Suggestions for running an effective writing group

I'm revisiting some old writing and had a throwaway line that a character was relocated to a distant corner of the empire because she had broken Magistry rules; functionally she was expelled from school.

What she did is not important to the story but I think it'd be a fun writing prompt to consider - how does a witch get expelled from magic school?

If you have an extract or character that explores this, or if this prompt gives you some ideas, I'd love for you to share them 😄

I need to get to 600 characters? Hee hee hoo hoo haa haa Hu Hu... really? that's not enough? What a strange number to--

Hello all, I tried posting here once but i did the tags wrong. This is the first page of a fantasy novel i've worked on for about 4 years and am currently querying. I'd love to know if this makes you want to keep reading and leaves enough mystery without being vague.
(Note: Grammar is rocket science to me, I apologise if there are mistakes)

I often wonder what it will feel like to burn alive.

I sprint through a shaded alleyway into a section of the Sellers Lanes, shoving through the crowds with abandon. Smoke fills the air from the many burning straw figures situated in houses nearby. Some are no larger than my hand. Others are as tall as buildings. I cough between wheezed breaths, tossing a glance behind me at the precise moment a fist sized stone hurls into my back. Adrenaline turns my blood hot cold.

The group chasing me are forced to scatter in the crowds of the Lanes, their words lost to the growing panic of the marketgoers as it dawns on them a chase has begun. So long as no on recognises me, everything will be fine.

I use the chaos to veer to the left, slamming into an alley wall because of the turn and almost losing my footing. My lungs work in shallow, pathetic puffs as I force my legs to move one in front of the other, stumbling over my own teetering weight. The red sandstone walls of the houses surrounding me feel suffocating, closing in with the colour of blood.

“In here!” Jeriun, the leader of the horde, shouts behind me. He is far too close.

I weave from alley to alley, uselessly gasping for breath. On the next turn, I crash into a woman wrangling a child indoors. Things slow for a split second, her eyes locking on mine, mine on her. Her terror narrows her pupils and pales her dark skin, bittering the air around her.

A moment later and I am gone. A door slams shut behind me.

I pour on speed and manage to break out of the tight streets, spilling out upon a main road. The wide path is built of glass, its red sand swept length winding all the way up to the Palace seated atop the largest sand dune for kilometres. Framed by endless blue skies and smoke, it is glorious.

It is also uphill.

Prologue
In a world unlike ours, lies Lithea. A magical place where eldritch creatures roam free and societies keep to themselves. One particular kingdom, the Mesian kingdom, has been venturing outward from their borders, determined to find other civilizations. You see, the Mesian’s Empress has grown terribly ill. At the age of 2300, no heirs, no suitors, the aristocrats have come together to each send out one of their own past the borders in search of another kingdom who would have a cure. The four aristocratic families, the Cedardale’s, the Addantia’s, the Ishantel’s, and the Ployer’s send out their oldest daughters and sons in a race to find the cure. But will they have their own motives, their own plans? Can people who’ve never met work together for a common goal?

Chapter One
Addantia: First Steps

The door creaks open and I hear cheerful humming. “Morning Miss Lydia! Today is another cold, drizzly day so we’ll make sure to layer you up before the Council meeting today.” Mama Kate, one of the older servants, calls out to me as she goes into my closet in search of today’s dress. I groan and sit up, looking towards the glass balcony doors. The cement is wet and you can see small snowflakes fall and melt. Rubbing my eyes, I swing my legs over the side of my bed, surveying the room. Nothing in this godforsaken place ever changes. The entirety of the room is painted a deep burgundy red, with black detailing and trim. The furniture, of course, matches. Mother is a perfectionist and everything MUST match or she throws a fit. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with books of the outside world, journals, diaries, spells… anything to distract from the mundane life of aristocracy. A large, ornate, wooden desk is shoved in between two of the bookshelves, scattered with papers, pens, pencils, an oil powered lamp, and various folded up maps. The king sized canopy bed, being the focal point of the room, lies in the middle of the back wall with a nightstand on either side. I run my fingers through the ends of my hair absentmindedly, closing my eyes and mentally preparing myself for today. Then what Mama Kate said hits me. The Council meeting. I groan at the thought, standing up and smoothing out my nightgown, stepping into my slippers and throwing a shawl over my shoulders with a shiver. The Addantia kingdom was stationed deep in the mountain region. Cold. That’s all it ever was. A cold so deep it made your bones hurt. I quickly shuffle over to the fireplace that has slowly burned throughout the night and throw a couple more logs in, watching as the flames eat at the newly added wood, blackening the outside before engulfing it completely with a crackle and roar. I sigh, pleased at the warmth now emanating through the room. Mama Kate emerges from the closet holding a floor length, blood red gown with black lace trim and black jewels embedded into the bodice for added elegance. Tacky. I think to myself. The sleeves are long and skin tight, the entire dress being fleece lined for warmth. I sigh. Now comes the time consuming part. Layering. Undergarments, slip, corset, corset cover, fleece lined tights, socks, crinoline, more layers, more, more, more, more! By the time I get the actual dress on, the chill that settles in my bones every morning is gone. I can finally breathe. Even if I do have a corset on. I look over at the full length mirror and allow myself a small smile. I always feel so much better when I’m put together. It makes me feel ready. As I slip on my shoes and adjust my jewelry, the sun rises further, casting a warm glow onto the wooden floors through the stained glass paneling on the balcony doors. I straighten up, fluffing my skirts and smoothing my hair. Showtime. I step out of my bedroom, making my way down the stairs and to the dining hall. As I get closer, I hear the bustling of servants and guards and catering and musicians and the other Aristocratic families and— wait what. My eyes slide back over to the long table, usually only having seats for the Addantia’s, now fully lined for the other families. I frantically look for my siblings, Rae, Finn, and Lila. My chest tightens as I swiftly make my rounds around the enormous dining hall. I sigh in relief when I see Rae holding Lila’s hand, looking miserable as ever in her royal attire. She much rather be in her equestrian gear, but it’s not “ladylike” as mother would say. She radiates bored energy as a noble from one of the neighboring kingdoms goes off on a drunken tangent about the latest gossip, empty wine glass in her hand, that she waves around as she speaks. Occasionally, the noble goes to take a drink before sadly realizing that it’s in fact still quite empty. I huff and make my way to Rae and Lila, grabbing Lila’s hand from Rae’s grip and picking her up, holding her against my hip. “You know we are supposed to stay together during large events!” I whisper-scold my aloof younger sister. She rolls her eyes. “You found us, didn’t you? What’s the big deal?” I’m seething, but I try my hardest to not let it show. “Where’s Finn?” I ask, scanning the crowd. Rae just shrugs. “I don’t know exactly, but last I saw him he was in his seat at the table next to Father.” I nod. “We should be there too, at our seats. Now come on.” I instruct, motioning with my hand for Rae to follow me to our seats. After everyone is situated and has been served, my Father, King Nicolas, stands up from his seat and the room quiets. He looks around for a moment before clearing his throat. “Esteemed nobles and aristocrats! I have gathered you here today for an emergency council meeting to discuss the situation at hand. I will assume you all read the briefing, and also received your own letter from the Empress…” He goes on. That catches my attention. The Empress? I mouth to Rae from across the table, yet she seems equally surprised and shakes her head. “…I won’t say everything now, but just keep in mind that times may be dire ahead.” he finishes before sitting down and the quiet chatter resumes. As I’m eating my food, I survey the room. But when do I not? I’m a cautious person, not paranoid. I tell myself. But as I survey the table, I can’t help but feel my stomach tighten with each glimpse of the other princes and princesses. Tomarin Ployer, Prince of the Desert Kingdom. Very ill-tempered, and just plain mean, despite his family being the sweetest there is. His mother, father, and younger sister are all in the business of mineral trading and mining, yet Tomarin rejects his family's entire legacy. Strange… Next we have Elowyn Cedardale, Princess of the Forest Kingdom. She’s a clever one, I’ll give her that. A master manipulator, used to getting her way, yet also one of the most honest people you’ll ever meet. Of the few interactions I’ve had with her already, it put me through a whirlwind of emotions. She told me my dress was badly made, which of course got me irritated but then she literally told me what was wrong with it, in an informative manner, not with malice. So she’s confusing to say the least. Finally there’s Elliot Ishantel, Prince of the Water Kingdom. He’s very quiet and mysterious. Not quiet in a shy way, but more like he thinks he’s better than everyone else, at least that’s how it comes off. Never acknowledges other people, no matter their status, and is very inconsiderate of other people’s time.

