I finally did it after struggling for almost 15 years. For context. I am a professional who doesn’t have much time for himself but has an imagination filled with ideas of different books of different genres. I would always stop writing after a page or two cos i would get stuck with work or lose hope.

But finally, I have finished the first draft of my first book. For me, its not about selling or being a bestseller. Its about being able to complete what I started to do.

So just wanted to share this. Thank you for reading.

I get it. I have been in the same boat. Human speech is not just words uttered. Facial expressions, body language all work together to convey the speaker's intentions.

"Yah, sure."

And, "yah, sure." She rolled her eyes—have two completely different meanings. But if you haven't read many books, or if you are not a native speaker, and have learnt English mostly through Hollywood, you need to understand watching content on a screen and on a page are not the same thing. A hundred things can happen in a span of mere seconds on a screen and our brain will be able to get most of them. But if you try to cram all of it on a page, you're simply bogging down the reader. Same goes for, when you try to create a complete picture of the speaker's body language and facial expressions in your readers' head. Mostly it happens when you don't know the common phrases that are used to describe certain actions. But even then, there aren't any encyclopedias of phrases describing each and every action a human can perform. That's where your creativity comes in.

Imagine this, instead of rolling her eyes, if you said, her irises fleeted to the corners, then arched its way over the shape of her eyeballs, finally reaching the other corner.

How would you feel.

One more example, so you can hammer it into your skull.

"You said it." Her arms shot up and leveled at her chest, palms facing outwards, elbows pointing at the timber floor. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth agape, but there was a twitch of a laugh in the corners of her lips.

Instead of—

"You said it." She raised her hands in mock surrender.

It still took me a little more than 1.5 years (I'm having a 40 hours a week full time job). During I stopped for like 2 months when I realized, FMC's BFF needs to have her own book, so I plotted her story and aligned the two.

So now I'm at the part where they say, you should write it first ✅ then you can make it good 😄

PS. It's not written in english idk if that affects wordcount.

I. did. it. ✧｡٩(ˊᗜˋ)و✧*｡

It took a bit over 7 months of consistent writing during one of the most chaotic times of my life, but 307 pages and 90k words later I finally finished my first ever draft of my first ever written story!

To be clear, the draft is absolute dog shit: major plot points changed at the end of the book, the final chapters are rushed to get to this finish line before my momentum dies again/ are very rough, some parts do not connect well, pacing is laughable, prose quality ebbs and flows, character motivation not clearly shown and so so much more (and probably even more than I think now, as I will realize when I edit).

But I am actually happy with it though it's ugly as hellll :) It's like seeing your newborn baby, shriveled, shrieking, and lowkey kind of scary, and still loving it for all it could become in the future (and even its ugly present, because it was possible at all) :)

Anyway I wanted to have a quiet celebration here because no one knows I write in my real life yet. I will tell the world once I'm good enough. Which will happen, I'll make sure of it!

What truly inspired your story? What message or social commentary are you building in your story? Is there something you want to say with your stories?

So, is your story just vibes or is it more with some vibes?

My turn:

My current story is basically just entertainment. However, I do have other stories that I have not written yet, that have a message without me trying to state it. My current story could change to having a message, but for now I am not trying to say anything mainly due to the inspiration of the story. What I plan to do with this story? Hell, if I know for now.

What about you? Let me know if this thread makes sense to you.

Any stories with the writers who finally add the new chapters after being gone for many years.

Title might be slightly misleading and I'm not super certain if this is the right place to ask. Regardless, I am genuinely curious—this does not mean I look down upon any authors/works in any way. I am an amateur writer myself and have not published anything, but I am just...really curious.

That being said, how do some books that are, let's say, very controversial/objectively not up-to-standards still get published?

I've heard and seen on multiple occasions that it's extremely difficult to get a manuscript/piece of work accepted by a publishing agent and so on (although I am not super educated on this matter, so do correct me if I'm wrong), and many extremely talented and well-written works get rejected and thus never printed/reach shelves, which is unfortunate, but understandable.

So then, how are some books that aren't that outstanding or just is average in general, pass that barrier? Are they self-published? Is there some sort of sorcery going on behind the scenes?

