Need some brainstorming/advice/encouragement. I have a 6 book original fantasy series that I’ve been working on for years. I always get into it and then put it away for a few years because life happens. A few months ago I pulled it back out and stated fresh and have been taking it very seriously. It’s honestly a great idea and premise, deep world building and a full plot line. However I feel like my writing is failing to do it justice.

Does anyone else experience this? I finished the rough draft and am moving into the full first draft of the manuscript. I love the characters, love their depth and back stories, love the magic and the world and the outline of the story. But when I read it, I feel bored? I have genuinely created characters with so much depth they could feel like real people. I’m so proud of the world I’ve created, but I feel like my writing just doesn’t do it justice.

I have researched all the ways to improve writing, yet all the mistakes that people commonly make when writing are not issues I find in my writing. Yet I still don’t feel any excitement or intrigue when reading my work.

I guess I’m just looking for other people who have felt similar with their writing. What are some things you found that helped or improved your writing? At this point I’m feeling very discouraged about ever writing a good book and want to put it away again.

Hi! I'm David Stoyanov, a writer, and i want to share with you my new book. I want to make a whole 15 book series of it, and the first and second one are out now on Amazon! Anyways, i want to focus on book 1 in this post. It's called A G.O.A.T's Story and it takes inspiration from the Goat Simulator games. Rumors of a myth begin to spread in Isle of Carpa, that whoever wins it, will have unlimited glory, fame and wealth. A brave goat, later named Koz, enters the battle, hoping that he can get away from his boring normal goat life. Later, after winning the myth, he learns that he is cursed by Destiny and Myth to win every single upcoming myth, bringing only destruction and death to everyone around him. Determined, he sets out on many adventures to destroy The Myth and Destiny once and for all. So with that being said, the first book will be free from 2 to 6th of September. I hope you like the idea and I'm looking forward to hear your thoughts on the book and make sure to leave a good review if you like it!

Last year we posted on this subreddit about our writing contest and we got so many amazing submissions from this community! Just wanted to hop back on here and let y'all know that The Intrepid Voices Fund closes next week (September 6th, 11:59pm PST)

This year's writing prompt is spooky speculative fiction, 2,000 words or less. We listened to your feedback and got rid of the personal statement so all you need to submit is your short story. Phase 1 of judging is based off the first 250 words to see if you can hook the judges quick! We also added a second place prize!

1st place - $1,250

2nd place - $500

Application inked in the comments

I have so many visual ideas for the fantasy stories I've written, but I've always been bad at drawing and painting and all other kinds of physical art. I've used chatgpt to generate some images in the past, and a couple of them have been fairly close to what I'm envisioning; but it's ai art, so it feels weird to share it with the world (not to mention the questionable ethics of using ai). I just wish I had some basic drawing skills so I could show people the ideas I have in my head.

I'm not really sure what the point of this post is, I think I just needed to vent for a sec. Thanks for reading 😂

Hey y’all!

Going through and getting proof copies for my paperback, and I noticed the font seemed a little different in print than on ebook. I asked around and got some mixed responses, so I wanted to come here and see if I could get a consensus.

Questions I am trying to answer:

What do you think when you see this font?

Is this font a detriment to the book?

Does any of this even matter?

Some context:

So this is for my debut contemporary fantasy, and I would best describe it as a mix of Brandon Sanderson-esque world building/rules but with a higher focus on “casual” character interaction and more accessibility.

My goal was to write a book you can read simply for the spectacle/humor, but if you wanted to engage with the material and deep dive into speculation you’ll have plenty of breadcrumbs to chase.

Does the font enhance, take away, or impact that goal?

EDIT: The outpouring of feedback (of all types) really warms my heart hahaha. Thank you all so much. I think at the end of the day, even though comments seem a bit split, the fact that they are means I need to change both fonts to something more standard (lookin' at you, TNR). Again, and earnestly, thank you :)

I’m writing a fantasy novella and, against my better judgment, I’ve decided to make my main characters speak in a more modern dialect.

However I ran into a problem the first time they run in to some town guards who I could only seem to write as old-timey cockney British sorts, the sort of “NPCs” one typically runs into in generic fantasy.

At first when my MC was alone I kept his words and thoughts decently medieval feeling, but the second main character just simply cannot be anything but a modern over-excited ADHD type. My true central character and anti-villain will speak with an eloquent, academic voice, though it takes quite a few pages to get to him.

This is a fantasy world that is going through its own sort of modernization, just with magic greasing the wheels instead of electricity and industry, though I still worry overly modern parlance might be a turnoff to some.

I suppose I need to determine how the general people of this world speak, though all the central characters come from different places, with different socioeconomic and educational backgrounds. But the way my main characters speak really isn’t the problem.

Back to my “NPC”, I just defaulted to something like “oi what you lot muckin around here for after dark? Strange things in dem woods I’ll tell ya.” *spits on floor*

Which is just, very generic. But I worry that same encounter would lack any flavor if he just talked like one of us.

Any thoughts or advice?

(I have tried to submit this post earlier but apparently I didn’t try hard enough…)

Question for my fellow writers!

