u/Murky-Complaint-7976

What do readers think about a story that is character driven?

Like of course it will have a plot but more simpler. Like how the life flows. But as it will be character driven the story will move with the pace of the characters development.

So anyone thinks it'll be boring? Or is it a wanted theme?

(I'm writing a character who's mental health is so skewed I don't know how to even write in a way I can say she's atleast healing. So will y'all read stories like that or does have to have some tempting plot to hook you?)

Snippet:

I now understand that she has spent her whole life orbiting people she resented for having what she didn't. Her own sister's beauty. Her sister's husband, who actually loved her. Me, because I was the living proof that my mother's life had turned out better than hers. She collected grievances the way other people collect memories–carefully, and with great dedication.

It frightens me sometimes, when I let myself think about it. The idea that jealousy can hollow a person out so completely that they can't even stand to be near happiness that doesn't belong to them.

It frightens me because I wonder, on the quieter nights, if I'm capable of the same. If there's a version of me–further down a road I don't want to take–who can no longer look at Kiara's joy without feeling the absence of my own. I don't want to find out.

***

***

I once came across a woman who loved her sister yet was envious of her and at that moment I was baffled and had to ask my sister that if we ever get to that point, she better call me out rather than fall into that rabbit hole of being miserable and hateful to even your own sibling.

This are my thoughts spoken out loud. I sometimes worry that I might come to hate my own sister because she achieves more than me and is better at lot of things than me.

But thankfully I clocked the toxic pattern early. But I sure as hell wouldn't want to think like that ever again.

It's nothing big but I just want to ask, did you ever write a book character that starts hitting too close to home that you just had to take time away from writing them because just writing it makes your throat clog up and brings all the good and bad past?

I wrote a character simply as a way to show my relationship with my sister but then I added mental health issue which I had gone through then it just started becoming too much. Like the character is just suffering and I'm too with her because she's almost a self insert.

The only good thing is my mmc but then because I want to torture myself I'm gonna give him something traumatic too.

---

A little snippet of my book:

Because I want to give her what she's asking for. I want it more than she knows. But the things that are breaking me quietly, daily–they begin with her happiness and end with my silence, and there is no version of the truth that doesn't cost one of us something we can't afford to lose.

---

I know I've been just putting out my snippets rather than uploading but I need to hoard the chapters before I start uploading.

***

Which brings me to now– standing outside my university at an hour no student has any business being here, all because I left my notes behind in my Lit class. Notes I desperately need, considering I was unceremoniously removed from said class today for smoking.

Not my finest moment. I'm aware. But I had just found out that the man I have been quietly, devastatingly in love with is going to be engaged to my sister by the end of the week. So. The smoking felt justified at the time.

The thing about my mind is that it is not a place you'd want to be left alone in. It's loud and cluttered and occasionally cruel, and on days like today it becomes something I can barely survive being inside of. I think sometimes, half-seriously, that checking myself into a ward would be a kindness– to me and to everyone unfortunate enough to exist near me.

***

Will it be a lie if I said the fmc isn't a self insert? Sure will.

Because it is. Not every aspect of her-- because I want her as an individual not just me. But the aspect that shows my depressive state.

It's just she chose different measures and I chose other. But she is me and me is her. Two sides of the same coin.

I just want to know-- from my fellow depressed people-- what do you do to keep your mind occupy, if you can't afford therapy?

I figured this out early. After the first one–the boy who got close to me only to get closer to Kiara, who didn't even have the decency to call it what it was–I understood that heartbreak has a shelf life if you let it. Holding onto it only meant paying twice. Once when it happened, and once every day after. Some lessons you only need once.

•••

So I know this sounds typical older sister better and younger being a nerd but this is not one of those. In this story the sisters actually love each other, it's just the fml who is mentally too exhausted and too unstable that makes it harder for her to trust people.

I actually wrote the sibling dynamic taking my own dynamic with my sister.

Also the dynamic of me feeling inferior to her not because of her--I'm proud of her for how talented she is--but because the society who constantly compares us.

I sometimes hate the society then remember the society lives in my own house too. Variations of it.