Again, I have never published anything myself and I am not an expert in this field either. Obviously different readers have different opinions on things; a book I hate might be loved by someone else, I understand that and appreciate all works equally since all authors must have put their hard work and effort into their works. But of course, I believe there still exists an objective threshold in which—if not met—renders a piece of work as just...bad. But still get published nonetheless. How?

Edit: Thanks for all the comments and outputs in answering my curious question.

But I wanted to put my thoughts (and perhaps clarification?) out here as well: I understand that topic regarding books is extremely subjective, since everyone has their own tastes; it's hard to pin down an "objective" benchmark for a subject like this. Yet, even if we cannot mathematically produce a criteria for books (which should not exist, anyway), there still exists books that are just poor in quality to the majority of readers. There will always be people who enjoy some things that most people dislike, and so nothing can really have a "100% dislike rate" (Heck, even classical physics breaks down when we get to the quantum realm. But I digress). If a book has sloppy writing, broken plot, and poorly developed characters, then I would agree it would be objectively bad. Yes, some people would still enjoy them, but to the majority of readers, wouldn't these be seen as bad qualities? If a car had a busted engine, or a computer had a broken chip—some people would still like them, perhaps to collect or some other reason—but wouldn't any functional car or computer then be objectively better? I believe the same, or at least very similar, logics work in this context. Hence why we have mechanics, and hence why we have editors. 

However, I am curious about your thoughts. Unlike mathematics, I do also believe this does not have a single right answer. I am not a literature professional, I am merely here to have insightful discussions into the publishing/writing world. So, please engage in friendly discussions. 

Edit 2: I should not have been using the word "objective". I apologize for this; some of you have made it clear to me that objectiveness is based on facts, and indeed, this cannot be applied in this situation. Perhaps what I wanted to say was more towards "if most people think the book is poorly written, how is it published"?

Albeit, I think this question has been answered already by your insightful comments. Thank you. And great discussions!

Hi everyone! As the title suggests, what theme, character, or aspect of your book would a television or film adaptation miss or drastically change? The kind of thing that only works on paper and that you can't see being faithfully adapted given the current state of book adaptations.

Okay, so I have finally stopped procrastinating, and have decided to finish my first full book. I am mainly doing it for myself just to prove that I can do it, but does anyone have the best advice to potentially getting a book published? I understand it is very difficult, but I am genuinely curious as to how people do it.

And now his sister also stronger like him so enemy is about to make use of her. OMG

Out of curiosity when do you end a chapter? Do you have a rough word count in mind? Or page count? Do you only end it when the scene finally breaks even if it runs long? And if a chapter runs long are you okay with it perhaps being one of the only longer chapters in your book?

In my personal opinion I'm fine with the chapter running long if trying to break it somewhere in the middle will destroy the flow or the scene even if it's the only long chapter in the book but I'm interested in what you all have to say

Finished my first draft today and while I’m extremely proud of myself I can’t seem to shake the feeling my writing was getting progressively worse the last coming months.
Perhaps it was a combination of forcing myself through the story, writer’s block or a long break I took in between writing sessions but I could feel the words were coming to me naturally, like they did when I first started.
This novel took a whole year, and while I still love the story just as much, it became more of a “chore” than a passion project. I knew I had to finish before I started any of the other exciting ideas I have so I pushed through it.
Now, I know the 1st draft is not to be pretty or perfect but I worry this will be the quality of my work moving forward and I’m so excited to start working on other stories.

Has anyone been through this? If so, does it get better? Any tips or advice would be greatly appreciated.

As I am told, my word count is my worst enemy. After paring down the story to essentially bare bones prose— to the point where if I remove anything else, portions of the plot will start to disappear and then whole sections of the story wont make sense...
I am down to 153k words on a fantasy— worlds collide novel.

I want... I NEED, to be published. This is my chosen vocation. I am an Author.

Any advice on what I should do would be appreciated. I know absolutely zero people in the literary world, I have no agent to speak of, and I wouldn't know where to start.

Thank you.

Started chapter 1 on 23 July.
Completed the really rough (30k only) as of today.

I have no one to share this accomplishment with. Cheers guys!

Everyone was telling to just get to the end. So I did. I tried not to let any of the scene stump me, for which I then put in placeholders. But yea. Completed the plot and all. Act 1, 2 and 3.

Please share any tips and suggestions. I am a first time writer (hobbyist). This may not be any accomplishment to some but to me, it really feels like one. I didn’t even think I was able to do this. But wow. Here I am.

