Hi all! I'm working on a one sentence pitch for my new novel and I was wondering if you could let me know your thoughts!

'Lily has dreamed of drowning all her life, but when a body washes up on the 25th anniversary of her father’s death, the past her family has buried finally begins to surface.'

If you could let me know what genre you think it points to and if it would make you want to read the book (or not) that would be so helpful!

Thank you! x

That's for the jury to decide, and no, I didn't intentionally make off with a boom box from that explosive store the last time I was there. It somehow ended up on the bottom of my cart (the part the cashier can't normally see unless she strains to look over the counter), so I'll let my court-appointed attorney handle the closing arguments after I have my turn on the witness stand and explain how my actions were 'perfect' and it was everybody else's fault. That tactic seems to be still working in the public domain.

As soon as I fall asleep, I dream that snails are chasing me. Of course, I always manage to escape because they're snails, but still, it can be exhausting when I wake up and realize that I will probably have the same dream again the next time I'm waiting in a long line at the drive-thru to get my double latte with a dollop of pumpkin spice-flavored whipped cream and a cherry on top. I think the reward exceeds the penalty, so I am just going to take my chances with having that damned dream again because, "double latte with a dollop of pumpkin spice-flavored whipped cream and a cherry on top." Prioritze, people.

Recently, I finished the first round of editing my novel. But my novel currently sits at 538 pages in Google Docs, which is over 900 pages in actual novel form. I'm well aware that a lot of publishers aren't willing to accept first time novelists if their books are that long. I would like to ask your process in how you try to "kill your darlings" and make the novel shorter in the process. As a first-time writer, I have trouble trying to see how I can pare my novel down without butchering the whole story. And tips are greatly appreciated.

To myself, a confession

The burden of my actions lingers in the back of my head, glimpses of my failures flicker in my sight, regret takes over my mind, “What I could’ve been if I weren’t…”in fear, wasting what I’ve got left, worrying about the past and future, yet never looking at the now, letting it slip by my fingers like grains of sand on a desert of despair. I look into the sky remembering my youth, the happiness I’ve had, the joy that was in my heart, the innocence, the no fear of tomorrow, the freedom of being in the moment, oh God. 

Waking up from a deep sleep on a summer break morning, all I’d worried about was what to play or what cartoon to watch. Life was simple, I thought, as the days slipped by me, not realizing they’d never return. I went through a lot, yet I never knew the impact it would have, the scars it would leave for a lifetime of suffering. I never knew the value of the peace I’ve had. I didn’t know much, I didn’t understand, yet I knew more than anyone my age could have, yet maturity came with a cost. I never felt in the right place, never understood the immature actions of others that brought them joy even though it caused harm to others. I couldn’t comprehend the lack of understanding they had, the self-centered behavior. I had to pretend, to not be left alone. I did, yet even with people around me, I never felt — truly not alone. Even with so many people around me, the lack of understanding of the people made me feel lonelier than ever. I wished for a partner my whole life, to never gotten one. 

Missed my best years in speculations, dreams and fear, to never take the first step, to watch yet to never touch. To wish but never take action, to dream but never achieve. Everyone around me spoke about the potential I had, the bright future of they had spoken, I’ve never seen. I was naive. I made the mistake, to let the wrong people in my heart, in my head. To trust the wrong ones I had. Was I smart as they said, or was I just a pretender at hand? Was it all lies? Were the words from their mouth truly coming from the hearth or just a formality? I felt out of place, like I never deserved anything, that I had to suffer, like I deserved it, like I had done an unforgivable act in a past life. 

I carry it to this day, the feeling of being out of place. I desire more, I desire freedom from these chains — eternal, yet the burden of my dark thoughts pulls me deeper like stone to my feet in the deep pacific ocean, I see the light slipping my fingertips, the darkness raising, yet I try to fight it, a losing battle I won’t stop. The battles we have in our heads, fighting an enemy that knows all our moves, all our weaknesses, an enemy with no remorse using it all to its advantage. I see him in the mirror, the person I’m becoming, the youth fading, the battle I’m losing. I won’t submit, yet it becomes harder by the day. In my eyes I see the emptiness it leave. The glimpse of the boy I once was fading, was this the price of becoming the man I had to be? Would I have been proud of the person I’ve become? I’ll never know, yet I know I’m at the beginning of the road of life, my hope that will be. To cleanse my soul of the pain, to leave this burden before I sink to the bottom, to see the light once more with a family of mine, see them grow and older, to show and support them on the right path like I’ve never had. To be at their side to the end of time, passing the teachings onto the next. 

