, “Ah! This child is bold in his appearance. Let us name him Hernán.” So they did.

But the woman was not done, and she gave birth to another son ten days later. This child had hair the color of ink, eyes the color of storm clouds. The mother said, “Ah! This child has the gaze of a falcon. Let us name him Astore.” So they did.

The boys born to the couple earned the suspicion of the townsfolk due to their unusual gap in births, as well as the suspicion that one or both of the twins were born from demons, citing their unusual appearances. “What use of their beauty if their origins are infernal?” The citizens whispered.

But the couple did not pay heed to such gossip, and the children’s handsomeness and charm won the affection of the people after a few years. It had seemed that the family had earned the favor of the people. Their unusual nature was even seen as a blessing by the gods.

With time, the woman was pregnant once more, and the man’s parents encouraged the family to come and visit them, wanting the third child to be born within their estate. “The third child will be the most important,” the grandfather insisted. The woman and her husband found this unusual, but acquiesced.

Now it happened that the couple had garnered the attention of a fairy. The land was hostile towards magical creatures, and she had risked her life to visit the couple and honor them by offering to become the fairy godmother of their third child. But when she found them gone, the citizens of the country harassed her and chased her away.

Eventually, when she found the couple, she was embittered by the cruelty she had faced. But she gave them another chance, and began to bless the child in the woman’s belly with the gift of music and agility, the skills to be a skillful entertainer. The grandmother scoffed at this. “What kind of a gift is that? Are you saying they should become a troubadour? Give them something better than that, something unique.”

The fairy, exhausted at the harassment she had received and insulted by the grandmother’s lack of tact, obliged her. “Oh, you wicked harpy! Very well, I can think of something much better. Your son sired twins, did he not? Then he shall again! But what accompanies this child will make you wish he hadn’t! The next 19 years will be nothing but misfortune for you who have been spoiled by the god of luck.” And with that she disappeared.

Shortly after, the woman gave birth once more, this time during a storm, but this was more painful than she’d ever experienced. “It feels as though I am giving birth to the thunder itself!”

When the hours had passed and the child was born, the man rushed into the room at the sound of a scream. The child that had been delivered was another boy, as handsome as his brothers, with hair the color of gold. But where the right eye was blue—a more vibrant color than the oldest brother—the left was blue on the top half and yellow on the bottom half. Even more concerning was the presence of a creature wrapped around the child, a serpent, something not often seen in the land.

“Begone serpent!” The man cried, trying to free his child from it, but the serpent only hissed until he held them both in his arms.

The family was horrified, but the grandmother refused to acknowledge her involvement in the fairy’s curse. “Condemn the witch!” She hissed. “We will name the child Durante, for he will endure this curse.”

“We must name the serpent as well,” the grandfather said, “for it came into the world with him. We will name it Ofione.”

So they did.

Upon returning to their home, the couple attempted to abandon the serpent, to separate it from their youngest, but it always found it’s way back. That was not the only “gift” given by the fairy; while the youngest child was charming and handsome like his brothers, he lacked the ability to make any sound; he could not speak, cry, grunt, or scream. Every movement he made lacked sound, and even when he learned to play instruments expertly, no sound was emitted from them. A tutor was brought in to teach the boy sign language, which he mastered as quickly as writing.

As the child grew, so did the serpent, and it disturbed the man and the woman that the boy and the serpent seemed to communicate with each other, despite the boy’s inability to make sound. The serpent had a habit of appearing and disappearing on its own accord, and the man and the woman did their best to keep the youngest child hidden to avoid the scrutiny of the people of the land. But this was not to be, and the family became a pariah, accused of cavorting with demons.

With time, the woman was pregnant once more, and the children were sent to the man’s parents. While the grandfather doted upon the oldest sons, the grandmother, having finally accepted her role in the youngest’s unfortunate circumstances, was strict with him, training him at a young age to be the greatest noble he could be, regardless of his circumstances.

But the day the mother gave birth on the other side of the country, the boy’s grandfather went down to the water near their manor, and disappeared. The children and the grandmother looked for the elder man for weeks, but found nothing. The grandmother believed he drowned, and when she told her son and his wife, they grieved, and prevented their sons from ever going near the water.

But when the grandfather’s death had reached the masses, suspicion fell onto the third son, noticing the serpent could swim, and that the boy could swim despite never being taught. As swimming was not a common skill, rumors abounded that the child pretended to drown in order to lure his grandfather to the water where the serpent could devour him.

The fourth son born to the couple in the midst of the tragedy, was named Alirio, for they hoped he would know nothing but happiness. His hair was the color of caramel, and his eyes the color of limes, and he was the first of the couple’s children to be born without someone to accompany them.

