Hey guys!

So I'm starting to write seriously creatively for the first time in my life. I've done some world building and character development and am confident I have everything I need to begin typing out my tale.

I would appreciate any tips you veterans might have for me, about any aspect of the possible journey that lies ahead.

Cheers!

In a room of high ceilings, floored with fine marble in yellow and black patterning, a long and lavish table of solid wood adorned the center. In the left corner, on the wall, in a gilded frame, hung a painting, oil on canvas.
Josif crossed his legs, settled back into his chair, and fixed his gaze on it.
In the painting, a farmyard, and a dog cowering on the muddy ground. A tormented gray-black creature with faintly curled fur, its fringe covering its eyes, large grayish eyes full of sorrow and bewilderment. A bewildered dog with its tail tucked under, waiting readily for the blows that hung over it.
Three angry men surrounded it, ready to punish it for all their misfortunes, their faces seething with rage. Two of them held cudgels of some kind in their hands, and the third clenched his fist in torment, as though cursing the dog. It looked as if the first were swinging deliberately at the muzzle, while the second took aim at the ribs, barely visible beneath the thick shaggy coat. From the noise and their commotion the hens had scattered across the yard, throwing up feathers and raising dust.
“Professor, forgive me for interrupting you,” a thin, balding man addressed Josif as he entered the room. “A new batch of reports has come in,” he went on reluctantly, aware that he was probably interrupting something and that he was unwelcome.
“Come in, Đi-đi, come in, don’t hesitate,” Josif answered, hoping to ease his discomfort. “Reports, you say? About what?”
“Well, Professor, there are several. I don’t know whether you want me to go through them now or whether we should wait for the others. Mira has called an emergency meeting.”
Josif raised his head and looked him over, watching the way his scalp shone in the light.
“Do you know, Đi, why I love this painting?” Josif turned his head back toward it, studying the dog almost scholarly.
“I wouldn’t know what to say, Professor. Perhaps because in it you see ordinary people and their lives, a reminder of the work you do?”
“No, no, Đi. Do I really need a reminder of such a thing? Is everything I do each day not enough, a reminder all day long,” Josif smiled, seated comfortably in the velvet armchair. “Look closely at the painting. Come here.” He waved his hand, calling him nearer. “Look.” He laid a hand on his shoulder and with the other pointed a finger at the dog.
Around the dog, on the left side, tiny gray specks had been painted, and on the right, tiny black ones.
“Do you know why they’re beating it?”
“The one on the left beats it because it has fleas, and the one on the right because it has lice.”
Đi-đi let out a long breath. “Professor…”
“Just so, my good man. But the tragedy of it is that the one on the right gave it the fleas, and the one on the left gave it the lice,” Josif smiled, well pleased.
“And the third one?” Đi-đi was curious now.
“A good question. I’m not certain. But you see he has nothing in his hands. I think he is simply angry about the unrest in the village.”
“How soon must I be in the cabinet room?” Josif went on.
“They want you as soon as possible.”
Đi-đi drew out a number of documents and handed them to Josif. He opened them, reading through one by one.
“How much time do we have left?”
“They’ve given us a deadline of forty-five days. After that they’ll cut off all our food supply.”
“And the reserves?”
Đi-đi lowered his head. “We have none, Professor.”
“Forty-five days it is, then.” Josif rose from his chair and again laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Shall we?”
Đi nodded.
They walked slowly down the corridor, calm and quiet. The pace did not suit Đi-đi, for they had every reason to hurry. The corridor was empty and long, with large wooden cabinet doors on both sides, all of them identical; their footsteps echoed slowly, and after each step a new silence settled. At the end of the corridor, on the left side, where the cabinet doors came to an end, there was a window through which no sunlight came.
Josif thought of how many times he had walked these corridors, and how not once had the walk through them been pleasant. There was nothing cheerful about them, and the reasons that drove him through them were always troubles; even when they were alike, there was always something new in them.
When they finally reached the end of the corridor, they found themselves before great double doors, through which they passed

Hi writers!!! It’s me again! I have another 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.

I don't think there's a 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.

Hi guys!

I'm writing my first work of fiction, and it's an ambitious one! I'm currently caught up in world building and character development before actively writing the books (I have some fragments written and the general outline of it all mapped out). My doubt is whether I'll ever feel like this preparatory work is enough to start writing, without turning my perfectionism into a sophisticated form of procrastination. So essentially, when do I know I have enough base material to start writing and let the story itself give me some of the details?

