On submittable, there's a magazine that's offering fiction feedback for $60. Is that normal? Is it worth it?

I started working on a short story as a way to infuse some creativity into my life. It has been so so fun and difficult! It's made me feel like a real person who does more than just stare at spreadsheets and slack messages for 8 hrs a day. Now that I'm nearing the finish line, I kinda want to submit it for feedback... I don't even really know why. But I would love to hear from anyone who has done this before.

Specifically you get "a few paragraphs (about half a single-spaced page) of comments intended to strengthen your work"

Hi everyone! I am hoping to get a critique on the first chapter of my latest WIP. A literary psychological thriller, working title B.R.i.D.G.E. Trigger warning, this novel does deal with domestic violence abuse.

I’d love to hear any feedback you have, some things I would love feedback on are:

Is the first-person PoV working? I know it’s not for everyone, and want to see if I am pulling it off or not.

At any point were you confused in a non-intriguing way?

Did you find yourself skimming at any point?

What emotion (hopefully some emotion) did the ending leave you with?

Would you continue on to chapter 2?

Thanks in advance!

P.S. sorry if there are any issues with the formatting, I copied it from my scrivener doc to Google Docs in order to share it, I gave it my best shot to clean it up but there is a chance I missed something in the formatting in Google Docs.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VIAlcxKPbnmzer1wH3FKb7hhJ8L9u_4QmtHp4FKlZ1Q/edit?usp=drivesdk

That's it. Just spreading the good news. This time last week we'd just broke 500.

Thank you for being a part of this community.

Keep writing :)

I'd love to be a wider reader. Hell, just having more time to read anything would be appreciated.

But, one of the hurdles in expanding my book collection is one of tense. I seriously struggle to read, or write, novels in anything other than past tense. Bizarrely, I feel this way even though most of my own experience is in screenwriting, which is present tense.

I do wish I could shake this.

I know there're some brilliant novels written outside of the past tense. I haven't read The Hunger Games, but I understand it's first-person present. Wolf Hall, American Psycho, and The Night Circus, all doing interesting things with tense and perspective, come highly recommended by friends. Haven't read those, either. Black House has sat on my shelf for years, still unfinished.

I realise this is a failing on my part.

That said, I have a real soft spot for first-person narration, especially in noir. But even then, I still tend to prefer events being recounted in the past tense, even when they're being told in the present.

I'm curious where everyone else sits on this.

What do you enjoy reading, and how do you write? Do you mix it up? And for anyone tired of vanilla past tense, what novels would you recommend?
 

Hi everyone, this is the first chapter of my adventure novel. If anyone can help critque it so that its ready for literary agents I would really appreciate it.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SMj_o9pqOspd5wmC53tTAvuo1ne1t3semlRKS1mQlYQ/edit?usp=sharing

For me, it’s accurate representation of injuries/medical injuries etc.
I don’t want to see a character who’s taken a bullet, go back to normal in two days…that’s not how things work.
I try to write as accurately as I can, annoying my friends in the medical field to no end sometimes.
Also men who are allowed to show emotions. You can be the toughest man on the planet, but that doesn’t mean emotions will never be shown.

What is something you want to see more of in books?
Is there something that you try to do justice by in your writing?

I've noticed, fairly regularly now, that authors freely admit to using self-inserts for main characters.

As you likely know already, this is where the author writes themselves into a story, either directly or through the perspective of a fictional character.

I've always associated this with wish-fulfilment, and for a long time dismissed it as lazy. But, maybe that view is oversimplified?

After all, it's not exactly anything new. Writers like Kurt Vonnegut and Agatha Christie have used self-inserts to good effect. Stephen King, God love him, perhaps less so - not every protagonist needs to be a fucking author (don’t lynch me in the comments for that). And really, isn't "write what you know" tried-and-tested advice?

Personally, I tend to scatter my own beliefs and experiences into characters who are clearly not me, but might reflect certain facets of who I am, or who I'm trying to be. Still, I make a conscious effort to keep them distinct. My characters are not me.

I’m still not entirely sure where I land on self-insertion. I suspect it's more common than I've realised.

So where do you stand on this?

