u/Familiar_String8239

I just made two banners for my ongoing story, they correspond with whose POV the chapter is written in. Does this actually elevate the book, or make it feel cluttered?

And are mine the right vibe?

https://preview.redd.it/ofyvcj3pvi1h1.png?width=1064&format=png&auto=webp&s=50823abc7a1fce0b3c3374550d1f8f8539ab3b9c

https://preview.redd.it/s29eej3pvi1h1.png?width=1064&format=png&auto=webp&s=e3da14f4fc80b4108559dd682c09829093ecc1ba

Looking for anybody who would want a relaxed book buddy. It'll be a more relaxed friendship style situation where we can critique, motivate, and bond over our own writing and books. Anybody interested?

So I'm writing a grumpy x sunshine style story with darker themes. But my problem is writing the story in a way that actually portrays it as a slow burn. How do I write slow enough that it's actually a slow burn? But when is it too slow and not moving enough? Is there a major turning point where things speed up quickly? Or is it slowly linear and suddenly their in love? Also how do I convince readers its a slow burn?

(Couldn't figure out how people were putting stories in like pages, but here's my work)

Chapter Four 

(Adelaide Rainy Ramos) 

A week, five closing shifts at the pet store, and no sightings of Cassian later, I trudged up the front entrance of my house. My arms ached from stacking dog food bags, and my brain felt like wet cardboard. I paused at the door, giving myself a moment to gather myself before going into this heck hole. 

I shoved any thought of Cassian deeper, past the guilt pile, past the anxiety pit, right into the mental trash can labeled 'Do Not Open.' I hated that I missed his brooding presence. He hadn't said a single nice thing to me, but he did give me his hoodie that night. That was the kindest thing I thought anyone had done for me in a while, if ever. 

I had to return his stupid, big, warm hoodie anyway. I was currently wearing it. Don't judge. I liked the way it smelled, although over the past week I'd worn it so much there wasn't much scent left anyway. 

My hand closed around the door handle, and I twisted it slowly, bracing myself for whatever horror I was about to walk into. The porch light hummed above me, flickering like it was nervous too. I already knew the silence inside wasn't peace, it was the inhale before the storm. It was quiet for a moment, a painful, ear-screeching silence, before I heard glass shatter. 

The crash detonated—glass slicing the air. I threw myself behind the door; shards pinged off it like tiny bullets. I heard my father's slurred voice from inside the house. "Don't hide from me, bitch." 

I ducked behind the door even more, using it like it was a shield. I shrank down, hundreds of scenarios of what was about to happen running through my head. The door was suddenly gone, no longer covering my trembling form. 

My father stood over me, eyes wide with drunk anger. He was always the worst when he was drunk, I tried to tell myself. I pulled my eyes shut, pushing them together as he towered over me. When the strike didn't happen I slowly opened them, tentatively. 

He had his hand pulled back, ready to inflict pain, but he stopped. The room tilted; I could hear my heartbeat over the ringing in my ears. For one horrifying second, I thought he was reconsidering hitting me. Then he spoke. "We're out of whiskey." His hand lowered and instead his boot slammed into my side, air whooshing out of my lungs. Pain bloomed sharp and mean. "Go get me more." 

My hands scraped painfully on the concrete as I tumbled backward. I looked up at him with watery eyes. "I-it's nine at night-" 

"Don't back talk me!" He fumbled in his pockets before pulling out a twenty dollar bill and throwing it at me. It fluttered softly and landed a few feet in front of me, very anti-climactic. Everything in this house crashed except money, apparently. "GO!" 

I quickly scrambled to my feet, fisting the money. It crumpled in my hand as I turned away from my drunk, fuming father. I paused after a second, turning around to face him again. "W-where am I supposed to go?" I hated the way my voice trembled and the tears slicking my cheeks. 

"Bronds," he slurred, stepping back into the house. 

"But I don't know....." The door slammed in my face and my words trailed off. I was left in a deafening silence, my mouth open with the words I was about to say. "I don't know where that is." I finished my sentence. 

The night air tasted like rain and cigarettes; every step sounded too loud. I turned around and began walking down the street, having no idea where to go. I was trembling still, my cheeks wet with my tears. 

I wiped them off with the back of my hand, trying to think. I couldn't go home. Not without the whiskey. I'd probably get whipped with the belt again and not be able to walk for days. I had no idea where I was going. 

I put a hand over my pockets, feeling for my phone. No such luck. 

