I recently started analyzing all these terms, and the most interesting thing to me seemed to be "action" because it is not just part of the plot, but the totality of all the actions of the characters and events in the plot.

But when does it start? I've heard about the "stages of action development", which include the exposition, but not the epilogue.At the same time, no one says that the action strictly begins with the plot point, and this confuses me.

Do you think the action starts with an exposition and ends with a denouement? Is there a consensus on this?

I recently thought about writing a Pinocchio story set in a different region of the world before figuring out that one, I could never stay attached to a different country for long and two, I don't think I was all that attached to Pinocchio as a character to begin with, followed by three, where I learned that something similar had been done by a souls like game called Lies of P so I'm off to play that now.

What do you think, double edged sword of writing or just a gimmick to draw readers in?

Keen to get a sense of the current freelance copywriting market in New Zealand. What would you consider a typical hourly rate for a contractor writing website blogs, product descriptions, e-commerce web copy and general marketing content?

I’ve come across rates of $90-$150 an hour and am curious how that compares with current market rates. Is it normal or is it on the higher side ?

Just received news that two pieces of poetry I submitted ages ago, were accepted and will get published. Yay!

🥳

Hiii That challenge is really it for me, turns out I don’t need to wait for a wave of inspiration to write !

Some days I was close to 500 words, some other I went up to 3000, it really depends on the day but writing 500 words puts me in the mood and makes me love so fast plus it’s very satisfying watching the words and page counts go up !

I was wondering if some of you were interested in having this challenge together like doing a group or something so we can share our progress with each other every day to stay motivated ?

Hi, I dont really interact much on reddit so I dont know what the response to this will be, if there will even be any at all. I grew up writing little snippets of stories, and comics on blank white sheets of paper. I'd do these every once in a while, but it never went farther than just a quick "doodle" to pass the time.

However, I ended up deciding to try and actually take it farther when I was going through high school. I wrote the first couple of chapters and ended up asking a teacher I had a really special bond with if they wanted to check it out. Little did I know, they would end up checking it out, enjoy it, and that would become a big part of the driving force that led me to write a first entry, a sequel, and start the third. (Crazy fact: when I was halfway through the book, I had the entire plot and ending of the third in my head already)

The issue is that when I was about halfway through the third and supposedly final entry in the trilogy, I went through something very hard and I lost the pleasure in almost every hobby I had.

I barely wrote throughout this very hard time in my life, producing less and less chapters. I even had to scrap some chapters because it felt like they were just conversations between characters.

2 years later, I have no motivation to write at all. I'm still able to get ideas for the trilogy and even a Google doc full of completely different story ideas. I can get really excited talking to peers about these ideas I get, but sitting down with the computer feels like I'm looking at a stranger (if that makes sense)

So, I want to categorize superpowers in my world but I don't know how to group them. I went on research and found all psychic powers (Telekinesis, mind control) would go under the "Psionic powers" and super strength, body enhancement etc. would go under "Physical & Bodily enhancement" and the larger catergory for these two types would be Categories by Function.

For context, the definition of having superpowers in my world is "something you are born with" via inherited or mutation in the womb but strictly, it is being born with since the beginning. Those who implement the "power" to themselves via technology, machinery, human-made tech doesn't count as superpower havers. Artifact users also don't count for having superpowers since their ability comes from the object they use. They are still human, just with a connection to the artifacts.

So, to ask again: what are the names of the categories that superpowers could be grouped into?

hi! i'm your local semi-beginner fanfic writer.

not sure if this is a common phenomenon. recently my writing quality would suddenly drop while i'm writing, even though i'm perfectly motivated and not too tired.

like i would sit down at my desk ready to continue a draft from the day before or so, that has well-articulated sentences and generally good descriptions (in my standards), then proceed to write some shit like "soon no longer after they had seen me," and i wouldn't be able to write as well as i had for some reason.

it even happens between breaks. like i would go outside for air, and when i come back i'd write an emotional scene like "she found me crying. i crew too. we both crode." and, sometimes it doesn't even need a break to happen! just-- "poof your ability to write's gone randomly while you're writing a complex scene good luck LOL," the heck!

usually it doesn't go on for long but still, it does happen and it does irritate me. does anyone else also have this happen to them?