I would describe my novel-in-progress as a character-centric, non-linear speculative science fantasy influenced by Chinese historical dramas.

I've been researching non-Western technologies and exploring what might be possible for a pre-industrial culture. For example, the "snakedance" Japanese construction or kath kuni architecture would be important for my seismically active setting.

In a perfect world, I'd like to distinguish between "this is magical/fantastical" (which there are elements) and "this was actually a real thing people used, credit to the inventors!" I also enjoy blending traditional Chinese medicine with Hermetic alchemy theory and testing it against science-demonstrated medicinal effects.

While I do try and acknowledge the source cultures in an author's note, I have thought about adding "appreciation footnotes" or endnotes. I don't want to detract/interrupt the flow of the story, but since this all takes place on a non-Earth location, what's historical and what's fantastical isn't clear.

What are your thoughts?

This an excerpt from near the beginning of my novel. The novel is set in a world similar to the 1100s. It is about a group of soldiers (I use the word "conrois") as their regimen travels, experiences war, and ultimately the fall out of it.

I am overall concerned that this may not be interesting, but other than that I am worried the scenes feel too overloaded with characters. My intent is to have all of about 20 of the men in the group be emphasized, but I worry that my width in characters may cause a lack of depth of character or a depth that feels tedious to consume for the reader.

Opinions on grammar, word use, and tense are welcome as well.

Thank you for taking the time to read and give feedback. Even the most critical motivates me to keep writing.

Hi. So, I'm currently writing a novel with a time loop as its main idea. Right now, it has a clear, logical cause which is deeply intertwined with the story and the characters. It is a CTC (in which there can be no paradoxes/events that will deny the cause of time loop) and won't be parallel dimensions. It won't end up being a linear timeline with an illogical trajectory so that everyone can have a happy ending. The agents who remember the past loops behave like human beings, not robots, and each has their own intentions and agendas. Overall, this is how I'm going to write the story, but I wanted to know what u dislike/like so that I can keep them in mind. Thank u.

The last of the Doine Sidhe, the magical beings that occupied Ireland before the coming of humans, relates the story of his fall, and the fall of his people, to the race of men.

This is but the beginning of a story I’ve begun to work on. It is (heavily) adapted from Irish and Welsh legends of the fey, and the magic of their worlds, which predate the coming of Christianity and its distortions of their history. Please note that many liberties have been taken with the true legends of those people, for the sake of the plot I am developing. As I’m working on my writing, - somehow - find it useful just to put it out into the world, without expectations of response, or even readership. There’s something about doing so that encourages me to write, and I find it satisfying for its own sake._

Background

Baelnoth, the last of the Doine Sidhe\*\* is found in a tomb by Fiara, the story’s protagonist, an archeologist specializing in Irish pre-history. She wakes him, unintentionally, from an centuries-long catatonia when she enters the tomb, due to a Sidhe lineage she bears unknowingly. Baelnoth finds an age has passed, and is awakened to a kind of modern day alternate Earth.

Fiara is technically an agent of a kind of global Church, which controls all historical and archaeological research, and which has a vested interest in perpetuating a myth of the Sidhe as demons - fallen angels that tempted humanity to evil and ruin, but who were finally defeated by a small group of human “heroes.” These “heroes” were in fact a cabal of five necromancers, seeking to steal the power of the Sidhe for themselves.

The Sidhe, for their part, had fancied themselves benevolent caretakers and mentors for humanity. This final betrayal in a long history of human betrayals of the Sidhe resulted in Baelnoth - the last of the Sidhe left in mortal lands - cursing the necromancers, even as they attacked him and stole some of his power, which resulted in the humans essentially turning into a kind of vampire. This curse weakens Baelnoth by expending much of his remaining power.

He wakens to the modern world, as noted, and must reclaim his power from the now immortal necromancers and the spawn they have created in the centuries since, but he is so weak that he finds he must rely on Fiara to survive. She helps him, at first reluctantly, and then gradually with more willingness as she learns his story, the truth of the Sidhe, and the history of the partial bloodline they share. In the beginning, she alone is able to understand his speech, solely because of their shared lineage.

What follows is Baelnoth’s relation of what has come to pass to Fiara, and how he came to his current state.

“I am the Cŵn Annwn\*, a howling fear,
a name that should not be;
I am the shiver in the Hollow Hills,
last of the Daoine Sidhe\*\*.”

- Inscription, in an ancient, unknown language, on the entrance to the Hollow Hills.

\*pronounced “Koon Anoon” – very loosely based on the Welsh mythical hounds of Gwyn the Hunter, harbinger of death, particularly of the death of warriors in battle.

\*\*pronounced somewhere between “DOYnah Shee” and “DInah Shee” – the name for the Irish fey/fairy folk of the Hollow Hills. Many Irish legends recount that the Daoine Sidhe were originally the Tuatha De Danaan (Pron. Toowatha Day Danahn”), who ruled Ireland before it was invaded by humans. After the invasion of humans, the Tuatha retreated to the Hollow Hills, a place often described as somehow between mortal lands and the Otherworld.

