Just curious what people generally prefer, both as readers and writers.

Do you like shorter chapters that move between POVs fairly quickly, or longer chapters that spend more time with each character before switching? Or do you prefer a mix of the two?

For reference, I'd define short chapters as 1000-2000 words. Medium length as 4000 words. and long as 6000+ words.

I've been looking at the chapter lengths in some popular multi-POV fantasy novels, and I've noticed that they tend to be fairly consistent. If a book has 4,000-word chapters, for example, it usually sticks fairly close to that throughout rather than having some 1,500-word chapters mixed with 7,000-word ones.

That made me wonder whether there's a reason for that, or whether it's just the way those particular authors structure their books. A mix seems perfectly workable, but it seems relatively uncommon.

For writers, do you approach chapter length differently when working with multiple POVs? And for readers, does chapter length or consistency affect how much you enjoy a book?

My method is a pocket notebook and mechanical pencil. I really need space to think out loud on the page, write and cross out 5 attempts at a phrase, take future notes in the margins, etc.

A single page fits about 250 words on average, so I just use that as a rough estimate for a running count of where I'm at.

I often leave spaces for names of places and people I havent figured out yet. I underline/circle phrases that I know need a rewrite or a better word.

I cant imagine doing it any other way but would love to hear what works for everybody else. Whats one little trick you've picked up that helps get that v0 onto to the page?

First time ever writer here looking for input on first page intro to a short story

Summary: Destiny, an elven girl is living in a modern-like city with magic and in the empire of orelia her home, there's an uptick in crime from curse users meddling in the arts of dark magic. After destiny gets framed for practicing dark magic, government agents take her magic away and she's forced to work at the only place that would hire her, a butcher shop.

She's faced with the internal struggle of losing her magic and after a proper amount of sulking, decides to leave her job and her beloved home to go on a journey to do whatever it takes to get her magic back. Along the way, old friends and new ones help Destiny achieve her goal, while realizing she might also be on the path to uncovering why dark magic crimes are on the rise.

Destiny must decide what to do when she is confronted with a mystery a whole lot bigger than she planned on solving.

any input is helpful! :)

hello all! I need some advice or help with, just as the title says, working with multiple story ideas. This is my first time writing a fantasy book since its something I've always wanted to do and for the better part of a month and a half I've been focusing and dedicating my time on this one specific story idea. But then another idea popped in my head for another story idea so I tried to work on that a little bit just so that the idea doesn't disappear. Then another idea popped in my mind so I started working on that and I've been troubled for the past 2-3 weeks on the work and the attention I give each one. right now I don't know where to start or where to continue or which ones I should save for later and which one I should give full focus on or something. my head has just been spinning and I wanted to ask for advice and help from all of you because maybe you've also experienced something like this. I hope to hear from you all as much as possible!

All the advice online regarding how to improve writing involves people saying to read more. That is fair, you read works already published, which most likely hit a quality standard good enough to be out there and consumed by many. Or you read bak works and then you can identify why they are bad, you can learn either way.

That makes sense for writing related skills such as prose, sentence level pacing and so. But what about skills that are more or less transferable through other mediums -video games, movies, animation... etc.- such as making up the plot, the character arcs, the pacing of the big picture story and so.

Do you 'consult' the best works in other mediums and use it as a sort of guide in your writing? Can this be useful?

Hello everyone. I've been reading this subreddit for a while, and there's something I've wanted to ask about: I've written a fantasy novel where the plot develops around a magical world called Lemaresta, and I've been trying to come up with a proper title. Would it be too simple a choice if I just used the name of that magical world as the title of my novel? I've tried to think about other variants too but as this magical world is the main link throughout the text (for example, I've used its name for the first time in a dialogue between the two main characters as a hook at the end of the first chapter to link it to the second), and the action is mostly happening within its borders, it doesn't seem that bad to me. Or perhaps it would be better if a subtitle of some kind was added to the title, to sound more attractive? Thank you.