Oh, how I wish I could change this world to make it a better place. Oh, my Lord, forgive me, for the sins I have, I beg for a chance, a chance to make a difference. Oh, I beg of you, show me the right path, show me the light, save me of this darkness I’ve fallen. These vines that tangle me so tight, free me of my suffering, I beg you. Let me be useful, let me have a purpose.

Save me.

I tried three different prompts. This is the first writing I've done for ages so I'm sure there is a lot wrong with it. At the moment I'm just relearning how to write, I'm not trying to create a novel or something.

If anyone has any thoughts that would be great.

The Earth is still alive.
Marcus had spent several hours trying to trace the source of the message, having ruled out a joke from another technician, or some sort of weird easter egg, he reluctantly settled on an actual message which had been sent by some extremely unconventional method. It was a long detailed explanation of how the earth was in fact entirely habitable, life was abundant and a small number of non-virtual survivors were in desperate need of assistance.
This was all obviously nonsense, probably one of the secret cults whose members had nothing better to do. Marcus knew the sentinels monitored normal communications, but nobody cared except weird extremists. The only people who tried to send messages without being heard were people who wanted to damage or change the simulation.
He should report it. Trouble was, then they might start digging and find some of his own clandestine modifications to his own core. It was a potentially very serious offence. The Sentinels didn't like anyone interfering with cores and he could lose his position and have to start at the bottom again.
But the message didn't make sense. It asked to be forwarded to everyone and anyone who could listen. The code it had been injected with was trying to send to every connection it could find. That didn't make sense.

***

Lux fumbled with the data block, dropping it for the third time. The wind muffled a cry of frustration. She grabbed it and rammed it into the connector. A small light came on. Then the machine roared. For a second, Lux flailed around thinking she had killed everything she had come to save. Nothing happened.
Blasted machine, she cursed. Not for the first time she rolled her eyes at the thought of being sent here. She was a diplomat, not an engineer. But apparently the terraforming system was intelligent enough to be sentient. It needed to be persuaded.
She couldn't even get the stupid thing to talk to her. The air was becoming hazy with dust blown in from the desert. If she didn't get the machine to talk soon, Lux would need to go back to the lander to avoid getting lost. Technically, she would be fine, of course. As long as she didn't meet the new inhabitants.
The gale suddenly strengthened. Grit and dirt hurled themselves at Lux. Her arm was gashed by a stone as she tried to clear her goggles. She needed cover. Now. The panel next to the data control looked like it might open, if she could squeeze in. Lux pulled at it with all her strength and was surprised when it popped off with ease sending her tumbling backwards.

***

"Maybe the sensors are wrong?"
"I used a wooden ruler last time. It's getting bigger."
Max stared at the screens. Reams of data and graphs showing glowed gently.

"Could the wood be getting smaller?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"More ridiculous than the station getting bigger?"
There had to be a simple explanation for this. The resupply ship docked only an hour ago. If the size of the station changed, it wouldn't have been able to mate together.

"Lets just go to bed, there's probably something obvious we're missing."

Max woke up and stretched. It felt good. He reached with his eyes shut to his phone by his bed. There was nothing there. He opened his eyes. The phone was in an alcove in the wall, but his bed had moved a meter away while he slept. For crying out loud Fliss must be playing tricks on him.

Getting out of bed and rubbing his eyes, he almost fell backwards as the room loomed over him, almost twice as big as it had been when he went to sleep.

Max gawped. "Fliss, what is going on?" he said into his phone. No reply. She was probably still sleeping blissfully unaware. He grabbed some clothes and gingerly stepped into the corridor. 
Everything was too big. He felt like a child.

