r/KeepWriting

Guess what? I think I’m still stuck on my first school crush 💀

Everyone had that one person during school, right? First love, first crush, whatever you want to call it.

Well, mine was completely one-sided. And the funniest part?

I never even talked to her in school.

I first noticed her during prayer time. She used to host the prayer for a few days when we were around 7th, 8th, 9th standard. Somehow, I just developed a crush on her.

We were in a co-ed school, but boys and girls had separate classes, so I never really got a chance to talk to her.

And then came tuition.

Everyone was going to tuition around that time, and I thought, "Okay, maybe I'll finally get a chance to talk to her."

Nope.

The moment I joined, they separated the tuition timings for boys and girls.

My luck was absolutely cooking. 💀

Anyway, school days passed. She moved to another school for 11th and 12th, and I somehow still missed her.

And don't ask me:

«"Bro, how can you have feelings for someone you've never even talked to?"»

Because honestly...

I have absolutely no idea.

I don't have an answer for that either. 😂

Then I joined college around 2021 and eventually almost forgot about her.

Until one random day, I somehow found her Instagram.

I sent her a request.

And she accepted.

At that point, I was like:

"Wait... what? She actually accepted?"

I had always assumed she was probably the quiet/serious type who wouldn't even bother.

A few days later, I finally gathered enough courage to send a simple "Hi."

She replied.

But the replies were so short that it felt like I was talking to ChatGPT running on a 16K context window with the token limit about to hit. 💀

We chatted occasionally for a few months, but it never really became a proper conversation. I never asked for her number, never really tried to take things further, and honestly, I probably just didn't have the maturity or social skills back then.

Looking back, I was basically running on:

Courage: 10%

Overthinking: 90%

Social skills: 404 Not Found

Then one completely random day...

She blocked me.

No idea why.

I thought maybe she was preparing for her college entrance exams or had something going on, so I didn't push it.

And then...

Two years passed.

Fast forward to 2026.

I randomly sent her another Instagram request.

She accepted.

I said hi.

And this time...

She replied almost immediately. And with an actual lengthy reply.

My brain immediately went:

"Wait... where was THIS version of you two years ago?" 😭

I didn't continue the conversation much after that because I started overthinking everything again.

But here's the weird part.

Even after all these years, I feel like I still kinda have a thing for her.

Which is honestly ridiculous because we barely even talked in school, and even after that, our conversations were never that deep.

Maybe it's nostalgia. Maybe it's the fact that she was my first crush. Maybe I'm just emotionally attached to an idea of her rather than the actual person.

I genuinely don't know.

And honestly, there's another reason I never really tried anything back then.

I wasn't confident in myself at all. I was overweight, didn't think I looked good, and had basically zero confidence when it came to talking to girls. At that age, I also didn't really have the maturity to understand my own feelings, let alone express them to someone else.

I know some people will say, "Who cares about looks or body?"

But when you're in school, things don't always work that logically. You're young, insecure, and you overthink everything. I didn't know how she would react, and I didn't even know how to approach her properly.

So I just stayed silent.

And somehow, that silence lasted all these years. 💀

Now I'm older and I can look back at it and laugh at how stupidly complicated I made everything in my own head.

But I'm still curious...

Has anyone else ever had feelings for someone from school that somehow survived for years, even though you barely talked to them?

Please tell me I'm not the only dumbass here. 💀

Questions I have

Did this hook you?

Did you get any questions?

Did anything feel forced or placed there randomly?

“Whatever happens tonight, don’t believe anything Noah tells you.”

I smile sarcastically.

“What’d he do now? Teleport from work and ruin your birthday party? I think you’ve had too much to eat.”

I let out an awkward laugh. A weak attempt to lighten the panicked look on her face.

She doesn’t laugh. My grin falters.

What is she talking about? Noah? As in my older brother Noah? Is this a joke? I furrow my brows in confusion. But before I can ask, one of her other friends interrupts us with a warm smile and a gift in her hand, pulling her away and not even paying mind to the obvious tension between me and her.