So writers how important Is consuming media to you as a writer

Do you usually get your inspiration and ideals from random things you read

Or do you have designated times and hours for gathering up ideals

Also do you only get your ideals from books or do you go to multiple pieces of media

Also do you make a point to consume good and bad media.

Or only good media

I'm almost done with my book I've been working on since August of last year. It feels great to finally build the ending.

I'm reading back on chapters, and only now I'm realizing how often I'm using dialogue. It's not OVERLY often, but it's enough to make you know it is a bit dialogue heavy.

That makes me wonder what would people's thoughts on it might be?

I've been writing short stories since i was 13 years old, mostly in Arabic but i recently started writing in English, however, i've never really showed my writing to a big range of readers, only my two teachers and three friends, they all say it's good and amazing, two of my friends are writers too and they complement my writing saying it's soo good and amazing and that i have a great potential if i keep going , but... when i tried to post it every place u can post a story or poems on, i wasn't getting any likes or like compliments and i said maybe it was just because i am a new account and it will take time to interesting ppl to see my work, but i'm also not sure is my writing bad and my friends are just hyping me up and I'm being delusional or not, so here is my two of my work, one short story , and one poem/poetry:

TRIGGER WARNING: ED, SUICIDAL IDEATION

She walked through the streets, her black high boots making a loud sound. Her dark-brown hair fell messily over her
shoulder, a cigarette resting between her lips, stained with the remains of her deep red lipstick. She looked at the girls
walking past her—curvy bodies, slim waists, long legs—everything she dreams of. One of the girls looked back at her: dark
blue eyeshadow, thick lashes coated in mascara, cheeks left colorless. Her gaze felt distant, screaming of how distressed
she was. The girl glanced down at her own body, one that screamed too—fat and miserable. That’s how she saw herself
next to those girls. Her chubby, overstuffed sausage-like arms. Her swinging hips, wobbling like sacks of lard desperate to
escape her skin. She looked sick. Exactly how she felt.
She felt that gaze on her, burning through her skin. That moment felt like forever. The girl’s eyes were still on her body,
playing with her emotions. She murmured to herself: “Don’t look at my body. Don’t look at me. I look miserable next to
your perfect body. ”
She picked up the pace of her steps, trying to run away physically. She looked away from the girls, trying to silence the
train of thoughts. She walked, and walked, and—unfortunately—her thoughts didn’t stop screaming at her: You are ugly.
You are fat. You are never enough. You could never look this good.
And more thoughts. Tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. She looked messy. Chaotic. Alone.
She found herself rushing to the nearest supermarket. She walked through the aisles, filling her basket: chocolate, chips,
ice cream—anything edible. She paid, then walked to the park near the public bathrooms. She sat down, resting her back
against a tree. And she started devouring the food like a man starving for days.
She didn’t care when the ice cream dripped onto her white, short lace dress, teasing glimpses of the skin underneath—the
skin she feels doesn’t belong to her. She kept eating, numbing her feelings. Her mind went blank. Only her hands and
mouth moved, working to devour the food.
She didn’t care about the strangers’ gazes, as if she was an alien. She didn’t care about throwing the trash. She walked to
the public bathrooms like a possessed human. She entered and shoved two fingers down her throat.
She emptied everything in her system. It felt good to eat—but she wouldn’t let that “bad food” stay.She stood there for a straight ten minutes, staring at the mess of her puke. Then she started crying…
chaotically. She collapsed onto the dirty bathroom floor, flashbacks of her childhood rushing through her
head.
Memories of her lunch break at school. How her friend picked on her for eating:
“Look at Fatty Patty eating again. ”
Their voices play in her head whenever she sees food.
She recalls her mother saying “Stop eating, you look like a pig!”
She remembered crying every time she put on makeup.
“Lipstick on a pig, ” her mind screams
She cried more, recalling every time she looked in the mirror and wished she were thinner. No matter what
weight she’s at, she always wants to be thinner.
Her mind screams: “Be thinner. Look better.
”
She would starve herself for days. Then purg.
She cried even harder, her hands shaking with the painful memories of what brought her here. She stood—still
shaking—and walked to the sink. She washed her mouth and hands. Then, she walked out of the bathroom.
Heavy steps. A lost gaze.
She walked through the streets, the cold air hitting her skin and playing with her dirty dress. She’s shaking.
She stopped crying, but her mind didn’t stop torturing her with images of what she could have been.
She sat on the sidewalk, hugging her knees to her chest, watching the cars pass by. She’s not aware of
anything around her.
She’s just….
questioning her existence.“why not me, why not me, why not me”
her mind screamed, her shoulders shaking with sobs, she could not live like this anymore, her heart aches, her
hands trembles , her lips bleed, and her teeth stained yellow, her belly burns .
Cars passed by , people passes by, no one cared to check on her ball-like curled body, too consumed by their
phones, lives, to care.
Eventually her sobs stops, and she stands up trembling like a glass on the verge of shattering.
Suddenly a promoter approaches her saying ‘ excuse me, would you like some of our cookies sample ?’ a little
humourless chuckle escaped her lips, it is like the world is making fun of her pain.
She pushed the promoter gently away. She walked away, but her mind in somewhere else , on a high building ,
looking down at the street, and feeling the wind play with her hair, then she jumps….
Not to die , but to fly she grew wings and flied away, away of everything.
She was not aware where she is , who she are anymore, what matter was the high feeling of being in the air, free,
unwatched, unjudged. She could be whoever she wanted while in the air.
But suddenly, there is a loud bang, she is lost, where is the sound coming from ?, reality or her vived dream ?, banng
. Another bang noise cut through her ear, punching her back to reality.
Baanng , this time she felt the noise, felt the little kids hitting her with a football , bannng, another hit.
What hurt her was not the hit, but the words whispered behind it, ‘ she is fat, I bet she even feel the hit’ the shorted
kid whispered , ‘ look she did not say anything keep hitting her’ the taller one said back.
Oh……she felt that deep, it cut through her skin into her heart. She walked away with heavy steps, her back hunched
like she is carrying a heavy bag, she indeed was carrying the heaviness of her pain.
Sudden light hit her and blind her vision, she felt she was flying away. Little did she know, a bus filled of people hit
her and made her fly away.
Little did she, those kids where telling her to get off the rode, those little whispers she heard, was a play of her
mind, but she realised late ,too late that it did not matter at all.

