r/writinghelp

I'm trying to write a story which has a portion that takes place in the 80's, It's a bit of a horror that has taken inspiration from Stephen Kinds works. A core cast of the characters at this time are kids that find themselves locked in the basement of an eccentric Toy-Designer and part-time serial Killer. They are supposed to be kidnapped for a span of 1-2 months (maybe longer if any of you thinks that doesn't make sense). They are all meant to survive this event for the other half of the story when they are adults, the only thing is I want them to have long term (survivable) injuries as a result of torture and such from the event. More specifically, I have a character that after this event is meant to be Wheelchair bound in the second portion.

Does anybody have any advice for any site I could use to possibly research these topics and be able to adequately represent the long term effects realistically? or has anyone researched a similar topic for a story and knows a realistic torture method that could lead someone to be wheelchair bound?

(I just want to be medically accurate, im not crazy I swear lol)

I have a character. Male, large, white hair, dad bod. Total lumber-snack, though.

His current name is Beau. But I hate that I misspell it so many times. Most commonly, I start writing or typing beautiful, realize it's wrong, and it throws off my whole writing flow.

They live in modern times, ambiguous area with forests and a major city.

Edit: he's about 30 years old. Also. I don't really want to go to the name registry for that year, and choose a common name.

I'm writing a script for a project that is very based around the imagery of Rapunzel and plays a lot with the isolation metaphors of it + the themes of mother gothel etc.

The thing is, I'd like to make it sound more flowery or more fairy tale-esque but I'd prefer to not just dive into a thesaurus all the time, but to play with how do I write sentences etc.

Any tips or advice?

EDIT: I do not mean this as a Kid fairy tale, I mean it more in the Grimm gothic fairy tale type, I should've probably clarified that before as it is a project directed to adults that speaks of adults topics!

Myself a malayalam speaking loser, with no achievements of any sort in life. Not talented enough to tell a story using words from my mouth without boring the person opposite.

Always been a bad reader, bought a lot of books for the titles but too many words to read. Watched so many movies and has been developing a story in my mind since the last 4 years. Now it's a two part story just sitting in my mind and because I am not a good reader of books I'm nowhere near ready to become a writer too.

I've been experimenting with c h a t g p t to help create the structure and claude to develop it to proper detailed chapters, but it all ends up more then than me.

What I need is a writing partner who would understand the story and give it the form it deserves. I think it deserves to be out there in the world.

I watched a YouTube video by GiBi's Horror Homestead where he talked about how the FNAF book Fetch referenced Brigadoon, and that helped inform the narrative of Fetch. I looked up the term for it and apparently it's called intertextuality. I want to use this in my own stories, but I have no idea what it's supposed to inform. I have a character named Jed Dean who's a reference to two Beverly Hillbillies characters, and I would like to inform something about Jed Dean using Jed Clampett, but how would that work? I could reference something about Clampett's distain for Alcohol to inform the player (because I'm writing a videogame), but unless Dean's distain for Alcohol comes up, wouldn't that be irrelevant? It would inform nothing about him aside from his character, which is irrelevant for a character who was created for lore and worldbuilding. And if it does come up, then how would using Jed Clampett be a reference? Dean's connection to Clampett would then be the irrelevant element. I would like to learn how to do this, but I feel like my "It's either said in the story, or it doesn't matter," mindset is holding me back from the actual solution.

He awakes with a soft moan.  Without even opening his eyes, he rolls over.  Then suddenly, he bolts upright, and looks around, but immediately winces in pain, and puts his hand on his right shoulder.
In the corner of a small room, he is lying on a mat.  There is a thin blanket over him.  The room has a dirt floor, and plastered adobe walls.  It is sparsely furnished, with a table and some chairs near a doorway, leading outside.  Through the window and open door, light is pouring in.  From outside, he can hear goats bleating, and chickens clucking.  It is late morning.
On the other side of the room Lauren is also lying on a mat, but without a blanket, still asleep.  She is dressed as she was when Daniel last saw her.
Throwing off his blanket, he examines himself, feeling his wound.  His shirt is off, and makeshift bandages that might have once been bed sheets are around his right shoulder, as well as most of his chest down to the diaphragm.  It is still apparent though, he's fairly well built.
Tattooed on his left shoulder, in Old English lettering, is the letter “S”. Below that, all across his upper chest, and curved slightly downward, is a large “666” tattoo.  Inside his right arm is the number “1”.  Inside his left, the number “3”.
Feeling around his waist, he looks around him, then slowly turning over and keeping low, he moves towards Lauren.  Another set of tattoos is then revealed on his back.
On his upper back, again in Old English lettering, are the words “CORPUS CHRI”, partially obscured by the bandages, and above them, the number “361”.  On his lower back, still in Old English lettering, are the words “PURO MALO”, or “Pure Evil”.  Between his upper and lower back is another tattoo, but it is almost completely obscured by the bandages.
Slowly coming over to Lauren, he puts his hand over her mouth.  She awakes and looks up at him with big, frightened eyes.  He whispers to her.