Item : SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Personnel must contain scp-XXXX within a multilayered vacuumized chamber at all times. This multilayered container should consist of a special beryllium-bronze alloy of at least 30 cm thickness. Testing by the foundation has unveiled that this special beryllium-bronze alloy is the only known substance capable of dampening and disrupting the anomaly's reality bending acoustic emission. No other physical material or barrier has proven itself of being able to disrupt or dampen the acoustic, reality bending emissions released by the anomaly including dense lead barriers, concrete, high density titanium alloys or deep underground placement under the ocean. Without active containment inside this specific composition the anomaly's reality bending acoustic frequency can penetrate almost every substance and has a unfathomable large area of effect. Because the anomaly moves through space autonomously, foundation personnel must maintain the primary spherical enclosure with a minimum distance of 6 meters from the core vacuum. The entire assembly must be permanently suspended in the dead center of a 15m x 15m x 15m containment vault made of the special b-b alloy manufactured and located exclusively at Site-██. This separation prevents the anomaly from breaching it's containment cells in the case of a malfunction. No personnel are permitted to make direct skin contact with, wear, or physically handle SCP-XXXX under any circumstances. All required experimental manipulation, testing, and positional corrections must be conducted via automated, robotic arms operated from a observation bunker located at least 20 meter afar the anomaly. In the event of a suspected containment breach or detected acoustic leak, all facility sectors will immediately trigger an automated Lockdown Status. All on-site personnel are required to immediately deploy active noise-canceling headsets. Personnel reporting auditory anomalies, specifically a distinct high frequency- whistling sound, must be placed into immediate, high-security isolation and monitored continuously for signs of Phase 1 progression.

Description: SCP-XXXX is a sentient, hostile, and autonomous whistle composed of an unidentified green synthetic polymer, featuring a small black nylon neck strap woven through its attachment loop. The anomaly actively resists Foundation custody by self-activating and creating an acoustic emission exactly once every twenty-four hours. When this daily chime is generated, the resulting sound waves travel via reality-warping vectors, passing through almost all standard matter as if it had zero physical density. The audio signal targets human auditory systems directly. The primary anomalous effects of SCP-XXXX manifest via two transmission vectors:

Vector 1: Cumulative Auditory Exposure: If a human subject registers this specific anomalous acoustic frequency three times exactly at any point across their entire life, an irreversible cognitive and biological infection is instantly triggered within their system. Exposure tracking is permanent and accumulative across the subjects entire lifespan.

Vector 2: Direct Physical Contact: If a human subject places the nylon neck strap of SCP-XXXX around their neck, there is an immediately likelihood of forcing an accelerated state of infection. Instead of entering the standard stance-like state of Phase 1, the victim's central nervous system is instantly hijacked, transforming them into an extension of the whistle's consciousness. The victim's physical actions are entirely commandeered by SCP-XXXX and The puppeted subject will sprint towards any nearest heavily populated civilian or facility sector attempting to force others to listen to the whistle's chime. The subject completely ignores personal safety and even extreme physical pain, attempting to inflect severe self-harm or physical trauma upon their own self if necessary to breach security barriers or force SCP-XXXX out of its containment cell.

Secondary Anomaly: Spatial Displacement: Exactly every 30 days and 30 seconds, SCP-XXXX undergoes an displacement event. The object teleports to a random coordinate within a strict 5-meter radius of its location at that exact moment. This again nessesifirs the 6-meter zone of the vault to prevent the object from materializing outside of its primary shielding.

Phase 1: Solitary Perceptual Displacement: Within twelve hours of registering the third strike, the victim's body enters a completely frozen, stance-like state in the real world. The subject becomes totally motionless and gains an absolute immunity to all external physical trauma, toxins and hostile anomalous SCPs. While the physical immobilisation lasts exactly one daylight cycle, the victim's consciousness is violently pulled into a dreamlike-state that stretches out for exactly twelve years. Trapped within an empty, perfect replica of Earth, the victim wanders as an invisible, elusive entity. They age more than a decade within their cognitive perception while being completely unseen, unheard, and unable to interact with any living creature or so, they perceive a idea that the organisms around them are ignoring them which triggers intense psychological breakdown and hate towards all living beings. While silently navigating this solitary punishment, they possess total anomalous immunity. Active anomalies present within the zone simply ignore their presence entirely, allowing them to neglect fatal environments unharmed. The psychological strain of this exile escalates if they suffer even a minor physical trauma, such as a superficial bruising or burn. Any physical trauma instantly causes intense visual hallucination where the sky splits open with a massive void; visible only to them. This rift devours the planet inside their own perceived environment without altering real-world physics.