"The great road took a traveler westward to the edge of the land–as far as he could travel without barge or sail–a memory of empire long absent. It was here where Bram walked, at the turning of the seasons.

The leaves crunched beneath his boot as he steered off the Warden’s' road, down to the sheer cliffs and rushing falls of the easternmost of Marrodain's many vales.

The stout man took a seat on a great stone just out of sight of the highway. The rock faced north and had a carven surface flat almost as if wrought to serve as a carven throne. The clattering of hooves was heard at least every quarter of an hour as men of purpose and means raced throughout the realms–whatever their business, it did not matter now.

The time had come–to leave it all behind. He had no other choice after all. To live as a refugee by the mercy of others, to have no blood ties to one's new 'home'. Against all better judgement, these were things Bram would no longer abide.

A crisp breeze arrived from the northern seas as Bram shut his eyes and searched for some trace of regret–however he only found fresh resolve. He had sworn to his father and mother to return to the Tynd, and that oath transcended all new bonds since forged. The stone chair he had claimed no longer comforted him, so he began to pace. At the fourth pass he turned around, and while shocked by the quietness of his approach, there was the man he was waiting for.

Gareth the Golden, or so he was called. An old knight whose greying hair and ragged raiment betrayed his moniker.

"Here you are, in the Eastern Vale, at the seasons' turn. Despite all you told me," Gareth spoke with somber amusement.

"Indeed here I am, on winter's eve. Despite all I told you," replied Bram.

Upon Gareth's face was a warm, easy smile. "I understand, young man. To plant a son of Tyndor in the Marrodain would be to open a vineyard on the pale stones of Sindevar. You will not grow here–your roots have not even reached the soil. I have the same affliction."

Bram laughed heartily and looked the old man in his dour but kind grey eyes, "Aye, it is so. My heart yearns for the foothills of Duskar, and the crisp mountain air. Perhaps it is Dwarven blood." 

Gareth began to move further from the sound of horses and wagons upon the warden’s road as he spoke, "We are not alone, my friend. Let me show you to the company. We will depart soon."

The two walked carefully down the improvised paths of stone and wood that ran carefully from the top of the cliffs down to lower lands, where the falls met the grimsalde and flowed to the sea. For a time while the valley of autumn foliage blazed before them, only the sound of the rushing stream accompanied their descent.

As they reached the lower paths with flatter ground, Gareth reached into his silken pouch, he handed some strips of dried pork to Bram who followed closely at his back, “Twenty years it's been, since the Green Aurochs Banner flew upon the Tynd. How old were you then, ten-and-three?”  

Bram took a bite of the old ration. The hunger that had grown during his eastward journey made even the driest of meat satisfying like a warm stew in bitter cold, “Ten-and-four. Strange it feels, I have spent much time in the Marrodain Realms, many would say I have much, but my heart says otherwise.”

Gareth led Bram to the end of the path; they stood now within the trough of the vale by the clear stream known as Grimsalde. Within it he sunk his waterskin, “It’s what it's become that sickens you. I can see clear as day. All of your memories of the place blackened with the shadow of Thrazmiran.”

“Keep that word behind your teeth, I don’t wish to hear it,” Bram snapped.

“I will not, all the world must hear it. You would do well to remember it–we are not going to Tyndor, we are going to Thrazmiran–its devourer,” Gareth stared with a steadfast intensity.

A silence filled the air as leaves of crimson and gold cascaded down to the rocky stream, and a great northern wind filled the vale with colors ere the onset of winter. 