After three months, I had a first draft down. I thought it was perfect. I shared it with betas and got mixed feedback, that was a reality check that I definitely needed. But the foundation was there. I did a huge first edit pass and put it back out there. After sifting through the scammers and bots, I finally found a handful of trustable beta readers. And the feedback I got this time was overwhelmingly positive.

I found a few more people that I knew to love reading and read several books a month and even got a creative writing instructor to read it. The instructor found issues, as I expected. But they weren't insurmountable. I found fixes and discussed them with her until I was confident in them. Then the real test in my opinion, swaying the two people who read more than anyone else I know and doing so when my book is not their preferred genre.

Both of them loved it. Both of them want a second book. They had their feedback and what they wished would be different and what they'd like to see change. I expected it, but I didn't expect them to like it so much. I already have plans to fix what they pointed out and I went over these ideas with them and they agreed, these would help fix the issues.

But these are readers and teachers. Their feedback is invaluable to me, but they aren't inside the industry. So now nearly a year after I started this project, I'm taking a chance and taking this book seriously. So I finally hired an editor and I cannot wait to hear what they have to say. I cannot wait to hear their insight as to what my book might be missing, or what it probably doesn't need.

I just wanted to share this milestone with you all as I work on my next pass so the book is where I think it needs to be before the editor gets his hands on it. Especially since I never imagined I'd get this far with this pet project.

Jase lived a life so thoroughly average it was almost an art form. He went to school, did his homework, and spent his weekends playing video games or hanging out with his two friends, Leo and Sam. He wasn’t the smartest kid, nor the athletic type, just a face in the crowd.

On a rainy Tuesday, Jase drifted off to sleep to the sound of water tapping against his window.

When his eyes blinked open, he wasn't looking at his bedroom ceiling. He was lying on his back, staring up at an impossibly high ceiling flooded with a dim, sickly fluorescent light. Underneath him weren't his bedsheets, but the firm, vinyl texture of a play mat—the specific kind from preschool, printed with a miniature town grid of grey roads, tiny green parks, and blocky buildings.

He sat up, his sneakers squeaking against the plastic. Surrounding him were massive, towering walls painted a deep, suffocating shade of purple. The air smelled faintly of old bleach and sweat.

"Okay," Jase muttered to himself, his voice sounding hollow. "Just a weird dream."

He stood up, intending to pinch himself or walk until he woke up. But as he turned toward the edge of the mat, his breath caught in his throat.

The play place was a labyrinth of plastic tunnels, ball pits, and netted climbing frames, all cast in shades of violet and midnight blue. And there, tucked inside the shadow of a large crawl-tube just twenty feet away, something was moving.

Two glowing, crimson eyes ignited in the darkness.

As Jase froze, the creature stepped forward, though it made no sound. It was easily double his size, a towering, amorphous mass of matte-purple fur that seemed to absorb the light around it. Its long, disproportionate arms dragged slightly on the road-printed mats. It didn't growl. It didn't roar. It just stared at Jase with those piercing red circles, its face a blank, featureless void of shadow.

Panic, sharp and cold, flooded Jase’s chest. He bolted.

His shoes slapped loudly against the foam floors as he scrambled toward a bright yellow plastic slide, thinking he could climb up and hide. Behind him, he heard a terrifyingly fast thump-thump-thump. The monster wasn't casually stalking him anymore; it was moving with a frantic, disjointed speed, its limbs bending at unnatural angles.

Jase dove into a green crawl-tunnel, scrambling on his hands and knees. The plastic tube amplified the sound of his own heavy breathing. He reached the other side, dropping down into a massive ball pit filled with thousands of purple and blue plastic spheres.

He tried to wade through them, but the balls offered no traction. He was sinking, his legs trapped by the shifting plastic.

A heavy shadow fell over the ball pit.