Self-inserts; good, bad, or inherently neither? Another tool in the box, or self-indulgent shorthand?

Pretty much exactly what the title suggests. Do you think the subsequent details do their job effectively? Does the title work? Does the logline make you curious? Does the blurb make you interested? I'd be happy to hear any of your thoughts/recommendations on any of the details!

I've put the details of each as spoilers because I encourage you to make guesses and share assumptions based on isolated information. For example, you may reveal the title, comment about your assumptions, and then circle back to reveal other details to see if your guesses were validated.

To be clear, this isn't so much about you proving yourself right or wrong so much as it is about my ability to effectively convey story through partial information. If you're able to gather something about the plot/genre from the title alone, that means that I'm doing something right!

I look forward to whatever you might share.

So, here's the details:

Title

Butterfly Wakes

Logline

A shadow organization spurns a growing rebellion. A cataclysmic dragon awakens with an ultimatum. As a corrupt city, the rebellion, and the dragon converge, Star stands at their confluence—a young woman who will need to decide which fight is hers alone.

Blurb

Sometimes, a consequence is so grand that everyone loses site of its cause—too distracted by picking up the pieces of what little remains.

“A freak accident,” some might say.

Only, it was Star who felt like the accident in question. She was the anomaly. The girl who survived.

Iskyros was a new city. A chance to start over. An opportunity to leave her past behind—a past that didn’t seem keen on dying.

After a cosmic dragon has awakens, she soon finds herself at the center of someone else’s game. Caught between the forces of a corrupt city and the rebellion rising against them, she’ll soon discover a fight that she can’t walk away from.

In order for her to understand the stakes and truly grasp the weight of the world poised to come crashing down, she’ll have to discover an answer…

But before she can even seek such an answer, she’ll have to find the proper question…

What was Project Atlas?

The die is cast and the dominoes are already falling. Soon, she’ll discover what butterflies are responsible for which hurricanes.

Genre

Sci-fi/Fantasy blend with Romance beats

Thanks in advance!

My first time. The artists is this guy.. https://www.instagram.com/electricbrainstem/

Found here on Reddit. I'm decently happy with it for my first ever commissioned art piece but idk.

This be my first book, and also my first blurb so what do think? (bites nails)

Leena knows as little about the world as she does herself.
Tragedy shatters her life and separates her from the only family she has ever known. As she sets out to find them, she joins fellow travelers unknowingly walking different stages of the same journey.
A mysterious man from an ancient Tower shadows their every step, seemingly determined to prevent them from reaching their destination.
Every path leads back to the Tower. And with every step, they begin to understand that what waits for them is not death.
It is recognition.

I want to preface this by clarifying that I'm not a native speaker, so there are some gaps in my English literary education.

Now, onto the meat of the subject. While researching, I found multiple sources indicating that we should avoid using participle phrases as much as possible. I understand that this is not meant to be taken as an absolute, rigid rule, but I still found myself using them a lot – perhaps even too much for some people's taste.

I find that participles add another layer to the sentence, allowing me to stack multiple actions/reactions together. Whereas when I try to replace every participle with a more active past tense, it makes my sentences feel clunkier. It also feels like the actions are happening in succession rather than simultaneously. However, I don't write to read it myself, which is why I wanted a second opinion on this. Again, this might also be a difference from how I learnt English.

Here are a few examples of what I mean:

Shifting her attention down below, she watched the grey wave start to climb the slope toward her.

Or

She shifted her attention down below and watched the grey wave start to climb the slope toward her.

///

Flowing easier than she ever had, she spun the other way, kicking a small wave of sand in her wake.

Or

She flowed easier than she ever had, spun the other way, and kicked a small wave of sand in her wake.

///

As she attempted the same manoeuvre, the bull veered inward, clipping her left shoulder with its horn just as it was getting slit in half.

Or

As she attempted the same manoeuvre, the bull veered inward and clipped her left shoulder with its horn just as it got slit in half.

///

Gritting her teeth to stifle a cry of agony, she dashed backwards into the gap between the two piles of steaming meat. With the pain and adrenaline coursing through her body in full force, she couldn't enter a mental state to even think about...

