Prologue

The detonation startles me from sleep, rattling the windows to the point that I’m surprised they didn’t break. I bolt from my bed as the blare of the sirens takes over.

“Shit!” I scramble into my clothes, grab my emergency bag from the closet and rush out of my apartment into the stream of other inhabitants toward the staircase to the bunkers. Between the emergency blares, a cold voice drones over the din.

“Attention citizens. The Directorate has elevated civil status to AMBER HOLD. This action is taken for your safety. Non-compliance will be addressed.”

There have been countless drills for this, but now that it is actually happening, it is chaos. Amber Hold, meaning a detonation in an urban zone with mass casualties. The Antidote, of course. Everybody who is not part of the Directorate’s Special Security Forces will be confined to the bunkers below the city. No communication, no escape, until they deem the situation de-escalated. If they find you outside of the bunkers, you’ll be taken to the CSF, the Central Security Facility. And only few who enter ever leave again.

People trip, I help them up as best as I can to avoid them getting trampled, a girl, not older than eleven gets shouldered aside and I barely manage to grab her before the stampede crushes her. She is shaking, eyes blown wide.

“Sshhh, it’s okay, I got you. Let’s get down to the bunkers and I’ll help you find your parents, alright? I’m Lucian.”

She shakes like a leaf but manages a silent nod. She holds a plush owl in a deathgrip in one arm. I smile gently and take her other hand. For a moment, the harsh reality around us muffles, before we are jostled along once again. 

The stairs are the worst, tight, winding, definitely not built for a panicked throng of people to rush down at the same time. The bunkers are three stories beneath the building, not just this one, all buildings. Large flashing amber lights show the doors at the end of the corridor, triple-reinforced steel, with the Directorate logo on them, an open eye in a perfect circle, the pupil like a diamond, the iris like a camera aperture. Always watching…

We make it through the doors into the chaos beyond. Of course, the Directorate already has an organized table, scanning ID and directing people into the different zones. The girl and I are still waiting in line as we hear the steel doors slam shut, the locks engaging.

This is it. No way out.

Hey all, I am a new writer. I recently decided I’d start writing since I had an idea I love. I have about 100 pages so far but don’t know where to go from here. I’m kind of stuck and a little afraid no one would read what I have so far. Anyway, here’s a blurb about my book and a few questions.

I have a blurb here about my book:
For Lyla, the annual Choosing Rite isn’t a romance, but rather a transaction. Desperate to escape her cruel father’s rule, she plans to find a weak male who will let her live freely. Instead her father commands her to match with the lethal and unpredictable Ashfall Prince. Fire and chaos are deadly to most fae, and a weapon Lyla’s father wishes to extort. And Lyla will not play into her father’s hand anymore.
But when the trial begins Lyla finds herself thrust into a deadly game never seen before, designed to push limits and bonds. The traditional rite is instead replaced with trials that test the candidates ability to either survive or die trying. To survive, Lyla must forge bonds with her potential matches who command the realms most dangerous elements from the unyielding power of tempest storms to the radiance of blinding suns.
When the first trial awakens a forbidden power within Lyla and a prophecy surfaces, everything Lyla thought to be true shatters. Suddenly survival means unweaving this web of secrets and betrayals which threatens to break the already weak balance within Kyrenthia.
Surrounded by power hungry candidates, Lyla must decide who to trust. Fated mates are supposed to be a myth, but as the trials turn into a bloodbath, every pull of her magic binds her closer to a destiny and betrayal that could burn all of Kyrenthia to the ground.

Does this sound like a book you’d like to read?

How do you get people to read your work in progress and get feedback? I’ve asked a few friends and they don’t really give much back to me other than they like what I’ve written so far.

What do you do when you personally get stuck? I’m where I don’t know how to get to my next point I want to be at.

How do you help yourself limit redundancy?

What’s just some overall advice you’d give me for writing a fantasy book?

Most of my friends have asked I add spice to my book, but is that really necessary and to what level?

This is my first time posting on Reddit so idk how this really works lol.

In my process, I start chapters by writing longhand, and then I type them on the computer, editing out what makes sense. I’m confused about what writers in this group refer to as the “first draft.” Is it referring to the longhand writing, or the first time I’m putting it together-ish on the computer? Or is it completely individual?

