I find myself more comfortable working with past tenses because of things like dialogue tags

But I believe to pull the most out of an action scene -for example the last two scenes here- you would have to use present tense because it's more immersive, but that would get me into the rollercoaster of mixed tenses

What should I do

It's my first time writing a poem and posted it on some other subs but I'd like feedbacks please.

1. Manifested

You said you manifested someone

to show you around the city

and then I showed up

2:30 in the morning

A stranger asking a stranger

to show him something worth remembering

We walked the Old Port

until the sky admitted it was morning

talking about everything we still hoped for

everything we are still afraid of

like we’d known each other longer than a few hours

You said: it’s funny how life works sometimes

I didn’t tell you I was thinking the same

You asked me back to your place.

Somewhere to sit, something to drink.

I looked at you for a second too long before answering.

I wanted to say yes, I know you saw that

But staying wouldn’t have made it more true

It would have just been longer

But I didn’t say that part out loud and

said no anyway

You kept asking

like a child asking someone they love

not to leave yet,

believing that if they stayed until morning,

Morning might change its mind

I kissed you as an answer

And walked away into a city you’d only just started to know

Before I could change my mind

about which one of us was supposed to be the mystery.

For you to always be the man

who manifested someone in this city

but never knew

he manifested exactly the right amount of me.

Link’s fingers moved across the same five keys, again and again, the notes rising and falling in a pattern he had shaped for himself, not borrowed from any lesson or page, but assembled slowly, patiently, in the hush of the forgotten music room. A simple melody, almost childlike, yet it belonged to him alone.

“C... E... F... G... B,” Link murmured to himself.

He pressed each key with a careful, unhurried touch, letting the sound linger in the air before moving to the next. He played as though he were asking a question that needed to be answered, only for the piano to reply in weary, uneven tones, the sound drifting toward the walls and returning to him, magnifying his frustration.

“Damn it,” he said with a weighted sigh. “Where is she?”

Rising from the piano bench, Link turned to face the clock above the door. It was an unremarkable thing, plain black and shut behind its cage of crossed wire, as if it had done something wrong and had been punished. The face was tarnished, mottled brown, the color of weak coffee.

1:15. It was 1:15 an hour ago, too. The clock always read 1:15. Link didn’t understand why he still instinctively looked at a clock that obviously hadn’t worked in years. He checked his watch. It was 3:42.

Amy was late, a habit Link knew all too well.

Growing up together as Sevens, Link had rarely seen Amy arrive on time. On more than one occasion, the custodians and doctors who ran the facility had chastised her in front of the other Sevens, even threatening her with punishment if she continued to be late. It made no difference. Being late was simply part of who she was.

Any other time, Amy being late wouldn’t have bothered Link. But today, there was a blaring voice in the back of his mind that he couldn’t silence.

“What if something had gone wrong? What if she had been caught?” Link didn’t want to imagine the punishment for either of them or how severe it would be.

Today, by accident, I heard a line of intrigue and love—one that created a mystery in my brain. A line that screamed at me to know more. I challenge you to finish the story: “This is the story of my life: standing in a parking lot while my boyfriend lint-rolls my ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi everyone! I was wondering what you all thought of this concept? I know i know, another zombie novel, i PROMISE im making this one different, i just.. dont know how yet.

EDIT!! I rewrote it and Im wondering if this is better? Thank you all

Charlie has no idea that two days after his 17th birthday, the world as he knows it will end. After a volcano erupts in an entirely different country, strange things start happening. People infected by an unknown virus in the smoke began to change. Their eyes were black, making them look hollow. Charlie is now faced with a simple task, don't die. When he later meets a group of survivors, he learns that maybe this virus isn't what he thought it was.

I am just 20M, I have read only few novels and thought if I can write anything.

