Indie Author - Blog Posts

So I'm focusing on 'Time Warp' and fleshing out some of the antagonist characters. I realised they were just mean for being mean and it wouldn't make sense why they're targeting the protagonists.

This has me thinking about if I should include their POVs in the story because I wrote a whole page about why one of the characters decided to prank them and how they felt about it.

This story also has supernatural elements working in the background and I'm having fun coming up with different ways it communicates with them.

Once I have all the characters fully formed (to my standards) I'll show you guys some art!

Novel Length Ideas I'm Working On!

So now that I know how to plan my stories, I'm planning them!

I bought some of those clear folders that you can just slip your papers through to organize everything and I have a folder for each.

I've had many, many, many stories over the years, but these are the ones I've decided to focus on.

Not Another Paranormal Romance

Loved the idea for this one and really want to continue with it. You can read the short story I wrote from this idea here, here and here!

Diary of an Ex-Witch

A recent idea (like a week old or so) Was definitely inspired by reading the Bible and understanding a few things about GOD a bit better.

Time Warp/ Rewind

Name is pending. This is an idea I had when I was 17 and I absolutely HAVE to write this! Especially since I've gotten so many new ideas for it! It will be about two 3rd formers (13 to 14-year-olds) who mysteriously travel back in time to the week before they were cruelly pranked by their peers.

K.I.D.S

This was a story idea from when I was 15, heavily inspired by my favourite series at the time, N.E.R.D.S by Michael Buckley (I still have and read all the books to this day!)

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This story grew in originality as I got older and it went from being about exceptional kid spies (veeeerrrry similar to N.E.R.D.S) to regular kids unintentionally caught up in the secrets and drama of the hidden. I'm still working on organising my thoughts for this one, especially since I plan for it to be a trilogy.

I do plan to work on some short stories, both to share with you and to exercise my writing muscles. I may also share some snippets of writings based on these novel-length ideas. I find that writing shorts featuring your characters are a good way to get to know them.

I’m writing this so there’s some kind of record in case I die. When I die, maybe. The longer this has gone on the more inevitable that has felt. I don’t know why this is happening or who is doing it to me. I wish I could point a finger at someone so the cops or whoever finds me after all this is over can get the bastard doing this, but…there’s nothing. Nothing!

I think I’m getting ahead of myself, though.

I’ll start at the beginning.

No one gets regular mail anymore. Everything is done through email or DMs. I mean, people still get junk mail and stuff, but not like mail-mail. I think that’s what made me so curious when I got the first envelope.

It didn’t have my address on it, or any stamps, or even a return address. Just my name written in a tidy script in the very center of the white rectangle. It wasn’t a legal envelope—more like the kind birthday cards come in. I don’t know why, but at the time it unnerved me. It wasn’t anywhere near my birthday, and the handwriting didn’t look like anyone’s I knew.

The envelope isn’t what’s important, though. I mean, it kind of is, but what was inside the envelope was more important.

The flap was tucked into the envelope, unsealed. When I opened it, two Polaroid pictures spilled out into my hand, one after the other in an eager cascade. If I didn’t know better, I would have said they jumped out of the envelope.

Curious and more confused by the moment, I flipped the pictures over.

The first one looked like something out of a horror movie. It showed a large concrete (or what I assumed was concrete) room. Concrete walls, floor, ceiling. In the center of the room was a hooded lamp hanging down over a person, naked, and tied to a chair. They were slumped forward, body weight straining against the ropes that bound them to the non-descript metal chair.

I blinked down at the thing, confused and more than a little worried. I had no idea why someone would send this to me. The shadows in the picture were too thick to make out the person’s face. I wondered if it was someone I knew, if this was supposed to be some kind of ransom demand, but there was no note accompanying the photos. My heart was already hammering as I looked at the other photo, hoping to find answers.

Instead, I found a picture of my face.

There, in halide and plastic, was my fucking face.