I have an idea I'm presently kicking about, and I'm curious if anyone has any experience with using public domain characters? Any obstacles I may not be considering?

Thanks all.

Keep writing.

Hi writers!!! I need some direction.

I’m curious how you guys think about the different stages of writing a book, from beginning to finished manuscript.

For those of you who have completed one, what were the actual phases/stages for you?

Did you think of it as outlining, first draft, then revisions, then editing ,then proofreading, or was your process completely different?

I’m especially interested in where you personally felt one stage ended and another began, and which stages took the most time.

I don’t think there’s one “right” process here. I’m more interested in how writers actually work than what writing guides say they should do.

I want the app to feel as personal to real writers as it can be.

Thanks in advance!

For me, the most bewildering part about writing is being able to read a manuscript I wrote and know intimately only to keep finding mistakes, some glaring. Not grammar as much as style and word choice.

It can look perfect. Then I set it down, come back, and it's not.

I read it aloud and find more mistakes.

I read it on my phone instead of in the word processor, and I find even more mistakes.

And then I think about Steinbeck, Lovecraft, and so many more who worked with pen, paper, and typewriters. Can you imagine how difficult writing was for them? Editing their own work?

And forget about computer-assisted research, baby. They had to walk to the library and save magazine articles and go places and talk to people.

I think we need to take a moment to respect the writers of the 1900s, 1920s, 1950s, 1970s, and so on. If you transported me back to that time, I don't think I could have made it as a writer. I need word processing!

My face has been buried in a word processor for forty years.

I was just thinking of Jaws, a great book, and Jaws, a great movie. In my world, they are among the greatest, both of them.

I am thinking of the ending. Let's start with the movie.

I used to think, "No great white shark is going to jump onto a boat." Thirty years later, I saw a documentary showing great whites jumping onto the rocks to snatch seals for lunch.

Then comes the shark holding air tanks in its mouth. Ain't gonna happen in any time. But what an ending! Wow! I needed that.

The book is anticlimactic. The shark doesn't explode. It just. . .dies. Descends. Is never more.

Our protagonist did not kill the shark! He was just lucky enough to survive.

Reddit would have ripped Peter Benchley a new a-hole!

But I like it. It felt real.

Is this a good intro? I'm practicing.

You know, at this moment, I honestly believe that I’m going to die right now Sure, over these five weeks I managed to survive through my wit, my newfound guts, and luck. However, it was going to end today because right now it’s a no-win situation: die from a bunch of rotten brain-munching corpses or take my chance of jumping off the cliff and hope I land on a sharp rock that would be quick and painless. 

Just as I finally met the girls of my dreams. It was a shame, really. All I could think of were two things to blame for this whole crap show and my inevitable fate. A CEO who thought he could cut corners to make a few bucks and make the shareholders happy, and something so bizarre you’ll think I’m hallucinating. Alright, I’m getting a head of myself. It's obvious I should start at the beginning and make my way toward my deathly situation. It all started with cookies. 

Is

Hi everyone,

I’m looking to see if anyone would be interested in starting a small critique group or is looking for a regular critique partner.

There aren’t many writing groups or workshops in my area, and I’d really like to connect with a few other writers who are serious about improving their craft. I’m less interested in one-off beta reads and more interested in finding people who want to trade chapters or scenes, give each other thoughtful feedback, and have regular conversations about writing and our works in progress.

I’m currently working on the first draft of an upmarket psychological thriller and would especially love to connect with writers working on thrillers, horror, crime, speculative fiction, or other darker character-driven fiction, though I’m definitely open to other genres.

Ideally, I’d like to find someone at a similar stage who wants to build an ongoing critique relationship where we can learn each other’s work and grow as writers together.

If that sounds like something you would be interested drop a comment or DM me.

P.S. Mods I hope this post is okay, I know there is the beta reader mega-thread, but I wasn’t sure this was appropriate for that thread.

Womp womp. Said the prose and writing was great, but stopped reading at chapter 8 because they missed the plot.

If only they knew chapter 9 was where the fun started!!

Only a writer flips through the dictionary with both fear and eagerness while thinking, "Oh, please let 'intimidating' be an intransitive verb. I NEED it to be an intransitive verb!"

I want to see disabilities better represented.

As someone who is disabled, I want to see the every day struggle weaved into the story. Not just the romanticized versions that we so often see, but the struggles too.