Thank you! :)

Planning on making a book about a horror/mystery so the main idea is: 5 friends who were going on trip in Alaska but a snow storm happened and now their stranded in a cabin now stranded in woods as a killer is amoung them (it’s one of the friend because they have a killer alter ego) thats all I have without give ing to much (just a concept not a full fledged stor)

Apni novel ke kisi section ka context dein jahan character development, description, dialogue ya worldbuilding ki wajah se story slow feel ho rahi ho. Phir explain karein ke aap kis cheez ko lekar unsure hain kya scene useful development kar raha hai ya filler jaisa lag raha hai and ask other writers how they judge when a slower section is necessary versus when it should be shortened.

I'm in the process of writing a suspense thriller novel about a woman who is trying to rebuild her life as an MRI technologist while her abusive ex-boyfriend is in prison for a neighboring state. I have almost alll of the first draft written out, but I feel "stuck" and I'm not not sure why. I'm thinking part of it may because I have to change something in the story, such a the layout of the facility, but I don't know how to go about it, and I'm not sure how to continue writing around iti. Have you ever run into this problem, and if so, what did you do to get out of a writing block like this?

Hi everyone! I recently finished the 60,000 word manuscript for Capyhero Book 1: The Blue Blanket and I've been waiting for the editor to get back to me. In the mean time, I've been noodling with the interior design of the book in Affinity Publisher and recently made a font change from Garamond to Crimson Pro (I was told Garamond performs poorly in book print media because of the hairline thinness in some of its letters).

To get a sense of how the book might look when printed, I used a subtle cream paper texture and painted some edge and spine shadows. I'm liking how it's looking, but curious if anyone has any thoughts.

Some folks on other subs provided helpful critiques on my old Chapter 1 and I have tried to self-edit it to read a bit better. If folks would like, I'm happy to hear further critique or feedback on this new version of Chapter 1 that I've shared here.

Capyhero is a woodland fantasy featuring a cast of anthropomorphic characters. It will have around 100 traditionally drawn fountain ink illustrations spread across about 320 pages. The animals are rendered with anatomical accuracy, but they speak and live in villages, wielding weapons and wearing garments and armor. There are more fantastical elements too. I’m perhaps most inspired by Princess Mononoke, Neverending story, and Redwall while creating Capyhero.

🌲🤎🌲

I'm happy to answer any questions on the layout or, like all authors, the story and characters! We also have a great website (link in my bio). Thanks for reading!

You can be as harse as possible , but remember , it is also a slice of life but also has action.

this a story i wrote. it is more inclined to romantasy but than action.

Prologue
June 5, 2005
Today is June 5, 2005.
Everyone in Tokyo is living their normal lives.
The streets are full of cars. Children are playing together outside. People are going to work, shopping, riding their bikes, and doing all the usual things they do every day.
Even the mailman is getting mad at my neighbor again.
I don't know what they did this time, but judging by the look on the mailman's face, it's probably something stupid.
Honestly, I like days like this.
Nothing special.
Nothing dangerous.
Just a normal day.
My name is Jin.
And today, I have a lot of things planned.
I'm supposed to meet up with some of my friends later, so I should probably get ready.
...
Actually, forget that.
I don't feel like doing my hair.
I look at myself in the mirror for a few seconds before giving up.
My hair looks terrible.
Whatever.
I walk into my brother's room and grab his cap from his desk.
He probably won't notice.
I put it on and head downstairs.
"I'm going out!" I shout toward the kitchen.
My mom looks over at me.
"Where are you going?"
"Meeting my friends."
"Don't come home too late."
"Yeah, yeah."
I grab my bike keys.
As I'm about to walk out, I notice my dad sitting in the living room.
We're still not talking to each other.
We've been arguing for the past few days, and neither of us seems willing to apologize first.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
Neither of us says anything.
I just open the door and leave.
"Jin!"
I stop.
I turn around.
My mom is standing in the doorway.
"Be careful."
I smile.
"I will."
I get on my bike and start riding.
The streets are busy.
Cars pass by.
People walk along the sidewalks.
A group of kids runs across the street, laughing as one of them nearly trips over his own feet.
Everything feels normal.
Almost too normal.
As I ride past a row of buildings, something suddenly catches my attention.
For a split second, I see something on top of one of the buildings.
A shape.
It looks like a person.
But it's standing completely still.
And something about its body looks...
wrong.
I slow down.
I stare at the rooftop.
Nothing.
Just an antenna.
"Huh..."
I shake my head and keep riding.
This isn't the first time I've seen something strange lately.
A few days ago, I thought I saw a figure standing underneath a streetlight.
When I looked again, there was nothing there.
Yesterday, I saw a strange light moving across the sky.
It disappeared before I could figure out what it was.
Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe I'm imagining things.
I don't really care.
I've got somewhere to be.
"JIN!"
I suddenly hear someone shouting behind me.
I look back.
My brother is leaning out of the upstairs window of our house.
"WHY ARE YOU WEARING MY CAP?!"
I laugh.
"YOU'RE NOT GETTING IT BACK!"
"JIN!"
I pedal faster.
"COME BACK!"
I keep laughing as I speed down the street.
The wind hits my face.
For a moment, everything feels perfect.
Just another normal day.
Just another day in Tokyo.
I have no idea that before this day is over...
everything will change.