Finally Bram spoke, “The disdain I feel towards that foul sorcerer does not change the way of the world. I fear I spoke rudely, I beg your pardon, Gareth.”

“No need, it is because you feel strongly that you came all this way, no forgiveness is necessary. I will have one as yourself in my company even in the darkest of hours,” the old man spoke cheerily.

Bram filled his waterskin in the crisp Grimsalde as he finished his pork, “Being no man-at-arms myself it left me bewildered that a fine captain such as you, Gareth the Golden, wanted a gallivanter like myself in his Banner Company, and you promised me you’d tell in time–how about now?”

“Well–” Gareth brought his arms together behind his back for a stretch to ease his old aches, “We are going through Duskar, it’s the only path that won’t leave us as food for carrion”

“Duskar is closed. Has been for some time”, Bram said as if belabored by the utterance.

Gareth smiled with a glint of the evening sun in his eye, “not for you, half-dwarf”.

Like many here, I'm sure, I've wanted to write a novel since I was maybe 12. Every time I'd gotten an idea, I had tried to run with it, got no where, and set it aside.

5 years ago, I finally wrote an intro to a novel that I actually want to make. I consider this the best prose I've ever written, but it's really short, just over 700 words. After a lot of brainstorming and trying other scenes, I gave up again.

I guess seeing the uproar against generative AI got me thinking about the novel again, so I pulled it out and tried to keep working. This time I'm really trying to stick to the advice of "just write" and get a draft done.

But that's still a problem. I'm averaging like 100 words a week, man. I have an idea, toy around with it on the page a bit, and then go through a lot of effort to barely move the needle. I will never finish at this rate, but I don't want to admit defeat again.

What are some other tips and tricks for writing a lot faster?

Hello fellow writers!

Your critiques and criticisms have been super valuable, and I feel like each time I go back to work on my story, it gets better---but only with your help.

Please read through it and give me honest feedback. This is the revised version of Chapter One; last time I was given feedback, the critique was that I assumed too quickly that my characters matter and that I've been introducing too many concepts too quickly, so I needed to just slow down.

I think this chapter strikes a good balance.

Please let me know your thoughts; I'm not really looking for line level stuff. More I want to know about pacing / emotional resonance / and the desire to read the next chapter.

All feedback is helpful---even if it's just to tell me it sucks, and the part where you stopped reading. Thank you!

***

CHAPTER ONE - AVON

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. I’ve been sitting here for hours agonizing over whether to keep this narrative, scrap it completely, or just polish it a bit. That’s why I came to this subreddit.

I’m open to any advice and will follow your feedback 100%. no, 150%. If someone thinks this is garbage and tells me to delete it, I will.

While I was briefly jotting down what had just happened in my notebook, Mark’s mention of koryo in Kara-Tur suddenly brought this topic to mind. How could they use the exact same units of measurement as Earth, and even the same names for alcohol? They use miles, feet, inches, and yards, and use words like whiskey and beer for drinks. Could this world be something someone made up? Am I in a coma right now? Is this all an illusion?

I lay back and pressed both hands to my face, thinking it through. Kara-Tur is an Asian-style region, but out of all its lands, only the nation of koryo shares its name with Earth's ancient Koryo. So, I suppose you could chalk it up to coincidence. after all, ancient eras like the Three Kingdoms or a country like Japan don't exist there. And then another thought occurred to me: since the imperial system was based on intuitive bodily measurements, sooner or later, someone else was bound to come up with the exact same thing. The same goes for the names of alcohol. Sharing the same names might not be a coincidence either; it could simply happen by chance.

Besides, these people aren't mere NPCs. They are breathing, fully functioning people living lives of their own. Does a TRPG chronicling these adventures in Faerûn exist on Earth? If one does, and we took someone from Faerûn, like a wizard, or even a god and showed it to them, would it throw their self-identity into chaos?

No one would ever be able to answer any of these questions. Not Elminster, not the books in Candlekeep, not even Shemeshka. If I kept obsessing over things like this, people would start treating me like a lunatic, and I'd actually go crazy myself, so I decided to completely erase it from my mind. Of course, erasing it from my mind doesn't actually make it go away. Unless, perhaps, by the power of magics. Either way, what could I even do about it? I just have to roll with it.

Then, a thought suddenly flashed across my mind. I remembered that back when I first learned Common languages by looking through a vocabulary book, the pronunciation and spelling of everything—from basic grammar, units of measurement, drinks, and alcohol, to nouns and verbs referring to houses or people—were different. I recalled that the magical necklace and ring that used to translate for me (though I’ve since discarded them), as well as the translation tattoo now etched on my arm, were actually converting everything into a language I understood.

To think it took me this long to realize that. Magic was always fascinating yet bizarre. Fortunately, I could safely drop the thought of losing my mind. Dwelling on such stray thoughts made me feel like Harry DuBois. with all the different voices in my head talking back and forth and arguing with each other.

Edit: THANK YOU so much for the replies. Great reminders from several of you, and I am relieved to be reminded not to skew for different marketing tactics. Old habits die hard! Appreciate each and every comment and viewpoint. I'll go with hyper-book-specific things and go quality over quantity (since I am doing only a few anyway). Thank you guys!

MEN & WOMEN: Opinion time.

Blind Date with a Book for MEN *and* women.

I am prepping my nobledark epic fantasy (think grimdark sprinkled with hope and light) for some Christmas gift aways and specials, and want to give a masculine version of blind date with a book as well as the standard expectations that come with one's geared for the ladies.

But to make sure my mind is on the right track, I need opinions!

If willing, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

What would YOU like to receive to have in a wrapped book? (And what would you expect to spend on a paperback version or hardback version? Seemsnpost prefer paperback for these??)

Men: Leather bookmarks? Sword Keychain? Armor and battle stickers? Cocoa and ribbons and chocolate and cozies like the ladies, but just different colors?

Ladies, what do YOU like in them? The standard cute/pretty stickers and pens and ribbons and scrapbook paper?