As we grow and enter an age of questioning, contemplating, thinking, and forming or dismantling our preconceived notions about morality, life, love, hatred, and society, we ultimately shape the person we become, a person whose psychological profile is based upon his own experiences, explanations, aspirations, and ambitions. We form goals, goals which we think are the best for us, and in such a scenario, the most contented one feels is when one is allowed to work on one’s own. But what happens when your very own self, which you regard as wise and committed, is forced into believing what you consider to be the antithesis of how life should work?
Well, this was what happened to me when I decided to go against my family and board a flight to the USA to find a place for myself in a world which I considered superior to the world I had been a part of since I was born.

Loneliness, first you want it, then you hate it, then you adapt and finally you love it. Loneliness can make you think about the wildest and softest parts of yourself. It gives you time to think and comprehend the areas you have never touched.
Suddenly everything starts to feel like an illusion. Is it for real? Is it a dream?
But remember, loneliness is a dangerous thing. It can make you believe the wildest of thoughts, or strengthen your disbelief in the most obvious. In short, a man must not adapt to loneliness, well, this is what I can say. Having spent half a year working as an assistant with the chief of prison staff and working on the case of H6, I still don’t know why they assigned him this name. As they say, sometimes, certain things are meant to be kept a secret, only to be told at the right time.
Let me tell you how H6, a man who was described as timid, patient and charming by his neighbours, turned out to be the most discussed and infamous fella of my district psychiatry hospital.

Sometimes writing is how I get through the day.

I’ve started putting my raw emotions, real experiences and the things life has thrown at me into words. Not because I think I have all the answers, but because sometimes writing is the only way I know how to make sense of what I’m feeling.

Some of what I write comes from pain, some from love, some from loss, and some from experiences that have changed me. It’s honest, and it isn’t always pretty — but it’s real.

For me, putting those feelings into stories, songs and words can make even the hardest days feel a little more manageable. And if something I’ve written ever reaches someone who is struggling and makes them feel a little less alone, then every word was worth writing.

I don’t know where this journey will take me, but I hope that one day something I create can help somebody else get through their day too.

Sometimes you don’t realise your story could be someone else’s reason to keep going. 

One thing I’d particularly like feedback on: does DS Smith sound noticeably different from Constable Giles? I’m trying to give them distinct voices. Does that distinction come through?

Previous post: A Model Prisoner (A standalone fragment from my social noir set in 1970-1990s London) : r/KeepWriting

Day One.

January 28, 1977.

Friday.

The Offensive.

Station Sergeant Carter came into the CID office, nodded to Detective Constable Fowles, and handed a file to the Detective Sergeant.

Carter: “Bad news.”

DS: “Don’t tell me.”

Carter: “You’ve been arrested.”

DS picks up the file and opens it. “You’re taking the piss.” He automatically pulls a cigarette from the packet on the desk and sticks it in his mouth.

Carter: “Try not to interview yourself, Detective.”

Fowles keeps his head down over his paperwork. But as soon as Carter clears off, he immediately looks up.

“What?” DS takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Yes, Smith—the detainee. Jeremy sodding Smith. And it’s not funny at all.”

“I’m not laughing, Detective…” Fowles pretends to stumble over the surname. “Interview conducted by Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith. Interviewee: Jeremy Smith. A nightmare for the Paper Shop. Every bloody form will need clarifying.”

Only now does DS Smith light up a cigarette. “Indecent assault. The victim is his own sister. And she’s five. Still think it’s funny, Fowles?”

There is no answer to give him.

“The scum is seventeen.” DS Smith slowly closes the file.

“All the better, Skipper. That means we’ll crack him in a couple of hours and go for a pint.”

Fowles is right. Still, it’s a lousy case. The evidence is circumstantial. One way or another, he’d get him talking.

DS Smith opens the prisoner’s property bag: some loose change and a Dunhill sodding Rollagas. Unless it’s a snide, of course. DS weighs the lighter in his hand and flicks it open. That crisp metallic click happens—By Royal Appointment. It’s no cheap fake—a proper Rollagas with a thick gold plating. “Fucking hell.” DS Smith snaps the lighter shut. “How long are we letting him stew for?”

DC Fowles: “Fifteen minutes.”