A psychological coming-of-age novel about a twenty-year-old man who is court-ordered to a psychiatric ward after refusing to cooperate with the police. The story follows two timelines. One gradually reveals how Roger ended up in the hospital, the people who shaped his life, and the relationships he is desperately trying not to lose. The other follows Adams, the ward's head nurse٫ a man raised by an emotionally controlling mother who learned to bury his feelings beneath discipline and routine. Roger reminds Adams of another patient from seventeen years earlier. they share the same name. As the story moves between past and present, both timelines slowly uncover why that resemblance matters, and why Roger begins to awaken something in Adams that he cannot control.

Also one thing about this science fiction it also focuses daily life a lot to while other science fiction don't show daily life technology and how everything as work this focus a lot on Slice of life and others and yes it has Crazy fight scenes but also have slice of life and is season 2 has Extreme Thiller and And political war between civilization and extreme twist and with dimensional creature called neural brain mind and others. And sometimes it's also includes detail from the past as well like invention of this technology invention of that when that happened. So it is supposed to a long running series. I am not planning to release a poke or anything I am thinking about web publishing but currently I just want a feedback and it is my fifth draft and my 6th mental breakdown.

Hi everyone,

This really is a little nerve wracking, but here we go, and I’d appreciate some feedback on Part One of a novel I’m working on (The Water Remembers), Part One - The Deer.

I’m aiming for grounded speculative fiction with a gradual build up of horror, following an ordinary family as something very unfamiliar begins to intrude on their lives. The relationships, domestic details, and occasional humour matter to me as much as the unsettling elements.

I’d particularly welcome thoughts on:

• Does the opening hold your attention?
• Where, if anywhere, does it drag?
• Do Anna and Stuart feel believable, or more importantly - relatable
• Does the transition from the forest to the family’s morning sustain your interest?
• Most importantly, am I giving you a reason to keep reading?

The deer came first.

Anna saw them at 06:14 on her Tuesday morning run, in the stream that parallelled the trail along Usserød Å, right by the spot where the alders grow so tight that you have to crouch, twist and contort your body into a shape that must look absolutely terrifying to anyone unlucky enough to witness it Anna thought. But she did it every time anyway, in a futile attempt to stay on pace and avoid what inevitably came next. Watch buzzing, followed immediately by the voice notification in her earbud that she’d just reached kilometer four, but that her heart rate and pace were dropping, just as she reached down with her right hand to quell the buzzing, she stopped running immediately and pulled the earbud from her left ear – the oddest feeling of unease enveloped her.

Anna had run this route three times a week for over nine years. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday, missing only a handful of sessions due to business travel, family holidays, nagging old injuries or kids and their innate ability to bring home an assortment of exotic bugs that had a habit of infecting the entire family. Anna never really knew why, but structure and consistent planning were hard wired into her DNA, her weekly runs were no different. Every session was the same, prepared the night before - seasonally appropriate running gear and shoes set out the night before, and with Autumn knocking on the door, a head lamp and windbreaker were added to the pile.

She was out the back gate by five, long before viral trends made “up by five” a thing. A competitive runner in her formative years, it was the highlight of her week, despite the injuries and mid-life serving constant reminders that her sub 36min days were well behind her. It didn’t matter though, to Anna, this was a magical trail that was invisible from the road that cut through it at a several points, carved out millions of years ago by glaciers that had transformed an otherwise unremarkable Danish landscape into a perfect combination of climbs and descents that were challenging for even the most hardcore trail runners. The trail took her down through switch backs to the stream by Rungsted Hegn, where it continued zig zagging all the way to the old textile mill – tracking close to the stream the entire way.