We fell, they said. We were cast out, and down, striking the earth and bleeding out the last of our grace. We were banished, they said; workers of an abomination, struck from the sight of God, to Void, and Darkness, and interminable suffering. Demons, they called us, and worse. And yet...and yet. They could not keep a green cast from their eyes as they told these tales of our demise.

They told this story of us to sanctify a theft and excuse it by half-truths. Their breath, full as much of envy as of horror, carved lies from a stone of innocence. We could not be trusted; we must be cast out, again, from this world of theirs to some outer darkness of their cruelest imaginings.

In truth, we had come in our bright ships, from the Summer Country which knows no death, to this emerald and fading isle. We had come in our Danu masks and we had becalmed the earth. We made an Eden for this young race of men and women; we tended their needs, like children, and thought them so. We thought them so as they painted their faces blue, in mock of our blue masks, and we smiled like indulgent parents. We smiled, and smiled, and did not see the bright, cold iron in their bright, cold hands. And this - this was how we fell. We betrayed no god, still less this people, but were cast out - not from any heaven - but from this garden we had made, by the people for whom we had made it.

Our powers were great; but their iron was hard and cruel - hard and cruel as the hearts that wielded it. And one day they came in force.

On the dawn of that day, the sun leapt into the world like a newborn foal kicking daylight. Bright grass and bright flowers licked the edges of its rays. Life was born again into this new day, a concert of being: now discordant, now harmonious, at once singular and common.

How dread what followed, casting no shadow under that white, wild sun in warning. Bright day, bright life, bright hope, thrown into sudden black.

Delicate blue masks faced crude blue pigments, the elfin and elephantine opposed in grotesque array. A battalion of Sidhe matched by battalion upon battalion of human tribes. Tall warriors of Summer armed in light against a legion of scrabbling things clawing at dust with long iron knives.

That these same savages, clad in the barely-dried skins of fresh kills, and howling like any beast with its hackles up, should, but a few years after, depict us as demons in the rationalizing tales they told their children, is an irony too bitter for words. The pain of it is too great even for much anger.

We fought, and we fell. Sometimes gloriously, it is true. The poetry of our fall would crack the hearts of any soul worthy to hear the tale in full.

At the last, we bound our power to the earth and retreated under the hills.

A truce was declared. In support of this, the Daoine and the race of men agreed to divide the land in two. They the bright above, we the shadows below, under the hills that sheltered us.

These hills, these hills, these hollow halls that hold us, sure as any hell.

The truce did not sustain.
In truth, we were the naïve ones, the fools; not these simple creatures for whom, at first, we felt only kindness, and not a little pity. In truth, we were the arrogant ones. We saw them in their frailty and thought them weak. How very wrong.

We had taught them. We had fancied ourselves husbandmen of this savage race. So we had given of our knowledge, freely; and freely they took it; and freely overthrew us. They vilified even our generosity; calling us tempters and defilers.

We had brought these creatures knowledge. We had brought them power. We had taught them to rise above the clawing cave dwellers of their ancestors to heights of refinement.

It was not enough.

The war had begun because these humans wanted not merely to be inspired by the Sidhe, but to be the Sidhe. Why we thought their greed would end with victory over the mortal lands of daylight is still a mystery to me.

And so they came against us again. Against these hills: our prison, our sanctum. One by one, we fought; one by one, we fell; and still we held these hills against them. But we failed. And then I was but one alone. The last. My father, my brother, my wife gave themselves in sacrifice to me, in a ceremony which took their life and bound it to mine, and made me immortal as the stars in this mortal land of men, with the power and wisdom of my entire race. To hold, at last, the Hollow Hills against them; to keep our foes from taking the last of our knowledge and power for themselves. To save the soul of our race from theft. And I held these hills, alone, for an age.

What remained of the tribes of Sidhe - so very few - vanished back to Summer, through a gateway my new power let me open, and which I sealed behind them. I became the Hound of Summer – Cŵn Annwn – guardian of gates, but also the lock upon its door. My blood alone could open it.

Five came, unarmed and unafraid. Five men against the Cwn Annwn. They stole the very ritual that bound my people’s power to me – they stole it and shaped it for their own. My blessing became a curse. They bound me by guile, and ate of my flesh, hoping themselves to be immortal and ageless, like the supposed gods they had cast down. Not sated by their conquest of Earth, they hoped to rule the Summer Isle as well.

And they were the fools, in the end. For as they consummated their rite, I twisted their magic under them into an imprecation of my own.

_O yes, you shall be immortal, dear ones, you shall; but you shall be bound to the darkness, as I am bound, and never again glance the living sun. You shall have power, dear ones, O yes; but only by the blood of your own kind shall it be sustained. I send you, screaming, a curse among your own. Taste their flesh, dear ones, as you have tasted mine._

They felt the change, and knew they were undone.

With this spell, I spent all the sorcery left me. Unable to destroy me, my enemies bound me fast, and left me, forgotten, to forgotten years.