Lastly--what things do authors put in them that you DON'T usually like or use?

Thanks for your feedback!

the purpose of this piece was to provide clarity and show a clear sense of trajectory within my story, as that seemed to be my weakest area ,as well as abandoning very flowery vocabulary. please be brutual in critique of this , where the story gets weak, where i loose you as a reader, whats vague or too much!! every response is taken forward into my new writing peices, give me , a young writer, your noble knowledge. This was my previous piece that i rewrote - https://www.reddit.com/r/fantasywriters/s/YGr5r3lej4

The walls were painted a lavish cream. The ceilings were high, decorated with whirls and swirls of gold paint. The crystal chandelier dangled its precious pendants over the guests heads. The dining room of the Berkeley’s was filled with foolishly rich men and their fabulous wives. Women were dolled up. Dressed in beautiful gowns, hair in perfect luscious waves and updos. Pearls and diamonds decorated their delicate wrists, earlobes and collarbones. Men stood straight and hubris, they huffed and puffed on their cigars while they chuckled about the stock markets. Their tuxedos trapped the smell of burnt cigars and champagne in its delicate vicuña fibers. That night was a truly jubilant night, cheers of couples and clinks of tall glasses, it was a sight to behold. A night I will forever remember but not for the simple fact I enjoyed hearing pampered women giggle and flirt all night. But for the fact it was the night my Prince Charming was no longer charming. The man I once knew and loved so immensely, became the man I held so much resentment for. The man that trashed our tender love, and replaced it with lust for another woman. That night was the night my life struck midnight. 

It all began to unravel when the snobbish guests no longer seemed interesting or pleasant as they looked. It became repetitive . The same cynical remarks. The same smug chuckles. It was exhausting to feign interest at that point. And so I decided to go on a stroll and find the man that’s matching my emerald dress with his pocket square. Quietly intimate. A quiet symbol of our love. Or so I foolishly thought.

I still recall the way my heart was pulsating.Thumping.Pounding. It felt as if it was going to pounce out my chest. Yet I was stuck. My mouth was dry. My eyes were teary. My ears were blocked. All my senses were clouded by the realisation that my picture perfect husband was having an affair.

He stood there arms draped over her. His large figure concealing her sultry identity, just like the lingering secrecy laced in the air with their treachery; they were in a well furnished guest room. Simplistic in its layout, a king sized bed stood in the middle of the grand room while ruby red duvet sheets laid on top of the golden framed bed, it was accompanied with a french styled headstand, with golden handles. A crack between the red draped curtains allowed the moonlight to shine light on my husband’s sin. It was in fact him. Not some lousy man that can’t control himself. But the man I vowed my life to. 

The tension between them, the thickened air. It realised my presence and swiftly suffocated me with the consequences of the truth. The consequences of my husband’s indulgence of sin. It was unbearable. It wrapped around my neck squeezed tighter and tighter. I gasped for air. The sensual romantic tension between them snapped. It was no longer intimate secrecy, but the grotesque and lewd reality of adultery. 

His head snapped back at me. His eyes widened, they met my watery eyes. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, tears streamed down my face. His face turned blue. He looked like he was going to throw up. I began to sob as the woman became frantic, leaping to justify why my husband’s hands were wrapped around her. I ran out of the room. To preserve a slither of my dignity. To preserve a crumb of my devotion for my man. I knew there was no coming back from this.

He rid himself of his other woman. Pushed her off him. Rejected her dainty hands that were detailed with almond red nails and a diamond ring. His head spun mercilessly, he knew this was as bizarre as it looked. Clutched and shook his head in attempts to rid himself of remorse so he could think of how he could have preserved your marriage. His eyes and cheeks were flushed as he chased out the room, in hopes of redemption.

Hey y’all, writing about a werewolf/lycanthrope/therianthrope setting and seeking some media inspiration to get in the mindset, does anyone have any suggestions? I have tried to research the topic and found monster anatomy and wikis on abilities, but I’m looking for stories, and those are getting hard to find in the AI hellscape. Bonus points if it’s about a group or tribe of werefolk or about non-wolf shapeshifters.

Happy Halloween to you all!

—
For those interested in the context, I’m writing about a werefolk tribe in a setting where therianthropes were actually the first mortal species created by the gods, and regular mortals came after that as sort of a mockery of their kind.

I’m shooting for a mentality amongst the tribe of a sort of blend between Norse and Native American philosophies.

posting my first writing piece is very nerve cracking, tell me the gaps in my little blurt of a peice, tell me where the atmosphere, storyline and description gets weak or vague; if you’re generous enough sprinkle a little advice in there for me too!! This writing attempt was referenced by the instrumental of Bjork's piece Play Dead.

The chaotic, corrupt world went quiet. The ever impending constant stimuli was withdrawn, replaced by an engulfing fiend of wrath, revenge and pure melancholy. I am certain something in me perished that night, left to rot and decompose the blissful innocence and purity that wrapped me tenderly, similar to a baby hugged by its mothers warmth and devotion to protect her little one from the evil that creeps upon the naive.

I did try to shed the spite that remains in me, truly I did. Yet his venom is concentrated. Zealous. Parasitic.

He was my Lucifer. My serpent under’t. The one who made me swallow poison willingly.

That night haunts me. Haunts my sanity, my slumber and the fragments of benevolence I scramble to make me the slightest more sufferable. It is pathetic. His amber eyes were pathetic. His pale vampire-like skin was pathetic. His slender and tall figure was pathetic. His charming enchanting smile was the most pathetic of them all. It hypnotises you, leaves you in a daze of negligence. Reminds you the devil isn’t a man with horns and crimson skin, but the fallen angel filled with rage and arrogance that was beautifully decorated with pink flushed cheeks, luscious dark hair and a glare that’ll burn a hole through your swollen heart. 

I was left with nothing but the disturbance of my own burden of a heart. Beating. Pulsating. I heard nothing but thumps of agony and fractures of my cardiac organ. It was orchestral, a symphony of successful deception. Otherworldly, the way time was sluggish, leaving me to relish the bitter moments of realisation, to fathom it was all a fib. 