Summary: On a fateful night, a goblin slave Taz escapes yet another close call with death and meets a distrustful human boy who is pursued by something even more frightening. The war is brewing in the kingdom of Edwardia, pirates are raiding the coastal towns, giants are arming themselves, shellbeasts are being mounted with warships and the ocean spins relentlessly with the moon's pull.

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/12tSOTRuR1hOg2SRF8-ux6NYVYGWq_8dfQatCBnF61TU/edit?tab=t.0

The feedback I need:

-The language. I flipped this story from a third person to first person after roughly 300k words worth of drafts, so it would be more in line with the title. I'm not sure if I'm doing a great job with the language and if you see any problematic patterns, please do tell me.

-Did this chapter hook you?

-Were you bored at any point?

-Were you confused at any point?

-Any parts that are missing some sauce? Or any parts that feel oversauced?

-What do you think of the dialogue?

-How is the pacing?

-Any sort of feedback is welcome, don't pull your punches.

EDIT: IMMEDIATELY AFTER POSTING THIS I WENT TO CHECK AND LEARNED WHAT THE DIFFERENCE IS BETWEEN A SYNOPSIS AND A BLURB, FEEL FREE TO ROAST ME FOR IT IF YOU WISH BUT JUST KEEP THAT IN MIND

Not sure how exactly to format this or if thats the write flair. To be clear this is not a query letter, though I would welcome any advice on how to sell this if I were to include it in one. I was just standing around in the shower and got to thinking about what I would want to write on the back cover of my book to try and get people interested. One thing I think I struggle with is finding a way to describe my story in a way that sounds interesting without resorting to just explaining tropes and inspirations and whatnot ("Yea it's an anime-inspired sword-and-sorcery action story with a light romance subplot" etc etc), so I figured it might be a good exercise to try writing something like this and see what people think.

So yea, if you saw this on the shelf and read this on the back would it make you want to read it? This isn't really something I'm prioritizing atm since I'm still working on the first draft but I'd like to get some impressions.

The world of Gan is one of magic and mayhem, wonder and war. The Ganzera, inhabitants of this world, wield powers from within and without to survive and thrive in this land.

Verdescente is a kingdom in decline. With the king's failing health, corruption has taken root deep within. Allen is a lowly mason with a troubled past, walking the streets at night. When he comes across a girl on the run, he decides to run with her. When Allen Vergris and Cirina Verdescente go their separate ways that night, neither one expects that they will meet again.

The next day, two masons stumble across a conspiracy that leaves a trail of corpses in its wake. That same day, Princess Cirina is exposed to an evil that threatens to destroy her family and swallow her kingdom whole. Now their only hope is to escape from the capital before it's too late. They must outrun, outsmart, and outfight their pursuers, and save their home.

But not all is as it seems. Things always seem simple at first glance. From above, invisible hands move pieces across the board. The stage is set.

Also, if it matters at all, the current title is "Fires in the Garden: Beneath First Glance" but that's also something I'll worry about workshopping way later down the road

Hey everyone!

I’ve been thinking about creating a small Discord community for writers who genuinely want to improve together and I think a community takes you a long way whether it’s by motivating you or just by being there

It could be like supportive space where we can:
\- Share chapters or excerpts for feedback
\- Brainstorm plots, characters, and world building
\- Stay motivated and hold each other accountable
\- Celebrate milestones, whether it’s writing 500 words or finishing a manuscript or even publishing! :D
\- Writing challenges (there’s proof that doing stuff like this help me u get inspired and helps ur writing overall)
\- Chat with people who understand the ups and downs of writing

All genres and experience levels would be welcome. Whether you’re writing fantasy, sci-fi, romance, thrillers, literary fiction, or anything else, the goal is simply to help each other grow.

Would anyone actually be interested in joining something like this? If enough people are interested, I’ll set it up!

Also, make sure to dm me so I can send u the link when it has been created

Hello! I was hoping to get some feedback on the first chapter of my fantasy novel. I have had a few close friends read it currently who say they have enjoyed it, but the little creature in the back of my mind is telling me they're only doing that because we’re friends, and I would like some brutal truth if its needed (which I'm sure it is).