Daniel-- Lauren, shh... shh...  Where's my gun?...  Where's my gun, Lauren?...  I need it...

Lauren looks up, then behind him towards the doorway, as the shadow of a figure falls through it.  Daniel looks back in the same direction, and sees an old man coming into the room, carrying a bucket of water.  Looking surprised, he stops.  
Short in stature, with a full head of grayish white hair, he has a well groomed white beard, and dark, almost red skin, no doubt from long hours of working outside.  With an erect posture, he nonetheless looks a bit frail in his old age.  He looks at Daniel, as if unsure what to do.
Springing to his feet, Daniel quickly overpowers him.  Favoring his left arm, he grabs the man from behind, causing him to drop his bucket on the floor.  In Spanish, he yells at him.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, OLD MAN?!...

Then even louder.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, WHAT'D YOU DO WITH IT?!...

The Old Man reels, struggling to get control back.  He pleads with Daniel, trying to reason with him.

Old Man-- son, calm down!...

Then with more urgency.   

Old Man-- you need to calm down, you were very badly hurt!...

Ignoring him, Daniel starts to yell at Lauren, this time in English.

Daniel-- WHERE'S MY GUN, LAUREN?!...  WHERE IS IT, WHAT HAPPENED TO IT?!...

Lauren gets up, frightened.

Lauren-- I don't know!...  Daniel, I don't know, I...

Daniel again yells at the Old Man, in Spanish.

Daniel-- where is it old man?...  Where'd you hide it, where...?!

Suddenly unable to finish what he was saying, he lets go of the Old Man, and stumbles over to one of the chairs placed around the table.  He leans on the back of it, trying not to fall over.  Once more, he coughs up blood.  The Old Man takes a moment to compose himself.  Then slowly, he approaches him.  Lauren is not far behind.

Old Man-- son, I tried to tell you...

He puts his hand on Daniel's shoulder, reassuring him.

Old Man-- you were very badly hurt, you are not yet fully healed...  You need to rest...

Daniel keeps leaning on the back of the chair, and starts to lean on the table, trying to hold steady.

Old Man-- your sweetheart told me what happened...

Still weak, Daniel keeps leaning on the back of the chair.

Daniel-- my sweetheart?...

Old Man-- some bad men tried to hurt her... but you saved her!

Daniel leans on the table, his “666” tattoo still plainly visible.

Daniel-- bad men?...

The Old Man continues to reassure him.

Old Man-- it's alright son... you're safe now... 

He tells him.

Old Man-- you're among friends... no one can hurt you here...

Just then, Daniel starts to collapse.
Lauren and the Old Man quickly rush in to steady him.  One under each arm, they pick him up, and start carrying him back to the mat.  The Old Man now reassures Lauren.

Old Man-- he'll be alright, he just needs some rest...

They bring him to the mat, laying him down as gently as they can manage.  Once again, though this time more slowly, Daniel loses consciousness.

I have a bit of a problem....I tend to base my stories on real life things that have happened to me or people who i've met online and my issue is well because of complicated issues I cannot find myself to use the word 'groomer' or 'grooming' when refering to predatorial behavior towards younger characters in my stories so I have had to invent new terms.

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This may be the wrong sub, please let me know where to post if it is.

I need ideas for breaking a molester's hands, more than the usual "stomp or drop something on them" methods. My friend said bending fingers back, at varying speeds.

I have my first chapter written, and would like feedback, specifically, on one character who uses an accent. After reading it through, please let me know if it was jarring, or if it worked for the character.

If it was jarring, what would you do to change it? A complete change to normal text with only the mention that they have an accent, keep some of the mechanics, or sprinkle the mechanics in at times to remind the reader of their accent? Any feedback would be appreciated. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 1: Despair

 

I’m . . . I’m sorry. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save…anyone.

It’s ok, Dek, a gentle, familiar voice whispered back in the darkness. Rest now.