I let out a grunt, whimper, of frustration, burying my hands in my face. What was I going to do anyways? It's not like a beer store would just sell some whiskey to an underage girl. Maybe they would be able to tell I was crying and take pity on me and sell it to me anyways. 

My luck was running low already today, so I wouldn't bet on it. 

I stumbled down the sidewalk, feet dragging a little. Maybe I could just sleep on that cozy little bench for the next couple of days, let the situation blow over and then go home. Maybe they'd even say they missed me. Maybe pigs would fly inside the liquor store. 

Another tear rolled down my cheek and onto my lips. I tasted the salty taste that accompanied my worst moments. That taste I tasted so often. If I was just less of a crybaby.... 

I reached the bench and stared at it for a moment, messing with the cuff of the hoodie. A blessing in itself. It was keeping me warm. The pretty man, Cassian, was still a jerk but right now his hoodie was the only gift I had left. The only one I had ever been given. The bench's metal was still warm from the day, tiny mercy in a cold world. 

I continued walking after a moment, letting myself keep walking. Maybe I would reach a beer store eventually? I was sure there was one in this direction at some point. I just had to keep walking. 

I was just a few blocks away from the pet store when I paused. My eyes were pinned on a building. A bar. Not exactly a beer store. It was the name of the place that had initially caught my eye. Bronds. 

A warm feeling starting in my chest began to bloom out in small tendrils. Hope. It felt foreign, like trying on someone else's skin. It was stupid, dangerous. 

My father had sent me to a bar. 

I paused at the door before wiping off my tears with the cuff of the hoodie and opening the door and entering. I was thankful that inside there weren't any strippers or other just as unappealing people dancing on poles or the counters. There were a lot of people inside, most if not all drunk. 

The whole place had that sickly sweet smell of alcohol and felt humid, the mass of sweaty bodies explained that. Glass cups were scattered on the tables and floor, loud conversation and music filling the space. Laughter burst like gunfire from one corner, a dartboard slammed in another. Everyone there looked like they could swallow me whole. 

I stepped up to the bar, unsure what to do. 

'Hey bartender, can I get a bottle of whiskey?' I internally slapped myself. I definitely could not say that. 

A guy next to me leaned in close to me and his sweaty arm touched mine. I practically leapt away from him, scooting further down the bar. His eyes were glazed over and dilated. Drunk. 

The bartender, a young guy, probably mid-twenties, came over to me, a lazy smile on his face. "What can I get for you?" He asked, scanning the situation with a calculated swoop. He had short messy blonde hair and a bit of a crooked smile. 

"Whiskey." I chirped back, fiddling with the cuff of the hoodie nervously. My eyes darted back to the guy next to me, but he was laughing with another guy next to him. The whole place was starting to make me feel very claustrophobic. I didn't belong there. 

He tilted his head a little as he studied me. "Got a specific choice or want me to surprise you?" His grin said he already knew I didn't belong there. 

"Ummm..... whatever has the highest alcohol content." Why did I say that? I internally slapped myself. What a stupid, stupid thing to say. I couldn't have just asked for like Scotch, or Tennessee, or Bourbon for crying out loud. 

"I'm going to need an ID." He studied me, his lazy smirk still on his face. 

"I left it.... at church." Yep. Church. Because that's what people said when they were totally not lying through their teeth. 

"Church?" He asked, eyebrows raising a fraction. 

I held my ground, fear filling me a little bit. What did they do to minors trying to get alcohol? "That's right. I accidentally put the bible in front of me and forgot to grab it again." 

He let out a little chuckle. "Let me guess... 18?" 

I gave him an offended look. "33." I crossed my arms, giving him my most intimidating look. 

"Damn." He shook his head a little bit, definitely not believing me. Surprisingly though he reached down and grabbed something from under the table, a glass. He pulled out a thing of whiskey. "You could've at least lied like 24 or something a little more believable." 

"33 is believable," I said. "Because it's true." 

He poured some of the whiskey into the glass and put it in front of me. "You better give me a real good tip." 

I stared at the drink in front of me, shocked that it actually worked. I paused, what was I supposed to do, carry back the glass to my house? That wouldn't be enough for my parents not to beat me, but it was better than nothing right? 

"Can I get a lid with this?" 

He let out a little chuckle next to me. "You want me to spoon feed it to you as well?" 

I glared at him, one more snarky comment from him and I swore I'd bust out my YouTube trained fighting skills. I grabbed the drink, it would have to be enough. "This is fine." 

A shadow fell across the bar. The glass vanished. I stared at the empty space for a second before watching the drink get poured into the sink. 

