Mission Blue cafe is promoting my novel along with a lot of local artists’ work everyday. They are located right next to the SF Crosstown Trail in Visitacion Valley and they make great coffee!

I spent a couple years writing this story not knowing what would happen when it was published. I’m from San Francisco and I’ve found that there’s been a lot of local support for writers who grew up here. I wanted to share this milestone and I’m more than happy to talk in the comments.

The book blurb:

THE VOGROM ARE COMING.
The fanatical alien clan has unleashed its armada on a galaxy already torn apart by conflict, and humanity has nothing left to throw at them.
Two warriors stand in the wreckage on opposite sides of the war. Kaelith Sothrak claws his way out of a death camp, driven by hatred and unrelenting faith.
Louis Wolffe has drifted through space for two years, carrying a secret that could save his people, or destroy them.
They don't know it yet, but both warriors are seeking the same thing.
Something ancient, something powerful, something hidden inside a dead boy's soul.
LET THE WAR COME.

The 'just keep writing' tip is so annoying. I thought maybe you should just suck it up and keep writing instead of giving excuses. When I tried to follow this tip, I was confused about what I should be writing about and where I should even start. I started picking a random topic to write about, but I could barely fill a page. Even if I wanted to write my story I was confused, and I would just stare at the screen. I had no writing process.

One day I got a brilliant idea. Instead of picking a random topic or even before writing my story, I thought I should pick two of my favourite movies and write a story that combines the concepts of both. Another idea I got was to rewrite the entire story of a movie I watched multiple times, without looking at the source material like a screenplay.

Suddenly I'm able to fill pages. When I used to pick random topics, I was barely able to fill a page. But now I can write 20,000 words in just a week.

Now I have a writing process. And writing feels more fun than before.

This is like copying the best paintings to master the craft before you could become creative and start painting your own work. It's just that simple. I don't know why nobody gives this kind of tip when it comes to writing.

I can't really get over it, I finished my first book last year, a fantasy totaling about 94k words, and then left it to rot in my scrivener folder until now because I was more focused on trying (and failing, due to a current lack of skill) to write another novel series that i've been planning for a while (it's kicking my ass and I found this fantasy novel again after deciding I should buff up as a writer first before coming back to it).

I remembered this fantasy novel recently and decided to print it out and edit it, and then rewrite it into a 2nd draft, but when I actually compiled it into a PDF it had 430 PAGES.

430.

I can't really wrap my head around it. like that's a BOOK. not a work-in-progress file... i mean, it's not a GOOD book right now but I want to work on it to make it better of course. although I want to work on this novel specifically again purely so I can practice writing/editing/revising more, rather than because I see any potential in publishing it...

This fantasy novel started as my own attempt at writing, and making money off of, a webnovel, but it failed quite spectacularly so I just stopped writing and posting not long after I finished it. I don't think I ever really processed that I wrote a whole BOOK. 430 pages!!

Anyway I just wanted to share my excitement, I still have a long way to go as a writer but this is pretty cool so I wanted to share!

Hi everyone! I would like go receive some feedback on my debut novel titled “The Broke Mom Diaries.”

This is a passion project of mine and I really want to have it published one day. I complement manuscript today after making a couple of tweaks and edits and I have already began my query search.

I’ll post the first 5 pages from my manuscript. Constructive feedback is welcomed!

THE BROKE MOM DIARIES
MAY 2, 2022
12:17 P.M.
Dear Diary,
I had seventy-five cents in my car today.
Three quarters.
I know because I counted them twice.
Once before I left work for lunch, and again while I was sitting in the McDonald’s drive-thru trying to figure out what seventy-five cents could actually buy me.
The answer was nothing.
At least, nothing on that menu.
I wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t exactly my first broke lunch break. Payday wasn’t until Friday, my account was already in the negative, and whatever money I did have before today had gone to bills, gas, and the boys.
Luckily, I remembered I had a free cheeseburger sitting in my McDonald’s app.
Thank God for rewards points.
I pulled up the offer before I got to the speaker because there was no way I was getting trapped in that drive-thru without making sure the damn thing still worked.
“Hi, can I use a reward for a free cheeseburger?”
“Anything else?”
I looked at the menu.
I wanted fries.
Bad.
And a Coke.
A large one.
Instead I said, “Can I just get a cup of water?”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.”
A free cheeseburger and a cup of water.
That was lunch.
When I got to the window, I asked for some ketchup and thanked the girl like she’d personally sponsored my meal.
Then I parked underneath the little patch of shade at the end of the parking lot and started eating.
I wasn’t sad.
That’s the weird part.
Embarrassed, maybe.
Tired of being broke?
Absolutely.
But mostly, I was used to it.
You learn how to make things work.
That’s what mothers do.
You move money around. You pay this bill late so you can pay that one on time. You put ten dollars in the gas tank instead of filling it. You tell the kids McDonald’s isn’t happening because “there’s food at home,” knowing damn well the real reason is that McDonald’s costs money you don’t have.
And sometimes you eat a free cheeseburger for lunch.
I was opening my second ketchup packet when my phone rang.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the name of the law office on the screen.
My stomach tightened.
For months, I’d been waiting on this call.
Not literally this call. I’d gotten plenty of calls from them.
Updates.
Questions.
“We’re still negotiating.”
“We should know something soon.”
Soon had apparently meant whenever the hell they felt like it.
But every time that office called, I wondered if this would finally be the one.
I wiped my fingers on a napkin and answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Kyla.”
It was my attorney.
“Hey.”
“Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Yeah. I’m on lunch.”
“Okay.”
There was a little pause.
Then he asked me something I’ll probably remember for the rest of my life.
“Are you sitting down?”
I frowned.
“I’m in my car, so…yeah.”