I click my tongue, rolling my eyes in frustration. The hell does this girl want from her now, of all times? I grab her shoulder, aggressively spinning her around to look at me.

“Hey! I was talking to her.”

She looks at me with a bewildered look on her face as I grab my best friend by the hand, pulling her away to a quieter place.

“What’s going on? What did Noah do?”

Hesitation flashes in her eyes. I stand there for a few uncomfortable seconds. She stays silent. Is it that hard to just say it? Finally, she mutters something out.

“I found out something about him. Something he didn’t want us to know.”

She turns around and walks away, leaving me to sit in my own thoughts. What did Noah do? Did he hurt her? Is there something he’s been doing behind my back?

I snap back into reality and call after her.

“Seriously? Come back, I’m worried about you!” But she continues walking. I sigh, plopping into a nearby chair and spacing out.

After a couple minutes of mindless thinking, I continue watching her from a distance. Several minutes pass, and she still has that worried look on her face. She constantly checks the gate, as if she’s waiting for someone to come. Seriously, what could be bothering her so badly? She’s at a party with people drowning her in gifts and kind regards, and she’s worried about Noah. The thought makes me huff out a laugh. As I’m drinking some juice, trying to examine the emotions displayed on her face, someone taps my shoulder. I turn around, somehow expecting it to be my best friend.

“Noah?!”

He slaps a frantic hand onto my mouth.

“Shhh.”

His face is even more panicked than my best friend’s, sweat pooling on his forehead. All of this is really starting to irritate me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work? What are you doing here?” I groan.

“We need to leave. Right now. And don’t tell her we’re going.”

My question is can some make comics for/with me. I even have rules for my superhero universe

I’m working on a five-episode limited series that follows the same day from five different perspectives.

Same events. Different information. The audience knows the ending from the beginning.

The idea is that each episode changes what you thought you understood in the previous one. My concern is obvious, at what point does accumulation simply become repetition?

Would you replay major scenes when the new perspective changes their meaning or avoid repeating anything unless the audience learns something substantial?

Any examples that pulled this off particularly well besides Groundhog Day?

I have ADHD. I'm not medicated for it, I am on anti depressants, and I've seen really mixed reviews about medication for authors with ADHD so I don't know if that's a good idea.

I have a manuscript that I want to finish and submit to agents. In a few months there's a literary festival where I'll have the chance to meet with agents and if I could just get my brain to focus on this project, I might actually have the first draft done in case anyone is interested.

But my brain keeps wanting to write other things. I wrote 1600 words in the last few hours on a random idea that I doubt will go anywhere, I just had it while reading a book and needed to write it or my brain wouldn't let me rest.

I have tried opening the word document for the manuscript, forcing myself to write even when every fiber of me is fighting with it. Every time I do this, I hate the result and end up deleting it all and rewriting it when I'm actually able to get my brain on track. I know this isn't how neurotypical people usually work, but I have tried repeatedly and there's genuinely no point in forcing myself to write when my brain isn't on it - it does not come out good and just gets deleted.

Then when I am able to get my brain in gear with it, I can write 1000+ words an hour that I'm really happy with.

But how the heck do I get my brain to get on the correct track?

I Spent fourteen months querying. Sent to sixty one agents. Got back forty three rejections, eleven non responses, and seven requests for fulls that ultimately did not go anywhere. Kept a spreadsheet, stayed organized, tried to treat it professionally. Did not feel professional. Felt like repeatedly walking up to a door and having it close in my face before I could finish knocking.

By month eleven I had started seriously researching self publishing. Not because I believed it was the wrong choice but because I needed to feel like I had a path forward that did not depend on someone else saying yes. Came very close to pulling the trigger just to end the waiting.

What stopped me was not patience or faith in the process. It was a single email from an agent who passed but included two paragraphs of actual feedback. She liked the voice, found the structure of the middle act confusing in a specific way she described precisely, and suggested the opening was doing too much too fast.

Spent three months on a revision I had not planned to do, kept every version of the manuscript in something called Skrib Writing so I could see exactly what had changed between the version that got forty three rejections and the version that got the offer, and that comparison was one of the more honest things I have ever looked at about my own writing. Sent to twelve more agents with the revised pages.