A pit opened up in my stomach as I stared down at it and my brain went blank. It refused to comprehend what was in front of it. In the photo, a gloved hand held a fistful of my hair, yanking it backward so my limp head rose enough to make me recognizable. My features were slack, like I was half-asleep or maybe drugged. I looked back to the gloved hand, but the wrist and arm were both covered by the sleeve of a sweater, making any guess as to who they were impossible.

It felt like the air had been punched out of me. I realized I was shaking, but couldn’t bring myself to look away from the half-lidded eyes—my eyes—in the picture.

I thought it had to be Photoshop—what else could it be?—but how do you Photoshop a Polaroid? It was one thing to create a Polaroid effect in the program, but that didn’t mean you could create a physical one. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know much about photo editing, but I supposed it was possible to Photoshop something like this and then take a picture with the Polaroids. But I couldn’t see anything in the pictures to indicate they weren’t legitimate. Either way, I couldn’t stomach whatever sick joke someone was trying to play.

I tossed the photos in the trash, and tried to put it from my mind.

And before you ask: yes, I thought about going to the police, but I didn’t think they would do anything. Technically speaking, no crime had been committed so even if I insisted on making a report, and even if I could convince them to dust for fingerprints or whatever cops do, I had little confidence that whatever this was wouldn’t be filed away and never see the light of day again. And, I guess, part of me just wanted to forget about it. Can you blame me? Those pictures freaked me out and I just wanted to pretend it never happened.

A week later, thought, there was another envelope in my mailbox. Same nondescript white envelope, unsealed, with my name written in unfamiliar, tidy handwriting.

My first instinct was to toss it into the trash without looking at the contents. No way in hell did I want to see more freaky pictures made to look like I was being held captive or…or worse.

To this day, I wish I had listened to my gut and thrown the envelope away—better yet, I wish I had burned it.

But I didn’t.

I can’t explain it. Even if I was a better wordsmith, I don’t think I could put into words the compulsion I had to open that envelope. It would be easier, even, to say that it was as if I was possessed—that it wasn’t really me unfurling the flap that had been tucked into the stiff white paper backing, or like I was being controlled when I pulled the next two photos out of the sheaf. But none of that is true. It was me. I did those things and I will never—never—stop regretting that I did.

Like last time, there were a pair of Polaroid pictures in the envelope.

But the images were…not like last time.

It was still my face in the images, and as best I could tell they—I?—was still in the concrete room. The same black-gloved hand had a grip on my hair, but this time…

(Jesus fucking Christ even just typing the words is hard; my hands are shaking just remembering it)

This time it looked as if I had been beaten bloody. The face—my face—was beaten almost beyond recognition. The only thing I had to really indicate that it was still me was the bone-deep feeling of recognition I had with the person in the image. My lips were swollen, bleeding from a split in the corner of the bottom lip. Bruises darkened my face, a cut on one cheek bone indicated where I’d been hit especially hard, and the eye on that side looked swollen and bloodied. Blood dribbled from my hairline and ran in rivulets down the side of my face.

Just looking at the picture made me feel like I needed to bolt. I wasn’t sure where I would go or for how long, but the need to get out of my home and go somewhere—anywhere else—was intense. But how could I go? I had no way of knowing who was doing this. They could be anyone I spoke to on the street. Someone I knew. A stranger. Where could I even go that would be safe?

I fought to control my breathing as I paced in my kitchen, needing to move my body before I screamed. It took all of my willpower just to stay indoors instead of running out into the streets and just run, run, run.

Finally, I looked at the other image.

A second hand had entered the frame, wearing black gloves like the first one and holding a pair of pliers. The rusted metal tips were inside my mouth, clamped onto a bloodied tooth already halfway out of a socket. My face was still swollen and beaten, lips stretched wide in a silent scream that I could all but hear. Tears made clean streaks through the rivers of blood on my face.

I remembering swearing over and over, my spine slick with sweat as I looked at the image over and over, trying to discern anything that could help me find out who was sending these fucked up images and why, but there was nothing. It felt like there was too much air in my little kitchen and yet I couldn’t get any of it into my lungs.