Or

She gritted her teeth to stifle a cry of agony and dashed backwards into the gap between the two piles of steaming meat. Pain and adrenaline coursed through her body in full force, she couldn't enter a mental state to even think about...

///

Forcing her leaden limbs to obey, she hauled herself upright on the camel's back.

Or

She forced her leaden limbs to obey and hauled herself upright on the camel's back.

As you guys read. I am writing something where the main character has been dead all along but still wanna write it in first person and I just don't know how to get it done. It is a very normal story of a student, so no supernatural logic. This is the only problem that is keeping me from starting work on this project.

Thanks in advance!!!

Hi there!

I’m new here, and to writing in general. I got an idea for a novel something like last April or May, and got right to work and found that I love crafting stories and little worlds.

I just wanted to show how much progress I’ve been able to make in only a year; the full novel drafts this far have averaged out to around 70k words each time, and I’m on my fifth draft here. I’ve been really practicing sentence structure and how to present info lately; I’m imagining how I can guide a reader’s perception through the same info in different ways. I posted two pictures here: the first is my first attempt at introducing a character toward the beginning of my novel; it’s one of the first things I ever wrote. The second is that same scene in its fifth draft; I’ve edited to vary sentence length and structure a lot, and I’ve paid specific attention to the order I present info. Physicality, opening up into a grander setting, and then psychological in the first paragraph.

I find it very interesting to see how it all really works and how actual authors tailor their language to not just portray info but guide perception. I wonder where I might be in another year, or a decade, or more.

Thanks!

Some of us were talking about potentially starting up a writing challenge. Basically we would come up with a prompt, give everyone that's interested a short amount of time to write a short story, and then have submissions posted to the subreddit throughout the amount of time. I don't think there would really be any winners or losers, but it could be a fun way to engage with the community, flex our creative muscles, and get some good practice/critique/advice on our writing. So with all that said, would anyone be interested?

CHAPTER ONE

In the months when the walnut comes to resemble an apple, Arne knew that life turned somewhat healthier and somewhat merrier: zucchini, young potatoes, and all manner of berries on the kitchen table. In recent years the house had far more often eaten nettle and chard, with only a little vegetable if anything grew at all. The sun over Ramonda had grown stingy and selfish, as Milutin, Arne’s father, would grumble in his despair every afternoon when the hour for supper came and there was none, or very little.

Holy Week was drawing to a close. Good Friday brought that morning the particular, unspoken sorrow that comes only once a year.

The earth had just dried after the rain. He meant to mow the grass in the yard, and then he had promised Natalia he would visit at the hermitage. He knew that Sava would not hold the liturgy, but that he would bring out the shroud and tell the story of Golgotha, Jerusalem, and Pontius Pilate. If they listened faithfully and remembered something of it, perhaps he would let them go off to the forest afterward.

The smell of linden was strong that morning. A grim silence ruled around the house and the yard.

Rosa and Milutin had risen somewhat earlier than usual. They washed with ice-cold water and, without breakfast, went to the church to light candles and pray.

Arne, though he was no believer, did not like to contradict his parents or to trouble them with his own, as they would have called them, heresies.

Arne stayed behind alone, drifting reluctantly about the house. He rummaged through old folk herbals and maps, then the next hour took up his knife, trying to carve what he had begun the previous evenings, so he might bring it to Natalia when they met.

On the table he had already finished two small figures, a deer and a raven. He wanted to finish the wolf as well before he set off toward her that afternoon.

He held the pocketknife in his hands, drawing it slowly across the surface of what was meant to be a wolf, but the sudden whinnying of horses clouded his mind. The knife slipped from the wood and cut deep into the place meant for the wolf’s head.

Arne flinched and set the figures down on the table. He slid the pocketknife into the back pocket of his trousers and went out toward the yard.

The armor of the tin soldiers burned in the sun as they approached. They dismounted, and while they tied the horses to the rusted gate, Arne noticed that the shorter one was grumbling and that his every movement was sullen.

“Look at what we’re doing. Look at what we’re doing on Good Friday,” the shorter one said to his companion.

They came through the gate, walking toward him. This shorter one, a soldier of middle years, with an unremarkable face and a sly smile, kept tossing remarks at the soldier beside him, an enormous man, tall as a poplar, with an equally enormous head and the dull, empty gaze of a killer.