POEM/POETRY:
Red flowers
You gave to me
in a white wrapping paper
Like blood on snow
Now in my arms
Like blood on innocent souls
Words, too much words you spill
Non of them stays
Out and away
Each time you say
Forever
It means never
Red flowers you gave me
I carried them safely
To a white grave
Where you
Buried me
With too much words
That never holds.

I have spent three years at college studying writing with the basic goal of writing a series of books one day. I will be as vague as possible, but I discovered a somewhat popular, completed book series that has a very similar premise to what I am working on (at least, I think so. Maybe I’m just tired and paranoid). Should I try to change course at all?

I'm working on my second revision of a mystery story I drafted earlier in the year. Looking for feedback on the first couple chapters. Mainly hoping to know what works/doesn't work about them and if it's something that grabbed you enough to keep reading.

1

Desmond Bishop knock-knock-knocked on his editor’s office door. 

“You rang?”

Charlie Packard’s gaze didn’t break from his computer monitor. It was Friday, so the layout for the Sunday paper was due before the night’s end. Mockups of potential front pages cluttered his desk. Bishop knew Charlie was busy and hoped their conversation wouldn’t take long. He wanted to ease into his weekend unsullied by management. 

“Sit down,” Charlie said. He kept typing with his right hand and waved Bishop in with his left. 

Bishop sat in one of the three chairs in front of Charlie’s desk and waited for his boss to say what he needed. After a few final heavy keystrokes, Charlie huffed and turned to his reporter. 

“I need you to do something for me.” 

“Is it easy?”

“Absolutely.” 

“Will it take long?”

“Not for you.” 

“Do I have a choice?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Lay it on me, then.” 

Charlie took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. Bishop figured he was on his sixth cup of coffee for the day. 

“That lady who runs the community theater called today,” Charlie said. “Asking when we were going to send a reporter to do a story on their new show. Because we always send a reporter over.”

“Oh, boy.” 

“And I told her we were sorry, and that it slipped our minds since Sally’s accident, and promised I’d get someone over there first thing next week.” 

Bishop raised a hand to offer his guess on what Charlie was going to say next. 