Got an offer on the fourth submission of that new batch.

The revision the rejection made possible was what the book needed and I would not have done it if I had stopped querying when I wanted to.

The door closing repeatedly was not the end of the story. It was just the part before the part that mattered.

I’m about to post two excerpts below, around 1,000 words total. I think that's more than enough to get a rough idea of the author's level. The first excerpt is a stylized poetic-epic piece, and the second leans into a modern urban-mystic rhythm. So, let’s try it this way: I invite anyone willing to tear the author's literary efforts to shred. Roast it into the ground if you want.
Only two requests:

1. If you're going to tear it apart, at least back it up with some basic reasoning.
2. Please don't make it personal—focus strictly on the excerpts.

I'll say it again: go hard, don't hold back. Maybe I really do need a reality check. And while I have a pretty good idea of what kind of feedback to expect—and will probably disagree with a lot of it—there might just be a few points I'll be forced to take into account. Also, if by some chance anyone finds these excerpts decent, I'd love to hear your advice on which specific magazines or outlets I should submit to.
[Epic-poetic excerpt]

The Willow

If we are to steer a course for the Shores of Truth—for let us honest be, few have a taste for idle tales and toothless fables—the gathering-in of this ancient lay must begin with the Khukhas. The high-browed wiseacres, to be sure, might well take offense and carp: why start with the Khukhas, and not with the even older Khokhas, freshly sucked from some over-refined thumb? Or why must we open with the Khukhas instead of finishing with them, or bringing them up somewhere in the middle? Why is the wind windy, and why does the elderberry grow in the garden? These restless minds could surely spin endless webs of such tangled cleverness… But a countless flock of crayfish will whistle from the mountaintops, flies will bring forth elephants, and the boundless fields of fern will ignite their bizarre blossoms upon the Moon long before any soul needs to clutter their mind with such nonsense. For it is not the custom of worthies to blacken the white or to whitewash the black. Thus it has been since the days of old, and that is an end to it. To the Khukhas belongs the Khukhas' glory, and no more words upon it!

So, let us draw a deep breath and guide this flowing tale along—not to fashion it for any man’s whim, but as they used to do in the truly glorious past: by the bidding of the heart! And we shall begin not with empty breath, but with that very parable of how these fluffy little Khukhas once dwelt in the wide world, by no means unknown to fame. Today, of course, the very headwaters of time are beyond our reach. Yet they say that when the borders between Nava, the Unseen World, and Yava, the Waking World, lay so sheer that folk rarely even noticed them, there was in those times no messenger between lovers more faithful and selfless than these comely little creatures And though nowadays, search as you might with a lantern at high noon, you could scarce find a soul who has not sipped the bitter brew steeped on the sprouts of Betrayal, the blossoms of Desolation, and the roots of Despair, the Khukhas themselves bypass lovers by the most distant paths—it was not so once. Not so at all.

Even just around a not-so-distant corner of existence—in the morning, or at high noon, let alone in the evening dusk—whose hands did not try to catch them? They caught them in those brief moments when a careless Khukha, spun around in endless games, forgot to make herself invisible. And they caught them not merely for mischief—no! To send word of the restless beating of their hearts, entrusting their very fate to a speck of down—that was the hope of those who reached out.

“Fly, fly, little Khukha, to my lover’s ear,

Speak of his maiden, soothe her heavy heart…”

So chirped the girls to their weightless accomplice. And, brimming with hope, they gently blew her from their palms.

“Come, oh come, my lady-love,

I shall build a footbridge for thee…”

With no less longing did the lads who had lost their sleep call upon their desired maidens, baring their chests to the spring wind.

Yet it was not only girls and lads—anyone with strength left would quite often chant their spells to the Khukhas, lagging only a step or two behind the youth in this merry chase. And in springtime, the life of the Khukhas turned into something of a downright curse, so often did folk turn to them for help. True, it never happened that a Khukha refused anyone the first, second, or even the third time, for to aid lovers stood above all else for them. But when the exact same restless hands caught them without end, the thread of patience would snap even for the most long-suffering of Khukhas!