That was the first time I’d had a panic attack.

I didn’t know what it was until my friends found me a short time later, huddled in a corner and hyperventilating. In full honesty, the rest of that night was a blur. I remember my friends helping me drink water, trying to talk me down from whatever ledge they thought I’d climbed to. Despite my fears and uncertainties of who could be sending the pictures, I made the choice to trust them. Desperate for someone to see what I was seeing and help me figure out what to do or who to talk to, I tried to show them the Polaroids, but when they looked at the pictures, there was only a square of darkness, as if whoever had taken the picture had left the lens cap on.

The pictures were gone.

And yeah, I get the whole ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ thing. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to convince my friends or the police without proof. The next time the envelope showed up, I tried to take pictures with my phone. The one after that, I tried to record a video. It didn’t matter. No matter what I did, the files were corrupted, unusable, or gone. Just gone. Deleted themselves so thoroughly I couldn’t even dig them out of the trash folder in my phone gallery.

At that point, I thought I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t think of a single logical reason why or how this was happening. Not for the Polaroids, or why no one else could see them, or what was going on with the digital files. None of it.

Meanwhile, the images in the Polaroids were getting…worse.

A sick feeling rolled in my stomach daily. As much as I wanted to believe these were some kind of deep fake, there was something about it that felt so undeniably real. It got to a point where I couldn’t go out to my mailbox without the anxiety forcing me to empty the contents of my stomach. I had to wait until someone came to visit and ask if they could get my mail for me. And there was always an envelope along with whatever junk or bills that had been piling up. Every. Single. Time.

The stress made my life impossible. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t even leave the house most days. If I did, there was always the chance that my tormentor could find me and make good on all the threats they’d been sending me. At that point, that was all I could think of those Polaroids as: promises of violence.

Even now, I feel like I’m marching toward an inevitable pain. A future filled with only pain and suffering and that no matter what I do, there’s no stopping it. Only delaying it.

But I digress.

One of my friends said I needed to get help. Maybe I should have listened to them back then, but I was convinced that if I couldn’t get proof of the pictures themselves, then I would get proof of whoever was putting the envelopes in my mailbox. I figured I could at least that that to the police.

I ordered one of those self-installation security systems—the one with the off-brand Ring doorbell, cameras on my front door, mail box, etc. I even bought extra locks for my doors and windows. I spent the rest of the day setting up and testing my new security system. By the end of it, I felt pretty proud of myself. I was certain I was going to catch whoever was doing this and could turn them into the cops and all of this would just be a big bad dream. But I was wrong.

Sure enough, the security system picked up on movement around midnight that night. The new motion sensor light on the porch sprang to life, illuminating a figure wearing a dark hoodie. I jolted as fear struck me like lightning. They were tall, wide, imposing. They seemed impossibly large. Unavoidable. Undeniable.

I was watching them through the lens of a camera with two locked doors between us, and yet I felt as small and vulnerable as if they were in the room with me at that moment.

My eyes roamed the figure over and over, trying to find some kind of distinguishing features, but they angled themselves so the light shone from behind them. They became a dark silhouette—a shadow of death.

They stood there, still and stone for what seemed like hours. Even with the video on fast-forward, they hardly even swayed. Near 3AM, they turned, very slowly, toward the camera as though they knew exactly where to look for it. With agonizing slowness, they reached a gloved hand into their pocket and pulled out three polaroid photos. The camera refocused as the figure brought the pictures closer to the lens.

The first picture showed me duct tapped to the same chair with the figure standing behind me. Instead of pliers, they held a knife. The figure on my screen held up the second photo. In one hand they held the knife. In the other, an ear.

I wanted to look away, wanted to delete the video and crawl deep, deep under the covers of my bed, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed at a cellular level as the figure showed the third picture. The same bloodied knife hovered over the image of my downcast head. For a moment, I thought all that had changed between photos was the position of my head, but I soon realized something else had changed. The ear in the hooded figure's hand...it was the other ear.