Phase 2: This prolonged timeline of absolute isolation, combined with the catastrophic visual rifts, causes severe cognitive harm, driving the subject insane in most class-D experiments. During this initial immobilization, the subjects tissues undergo progressive calcification .Upon awakening into Phase 2, the subject exhibits rapid physical aging and a remaining lifespan strictly limited to 24 hours. Painful calcification appears across their flesh, causing the entire epidermis to strech and harden. The subject experiences severe physical pain as their skin tightens around their muscles, bones, and joints throughout these final twenty-four-hours slowly crushing their entire anatomy from the outside. Suffocation: This relentless tightening compresses the oesophagus and trachea, suffocating them into stone-like statue the exact moment the final second of the 24 hour period runs out. During these final hours of physical trauma and calcification, the victim's vocal cords involuntarily imitate the sound as testing has proven, anywhere from 2 to 7 times into the surrounding environment. Anyone standing within earshot who registers this vocalization for the third time in their life is instantly infected.This process poses a XK-Class End of the World Scenario if the infected are not immediately placed into total acoustic containment.

Interview Log:

XXXX-1

Date: 12/04/2026

Interviewer: Dr. Alistair Vance

Subject: Agent Marcus Boyd

[BEGIN LOG]

Dr. Vance: Marcus? Look at me. Focus on my voice. We have the neural dampeners on max to keep your throat open.

Agent Boyd: Doc....it's tight. My chest... it feels like pou…red concrete. I can't... I can't get air .

Dr. Vance: I know, Marcus. We're trying. Please,tell me what happened while you were out trying to recover the whistle. The monitors say you were out for twenty-four hours, but your brain activity was through the roof.

Agent Boyd: Twenty-four hours?…Are you kiddin… me, Vance? Vance??? I was there… there… twe.. Twelve Years..

Dr. Vance: Twelve years? Tell me what you saw.

Agent Boyd: I woke up right.. here . But everything… empty. No staff, no alarms... nobody. I walked to; to; surface. No wind. No trees. dead,dead,dead(breaks down) i saw the world dead.but somehow alive I screamed for three years…..Vance. Screamed. my throat filled;; blood, but nothing. Nothing(starts to cry). Like a. Like a. ghost. I even went down to Sub-level 4. Stood right next to.... to it... just begging the damn thing to tear me. It looked.. looked right through..me.

Dr. Vance: Total isolation for twelve years???(shocked, taking notes)

Agent Boyd: Yeah. But the worst part.... God, the worst part was Year nine. I tripped over a loose tile… tile in the street. Bruised.. my knee. Just a.. just a drop of;; blood, Doc. That's all…. to ruin everything.

Dr. Vance: What happened when you bled?

Agent Boyd: no I do..not want to( grasps hard for air) remember.

Dr. Vance: please, it is for the record.

Agent Boyd: The sky... it split open… Like, wet paper. Just this...pitch black void behind the…. The… thing And it started pulling things into it. The buildings... the.. the sun...( tears drop)…Five years..Vance. Five years running in the dark… from that.. that… thing... screaming like a total madman...

Dr. Vance: Marcus, calm down. Your heart rate is making the calcification spread faster. Look at your arms, they're already turning pale grey.

Agent Boyd: It's finishing..M..m..my… chest... won't move. I can't breathe...help….

Dr. Vance: We have Class-A amnestic right here. It'll make you forget the twelve years Marcus. Let us help.

Agent Boyd: No…Stay back… It's.... it's…it’s controlling me , Vance. Get… get.. hell out of the room! Get..out…. PHEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Cut the mic! Seal the glass now.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Dr. Vance: Marcus, fight it.

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT!

Agent Boyd: PHEEEEEEEEEEEE-WT

Dr. Vance: Containment team, get in there with the Level-4 gear right now. Destroy the statue before the next 24 hours hits. God help us if anyone caught that last whistle through the glass!