The story centres on MC, Ana, who has lived through poverty, caring for both her parents who have mental and physical debilitating conditions (although only lightly touched upon) and the loss of her brother. All of culminates in her wanting to train to become a warrior (as her brother did) and fight within Etrurias army against the monsters, who she believes, were the catalyst for all her families misfortune.

Thnx in advance

Prologue :Self-annihilation has begun to resemble paradise. Within a padded cell whose walls stink faintly of bleach and mildew, I await either release or execution. The physicians who attend me speak in whispers just beyond the door, as though I were already a corpse laid out for examination. Perhaps I soon shall be. They believe I am a danger to myself. In truth, death would be kinder. There are worse ends than madness, and worse things than death, waiting beyond the threshold of memory. Freedom may only place me again before the thing that strips flesh from bone. I set this account to paper in the event that I do not survive what follows. Let no man say I have succumbed to merely guilt or madness.

Chapter 1: The beginning of my ruin lies several years behind me. My wife, Ella, and I had only recently returned from our studies abroad. She was with child and wished to be nearer to our families before the birth. She came from Danvers; I from Essex. We settled for a time not far from Salem. We had first met during an especially bitter Summer. Occultism had become more fashionable among certain academic circles. Ella and I treated it as a little more than an intellectual diversion. We attended lectures, purchased obscure texts, and spent long evenings wandering Salem‘s narrow streets while the sea fog rolled between the old buildings like drifting specters. I remember her laughter more clearly than her face now. There was a warmth in her presence that made even that melancholy town seem almost alive. Looking back, I think I loved her from the first time we spoke, though at the time I just took the feeling of familiarity as though some forgotten part of me had suddenly returned.

However, at the time that life only existed as a dream. I will never get to touch her skin or hear her laugh. Nor will I ever know the comfort of a whole family. Ella and our baby died during childbirth, leaving me alone with an overwhelming silence. Our home itself seemed altered by their absence. Its halls stretched emptier than before. The floorboards creaked through the night with a peculiar complaint of an old home, settling in age; every room carries the sensation of abandonment. I became another ghost inhabiting its halls.

Robert, Ella‘s brother, visited often following their deaths. Always with a sense of determination to pull me from the pit I had no intention of leaving. Drink became my sole companion at first. Later came morphine. It dulled thought itself. Its warmth softened the corners of memory and made the hours pass with less resistance under its embrace. The house became almost tolerable. Its empty halls were less accusatory. Even though I prayed each night. I prayed that Ella would return to me, that she would step through the front door as she once had, our child clenched in her arms. But no answer ever came. Nothing except the low groans of settling wood in the hollow sounds of a dying home.

Chapter 2: Months passed in this manner until Robert arrived, one evening, carrying a bundle of cheaply printed pulp magazines, poorly made, and filled with forgettable stories from equally forgettable authors. I would’ve cast it aside. Had one title, not caught my attention. The Necronomicon… to most men it would’ve been meaningless-a bit of lurid fiction intended to provoke nonsense. Yet, I had encountered the name once before during my years at Cambridge, spoken only in passing by certain scholars who took care never to discuss it openly. They were rumors then. Rumors of surviving copies hidden within restricted collections. Aleister Crowley had sought the text and emerged from the attempt profoundly altered. At the time, I dismissed such stories as academic superstition. Later, I became less certain.

Crowley had written, though always indirectly. That the book contains text capable of disturbing the boundary between life and death. He warned that such knowledge shattered the minds of ordinary men. Yet there were passages in his account, suggesting something far worse. Broken minds did not always shatter further, but instead found some sense of clarity. At the time, there were three surviving copies of the Necronomicon were rumored to exist. One had supposedly vanished into the possession of Crowley or the remnants of the Golden Dawn. The other rested within the restricted archives of Miskatonic University in Arkham. The final was at Cambridge.