My hands were shaking as I watched the figure pull the photo away from the lens. They dropped them onto the doorstep and walked away into the night.

I was practically soiling my pants but I took the security footage down to the police. When I pulled it up to show them…you guessed it. The file was corrupted and unusable. The police told me that without evidence or a suspect, they couldn’t even make a report. Useless bastards. No wonder people don’t like cops! I was basically trapped in my house, terrified, at my absolute wit’s end, and they couldn’t even make a report?!

Anyway, like I said at the beginning, I’m writing all of this in the inevitability of my death.

It’s been a few weeks since I was able to capture that first video, and my large friend has been on my doorstep every night. They don’t always have pictures. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at the camera lens as if they can see through it and into my eyes. My soul?

On the nights when they do have photos, they’re…I can’t even say. Each one is worse than the last, detailing my slow and steady dismemberment.

I can’t explain why, but I know that once the photos finally detail my death, that this figure is going to come for me. It isn’t going to matter how many locks I have on my doors, or how many weapons I horde in order to protect myself. It’s going to get in here and it’s going to take me and it’s going to do to me every single thing that happened in those pictures.

I still don’t know how or why this is happening, only that I can’t avoid it any longer.

I’m scared. God, I’m so fucking scared, but I don’t know what else I can do. If there’s even anything that can be done.

My friends have given up on me and I don’t have any family. Not even a pet. I’m alone. Just like in those photos. So, if you’re reading this, know that they’re my last words. I needed someone else—anyone else—to know what happened to me. I don’t know if you’ll believe a word of it, but if nothing else, can you do me a favor? Remember me. Please. I’m so alone and so afraid and I know that eventually I’m going to disappear. I just don’t want to be forgotten, too.

I’m also on WattPad 🙋🏼‍♀️ check out my books please 🙆🏼‍♀️

dad just sarcastically told me he hopes i become a millionaire from my books because i’ve been working on them “forever” so i decided i have to now just to prove him wrong ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Throws ROTTMNT one shot into the crowd

Purple's Favourite Turtle

Start of my ROTTMNT Posts!!!

ROTTMNT Short Stories

Please note that this is just for fun, and not supposed to be taken seriously or as canon, this a short stories book, feel free request any ships, or even some duo/trio ideas for me to write for future short stories. I do have plans to introduce some of my own characters, but they'll be introduced in a different short story book for them, so more focus will be on them in the next book, as for right now, I hope you enjoy my work.

THESE ARE WHAT I WILL ACCEPT: Blood/Gore Sexual tension/Slight Lime Drugs/Alcohol Abuse Implied Abuse Deaths Angst Fluff Crack

THESE ARE WHAT I WILL NOT ACCEPT: Lemon/Smut Incest Child/Adult Ships Pro-Ships

Thinking of sharing a bit about my original book! How does everyone feel about that?

Over two years ago, I made a draft for an original story, that I decided to scrap, as it wasn't the sort of story I wanted to tell.

But in the last year, 2 months, I have been looking back at it, twisting, and tweaking it to be more enjoyable, and overall be something that I actually wanted write about.

The characters are better made, there's more world building, and overall focus of the morals of said characters, I'm really excited to share the story with you all, but I have struggling with where to post it, I have been considering the following.

AO3 or Tumblr

Which one would be better for me to do? If you have any other websites that I should check, feel free to mention in the comments down below! Thank you for your time!

🔞

In the late afternoon, I lie on my bed.

The sunglow seeps through spaces in the blinds and warms my soft brown skin. I trace the outline of my hip with my forefinger, admiring my new panties. They're hemmed with delicate lace, and there's a little pink rosebud made of tightly coiled ribbon stitched to the center of the waistband, directly beneath my n@vel. It makes me feel like a sweet little candy all wrapped up nicely. An image of my boyfriend's reaction to a picture of me like this popping up on his phone flashes through my mind. Heat rises to my face and I push my phone a little further away from myself on the bed. Of course I can't send him a picture of me like this! What will he say? What if he barely responds at all! I'd be mortified. But what if he likes it?... In my mind, I see him at the end of my bed, parting my legs to lie on top of me. His hand traveling from my collarbones all the way down my body and - oh, you know where. I try not to think of that for too long. The reason I laid down here was to take a simple nap before returning to finish my housework. It's time for my Sunday reset, after all. But I can already feel a bit of pressure building between my thighs.