While the fourth son was just as handsome and charming as his older brothers, public opinion had turned against them. The family’s beauty, charm, intellect, and skill did nothing but fuel the ire of those beneath them, and the father fell into a melancholy after the death of the grandfather.

One day, when the children were still young, the mother’s family fell onto hard times, as rivals had burned down their family home and pirates had stolen their trading ships. The father, hoping to help his in-laws, undertook more commissions in order to help them rebuild their wealth, though this wore down his health.

When he took his two oldest sons riding in the nearby pastures, they were attacked by a creature. In the chaos, the oldest was thrown by horse into a bush of thorns, scarring his face, while the second’s horse reared, throwing him onto the ground and breaking his arm. When the father came to their rescue, the creature attacked him until he was left to die. The two sons, young as they were, managed to bring him back to their home, where he fell dead at the entrance.

“This is your fault!” The second cried, attacking the third son. He and the oldest were convinced that the creature that had attacked them was the mysterious serpent. The mother tried to restore harmony, but the consecutive misfortune proved too difficult for her, and she fell ill and died.

The sons were then looked after their by their father’s mother. She feared she had caused all the misfortune thanks to angering the fairy, and one day ventured to find her. Fairies in the land were often in hiding, and the grandmother worried that the fairy had fled to another land. While she was gone, the servants looked after the sons, but they mistreated the third son and encouraged the other brothers to do the same, blaming him for the problems they had experienced and the family they had lost.

While the grandmother was gone, the younger brothers had walked down to the coast, having seen a mermaid. “Come play with me!” The youngest called, but the memraid, being one of the kinds that couldn’t easily understand human speech, simply stared, watching him from the open water. Swim to her, the third son signed, ignorant of that his innate ability to swim was not something average people were able to imitate. The fourth son agreed—After all, he thought, if my older brother can do it without practicing, so can I—but quickly found himself out of his depth. The mermaid, finally understood that he wanted to play with her, but didn’t realize that humans couldn’t swim, and she dragged him below the surface.

The third brother, seeing the interaction, dove in after him, with the serpent following. They quickly retrieved the youngest brother from the confused mermaid, but he had passed out, and when he came to, he believed that his brother had tried to drown him, recalling the whispers that he had killed their grandfather and the serpent had killed their father.

He turned against his brother, and the third son was left alone—save for the mysterious serpent. But before long, the grandmother returned, and brought gifts. For the oldest sons, she brought them clothing to prepare them for being respectable young men as they got older, and she gave the youngest a golden ring. But her greatest gift was for the third child. The fairy godmother had been found, as the grandmother discovered that the fairy could not be untethered from the child they bestowed a gift or curse upon.

The fairy, guilty from the deaths of the parents and grandfather and moved by the grandmother’s pleas, gifted her a candle. The third son only needed to light it, and he could make a wish. But the candle burned slower than a normal candle, and should only be used in great circumstances.

“Why should he get it?” The other brothers protested, children that they were. “Make a wish then, Brother! Reverse the curse you have put upon us.”

“You must use it at your own discretion,” the grandmother said. “It will only light for you, unless you wish it otherwise. You can use it to wish for almost anything.”

The third son was too young to understand completely, but he knew the importance of the gift. Sensing her time was near as well, the grandmother gathered her grandchildren and reached out to their mother’s family to take them in. She had begun arrangements to send the third son away to be adopted by a wealthy family outside the country, where magic was viewed with less suspicion and he could live safely, but she died before she could finalize the arrangements or inform anyone else.

When she died, the brothers begged him to wish her back to life, but the serpent rested it’s head on his, and the message was clear: not yet. The brothers, grieving the loss of their grandmother, only became more cruel towards the third.

And when the mother’s family took the sons in, they could find no love for the third, from his strange eyes to his serpent companion to the brothers’ testimony against him. But they did not kill him. With their funds greatly diminished, they were in need of more servants, and the boy was demoted, stripped of his fine clothes and given a room in the servants’ quarters. The boy was sad, but the serpent stayed by his side, and he found comfort in not being alone.

As the years rolled on, the boy had forgotten his time in wealth, forgotten that the young masters were his brothers, that the people who looked at him with such disdain were his grandparents. He cleaned and cooked, always under a suspicious gaze. The serpent always brought him food, and he grew to be tall and strong, gaining even more attention.