That has been my life. A girl who lets people walk all over her, as long as they don't walk away.

Is that pathetic? Yes. I know it is. Will I do something about it? No. I can't.

I don't say this is my life. But there's a bit of truth in this. We let people we love get away because our love and this strange sense of loyalty bound to them. And then because you already are pathetic in a sense, you lose your fight against anyone that comes after them.

Hence, why I think love is something I cannot bring myself to be in because if I love, I'll love fully which either ruin me or ruin my partner because I definitely am not steady.

Not to say love is bad. It is a beautiful thing. Just not for me.

Human nature is a pitiful thing, really. Out of sheer terror of loneliness, we reach for the hand that might hurt us. And when it does, we kiss it anyway, just so it won't take its warmth and leave.

I genuinely thought I was going through a slump and started just writing things up. Then this popped up in my head. I just hope I get out of my slump. I itch to write but my hand and my mind just come up with beautifully blank canvas.

Anyone else going through slump? Or just me?

☆☆☆

THE STARBOY'S ADDICTED? OR JUST A NEW PR STUNT TO STAY RELEVANT?

England's beloved Starboy has reportedly been spotted indulging in more than just his acting career–sniffing up something far less legal, alongside his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Sasha Ivanov, daughter of business mogul Alexander Ivanov.

Ferrell was allegedly seen at a known hotspot for the city's drug trade. Sasha, meanwhile, was photographed visibly intoxicated, hurling insults at a journalist who simply asked a question–though admittedly, rudeness seems to be something of a signature for Miss Ivanov these days. She was last seen, of course, draped across Ferrell's lap in the back of his SUV.

There's a photo attached. Sasha, me, the SUV–a moment I genuinely don't remember anyone capturing.

Stay tuned for more on Ferrell.

Catch me if you can, Starboy.

Your devoted admirer,

Lilith Devereux

☆☆☆

I've been writing for six or seven years, and I still fear being judged. It's the reason I've never uploaded or shown my writing to anyone. I'm hoping this one is finally good enough.

Paparazzi Duet Book One

Chapter One

Lucas

☆☆☆

"Come on, lad, I ain't asking you to move your arse to some other country, am I? Just give it a thought, yeah?"

Powell might as well be asking for exactly that. But the man's stubborn as a mule, and he won't stop until I hand him the answer he wants.

"I need to talk to my manager first. If my schedule's clear enough, I might give it a shot." I let the words hang there, let him think he's won–let him think I've put my feet down and folded. Then I pull the rug out from under him. "But I'm not flying out to the States for this, Powell. I don't care how big the paycheck is, or how much it'll do for my career. We're clear on that, or there's no signing."

I can practically hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Metaphorically speaking. The man's a pain in my arse, takes far too much pleasure in winding me up but I'll give him this: he's got the brains to run the company I sold myself to. Signed my soul to the devil, more like.

He taps his fingers against the desk, probably calculating how to wind me up tight enough to dance to his tune. Thankfully, the man's old as sin, at least in business years. Pushing sixty, and the rumor mill says he's eyeing early retirement.

I've never heard so much joy ripple through a company as the day that rumor started. Behind his back, of course. But the man's got ears and eyes in every corner of this building, so I'd bet good money he already knows.

He leans back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight, and his eyes drag over me–slow, assessing, the kind of look that makes my skin crawl. But the wad of cash sitting in my account since I signed with this company is more than enough to make me act deaf and blind to everything else they hide behind their polished smiles and ironclad contracts.

"Fine. We'll see about that." He lets the words settle before he leans forward. "But Ferrell–know this. The investors on this film wanted you. I don't care why. All I care about is you don't tarnish my name doing it. First impressions matter, lad. Make it good, and make it last."

I don't care why? Bullshit. Of course he cares. That asshole knows damn well I'm the face of this agency–the one who actually pulled in the numbers instead of letting it circle the drain. But he'd rather choke on his own tongue than admit it.

But who the hell are these investors, wanting me specifically? As an actor, I've got more than enough history with creeps and entitled pricks who think I've got no standards, that I'm up for grabs if the price is right. But I consider my body too precious to be handed over to some fat old executive with wandering hands, or some bored housewife and her equally bored husband looking for a thrill.

