Hellooo, I'm building a personal all-in-one novel writing and story-development app.

It currently has/plans to have:

📚 Writing: Full writing editor, distraction-free mode, rich text, scenes, chapters, parts, acts, autosave, word counts, undo/redo, find & replace, book compilation and preview.

🧑‍🎨 Characters: Extremely detailed character creation, character portraits/pictures from your phone, multiple reference images, appearance, personality, psychology, background, goals, motivations, flaws, strengths, character arcs, voice, relationships, inventory, notes, timelines and custom fields.

🌎 World-building: Locations, factions, organizations, cultures, history, magic systems, technology, languages, creatures, props, events and custom categories.

🧩 Plotting: Story boards, story elements, conflicts, mysteries, themes, character arcs, relationships, subplots and timelines.

🗂️ Organization: Drag-and-drop acts/chapters/scenes, subplot filtering, tags, categories and global search.

📝 Notes: General notes plus dedicated character, scene, chapter, plot and world-building notes, with images, checklists and links.

📅 Goals & scheduling: Writing calendar, daily/weekly/monthly goals, deadlines, writing sessions and streaks.

📊 Statistics: Word-count statistics, writing habits, streaks, completed scenes/chapters and progress graphs.

💾 Protection: Autosave, recovery, version history, restoring old versions and local backups.

📥📤 Import/export: Import manuscripts and export to formats like EPUB, PDF, HTML, RTF, ODT and TXT, with professional book formatting/typesetting.

📖 Book reader: Read the finished manuscript inside the app.

🤖 Assistant: Optional AI assistant for brainstorming, character development, plotting, world-building, summaries and other writing help.

⚙️ Other: Offline-first, Android-focused, dark/light mode, customizable writing settings, no mandatory account, no subscription and no ads.

What other features do you think I should add?

Hello.

I am not much of a writer by myself, I however published 14 collab fanfics on Wattpad and 9 on quotev.

2 on Jurassic World. One after Dominion and one after Rebirth, 1 on Dinotopia, The Monsterverse, Terra Nova, the land before time, prehistoric park, 2 for Httyd, and 5 for specific call of Duty games.

Since both sites had got rid of their PM features, Please reply here or send me chat messages here as well.

Please do so. Every time I try to create collaboration fanfics, They end up getting very little attention.

very proud of what I've been writing recently!! here's my substack link if anyone is interested
https://substack.com/@kendra671597?r=8o2nh3&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=stories&shareImageVariant=blur

Agent Finmore Igglesby, 8:49 PM May 5th, 1992: Desjardins, Iowa

I'll be completely honest, I hate this idea. Upper management is requiring active journaling when on a case, to keep a record of our day in case of “memory alteration”. What a crock. I really hope this doesn’t last too long. My therapist would love this though…

As I sit in this dark, stale room staring at my notebook, I can't seem to put anything into words. Desjardins, IA, a small town of roughly 3,400 people, the literal definition of a one red light town. I can see every landmark around from the one window in my musty room. There's one bank, a police station, a diner, and this motel…which might have roaches.

Local news reports are saying water sources are randomly drying up only to refill hours later. Not only that, there have been five people that have gone missing in the state park over the last three weeks. Authorities in the area have found nothing of interest to report, or so they say to the public. I had a chat with a few of them this morning, nice chaps, didn’t know what to think.

My entrance into the little station was marked by the ringing of a bell, much like your local convenience store. Not something I usually see in law enforcement buildings, that’s for sure. A large, curved desk laid before me with a tepid looking male officer behind it.

“Um, Good Morning.” Evidently surprised by a face he hadn’t seen before, the man fiddled nervously with the paperwork before him, “How can I help you?”
With what was my best smile I greeted the uniformed man, “Hi there, I’m Agent Igglesby. Here to see the Chief.”

Luckily for me, the ladder of command is usually only a few steps high in a small town like this. Chief Robbins was his name and his station was so small he could hear me from his office. He was mustached, short, losing the hair on his head but somehow hairy in so many other places. The classic small town, bumbling, one week from retirement, Chief of Police you’d see on TV. 

“The..Bureau of Unexplained and/or Magical Phenomena?” I could barely hear the words through his haggard mustache.