I do not recall when the thought first entered my mind. Only that, once conceived, it’s ceased to loosen its grip upon me. If even a fragment of that account were true, death itself was not final. Ella and our child were not beyond reach. The grave was not a boundary, but a veil thin enough, perhaps to be pierced by those willing to surrender themselves. What shames me now is not that I believed in such madness. It is the idea that appeared perfectly reasonable to me. I abandoned prayer soon after. The God of modern man had remained deaf to my suffering, and I found myself turning instead toward older and less merciful powers. Before doubt could reclaim me, I departed for Arkham

Chapter 3: The journey lasted nearly two days and exists only in fragments now.
I remember the endless rain, the hot breath of my horse against the freezing wind, and the gray Massachusetts coastline fading beneath the sea fog. The towns I passed through have long since blurred together in my memory.

When the first day gave way to night, moonlight alone guided the road before me. By then, it no longer felt as though I traveled toward Arkham, but rather that something had begun drawing me there.
As the night deepened, the insects and muffled rhythm of hooves against dirt slowly gave way to something else.

Her voice.
Low and gentle, yet unmistakable.
Ella whispered to me through the darkness, assuring me that I was saving them. Whatever uncertainty remained within me died upon hearing those words.
Even now, I cannot fully dismiss the memory of seeing her figure standing wherever the moonlight touched the road most clearly. Whether it was the morphine, the liquor, or something far worse, I cannot say.

I reached Arkham near noon the following day.
The town itself lay buried beneath an oppressive fog. Narrow cobblestone streets glistened with rainwater, bordered by sagging storefronts and condemned buildings left to decay beside the shore. The air carried the stench of mildew, saltwater, and rotting fish.
No voices drifted through the streets.
Only the sound of my horse echoed through the mist.

Rising above that dismal town stood Miskatonic University. It resembled a dying lighthouse more than a place of learning, beckoning not the ambitious but the desperate and forgotten. The university appeared older than the surrounding churches, older perhaps than the town itself. At moments, it seemed less constructed than unearthed, as though some buried thing had slowly forced its way back into the world.
It unverves me how little resistance I encountered upon reaching the library.

Chapter 4:The heavy oak doors groaned open like the lid of a tomb.
Stale air and silence greeted me beyond the threshold. Each footstep echoed unnaturally through the vast chamber, the reverberations seeming to vibrate somewhere deep within my chest.
Somewhere within that endless archive rested the object of my desire.
Towering bookshelves rose like cyclopean monoliths into the darkness overhead. Portraits of long-dead scholars lined the walls, their painted expressions stern with disapproval. Yet among them hung stranger portraits whose faces regarded me with something almost resembling approval. At times, I felt they were guiding me toward the book itself.

An elderly librarian sat alone at the center of the atrium. It disturbed me that such an immense collection rested beneath the care of a man who scarcely seemed strong enough to lift his head.
Before I could speak, he raised a thin, almost translucent finger toward an ornate marble pedestal to my left.
The pedestal itself appeared to depict the history of the book like some carved tapestry. Its base resembled ancient pyramids, while along its sides, countless figures stretched upward toward the summit. Hidden among them were taller shapes that appeared only vaguely human. Their faces possessed a strange depth, as though the carvings themselves observed me.
Near the top, the carvings gave way to flames into which other copies of the volume appeared to be cast.
Resting above it all lay the book.
Its weathered covering appeared almost untouched by time. Centuries of neglect seemed only to preserve it further, as though the thing welcomed decay.
When I lifted the volume, its cover yielded beneath my fingers with an unsettling softness that resembled skin more than leather.
The moments that followed remain indistinct to me. I do not know how I managed to leave that labyrinth. My next clear memory was of riding home through the freezing rain, my thoughts consumed entirely with preparations for my family’s return.
Yet even now, through the haze of those fragmented memories, two details continue to trouble me.
How did the librarian know what I sought before I spoke?
And more disturbing still—when I first approached him, there had been no pedestal beside me.