"Mind telling me who the investors are?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

Knowing who I'm dealing with ahead of time is half the battle–gives me time to prepare, to figure out how to play it. I've been in this industry long enough–over a decade now–to have the media training down cold, customer-service smile included. But some situations call for fists instead of charm. Better to walk in ready than to get blindsided.

He studies me for a moment, "Does it matter? You'll meet them soon enough." A pause. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet already, Ferrell."

"Just like to know who's paying for the privilege of watching me work," I say. "Call it professional curiosity.”

He scoffs. "Your 'professional curiosity' cost me millions last time. I'm serious, lad–I like ya, I do, but I won't stand for another scandal. Ya hear me? I'm done throwing my wad of cash at cleaning up your messes."

I nod, already knowing he'll go back on his word the second it's convenient. He needs me too much to mean it. I'm his hen that lays the golden eggs, he's not about to wring my neck over principle.

"You'll attend one of the parties one of the investors is throwing. Let them get a look at you, decide if you're worth what they're putting up." He levels a look at me over his glasses. "And for the love of god, pull back on the coke, will ya? I'm too old to bail you out of another mess."

I roll my eyes and straighten up in my chair. I know exactly how this conversation ends–with the two of us locked in a pissing match neither of us wins. But I'm in too good a mood today to let him play daddy and ruin it. Not that I'd know what that's supposed to look like anyway. Dads. Must be unicorns–everyone talks about them, nobody's actually seen one. At least not me. Or my friends.

I wave my hand dismissively, running the other through my hair, which already looks like it's been dragged through hell and back. "Okay, fine. Send Andrew the invitation, I'll attend." I push up from the chair. "I'll take my leave now. Can't keep the business genius all to myself, can I? The world deserves a piece of you too."

I top it off with a wink and a grin. A little flattery never hurt anybody. Though judging by the flat look on his face, this particular dose didn't land nearly as well as I'd hoped. I straighten my jacket, and make for the door.

"Be careful." His voice catches me halfway there. "Heard you got yourself a stalker. Can't have some crazed fan ruining your shot at the big leagues before you've even gotten there."

I just lift a hand in farewell without turning back, and let myself out of his suffocating office. Thankfully, the man likes his space open and sun-drenched–floor-to-ceiling windows, light pouring in like it's trying to make up for everything else about the place. At least it isn't completely void in there.

I round the corner and collide directly into someone. Ah. This is the absolute last thing I need–a face-to-face with the head of our PR team, Martha, who probably hates my guts and my apparent inability to stay three feet away from controversy.

I flip on my flirty smile, the one that's talked me out of more awkward situations than I can count. "Oh, look who it is. My absolute favorite woman in this entire building."

She gives me a flat look, lips pressed into a thin line. Her hair's scraped back into a bun so tight it could double as a facelift, glasses sliding down her nose, and her eyes have already narrowed into something between suspicion and pure exhaustion.

"What did you do."

It's not even a question. I press both hands to my chest like she's wounded me. "Can't I just come grace you all with my devastating good looks? Is that a crime now?"

"Take your devastating good looks back to a screen, or better yet, home." She jabs a finger at my chest. "And stay the hell away from trouble. I finally have a date this weekend, and if you ruin it for me–"

"Jesus Christ." I throw my hands up. "Fine. I'll be good. A picture-perfect angel, which I basically am."

She scoffs, the sound somehow managing to convey an entire essay's worth of disbelief. "That's the absolute last thing you are." She's already turning to go, calling over her shoulder, "And Andrew was here, by the way. Said he'll wait for you in the car."

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. The warmth of my own palm is oddly grounding, enough to settle the last of the irritation simmering under my skin. I give Martha a nod and head off to find Andrew.

If Martha and Powell were exhausting on their own, Andrew takes it to a whole new level. But he's also the closest thing I have to a brother in this entire industry, so here I go–into the lion's den, except the lion drives a car and probably has opinions about my life choices waiting at the door.