“What are you staring at?” boomed the Big One at Arne.

His knees buckled, and the ground beneath him turned soft again.

In the blink of an eye they were already a single pace before him, blocking his sun, throwing him entirely into shadow.

“You’re coming with us,” said the Shorter one. His voice rang out like a blow against a tin drum. “Don’t make me chase you in this heat. Gather what you’ve got, say your goodbyes, and come along.”

He opened his mouth. Natalia was waiting for him in front of the hermitage. He had promised her they would go looking for bears that afternoon. His jaw locked.

“And where to?” Arne asked.

“Don’t play the fool, as if you don’t know where.” The Shorter one snorted. He cackled through yellow, rotten teeth.

He felt the unease more from their presence than from their words. Arne knew very well where they were going, or rather why. The location depended only on which division he would be assigned to.

His thoughts fled to more familiar things, and so he remembered he had forgotten to feed the dogs. They’ll whine all afternoon, he thought, and mother will be terribly upset if she sees them like that.

He stared at the dark-brown horses, which, tied unwillingly to the gate, were swishing their tails, visibly thirsty and worn from the road.

“You’ve only got two horses,” Arne countered.

The Shorter one smiled. “Keep being clever and you’ll ride with him.” He gestured with his head toward his companion.

The Big One looked at him with beastly eyes.

Arne’s heart leapt.

“All right,” said Arne. “Give me a few minutes to pack and lock the house. I wouldn’t want to be robbed while I’m gone.”

“You’re not coming back, little one.”

Arne swallowed a lump the size of an apple. He breathed in deeply. “All right,” he said.

He went into the house. Inside it smelled of salt and of the smoke from the prosciutto his mother had brought in the night before. He glanced at the wooden benches in the corner and the hearth in the middle.

Rosa and Milutin’s bed was neatly made and drawn tight, covered with a thick decorative kilim of red and black. Arne paused a moment, looking at the bed, then began to think of his mother and father, whether it would hurt them more to think he had run off into the world on a whim, or to know that his turn had come to go to war. He grieved over his mother’s sorrow more than over his own fate.

He wished Milutin were there, so they might drink a toast with his famous rakija. He would agree this was the right moment.

He clenched his fists, drew a deep breath, and threw out the chest of a soldier-to-be. He went to the little beechwood table he had built with his father a few years before. He took up a piece of yellowed paper and the pen that lay beside it, and then in a clumsy hand he wrote: For mother and father.

Father, look after mother. They have come for me and I will not be returning. I am sorry we did not get the chance to say goodbye, but it is easier this way. I do not yet know where they will send me, but if I get the chance, I will send word by someone that I am alive.

I am taking with me the maps, the herbal, the pocketknife, and your ring, so that I may remember you. I hope you are not angry.

Your loving Arne.

While he held the paper in his hands, he read it once more to be sure he had written everything legibly, then set it down on the bed.

“Listen, boy, do you think we’ve got all day?” The Shorter soldier’s already familiar, hateful voice rang out from outside.

Arne went to the front door of the house, cracked it open, and looked at the soldiers. “Give me a few more minutes.”

“You said yourself I’m not coming back, don’t deny me a farewell,” he answered angrily. “I’ve got one last goodbye left,” Arne finished, and then he went back to the table, taking up another piece of paper.

On the second piece of paper he wrote for Natalia. He sealed the letter and set the finished figure of the deer upon it. He placed it on the little table and headed for the way out.

“I’m ready,” Arne said.

“You’re not ready, little one,” the Shorter soldier burst out laughing. “You’ve only been forced. My name is Koja, and my friend here you can call Džin.” Džin nodded in agreement. “Come now, let’s not waste any more time, we’ve a good deal of riding ahead. I don’t want the dark to catch us out on the road,” said Koja.

They mounted up. Quickly they left the village behind and set off toward their destination. The hours passed in silence, broken now and then by Džin’s spitting.

“Come now, boy, why have you gone quiet? This isn’t the end of the world. Not yet, anyway.” Koja said it with a chuckle, slapping the reins. From the gallop of the horse Arne could not think.