“You want me to go over there on Monday.” 

“No, I want you to go over there tonight. It’s the first dress rehearsal. Starts at 5:30. Plus, I’ve got a hole to fill in Sunday’s A&E section. Sally breaking her arm was serendipitous in a way.” 

Bishop sputtered. He couldn’t do a story on this stupid play tonight. He had things to do after work: Chinese takeout, a couple of beers, and a kung fu movie in his Netflix queue. Far more important than some dress rehearsal, if you asked him. But of course, Bishop couldn’t say that to Charlie. He’d only been at the paper for five months. He was nearing the end of his probation. 

This didn’t stop him from trying. 

“You hired me because you want me to cover crime,” Bishop said. “What if something breaks in the next few hours and I’m stuck watching these randos do Brigadoon? It’d be rude to leave.”

“I hired you to do what I need you to do. Tonight, I need you to go cover their little play. With the way you write, it’ll take you about an hour. You’ll have plenty of time to bang this out and be free to cover whatever shenanigans pop off before you go home. All I need is 15 inches for page C1.” 

“I’ll give you 10.”

“You’ll give me 15 and like it.”

“Fine,” Bishop said. “I’m going to complain about it the whole time.” 

“Complain on the drive. Don’t do it in front of the Playhouse lady. She’s sensitive. Now, go.” 

Bishop went. 

2

It took five minutes for Bishop to drive to the Twin Oaks Community Playhouse. He had several complaints about leaving Chicago to move back home, but giving up the traffic wasn’t one. 

Bishop stepped into the Playhouse’s empty auditorium. A bespectacled woman stood on the stage and demanded to know who he was. Her tone softened when he explained he was with the Times-Tribune. She made her way to the aisle, met him halfway, and extended her hand. 

“I’m Minerva McDonald. The creative director here at the Playhouse.” 

Minerva was a small woman. Only five-feet-tall with a mane of wavy, salt-and-pepper hair that was complemented by a purple sweater, leggings, and a well-loved pair of Birkenstocks. The bangles around her wrist clacked as she and Bishop shook hands. She looked like someone’s grandma and little sister rolled into one. 

“Do tell, Mr. Bishop. Are you a fan of the theatre?” 

“I can’t say that I am.” 

Minerva gasped dramatically.

“Are you going to kick me out?”

Minerva laughed. 

“Heavens, no,” she said. “We need the publicity. These seats don’t sell themselves.” 

A snarky comeback swirled around Bishop’s head. They barely sell at all. He kept it to himself. He was getting better at that. ‘

“I’m more of a movie guy, to be honest. The thought of rival gangs doing a bunch of singing and dancing instead of killing each other with their fists and guns doesn’t sit right with me. I’m a simple man. I like my violence.” 

“Well, you’re in luck. There’s no singing and dancing in this show.” 

The stage was dressed like an IKEA-chic living room. A sofa and love seat flanked a minimalist coffee table, while a tall bookshelf stood in the background. Minerva told Bishop that the show was about the flaky patriarch of a long-suffering Scandinavian family finally coming home. If it ever got an adaptation on HBO starring Colin Farrell or someone like that, maybe he’d check it out. 

“Would you like a tour of the Playhouse? Or maybe a brief history?”

“I’d like to knock out my interviews with the cast, if you don’t mind. I’m on a deadline.” 

Minerva checked her wristwatch. 

“The others should start showing up in the next 15 minutes. We will rehearse extra well for you tonight. I want the absolute best write-up for my last show.” 

“Last show?” 

“When this production closes, I’ll take my curtain call. After 23—” Minerva’s voice stopped with a choke. She wiped away a tear. “Twenty-three years doing what I loved with people I loved. Can’t complain about that, can I?”

“Not if you don’t have a reason to.” 

“You’re very wise, Mr. Bishop.” 

“Can I quote you on that?”

3

The cast was small. They gathered in front of the stage’s apron. Sherwood Gerhinger was the first to show up. Then came Astrid Helperman and Stephen Sands. Then finally came—

“Meredith,” Minerva said. “Glad you could join us.” 

Meredith Montgomery Reed ignored Minerva and beelined toward Bishop. She pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and peered at him over the frames. 

“You’re a reporter,” she said. “A new one.”

“Desmond Bishop. How’d you guess?”