Then, waiting for the dead of night, the fluffy conspirators would quietly creep out of their soft little nests and flock to the homesteads of the biggest nuisances, bringing to their unbridled passion a grim but only possible reckoning. Settling on a chest or right by the ear, they would whisper their witchcraft charms in shifting voices over Those Who Had Lost All Measure. And it was a blessing if the spell of indifference they cast lost its power within a few months.

Furthermore, in a fleeting hope for peace, flocks of the Khukhas tried to change the places of their revels. Yet it was like drawing water with a sieve. For when some Khukhas, weary of the clinging, smoky world of mortals, fled the hearths for the Unseen Realm—others always returned from it to take their place, driven to their wits' end by the Navia, thus closing the enchanted circle.

And all because the Khukhas could not imagine their own selves outside of existence. A mere day or two of quiet, carefree rest was enough for them to grow thoroughly bored, turn their vexation into mercy, and, forgetting all grievances, return to the wide world. And most of all in that wide world, the little hearts of the Khukhas leaned toward the slender-legged nyavkas of the woods and the fair-tressed rusalkas of the waters. Why, they say that it was none other than the sleepless protection of the Khukhas that kept the forest, meadow, and water beauties beyond the reach of any signs of sorrow, despair, or hopelessness in those days. And no force existed that could make the restless, weightless things change their ways. Thus, unconditionally, did their tiny yet no less devoted hearts belong to the doe-eyed beauties. And no matter what trials that undeclared covenant had to endure—for a long time, so it went!

So it went, but only for a time! For is it within anyone's power, let alone that of tiny, fluffy creatures, to endlessly stave off the inevitable?

[Modern urban mystic-thriller excerpt]

Punishment

 

Murky yellow beams of light swept erratically over the nocturnal assembly. Yet even such an uncertain glow was enough to make out that the small group, pressed up against the edge of the cliff, posed no danger at all. And still, the frenzied crowd drove them forward with sticks like wild beasts—drunkenly hiccuping, and at the same time instantly flinching back from their slightest unexpected movement. Youths, everyday people of middle and advanced age. Even children. Despite the late hour, the mob swallowed up people of all ages.

“Punish! Punish! Punish! Punish!” The savage chant suddenly erupted from within the crowd, growing stronger with each repetition.

What do they want, these lost souls? If not for the glints in empty eyes, if not for the shoves toward the precipice, if not for that ominous cry, the whole scene might almost have resembled a festive pageant. What was even happening here? Other than them being driven into the abyss? As far as Eg could tell in the wavering light, the cliff did not seem very deep; if one tried to slide down while clinging to the wall, one could hope not to break one's neck.

A slender dark-haired woman from their group, yielding beneath the hail of shoves, stumbled into his shoulder and sent him staggering to the very edge. Only a step remained to the drop. It was now or never. Eg bared his teeth at the crowd… and, unexpectedly even to himself, froze mid-turn, extending his hand to the stranger. But she didn’t even move toward him, and the last thing he made out before the ground gave way was her terror-stricken eyes, lit by the twin glare of the spotlights—and then a sharp clap, like a dry crack of thunder, catching up with him already in total darkness.

He slammed into ledges on the wall several times, scraped against some roots, flew feet-first into a mound, and painfully smashed his back and head, so that for certain moments he distinguished nothing but sparks before his eyes—until at last, he felt the sand collapsing onto him. If only to keep a little room beneath himself... To rake the sand away—at least from his chest and head … Yet the loose sand immediately poured back into every hollow he managed to carve out, only making things worse. He needed help. If no one helped him, this was the end. One more shift and he would suffocate. Yet who would help him? Not those glass-eyed ones. So who could?…

A shallow inhale—exhale. Shallow inhale—exhale. Shallow inhale—exhale… Suddenly it dawned on Eg that he was occupied only with counting these inhale-exhales. One, two, three, four. And again—one, two, three, four. No understanding why, it had appeared to him that exactly four inhale-exhales remained until the end. Not some vague number, but for some reason, precisely four. And it seemed completely simple—to count to four, and just like that, be done with everything. Both with what had been. And with what would never be again.