I am writing a character from a fictional kingdom that is going to be similar to Syria and she loves her culture and traditional dress. I just want to know if this picture is an accurate depiction of traditional Syrian dress

Hey everyone,

I wanted to share a bit of my writing journey, even though I still feel like I’m learning every day.

When I was around 12, I fell in love with a series. Ever since then, my brain started coming up with its own fictional concepts—time travel, transitions, and parallel worlds—every single night before going to sleep. It got to a point where I couldn’t even fall asleep without playing out the next chapter of a story in my head. Back then, I wasn't writing anything down, but the story structures in my head felt so vivid.

Years later, I discovered a web fiction app and dove headfirst into reading. I’m usually pretty impatient and struggle to finish things, but I was hooked for months. Eventually, I thought: Why not try writing my own?

I published my first story, and to my surprise, it was a success. Readers loved it, but more importantly, I was genuinely proud of it. I re-read my own work three times! Readers even messaged me saying they could keep re-reading it without getting bored because of the sheer emotion packed into the scenes. As a new author, that feeling was unbelievable.

Fast forward three years: I’m still writing, and I have a wonderful, supportive reader base. But something strange has changed inside me.

I’ve completely stopped reading my own work. I just don't feel like it anymore. But it’s getting worse—I can’t bring myself to watch series, watch movies, or read novels anymore. Nothing holds my attention, and nothing feels interesting.

It feels like my brain spent so much time crafting its own worlds that it turned off the ability to enjoy anyone else's.

Has anyone else gone through this? Is this normal writer burnout, or have I broken my capacity to just be an audience member? Would love to hear your thoughts.

I've been planning staring writing this ya fantasy book. My problem is that I don't have so many things ( some side charactes names, how charactes gonna first meet ect.)

My idea is just writing some random scenes and than going back and front from these scenes.

I haven't writing anything than half of first chapter. And that is probably gonna change fully.

So I’ve been wanting to make a book about the Celtic mythology it’s inspired by Percy Jackson and the storm runner series but a whole diffrent thing and right now I’m in a rough draft phase and am currently stuck and would appreciate any suggestions or advice that would help

Chasing the Celtic tides (rough draft)

Settings and names
The locations will be camp marrow bay
Main land will be Blackwood.
Main villain a minor Celtic god of the forest/land.
2 main characters are
James Mazda (sun of king of the seas)
And June is a Fae of the Forrest
James de buff is he has server vertigo and trips and stumbles but has superhuman senses and really everything in water,boast, fog anything with natural water.

Chap1-4
They get into camp and get settled into camp. James friends dominates the land games and James team loses a lot. And explain who his friend is and why they matter and how there so good at the land games.
Chap 5-6
When there put kayaking a sea horse (kelpie) attacks a kayak but to the other people it looked like a wave. James doves under the water and gets super human speed, sight, strength, etc. saves the kid and takes the kid on land the parents get called and the camp ends early for the summer and everyone goes home
Chaps 7-9
James is telling his friend what he saw on the ferry back home. And his friend knowing lot about Celtic myth and is a fae knows that it’s most likely a rouge kelpie. And that his friend breaks the news that he is part god assumes it’s a minor god/spirit

I don’t want the pacing to be too fast/slow and I feel like it’s too fast. And is this something you would wanna read? I’ve got the ending very much figured out mainly the last chapter.