It was midsummer in the Year of Fallen Leaves, and the day was blisteringly hot. The land, once lush with life, had since withered under the constant barrage of the sun’s embrace. Grass turned brown and brittle, and the earth dried out. On the horizon, heat waves rose like shimmering apparitions, suffocating the lungs with every breath.

Yet in the middle of a dying pasture rose a proud apple tree. Standing over fifty feet tall with thick, reddish-brown bark, its sprawling canopy blocked out the sun. Despite the trunk’s immense girth, massive limbs bowed under the weight of large, luscious red apples.

A boy lay beneath its sprawling branches, back planted firmly against its trunk. His hands hung limp by his sides, and his feet were splayed carelessly before him. Small leaves and twigs clung to his disheveled, sandy-brown hair, and his face—normally handsome—was battered so severely that his right eye was swollen shut. He licked his scabbed lips, his gaze fixed on the cloudless sky above.

“He’s not all there,” a man spoke in Sturian.

“Aye, something’s a-gone from him,” a husky voice agreed. Unlike the first speaker, his Sturian was crude, thick with a heavy accent.   

The two men stood atop a small hill hundreds of feet away. Before them, the rugged terrain flattened out into the pasture where the boy lay. Behind them, foothills rose gradually until they transformed into the famed Gloom Mountains: a vast wall of interconnecting peaks that cut across the horizon for miles.  

Gruman, an Alurian who towered well above most men, peered down at the distant pasture. He was broad-shouldered and imposing, his dark hair framing a chiseled face dotted with small scars. His very presence demanded respect.  

“Do you think we can help him?”

Perched atop a small boulder nearby was a short, sturdy figure. Ragabond, like most Isedri, had a thick body with bulky arms and overly large hands. His golden-tinged face was weathered and cracked, and his tangled hair, once a fiery orange, had long since faded to a dark gray. Glimpses of dull, reddish-orange streaks ran through his mane—a bitter reminder of its former glory.

Pushing off his seat, the Isedri landed heavily on his feet and scooped up a spade-headed shovel from the ground. “We?” he snorted, staring up at his towering companion. “Look inna mirror, Gruman. Yer eyes…they’re bleedin’.”

The proud Alurian looked defeated in both body and soul. His clothes were worn and stained, his beard unkempt, and the sour scent of stale sweat and dried dirt wafted off him. Yet despite his ragged appearance, it was his eyes that had changed the most. They were red-rimmed and hollow.   

“I finished me grievin’ days ago,” Ragabond grunted, cracking his neck from side to side. He sucked in a heavy breath, squared his thick shoulders, and exhaled loudly. “The boy needs a soldier now. Not a weeping wreck. I’ll see what I can do.”  

The Isedri trudged down the hill, his boots crunching carelessly over cracked earth and dying grass. Up close, the boy’s body was a map of violence. Scabbed claw marks peeked through his shredded clothes, and his battered face was painted in dark purples, save for the occasional yellowing mark.  

 “Lad.” Ragabond cleared his throat, his voice softening. “It’s me, Enforcer Vilner.”   

The boy’s unblinking good eye remained fixed on the sky as the Isedri stepped forward, blocking his view. “The Commander asked me to help ye out. Some kind o’ encouragement of sorts.”

The boy continued staring right through him, as if he didn’t exist.

Bending down, Ragabond smiled gently, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. Leaning in close to his ear, he whispered, “But we both know I’m no good fer that, so I’m just gonna tell ye how it is, then.”

He jerked his head toward the hill behind him. “The Commander up there thinks I’m giving ye some motivational speech er somethin’. Far from it. The girl’s dead. All yer friends, dead. Maelix’s missing—probably dead. I imagine they tortured him afore splitting him down the middle. Bet ye he wet himself, didn’t he? Sat blubberin’ in his own piss while they did what they did to the others.”

The Isedri suddenly stood and took a step back. “But not ye, Dekkeon Wentwood. No…no, not our brave little boy! Ye fought back, didn’t ye?” He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Of course ye did. How’d that work out fer ye? I found all of ‘em in the woods. Had to search fer several missing parts, but I’m a stubborn fellow. Oh, did I mention I also found her body still strung up betwixt two trees? Ye didn’t deserve her friendship—none of theirs. And why’d all this happen?”

A sharp flush rose up the enforcer’s neck and into his cheeks, his whole body trembling with rage. Squeezing his hand into a fist, he thrust it mere inches from the boy’s face, shaking violently. “Ye failed! Yer weak! Ye weren’t strong enough to save ‘em! They died—because of ye!”