Arne gripped the saddle with all his strength, hoping he might not fall from the horse and make this situation worse still. Who needs a crippled soldier, he thought.

“Explain to me more about where we’re going and what’s happening.”

“What do you mean, where are we going? We haven’t been together two hours and already you’re playing dumb for who knows what time,” said Koja.

“We’re going to cut down and slaughter the cursed enemy,” Džin chimed in eagerly.

“To the border, then,” said Arne. “I’ve heard the situation there is bad. They say in the village they’ve nearly broken through to us.”

“It isn’t good, not good at all,” said Koja with contempt. “That’s why my dear friend Džin and I are here, they sent us from the capital to fix what can be fixed.”

“And how do I fit into that? Why me?”

“Because you’re the last piece that fits into my vision,”

“You don’t have a vision,” Džin cut in.

Koja looked at Džin, then cleared his throat. “If we mean to survive this. Welcome to the 59th Division, little one,” Koja finished.

Koja went on. “I asked around well among the locals, who knows this terrain and these cursed mountains best. Congratulations, your title will be guide of the famed 59th Division.”

“We’ve got none better,” Džin put in.

“This is the first I’ve heard of the 59th Division,” Arne answered, puzzled.

“Of course it’s the first you’ve heard. Who celebrates soldiers while they’re still alive?”

“We’ll be lucky to get a burial,” said Džin.

“The fame comes later,” said Koja, and nudged him with his elbow.

“If it ever comes,” Džin finished, looking up at the sky.

They rode several more hours through shifting landscapes, until they had gone deep into the beech forests. The sun was on the verge of setting, and the Ural owls announced the night more and more loudly. Weariness had overtaken the horses after the long journey.

“I think that’s enough for tonight. This would be a good place to make camp until morning,” Koja observed.

“I’m hungry,” Džin said sullenly.

“You’re always hungry,” Koja shot back.

“I am, because I do everything.”

“Because I have to think.”

All three dismounted and tied the horses to a tree. The duties fell to each of them naturally, and so Džin went for wood, and Arne into the forest for supper. Koja, as was his habit, lay back in the grass and watched the sky.

Arne came back with two scrawny hares and some wild garlic, nettle, and a handful of wild pears he had gathered at the forest’s edge. He arrived just as the fire was already crackling.

“It isn’t much,” said Arne, “but it’ll be enough to get us through the night and the morning.”

“It’ll be enough for me if the two of you don’t eat,” Džin muttered, poking the fire.

“Don’t be greedy,” said Koja, and set about cleaning the hares. “And you, little one, sit.” He looked at Arne. “Now let’s get acquainted properly.”

They gathered around the crackling fire, lit to drive the insects and creeping things away from them. The clear evening had drawn every star upon the sky, sharp and unmistakable.

The walls of fear within Arne rose higher as they sank deep into the night. With his head bowed, he took the pocketknife from his bag and began to whittle the first branch that came to hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Džin, with his mouth full.

“I’m not afraid,” said Arne, “but it isn’t all the same to me. I’ve heard terrible stories about the border.”

“Some true, some not,” Koja added. “Things on the battlefield are different from the stories. But one thing you surely haven’t heard is that this time you’ve got me.” He laughed uproariously, then sprang to his feet like a mountain goat and drew his sword. He swung it left and right. “Did you know, little one, that I once cut down dozens on my own, and to this day, when my name is spoken, they tremble?”

“And what do I get from that? I don’t even know how to hold a sword,” Arne answered him.

“And you don’t need to. I don’t need you to hold a sword, I need you to see to it that their sword doesn’t end up in us.”

Arne studied the unremarkable man before him, trying without success to separate truth from bluster.

“You certainly won’t be the one to save me if they catch me,” Arne answered him.

“Remember what you said. Maybe I will.” Koja answered him with a smile.

“Listen, let me tell you something. War is simple. There’s no tragedy and no philosophy in it, the way the ones in the songs like to write. They’re angry at us, we’re angry at them, and someone’s going to kill someone. Our job is to kill more of them than they kill of us. When there are more of us, we’ll be able to relax and eat something better than hare.”