A low voice cut through the noise, familiar enough to freeze my spine. "What the hell are you doing, Addie?" he asked, his towering form standing next to me, his usual dark look in his even darker eyes. 

I crossed my arms, staring at the drink that just got dumped down the sink. My last hope, poured down the drain. 

"I was going to have a drink." 

He glared at me a little, his eyes narrowing. I saw his jaw tick a little. "You're nineteen." 

The bartender next to us muttered, "I was close," to himself. I gave him a sharp look before turning back to Cassian. 

"Maybe I lied to you." 

He let out a dry scoff. "That sounds fucking just like you." He grabbed my arm. "This is not the place for you." 

I looked down at his grip on my arm, it was firm, but surprisingly gentle. I met his eyes, his dark, deep, endless eyes. "I need it." 

Before he could respond, that guy that was bugging me earlier put his arm around me, his sweaty touch nauseating. I could smell alcohol on his breath as he pulled me closer to him. "Hey sweetheart, come on over," he slurred. 

Then Cassian was on him. 

Cassian's fist connected with the man's face. A crack, a grunt, and he was on the floor. "Keep your fucking hands off her." 

The drunk man touched his bleeding nose slowly, standing up. 

Cassian looked over at me. "See, this is why you shouldn't fucking be here." 

Before I could respond the man Cassian just punched made the rash decision of punching Cassian in the face as vengeance. 

Cassian managed to dodge it mostly, but his fist caught the edge of his cheek, skin splitting because of the man's ring. Cassian didn't react, just countered the punch by grabbing the man's head and sending it into his knee. 

I could hear the man's skull crack on Cassian's knee as he fell back grabbing his head, groaning. Cassian reached up and touched his cut a little. 

I grabbed his hand before he could. "Don't touch it." 

His dark eyes shot to look at me, his eyes locking onto where I was touching him. I saw him take a deep breath. 

"You're bleeding. And you're covered in his blood. You're going to get it infected." 

His fingers curled into a fist, but he didn't protest as I led him to the back, finding a bathroom. I wet some paper towels and pressed them against the cut softly. 

His breath caught, brushing against my cheek; it smelled like whiskey and adrenaline. 

"Quit complaining, you cry baby," I replied, lightly dabbing them on his cheek to clean the blood. His eyes met mine, and for a second, the noise outside disappeared. 

Once the bleeding had mostly stopped I grabbed a bandaid from one of the drawers in there and went to open it. 

"I'm not fucking putting that on my face." 

"Do you want to bleed out?" I replied, crossing my arms at his protest. 

He growled a little. "I'm not going to fucking bleed out." He opened the bathroom door, stepping out. 

I glanced at my half-open bandaid before throwing it in the trash, frustrated. "You're welcome." 

He didn't respond, just continued walking back to the front of the bar. He got back to the front and the bartender spoke. "All good, boss?" 

I tilted my head a little bit. "You work here?" I wondered what he did. He would've made a very good bouncer, but he couldn't dodge a punch very well so I eliminated that one. Maybe he was a janitor? He probably could mop for hours with those huge biceps of his. My arms got tired so quickly whenever I mopped. 

"I own it." 

I paused, my train of thought running off a cliff. My jaw dropped a little. "You own it?" 

He didn't repeat himself, he actually just completely ignored me. 

I took the moment to grab a bottle of whiskey from under the bar, tucking it under the hoodie. 

His dark eyes narrowed, he clocked the fact that the bottle was tucked under the hoodie, his hoodie. "I told you you can't have any." 

"I told you, I need it." 

"Why do you need it?" He asked, condescendingly, stepping towards me. 

I paused trying to think of a believable answer. "To forget." I finally said, my answer was completely true. Once I gave it to my parents they would forget, which meant I could be alone. 

He paused, considering my answer. "You fucking owe me. And I want my hoodie back." 

The bartender froze a little at this, taking in that the over-sized hoodie clinging to my frame was his boss's. He didn't say anything though, he was definitely smart. 

"But—I have to walk home." 

"I'm giving you the whiskey. Pick one or the other. You don't get fucking both." 

I frowned a little bit at that before pulling the hoodie over my head and handing it to him. "It smelled weird anyways." Tears pricked at my eyes though, I really liked that hoodie. 

He grabbed it from me, keeping his harsh glare on me. 

"Thank you," I whispered softly, turning around and walking out. Behind me, the door swung shut with a hollow thud, like the period at the end of a sentence I didn't want to write. My heart ached for that hoodie, that piece of comfort. The night air hit me like punishment. Without his hoodie, I felt the cold for real, the cold glass of the whiskey bottle biting into my skin. 