I want the discussions, fights, and breakdowns that happen…. For me, personally, I’ve had the talk with my spouse that I wouldn’t blame him for leaving, that he didn’t sign up for this, and his stubborn response of ‘you didn’t either and I’m not going anywhere.’
Stories where it’s romanticized and everything is fine, bothers me because I know it’s not how it goes.

What would yall like to see better represented?

Hello there,

So this has been on my mind for sometime. I've always enjoyed reading and I want to try my hand at writing.

I have an outline if you will, on the subjects I want to cover. These include

*Masculinity- The misconceptions Vs what being a man truly is

*Abuse- The types and it's effect on an individual

*Identity and individuals

*Relationships- Platonic, Romantic etc. ....

*Mental health

The main theme is adulthood and the story is centred around the main protagonist navigating his way around life whilst facing some misfortunes on the way.

The only trouble is... How to start and capture the reader from the very beginning.

Feedback and suggestions are appreciated :)

Do you guys feel like your stories or your work will just disappear. That this thing we love is just something for us? That no one will ever know what we have made? Maybe I am just scared, just being a teenage. But I really want this, I want to create, but i do not know how to get to a point where I can successfully? So am alone in this? Or are you with me?

Any words of encouragement are also welcome, so :)

Advice on when (and how) to hook your readers is varied, but personally I've always felt sooner the better.

Slightly ashamed to admit, this being a writer's sub, but if I'm not hooked pretty early I'll just put a book down and give up, my time is very limited and I don't have any to waste. Ideally the first page is where I wanna feel like I can invest.

Hell, I think I've even been hooked by more than a few opening lines...

Some of my favourites;

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel" Neuromancer.

"Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die" Fight Club.

"This is a book about sex, drugs and rock and roll. Well, one out of three isn't bad" Soul Music.

"It was a pleasure to burn" Fahrenheit 451.

And one from a book I've never actually read, but has become utterly iconic;

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed" The Dark Tower, The Gunslinger.

Oh, to have an opening line like these.

What have been some of your favourite opening lines, pages, or chapters? And how much leeway do you feel an author has to properly hook your reader?

“Looking for lines to begin your book is a dead giveaway that you don't know how to tell your story.”

He glanced up from the book she'd handed him a few minutes earlier. “Glorivyn, this is a terrible way to start a book.”

She snatched it back and shut it with a snap. “Well, I ran out of ideas, okay? And I needed a hook. Something different.” She smiled. He raised an eyebrow. “And this was your idea?” “Hey, people don't want clichés. People don't want AI.

And the people want a reason to procrastinate.” She tossed a croissant into her mouth.
“And what am I? A fanfiction writer who's gaslit herself into thinking she can write actual books?” She paused, then reached for his milkshake. Rolling his eyes, he handed over the banana shake. She took a satisfied sip.

“Thank you. Now, back to what I was saying... How is a seventeen-year-old girl—who, mind you, English was her first language—”
He snorted. “Are you seriously trying to pull the 'I'm a thirteen-year-old girl whose first language isn't English and my grandmother died' card?” She glared at him. “It's effective.” She pouted. He laughed.

“Tell you what. Why don't you just tell me the story?”
Glorivyn frowned. “But you already know it.” He shrugged. “They don't.” She blinked. “Who?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The readers.” Glorivyn fell silent for a moment, tapping her fingers against the cover of the book. Then her face lit up.

“Okay, so get this.”

Glorivyn took another sip of the banana shake.

“Chapter One.”

“He's always been a fan of space.”
His voice was quiet, almost absent. Strange. At twenty-two, he sometimes sounded like a man who had stared into things no human mind was ever meant to understand. ''I don’t think that is much of a unique trait, half of us wouldn't be on this ship if our origins began any other way’’ Astoria said. She continued polishing the lenses of her glasses—the tinted pair that spared her eyes from the relentless sting of artificial light.

“You don't understand what I'm trying to say.”
He still wasn't looking at her. The spacecraft drifted onward, its walls alive with the steady hum of machinery. Fifty years of engineering, calculations, failures, and sleepless nights breathed quietly through every panel and circuit. It sounded less like a machine and more like something alive.

“I don't think I've ever met anyone who saw space the way he did.” His gaze remained fixed on the endless black beyond the viewport. “Most people look at the stars and see destinations. He looked at them as though they were... home. If only it treated him just as kindly''

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