Jase looked up. The giant purple monster stood at the edge, looking down at him. Slowly, the creature parted its fur where a mouth should be, revealing rows of jagged, translucent teeth that glowed with the same eerie red light as its eyes.

Jase thrashed, trying desperately to wake up. "Pinch yourself, blink, yell, do something!" he screamed internally. He pinched his arm so hard it tore the skin. He felt the sharp, stinging pain perfectly.

This wasn't a dream.

The monster reached down with an impossibly long, heavy arm. Its clawed hand gripped Jase by his hoodie, lifting him effortlessly out of the ball pit like a prize from a claw machine. Jase kicked and screamed, striking the creature’s dense fur, but his fists sank into it like thick mud.

The creature pulled Jase close to its face. The red eyes flared, blindingly bright, and a wave of freezing cold air washed over him. The monster’s mouth opened wider, a dark abyss of jagged glass teeth, and tilted Jase backward.

Jase took one last breath of the bleach-scented air before the creature dropped him into the dark, crushing void of its jaws.

The next morning, back in the ordinary world, Jase's alarm clock buzzed loudly at 7:00 AM. His mother knocked on his door, calling his name to get ready for school. When she finally opened the door, the room was perfectly neat, the bed neatly made. Jase was nowhere to be found, and he would never be seen again.

I tried with all my respect and kindness to be a better friend a best friend to all my friends I was the family member you can always keep in touch with I was always seeing the best in people around me and pointing out all their pretty things and loving all the hate they keep towards them selves I didn’t hang up the phone I was immediately replying to any messages I was the friend who wait with you when you tight your shoes at the sidewalk while others keep walking excuse my language is not perfect but what did i do to be left lonely after all without friends without mercy

I spent all my life wanting flowers and bff but left alone with none

Maybe it’s time for me to expect that and be happy for people and cheering strangers and mutual friends about their happy friendship and life and knowing that this is not for me

It is possible that depression has roots that grow not deeper, but external. I can’t picture a single human being who doesn’t have enough reasons to end it all with a loud-sweet bullet or a heavenly-pointy knife. But are reasons enough? Are they based on logic or feelings? Does logic matter more, anyhow, or is a persistent feeling of, for instance, utter loneliness, a hollow desperation growing bitter inside of you, sufficient? Is it a motive as good as any? In that case, why would really successful folks kill themselves? Is it because they already had unsolvable issues or is it that their desire was bitterly turned off by the blinding shadows of success?
I’ve always had the impression that depression is the clumsy translation of a universal, even divine, question. If death is around the corner, why would one do anything? (The reverse of this would also exist and should be translated into something like: If death exists, why would I stop? (Middle-class university junkies, I’m talking to you.))
I also believe that, because of its unique, labyrinthine structure, this question may become a prison. Kind of an angsty but nice one, like an eternal adolescence burning up inside your chest.

I often fall into quite a common pattern. I tend to confuse intelligence with sadness. Mainly, I suspect, due to the fact that all of my heroes are culturally sad heroes. But why? What is sadness? What makes a piece of art sad? I mean, what makes a poem sad? Moody adjectives, gloomy themes? What makes a song sad? Minor chords, a ghostly piano, really soft vocals?
Also, why do we tend to bring sadness and intelligence together, or, more properly put, sadness and intellectuality as a whole, as an ying and yang kind of situation? Who determined that everything containing a certain level of sorrow is immediately smarter than things that do not have it? Can absurdity, joy, and laughter be clever as well?
I suppose we can all agree that yeah they can. I don’t know, Ricky Gervais is fucking brilliant with his jokes, they are very well thought out. Fleabag, R.E.M., Pavement, Trainspotting, Tarantino, Italo Carvino, fucking comedian politicians and the Walt Dysneys of the world, who sell us happiness by using happiness.
They are really smart.
That much we have to give to them.
But, The question remains? Why do we associate sadness with a certain level of intelectual appeal? Why is it that the greatest artists are generally the ones who talk about this kind of feelings whereas more “happy” art is often label as “banal”?