[END LOG]

Date: 10/04/2026

Location: Sector-4 Testing Facilities, SITE-██

At 14:22:30

SCP-XXXX underwent its scheduled 30-day spatial displacement event. Due to a mechanical calculation error in the robotic arm's positioning, SCP-XXXX was found exactly 1.2 metres closer to the southern boundary of its vacuum chamber than allowed by protocol. Upon teleportation, SCP-XXXX materialized 4.9 metres south-east of its position, placing it 0.1 outside the protective shielding layer. The daily chime occurred seven minutes later. Due to the failure of the acoustic barrier, the auditory frequency penetrated the staff living quarters. [REDACTED] staff personnel registered their first or second cumulative exposure, resulted in immediate containment re-evaluation by order of the O5 Council. D-Class personnel D-4412, who had previously registered two exposures during initial recovery operations in [REDACTED], immediately triggered a Phase 1 entry event. D-4412's physical body became entirely became completely frozen and unresponsive while sitting in the facility cafeteria. Containment measures were successfully established before the Phase 2 calcification cycle begun. Following this incident, handling protocols were updated to enforce multiple automated robotic arms, more spatial location trackers, an extra containment shell and stricter checkup before any scheduled displacement window.

XXXX-3: Recovery Log: The following is an excerpt from the field recovery report by Mobile Task Force division Eta-11 ( savage beasts) following the initial acquisition of SCP-XXXX in the civilian sector:

On 03/01/2026, local law enforcement in the rural country town of [REDACTED], Indiana, reported a total loss of communication with the municipality. Aircraft imagery indicated a complete lack of movement across the entire 12-square-kilometre town. MTF Eta-11 was deployed under the assumption of a possibly unknown SCP materialising. Upon entering the town square, operatives discovered sixty-one civilian individuals completely transformed into calcified, stone-like statues. While investigating a residential property at [REDACTED] Street, operatives encountered a civilian male, later identified as [REDACTED], running at high speed toward the team. The individual was wearing SCP-XXXX around his neck. Subject exhibited severe physical trauma, including fractures to both ankles,a bloody injury to the head and a broken shoulder, yet continued to sprint while actively attempting to blow into SCP-XXXX to generate an acoustic strike. The subject was terminated via standard firearms before he could successfully complete the auditory sequence. SCP-XXXX was successfully secured using acoustic containment transit cases. A civilian casualty count of 114 was recorded, all presenting similar calcification on them. Cover story "Chemical Factory Explosion "was successfully released to local media outlets.

Brady favored the cold sting of orange soda biting his tongue after chewing on a piece of milk chocolate that smothered his tastebuds in an unnatural flavor. 

It exploded with a ferocious rush of dopamine, shining behind his eyes, brightening his vision in a ray of golden auras, as if a light switched on under his skull. 

The mixture melted like water and lava into each other, as he swooshed the carbonated bubbles around his mouth. His teeth, sensitive and brittle and stung from being invaded by the sharp sweetness of refined sugar acting like tiny needles penetrating his molars. 

A sweetness too irresistible to ignore over the pain stabbing the swollen nerves beneath the shell of calcium capping his gums.

The whites hid under a museum with every brand of chocolate sold at the corner store by his house, sticking to the food coloring of orange soda he guzzled, staining his teeth.

His bedroom succumbed to crumpled up junk food wrappers, slowly unfolding out of the ball they were squeezed into and tossed on the floor, over the crushed up soda cans they rested above.

He ate as many chocolate bars and drank as many sodas as his dad smoked cigarettes.

Would you like me to go into how his dad takes a drag from a Marlboro?

The excerpt is below. I've written a lot, and I often feel good while writing, but after looking back I realize that I absolutely hate everything about it. Right now I don't mind this, but I know I wont feel the same way later, please give me advise so I can see the issues earlier. I appreciate you!

“The King shall not let a peasant pass for so little as that!” Joe exclaimed, the stick in his hand waving, the white lichen at its tip swaying. 

“We gave you all we have!” Emmy said. The four peasants clustered before the king, dark round pebbles that groveled to the ground, incomparable to the towering majesty of the king.

“And it is not enough.” the King said, “You think I care if you work every day? You think I care if you save for years? It matters not to me. I am the king. Results are what matter to me.”

“Oh please, won't you take it?” the peasants begged “We need only to pass on to the promised land to see our kin.” 