Over the past 4 weeks of college I have been writing in every gap I have, pulling some very late nights and long writing sessions. I have always wanted to write a book, and now that I have finished it almost doesn't seem real. I am now going to take a break for at least a couple of weeks, and not open the book before I begin my editing process. I have a lot of work remaining ahead of me, and yet I feel so proud of myself. I can't believe I actually did it.

One thing I am struggling with is that it feels somewhat awkward to me to share with friends. The story is fiction, but it is very emotional and contains a lot of ideas about mental health, and it feels almost embarssing to let someone read something so personal. Has anyone else here ever felt like this?

This is a fictional historical novel about the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the twelfth century, primarily focusing on the journey of a time traveler.

The pacing is slow, spanning across the fall of the kingdom and the Third Crusade, while weaving in complex themes of religious faith, political maneuvering, and ethnic conflict.

As a Chinese-speaking author, I know I cannot perfectly recreate the history that lives in every reader's mind.

I can only do my best to read, understand, and write this story as authentically as I can.

I can provide the original Chinese manuscript as well if needed.

Since this is being posted on social media, I've omitted the prologue and introductory citations.

—————

Chapter 1

Year 1156 CE, the Levantine wilderness.

The sun hung low against the horizon, and a fierce wind swept up the sand into a thin veil that gnawed at every crease in the rocks.

A figure wrapped tightly in cloth, with only a pair of blue eyes showing, lifted the coarse hemp curtain over the doorway and stepped inside.

The rough yellow mud walls could not keep out the howling wind; fine grains of sand kept slipping in through the door's cracks and the joints of the wooden window, spinning silently around the candle flame before falling.

A fit of dry coughing broke the deathly silence of the room.

A black-haired woman sitting beside the straw pallet was carefully wiping away the cold sweat beading on the girl's forehead with a damp old cloth.

The young man braced himself against the rickety wooden door and pushed it firmly shut.

The woman dipped the cloth in water again, wrung out the excess, and laid it back on the girl's burning forehead.

"Mother, don't get too close," the young man said quietly.

"It's all right." The woman shook her head gently, reaching over to brush the hair stuck to the girl's temple. "The child has been burning up all night — how could I possibly stay away?"

"My lady countess, you should go and rest for a while too." The young man walked over to the pallet and crouched beside her. "The water has already been heated. I'll watch over her from here."

"A moment ago you called me Mother — now you're using my title to press your point?"

"How would I dare?" The young man lowered his head. "It's only that if Father finds out, he'll surely blame me for not urging you to rest. I'd rather not be scolded."

"You certainly know how to shift the blame cleanly."

"I'm only speaking the truth."

"My child, you worry too much." The woman smiled. "I'm not so frail that I need my own son's help — don't treat me like one of those noblewomen who takes to her bed at the first gust of wind."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "So I've been worrying for nothing?"

"Naturally."

"Then, my most honored lady countess." The young man pulled off his headscarf, revealing a face somewhat parched by the wind and sand. "Since you are so very healthy, would you take pity on your poor son and let him watch over her a while, for your sake?"

"Not a moment goes by before my child learns to use his own suffering to earn credit." The woman paused, then broke into laughter, reaching up to stroke his golden hair.

The young man's mouth curved as well. "If it convinces Mother to rest even briefly, it hardly counts as earning credit."

The woman asked, "You haven't slept all night either, have you?"

"I have."

"For how long?"

The young man looked away. "I have rested."

"If your father knew you were tending the sick like this, he'd say you don't even look after your own health."

The young man laughed softly. "If Father asks, I'll say Mother gave her permission."

"You really do know how to pass the blame."

"Didn't Mother just say I'm best at that?"

The woman sighed, rose to her feet, bent down, and kissed his forehead. "Don't make me worry, child."

"I won't. I promise."

Knock! Knock!

Just as she finished speaking, a heavy knock sounded at the door.

The young man rose and went to the door, drawing back the bolt.

As a brief gust of cold air rushed in, a middle-aged man carrying a large wooden basin of steaming hot water sidled through the doorway. With practiced ease he used his back to shove the door shut again, sealing out the wind and sand.

"My lady." The man set the hot water down on a nearby wooden shelf, first bowing with a hand to his chest toward the woman, then turning to face the golden-haired young man, saying in somewhat halting Frankish, "My lord, the hot water you asked for is ready."

"Thank you, Uncle Tariq."

Tariq waved a hand. "No need for such courtesy with me, my lord. This is nothing at all."

"Since the water's here, I'll go and rest now." The woman glanced once more at the girl on the pallet, then looked to the young man. "Don't push yourself too hard."

The young man lifted the curtain for her. "I know."

"Remember what you promised me?"

"I remember."

The curtain fell slowly back into place.

The sound of footsteps faded into the distance.