As his fist continued shaking uncontrollably, Ragabond stared at it, his eyes afire. With tremendous willpower, he unclenched his fingers one by one, letting out a long, deep breath. The pasture grew still as his blazing eyes dimmed to their usual simmer. The sudden silence carried a weight far heavier than his screams ever could.

It was enough. For in the quiet, the boy finally broke.

A single tear slipped down Dekkeon’s cheek, plopping onto his muck-covered shirt. As he closed his eye, tears streamed down his face. Openly weeping, no words or cries of pain escaped his lips. His tears were words enough.

Ragabond waited for a stretch of time before speaking once more. “Ye’ve two options from where I’m standing, boy. Ye can wallow in yer self-pity, witherin’ away until ye eventually curl up and die like the worthless piece a trash ye are, or—”

Turning, his gaze locked on the distant figure of Gruman. When he turned back, his eyes were filled with fervor.

“—Or ye can get off yer lazy, worthless arse and quit feeling sorry fer yerself. And one day, if yer lucky, ye may just split the bastard in half what killed our precious little girl.” The Isedri licked his lips with a hunger that food could not satiate. “If I don’t beat ye to it first.”

He tossed the shovel at the boy’s feet. “I told the Commander I buried her since he’s too grief-stricken to do it himself. But ye know what? I lied. That’s yer job. I left the bodies up at the cabin. Once ye’re done burying ‘em, come find me. Or rot in hell fer all I care.”

Ragabond turned to leave, then stopped. “If ye do seek me out, I can promise ye only one thing. Chance. A chance fer revenge—that’s it. I’ll be at the cabin till the sun sets two weeks hence. If I don’t see ye by then, ye’ll ne’er see me again. Training begins now.”

As the Isedri trudged off, the boy and the apple tree were left in silence.

Back on the hill, Ragabond stood beside Gruman, but unlike his companion, he now faced away from the boy.  

“I did as ye asked.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The same thing me grandfather told me after me first battle.”

“I see,” Gruman replied softly. “Do you think it will work?”

Ragabond shrugged. “We’ll know when he either kills himself, runs away, or…”

“Or?”

“Or comes to us, then wishes he’d killed himself er run away.”

Gruman’s gaze slowly lowered, locking onto the ground. “A part of me wishes he’d simply run away.”

Ragabond cocked his head to the side. “Do ye blame him fer what happened?”

The Alurian shook his head. “No,” he replied, pausing a moment before adding, “For his sake.”

The Isedri sucked in gunk from his nostrils, then spit it to the side. “Yer looking the wrong way, Commander. The boy’s living in the past. Don’t make the mistake o’ joinin’ him. We’ll see him soon enough, if’n he has the courage. Are ye returning to the cabin?”

There was a short pause. Gruman shook his head. “No.”

“Ye think he’s alive?”

“If he is, I have to find out.”

“Joyous huntin’,” the Isedri replied. “I’ll be waiting fer yer return.”

Without another word, Ragabond departed, leaving the Alurian alone on the hill.

The wind picked up, bringing with it dark, billowing clouds that choked out the sky. The sun vanished behind the gray expanse. Though the respite from the heat was welcome, to Gruman, it felt like an omen. A storm was coming—a massive, unforgiving gale that would change the face of the very earth they trod upon.

At last, he too turned, leaving the boy alone in the dying pasture.                                                                      

I'm doing some worldbuilding, and I really like the name of certain fictional character (becuase it's a very cool name). Buuut the name is unique, there's no other thing named like that bc they made it up for the show.

So, I was wondering if I could still use it, like for a character (that is not a copy of the character I got the name from, ofc), a place (kingdom, planet, etc), a species, an object, food, language or whatever comes to mind.

For clearer ideas, think about cool unique names like Tolkien's. (Tho, the character I'm talking about is waaay less popular; not even the big Mouse gives a damn, as the media that character appears has been on youtube for more than a decade)

Thank you in advance.

this sentence in my book runs on for a little while, how can i shorten it? i do want to keep the descriptions, i just need to break them up into multiple sentences.