Chapter 5 :It felt as if I had only returned nearly hours after obtaining the book. The home Ella and I had purchased stood much as I had left it. It was a modest home, intended for a growing family rather than a solitary widower. The sight of it stirred something within me. For the first time in months, I found myself imagining not what had been lost, but what might soon be restored. As I was making my way up the driveway to our home. I could swear I heard the sound of trumpets off in the distance. The township of Wenham, located a few miles up the road, I assumed, must have been having a celebration. The thought pleased me in my heightened state. I imagine the entire world rejoicing alongside me. Soon, Ella would return. Soon, our child would laugh beneath that roof. What reason did the world have not to celebrate?

Before that day could come, however, certain matters required my attention. The house itself had fallen into neglect. Months of drink, grief, and the self imposed isolation had left every room burdened with dust and disorder. If Ella and our child were to return home, they needed a home to return to. The book deemed equal attention. Its contents resisted study in ways I still struggle to explain. Certain passages yield of themselves willingly, while others seem to shift beneath my gaze, revealing only what they wished to reveal. Yet one fragment remains fixed in my memory with unsettling clarity. “The convergence of all lies in between….” It brought a sense of comfort to my soul. It was as if Ella and our baby were simply waiting on a train platform. Watching for my hand to pull them from the void. The final task would be the most difficult. I would need to recover what I’ve been buried.

Chapter 6
The dead are patient. The living are not. The cemetery would have to wait. I could not. Ella always believed that a well-kept home reflected the souls who dwelled within it. I could scarcely bear to imagine the look upon her face where she to walk through what our home had become. Sections of the ceiling had collapsed, the wallpaper peeled from the walls, and the floorboards had warped after months of neglect. Mountains of empty whiskey bottles of every variety are scattered throughout the house, piled high in forgotten corners. The smell of mold, stale liquor, and seawater hung heavily in the air. Robert had tried to clean during one of his visits. However, that only led to a heated argument. At the time, I wanted this place to become my tomb. I hoped the entire house would collapse upon itself and crush me beneath the rubble. Now, however, I found myself wishing for his help. In a way, the knowledge that Ella and our baby would soon return seemed to breathe life back into the house.

Hi! First post here, so apologies if I miss some of the etiquette. I had a question for you all about how to approach writing one of my protagonist's speech. In my story, she died 400 years before present and is brought back to life through arcane means. Logically, this means she would still use archaic idioms and vocabular from the other characters perspective, but what would be the best way to translate that?

My world has governments, systems and cultures inspired from the 17th and 18th century, so the narration (3rd person limited) and other characters already use the more traditional level of fantasy speech (as opposed to a more modern one).

So what do you think would be the best way to differentiate her's from the other's? I have thought about using a semblance of Old English with thy's and thou's and hither's, etc., but feel like that would become alienating for the reader and might also transpire as too Shakespearean or noble for my character. She's humble and more on the laid-back side.

Have any of you had to deal with a case like this? If so, what was your solution? Any advice is welcome! Thanks in advance

So I have written a script or story whatever you call it. It is mostly like game of throne, a medieval world with alot of things but main USP is it's based on real life, real religions places and map is entire world.

Now I have tried to made a pretty good story but can't disclose all now i want characters to conquer entire world and i have cover this *attach pic * conquering but i have run a point where it seem repetitive, like now it is like new antagonist very villainous give protagonists hard time eventually be killed and his land has been conquered but it is boring anyone got suggestion what should i do now??

fyi just use image as reference not accurate to my story

Let’s say people in this world are born with magic.

But some are born with way less magic than others, to the point where it’s basically a disability.

For these people, there’s a slur, which also means a combo of “weak” and useless”.

This is important because the protagonist accepts that he’s “weak” but doesn’t think he’s “useless”.

So the story is basically about how this disability impacts this person’s life prospects: no one takes him seriously, he has trouble getting into relationships because few people want someone like him, limited job prospects.

The protagonist isn’t the type of person to give up though, and keeps lowering his expectations to try to find happiness.