 

 

Be honest, when do you get in your best flow state? Where do your creative writing juices just seem to bubble over the most? Is it laying in bed, snuggled in blankets? At your desk, with a chair with good back support? Is it on the couch; TV playing in the background?

Follow up question:

Are you silent kind of writer or does music help you focus better?

I'm a writer who loves em dashes. They break up sentences in thoughts in a clear and logical process. They are just about perfect for any type of writing, thriller, fantasy, romance.

And stupid AI is ruining their wrap.

An author these days can't use them because they'll be accused of using AI. Like are you serious? Humans invented them first, we have the right to use them too. If I want to use an em dash instead of using an appositive phrase because I like how it flows— so be it. Anyone else feeling this is an actual problem in the writing world right now?

[supprimé]

I need help keeping my writing consistent, because everytime I write I'm in a different mood and my writing gets to suffer. The main character will think slightly different, I'll write amazing dialouge (or horrible dialouge), I'll lean into insane descriptions (or avoid them at all costs), I'll start stating instead of letting the reader figure it out themself, I'll use amazing figurative language (or none at all). How do I stop doing this and make my writing consistent? Does this have to do with procrastination or lack of motivation?

Also best ways to keep track of plot, character arcs, ect. without it seeming like a huge daunting task?

Let's all be honest, the way WattPad keeps track of readers is the most annoying thing in the world. Like what do you mean my engaged readers disappear after 365 days, and my Daily readers disappears after 30 days. Not to mention total reads.

Well I think I found a solution. It's a lot of work and may not be worth it, but it gives me peace of mind and actual data. I took a google sheet and have been putting all the information in it. I even put dates, and it tallies up my daily readers for me. I can keep track of how quickly my engaged readers are growing and be able to look back (the same for total reads). I even started tracking votes to. So now I have a more accurate measure!

I'm currently writing a book, It's called "The Unclaimed Principessa" it's got about a million different tropes, the main two being the 'lost mafia princess' trope and the other being the 'evil twin sister' trope. And I think my writing is fantastic, but I need a new cover. Mine isn't unique, doesn't pull people in. BUT. I'm scared if I change it people who are already invested in the book won't recognize it. I might lose some of the readers, but I could gain new readers. Help me.

Here's the book, take a look at the cover and give me feedback please:

https://preview.redd.it/yej1uvyca8zg1.png?width=184&format=png&auto=webp&s=22d0caec3957aa333a6c4529f560bb163e82b6a4

My brother Jake is 22. He’s not the kind of person who scares easily. He’s the guy who watches horror movies and laughs at them. The kind who goes camping alone just because he can.

So when he and his friends said they were going out near Area 51, I didn’t think much of it.

They weren’t trying to storm anything. Just drive out, take pictures, maybe see something weird in the sky. Normal dumb curiosity.

Jake texted me throughout the day. Memes, random stuff, nothing unusual.

The last normal message I got from him was at 8:57 PM.

“Desert’s kinda peaceful tbh.”

Three minutes later, he sent:
“Do you ever feel like the sky is too close?”

I didn’t answer.

At 9:36 PM:
“It’s not empty out here.”

That’s the last thing I got before everything stopped.

His friends came back the next morning around 10.

I remember because my mom was making coffee when they showed up at the door.

They looked… wrong.

Not injured. Not panicked. Just… off.

Like when someone is trying too hard to act normal.

My mom asked where Jake was, and one of them—Evan, I think—said:

“He wandered off. We thought he’d come back.”

Just like that.

No urgency. No emotion.

I asked them to explain, and they kept repeating the same thing in slightly different ways:

“It got dark.”
“We couldn’t see him.”
“He said he saw something.”
“He walked out further.”

But none of it lined up.

Every time we asked for specifics, they’d pause for just a second too long before answering.

Like they were waiting for something.

Or remembering what they were supposed to say.

Search teams went out that same day.

They brought dogs. Drones. Everything.

Nothing.

No tracks leading away from the area.

No signs of a struggle.

No phone signal past the last ping, which placed him miles away from any restricted boundary.

It was like he just… stopped existing.

Day 3 is when things started getting weird.

I didn’t include this before because I thought I was just sleep-deprived.

I woke up around 2 AM to get water.

As I passed Jake’s room, I heard something inside.

A soft sound.

Not movement. Not breathing.

More like… whispering.

But that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t there.

I stood outside his door for a full minute, just listening.

It wasn’t words. Not exactly.

More like the shape of words.

Like when a TV is on in another room and you can hear voices but can’t make anything out.