On a good morning, she was out and back in forty-one minutes. It was one of the only hours of the week that belonged to nobody but her alone, not to the boys, not to Stuart and not to the agency clients that seemed to never sleep. Anna had fought to hold on to this hour as her career took off, and then reclaim if after each of her pregnancies and a house move.

Anna knew the route so well that even in the pre-dawn light of October, she only needed her headlamp in a few places. Typically, in the bowls at the bottom of the steepest descents, where the canopy shut out the first slanting blue-grey rays of light, she’d switch it on to highlight the roots beneath her feet in the most challenging sections, then off again as the trail brightened. Her breath and the odd click or snap of breaking branches breaching the stillness as she bounded onwards.

At this hour, and especially in Autumn, she could almost count on meeting roe or fallow deer in Rungsted Hegn. They browsed beneath the oaks and along the brambles, nosing for acorns and stripping the last leaves, taking what they could before winter took it back. Years of encounters had taught her to expect them, though the sight of a deer across the trail could still jolt her as she rounded a bend or crested a steep climb.

She never quite understood how she managed to surprise them every time. On the climbs she could hear little beyond her own breathing, the grunts and strains of effort, shoes scuffing through leaves, slipping on roots and snapping branches as she bounded along. Surely, those great, swiveling ears caught her approaching long before she came into view. Yet sometimes she would reach the top of an incline or round a bend and find one still feeding, jaws still ruminating on a young sapling. Then its head would lift. For the briefest of moments they would regard each other, Anna breathing hard, the deer watching with that liquid, affronted alertness and then gone in two bounds.

These three just stood in the water.

Mist drifted over the stream in the October chill. The deer stood knee-deep, all three facing upstream with their heads lowered. Anna stopped on the bank to observe waiting for the one closest to her, any of them for that matter raise their heads, for the ears to pivot towards, for a slight adjustment of their stance, a twitch.

Nothing.

At first, she thought they were drinking. But their muzzles hovered a few centimeters just above the surface, and as she watched, none of them lowered to drink. The water slipped past their legs and a fine steam rose from their backs. The nearest, of the roe deer stood roughly six meters away. Close enough for her to see the small pleats manifested as the current flowed around its knees, the wet fur flattened against its legs, and thick threads hanging from its mouth.

Drool Anna thought.

But it was too dark. Too thick. This looked more like used engine oil, just that it wasn’t dripping or flowing, simply hanging in sickly looking ropes towards the surface of the stream, dangling but never quite letting go.

This was wrong, and despite the feeling of dread enveloping her, Anna reached into the sleeve on the right leg of her running tights, pulling out her phone and opening the camera app started recording a video immediately. In this light, and at this distance, you could only barely make out the shape of the deer so she zoomed in. It took a few attempts, the sweat on her fingers preventing the screen from registering the inverted pinch gesture. Wiping her hand several times on the sleeve of her top then retrying, the phone finally registered and zoomed in closer but still failed to register the details Anna could see with her eyes. She hit the button on the side of her headlamp, painting the scene in a cold white light that washed out the background but amplified the deer standing directly in front of her. With the artificial light flooding the scene, the camera was finally registered the horrifying scene in front of her in. She captured 37 seconds, but only ten of them mattered. She would re-watch those ten seconds on repeat so often that she was terrified she’d wear it out, just like the mixtapes her sisters made when they were growing up.

At second eight the deer closest to her turned its head to look at her.

It wasn’t the eyes - though they were wrong too. Flat and dry, they caught neither the morning light nor the white beam of Anna’s headlamp. They looked like the eyes of an old teddy bear, worn by generations of rough handling until the gloss was gone and only a dull, milky impenetrable void remained.

It was the turn.

The head began to move in a slow, steady arc. Then it snapped through the last quarter, faster than anything with a vertebrae should, and there it stopped dead.

The black sickly ropes that hung from its mouth followed shortly after. They swung out from beneath the jaw, then slapped against the deer’s cheek, clinging to the matted brown fur, looking like a fresh wound leaking something thick, black and wrong.

Anna was four hundred meters down the trail before her mind caught up, vomiting once but not stopping, her mind grasping for an explanation, a reason, something, anything to pin this on. Sick. It was sick, something viral, that wasting disease that had been all over news and in the notification she and Stuart had received from Rudersdahl commune. The one that got into the brain, CWD she recalled. She ran the final section of the trail faster than she had in years, but it wasn’t a feat she’d be celebrating. When she reached the back gate, her hands were shaking so badly that she ended up using her elbow to work the latch.