Okay, I need to sleep. This has been my philosofical debate of the week. Leave me more examples or opinions in the comments. Part 2 will either live in my mind forever or I’ll write it one of these days. Who knows?? Love.
India

I let myself feel elated for 20 minutes

And now it's back to work-play. The editing phase begins.

Sorry, my baby. I'm going to have to cut off some giant pieces

There’s an old (apocryphal) story about a newly published science fiction author who was attending an NESFA convention and was asked to help assemble some fanzines. The guy indignantly refused, saying something along the lines of,

“I’m a published author now. I don’t need to waste my time on little things like that anymore.”

Right after he said this, Isaac Asimov poked his head out of the back room door and asked if anyone had more copies of page 54.

Turns out Asimov, one of the most successful and prolific science fiction authors of all time, was back there happily helping staple the fanzines together.

I keep using "I then ran" or "I then left". It's getting repetitive, and my story has multiple narrations; I feel like they all sound the same.

A craft question for anyone writing more than one book in the same world or universe.

In my fourth novel, set in 1986, my main protagonist is a teenage photographer. His darkroom walls are covered with time-accurate posters and various photos, including two characters from my first novel, set in the same town and school year.

They're never named as cameos or crossovers, and don't affect the plot. Readers who know the first novel catch it—those who don't do not notice.

Have you done this? In your opinion, where's the line between a quiet Easter egg and something that pulls a new reader out of the story? Have readers ever found one you forgot you planted?

I’ve published two books on itch.io. (I have art I’ve done for the books and I wanna release an art book/maybe a bonus short visual novel for fun, so I thought it was an appropriate place.)

I mean. They’re books! 20,000 words and around 40,000 words respectively. Nobody has read them. Does it still count? Can I call myself an author or will people think it doesn’t count?

Sorry if this is silly I was just wondering. I told someone I was an author once and they were expecting trad publishing which I know is too narrow of a definition but it was awkward anyway.

Basically just what the title says but for the sake of adding context: I've been posting short stories I write onto Patreon for a little while now. Only just started getting consistent with it, and naturally I want to draw more people over there.

I've been doing a weekly series of Short Stories I call "B&B" for about 2 months now, and decided I should probably start doing freebies if I really want to build an audience for this. So I also decided to release the first "B&B" of each month for free. The stories are written to be 99% standalone so there was nothing stopping me.

I've had some minor success on tiktok so far, nothing crazy but my posts receive a fair number of likes for my view count. Which is where the problem comes in, when I mention my Patreon account in a post it tanks. Even when it's offering people the free stuff. I'm not surprised of course, no one wants a stranger to ask them for money and Patreon always carries that connotation. But now I'm thinking I should start posting the freebies in as many other places as possible in hopes of having an easier time finding people willing to pay for my work. Which brought me here, seeking wisdom from all of you.

I usually write horror but I had an idea for an espionage thriller so I figured why not. This is my first time trying and different genre and I just wanted to post a scene and see what people think. Maybe it will help keep going.

Writers with graphic death descriptions, were do you research how the process of dying actually happens?

I've been thinking of killing someone with an aneurysm but as I've never witnessed one in person I of course had to research. And while I found plenty on causes, death rate, expectancies, treatments and all that jazz. There wasn't a single description on how the death looks from an outside perspective, is it out of the blue, a quick buildup to a sudden snap or a slow wasting away? No clue.

And even on simple seeming deaths it isn't always obvious. Take sarumans (movie) death for example where Peter Jackson had to be corrected by sir Christopher Lee on how someone being stabbed in the back actually behaves.

So is there a way to actually research this or do I really just have to go to a hospital/ veteran home and ask everyone there to describe each and every death they ever saw in detail?

The loud crack of the floorboard echoed through the silent hallway like a gunshot. Inside the room, the wet, scraping sounds instantly vanished.

Winston froze, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it would break them. Through the crack in the door, the two silhouettes stopped stretching their elongated, hairless limbs. Slowly, with jerky, mechanical motions, their heads snapped toward the doorway. The creature wearing his father’s half-unzipped face lunged at the door.