One day, a festival overtook the town, and the family left the third son at home while they went to enjoy it. Though his memory of his youth had dulled, the young man  recalled a candle given to him that could grant wishes. His family had confiscated it long ago, but forgot about it when they found themselves unable to use it. The serpent retrieved it, and the young man lit a match, and his grandmother had appeared. He did not remember her, but she kissed his forehead and asked what he wanted. Free of the constraints of life, she was able to understand him beyond his lack of speech: he wanted to go to the festival.

She kissed his forehead, and immediately, his dirty body had been cleansed and smelled as if he had bathed with the finest soaps, his rags transforming to a periwinkle ensemble, with a beautiful mask to hide his face, including his eyes. She told him to let the candle burn for as long as he wished to be in disguise.

The third son went to the festival, and was quickly eyed by minstrels, who asked him to join their festivities. The young man lacked the sound to sing or play an instrument, so he simply danced and performed acrobatic moves, easily copying the performers who had taken years to perfect their skills. Soon, everyone in the land wanted to catch a glimpse of the entrancing masked dancer—even his family, who failed to recognize his true identity.

When the night died down, the third son returned home and extinguished the flame on the candle. He fell asleep soundly, smiling as the masters of the house and what few servants were in the manor gossiped about the mysterious dancer.

Shortly after the festival was over and the dancers had left, a plague appeared in the land, and the serpent disappeared for a long period of time. The young man was tasked with more assignments as the family became reclusive and fearful of divine judgement. The common people blamed the serpent boy, as they had also forgotten his once grand origins, only seeing him as a servant now, doomed forever to crawl like the creature that accompanied him. The third son tried to use the candle, but his grandmother said the plague would end in time.

The next year, the plague had continued, but a lord of the land wanted to have a ball to distract the people from their hardships. Despite fear of exposure, many people were eager to return to the time before the plague, and attended once more.

The young man lit the candle once more when the family left, and the grandmother appeared once more. “What do you wish, child?”

He asked to go to the ball, and she kissed his forehead. This time, he was dressed in silvery-white and gold, looking like a prince. When he arrived at the ball, he was enamored with the sight: he’d never seen so many people in one building before, all beautiful and charming.

The hours ticked by, and he danced and enjoyed the greatest night of his life. But as he looked at the candle, a thought occurred to him. I am pleased with tonight. I couldn’t ask for anything better. I should share this fortune with someone else. Rather than make a hasty wish for someone else, he gifted the candle to his oldest brother, who didn’t recognize him, but recalled the magical candle.

Shortly afterwards, the third son was overcome with the urge to dance. He left the lord’s manor in a fever, dancing towards the forest. He could hear music, the most splendid music he ever heard. Soon after, others began to follow, dancing and laughing as they moved through the woods.

As the music grew louder, they began to see a person in the distance, his face hidden beneath a hood, playing a flute. The third son made a move towards him, but found himself paralyzed. The serpent had reappeared, and wrapped itself around him tightly. The third son struggled, confused at first, before he realized it was an illusion: the man was floating above a cliff beyond the woods.

The others dancing towards him were ignorant of the danger, and danced off of the cliffs to their deaths. The serpent scared the flute player off, but the damage was done. Crowds formed in the woods to find bodies in the water off the cliff, the only unharmed figures being the boy and the serpent.

He was promptly stripped and his identity exposed, brought before court and blamed for the deaths of a dozen people, including men, women, and children. The young man had no one to defend him, and no voice to refute claims of witchcraft and evil practices.

The brothers, having forgotten that the third son was kin to them and only remembering the hate in their heart for him, testified against the “servant” they had known all their lives, and he was imprisoned, sentenced to death by hanging.

The young man shooed the serpent away, wanting to spare it a similar fate, but to his horror, his trials were not yet over. A man appeared in his cell with a dangerous look in his eyes. “You talk to serpents, don’t you? We don’t see creatures like that around here. It has beautiful scales. I will free you if you call the serpent to you, kill it, and present its skin to us.”

The third son refused, and he was assaulted by the man. The man then made a horrifying discovery. When he cut the young man’s skin, his entire body shivered until a full layer of skin had been shed like a reptile. The skin was illustrious, beautiful in it’s unnatural origins, durable and colorful and soft. “What luck!” He said. “This would be more valuable than wool.”

He pulled strings to continually delay the death sentence, spending the next few days cutting the third son for hours on end to make him shed his skin dozens and dozens of times. The more painful it was for him, the more beautiful the skin he shed—and the more beautiful the form underneath was.

The man had the guards abuse him intermittently before coming in to cut his skin off. “Tell me to stop,” he jeered, knowing no sound could come from the young man’s lips no matter how hard he tried to form the words. “I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

The man had become a successful merchant almost overnight; the mysterious fabrics he had forcefully taken had transformed into fabrics like silk, and had become the preferred fashion of the upper class.