"I walked over to the gas station from the pump, and as I opened the door to the gas station, I saw Ari, her intricately braided dark brown hair— contrasting her hazelnut skin tone—loosely in a bun, wearing a black leather jacket with a grey t-shirt underneath, dark grey jeans, and a red heart necklace, next to Zoey, her dark brown hair tightly in a bun, matching Ari, wearing just a green “Mineblock” t-shirt, baggy dark green sweatpants, and the same red heart necklace as Ari, and Wren, their braided dark brown hair tightly in a bun, but—differentiating from Ari and Zoey—with a few thick  strands of their braided hair falling down their face, wearing a black leather jacket similar to Ari’s, but with a lightish green graphic tee of a band I didn’t recognize, very baggy dark grey jeans, and the same red heart necklace as Ari and Zoey, most likely a sort of friendship bracelet, deciding what snacks to get."

also if you know a better sub to post this in please tell me <3

To preface this, I am a STRAIGHT CISGENDER MAN, however I like to interact and view a lot of queer spaces. But I’m facing a WRITING problem at the moment so I want to get some advice from some transgender people.

So im making a character driven story about a bunch of washed up/struggling celebrities in a rehab type center. Each character has their own artist’s struggle to work through with the protagonist. And the character that I am struggling with at the moment is a trans man named Jimmy. Jimmys whole deal is that he used to be a child actor in a sitcom acting asthe “dumb blonde” archetype (this was before he transitioned). However Jimmy was quite unhappy with his role, often getting made fun of and even sexualized off stage. So eventually he ran from his parents and the sitcom in search of new purpose. But even though he left and became Jimmy, the familiar laughing track quite literally surrounds him every second, unable to escape his role and past, forcing him to constantly be on the run, wearing baggy, body hiding clothes, in pursuit of finding a new role, as a musician.

Jimmy’s character is supposed to be an allegory for a very parasocial relationship with his audience. But I figured that a story about finding yourself and changing from your society given role would really work with a trans character. But, like I said I’m no expert on this, I think having some input from people who would understand this would REALLY help my story and Jimmy.

(P.S. Sorry if the pronouns I use for Jimmy are confusing when I talk about his past, he transitions shortly after running away.)

Same as above!

I have what I believe is a really good idea for a story. I'vve never seriously attempted to write a novel before. I am much better (well, more confident) with dialogue than I am with description.

At present, I'm writing a scene set in a study - picture windows, dark-wood paneling, a fireplace, rows of books.

I feel like I'm walking through quicksand trying to write an interesting - or even competent! - description of this study. I simply don't have much of an eye for detail, and what I do see, I often don't know how to describe, beyond, "There was a chair. And a fireplace. And lots of books. And a picture window."

I'm exaggerating, slightly. I actually just took another stab at writing this and I feel like it's...OK. But I also feel like, in the hands of a "real writer", it would grab the reader. Like the reader would be able to picture the room in their mind.

If I have a question, I guess it's: When trying to set a scene, how much description is necessary? And can you recommend any techniques for vivid description that make a scene come alive? (Oh, by the way, I'm also interested in avoiding cliches, like "make a scene come alive" - I mean, I want to do it, but I want to avoid tired phrases like that in my writing).

Thank you in advance!

Hi. I'm european but my story is set in the uk. I' having big problems on creating names that makes sense, because they're all basic names and basic surnames ...

Does anyone have any advices/ideas?

Hi all,

I'm in the process of a first draft, but I have been unsure about one thing in particular. The draft is in first-person past tense with a young protagonist who is 10 years old in Chapter 1 then 14 years old from Chapter 2 onwards. However, the actual narration is an older version of him recounting the exact events of what takes place (this version of him is never actually met, so it is unknown how old he is).

My question is this: Is it acceptable for the dialogue to be age-accurate but the actual prose to read as if it was by an adult, even if it is never known how old he is when he is recounting the events?

I feel like I've phrased this question in quite a confusing way, but I'm struggling to think of how else to say it.

I really appreciate any advice I can get!

This is a serious question and I am hesitant to even ask, but I’ve seen a lot of discussion around writers who claim that no ideas are original anymore, or that what seems unique is really just several ideas stitched together from things we’ve read, seen, heard, or experienced in the past.

What do you think?

Hi. I'm starting to be afraid that my story idea would be stolen. Unlike painting, which takes hours to finish, writing takes months or years to finish. idk, the more I keep writing, researching and putting in some effort, the more I feel like I have someone watching me. Waiting for the perfect chance to steal and publish his book before I do. how to deal with these thoughts? This feeling will make me stop sharing and brainstorming my project with other writers unless I literally finish it fr.

I have been working on my story for a while (like 2 years). I also read in my spare time. I had names picked out for my characters long ago. But now I keep seeing the same names in books SO. MANY. TIMES. And I don't want them to be like that.

Would you keep the names of your characters? Put new ones? Out of 4 characters, only 2 am I super set on. The other 2 COULD change. And if I do change, how would I go about finding new ones that don't end up in the same boat?