Instead, after every fourth inhale-exhale, from somewhere deep inside, he received a renewed understanding—he still had those same four beats of existence. It seemed an obvious destruction of the escape schematics, yet the count reset with wondrous ease, and once more he counted—one, two, three, four. And no other aspiration. Only the counting of inhales and exhales. One, two, three, four. At some point, he was even struck by a revelation—he was not so much helplessly doomed as he was happy. Happy to count just like this. To dissolve into a perfect sequence of four beats, beyond which nothing existed, and nothing more was given to exist…

And here, already at the brink of no return, everything around trembled, and both he and the layer of sand beneath him were carried somewhere downward, and indifferently spat out into the open.

Heavy drops of thick rain on his face…

The suffocating four-beat pattern vanished without a trace at once in the saving freshness, yet the mere ability to breathe did not return even half his strength to Eg. It barely sufficed for him to dig himself out and clumsily crawl somewhere—not knowing where.

After that, there was only the roar of the downpour and some bushes.

 

 

Visions of the artless existence of the sand-dwellers, intermingled with scenes of the destruction of the mission’s retreating column, forced their way into Eg’s dreams all too often. Usually, though, that vision would regurgitate him, soaked in sweat, into the night. Or, at least, into the morning gray. At any rate, certainly not like now—at midday. Waking up always early, he never slept during the day even when ill. Only now did it dawn on him why. He no longer remembered the last time he had slept in daylight—precisely because of his unwillingness to let additional horrors pass through him. And though the assembly-cliff dream stood out from his usual nightmares, such an expansion of the repertoire was hardly comforting—for in this new delirium, too, he had been on the brink of death.

The nocturnal delusion had almost flown from his head, leaving behind little more than a meaningless heaviness, when suddenly sand ground against his teeth. Brushing away, like a fly, the wild thought of the glassy-eyed assembly, Eg deliberately, unhurriedly threw off the bedcover—and… could not believe his own eyes: beneath it, he lay in torn, filthy, and damp trousers and shirt.

Perhaps he needed to close his eyelids and try opening them again?

Yet even after several blinks, his eyes kept relentlessly testifying—he lay under the blanket in the ragged, dirty remnants of what only yesterday had been called his clothes.

Spirit Guide though I can not see you with my eyes

I know you are the only reason I am still alive

Spirit Guide protecting me when in the lions den

Where I can not hide,wiping the tears away when I

Cry, spirit Guide though I can not see you with my

Eyes,I know you are always by my side...

Spirit Guide hear the prayer I pray today

With every step I take please show me the way

Be near,calm my fears when I am feeling lost

And afraid, forever, forever and always

Spirit Guide hear the prayer I pray today...

Spirit Guide take my hand and lead me back to

The ancient place I come from,help me to understand

My connection better to the great one,is it through

The eyes of the eagle,the bear or the wild cat

Give me the strength I need to leave the past behind

And find peace of mind,no looking back,no more

Looking back...

Spirit Guide hear the prayer I pray today

With every step I take please show me the way

Be near,calm my fears when I'm feeling lost

And afraid,forever,forever and always

Spirit Guide hear the prayer I pray,hear the prayer

I pray today!

Hi all! I'm a relatively new writer -- I've gotten two short stories published so far. One of them was with an online litmag I'll generously describe as..........uncommunicative. They accepted my work two months ago, and the acceptance email mentioned that their editors would begin the copyediting process. I hadn't heard anything from them since then, so about two weeks ago I emailed to follow up and received no response. (FWIW, there's another post about this litmag on reddit from last year complaining about their lack of communication, so I know I'm not the only one experiencing this).

Today, I saw my story was published on their website and was relieved -- until I read it.

It's mostly the same as when I submitted, except for a few minor punctuation changes and one significant and inexplicable line change at the end of the piece.

My piece has deliberately political undertones, and I worry that this line change takes away from the subtle point I was trying to make. It also, frankly, makes the piece a bit sillier and less impactful. I don't have a large body of work, so I want to ensure the pieces I *do* publish are ones I'm proud of. Perhaps I'm being too sensitive, but I'm not sure I'm proud of this anymore.