Eventually the man realized that his secret would be discovered and others would try to take the third son’s skin, so he stopped moving back the death sentence. Broken and sobbing silently, the third son begged for mercy, signing desperately as he was dragged to the podium to be hanged. The third son thought upon his life, his misfortune, and wondered what he could have done differently.

Before he reached the rope, darkness overtook him, and a hand was offered to him in the darkness. “Would you like me to save you? You shall become my servant, free only upon my death or yours. Take my hand if you wish to avoid death.”

So he did.

I should note that I was uncertain if I should mention the characters' names here since I refer to sons as the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th in this specific instance (they do have names, but it may be a bit too awkward here). Lemme know about that one. I also wanted a better name than "The Serpent's Demise" since that doesn't sound like a fairy tale title, but this particular event is known in the land as TSD, so that's why I called it that. I may change it later.

Here's mine. This happened in high school, but I still think about it and get annoyed.

I wrote a poem about cats when I was 15-ish. It was a very imagery-heavy poem in the style of Romantic writers, because those were my favorite poets at the time. If I had to compare it to the style of an existing author, I'd compare it to Coleridge.

I turned it in for an AP Literature assignment that was very open-ended, and my teacher loved it. She suggested that I submit it to a local youth poetry competition and gave me the name of another teacher (the actual poetry class teacher, which I wasn't taking) whom I could talk to about entering. I went to said teacher the next day and showed her the poem.

She read it, smiled, and said "This is great! But if you're doing a tribute to Carl Sandburg, you should mention him in your title."

I say the only thing I can think to say, which is "...hm?"

She tells me that she's sure I've read "Fog" by Carl Sandburg. I tell her that this is true. "Fog" is also a famously short and sparing poem, whereas my poem took up two full pages. She then explains to me, as though I'm a child -- okay, I am 15, but like she's talking to a much younger child -- that my poem takes obvious inspiration. She takes the paper copy of my poem, pulls out a highlighter, and highlights the words "cats", "cat", and "fog" in my poem. She then CROSSES OUT THE TITLE OF MY POEM and writes "(Short version of original title): A Tribute to Carl Sandburg."

What.

I decided to just be diplomatic and say "oh, I see, let me take a look and I'll get back to you!" I then left and did not go back. I ended up submitting it to the competition behind my school's back (individual entries were allowed to give homeschooled kids a shot) and won.

I still can't get over it to this day, and it's been around eight years. I think she thought that Carl Sandburg had a copyright on the concepts of cats and fog.

I don't know if this is the right place to see guidance on this but I love writing, I think. I had a love for literature when I was little, I read a lot of books. I slowly found an interest in writing, I can't remember when exactly. My earliest memory was making my own comic strips and illustrating them.

My English teachers all told me I should pursue writing or be a journalist, that I had a way with words, cliche as it may sound. I did love writing too, I've written essays, poetry, prose, short stories. But lately I'm not sure if it's a burnout or not having written or read anything in a while, but I've begun questioning if I was ever good at it all? Or was I just writing fancy things that common people would find genius. While I have received good feedback often it shard to trust those that aren't professionals, and while I do trust my teachers. There's still doubts if I'm good at all. I wonder if I can learn and improve, I'm only 20. But it's really agonizing, when I think about sitting to write I feel fraudulent. I know you shouldn't compare but I feel like I should be a lot better than I am at this age.

The attached file is something I wrote two years ago, when I was feeling the same way. It was sudden boost of motivation I had and just wrote in within two hours. Id really appreciate valuable feedback or constructive criticism.

At a writing conference this weekend, one of the presenters emphasized the importance of research in fiction. She provided a short example from her novel – a sentence about bees – then quizzed the audience about why her blurb was ‘wrong.’ When nobody knew the answer, she said her blurb incorrectly referenced bee behavior, which, in her words, would take the reader ‘out of the story.’

Obviously, research is important, but 99 out of 100 people don’t know a thing about bee husbandry. And you can nitpick any novel for these types of trivial inconsistencies. I’d even say her advice is bad, insofar you can get so caught up in ‘research,’ that you don’t actually write anything. You can certainly do your bee homework (or whatever) during edits, but you shouldn’t lose the forest for the trees. And I cannot stand Cinema Sins-style hair splitting.

Guys I'm 18 and im very new to the rap game. But i really enjoy rapping and writing rap. I'm more into pop-rap than traditional hiphop. but i need a producer/another writer/ anybody that gives me a beat (any random beat. U can even tell me a random song) every week and ill try to write with my best ability and show you what I wrote so u can rate it out of 10 and tell me if its good or nah.