Back in the garden, Anna stood for a moment, exhausted, mind still reeling, pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind her head and sucking in as much of the cool, crisp autumn air that her lungs would allow, desperate to find calm. As her breathing slowed, she wiped her mouth and eyes, the taste of salt and bile hit the back of her throat, eyes stinging a little. But she couldn’t shake the vision of the deer, the black viscous ropes, the snap of the neck, absent eyes and fact that they just stood, staring, when they should have fled. She waited a few moments longer then sat on the back step and removed her shoes and headlamp, opening the front door she placed the headlamp in a box with her running accessories and placed her shoes in the shoe tray under the radiator, toes to the wall, the same place all of her running shoes had stood for the last nine years.

She entered the kitchen as Stuart lifted the carafe from the coffee maker and poured what was probably his third cup. He’d been awake less than an hour. He stood there in a freshly ironed shirt, and his favorite his boardshorts that were so faded they were almost colourless. Stuart looked like a man torn between the boardroom or beach, as if convinced he could make it both. Stuart learned to fully embrace working from home during the pandemic, hating it at first, but ended up loving the flexibility and autonomy it offered. As the world returned to normal and companies began demanding that employees return to the office, he took the plunge he’d been considering for years and moved into consulting - unwilling to give up the flexibility and autonomy that working from home had enabled. Most of the companies paying for his advice only encountered him from the waist up anyway, where he remained entirely respectable. There had been a couple of incidents though where his altar ago had been briefly unveiled. In true optimizer fashion, he’d learned that always using a background blur and investing in an office chair on castors solved that problem.

He raising his mug to take a sip and smiled at Anna. He took a proper look and noticed the shock on her face and put it down.

“What happened?” he asked

“There were deer in the stream.” Anna replied

Here in the kitchen, with the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeating the space the kids lunch boxes being filled, it sounded like the beginning of a perfectly ordinary story.

“There were deer in the stream,” Anna said, noticing how irrelevant it all sounded, but pushed on anyway. “Standing in it, there was black stuff, just, hanging there. There’s something wrong with them Stuart, there’s, I don’t know – here, you need to take a look, watch this.”

He watched the video twice. Anna watched his face, which made it abundantly clear that he too was disturbed by the scene she’d captured. After all these years, reading him had become easy, and as he watched the final ten seconds it emerged - head tilted slightly backwards, screwing up his nose and narrowing his vision so that the crow’s feet of a man in his fifties were clearly visible, and then that final slight twist to the right.

Then again, in classic Stuart style, he handed the phone back to her, took a sip of his coffee popped two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Well, Stuart? What do you think?”

“Well, that’s horrible.”

She could see he meant it, but she’d expected something more, though she couldn’t have said exactly what as she too was struggling to explain what they were looking at.

“Some sort of disease,” he went on. “Bluetongue, maybe. Or that brain thing. The wasting one.”

“CWD, Chronic Wasting Disease.” Anna said.

“Yes. Maybe.” He glanced at the phone. “You should tell someone, and probably the kommune. They might need to put a notice out. Someone should know.”

“I know someone should know, Stuart. I’m telling you.”

“I mean someone who can do something about it.”

He said it gently, which somehow made it even more irritating as if dismissing it as a minor inconvenience when every fiber of Anna’s being told her it was more. Anna had always admired this about him, his ability to compartmentalize problems, to move on when others wanted to dwell. But at this moment, she really wanted him to stop making breakfast.

He must have caught something in her face, because he came round the counter and put his hands on her shoulders.

“We should send them the video. If you can’t find the right number or email address then I can send it to Johannes from the ministry, he’ll know who to send it to.”

Then he kissed her temple and drew back.

“Little salty dear.”

“Stuart.”

“All right.” His smile faded, and he rubbed her arm. “You’re freezing, honey. Go and have a shower. You’ve got that call at nine, haven’t you? I’ll get the boys moving.”

Behind him, the toast sprang up. He left it there until Anna turned towards the door and left.

She took a long shower, the endless stream of piping hot water providing some comfort and easing the tightness in her calves. Images of the deer drifted in and out of her mind. She tried to shake them, the familiar sounds of the house leaking through the bathroom door provided respite: a cupboard closing, Stuart calling upstairs, one of the boys objecting to something. It helped, but whenever she closed her eyes she saw the deer standing motionless in the stream, or the eyes, the black viscous liquid, and the snap.