I'm debating emailing the editors and requesting they revert the change. Is that something I can do, or is it considered "diva" behavior? Is this type of no-contact editing...normal?

Okay so, a few years ago I got scammed by a "hybrid" publishing house (I was young and naive, and deeply lacked confidence so I thought I couldn't get a better deal), and even though they barely touched my text (as in they didn't use a human to "correct" it, leading to me having to re-correct everything because it was a mess), I still feel like they kind of ruined it, but I would also love to re-work this text, make it better and maybe publish it for real, but I don't know where to start, the more I read it the less I want to work on it because it feels like it was stollen from me...

Btw, I ended up calling off the deal with the publishing house so it was never published and they (supposedly) deleted every and any mention of my text in their files, so it's not supposed to be available to anyone else but me. Just saying that in the end they didn't pulish it and I'm the sole owner of the text.

Overall I love the characters and even though some things need to be changed for the story to make more sense/be more interesting, I really think it could be a good book.

So, if anyone has any idea to make this text feel like mine again, I'm really desperate at this point...

(Sorry for any mistake, English isn't my first language 😄)

(Sorry x2 if this is an inappropriate post, I just want to keep writing this book but I don't know how to do it...)

Hi writers!!! I looking for more inputs from writers. I have a question for you guys.

What actually keeps you writing, especially on the days when you really don’t feel like doing it?

Is it discipline? A deadline? Word-count goals? A routine? Music? Other writers? Wanting to finish the story? Just being excited about what happens next?

And when you’ve been away from a story for a while, what usually gets you to come back to it?

I’m also curious if there’s anything you’ve tried.... streaks, writing apps, rewards, timers, challenges, etc.... that was supposed to motivate you but it actually didn’t.

I’m trying to understand what real writers actually respond to especially over the months or years it can take to finish a book.

As I anticipated, my other subreddits posts proved that there's no right answer here.

I’m interested in what genuinely works for you, even if the answer is weird and inconsistent, or just “I force myself to sit down.”

I'll do my best to integrate it on the app that I'm building if possible. I'm not promising anything though.

Thank you in advance.

I was on a walk earlier this day when I forgot what I was out for and this gave me so context about a story and I wanted to chair it with you today I am new here so if I'm wrong somewhere pleas don't hesitate I am in need of critics so here it is :

people didn't have the ability to forget and they lived for very long amounts of time and when the life span began shrinking a man lost his best friend to a tragic accident and from the lose he was devastated days passed then weeks then months and with his inability to forget his days were sentred around the memory of his friend every detale from the morning to the me moment his friend drew his last breath unable to make new memories nor to find love god felt pity for that man and when the man was asleep after tiring himself from the tears of grief god erased the memory of this friend from the mans mind and gave him a timer and said whenever you make a memory good or bad there will be a number on that timer whenever time you get this is the lasting of the memory enjoy that memory till the timer ends because there will be an empty place in your mind where that memory used to sit waiting to be filled so the man began a new life where he savored every memory for the time it got

Will I see you again?

Would you see me as a different man,
a better man?

A man worthy of your time?

A man worthy of your love?

Would our time apart prove to you my faithfulness?

I’d die a thousand and one deaths to hear you say three words.

“I love you”

Three words I repeat for you daily.

Would you care to speak them in my direction?

Or would they leave your lips empty?

I pray for the day, that I may w h i s p e r them your way.

W h i s p e r your name, w h i s p e r those three words

“I love you”

Kiss you on the c h e e k, down your n e c k,
n i b b l i n g here and there.

Signaling your b o d y, love is n e a r,
tender with all its r e s i l i e n c e

Another soft w h i s p e r in
thy ear

“I missed you my dear”

Hearts pace to the cadence of our breath, heavy with warmth

Eyes lock and never release from the other in view

Lips p r e s s tight

Three words escape b e t w e e n our twisted tongues and p a n t i n g breaths

“I love you”

Three words I hold for y o u within my soul

Call us

“s o u l m a t e s”