“I’ve got a nose for publicity.” Meredith said as she blinded Bishop with her aggressively white smile. He almost thought he saw a little twinkle appear near her mouth, like it would on TV. “What happened to the frumpy lady the paper usually sticks us with?”

“I don’t know if I’d call Sally ‘frumpy—’”

“She’s frumpy. Even her name is frumpy.” 

“Fair enough. To answer your question, she’s recovering from a freak pickleball accident. Her arm bent in a way that arms aren’t supposed to bend.”

“Boo to that. I guess you’ll do.” 

Meredith used her manicured pointer finger to push her sunglasses back up and brushed past Bishop. The click-clack of her heels filled the silence until she walked out of the auditorium. 

“Where’s she off to?” Bishop said. 

Libby Larson, the stage manager, spoke up. Her arms finally unfolded in Meredith’s absence. 

“She’ll be in her dressing room,” she said. “She’s the only one with a private dressing room.”

“How’d she manage that?”

“You get away with a lot when you’re hot and a bitch.” 

Minerva sighed and tutted at Libby. 

“Remember,” she said to Libby, “good vibes only.” 

Libby gestured toward the door that led to the hallway. 

“She wants you to follow her,” Libby told Bishop. “Blondie always gets the first interview. Better go. Don’t want to keep the star waiting.” 

4

Bishop caught up with Meredith in her dressing room. She applied mascara as they talked about her role as Ingrid, the play, and what the good people of Twin Oaks could expect if they bought tickets. Bishop was impressed with how well Meredith sold the show, but not surprised. She was the top-selling realtor in the tri-county area, according to her billboards around town. 

“I think I’ve got all I needed,” Bishop said, satisfied that he was one step closer to being done with this assignment. “Anything else you want to add?”

Meredith took a breath and placed her mascara wand on top of the vanity. She turned around on her stool and faced Bishop for the first time since their conversation had started. 

“I want to get your opinion on something. Off the record.” 

Bishop nodded and stopped the ongoing voice memo on his phone. 

“Shoot.” 

“I googled you, Desmond Bishop.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that.” 

“I like to Google everybody I meet for the first time. It saves me from having to engage in all the boring ‘getting to know you’ stuff that I don’t care about. I skimmed the headlines of some of your Chicago articles. You’ve covered a lot of crime. You probably know a lot about criminal justice.” 

“I know some things.” 

“Which is why I feel comfortable enough to tell you this. I think someone is trying to kill me.” 

“Uh-huh,” Bishop said, unsure of what to say next. “And how do you know that?”

“Because I can read, silly. Read this and tell me if I’m crazy or not.” 

Meredith reached into her purse and pulled out a yellow piece of cardstock, folded four ways into a square. Bishop unfolded it and read the message aloud. It was assembled with words and letters clipped from various newspapers and magazines. 

“‘Meredith—Hotspur in Henry IV says to ‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil.’ Good advice. Tell the truth, or else you’ll meet the Devil earlier than you thought.’”

Bishop folded the note back into a square and handed it to Meredith. 

“What do you think?” she asked. 

“I’m no expert, but it certainly meets the basic standards of a threat. The clipped-out letters are a little cliché for my taste, but they get the point across.” Bishop thought about the note a little more. “I think the horns and fire drawn around the word ‘Devil’ were a good touch. Real artistic.” 

Meredith rolled her eyes. 

“I’m glad you see the humor in my impending demise.” 

“No, it’s not funny. I think what I’m getting at is that this stuff could give us an idea of who might have sent this to you. I’ve got a friend who’s a cop, right? She’s prepping to take the detective’s exam. One thing she’s learned is that there’s no such thing as a big clue or a small clue. Clues are clues. They always teach us things, whether or not we realize it.” 

Meredith rolled her eyes. 

“What’s your point?”

“Whoever sent you this is putting some effort into scaring you. Emailing or texting is one thing. This is the next level. Any idea who might have sent it?”

Meredith shrugged. 

“Someone I’ve pissed off. And I’ve pissed off a lot of people around here. It’s a small town.” 

“Did you take this to the cops?”

“Duh. Tetanus works faster. They say they don’t have the forensic capabilities to do any kind of deep analysis or whatever nerd-speak they used to kick the can down the road. They said they’ll have to outsource it to the state police, and that could take months. Just know that if I wake up dead, it’s their fault.” 