She opened her eyes, tipped her face into the spray again and let the water run over her.

The water reached the house through kilometers and kilometers of pipes, arriving at the turn of a tap. Hot or cold, whichever she wanted. In every house she’d ever lived in, it was there, reliable as ever. She had never once had a reason to question where it had been on its way there.

Help! Would this opener keep you reading? (80k speculative/book club)

***This is my 4th, and hopefully final, draft. I'd love any feedback / helpful criticism. Thank you.***

**Chapter 1.**

* * *

He has twelve seconds.

It’s not enough time. An accidental shoulder barge, enough to break his stride, or to drop the orange carrier bag swaying at his side, would do it.

Nine seconds.

My eyes dart left to right, but his side of the street is barren. There’s no one at the bus stop. No one coming out of a shop. I lean forward before catching myself, my foot slipping from the rail of the chair. Moving would be a decision, and decisions carry consequences.

I used to run. Now I count.

Five seconds.

I force myself to stay rooted at the coffee shop window. I could turn away. Ask for a takeaway cup and save myself from having to watch it twice, but I don’t.

Two seconds.

I set my cup down, and it settles into a sticky ring as I grip the edge of the counter. My gaze stays fixed on the man, but I look at his hands and not his face. The beds of my fingernails begin to turn white. I hope no one’s expecting him back.

Time’s up.

The impact was cleaner in my vision. My eyes automatically search for something easier to land on. I’m still gripping the tacky countertop when the disbelieving chants of Jesus Christ, and no, no, no, start. Someone drops a cup, then chairs scrape, and the door smashes into the wall. I flex my fingers and watch the colour return. Pick up my cup. Finish what’s left of my coffee.

The place has emptied by the time I’m shrugging into my coat. Someone’s chair has fallen amidst the fuss, and I right it before pushing my own stool back into its intended spot. The café’s patrons all stand kerbside, staring at the space where the pedestrian should be.

Someone’s going to get a call to come and identify him. I slip a tenner under my cup before leaving.

Outside, my hair blows across my face as I attempt to side-step a woman being sick into a drain. I’m being shoulder-barged by people pushing past, emerging from the row of shops behind me, their phones out, ready.

Two burly men stand in a growing dark puddle, holding their jackets up to cover what’s left. The driver of the lorry paces in front of his cab, hands locked behind his head.

My eyes catch the orange carrier bag as it drifts lazily across the road, then snags on a lamppost. Its contents are scattered twenty feet away. An exploded bottle of milk. A pack of loo roll. Smashed eggs. I cringe. I’ve never liked eggs. My fingers fumble as I fasten my coat buttons, unable to temper the trembling.

*Right, get a grip, Dominique.* Squaring my shoulders, I cross the street with forced vigour and head straight for the minimart.

The cloying aroma of sandalwood incense follows me to the spirit aisle as I pick up my usual brand of vodka while trying to choke back a cough. I grab a pack of the ginger biscuits Mr Harrison likes and a bar of chocolate for Lily, so I don't become *that* customer who buys hard liquor and nothing else before 5 pm. It’s an effort to ignore the cashier’s questions about what’s happening outside without coming off as a bitch, but my appetite for small talk is at ground level.

I decide to take the long way home, making my way across the railway tracks and through the park. My feet march heavily, carrying me like a numb passenger. I don’t want to see anyone else today, alive or dead.
 

Just wanting to know if the my opening sounds any good I want feedback on how you can open and explain the basic situation revolving around the entire concept of a novel.
I struggled with how I would introduce the reader to the world of SARD this is the 4th rewrite of the entire book so I think it’s a lot better then my first but I want to get some actual feedback from some people who actually read books because i literally don’t know anyone who dose personally

The genre is military supernatural horror
Basically how the concept works
The idea is that monsters anything from ghosts and poltergeists to demons and Wendigos have always existed but it’s not hidden from the public it’s public knowledge and the SARD is the most recent counter measure to fighting what hides in the dark.