I hop off the bed to look out the window at the stillness of the neighborhood. I can see the driveway and the house across the street which has been adorned with myriad flowers by the elderly couple that lives there. I can't help but imagine my boyfriend's car in the driveway. Imagine him looking through the window and seeing me, giving me a shy smile as I shimmy my hips playfully. I open the window to let in a little bit of fresh air, in hopes of distracting myself. The scent of spring with all its youthful exhilaration wafts in.

I inhale deeply and stretch upwards with the warm sun beaming down on my face. The cool breeze slips up my cropped, very baggy white camisole, and kisses my n¡pples. In response, they harden to peaks. I immediately cup my hands over my bre@sts, worried that someone might glance at my window and see me like that. My bre@sts are a bit too big to fit in my hands. E cups that sway with every step, so I can never go braless without garnering a lot of attention. My n¡pples are hypersensitive, with @reolas that dimple at the slightest touch. Any chance of distracting myself from the growing heat between my thighs vanished with the breeze coming through my window when I cupped my tits. My nap time fantasies made me even more sensitive to the warm touch. A jolt of pleasure shot through my chest and melted into a drop of soothing ecstasy.

"There goes nap time" I giggle to myself.

My hands begin to massage my chest in large circles. Cupping my bre@sts and fondling them gently. Now my n¡ps are even more pronounced, and when I glance down I can see them jutting out through the thin fabric of my camisole.

I give them a teasing flick. A breathy m0an escapes my lips. Warmth drips onto my panties from that simple touch.

So I begin to flick my n¡pples, one after the other in quick succession. Bliss swirls my chest. I just want more. A gentle pinch and a tug gives me a twing of pain mingled with the pleasure, causing my knees to buckle under me.

I quickly moved to the bed and lied down on my back, rubbing my @reolas in soothing strokes. Every now and then I encircled one of the hardened peaks in between my thumb and forefinger, eliciting a sound of excitement to escape me.

I bend my knees upward and begin to squirm as I moved my fingertips faster.

I tease the waistband of my panties with one hand while the other brushes across my entire chest. My chest is heaving up and down, my tummy shivers with every light touch.

My fantasies swirl out of control now. I can't help but wonder what it would be like if I were seen. A moment ago the idea frightened me. But now, entangled in the thrall of my ar0usal, I found it so exciting. I know everyone in the neighborhood is probably off at work. So I felt safe enough, during these quiet hours, to slowly part my legs in front of the window. I reach down to feel myself, and my fingers are met with a slick, warm, puddle seeping through my pretty little panties. I wonder if it could be seen from outside, just how wet I am.

Sliding my fingers up and down my slit is enough to make me shiver with ecstasy. My hips buck when I pass over my cl¡t with featherlight touches. The lack of pressure is torment, but I enjoy holding off my own release. My back arches away from my mattress as my pvssy throbs with need. I can feel myself soaking through my panties as I deny myself sweet release for a little longer. My mind has gone to another place now. I am floating in the middle of space, surrounded by my own pleasure sounds.

That's when it happens.

I hear a voice calling my name. The single word tumbled out, a startled, urgent, breathless sound. I recognize the voice immediately. In a panic, I rip my blanket off my bed and wrap it around my half naked body, sitting up to face my boyfriend, staring at me through the open window, jaw slacked, obviously shaken.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry. I didn't - I didn't mean - to - to watch. I swear." He stammers.

I am quivering from the anxiety and hypersensitivity reverberating through my entire body, and absolutely stupefied into silence.