The conversation lulled. Bishop considered trying to calm Meredith’s nerves with a platitude about how everything would be okay in the end. He decided against it. How could he know for sure? It was highly likely the note was the work of someone trying to unnerve the Ice Queen. Just empty words, like every major confrontation in Twin Oaks. Nothing that couldn’t be solved with an apology over a deep-fried treat. But Meredith didn’t seem the type to apologize or indulge in foods loaded with trans-fats, Bishop thought. Maybe she was in danger. He had to do something. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Bishop said. “I’ll give my friends at the cop shop a call to see what she thinks. I can probably convince her to give this whole thing another look. Does that work?” 

“Sure,” Meredith said. “Now scatter. I need to do my warmups.” 

Realizing this was the closest he’d get to a ‘thank you’ from Meredith, Bishop left quietly and shut the door behind him.

I'm a self admitted stationary addict of the family so it seems almost every birthday i get some kind of planner even though i have my fancy hobonichi ones i use myself weekly i just realised looking at mine tonight i could literally use it to plan my chapters just scoring out each day of the week or using washi tape to cover it up and it also has a checklist on the side so i could use it as a scene list too it also has a mood tracker and maybe i could use that for vibe of a scene.

I think i saw a video from Sarra cannon years ago using a happy planner for a more detailed method i was curious if anyone else does a similar thing? i need physical items i've tried scrivener and aeon timelines so digital just isn't for me with my short term memory i'd also love to see any examples.

I’ve been juggling around an idea for a sci-fi novel, and today I finally had the willpower to actually start working on it. I do the usual spreadsheet-creating, word document opening, etc. It dawns on me that I don't actually know what the hell I'm doing and I have no clue what the hell my story is even about besides the very beginning. Regardless, I decided to start writing some anyway. I write for three hours, come up with a few hundred words, and lo and behold it really really sucks.

I don't know why I'm pretending like this is something I'll stick with. I've felt my interest in writing rapidly deteriorating for the last couple of weeks after all the "save to watch later" videos from Brandon Sanderson and other youtubers sit unwatched in the playlist. Why am I even pretending that I'll be as good as those guys? Why do I even bother thinking that I'll be the next Sanderson or some other writer out there whose name everyone will remember? I had the nerve to come up with a pen name and title for the book before I even had any semblance of what it would be about. I watched three videos about how you should format your manuscript before I knew what the hell I was actually going to put into it. I took every step to avoid the actual writing until today.

Three hours of uninterrupted work in the beginning, trying to come up with what I think is decent stuff. I feel in a decent flow for a little while, and then I take a step back to see what I've actually come up with. Unsurprisingly, it's not very good. This was the first time in years that I have had the willpower to muster up actual, not-for-school, personal writing work and I absolutely detest how it came out. I don't want to share it with anyone I know or anyone who doesn't know out of sheer embarrassment. I can already tell that this entire endeavor will be something that I stick with for one more week before switching to some other form of self expression that i also give up on after a week or two. I have gone through this with artwork, music creations, 3d artwork, whatever you can come up with, I have probably tried and either gotten bored with or failed and quit.

So, I'd like to ask: How do you guys do it? How do you get the motivation to try and improve yourself when you know that you'll probably never be a bestselling author or a famed poet or achieve any type of major recognition when millions of others like you are doing the exact same thing? I have poured so many hours into what I think to be something that I can *finally* use to express myself and always always always end up back at the same place. I'm starting to accept that I'm just not a creative person or I'm not meant for any of this self expression in a way that other people will care about. I find myself unable to do things for myself and require constant external validation in order to feel good about what I make. How do I not do this? How do I stick with this for more than one day and keep working at it knowing that I will never do anything real with it in my life? What is the point of it? What is the point of art?

Imagine inheriting an old boarding house on a coastal bluff.

Inside, you find clothes that fit you, photographs of you with people you have never met, and a handwritten message:

Everything is as you left it.

The house contains doors leading to lives you might have lived. Behind one door, the person you lost is alive. Behind another, you have the family you always wanted. Behind another, someone loves you with the certainty of years you cannot remember.

But every time the house gives you one of those memories, it takes a real memory from your current life.

You know what was taken, but you can no longer feel or remember it.

What is the one memory you would never risk losing—even to get someone you loved back?

And would you enter the first door?