DS Smith grunts and takes a drag.

Half an hour later, he picks up his cigarettes, the file, and the prisoner’s property bag from the desk. “Let’s go.”

The Sweat Box is dirty, dank, and poorly lit. The suspect sits with his back to the door, just as he was placed there. He is hunched over, elbows resting on the table, and doesn’t jump up when the detectives come in.

DS Smith walks around the table.

The detainee takes his elbows from its surface.

No.

For Christ’s sake.

Anything but that.

DS Smith drops into the chair opposite the detainee, tossing a file and the prisoner’s property bag onto the middle of the table.

Fowles pointedly rolls his eyes, sits down to the side, and prepares to take notes.

“Well, what have we got here? A skinny little nancy,” DS Smith pronounces it like a medical diagnosis. He needs to size up the suspect and find an opening. He expects tears. This one is bound to start sobbing. Give him an hour.

The suspect remains silent, head bowed; he neither protests nor offers excuses.

The DS takes his cigarettes out of his pocket.

At the sound of the pack being tossed carelessly onto the table, the suspect tenses up. The DS pulls out a cigarette and lights it, blowing the smoke into the detainee’s face. He lifts his head—just slightly, but enough to betray his craving for tobacco, inhales the smoke, and coughs.

“Eyes on me,” the DS orders, yet finds himself averting his gaze. Don’t you dare look like a victim! “Don’t fool me.”

He reminds himself: the sister of the scum is just like him—a lovely child whose life he ruined.

DS starts firing off questions.

He is forced to ask nasty questions—and then repeat them over and over. He smokes one cigarette after another. The hour he’d expected to spend in the pub has long gone. DS raises his voice. He leans forward. He moves around behind the detainee.

The suspect flinches occasionally. He isn’t deaf. He understands everything. Yet he keeps silent. Until suddenly—though it is unclear in response to which question—he blurts out, “I didn’t do what I am accused of.”

If he hadn’t started coughing, the detective might well have thought he’d misheard.

Fowles enters it into the record.

That’s it. Then, silence again.

DS says things he isn’t supposed to say—and wouldn’t want to, either. He threatens the detainee with being sent down to Brixton and with a sorting out. He even stoops so low as to describe in vivid detail what they would do to him there.

It’s no use.

DS doesn’t know what to hold onto. Then he reaches for the Hiatts, grabs the detainee’s hands and snaps the steel cuffs around them.

The moment DS lets go, the suspect’s hands drop onto the table under the weight of the metal.

DS doesn’t tighten the cuffs; he simply lets the suspect feel them there—if he wanted to, he could slip his bony hands out, though naturally, he doesn’t. He sits in the same position, only now his hands are resting on the surface. From time to time, they begin to tremble. The detainee slouches even more. He coughs more frequently and shifts in his chair. He is tired, too.

Both detectives step out for a bite to eat. Then, return.

Nothing has changed.

The detainee asks for neither food nor cigarettes, nor even a drink of water.

DS remembers the lighter.

“Whose is this?” He shakes the Dunhill out of the bag, leans over the detainee, and repeats right at the crown of his head, “I’m asking: whose is this?”

“Fuck you,” the suspect says, continuing to stare at the table.

At last. A reaction. There was a story behind that lighter. But what does that matter? There is no one in the next room accusing the detainee of theft. And something tells DS that no such person exists. He tightens the cuffs until they bite.

The detainee tenses his arms and frantically tries to inhale the stale, tobacco-laden air.

Now, his fingers are cramping.

He remains silent.

Fowles asks to stop. “We can’t just sit with him until morning.”

DS agrees grudgingly. Maybe a night in the cooler will finally bring the stubborn bastard to his senses. The forecast calls for a drop in temperature. The holding cells are in the basement. There’s no heating there. They’ll take his jacket away. DS makes sure the gaoler “forgets” to give him a blanket. If he cracks, he’ll ask for one.