"I wanted to surprise you, because you said today - today was a boring day, so I tried to knock and you didn't hear me, and then I heard some - some sounds. So I - I came to investigate." He shifts his weight uncomfortably, and starts to move away from the window. "I'm so sorry. I'll come back another time. I really didn't mean -"

"Wait no, no." I interrupt him. He freezes in place. I take a deep breath, summoning my courage. "I... liked it."

"What?" The word comes out soft and weak. I can see redness spreading across the bridge of his nose.

His blush only makes me want him more.

"I liked... that you saw me." I tell him.

I try to steady my quavering legs as I stand up to raise the window higher, with the blanket clutched around my neck, falling over my shoulders, providing minimal coverage.

My heart is pounding in my ears.

We are so close now, with only glass between us. I breathe as slowly as possible. My voice is barely above a whisper.

"Do you want to come in?"

I saw the tv glow and turned it’s brightness up.

I was happy to see that other people’s tv’s also glowed, but I noticed that my tv was a different shade than theirs. Soon after that, I noticed that my tv was a completely different colour. It was a deep green, turning into white, turning into grey, turning into black.

I turned the brightness of the tv down, but left it just enough to always play in the background, like a little song in the back of my brain that I can’t remember the words of.

I never saw a person whose tv had the same colour as mine and it made me feel like no one would appreciate it. It was quite an interesting colour; I did plenty of research on it, but the people who did have their tv that colour never really got to be a real part of society.

I turned the brightness up again this year—not by a lot, just a bit to make out the colours—and while looking at it, I realised something. If I were to let my tv glow, it would mean never truly feeling a part of this world.

Love was such a big part of a person’s life. So why didn’t I feel any of it? I loved my friends, I loved my family, I loved my pets. Why wasn’t I cable of loving on another level? Why didn’t romance strike me as this beautiful thing rather than this tedious chore? I wanted to rip my heart out—why wasn’t it feeling things like the other hearts felt them? Why didn’t it speed up at the sight of a pretty woman or handsome man? Why did it just pump my blood and not my feelings?

If I were to let my tv glow, it would mean embracing who I truly am. But I don’t know who I truly am. And I haven’t known for a really long time.

If you have trouble remembering all the beef two historical figures had for your exam, just start shipping them.

I am not joking.

They hated each other before their coalition? Enemies to lovers. One of them was assassinated? Right person wrong time. They have portraits/photos together? They must’ve fought the urge to hold hands.

You’ll be surprised by how easy their lore becomes to remember

Hey you. Yes you. Go to sleep.

Random Rant

Good night, the writing advice on this website feels samesy as fuck.

It reminds me of when everyone in 2013 had an art OC and you legitimately couldn’t tell the difference.

“This is how you’re writing wrong, write like this instead.”

Congrats Brenda but you write just like Hannah. Who also write just like Lukas who writes just like Hayden.

Please for the love of EVERYTHING. Develop your own writing style.

Don’t copy and paste the writing patterns of others on this website to your own writing style. Because I legitimately can’t tell the difference anymore.

And it’s just really sad to see.

(I also don’t know how tumblr’s algorithm decided I wanted to see writing advice. I don’t. I take all my writing advice from my friend Ralph the alien cricket.)

Too bad I wrote it anyway.

Hey everyone, would you be interested in a story told from the first-person perspective of a young woman who’s stuck living in a creepy underground town and has to face seriously chilling horrors? Let me know!

Being a writer is writing your story the way you want and then that one character insists on a different outcome. So you change that scene but then another character complains too. Now you have to decide what to smother and what to allow! That is so hard to do.

Fanfic is a good and healthy part of creative storytelling.

However some of you are depriving the world of great art. Simple because you’re busy working within the copyright of existing art.

This is coming from someone that used to spend years writing fanfic before officially publishing original fiction.

Please publish your own work too. It’s scary but you’ll be better off for it. Especially when your original story starts getting love too.

Nobody knew they needed certain story worlds until someone took the chance and started a new one.

You can still write your fanfics but don’t miss your true calling.