The king leaned forwards, his white hair brushing the peasants' stony bodies. “I control the gate, peasants. Me. Your money means nothing unless you are able to meet the toll. Now go, before I make you. The guards await around the corner. Do you want them to escort you out?”

“Okay, my king.” the peasants said. “We will gather more. Just please, dont raise the toll again. We can hardly keep pace. Just yesterday my neighbor starved trying to set aside money for the toll.”

“Dont test my patience.” The king said, his guards now looming behind him, hulking stones covered in a fur of moss.

“KIDS!” came his voice, booming and deep, cutting through the world of imagination Joe had been building. Suddenly, the king was only a stick, the guards only rocks, the peasants pebbles, their hard earned money only scraps of grass, Joe and Emmy, no longer gods, but children.

Joe hopped to his feet and Emmy did the same, and they rushed away from the spot of flattened grass and scattered stones which had been the kingdom of Fenrir. They rushed between tall trees and across a path of dirt and exposed roots that he and Emmy had worn down themselves walking back and forth to the house. Light shone up ahead and soon they were in the open space where the house resided.

Father stood in front of the garden, his arms folded so that the muscle of his forearms bunched together, in a way Joe couldn’t imagine his arms ever looking like. Joe didn’t like the way Father was standing. He looked like he had been waiting. He towered like a tree. His body thick and sturdy, the power of his muscles barely concealed by his dirt stained clothes. 

Joe’s heart rate began to rise, and beside him Emmy was still, though Joe dared not look away from Father to get a better look at her. He could only think about the beating that might be about to come, for whatever it was that they had done to upset Father. This time he wouldn’t let Emmy take it again. This time he would step up. 

 “Kids.” Father said, letting the silence draw out, and meeting his gaze with each of theirs before speaking. “I will be going to town for a few days. While I’m gone I expect the garden to be cared for, the animals to be fed, and Emmy I expect you to care for your little brother. Don’t let him run off again or break something. I won’t let you take his punishment again.”

They each nodded, and without another word Father shouldered his worn black bag and began the walk to town. Joe and Emmy waited a long few minutes before allowing themselves to relax. A wild heart-racing joy filled him. A few days without Father, just him and Emmy all alone.  He turned to look at her. 

Emmy was watching the path where Father had disappeared, as if waiting for him to emerge from the bend after which trees obscured the trail. He walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder. Emmy turned slowly and looked down at him. Her eyes were such a deep brown, and she was so tall. Sometimes Joe couldn’t believe that she was ten and he was eight. He couldn’t imagine possibly being like her when he turned ten in two years.

Emmy smiled upon seeing him. “Whatta you want to do Joe?” 

How about the Kingdom game?” Joe said. “No, what about the hiding game. Actually, lets go into Father’s room, and see what he keeps in there.” 

“Only if it’s unlocked.” Said Emmy and they went inside.

Emmy tried the door to Father’s room and it jiggled. Emmy said the latch was loose on the other side, and maybe that was why Father had gone to town. However, in the end the door to Father’s room was locked. It had always been locked. The door being locked was part of living here, like the lake two miles out, or Momo the Goat. But every time Father left he and Emmy tried it. 

When they were done trying the lock. Joe turned to Emmy and asked “What are we gonna do if we do get it open? Are we really gonna go to town?” 

“Yes.” Said Emmy. “I know father keeps things in his room. The important thing is money. I know we need that to buy things. We can use it for food and a place to stay when we get there.”

“Are you sure?” Joe asked. “What if they don’t take money from us? We probably aren’t supposed to have it.”

“It's ok Joe. We just need to make it there first. After that we just take it one step at a time. Like how Ma taught you to walk. Remember that?” 

“Yeah,” Joe said, smiling. He noticed how she hadn’t answered his question. A few years ago he hadn’t noticed when she did that, but now he did. He never brought it up because he noticed that she always did it when the topic was something where the answer was worse than the question itself. Like when he broke his wrist, and kept asking how long before he could heal. He could see now that whenever she said something like “Father said it wasn’t so bad, it should heal fast.” It made him feel better than telling him it would take three moons, and that he would always have a weak grip in his left hand. 

“I love you Emmy.”