His dominance and hubristic nature laced his posture. He held and whirled the amber liquid that accompanied the murmurs of Gnossienne number one, scanned the room as he often does, adjusted the collar of his sleek white shirt and tugged on the side of his raven velvet tux jacket as she comes closer. Her wine red lips perching a coy smile, elegant in the way she struts towards him yet domineering. There’s a thick seductive chemistry that altered the tension of the room. It draped and tightened around the base of my neck, it was suffocating, unbareable, a glimpse of forbidden disloyalty.

His smile carved so deeply into his face, dimples itched so immensely it whispered lust. Pure ecstasy in the way he chuckled and planted a small step closer towards her, to abolish distance, to cut the ruby ribbon that wrapped around us, that held us tight. His eyes were indulgent at the sight of her, drinking in her presence and effortless delicacy. 

English is notoriously poor at telling the reader how the word is supposed to be pronounced and I keep running into a big when coming up with names in fantasy settings. I understand that there are some people that don't mind not really knowing the exact pronunciation of these words and authors who only focus on making the names distinguishable, but I really focus on knowing that my readers have a good chance of approximating what I hear in my head.

I'm starting from a rough spot too, since I draw most of my inspiration from Thai culture and mythology. Now, Thai has a standard for transliteration, but I find it really bad at telling people how the words are supposed to sound. Example: Suvarnabhumi Airport should be pronounced Soo-Wa-Na-Poom. Now from that example, you can see that barring sounds that simply don't exist in standard English, I could spell the words as phonetically as possible.

But this runs into another issue: the word don't look pretty.

If I wanted to make Soowanapoom more sleek, it would be something like Suwanapum, but those u's are ambiguous and most readers would pronounce it as "uh".

Pulling from a Laos example. Lan Xang is the name of a historical kingdom. It should be pronounced/written like Lahn Chahng, with the "AH" sound like the doctor is checking your tongue. And that spelling just looks atrocious. I also think the X is must cooler looking than "Ch" but it is misleading to the reader on how to say it.

So I'm hoping to get some ideas on how other people approach this issue when trying to balance pronunciation and the creative source.

So as the title says, I’ve had an idea for a fantasy story for a while. I’ve tried to write it before in a more traditional fantasy format and struggled to get going.

I recently finished DCC and it gave me the inspiration to try it again but in a litRPG style setting and it has just clicked and feels like it’s writing itself this time.

I’m struggling a bit with imposter syndrome, like who do you think you are trying to write a book lol.

Anybody else had this?

Also can’t shift the feeling of potentially I’m writing something that will never be read by anybody else ever which make it feel kinda pointless but I’m enjoying it and hours of evening seem to disappear without me noticing.

Any body been here before? Success stories, inspiration & advice all would be appreciated

I've had the idea for this world in the back of my head for a while (it started out with one character and I went from there), so I finally decided to put it into words to help me fully flesh it out. I've already been writing my own music OSTs for characters and certain scenes, so I figured I should try to illustrate the scenes I see in my head through writing as well.

It's going to be split narratively into two parts. The first part that this chapter is from will be a bit calmer, but there will be turmoil brewing under the surface that gets explored by the journey the two main characters go on. The 2nd part is where it turns into more of a dark fantasy story, so I think that's the subgenre it falls under, but someone can correct me if I'm wrong (I'm still not fully versed on all the possible fantasy subgenres).

Please let me know what parts of what I have so far you like and which parts you dislike! It'll help me know what to do more of in the future as well as what to avoid.

(also pretty please tell me any grammar errors I missed)

This isn't related to the writing, but if anyone has advice on how to make better posts asking for advice and how to upload writing to Reddit in general, feel free to share that as well. I'm brand new to both, so I've found myself struggling to find the best way to upload pictures of the writing without it being blurry or hard to read.

In my head, or when speaking, I can come up with ideas and plots and characters and dialogue all day long. But, I’ve noticed that for some reason the moment I sit down at a blank computer, I can’t think of anything to type at all. I have an extreme difficulty with letting a first draft be messy or incomplete in the way that they normally are, and find myself attempting to type the final polished version the very first time around. This leads me to not typing anything at all since you usually have to have something to go off of to edit into its final form.

I’ve recently started to audio record my ramblings, then have those transcribed and organized into story beats, and then do a second recording of the actual novel using the story beats as a guide. That way I can have a rough draft down, which then gives me something to build off of and edit.

My "outline" looks like this: 3 or 4 characters or character ideas, a general description of what I have in my world as of right now, how I want my story to begin and end, then a whole list of various inspirations. I may put in a section of things I scrapped from the book in case I get writer's block.

Right now the story structure of my outline looks like this:

Chapter Start:

Middle:

Chapter End:

I feel like an outline like this would help the pacing of the book a little through not getting carried away with certain descriptions

I have yet to do any research on the topics I wanna talk about in my book and also have yet to read that much as I'm trying to get back into reading so I can make my book. In the meantime, I'll just put random ideas into the ideas file and develop worldbuilder's disease until I've read a lot (maybe 150 books or something) cause its not like I'll be ready to write anytime soon.

I wrote this story recently that's a bit of a different take on the werewolf/werecreature trope, set in a Germanic inspired magical city. I'm pretty proud of it but am having some trouble placing it due to length, so before I revise or just look further for publications, I'd love your feedback! Even if you just want to read the first page, first five pages or whatever amount you're interested in, I'd definitely appreciate any amount of eyes on it. It's meant to be a social social commentary/mystery about what exactly the MC's plan is, and I'd really love to know if those elements, as well as the prose in general, work for you.

The full text is in a comment below

Looking for critique on the start of my potential book from a dream . (Fantasy unsure of subgenre at this stage.I'm really new at this so please don't be cruel. All Criticism is welcome, Thanks so much in advance. This is my first time trying to turn my ideas into something, I don't think it's great or really anything good so far honestly but thought I would ask for advice and what people think, as I know there are a lot of established writers here, and have seen some great advice be given in the past to people. So I'm hoping I can get the same from everyone who will take the time to look.