I usually stop watching Dexter around Season 4, Episode 7.

Rant

Dexter not killing Trinity feels like a plot contrivance; there’s no real reason for him to let him live. He just decides not to kill him after already receiving the proof he needed. Instead, he gets sidetracked with some serial killer of the week because “he threatened Deb.” Really, Dexter? Do you not remember what happened just a few episodes ago because of Trinity?

The idea that “Trinity is on cooldown” doesn’t make sense. When has that ever been a consideration for him? It felt like the showrunners didn't want a predictable series, so they made Dexter act out of character. Trinity isn’t just another Miguel situation; Dexter has seen him kill innocents live. There’s no justification for not dealing with him ASAP.

You could argue that Dexter is struggling with parenthood and being a husband, which clouds his judgment. However, he has never allowed his role as a boyfriend and pseudo-father to so severely distort his logical reasoning. Show runners wanted Trinity to hurt Dexter. The only way they could get that outcome was to make Dexter act outside of his norm.

“Maybe he wanted to learn more about having a normal family life from Trinity.”

Dexter has tabled other serial killers with normal lives. He knows how’s to put on a show and still exist.

“Well Rita needed to go out that way for the set up!” (in a totally different show that the writers definitely knew would be a reality someday)

Actual take I’ve seen before. That show also shifts the dynamics around with the audiences relationship with Dexter so not a fan. I’ll explain. Imagine if Supernatural had a spin-off show that said: “erm actually the Winchesters were pieces of shit the entire time. You should hate them actually. Because technically they were still killing people even if they were irredeemable monsters!”

Then Sam and Dean are killed off by Adam and that found footage werewolf they chose not to hunt.

That’s how that ending feels. So no that “setup” isn’t a good payoff to either series. I’ll just pretend the show ended after S3.

“Erm Hollywood/ Gaming Industry/ Music/ publishers don’t make anything original anymore it’s just sequels, remakes, samples, and prequels!”

I’m going to hold your hand when I tell you this:

Support original art outside of existing pillar franchises and labels.

If you remain inactive in supporting new things, everything will stay the same. Studios, producers, and executives only produce games, movies, music, and TV shows if they believe there’s a fanbase for it. Many book publishers won't take risks on picking up an existing series unless they can prove a major return.

I’m done with this stale argument that everything sucks now. If you’re unhappy with the industry, do something about it or stop complaining. Stop hate watching and start engaging with content you enjoy. Take a chance on new content, you might be missing out.

The era of the hate-watching YouTube essay reviewer is slowly ending, and that's a good thing. Don’t let these reviewers, who often don't even watch what they critique, deter you from trying new things. They often have agendas to convince you that only their specific taste of art is worthwhile. They also don’t like a majority of things even indie.

Form your own opinions and seek out new things to enjoy. Deconstructing and hating is easy; constructing and loving is much harder.

Me: only interacts with writing posts and anime

Tumblr: you want to see politics?!

Me: *not interested x1000*

Tumblr: oh so you *really* wanna see politics huh?!

I know it’s an election season but ffs.

Yes yes we all read "There Will Come Soft Rains" by Ray Bradbury

Here’s a meme based off my first books MMC.

I wrote and published my book. This book is very important to me. I never thought I’d live this long to write and publish a book. That’s all.

This is one of the memes I’ve made about my first book.

Is it just me or are Jonas from The Giver and Grayson from Arc of a Scythe basically the same person in different plot lines? Like, I was genuinely thinking about making a fan fiction about this, but then I remembered that I’m still writing an original book series and I should probably publish all the books in full before I take on another writing project. Anyway, enjoy this brain seed.

tldr: Jonas from The Giver = Grayson from Arc of a Scythe

I wrote a poetry book!!

all of you, my followers, are probably familiar with my writing about astrology and all that and I'm grateful for all of you and all the new people coming every day! it makes me so happy to see people liking my posts and finding them insightful 🥺