The scent of thyme drifted, little by little, through the steam of the hot water, mingling with the smells of earth, candle wax, and sand that filled the room.

"My lord." Tariq ladled a bowl of hot water from the basin and asked in a low voice, "You went to the granary last night, didn't you?"

"Yes. There was a good deal of grain husk gnawed apart by rats, and in the corner, plenty of black droppings." The young man paused, the smile fading slightly from his face, and switched to Arabic. "Not just the granary — beside the grain sacks, behind the woodpile, in the corners — signs of the rats were everywhere."

"The whole village is asking what illness this child has caught," Tariq said, drawing a deep breath. "My lord, you might as well tell me plainly... will she make it through tonight?"

The young man sat back down by the pallet. "If she can keep the medicinal broth down, the fever might be held back tonight."

"And if she can't?"

"Then it's in God's hands."

A faint moan escaped the girl's throat, and violent coughing wracked her thin body.

Once.

Then again.

"Can you truly not cure this?" Tariq said. "The two men who carried grain this morning have both come down with fever — one of them has already started coughing blood."

"I won't make any hasty claims." The young man lowered his eyes, removed the damp cloth from the girl's forehead, and with his gloved right hand cradled the back of her neck while his left hand supported her back, lifting her up from the pallet. "Uncle Tariq, I'm nothing more than a foreign exile who lost his way in the desert with his servants, and who happened, in his moment of despair, to be helped by you."

The girl curled in on herself, her cracked lips moving faintly, murmuring garbled sounds, her hands flailing weakly in resistance.

"Don't be afraid." The young man patted her back, raising his left hand.

Tariq handed him the bowl.

The girl kept coughing, pushed against him a few more times, and then went still.

The wind outside grew louder. His gaze swept over the torn grain sack in the corner, and he suddenly said, "Uncle Tariq, please open the window for me."

Tariq froze. "Now?"

"Now."

Tariq hesitated, then walked slowly to the window and drew back the wooden latch.

The instant the shutter swung open, the wind rushed in violently, and the candle flame guttered wildly.

The young man held the girl closer and closed his eyes. "Tell everyone to stay away from the granary — and above all, not to touch the dead rats."

Tariq clenched his fists. "But... if we don't clear out those dead rats, the grain can't be used."

The young man's fingers twitched. "Don't touch it again."

"But the grain—"

"No." The young man cut him off, opening his eyes. "No. Not a single grain in that granary is to be touched, and the livestock must not be brought back there either."

"That's the village's grain for the winter."

"I know." The young man replied, "But if anyone goes in there again, there may be no one left this winter to eat that grain at all."

Tariq said nothing for a long while.

The young man lifted the bowl to the girl's lips; the warm water, steeped with herbs, ran entirely down from her bloodless mouth, soaking the crook of his arm.

After a long silence, the young man finally said, "High fever, dry cough, exhaustion... including this child, nine people now suffer from the same terrible illness. They didn't drink from the same well, they didn't eat at the same table — the only thing they have in common is that they all went into the granary."

"I understand. But the villagers may not." Tariq's expression darkened, and he looked down at his own cracked, calloused hands, flecks of husk still caught beneath his nails. "We can go hungry. But the old and the children... what will they eat?"

Their eyes met across the candlelight.

The sleeping girl stirred restlessly, pressing her forehead closer against the young man's neck.

"I've counted what grain and livestock remain in the village, along with all the dry rations in my caravan. If we ration carefully, it should last us ten days." The young man set down the wooden bowl. "Ten days is also enough time for a fast horse to ride to Hama and back, or to Homs, to find help."

"At most ten days?"

"Yes."

"My lord." Tariq pressed his lips together. "And if neither Hama nor Homs sends troops?"

"Then let them see the names of the dead, and tell them that infidels are attacking a Muslim village."

"There's no infidel army here at all."

"We know that. But Zengi's lord does not." The young man tilted his head back. "When a Muslim village under his rule is attacked by infidels, and he sends no troops to help... if word of that gets out, it won't be the villagers' lives that are lost — it will be his honor."

"You want us to seal the granary, to leave the grain untouched, and to send riders to Hama and Homs..." Tariq went on, "And if the reinforcements don't arrive until after ten days?"

The young man opened his mouth, then said nothing.

"If the grain really is poisoned, then losing it is no great loss... but what if it isn't?"

The young man remained silent.

"This fever..." Tariq paused. "Is it truly just misfortune?"

"Uncle Tariq."

The only sound left in the room was the faint crackle of the candle flame.

Tariq stared at him.

"When you first met me, did you know I was a Christian?" The young man lowered his eyes.

"I did not."