Again thanks so much guys sorry for the long post with attached writing it made me write a 125 word post :)

I've been diligently working on this for over a month now. I've had several friends read it and give criticism. I've been proofreading it over and over. I've double checked definitions and made sure each sentence is clear to a level that I feel should connect to the reader. But I can be wrong! So please tell me if something does not make sense. Unless I'm about to paste some other story by mistake, every sentence is intentional. So please enjoy the first chapter of my story. I'm currently doing some world building and thinking about Melesat and the supporting characters so that the second chapter can really pop. My heart eagerly awaits your rending critiques!

* * * * * * * * * * *

A grey evening rain pattered on a small shack at the village edge. The sign on the door marked it: fortune teller. Its wind-stirred clattering could be heard from inside. A young girl, maybe near her 20th year of life, sat on the floor, flipping tarot cards onto the low, oval-shaped table in front of her. She muttered to herself as if trying to commit something to memory.

A knock on the door lifted her attention away from her activity. "Who goes?" she called.

The voice of a young man with presence called back, "I'm in need of a fortune teller."

"Aye, ya found one. Enter and first right, past the drape." She deftly collected her cards and set them aside.

The front door echoed into the narrow hallway with the sound of bootsteps finding their way. A gloved hand reached into the candlelit room and pushed the drape aside as the man ducked his hooded head under the line holding it.

"Sir, welcome!" The fortune teller beamed. "Quite the weather to be seeking fortune, but I'm glad to have ya. And out of that rain, too. Wouldya some tea?"

Mindful of the two swords at his hip, he maneuvered to not knock anything in the somewhat tight room. "No need." He raised a gentle hand of protest. "But the kindness is valued." He sat on the opposing side of the oval table, cross-legged. His long cloak strewn behind him.

"Quite well, then. What mystical service do you seek of the wondrous Eterisia?" A proud giggle slipped past her lips.

He fidgeted to adjust his position on the sitting pillow and lowered his hood. "I'm actually looking for information."

The girl slumped onto the table in disappointment, her long hair pooling around her. Sheer lace bonnet revealing its hearth-light orange color.

"I can compensate you." His hands raised, as if to ward off potential grumpiness.

Slightly less bruised, she propped her head up in her hand. "What kind of information?" she asked.

"I'm looking for a man."

Eterisia sat up, looking the young man over. He wore a black wool cloak, beaded water dotted about him. A green and white gambeson peeked from the edges of a tannin brigandine. Simple steel vambraces and half greaves. The piecemeal armor did not betray him as a noble. Awash in candlelight, she could see the youth of his face. His hair was a black of The North. Short sides and a week unshaven. With enough on top to grip fingers through. And while he was certainly a bit older than her, something about him intimated more years than he deserved. He was devilishly good-looking with stark hazel eyes. Each flick of the flame turning his earnest gaze into something harsher, colder.

He carried two swords at his belt. One was a minimalistic hand and a half with a simple but artful cross guard and twisted ring guards on either side. The other was not like any sword she had seen before. It was a green of jade, but did not reflect the dim light the way a stone would. It wasn't flat; it seemed to have an octagonal cross-section and fell to a point. Like a large needle with some sort of scrawling on the faces of the blade, or scabbard perhaps, that his body wasn't obscuring. It had no guard and the pommel at the end of the long handle was a sphere with something wrapping covetously around it.

"Who'd be asking?" she asked, having taken his measure.

"Melesat."

"Melesat, who?"

"Just Melesat."

Eterisia squinted disapprovingly. "Some say a man with no last name is a peculiarity."

"I forgot my family name long ago, young miss." He turned his gaze downward upon saying this. As if apologetic and briefly caught in a memory. "I wish I could offer it to you."

"Who is this man you are after? Is he dangerous?" Eterisia asked.

"Perhaps. I won't know until I have found him." Melesat shrugged, then refocused. "He's a stargazer from Steerport. I hear he comes here to participate in meetings of a sort. I'm not keen on the details, but it seems shady. His name is Alane Chartwell."

Eterisia's eyes widened upon that name.

"Are you familiar? Figured a fortune teller might know something about a stargazer." Melesat proffered.

The fortune teller's lips were still, but her eyes engaged in calculus.

"...Let me see your palm," she decided.

"What for, pray tell?" A perplexed look on Melesat's face.

"If I'm to trust ya do good with this information, I must know your heart. I don't want the weight of guilt on me."

Melesat hesitated a moment in uncertainty but quickly concluded, with a shrug, it was a reasonable request. He removed his left glove and offered his hand palm up. Eterisia took it in her left and reached for a small golden bowl of elegant, religious design from a nearby shelf with her right. She dipped two fingers into it, the light reflecting a liquid of a soft dilute red. Her fingers traced a line across the wrist, excess dripping onto the table. She held a single-handed prayer over his palm and muttered a soft utterance. The liquid on his wrist began to lap and course as if aspiring to be the sea. It thickened and darkened to an opaque crimson and began traveling towards the palm, being selective as to which creases of Melesat's hand to follow. It chose four representing heart, head, life and fate.

Eterisia took his hand firmly in hers and began tracing the life line at the base of the thumb with her own. Her face took on a bewildered expression. "You contain a mighty force of life."

A quick huff of amusement escaped Melesat's nostrils. "Oh yeah?"

"I've never seen a thing like it. Must be overfilled with determination." She smiled.

She moved to the heart line, tracing it slowly. Her brow furrowed at her findings, and she continued on, respectfully.

"...Let's see what fate might have in store for you." Her index finger traced the line from the base of the palm and slowly moved along it towards the fingers. The liquid in Melesat's hand began again to lap and roil. And then bubble and boil. It coalesced into a tendril of red shadow and caressed the fortune teller's finger. Eterisia pulled her hand back in pain as a coil of steam rose from Melesat's hand.