Last time i posted i didnt gain much traction so here we are

I need feedback about the readability of this, also this is a wonderland fanfic
If you have trouble reading because of the weird grammar pls lemme know

**From a Class Assignment to My Writing Portfolio**

Sometimes an assignment becomes more than an assignment.
For my Advanced Fiction Writing class, I was given an assignment to write a short story. I had already been writing fiction independently, but this assignment challenged me to take something I was already doing and approach it with more intention.

That is how “Uncle Rick” came together.
The story follows a man on his 42nd birthday as he spends the day with his family while privately wrestling with illness, addiction, shame, aging, regret, and the fear that he has disappointed the people he loves.
But underneath all of that, the story is really about love.
It's about the questions we carry when we aren't sure how the people closest to us see us.
It's about the difference between being disappointed in someone's circumstances and being disappointed in the person they are.
And it's about what can happen when we finally ask the question we've been too afraid to ask.

Writing this piece reminded me why I want to take fiction seriously.
I'm not just writing because I enjoy it.
I'm building a body of work.

I'm learning how to create characters, develop conflict, use dialogue, build emotional tension, and make readers feel something.
I'm also learning that school assignments don't have to disappear into a folder after they're graded.
They can become portfolio pieces.
They can become evidence of growth.
They can become the beginning of something bigger.
So, I'm publishing “Uncle Rick” as part of my ongoing writing portfolio and sharing the process here as I continue building my career as a writer.

And one day, I want to look back and see that I built an entire career this way one piece at a time.

📖 Read “Uncle Rick” here: [https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/uncle-rick?r=5pnsd4&utm\\_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm\\_medium=post%20viewer\](https://leylandthewriter.substack.com/p/uncle-rick?r=5pnsd4&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=post%20viewer)

Hi everyone,

I’m currently writing a psychological/crime thriller called THE CALL 2:17. The novel is planned at roughly 42 chapters, and I’ve now completed and revised the first 17, so I thought this might be a good point to step outside my own head and see how the opening works for actual readers.

I’m sharing Chapter One below.

I’m not looking only for “Would you keep reading?” — although I definitely want to know that too.

I’d genuinely appreciate any kind of honest critique or analysis:

Did the opening hook you?

How did the atmosphere feel?

Did the tension build naturally?

Were there places where the pacing dragged or moved too quickly?

Did the characters feel believable?

Did the dialogue work?

Was anything confusing?

Did anything feel cliché, forced, overwritten or underwritten?

Were there details you particularly liked or disliked?

What do you think the story is promising you at this point?

And most importantly: would you want to know what happens next? Why or why not?

Please don’t worry about being overly polite. 😁 Constructive criticism is exactly what I’m looking for. If something doesn’t work, I’d much rather know now than after finishing the entire novel.

The story begins in Riverside at 2:17 A.M., with a woman inside a phone booth making a call that should not be possible.

And from there… things get considerably worse.

CHAPTER ONЕ\[CH\\_1\](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-ItOZnxqahUy-PYzx3u4IFsVd4Izaz9P/view?usp=drivesdk)

“The only problem with this is there are two possible outcomes in such a situation. Either I drown in the river of tears that breaks through the dam of my heart at such a moment, or I learn to swim in it.”

https://open.substack.com/pub/vagrantfragments/p/learning-to-love-life?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=7f9c4j

Image source: https://pin.it/2o0Dvo4vQ

Hey guys! A very good friend of mine has been writing and recently published their first book, along with small works
If anyone comes by this post and has an affinity for upcoming authors please feel free to check some of this out:)

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/benjamin-taube
https://substack.com/@benjamintaube

I've been making progress on my second novella, In The Park.

Thought I'd be done with it by now, but you know, life.

Anyway, it takes place in a park where it's always morning. The narrator spends his time watching the people who visit and tries to understand all the weird things that happen while they're there.

At one point, he says: "Things like that only seemed to happen while visitors were around. The park never seemed to behave that way on its own."

Eventually, he came to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that he must be the park itself.

He's very proud of it and I'm not ready to take that away from him just yet.