I take the lift down to the parking lot, where someone's still waiting on answers I haven't figured out how to give. The doors shut behind me, and I let myself lean back against the steel wall, the cold of it seeping through my shirt, grounding me back to reality for a second.

Sometimes I regret ever taking that call–the one that landed me this life in the first place. But a teenager who'd just been kicked out by his own damn mother needed a job, and his looks were, thank god, his ticket to stardom and a life where he never had to worry about going hungry again.

Powell was–is–a stubborn bastard who treats ‘no’ not as an answer, but as a personal challenge. I owe him my life, more or less, which is exactly why I can't just up and walk away from the company, no matter how much I bitch about it. Turns out I've got a loyal bone in me somewhere. Could've fooled me, given how my relationships usually go. But apparently, when it counts, I do.

And as much as I know Powell, he'll absolutely push for me to fly to the States if that's where filming ends up happening. I am not, and will never be, in the mood to go back to the country that starved me half to death as a kid. Or the country where my mother–my druggie of a mother–still lives, doing god knows what to herself.

And now I'm supposed to rehash all of it. Memories I'd rather bleach out of my skull and never think about again.

The ding of the elevator yanks me out of my own head. I shake myself off, clear the fog, and cross the lot to the car. Andrew's already there, perched on the hood like he owns the damn thing, thumbs flying across his phone screen with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs.

The man could be an actor himself, if he ever stopped hiding behind a clipboard. Curly blond hair, dimples that show up the second he smiles, eyes the color of money–emerald green and probably just as calculated. The full boy-next-door package, the kind that makes girls lose their minds. There's an actual fan page dedicated to him. A fan page. For my manager.

"If you're done staring, mind telling me why he called you in?" he asks, not bothering to look up from his phone.

I grin. "Is that jealousy I'm hearing, Winters? And here I thought you didn't have feelings for me."

That earns me a glare sharp enough to strip paint. He pockets his phone, rounds the car, and drops into the driver's seat while I fold myself into the passenger side. McLaren. My single most precious investment in this godforsaken life. And Andrew treats it with all the reverence of a rental car–purely, I'm convinced, to piss me off.

He slams the door a little harder than necessary.

"You sure are rough with my baby, Winters."

"Your baby can survive a closed door, Ferrell. Try not to have a breakdown." He finally looks at me, one brow raised. "Now. Powell. What did he want?"

I take a breath and sink back into the leather seat. "There's a film he wants me to do. Says he's read the script, thinks I'd absolutely kill it. He's sending it over tonight." I pause, already bracing for it. "Shoot's mostly in London. A few parts in the States."

He blinks at me, then his whole face shifts. "The States? How the fuck–" He's already reaching for the door handle. "You told him. You told him explicitly you wouldn't take anything that needed you to fly out there, and he still brings you projects that do? Let me talk to him right now."

"It's fine." I put a hand on his arm before he can actually get out of the car. "I told him. Again. And he listened for once. The story's set in London, ninety percent of it. Only a handful of scenes shoot in the States. I'll be fine, Andrew.”

He stares at me for a full minute, long enough that I finally crack. "I know I'm handsome, but tone it down, will ya? I don't need a guy staring into my soul."

He rolls his eyes and starts the engine, easing the car out of the lot without another word. I turn to look out the window, watching the parking lot blur past, when a prickling feeling crawls up the back of my neck–that specific, primal kind of someone's watching me. I twist around in my seat, scanning the rows of cars behind us. Nothing. The lot's eerily empty.

"What happened?" Andrew's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

I shake my head, forcing my shoulders to unclench. "Nothing. Just sleep deprivation messing with my head."

He nods like that explains everything and honestly, in my case, it usually does. "Take it easy today, then. You've got that interview tomorrow, and I need you on your best behavior. I am not dealing with another reschedule."

"Fine." I groan, letting my head fall back against the seat. "Just get me to my apartment so I can sleep."

Or take a hit of blow. Not that he needs to know that part.

☆☆☆

Lmao. I fucked up the title. I was sure I wrote 'I want a gentle review for my book chapter one.' The first time I post and somehow fuck it up. Please ignore the title😭