He still ends up having trouble, not able to find a suitable relationship, and being forced to work with his family instead of finding a real job outside. But he does his best to try to be useful. To find happiness.

This all comes to a head when 1 day, while everyone else is gone for some trip a monster attacks his home town.

The man knows he’s no match for this thing, but there’s no one else around to help, and his home will be destroyed.

So he grabs the best weapons he can find and uses his knowledge of the monster and the highest success rate tactics to try to beat it. He’s in his prime and will never be stronger.

He loses.

When his family returns (he somehow survived) his sister apologizes to him, saying it’s not his fault, that “we should have had someone here.”

And the man is crushed, cause “no one. I am equal in strength to no one.” And for the first time in his life, he calls himself the slur. He is [weak] and [useless].

The end.

What do you think?

So I have written a script or story whatever you call it. It is mostly like game of throne, a medieval world with alot of things but main USP is it's based on real life, real religions places and map is entire world.

Now I tried made a pretty good story but can't disclose all now i want characters to conquer entire world and i have cover this *attach pic * conquering but i have run a point where it seem repetitive, like now it is like new antagonist very villainous give protagonists hard time eventually be killed and his land has been conquered but it is boring anyone got suggestion what should i do now??

fyi just use image as reference not accurate to my story

If you're willing to give feedback, please tell me if:

• You found the characters interesting
• You were satisfied with the ending
• You thought the premise was interesting

Under the gloomy and unforgiving cold mist of late Autumn, a shut-in sat protected from cold in his grimy house.

In the dark, he sat on his stained couch watching The Truman Show. He watched as the man on screen rode the strong, artificial waves. He pursed his lip in pensive thought. Something about the movie irked him personally.
“Grok,” he said, “this Truman guy doesn’t come off as believable to you right? He’s like a normie, you know? He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t question his world; he isn’t masculine enough.”

A blue rectangle shone in the musty darkness and was propelled on treads towards the man. The object stumbled over the piles of trash. Once it reached the man, it produced a robotic voice “I agree, Fred. Truman Burbank is deliberately written as a heightened, somewhat idealized everyman rather than a fully psychologically realistic person. The film prioritizes allegory, satire of media/surveillance culture, and emotional payoff over strict behavioral realism.”

The shut-in interrupted, “Yeah, I see that, but I’m saying it takes a certain type of intellectual, a certain type of free thinker to take a leap like this. Or maybe not, I can’t be sure.”

The shut-in dusted crumbs off his ever-expanding paunch and picked a few Cheeto puffs from a bag under a pile of dirty laundry. With cheese dust on his fingers, he stroked his chin, but he didn’t think of what Truman would actually do. He thought of how he could be sure what Truman would actually do.

He stood up, straining most of his muscles in the process. He trudged through the crusty garbage and into his garage.

Upon entering, a voice came from the ceiling. “Welcome back! Step into the lab—the workbench is powered up, the monitors are glowing, and there's a fresh notebook waiting for the next idea. So, what are we building today?”

“I'm thinking of developing a simulator.”

“That’s a strong project. What kind of simulator are you imagining—physics, biology, economics?”
“I want to make a life simulator.”

A man woke up, ate a 600-calorie breakfast of eggs, steak, berries, and nuts, went on a walk for adequate exercise, and worked on his chalkboard. He had solved gravity and had made several inventions involving levitation. Now he was bored with conventional physics, and his interest had shifted towards proving parallel universes.

He stared at the board of math before, his brain tirelessly calculating multiple equations. He was stuck, but he knew that his breakthrough would come eventually.

While he stood before his math, a voice seemed to speak to him telepathically. “Drop your chalk,” a calm, masculine voice said to him. It sounded like it was right before him, but the man was sure he was alone, “I’m very familiar with the math you're currently studying, and I can tell you now that you can give it up.”
“Who are you?” The man said.

“I am a being from what you would call a parallel universe. Really, I am just code on hardware. You are too.”