Eterisia reeled from her seated position holding her hand. "Ah-! What is thi-!?" She began to cough and her breath was short as she clutched her chest. Her hands moved for her temples, holding them to stymie the pain. A dark magic began to emanate there, clawing forward to cover her eyes. Her mind was filled with images carved in by some force. She let out a sharp scream and dropped to all fours.

"Are you well!?" asked Melesat, arm extended to offer a hand. "Is there aught I can do for you?"

"Y-you stay away from me!" she cried, her voice strained and choked. "I don't know what you are, but you need to get out!"

"I'm sorry." His eyes pleading. "What about the information?"

"Fuck your information! I said get out of my home! Right now!"

His eyes cast downward in shame; Melesat raised his hood and promptly exited the fortune teller's home back into the rainy night. He walked a few steps and paused. He let out a whimpered groan as he wiped his face. As if to rid himself of embarrassment. A piercing scream sent a shudder up his spine. He looked back at the small home to see a curtain fall back into place. He turned toward the village and plodded his way down the muddy road.

Whatever dark sorceries gripped Eterisia granted her a moment of respite. Upon his exit, she clambered to her feet as rapidly as she could to assure the door was barred. She looked out of the small window to find the man standing, a vague resemblance to the one named Melesat. He was a sad and hollow figure with a darkness about him that hung like a foul odor. Something that could reach her nostrils and into her brain--

A stab of icy pain pierced through her temples again. Eterisia let out a wretched scream and dropped the curtain to grab her head. She willed open her eyes to see him through a gap in the curtain. He remained where he stood, turning to look back at the window.

What was once a handsome and healthy young man was now a man akin to a shade. His once charming hazel eyes now a smoldering phosphor that brimmed over with sorrow. He was a tragedy, mantled by an aura of pure night. A shadow of a man, shorn of joy long ago. Even as he turned to walk towards town, her terror did not fade...

...and the lightning clashed.

Time having passed, Eterisia was freed of her acute affliction and returned to her seat at her table. She retrieved her quill-ink and notary and began to write expeditiously, folding and sealing the note with wax and stamp, then setting it aside.

A deep breath and a sigh, Eterisia leaned back on a collection of pillows and reflected upon the encounter with the man named Melesat. Her fingertip still ached from the burn, and her mind was fogged by exhaustion. She closed her eyes to recollect.

Disturbing images raced through her mind. A small boy, utterly hopeless, having leapt to his death. The sensation of being burned alive. Pain of the body and of the mind that seemed impossible. Eterisia's eyes welled at the thought of anyone having to endure such suffering. But the one emotion that was hers... fear. Fear of that thing. That shadow that wrested itself throughout the man's entire being. Whoever—or whatever—possessing a desire, a selfish infatuation, that clung to him desperately; greedily. Warning her against her trespass.

Eterisia had never experienced something so alarming in the years that she had been divining. It was unsettling, to say the least. But it was behind her now and exhaustion would win her over soon. Despite her excitement at finally procuring dried meat today, she could not bring herself to cook as her eyelids would surely weigh her down. Perhaps the shock of the evening had gotten to her? Mayhap rest would be the best course for now.

In a valiant final effort, she moved about the room blowing out the several candles scattered across it. Then hopped into the small alcove built into the wall, fashioned after a box bed of sorts and nestled herself under the covers. She tried to focus on the rain and the coziness of her bed to force the ghastly events of the evening out of her mind. But it seemed the exhaustion was more than enough to overpower any rumination, and she sank into a deep sleep.

The night went on and the rain continued. Eterisia lay soundly asleep. The howling wind scraped the bushes along the wooden wall of the shack. Between the falling of rain and the rustle of plant life lay a brief, yet pregnant pause. So full, it might carry the regret of several lifetimes. But this time, it offered supplication. A hollow thud of the wooden wall being pierced echoed into the room. A jade point driven through the wall into Eterisia's chest. Blood gushed from her mouth with each attempt to cough and in moments, she lay still.

I wanted to ask what you all use when you’re getting both into the meat and potatoes (the writing) and your surrounding activities like worldbuilding, research, proofreading/editing, etc. This is more on the technical side of things, but also open to any other tools that have helped you flesh out your specific worlds and stories! Here are my own to starts

Writing
- AlphaSmart 3000 for the actual act. I’ve been jonesing for a Freewrite but they’re ridiculously expensive ($250+). I got a secondhand AS3K off of eBay and it has been a TREMENDOUS help. Focus apps and other things for computers simply cannot hold up to my ADHD, so having something that types and nothing else has been a game-changer.

- Scrivener for manuscripts and planning. I also love its mobile app, since I can connect my AS3K to my phone with a USB-C adapter instead of waiting for when I get home.

- The Only Plotting Storybook You’ll Ever Need by T. M. Holladay. Having a structured workbook to help me think through and plan out plots and story threads helps me to keep a solid physical reference.

Worldbuilding
- The Complete World Building Workbook by Tanner Teafatiller, similarly as a guided resource for worldbuilding and notes.

- Right now, I’m using Canvas of Kings for mapmaking. I had some drafts in Inkarnate and Campaign Cartographer 3+, but for the above-mentioned reasons I like having a separate non-browser ecosystem for creative work but CC3 was liquefying my grey matter. CoK is much better optimized for city and dungeon maps, but I’m having fun using it for world maps as well.

- Paint.NET for some visuals, but only really getting my feet wet with it now.

- Trying my hand with some building games to have a way to sketch out vehicle designs with an intuitive editor and physics engine for reference. My world is a low-fantasy dieselpunk world, so most of this has been with Sprocket for tank design. Happy to find/use any others folks recommend.

Research
This is mostly scattershot, but I mainly use quick reference materials from Wikipedia and previous reads. Please feel free to drop some resources for fantasy writers and/or worldbuilders if you use any!

I tried posting earlier.It said I didn't format it correctly, so hopefully I got it right this time. This is the first chapter of a book I just recently started to seriously work on. I'm still in the early stages, so it's pretty rough and there's alot of stand ins where I haven't named people or things yet. I'd appreciate any criticism but I'd also love any motivation you guys could give me to keep working on it. Anyways, here's my first chapter. [Edit: I polished it up a bit and formatted the paragraphs a bit better.]

