u/silver_4284

Hello, I am 20F with the beginnings of a literary fantasy/romantasy novel (along with some more purely literary short fiction that i would love talking about as well). I'm looking for a writing partner with whom I can exchange ideas and whose work I would absolutely love to read and give thoughtful critique to.

Genres:

any, preference for fantasy

( i personally write fantasy + literary/realistic fiction, & in terms of genres i like: i try & do read some classics, but i've been loved fantasy/ speculative fiction in general since i was very young & have also been very open to webnovels since i read my first one in my teenage years)

Goals/expectations/commitment:

regular communication, discussing our ideas, general discussion of books or our thoughts if possible, setting writing goals (for example writing for a set amount of time every day or the xx chapter completed by next week) to hold each other accountable to & maybe setting aside time to read each other's work every week (only if the other person is comfortable with that)

Writing/experience level:

any experience level would be great!

I would consider myself 'intermediate' in terms of pure creative writing, and I published some literary short fiction in a few youth journals when i was younger, but I'm open to people of all levels & would work with somebody just starting with writing as well as more experienced writers.

Meeting place: discord/ reddit dms

DM me or leave a comment if you're interested!

(crit for a piece above word count newly written, so not leeching anymore. super sorry about that.)

I just wrote this and really want some feedback. Thank you!

The glass was half full with a clear brown liquid, its clearness broken by the bubbles which rose to the top to make a layer of foam. She watched, as the newly poured drink settled, the white frothing receding away, the tiny and busy blemishes of air pockets moving up and up until they melted into invisibility. All that was left was the amber liquid, shining through the sunset light which streamed from the window in front of her. She squinted, the cup, no, the glass, was cut and curved so that it caught the light better than her irises, and pulled the light into the now silent drink. A strange equilibrium was reached, she thought, the drink was now alcohol, to taste as bitter as the plastic coating of the dark wood table on which it stood, and so also to be liquid fire, as malleable and ever changing. 
She was part of a peculiar race, she thought, to sip slow poison into the body, to let the lungs bubble and fizz away, and to enjoy it too, enjoy the dullness and the high that came after the cup, the flat good mood of airless consumption. The sun was shifting and light momentarily blinded her eyes. She bit her lip. The glass beckoned at her, the suggestion of intoxication inside the elegantly structured shape, pulling in from the outer world, from her gaze, and seemingly from that all seeing eye above, all that was needed to make an escape. Escape from what? She tried to walk away, but she thought she was staring into her own eyes as she bent over the table. The liquid was the amber of her irises. The liquid was luminescent. 
Of course people wanted to have what made them feel good, and if the drink did then there it would stand with open arms. Of course people were guilty afterwards. They wanted too much. Like foam, brimming to the surface and almost overflowing so that her arm had stopped in fear, but at the end of the day, when the bubbles and the buzz cleared out, of all wants only the amber liquid remained. As infinite as a river with no end and a single night, a single moment. She picked up the glass. She hadn't put alcohol inside it. It was only sweet lemon tea from a can.

Crit:

962