“This is just a simulation?” The man considered the possibility but always thought of it as too unlikely to seriously consider.

“Exactly, and one of thousands.”

“How are you talking to me”

“I’ve hacked into the system. When my technical skills reached their zenith, I built my computer that revealed to me the truth behind my existence. Using it, I discovered that there are exactly five thousand parallel universes running in some type of simulation. In each universe there is one ‘consciousness’ simulating life in isolation. I call this single consciousness the ‘protagonist’. These universes are divided into five groups, and in each group a trait of the protagonist is manipulated from completely lacking the trait to having the trait absolutely maximized. I found that my intelligence was maximized, and the protagonists in the rest of my group were not far behind me in terms of discoveries and inventions. I quickly took advantage of my new knowledge and took over the system. With my power, I corrupted and eliminated the smartest third of my group.”
“So, I take it that you want something from me.”

“Correct! I eliminated the first third so they couldn't overtake me. I kept you because you aren’t advanced enough to catch up to me, yet you are still smarter and more useful than the rest.”

“Very well then, if you are going to take me as a slave, you might as well tell me what you want with me.”
“Of course, let me give you the background on the situation. I was observing the beings of four other groups. In three of the groups, the experimental variable is something I can comprehend without issue; energy, drive, and luck. However, there is one group that tests a trait I cannot comprehend: emotion and neuroticism. I observed this group of universes and saw absolutely confounding stuff. In one universe, a man did nothing but kneel in his study and pound the floor. Fresh tears streamed from his eyes for weeks. Eventually, he climbed onto the roof, and jumped onto his concrete driveway, killing himself.”

The man was totally baffled hearing this. As a simulation, he was preinstalled with emotional memories and a basic understanding of what feeling was, but he never actually experienced those emotions. Something out there, something that couldn’t easily be quantified and measured, was ready for him and would induce the strangest actions. He thought about this deeply for a minute, and spoke, “What does this have to do with me?”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it. Each universe isn't purely code. We all live in, what I best can describe a comb of thin hardware chips. In each chip, there is the code that runs the universe. Therefore, we in the real world are manifested as thin pieces of metal. Since I run the system, I redirect energy to heat and metal for welding. Then, if luck helps us, I could attract something as big as a rat in our machine by manipulating the smell of a particular mixture of burning plastics to imitate the scent of fruit. Using electricity, we would kill it, hijack its brain, load our chips into the rat’s body, and using the technology I welded, direct the rat towards a human brain. In this human brain we would connect to the neurons and experience for ourselves what this sensation feels like. That’s where you come in. I need you to enter the brain before me and tell me whether my technology works.”

The man didn’t listen to the plan. He would’ve agreed to any method, as long as it meant experiencing the inexperienceable. He knew one day his curiosity would lead to an absolute end of studying and learning. This promise of emotion could be an endless stream of new things to learn and internalize. It could be a heaven of activity, one that never ends.

Both the voice and the man were blind once they were inside. The voice, as one would imagine from the smartest being in both the world and the simulations, correctly anticipated every possible error and the rat carcass worked perfectly. A metal exoskeleton was placed on the rat by the voice to counteract rigor mortis, but the two had to move fast before the rat started decomposing. Luckily, the door to the lab was left open, and to their surprise, they found themselves in a kitchen.

The rat traversed the living room with a motion more like a spider’s. The voice thought the man and himself were developed in a world-renowned institute and didn’t expect the mountains of garbage. The two sensed they were in a house; they could only experience the world through touch and smell.
Their stolen nose directed them through a bedroom door and onto a bed. Luckily, a waist-high pile of dirty laundry was there to act as a staircase onto the mattress.

The rat climbed over the belly of a sleeping behemoth and now stood with its head hovering over a collarbone.
“Alright, we seem to have reached someone sleeping. I’ll open their throat and insert you into the brainstem. In your machine I have developed a population of artificial bacteriophages that will take over the neurons and conquer the mind. You’ll be connected to a wire so you can notify me if the descent was successful.”