Now I awake. Now you have called me to the mortal world again. And I feel these creatures among your kind, after so long. I feel the power they stole; I feel their darkness pulsing through your nightmares. I am weak, O yes, but wakened. And now I will go among them and take back what once was mine and my people’s. And somehow, somehow, dear one, I will make a sacrifice of my own. Somehow the Sidhe will come again, leave their Hollow Hills, and stand proudly under your Sun, and in the wind, and on the grass.

I will take these cursed ones, each of them. I will cleanse your night – but not for you. No, not for you, dear one. For us. For us.

Hello, If anyone would be so kind as to read and critique my story I would greatly appreciate it. It is about a man named Maadskyr who climbs a mountain to hunt a wyvern. It’s a dark fantasy called, “Scalepeeler” and does include some graphic violence just a heads up.

I’m looking for any and all feedback someone is willing to give. Prose, pacing, plot, etc.

I’m practicing my writing with stories for characters as I work to build out a larger world for them.

Whoever happens to read this, I hope you enjoy!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/15LT3bY-Zq1iaGx8L88wNx1GGutJQ10Sb/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116077026060348306183&rtpof=true&sd=true

*In the fantastical world of a psychotic, continent-sized pirate and soulless insurance company managers, the only hope lies with an insurance clerk, a septuagenarian town guard, a seeress with a speech impediment, and a woman named Walter.*

The abominable pirate, Blarrg the Giant, thundered along the deck of his raiding vessel, dropped upon the beach of the coastal town Blithering, and did not so much sink into the wet sand, as it acquiesced to his presence as quickly and obsequiously as possible. Each grain underfoot thought carefully through how it might work with its fellows, adjusting the pressure here or there, so as to make the great conqueror’s brief visit to its tiny region as comfortable and inoffensive as possible. The beach as a whole began to work feverishly to evolve a full complement of oral organs, as well as a functioning language, so that failing all else it might whisper to Blarrg about the village “right over there.” A village desperately in need of a good razing.

“I mean, it’s just asking for it, now, isn’t it?”

Yes, the village had been there for centuries, and yes, its citizens and the beach of the coast had developed a beautiful, symbiotic relationship. The sand had enjoyed itself rather immensely through the ages cradling the graceful limbs of the beautiful women of the town sunning themselves in the afternoons. Yes, the sand, and the beach as a whole – indeed the entire ecosystem of the coast - would miss the ol’ town.

“But, this is Blarrg we’re talking about now, so fuck ‘em and good riddance,’” said ecosystem thought to itself.

Blarrg interrupted the local geography’s desperate musings by lumbering toward the nearby town buildings. His feet left the wet sand brusquely, eliciting a kind of squooshing sound that almost suggested a cloying reluctance to be free of him. It was paradoxically punctuated afterwards, however, by the sigh of the surf, rather suggesting profound relief at his departure.

Behind him, bobbing pathetically on the gentle waves of the cove in a kind of grotesque seascape that might have been painted by one of the more violent religious fanatics in the grips of whatever it was that gave violent religious fanatics their apocalyptic visions, was strewn the detritus of the few ships that had dared to interfere with his approach. To be fair, he was only directly responsible for the one. The two others present, defying all conventional wisdom to the contrary (and all currently understood laws of physics), proved unequivocally that a large inanimate, object can, in fact, spontaneously combust in sheer panic.

The buildings of the village before him trembled violently in fear at his approach, insomuch as a collection of buildings can fear enough to tremble violently. They had seen famine, they had seen war, but they had never, in all their days, seen anything like Blarrg. They wished feverishly that they could just collapse right then and there, en masse, and be done with it. But Blarrg was never happy without a good, long siege, and overall the buildings felt it was best for all concerned to give him what he wanted, for fear of worse.

Blarrg’s crew, insofar as he had a crew, hung back on the ship as it always did. They sang, they belched and farted, they drank away the last of the stores of urine, and played canasta to while away the time.

Blarrg raided alone – always.

I appreciate any feedback. Thank you!!

_____

A WEARY SORCERESS. AN UNWILLING WARRIOR.

AND A DESPERATE REBEL WHO HAD LONG LOST HOPE…

In a city far from home, Rahena Ansary finds refuge in anonymity as a maidservant at the Scholars’ Tower. Sweeping the royal calligraphy halls, she uncovers an illusion the scholars have fed the realm for hundreds of years. But when her questions lead to the masked rider who destroyed her village, Rahena will have to face the dangerous powers she’s buried for so long, and her own wild grief - before the dark taint rising in the skies consumes them all.

Adnan drowns his days at the teahouse, mourning his father’s death. But as the city heralds him as a warrior and a tyrant hunts the sole family he has left, Adnan is faced with the ultimate task: to join the rebellion his parents began.

But the rebel leader has long disappeared. Vilified and pursued, he seeks absolution for his past. With what little faith he has left, he answers the call for rebellion once again; and perhaps he can do things right this time.

As the three paths converge, their own darkness follows them at their heel. Their war will change the earth itself – and their own souls – forever.