Panic tore through Winston's paralysis. He didn't run back to his room—there was no escape there. Instead, he bolted down the stairs, flying blindly through the pitch-black house. Behind him, a heavy, wet thud echoed at the top of the stairs, followed by the rapid, sickening clatter of multi-jointed claws skittering down the wood. They were fast.

He scrambled into the kitchen, his boots skidding on the linoleum. The metallic smell of copper and raw sausage still hung heavy in the air. Desperate, his eyes caught the gleam of the heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove. He snatched it by the handle just as a shape burst through the kitchen doorway.

It was the creature wearing his father’s skin, but the disguise was completely ruined now. The human flesh hung loosely off its gray, beast-like hide like an oversized, ragged coat, flapping as it moved. Its eyes glowed like hot coals in the dark, and its jaw unhinged to reveal rows of needle-like teeth.

The monster lunged, its clawed arms stretching out to grab his throat. Winston didn’t think. He swung the cast-iron skillet with every ounce of strength he had left.

CRACK.

The heavy iron connected squarely with the side of the creature's misshapen skull. A spray of dark, foul-smelling fluid erupted as the monster reeled backward, hissing in agony and clutching its face. It crashed into the dining table, splintering the wood.

Winston didn't waste a second. He noticed his father’s jacket draped over a kitchen chair. He reached into the pocket, his trembling fingers wrapping around a heavy metal ring—the car keys.

From the living room, a high-pitched, hyper-energetic shriek rang out. The mother-creature was coming.

Winston bolted for the basement door, throwing it open and slamming it shut behind him, flipping the flimsy lock. He sprinted down the wooden steps into the freezing, musty darkness of the cellar. At the bottom, his foot hit something soft. He looked down, and the breath caught in his throat.

There, half-buried beneath the coal chute, were two pale, unmoving shapes. Even in the dim light, he could see their faces. His real parents. Their skin was gone, their bodies cold and discarded like trash. Tears stung his eyes, but a heavy THUD against the basement door above snapped him back to reality. The wood began to splinter under a barrage of furious claws.

Winston scrambled over the coal pile, kicking the black stones aside until he reached the rusted metal latch of the coal chute. He threw it open, shoving himself through the narrow opening. The rough metal scraped violently against his chest and arms, but he squeezed through, tumbling out onto the damp earth of the side yard.

He scrambled to his feet, gasping for air, and ran for his father’s sedan parked in the driveway. His hands shook so violently he dropped the keys on the floor mat twice before finally jamming them into the ignition. The engine roared to life just as a pale, gray hand shattered the glass of the basement window nearby.

Winston slammed the car into reverse, tires screeching as he backed out of the driveway and sped down the deserted, moonlit street. His chest heaved as he finally allowed himself to look into the rearview mirror, desperate to ensure he wasn't being followed.

The house was shrinking in the distance, but under the amber glow of the porch light, two figures stood rigidly side-by-side.

It was his mother and father—their skins hastily smoothed back over the monsters beneath, though the fit was completely wrong, sagging and distorted. Their jaws were stretched too wide. Frozen, toothy grins that reached from ear to ear. Together, in perfect, mechanical synchronization, they raised their hands and began waving a cheerful, hollow goodbye.

I find so many books just reusing the same types of tropes and characters, and it makes me wonder if readers genuinely like to read these.

Sometimes I feel like there's some spreadsheet of standard character qualities that everyone is expected to follow. And somehow, if a character steps outside of this, they're wrong.

Don't get me wrong, I obviously know there are gems out there.

I don't always mind this, there are definitely some tropes I do really like, such as a tragic hero or an overly traumatized protagonist who probably needs therapy more than the quest ahead.

What are the thoughts on this?

And do you enjoy writing tropes?

I’m making a story right now, and I need your honestly opinion on books you’ve read so I can avoid making mistakes. Cringe lines? Tell me. Unnecessary twists? Share them. All advice is welcome!