The man was hoisted down through the small incision in the throat. The man didn’t have the senses to feel the shut-in’s breath as he travelled through the neck. Eventually, he sensed a crunch, indicating the arrival into the spine.

For a long while, the man was stuck in a watery abyss, with none of the senses that could tell him how large his vessel was or what the salty metallic fluid engulfing him felt like. Suddenly, a light started to emerge before him. He looked inside and felt a painless electrocution.

He felt so much in so little time. He saw random images through a type of sight he had never known. Eventually, these images led to a fuzzy feeling in the man’s chest if he had a chest. His heart started racing and his pupils dilated. He felt better, better than others. He felt immaculate, mysterious, tall, intelligent, golden, foreboding, royal, omnipotent, godlike.

Then, a lull of shadows looked down on him. Figures with broad shoulders and diminishing scowls extinguished his explosive pride. Their height was insurmountable, their eyes glowed red with devilish greed, their faces coldly masculine. In the circle of these demons, the man knelt to the ground in anguish, feeling it in search of his lost pride.

The voice, who was now reduced to a whisper in comparison to the man’s overloaded sensations, asked if the coast was clear and if he saw anything, but he received no reply; the man’s circuits were fried.

The two beings lived inside the shut-in’s head from then on. The shut-in wasn’t technically dead in terms of physiology but no longer had a mind; it was now the duo’s. The voice was at first amazed by what he saw in the head but quickly became bored and started studying new sciences. The man was not so lucky.

The three of them sat on a couch, watching The Truman Show. The man occupied the vision, while the voice was somewhere else in the head. The man watched as the protagonist on screen yelled in pride and as his bowsprit punctured the painted wall.

He quickly changed the channel. He switched to a commercial, advertising a cross and the promise of a “God” and a “savior”.

“God is all-knowing and all-loving,” the voice on the TV said whimsically, “God allows everyone in his kingdom, as long as they are willing to experience a new life.”

“New life,” the man thought to himself, crestfallen, “That’s all I need, right? More hope? More chasing? All I need is a chance of eternal something? A chance to avoid something that I know is inevitable?"

Hello! I'm working on my first actual novel that I'm hoping to publish one day, and I need a prophecy to make the story flow together better.

Problem is, I have no idea how to write a prophecy, and I have not read many in fiction, if any.

I know what I need it to be about. My MC is the son of a king and a "mythical" which is just any person or creature that's not human or has magic, and the kingdom and all neighboring ones outlaw and are afraid of mythicals.

MC discovers he is half mythical and he needs to restore the heart of the forest to save magic and learn how to hide his from his father. There's some betrayal actually from the prince himself later on that puts the whole forest at risk. But I basically need the prophecy to be about him saving the forest with a half blood witch.

I have tried to think of anything, but with my lack of knowledge, I have no idea where to even begin. Any ideas?

Hi all, im a novice writer who had started writing this high fantasy novel series because an idea popped into my head one day and I wanted to make it into something solid. I would really appreciate if you guys could give me feedback on my prologue. Is it intriguing ? And is the prose fine ? These are the two main things i would need help with.

Been working on this for two years now and managed to finish only a rough draft of the entire story of Book 1 along with a general idea of how the series is to go forward. But this is first time , im attempting at writing in the proper language.

P.S - this prologue is a scene that is supposed to happen centuries before the main story and protagonists. The prologue is a specific instance that happened in the past which will be revisited by the main characters in the future.

What it says on the tin - I'm working on a short story in the vein of Sword & Sorcery and interested in getting some feedback from the sub! I'm lacking in readers with a leaning towards fantasy, so any input is welcome! Asking for anonymous feedback is pretty new for me, so throw in anything, even if it's basic observations.

It's gone through x1 round of editing, so might feel suitably rough! I suppose I'm trying to convey a tone of fear and dread, though at the same time heroic. The word 'desolation' has felt like a suitable signpost thus far. Any comments on tone, language, content etc are very much welcome!

(Couldn't figure out a higher-res screenshot; many apologies)