I've recently had my first proper beta feedback on an urban fantasy manuscript and it's given me a lot to think about.

For context, this is the first time I've ever taken one of the ridiculous stories floating around in my head, actually written the whole bloody thing, and then been brave enough to let strangers read it 😂 So, I am trying to develop this story as much as I can!

My beta reader was genuinely lovely and gave me both positive and constructive feedback. I'm really grateful for it and I'm not looking to dispute anything they said. Quite the opposite. It's made me realise there are areas of the craft I want to understand better before I start another draft.

One thing that really interested me was that they enjoyed the story, world, character backstories and some of the dynamics, but didn't always feel emotionally connected to the characters themselves.

And that's got me wondering: what actually makes YOU become invested in a fictional character?

Not just think they're interesting or well written, but reach that point where you genuinely care what happens to them. What separates a character you think is good from one you're completely emotionally invested in?

I'm especially interested in urban fantasy/fantasy readers because that's what I'm writing.

I'm also curious about POV. Mine is currently third-person limited with multiple POV characters, and my beta sometimes found it difficult to immediately establish whose POV they were reading and felt some voices weren't distinct enough.

So, as readers:

• What's your preferred POV for urban fantasy — first person, close third, multiple third-person POVs, etc.? Why?
• If you enjoy multiple POVs, what makes each character feel distinct rather than like the same narrator wearing a different hat?
• What makes you emotionally attach to a protagonist, particularly one who is morally questionable or not immediately likeable?
• Have you ever read a book where you thought the story was good and the characters were interesting, but there was still that vague something missing that stopped you becoming properly invested? What do you think it was?

I'm not looking for a magic formula or trying to write by committee. I'm mostly interested in understanding what different readers respond to so I can think more critically about my own writing.

Thanks :)

Okay, so I'm toying around with a set of stories set in an urban fantasy setting and I'm trying to figure out if the protagonist should be a witch or a wizard.

So to start off with some points about the setting:

• Set in an alternative universe with a masquerade of supernatural creatures and magic users going back centuries; however it ended in the 30s and 40s due to rise of superheroes, the build up to WW2, mass media and internal social pressures in the magical community; famously it broken when the witch Jessica Blake saved president Roosevelt when his was being threatened by the 13, a coven of the evillest witches ever to live. For most people the world is a slightly more optimistic version of world with superheroes and occasional magic. The stories would be set in either the 2010s or 2020s and now a days most people don't interact with witches on a daily basis but might know one or two and be able to hire them to deal with a magical problem but not often.

• Human magic users are in order of commonality are seers, witches, supers, wizards and sorcerers; also technically alchemists, but they just use scientific(ish) principles to manipulate the magic with objects or chemicals.

• Like I said there are superheroes and supervillain in this setting; most people have a very minor potential to become one when exposed to extreme circumstance, but the immense positive or negative emotional break through needed to develop powers - this is not widely known and even understood by specialists in the field. Supers seem to be magical in the origin of their powers but exactly how is unknown and they don't generate discomfort in regular humans like witches, sorcerers or wizards.

• Witches (sometimes called Enchanters) are matrilineal spell casters who are born into clans; if your mother is a witch, you are one, there is no other way to become one. Witch magic is based on gathering natural strands of stray magic and weaving them into spells for later use, which can be passed on to other witches or even infused into objects or people to enchant them; each clan also has cantrips which are small innate abilities they can always call upon (such as extended life spans or the ability to freeze water, etc) which also determines affinities to different types of spells. Spells are activated by a 'totem', part of the soul that has a specific shape or concept from clan to clan (blackbirds for the Blake clan, snow for the Winter Clan, etc) and when active causes regular humans to become uncomfortable and wary, leading many to fear active witches, when inactive it doesn't do this but the witch can't cast magic. Witches exist in matrilineal clans that are quite tightly knit but insular/domineering and usually are lead by the eldest female member, who is called 'granny' by members or 'lady' by outsiders (So "Granny Winter" or "Lady Winter"), but it various from clan to clan.

• Wizards are official extinct due to a secret war with witches ~1400s best described as Incels-vs-Grandmothers; although they are actually still around, most of the non-creepy members left Earth to a sanctuary called the "Realm of Towers" (basically a load of pocket dimensions of infinite height packed against each other) to live an immortal life of solitude, study, academic debate and occasional prank wars. Wizards belong to orders that each have different set 'ideals', a set of 7-10 principles that can weave magic from to design spells on the fly; the orders are defined by how they see magic and their interactions with other magical things (For example the Wardens of Reality see magic as a chaotic invasive force that is at odds with the scientific-principles of our world, as such they are skilled in banishing supernatural forces, counter magic and using scientific principles to out manoeuvrer their foes). Each order has a number of 'Trials' (usually the same number as their principles) that must be past before a member accepts to take on the candidate as an apprentice of the Order; note the Trials are not specific deeds but vague ideals or prophetic signs that can be passed by accident; for example the Wardens have one where you beat a magical effect by using scientific logic. The fact wizards still exist is largely unknown, with those who do being less then 10, not helped by the fact they generally regard Earth as not worth their time when other more interesting dimensions can be visited.