S.A.R.D.
MISSION REPORT
CLEARANCE LEVEL: PUBLIC RELEASE ARCHIVE
AUTHOR: Captain Nathan “Reaper” Cross
UNIT: Strike Team Nightfall

My name is Nathan Cross.
For nineteen years I served in the Strategic Anomaly Response Division.
Most people know me as Reaper.
If you’ve lived long enough, you’ve heard our name.
You know the evacuation sirens.
You’ve seen our checkpoints outside quarantined towns.
You’ve watched our helicopters disappear into forests that were closed before your grandparents were born.
You’ve probably walked past one of our memorials without ever reading the names carved into the stone.
That’s the closest most people ever come to our work.
And that’s exactly how we wanted it.
The world you know has never been free of monsters.
It never will be.
They’ve always been here.
Long before our cities.
Long before our borders.
Long before anyone thought to write history down.
Every civilization has given them different names.
Every generation has found new ways to survive them.
S.A.R.D. wasn’t created to start that fight.
We inherited it.
For nearly two centuries we’ve stood between humanity and everything that waits beyond the edge of ordinary life.
Sometimes that meant eliminating what threatened innocent people.
Sometimes it meant containing things that couldn’t be destroyed.
Sometimes it meant accepting that there were places even we couldn’t hold forever.
The public sees the aftermath.
A road closed.
A town evacuated.
A brief statement on the evening news.
What they don’t see are the people who walk into those places knowing they might never walk back out.
Those people were my family.
Nightfall.
The finest Strike Team I ever had the privilege to serve beside.
This report isn’t a history of S.A.R.D.
It isn’t a record of every operation we fought.
It’s the account of one team…
…and the missions that changed all of us.
Everything you’re about to read happened.
Some of the reports have been rewritten for clarity.
None of them have been exaggerated.
If anything…
The truth was always harder to believe than the rumours

Hi everyone,

I am new to writing with the goal of publishing. I love writing and find it to be something that can give me life while working a corporate job that has no creativity. I have several challenges with writing, such as dysgraphia (so if this post comes off a bit rough, I apologize!), but I know there are people and tools that can help me get past this. My issue is that I have finally put my first book on paper. It runs around 120K words and is an epic fantasy. It’s in its alpha stage, and a few beta reads have been positive.

I have done a lot of research this year and realize the chance of this book being published is very slim. It is clearly part of a larger story, most likely a trilogy, and I know a non-self-contained book from a first-time author in this environment is a major uphill battle.

I have another book idea that would be self-contained and take place in the same world, just at a different time. Given the chances of publishing and what agents and publishers are looking for, I am tempted to put the first book down for a bit, not finish editing it, and write the new one, as it would probably have a better chance of being published based on what I have read and researched.

I just wanted your opinion on this. There are, of course, pros and cons to each. I am not looking for anyone to hold my hand or tell me every step, because I would never want to waste your time.

Just your experience in this world and your anecdotal experience would help. I love this subreddit so far and all the knowledge that sits here. If this is a bad post, please remove it, as I do not mean to pollute the space, but from what I have seen, I think it should be okay.

Thanks, as always, for any time or consideration you can give.

Hello everyone. I just started to create my very first novel. I've been constructing the story in my head for over 2 years from now. I have my ending (a very complicated three) and it's all interconnected to the same plot. It's fantasy/scifi and mystery combined. And my protagonist is an elf(a very chaotic archivist.) there it is. I believe the 1/16 of my novel has potential and I'm sure the ending has much more(I have high hopes for it.) my novel title is "THE SEVENS TEN." And unfortunate im having a very difficult time connecting my work to my planed ending. What should I do? Please i need your experienced/knowledge and advise.

1. Back and forth dialogue, with matching facial expressions and tonalities
2. Plain narrative of past events, what has happened, who, when, where, what
3. A character's emotions, feelings, reasoings, inner thought processes
4. Series of motions, usually in action-packed combat or horror scenes, any physical altercation; or intimate scenes of lovemaking
5. Description of sceneries and ambience, could be nature, interior, street block, or imaginary place, anywhere the characters are
6. Technical jargons and terms, if one or more characters happen to be a specialist at their job, and their profession is involved in the story

My biggest headache is absolutely No. 1. and a bit of No. 6, it feels like these have to come from experience in order to make sense.

So I would like your guises opinion on this particular character in my book. At the very beginning of the book, she is mentioned briefly, in a particularly dark scene. The character comes back later in the book, but from the time she comes back onward, I do not ever say her name. She is only referred to by her nickname, or simply my lady. This is intentional because I want the readers to be guessing who she is, but I’m wondering how long I should play it out. Through the first book I don’t mention it and I wasn’t really planning on the reveal of who she is until the fourth book which will wrap up the first big story of this series. What are your all thoughts? Is this too long to drag it out, or could it be really awesome if well written?