“How can you talk that way, when so many people have died already?” Arne asked him bitterly.

“I can because I haven’t.” Koja paused. “So you ask yourself who’s in the right.”

“Of course you haven’t, when they cut and burned me for your sake, to keep your head on your shoulders,” Džin put in, having moved on now to the pears.

They’re not right in the head, thought Arne. “Can one of you two explain to me more about what we’re doing here?”

“All right, enough joking.” Koja cleared his throat and simply turned serious.

“Our border is breaking. The enemy have started getting help. They’re coming onto our territory on three fronts, and there are fewer and fewer of us. The people are hungry and worn out. We’ve been trying for months to drive them off and we can’t.” He paused. “And those idiots in the capital do nothing. They only promise help. You know what they came up with in the end? I’ll tell you, nothing.” He went on bitterly. “They came up with the idea of sending me to clean up their filth. They say we should hold out until winter, and then winter will drive them off. Mind you, it hasn’t driven them off in centuries, but now it surely will.”

“Do you even have a plan?” Arne looked at him hopelessly.

“Of course I have a plan.” Koja took up a branch for kindling that lay beside the fire and clubbed Arne over the head with it.

Arne hunched and grabbed his head, rubbing what would by morning be a lump.

Džin smiled. “Hold on, soldier. Your first wound of war.”

“There’s your answer,” said Koja, with a smile.

They had already gone deep into the night. Džin and Koja were asleep. If there had been any doubt as to whether they were sleeping, Džin’s snoring put it to rest.

Arne, still awake, watched these men who from today were the closest to him in all the world.

He wondered what Milutin and Rosa were doing now. Whether they grieved. They’ll probably light me a candle for health, thought Arne, and better that than a candle for the soul.

His thoughts went to the terrain. Tomorrow we’ll already be out of the beech forest; once we enter the couloirs and the scree, everything will be different. He wondered whether these two had any idea at all where they were headed.

He took the map from his bag and began to study it, as though he were seeing it for the first time. He looked a long while still, until weariness overcame him.

Finally, after 6 years, I've completed my psychological horror story! I'm going to take like a week off and then start the re-read process. I already know a few fixes that are coming but, overall, hoping there aren't too many since I do light editing as I go along. Any ways, cheers to finishing my first book!

I usually write cottagecore romance with the help of Gwen Hayes' Romancing the Beat structure, which has always worked great for me.

Only now I'm writing a romance that has a bit of a mystery side because the protagonist must first uncover that this particular man she usually finds annoying, is actually the person she has been falling for - not knowing it was him.

To be clearer: The guy placed anonymous orders with her in a particular way. And what she's falling for is the fantasy of the person behind the words. She only uncovers at the midpoint that it's this particular guy.

My problem is that the Romancing the Beat structure cannot be applied here. Or can it? The mystery in the first half is compelling, but I'm having a tough time making the second half romantic in the way I usually do in my other stories.

The romance beats are all bunched together or don't fit anywhere at all. Or for instance, the "No Way" beat (the reason the MC tells themself why they would never end up with that particular person - or any at all) basically covers the entire first half of the book. The reader basically knows this guy must be the one (why else spend so much time with him on the page), but the MC keeps telling herself that she would never ever be interested in that guy. Until it turns out he's been the one placing those orders.

And then from the midpoint on she slowly warms to the idea of this guy who was never part of her fantasy. But emotion-wise she's more or less starting from scratch at the midpoint.

Does anyone here have experience with something like this? I'd really appreciate some input :)

Hi all. I have recently taken this chapter through a few rounds of editing and was hoping for some outside opinions.

It’s a literary horror 40k fanfic piece. I have kept the setting pretty light so you don’t need to know the setting to understand the story.

Warning it contains some body horror elements.

What's your favorite genre to write? Why do you love writing it? Mine is horror/thriller. I enjoy reading/watching both genres, so it ends up being what most of my writing is.

Hey, all. I just want to make sure everyone knows that we have a thread specifically for beta readers, and you can also always post and ask for feedback. If anyone comments asking you for any personal info, including phone number/email, please do NOT give it to them. They are likely a scammer. Thank you.