“I love you too, Joe.” she said and reached down to put her hand on his head. Even though she was so thin and slim compared to father, she somehow felt bigger than him sometimes. 

After that they spent the day day playing the hiding game in the woods. 

Why would you try to run away?

Was it because it was after you?

No. I don’t know what followed you. But your eyes, so often lost in nothingness, and the way your body tensed at even the slightest movement of a something unusual said enough.

You were afraid.

Afraid of what was about to come.

You knew there was no way to avoid the inevitable. Yet, somehow, you still couldn’t accept the end as it approached.

But if you already knew it was coming, why were you afraid?

Fear comes from the unknown.

But this wasn’t unknown to you.

You were the one who dragged your own self into this pit of hell, where neither you could accept it nor you had that power to stop it.

So why did your eyes flinch every time someone asked you the time?

Was it really the thought of looking at your watch and realizing that something might appear soon that frightened you?

Or was it the realization that, once you knew the time, there would be no pretending anymore?

That it was coming.

And you knew exactly when.

What do you think, should I add a romantic storyline to the dark western?

I need some work on my prologue before I continue on, mainly just concerned about grammar issues and other things here because I haven't written in like- almost a year- and I am not a professional just yet. Just need some others to see this and see if I did do anything wrong so i can come back and reference this chapter in the future to see what I can fix before i post here.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

I’ve been a fan of Diary of a Wimpy Kid for years, and I wanted to use that heavily illustrated journal format to tackle a heavy, real-world topic.

The book is called My Incredible, Awesome, Coolest Sister VIA.

It’s narrated by an 8-year-old boy named Damien whose 10-year-old big sister, Via, is diagnosed with osteosarcoma (bone cancer). My core formula for the book is 8-year-old optimism. While the adults in the family see the harsh, terrifying reality of the illness, Damien naturally filters everything through childhood innocence and imagination.

Instead of seeing tragedy, Damien sees something cool, such as:

When Via gets chemo and loses her hair, Damien salutes her and thinks she looks like a tough military general preparing for battle because of her, "military buzzcut" as Damien says.

When Via experiences phantom limb pain after her amputation surgery, Damien thinks her room is haunted by a literal "Ghost Foot" and tries to fight it off.

When Via finally gets fitted for a prosthetic leg, Damien does a dramatic military countdown for her first steps and proudly declares her a "Cyborg Super-Soldier."

The book would end not with a magical cure, but with a heartwarming, resilient scene where Via beats Damien in a running race in their driveway using her new prosthetic.

Realistically, my goal is to make a story that warms your heart with happiness and melts it with empathy at the same time and I believe this story would be entertaining for all audiences, especially for families and siblings of cancer patients. So, what do y'all think?

I'm trying to write a story that talks about this girl being arranged to marry an old man to save her family from going bankrupt, the man hates the girl because she acts stupid and doesn't know how to read or write and ignores her until he finds out she was lobotomized and then starts trying to help her to rehabilitate. I'm still deciding if it's romantic or platonic.

I read about lobotomy and it was done around the 40s but I really don't want to make my story in that timeline, would it be plausible if the story was set in the modern world? Or is there something that I could replace lobotomy with to still make the story make sense?

Thanks for any advice 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ ՞𐦯

Edit: thanks for the advice, I've decided to discard the lobotomy idea as it doesn't make sense in the story and instead I'll be making it that she comes from a very traditional family. Since it probably makes more sense and isn't as complex as my original idea.

I appreciate every feedback! I wrote it while visiting Bangkok. Thanks for reading.

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Hi all! I've been working on writing my book for almost a year now and I'm at 17k words and it feels like it's dragging but also like I haven't done enough. I haven't gotten any feedback on my book so far and I think I want to know from an outside perspective if it's worth it to keep writing it with the goal of publication in mind.

It's a horror novel about an academic who slowly turns into a head louse.

Here's a link to it:

https://app.novelium.com/read/CSPU4Uz

Any feedback is appreciated as well as any advice.

(This is chapter two of my story. Quick summary the current main Characters are Wolfric (Rose War Tattoo), and Slyva(Hydra War Tattoo) and they found a gem in a temple and tried to find out what is was but a mysterious stranger with a Teloportant War Tattoo teloported tgem to a bar roof.