I opened the door.

Nothing.

Room was empty.

But the air felt… wrong.

Heavy.

Like I had just walked into a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

On Day 5, he came back.

No one saw where he came from.

A neighbor found him walking down the road like nothing had happened.

No injuries. No sunburn. No dehydration.

Five days in the desert, and he looked fine.

Too fine.

At first, we were just relieved.

We didn’t ask too many questions right away.

But Jake didn’t act like someone who had been missing.

He didn’t hug anyone.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t even seem confused.

He just walked in, sat down, and looked around the house like he was… taking inventory.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

The first time he spoke, it wasn’t to answer a question.

My mom asked, “Where were you?”

He looked at her for a long time.

Then said:
“Where were you when it noticed?”

We all kind of froze.

My dad laughed it off. Said it was probably shock.

But Jake didn’t react to that.

He just kept looking at her.

Waiting.

Over the next few days, things got worse.

He stopped answering questions directly.

If you asked him something, he’d either repeat part of it back, or respond with something… close, but wrong.

Like language was something he was still figuring out.

He also stopped using contractions.

Instead of “I’m,” he’d say “I am.”

Instead of “don’t,” he’d say “do not.”

It sounds small, but it makes everything he says feel… unnatural.

He doesn’t sleep.

At least, I’ve never seen him sleep.

He lies down sometimes. Closes his eyes.

But if you check on him randomly, his eyes are open.

Just… staring.

Two nights ago, I heard the voices again.

This time, it was definitely him.

I stood outside his door, and I could hear him talking.

But it wasn’t just his voice.

It sounded layered.

Like multiple versions of him speaking at once, slightly out of sync.

Some higher. Some lower.

And underneath it, something else.

A sound I can’t describe.

Not human.

Not mechanical.

Just… wrong.

I recorded it.

Or at least, I tried to.

When I checked my phone the next morning, the file was there.

But it was just static.

No voices.

Last night was the worst.

I was lying in bed, pretending to sleep.

I don’t know why. I just had this feeling.

Like I shouldn’t be awake.

Around 3:12 AM, my door opened.

Slowly.

No knocking.

I kept my eyes closed, but I could see him in the mirror across my room.

He stepped inside and just stood there.

Watching me.

Not breathing. Not moving.

Just… observing.

After a while, he tilted his head.

The way an animal does when it’s trying to understand something.

Then he said:

“It is easier when you are not looking directly at it.”

His voice didn’t match his mouth.

It lagged.

Like bad audio over a video.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

I don’t think he knew I was awake.

Or maybe he did.

After a few seconds, he left.

This morning, I asked him about it.

Tried to keep my voice normal.

Asked what he meant.

He smiled.

But it wasn’t right.

It was delayed. Like he had to remember how to smile.

Then he said:

“You did not see it either, did you?”

I asked him what “it” was.

He didn’t answer.

Just kept smiling.

I was going to stop there.

I was going to pretend this was something explainable.

Until tonight.

I got a notification on my phone.

A video file.

From Jake.

Timestamped the night he disappeared.

9:41 PM.

I opened it immediately.

It’s only about 8 seconds long.

It shows the desert.

Dark. Quiet.

The camera shakes a little, like he’s holding it with one hand.

Then it tilts up.

At first, there’s nothing.

Just sky.

Then something shifts.

Not across the sky.

Closer.

Like it was already there.

Blending in.

And once you notice it, you can’t unsee it.

It’s not a shape.

Not exactly.

More like a distortion.

Like the sky is bending around something that shouldn’t exist.

And right before the video cuts out, you hear Jake whisper:

“It knows when you notice it.”

I tried to show my parents.

The file wouldn’t open.

It just… wouldn’t play.

I checked my phone storage.

It’s gone.

No trace of it.

I know what I saw.

And I don’t think Jake came back alone.

Here’s the part I didn’t want to write.

The part I was hoping I was imagining.

Ever since I watched that video, things feel different.

Not around Jake.

Around me.

I keep catching myself looking at the sky.

Not on purpose.

Just… checking.

And sometimes—

I get that same feeling he described.

Like it’s too close.

Like it’s not empty.

And last night, when I closed my eyes—

I swear I could still see it.

Not clearly.

Just the outline.

Like it was burned into my vision.

Waiting.

I don’t think it followed Jake.

I think—

it noticed him.

And now—

I think it’s noticing me.

If anyone else has been out there recently…

If you’ve looked up and felt like something was looking back—

please tell me.

I need to know if this is just in my head.

Or if it’s already too late.