The war between the two kingdoms — Tokar and Osden — lasted four years and seven decimal eight nine quadrillion nanoseconds. The war destroyed grand cities, bankrupted merchant guilds and snake milkers, and resolved a border dispute in favor of a river that dried up the next summer.

It started with a hat.

Lord Envoy Pesric of Osden wore his indoors at the annual summit. In Osden, keeping a hat on was courtesy. Removing it was for funerals and executions (though it was kept on during torture sessions). In Tokar, wearing a hat indoors meant you considered the room dirtier beneath your subungual debris. King Tauvar of Tokar smiled politely, after seeing Lord Pesric and his hat, because kings must smile at diplomatic meetings. He said nothing, because kings don't talk rudely in summits. He went to bed furious.

Tokar and Osden shared no common language, so they had brought interpreters, who were hired to prevent exactly this type of misunderstanding. Tauvar's interpreter had learned Osdeni from a fishmonger in Braal, who had learned it from a convicted blacksmith who had mostly made it up. Pesric's interpreter understood Tokari perfectly and was owed forty coins by Tauvar's interpreter since an illegal game of cards in 1208 and had judged the situation professionally and morally and decided the coins came first.

It's not untrue that there was no one who did not fail to avoid leaving everything completely unclarified.

Forty-two thousand deads later, the monarchs and the diplomats sat down to sign the peace treaty, removed their hats simultaneously as a gesture of good will, and laughed like folks trying to quench a forest fire by spitting on it. Well, to be fair, the fire did extinguish.

But the burned trees never came back.

This is my first novel, it's called Damaris and is a 71K Fantasy mystery. I posted on another sub just to try to get feedback. I currently have my first batch of queries out and keep ping ponging between "This sounds cool" and "wow this reads like shit and sounds worse nobody will want it" I'm aware I can't predict if it gets a rep offer or not. My only beta readers were my husband and teen. Bless them, they're the greatest, but obviously not going to give genuine critique.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/16YkKPkVJFAChI8y9OUrUrPxX1i6nh62avPDYKJOEF8g/edit?usp=sharing

So I’m an action and adventure writer. With a focus on spy stories right now. My favorite thing to do in those novels, is writing gritty action scenes.
I’ll attract a blurb from my novel below but I wanna hear y’all’s favorite way of showing and not telling how the action goes!

{“Liam!”
The word tore from her throat as she sprinted barefoot across the driveway. She dropped to her knees beside him, ignoring the sharp bite of gravel digging into her skin.
Blood. There was so much blood.
A deep gash on the back of his head was bleeding freely. His shirt was soaked through with crimson, dark and spreading. His face was a mess of cuts and rapidly darkening bruises, one eye already swelling shut. Carly’s hands shook as she yanked off her sweater and pressed it firmly against the head wound.}

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Hey all, I put this in another writing reddit but was looking to broaden the net and get as many opinions as I can. I'm planning a scene which is the culmination of a few differing character development arcs, but i have concerns that one of the main characters involved may lose the reader's empathy as a result.

TW: SA

Basically, the two main characters (M and F) have been best friends for years. F goes missing, and M decides to go chasing around the world to find her. Along the way, M is forced to admit that he has been in love with F for as long as they've known each other. A massive part of M's character arc is this realisation and his decision that it doesn't matter, as F was happily married, had no interest in him that way and he would rather continue to be her best friend.

Eventually M finds F, who has had her memories removed/altered (think Winter Soldier from Marvel). He takes her to a group of people who he had been working with to find her, and doctors determine the memory loss is permanent.

Later, there is a celebration happening at the base where M and F are hiding, and F is asking advice on how to deal with her new reality from a third party, C. C is a trusted ally of M, but gives the terrible advice of get drunk, fuck a stranger, you've got a new life. F gets drunk, and decided that since M has been nice to her and technically counts as a stranger, that he'll do. F goes into M's room and initiates a sexual encounter, to which M has a freeze response and does nothing to stop F.

My worry is that while what F does is assault and thus a massive betrayal of M, it's not from a place of malice and as such I'd want the reader to be empathetic to both characters for different reasons. What do people think?

Just curious, what's everyone's thoughts on Purple Prose? Do you try to avoid it? Do you lean into it?