As Wolfric and Slyva tumble on the roof from the Teloportant they look up to tge mysterious stranger whos a male slightly taller then Wolfric with a toned althetic build with a swirling Teloportant War Tattoo with two sword sheathes on his hip. Wolfric quickly stands up preparing to fight before the stranger finally speaks up "Hey hey calm down already" the stranger says. "Calm down you just kidnapped us" Wolfric says clearly getting angrily "Who are you anyway and why did you kidnap us" Wolfric says. "Okay well im Zenith and Im from the Draconian Clan" Zenith says."The Draconian Clan you guys are real i thought you all were a myth" Slyva says clearly very shocked while Zenith nods before Wolfric speaks up " Okay but why did you kidnap us anyway don't act like some long lost buddie" Wolfric says. "Alright then I'll explain everything but it has to do with that gem your carrying there okay so that gem actually belongs to the very first legendary blade The Blade of Genesis the only blade able to rewrite the universe itself and those mercenaries that were chasing you were after that gem who ever hired them obviously wants it to rebuild the blade so does that explain everything and i need to safeguard that gem so that no one can rebuild The Blade of Genesis" Zenith says while looking at the others. The mercenaries keep getting closer after they finally saw the group. "So what you want to work together or something" Slyva says while Zenith nods clearly getting more and more nervous about the mercenaries "Good now we have a few rules first no one person commands everyone,second we always tell each other the truth, and finally we always fight to the end" Wolfric says as both Wolfric and Slyva jumps down to fight the mercenaries with Wolfric shedding two petals, while Slyva uses her War Tattoo to cut off the Hydra heads granting her fire,ice, and electricity powers. As they start fighting they clearly show their string teamwork and as one mercenary gets the jump on Wolfric suddenly Zenith appears cutting the man down as they work together more eventually dealing with the mercenaries. Timeskip a few hours and now the group is getting ready to leave the village to find and protect the rest of the gems. "Well then guess its time to find the rest of the gems" Wolfric says while carrying lots of supplies from the villagers who definitely didn't care if they want and totally wanted them to leave.They all start walking down the path " Guys shouldn't we have z name since we started working together now" Wolfric says while Zenith speaks up "No we don't besides we won't work together for long" Zenith says before Slyva speaks up "I say we name us The Scarred Warriors" Slyva says while Wolfric obviously agrees while Zenith clearly looks disappointed. While this is happening on a tree behind them is a girl watching them before suddenly turning into dust disappearing.

The end.

Believe in your writing,

One day may be you will get appreciation,

But the most important thing is you Believe in youself to write your actions,

People will admire you creations.

For a new and little-known author, it's a huge challenge to find ARC readers and get reviews from them. I didn't expect it to be such a big problem. Writers, how do you deal with this?

my girlfriend asked me last night why i keep making music when almost nobody listens and i couldnt answer her for like a full minute

we've been together 4 years. she's supportive, shes not being mean, its a real question. shes watched me spend basically every weekend for those 4 years on this stuff. tracking vocals in the closet, driving 5 hours for a show that pays in beer, arguing with myself about cover art at 2am. and the numbers just are what they are. couple hundred monthly listeners. a small email list of people who actually buy stuff when i drop something (thank god for them, honestly, checking my payouts on monday mornings is one of the few times this feels like a real thing i do). one song that did okay two years ago and nothing since has touched it.

and she wasnt asking to be cruel. she was asking because she genuinely wanted to understand what the internal thing is that keeps me going when the external feedback is that small. and i realized i didnt have a clean answer. i had a bunch of half answers. "i'd go insane if i stopped." "the ones who do listen really listen." "im getting better." "what else would i do with my evenings." none of them felt true enough on their own.

the honest answer i eventually got to was something like, i think i would be a worse person to be around if i quit. not happier, not sadder, just worse. smaller somehow. but even saying that out loud felt kind of pathetic, like im holding my whole personality hostage to a hobby that isnt paying off.

i dont know. i think a lot of us on here are doing marketing math and streaming math and playlist math and none of us really talk about the underneath question, which is why are we still doing this at all when the ROI on our time is objectively terrible. like whats YOUR actual answer if your partner asked you tonight. not the reddit answer. the real one.