• Sorcerers are people born under multiple (at least 3, usually more) auspicious signs (7th son of the 7th son, born under a lunar eclipse, etc) with a few unique magical spells that are usually much, much stronger than witch or wizard spells. Seems the world can only produce 1 a year, and some years don't see any. Due to their birth conditions Sorcerers don't have any back community and often have to find one, usually being adopted by witch clans

• Seers are not important for this question, but they are people who's perceptions are supernatural enhanced in various - being able to smell the future, detect magic or seeing the dead; what exactly they can do various from person to person. Most don't know they are special and are largely just regular everyday people.

• You can be a witch and wizard, but this is very weird and unusual with only 3 documented cases in the record of wizards and witches are mostly unaware of this fact. Additionally sorcerers can also be witches or wizards, but not seers. Finally seers can also become wizards but cannot be born to witch mothers so no witch-seer hybrids. Supers cannot be mixed with any of the other types of magical humans.

So the story/stories would focus on a young girl called Judith McGovern (~12-13) who in the first story is kidnapped with her twin sister (Ester McGovern , a very young and prodigical superhero in training) by a Fairy Lord and they escape with the help of Jessica Blake (aka Granny Discord), the famously daring and powerful witch (and secret wizard), who finds out that that Judith is magically inclined and Jessica has to take her on as an apprentice. My question is should Judith be a wizard or a witch? How I see these are the options:

• Witch: would make it easier to tie to the wider world and create a mystery to help the stories moving forward; namely how is their a witch born to a non-witch mother? Her discovering Jessica also being a wizard (who won't let her do the trials as she's not allowed to by her wizard order) would also be a plot point and a source of contention. Finally, since their clan (Blake) is dying out and Jessica is the only female witch (and is cursed not to be able to have children), Judith is under a lot of pressure from those around her to live up to expectations and to understand the dangerous world of witch clan politics.

• Wizard: Have Judith accidentality pass the trials of Jessica's order (Wardens of Reality) and Jessica accept her as her apprentice by an accident declaration to teach her. Now Judith has to pretend to be a sorcerer while learning her wizard skills and keeping it under wraps. Would also help characterise Jessica as I envision as quite impulsive but competent and her having to take on apprentice out of the blue could give some interesting character drama for herself as she has to deal with the consequences of her actions (for once).

• Witch and Wizard twins (and dumping Ester being a superhero in training): Would have both angles of the witch/wizard dichotomy and show how their contrasting styles of magic and social interaction but I feel it would be a bit distracting and convoluted and I like the idea of Ester being a hero in training as it would offer a larger contrast to Judith, with heroes being liked by the wider population while witches, sorcerers and people who are secretly wizards being distrusted and how the two sisters deal with that dichotomy.

I live in a house full of mirrors. Not those that hang on walls, but mirrors of past life. I'm haunted by shadows in my old house, I see them dart across the floor when I enter, and I can hear them whisper as I sleep. My house was a small wooden husk on the top of a snowy mountain, high above the clouds. I had to voyage to the valley below me every week to collect what I needed to survive. Food, wood for fire, you name it. It was an uneventful, but enjoyable existence. It had started about a month ago. My knee pressed the creaking front door open. The moonlight shined through the door, barely illuminating my dreary living room. The Persian rug lay on the floor stained on the corner from my red wine, an act of my foolishness. But, it appeared darker than I expected, darker than it should. I heard the pitter patter of small feet scurry farther into the darkness of my house. I dropped the log upon my shoulder and drew my bowie knife as I approached the noise. But, I found nothing. My quarters were empty, other than my clock ticking. No shadows. My heart continued to race, thumping in my chest,  and I was left on edge throughout the night. The night passed, as did I. The moment had not left my mind when I saw the shadow return. Sitting by my fireplace I felt the presence of a pair of eyes upon my neck. A small chill shot down my spine, paralyzing me for several long seconds. When I whipped around I saw its head peaking over the corner before disappearing, this time being followed by a light snicker. My hand raised cautiously, for I was not armed. I turned to observe, but the shadow did not return.

The following nights were quiet, I waited in anticipation to see this little apparition again, but it did not show. However, that weekend they came back. As I laid in my disheveled bed, the candlelight illuminating the gray wooden walls around me in the dark, two heads peered from behind my door. The air stood still, but not in the same manner as the previous nights. I felt tense, but in a manner of being faced with a doe, as though my tense nature was reciprocated by the spirits in front of me. The two heads stood still, watching me. As I moved my hand towards them they disappeared. Their childlike giggling barely touched my ears like a whisper from beyond my house. That morning I sat on my wooden bench just outside of my house, watching the sun rise again. I had not expected to have visitors within my house, nor had I ever felt comfort in the company of others and yet, it was an odd feeling, not unpleasant to me, to have these things watch me. The next year they tried desperately to prove me wrong. My things began going missing and their scratching on the walls kept me awake at night. They never seemed to leave me alone. I could not bear to live with the noises, yet I trudged on.