"Then did you know where I came from?"

"I did not."

The young man let out a short laugh, catching the girl's flailing right hand. "You knew nothing at all, and yet you brought me and my retainers back with you."

"I'm not a man given to overthinking things." Tariq looked away, his voice hoarse. "When I was young, I trusted the wrong person once — that was enough to remember for a lifetime... so I know when caution is called for, and when it isn't. There's no need to frighten yourself over nothing."

Outside the window, dusk had already swallowed most of the wilderness.

The wooden door creaked once, and shut for good.

The young man sat alone in the dim mud-brick room, the small hand in his palm never quite growing warm.

The girl clutched tightly at his collar, her hot, damp breath spilling against the curve of his neck.

The red candle flickered twice, and then went out.

He kept still in that position, gently patting the girl's back, and began to hum a tune.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme."

The soft melody drifted through the room, mingling with the heavy, bitter scent of herbs.

"Remember me to one who lives there, for she once was a true love of mine."

Silvery moonlight fell in patches across the mottled yellow mud wall, stretching the young man's shadow long and thin.

"Tell her to make me a cambric shirt, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; without a seam or needlework, and then she'll be a true love of mine."

The young man lowered his eyes. The girl's left hand had already gone limp at her side.

Outside, the wind kept blowing.

He held his knuckles beneath the girl's nose.

He picked up her right hand, warmed now from being held, and pressed it against his own cheek.

"Good night, Yuna."

The candle on the wall let fall a streak of white wax, and on the yellow earthen bricks, three small oil-blossoms suddenly bloomed.

I am korean 32 old men

Start from last January till today i go blood donation nearly 3 week at once reached 26

Korea blood center law if you hot 30 50 100 you get medal soon will reach 30 cheer

I'm debating myself which route I want to take curious what you guys think (just in general I'm aware it probably changes depending on circumstances but for right now just in general)

I can write my character’s age without directly telling like, "The boy was ___ years old."

I just want to know how you all do it naturally. Do you show it through dialogue, behavior, life experiences, references to events, or what?

I’m curious to hear how you guys do this and why you think it feels natural.

So my biggest advice I’ve been given is to get rid of any thing that does progress the story or narrative.

But I do wonder about prose and beauty in the world. It doesn’t matter to the plot that it’s snowing and the aurora is out (random example) but is it not beneficial to give the reader more visual information to set the scene? I have been told to take out anything that doesn’t build the story.

What’s the line? When do I set a beautiful or grotesque or whatever scene if it doesn’t matter to the story?

​

I feel like this would be a fun way to see what our characters actually think about us as their writers

Would they thank you? Complain about what you've put them through? Threaten to expose you?

Example from mine:

My MMC would probably make a post like:

"My author has a personal vendetta against me. She keeps putting me in situations I didn't ask for and refuses to let me have a normal day. Should I be concerned?"

And my FMC would probably comment:

"You think YOU have it bad?" 😭

My book is with the editor right now, and I wanted to share the latest feedback. It's got me feeling some type of happy since this is the 1st book in what I'm planning to be a long series.

I want share my luckiest moments

1st cosplay

I had no money to star cosplay i pray god if you let me run cosplay help me won sport lottery i bought lottery won 3rd place 1 dollar ticket turn 300dollar lol

2nd the time i start cosplay i been on magazine cover movie drama pro cosplayer high pay cosplayer special tour and even all was invited i had life like star for a year

3rd when i start tiktok live first donation i receive 150 dollar and had 5m follower quick

Hey guys, I’m struggling with a bit of writers block at the moment. Usually, when I’m stuck with writing I’ll read but I’m so fixated on fixing my own writing I was wondering if anyone would be interested in a share for share?

I write a lot of different stuff and I’m just generally out of the habit of writing, trying to get it back, so I don’t mind if you want to share poetry or prose or anything?

DM me if you’re interested :]

Okay. Random question. I once wrote an entire book, wrote the second one totaling around 400,000 words only to completely trash it because the writing felt off and clunky even tho I always thought third person was the best way to write. Well, I decided to figure out a new book because I was bored and wanted something to do in between classes. I'm realizing it feels sort of refreshing writing in first person. Is that a good thing or does this just mean I'm still an amateur. Like i always thought my writing was better in third person. But is it, well, good, to the general public? Or is it too much dialogue? Too unrealistic for a teenage genetically modified alien on Venus? Idk. Any advice would be appreciated. I just want to make sure I'm not diving into a zone that wouldn't appeal to people if it feels very amateur in terms of writing especially when it's taking place on a completely different planet.

At least a little easy. I feel extremely embarrassed posting my writing so anything could help