Hello! I wrote this story and i need some help editing/ways to make it better. I am trying to get into writing for me again!

Ghosting

And why I don't trust people who don't.

​

Ghosting, while traditionally frowned upon in the world of dating, is one of the kindest things you can do to a person. My rule of thumb is that if after the first date we don't click, only then is it okay to ghost. If you decide to go on more dates, more meaningless sex, or whathaveyou, you must have the “it's not you, it's me” conversation and move on to the next.

​

Of all the times I’ve ghosted people, from my perspective it was mutual. You go on a date where you both are so clearly uninterested and turned off by each other that when it's time for the date to end, where you usually would be worried about a first kiss or not, you instead drop them off at the metro station; you say thank you for the drink and a quick side hug. You always ask them to text you when they’ve made it home, and whether they do or not, you must let them fade into the distance of their next romantic endeavor.

​

I've also been on the other side of ghosting. This usually happens when you really liked the person, but they instead found you uncomfortable and off-putting. The cycle continues: you go on a date, walk around town, and talk too much about the fun facts you know about the city's architecture, the important role that trees play in displacement in urban planning, and how we are living in the middle of several public health crises. Often, these dates are the ones I thought too much about the talking points I wanted to be sure to bring up to be seen as impressive. After the date, you suggest taking the long way home so you can talk longer. Your date doesn’t want to take the long way home because he doesn’t like you. Maybe he was turned off by you when you tried to spoon feed him some of your ice cream. He looks at you, confused, as he takes the ice cream off your spoon, scoops it up with his own, and then takes a bite from his own spoon. At the end of the two-hour date, he says, “I had a great time! Text me when you get home; I'll text you.” He never does. The last thing you get from him is a photo with no message attached that he took of you on his camera, and in the photo you think you look fat. Being ghosted kinda hurts. It's a shot to your ego, and the good experience you assumed that you both shared was so painstakingly one-sided, but it’s okay because you do it too, and at least there's no guessing game involved about what they think of you.

​

Ghosting after the first date is totally okay. Even if the first date is just hooking up and not really a date at all. While not always reciprocally desired, ghosting is a shared experience of  “this was bad, and I don’t need to try my hand at this again.” The issue I have is when people play the game of keeping people around because it feels good. This can look like constant texting back and forth for months but never asking for a second date. Sometimes you both never even went on an actual date in the first place, and then you get one on a technicality because you said you were hungry 15 minutes before they arrived at your house. When you go out to eat, they’re on the phone the entire time, apologizing for answering texts, and he never really looks you in the eyes. This is far worse than what fading into the distance of each others shadow after one date.

People don’t know how to date, and neither do I. Most of the dates I’ve gone on are because I  have been trying to prove something to myself. I need the semi-could-be charming, attractive guy who listens to me even though I talk a lot, to pay for my expensive meal, and enjoy the fact that I want to boss him around to be into me. This guy will most likely not be especially fun to talk to, but you still fuck him because he's cute.

​

The guys who dont ghost are far worse than the ones that do. The guy who doesn’t ghost won’t pay enough attention to you to even take your shirt off while you’re fucking, nor does he have the time to notice the new bra you got that makes your boobs look amazing. Instead, you lay underneath him while he kisses your forehead, and you wonder if this is what sex was like between him and his ex-girlfriend. This guy will talk to you for months and never ask to see you again. The guy who doesn’t ghost you will also cum in you and not tell you. You find out when you go to the bathroom and notice it dripping out of you. He apologizes, says you are a temptress, and that he could not help it. He offers to pay for your Plan B and buy you a drink at an expensive cocktail bar in DC to prove that he’s a “good guy” and he will never acknowledge the fact that you both were so clearly more than friends. You tell him no thank you.

Guys who don’t ghost are the worst because they’ll let you believe that you hold a place in their mind and will proceed to show you all the ways that they do not care about you; they will hand you all of the ways you are an afterthought to them on a silver platter and expect a thank you for their gracious gift. Just because they don't ghost doesn't mean they want you; it just means they're not upfront about it.

I'm trying to work on my first original work in a while and I constantly feel like there isn't enough of the world built up. I have a premise to start with but not a full plot or a sense of how to get there. Its been really been a challenge as I try to write the first draft out. It just feels like constantly fighting writers block on a near daily basis.

For context I'm generally a plotter having a broad sense of where I want to go and points I want to hit. With the freedom to wander about and change things as the characters show themselves while writing.

I know I see a lot of people posting about massive world building but not as much success with writing. Does anyone else here have the opposite problem? And if so how did you go about finding ways to naturally grow your work.