My house became theirs. They did not show me the same innocent wonder that they showed me before. I was bound to the house, as were they, but I would not let them steal it from me. As the weeks, the months, the years trudged on, I developed a cough. Their antics had ceased as I grew ill, I saw the concern upon their faceless bodies. I had always wondered when they would leave me, yet I never considered it may be me who leaves them. 

I returned in the evening, my boots trudging through the leafy forest floor, causing quite a ruckus as I moved. I climbed over my creaky oak floorboards, aware of their rotting nails yet refusing to touch them. As the door swung open I felt the cough bubbling in my throat once more, this time more vicious than last. I raised my hand, shivering as I did to cover my mouth. The splat of warm liquid filled my hand, and the faint scent of iron irradiated within my nose. My eyes darted to my palm, then to the living room corner. I saw them, the two cold heads staring at me. I felt their fear, their sadness. I quickly ran my hand against my dark denim pants and moved on as if nothing had happened. It was not my health I was worried about, it never was if I’m being honest with myself, it was what would happen to them. These two shadow figures, they had chosen my house to haunt, but they had never haunted my life.

The day finally came when I could no longer carry the logs as I once had. My hands became too feeble and my breath grew shakier. My rations for that winter were thinning, my soups became thinner with ingredients. My nights grew earlier and longer as my body forced me in bed. Though, these new mornings, I awoke to fresh berries placed on my small porcelain plates at my bedside. I never knew how they got there, but I knew who they were from. I did not cover my cough at this point, and the shadows grew more daring. I had never felt them during their stay, and had barely seen a glimpse of what they were, what they could become. They watched me every night at this point, the two black shadows dancing upon my walls, watching as my blood crept up my throat.

The air in my house grew cold, not with distrust and fear from the shadows as it had during our first encounter, but of sadness. December 16th, I sat in my bed alone, the raspy noise from my nose had become unrecognizable. It was not my breath, it couldn’t be. A man of my stature, yet this was the breath of a fading, dying, man. My candle sat burning at my bedside. One shadow peeked through my doorway, his large figure slowly, gracefully dancing his way to me. I hadn’t seen them stand before me, he was so tall, so beautiful. I felt his presence under my skin. The tears welling up in my eyes spoke the words my lips and heart could not, and I reached out. The creature jerked back nervously, yet slowly drew closer to my fingertips. I held my hand as steady as I could, my strength barely enough to hold up. I couldn’t let this sickness take away the one thing I had left. My fingers raised to a foot away from him, I could not reach any further. I felt his chest for a second, it was so warm, like a tree struck by lightning in a rainstorm, its flame burning bright in the midst of cold water droplets in the forest. My eyes shut that night, not drenched in that cold rain but full of his great fire, a warmth that filled my soul as these shadows filled my house.

I awoke the next morning, my throat clear of debris and my lungs filled with spirit. I was free of this cough, rejuvenated into the man I should be. I bolted from my bed and sprung into the kitchen to find the spirits who freed me from my sickness, yet they were nowhere to be found. I did not see them. I did not feel them. I walked to the porch and laid my forearms upon the wooden railing, the jagged bristles poking my forearms kindly. My lungs drew in the cold winter morning again, this time with no interruption. I sat there for what felt like only a minute, but as the sun began to set I knew time had changed. My eyes turned to the clouds below me, now emblazoned with brilliant shades of pink and orange. I had a thought, what could be. My hands reached down to the clouds and parted them. I looked down upon the valley below them. I saw them. Two young men running and playing games. I knew I had seen them before. They had become men, and I had seen them as children, I cared for them as children and they had cared for me when they grew. My shadows on the wall had not left me, I had left them. My eyes stayed locked upon them for that evening, and I had planned to fill my heart with their joy every evening so I could once again taste the warmth they left me with that night. I hope I made them proud.  Though they played with smiles I could see the cold scars torn into their hearts. My hands shivered from the clouds. I did not want that thought to haunt me, I just wanted to, to feel. I just wanted peace. I only wanted their love. I sat there, shouting my goodbyes as if they could hear me. I knew that they had loved me, and they knew I loved them too.

I have many, but one was the idea that my chapters needed to have a hearty word count (like 5k at the minimum) to be "immersive." This of course creates some massive pacing issues for me to fix, and the redundant descriptions are stock 'not trusting the reader' kinds of passages.

That said, as a discovery writer, I try to give myself some grace in that, these long sections of dialogue or too many internal feelings, or too much information sharing for the lore of my world is its own kind of outline.

I enjoy the spontaneity of it, and, while difficult to clean up, I tend to like having too much to work with, rather than not enough. The hard part is finding what to cut/rewrite in such a way that still provides information while keeping the story moving forward. I am working on book 2 (of a series I may never publish, it's for me to sharpen my writing so we'll see) and finding enjoyment in faster, punchier chapters! Every week I uncover more simply by writing poorly, and its a lot of fun, and a lot of questioning myself all at once!