I got into creative writing a few years back and I needed a safe space to share my thoughts, some of you might know that I used to also post poetry/notes on here alongside astrology stuff, which is why I'm here writing this right now; I have published a poetry book and I want to share it with all of you! I've been working on this project for 2 slow years now and I'm very happy with how everything turned out; it consists of 134 pages worth of 224 "notes" (aka poems) and some random extras including "suggestions" (suggestive poems) and short stories. the style of writing I would say is avant-garde with a lot of say on identity, expansion, space, nature, and metaphysics, so it's not for everyone, but I have put all of my heart into every piece and I hope anyone who finds this checks it out and supports me and other small authors :)))

book title: "The earth, the stars, and me in between. by Nujm"

ISBN for hardcover: 9781738848003

ISBN for Ebook: 9781738848010

link for amazon

My new poetry book ✨All American Waste✨ is now available on Amazon! If you liked this poem, there's more where that came from, and you can order your copy here!

And for a limited time, my first poetry book Twenty - A Line a Day is now 34% off! If you still aren't a part of the Twenty Club, now is the time! Get your copy here!

Beginners deserve better advice, and writing should be more interesting than this.

1. Show don't tell is the most repeated piece of advice you will hear, and it's worthless. Showing is a tool, telling is a tool, deploy them where you think they're most effective. Telling the reader how someone feels is almost always faster than showing them, and sometimes its better to preserve the pace of a scene. Practice doing both.

2. Head hop as much as you want, whenever you want. Third person omniscient is a fun perspective to play with. Explore every feature of your writing to find new techniques and tools to help tell your stories. Practically, you'll probably want at least a paragraph break between "heads," and starting the new paragraph with either the character's name or a lead-in sentence to ease the reader in is usually wise. 3. "Infodumping" is just inelegant exposition. Be elegant with it. If you find yourself having to rely on dialogue for something as foundational as exposition, considering working to strengthening your prose.

4. OP is a coward. If blade runner can start with exposition, so can your book. It's challenging to make that interesting and engaging, yes, but learning how to do that is the entire point of learning how to write. Those are the skills you're trying to gain and improve.

5. If suspense is the only force driving your reader to turn the next page, you've wasted every page before it. They should be invested in your world, your characters, and your story enough to want to continue without you constantly jangling your keys in front of them like the subway surfers gameplay under a tiktok. Discworld doesn't have chapter breaks, and Terry Pratchett is one of the best writers the English language has ever produced. This advice is useful if you're writing a thriller, or if you need to rely on it for the first few pages or chapters while you're still getting people invested. Otherwise, your chapter breaks should serve whatever structural purpose you desire.

6. Subverting expectations is advice for comedians and disgraced game of thrones tv show writers. Sometimes you just want to set aside a scene to describe something beautifully, or to set expectations in the first place. Choose which events or sequences you summarise cautiously: you are erasing opportunities for style and storytelling.

7. Arriving late and leaving early is great if you're wasteful in your prose. Describing a character preparing for and leaving an event does not need to be exclusively a description of just those things. The way characters do things matters, actually. You don't need the pace of your story to be as fast as possible all the time. It's your story.

8. Epithets can tell you as much about the person using them (based on the perspective you're currently occupying) as the person they're used for. If you plan to use multiple perspective characters you can use different epithets to describe the same person. You can do the same thing from the same character's perspective as they progress through their character arc. Like everything else, they are a tool for you to use wherever you find appropriate.

9. Characters are allowed to be aimless if that's what their character arc calls for at some points, and having them shift back and forth from being aimless to having a set goal can be interesting. It's up to you to decide how driven any given character is at all times.

10. If you think a scene is required by the story but you don't think it'll be something you'll enjoy working on, try to rework the scene into something that achieves the same effect but is more engaging for you to write. (I don't disagree with OP on this point, I'm just wording it to be more actionable.)

0. Writing is an art. Be an artist. Don't feel pressured to follow another artist's advice exclusively because they seem more "successful" than you are. Seek out artists who make the kind of art you are inspired by, and try to learn from them and their art.

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)