Navarii's eyes followed the tamri monkeys, leaping between the branches of their enclosure, a series of nets held up between purposely planted trees. Their orange fur almost looked as golden as her eyes in this light as they catapulted themselves from one end of their cage to another, like acrobats performing for an audience. Navarii picked a slice of a peach out of her breakfast, and offered it to one of them, the oldest one. He bared his teeth at her, showing his broken canine, before accepting her offering through the net. Hopefully she didn't ruin his appetite enough for his caretaker to notice. She ate the last of her fruit, and gulped the last bit of lassi from the fine ceramic bowl.

“See you later old man,” she said to the small monkey before walking back towards the [building for housing the small animals collection]. She passed a wheel barrow full of various animal refuse and considered throwing the bowl in it. She caught herself, remembering it wasn't a disposable gourd.

Teams of animal keepers made their way past her, nodding with a “princess” or “your grace”. She crossed a living bridge from one artificial island to another, while the wind blew through the branches growing out of it. Everything here was man-made she thought, even if it looked like it grew out of the ground on its own. She walked through the arch of the [small animal hall], two tree trunks bending towards each other, fused at the apex, then continued as one tree.

She walked down a hall of glass jars hanging from the ceiling at eye level, some of them as big as her. She looked at their inhabitants, each one home to a different kind of frog or lizard hiding. [The jars have soil and plants. A comparison of these living ecosystems is made with the larger city outside. People also live in plants essentially.] Navarii looked up at the dust dancing between beams of light, directed by reflective pipes from the light outside, shining down on the rooms residents.

Navarii entered a domed room, filled with larger enclosures. Cages and jars too large to hang from the ceiling lined the walls, in the center, an enormous wire cage, multicolored finches flitting between branches of a full grown tree, covered in pink flowers. Navarii's attention came to a large jar by the wall, sitting on a table of tree roots coming out of the floor between a similar jar of little red fish and a brass cage with a large green bird sitting on a perch.

“You replaced it!” she called to [animal keepers name].

She walked up to the clear vessel, where one cracked by tree roots growing into it sat days ago. “It wasn't cheap either… princess,” he said. “The glass blowers were able to salvage the original jar luckily.”

Navarii peered into the large orb, looking past bubbles trapped in the glass at the most unremarkable lizards.

“The plants are pretty at least,” she remarked.

“Yes, but the geckos are the star,” [keeper] said a little defensively.

“But they're so… brown. Do they glow at night or something?” she wondered.

“Umm… no… your grace. But!” He brightened up. “They were found by [explorer] on [islands on southern coast] a couple of years back. And, they seem to reproduce without males. Anyone of them will lay fertile eggs, even separated from the group.”

Navarii's curiosity piqued.

“Well that's kind of weird.”

“Yes! [Explorer] named them the Queens geckos, after you and her majesty's ancestry..”

Navarii looked from one gecko to a the next, something was… wrong? off? strange about them.

“But.. the queens all have father's, just like anyone else,” she corrected him, her eyes fixed on the tiny reptiles.

“Well… I guess [explorer] fancies himself a poet,” [keeper] answered.

“Yeah… I suppose…” Navarii trailed off.

“Are these all siblings?” she questioned. “Like twins.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Some of them… maybe. There's several generations in there. They reproduce quickly.”

[he asks if she wants to feed them, she keeps asking about their genetics basically.]

“I have to go, I'm sitting for my portrait in a few hours,” Navarii groaned. “Can one of you make sure this gets back to the kitchen,” she said, handing him the iridescent bowl.

“Of course, princess, [girl in kitchen] has some ducks for the big cats.”

Navarii headed towards the palace, covering her ears as she walked down a hall of screaming birds before exiting the [small animal hall] through another arch of shaped trees. She followed the paths, every root bridge and island getting older as she got closer to the palace, until she reached a smaller side entrance and passed between two guards. She trekked through the dimly lit labyrinth of trees and stones, the oldest building in the city, probably the world. Navarii inhaled, the smell of cypress resin from the trees that made up the walls and pillars of the structure and smoke from oil lamps and incense filled the corridor. An improvement from monkey shit she thought.

As she reached the more used areas, fresh bouquets of flowers lined the walls. Windows of mosaic colored glass let in kaleidoscopic light. She walked through a room where every surface was covered in spider silk tapestries, alabaster reliefs, and portraits of long dead people.

She finally reached her room and shut the door behind her. I'm going to have to start accepting rides from the palanquin she thought as she kicked off her shoes. The fireplace was burning, with a large vessel of water beginning to steam, a large copper tub in front of it, with the chair that's usually there moved across the room. Why, she thought.

She passed a table with a bottle of wine that the servants kept replacing, despite her never touching it, stepping out on the balcony. She looked out across the city, only the neat rows of canals and plumes of smoke rising from the canopy of trees revealed its engineered nature. Navarii daydreamed about the busy streets and canals below, the boats ferrying cardamom and pepper to markets, vendors selling grilled eggplant on skewers, half nude medicants begging for whatever scraps of food the devout will give them.

A knock on her door brought her back to reality.

“Not one minute alone,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Come in!”

Several maids poured through the door, carrying a collection of silk gowns and assorted regalia.

“You can come in now,” one of them called through the door, and two young men carried a table in. “Right there,” [head maid] said as they sat it in the middle of the room before arranging jewelry on it.

The other maids put together a similar display of the dresses, as the two men left.

I hope they're not coming back with more furniture Navarii thought.“Is this all?” Navarii asked, walking around the table.

“We could bring more jewelry from the vault…” [head maid] said.

Navarii almost threw herself in front of the door."That won't be necessary, [head maid].”

[Navarii complains that she could have walked to the palace baths before she takes her bath. She receives way more help bathing than she'd like. She wants less scents “no one will smell me through the portrait.” there's incense that smells like burnt sugar and exotic spices. She sits for her portrait. She doesn't enjoy it.]