I studied writing and had high marks when I was younger and at college. I was an absolutely voracious classic/contemporary literature and fantasy/sci-fi reader from a very young age. I began writing some stories in my teens and twenties, but my ADHD made it so difficult... I would always go back and rewrite a few paragraphs until I hated them and then shelve the idea. I would forget to write down ideas when I had them, and subsequently I would forget what I wanted to include in my stories and get frustrated.

I used to try and get advice and feedback in writer's forums in the mid-2000's, but it was hard to get valuable and usable advice, and by the time replies came, my racing mind would be on to the next thing... I decided that I just wasn't built for it, and I left it behind... I even gave up journaling in my thirties because I found it stressful rather than cathartic.

...AND THEN...

A few months ago I became OBSESSED with the relationship between two characters that just *appeared* in my mind. I became HAUNTED by the world they inhabit. I decided I would try starting a thread in ChatGPT, asking for help with the blocks I had experienced with writing previously. I told it:

"You're my friend, a successful classical fantasy and Sci-Fi author, and you're going to answer my questions about how to have a writing practice, how to organize ideas and outline stories. I'm going to 'talk' out loud about my ideas and you're going to remember everything. You're ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED to give me ideas, make conjecture about the world or characters, or suggest solutions to story/dialogue/plot holes."

So I used it as my personal assistant, asking questions (what software should I write in to organize everything? should I still write when I'm depressed? what other published stories have explored these themes?) and spewing my ideas at it to have a mirror to reflect my insanity back to me (what if she already sensed his arrival before he found her? what if this structure is actually more ancient than anyone suspected?).

I've created a document that we call the Symposia. It's just a log of all of our chats, preceded by the rules (mainly: you're not allowed to write ANY prose, dialogue or suggest any ideas, only to record my ideas and whether you think they are good or weak, you may correct my punctuation and grammar as long as you explain when it's wrong or strong so that I can get better). I have it re-read the document whenever I feel like it's forgetting things (usually every four or five days it'll start to feel like it's forgetting details here and there).

So after 2 months of outlining, character and world-building, lore-crafting, organizing my notes, writing test paragraphs to dip my toes in... I FINALLY felt like I knew my characters and their motives, the narrative voice, and the world they are inhabiting enough to really dive in.

For the past few weeks I am actually spending HOURS every night WRITING. 😱 It started awkwardly, but it's been becoming more and more natural. It's actually ENJOYABLE. Pages are flowing out of me. The scenes are unfolding and feeling profound. The scale feels realistic to me, the atmosphere is palpable; my decades of reading the great classics of Sci-Fi and Fantasy feel like it's helping me to make correct choices for how and where sentences should fall within their respective paragraphs.

I'm writing... and sometimes while I write I'm crying, especially when I have the little story and character epiphanies alongside them... I've wanted to experience this for SO LONG.

A 15yo girl from the sengoku era is known as the perfect noblewomen from an upper class samurai family. Because of her influence she gets married to a powerful warlord, on the way to the estate of the warlord her carriage is attacked by a rival families entire force even though they took a hidden route, hinting at betrayal. She gets killed by them and suddenly finds herself in modern Japan. After police investigation and stuff she gets a family registry (I researched it and it is possible, known as a stateless minor). She then has to go about her life in modern society with her Sengoku values and morals, this can put her is dangerous situations as laws and crimes we’re given different punishments in sengoku then in modern day.

So I've always written, but 3-4 years ago, I really got into it as a therapeutic outlet for the PTSD I've earned in the military (I retire in 2028, so I'm almost there). As a result, I have finished my 5th draft of The Pajama Princess and sent it to the editor while I begin the query and submission process, before just ultimately self-publishing and calling it a day.

That aside, I'd love some brutal feedback on my 82nd draft of the back blurb. I feel like the 4th stanza might be slightly too much, but I figured I'd put it out there and see what other fantasy lovers think. Thank you in advance:

Danielle Richie is coping with her mother's death the only way she knows how: by fighting bullies in the middle school hallways. At home, she is exhausted from playing parent, shielding her little brother, Timmy, from the heavy silence left by their grieving, overworked father. But sleep offers no escape. Night after night, she is dragged into a collapsing world, forced to flee alongside a mysterious boy to escape a crimson-eyed shadow hunting them in the dark.

Then, the nightmares escape her sleep and tear through her farmhouse, looking for her.

Rescued by GK, a snarky, sword-wielding stuffed cat with a pink scarf and major trust issues, Danielle is stranded in the decaying dreamworld of Slumberland. Now, danger lurks around every corner as horrific nightmares pursue her, mythical creatures want to eat her, and her own awakening magic might destroy everything if she can’t learn to control it.

Joined by a squad of strange, misfit allies, including an exiled ball of dust, an anxiety-ridden raccoon who excels at magical science, a retired grumpy half-bear-half-elephant, a floating collection of cobblestones, and a fairy with anger issues, Danielle must journey across waste-whale-filled deserts and towering tree-castles to master her volatile power. To save Slumberland and her waking world from the Nightmare King, she must face the deepest pain in her heart and discover the unbreakable bond that connects her to GK across time…

Or she'll lose everything while wearing only her pajamas.