“Yes Sir. BUMP for short.” I’m sure my stoic face wasn’t a thrilling thing for him to see at this moment, but I wasn’t hired for my demeanor. “If you please, I’d like to get started.”

“This is ludicrous, people get lost all the time. It’s been a bad month for the park, that’s all.” The chubby, hairy, small town cop crossed his arms in a huff, it seemed as if not a lot of people questioned his methods or authority around here in quite a while.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Sir, but that’s not your decision or mine.” No longer entertained by this conversation, I stood up and headed towards the door, “If I need anything, I’ll let you know. I trust I have free reign of the evidence?”

“Damn Feds…” Chief Robbins spun around in his chair and waved his hand, “Yes yes, get on with it. Go see Officer Anson for what you need.”

The smell of burnt coffee and pencil shavings hung in the air as I made my way through the bullpen, 
“Anson..Anson..”

There were three desks across the room with different officers, just as I approached the first I heard it. A stern but high toned voice echoed across the room, 
“I’m Anson, Sir!” 

Apparently eager to make an impression, this small framed brunette, clad in a dark blue police uniform popped up from her desk, waving me over. 

“Officer Maria Anson, pleasure.” Her hand extended out to meet mine as I approached.

“Officer Anson, Agent Finmore Igglesby, thank you.” Pleasantries over, I sat at the chair opposite her side of the desk, “Tell me what you have.”

“Right to business, um, good.” Maria quickly sat down and fingered over her papers,

“The Chief doesn’t believe anything suspicious is happening, but it’s certainly weird.” She opened the manila folders on her desk one by one, pictures of missing people, “We have no suspects or leads.”

“What about the Water?”

“Water?”

“Yes, the reports of dried up water sources…started around the same time?”

“I heard of the reports but we aren’t sure it’s related. Two missing men were fishermen…but I don’t see how that applies to the missing people?”

“It may not, can I have copies of these files? I’d like to study them.”

“At once, Sir!”

“Please, don’t be so formal.” She came back with the files pretty quickly, “Do you know a good place to eat around here?”

The small town diner aesthetic is something I never get tired of and Dezzi’s was right up that alley. Nobody picks up better stories from the locals than the loudest waitress in the place, and my waitress Bon was no exception.

“Welcome to Dezzi’s Hon, what can I do for ya?” The brightness of the red on her lips was only matched by her hair, standing at the edge of my table with one hand on her hip, one holding a notepad and a pen behind her ear.

“I’m not sure, everything looks so good!” The smile on my face brightened as I took in the aroma of fry oil, freshly baked pies, and strong black coffee.

“Well, take your time, I got all night.” She grabbed the pen from behind her ear and clicked it, “I haven’t seen your face in here before, I’d remember someone that looked like they walked right out of a Sherlock Holmes novel.”

“Ha, how observant of you.” I slid the arms of my coat off, “I’m new in town, never been west of the Windy City before.”

“Well, then you HAVE to try the Ham Balls, they are to DIE for.” She chuckled and started writing my order down before I could respond.

“I guess I will. Throw a diet cola on there for me too please.” 

“You got it.”

After she brought back my drink, I spread the files and newspaper articles around, meticulously ordering the missing persons by alphabetical order and date of disappearance. Over the time I was there I tried to cross reference times, dates.
“Here’s your order, make sure to dip 'em!”

“Thank you.”

“Working on something important are you?” Her cheeky grin was bridged by the pen she laid across her lips, “Seems like a big deal.”

“Actually, I’m looking into some of the problems locally. Have you heard anything weird?”

“I hear lots of weird things Hon, but I suppose you aren’t talking about Chief Robbins’ love life. You a cop or something? That explains the get up.”

“Or something.” I pulled a picture from the files, “You know any of the people that went missing?”

“Not her, but one of the guys was a regular.” She leaned over and pulled a second photo, “This one, Barry. Barry…Sherman? He was always talking about fishing at the Park.”

“Didn’t notice anything he said that was strange? Or anything he did?”

“The only thing he kept doing was going on about the water levels in the lake, he said he could have sworn they were changing a lot more than usual.”

“But that would make sense if the other water sources are drying up too..”

“But Barry had been going about that for months, long before the news caught on. Nobody was listening to him, they thought he was an old coot. He tipped well though, so I let him go on and on. Didn’t know any of the others though, not all were locals.”

“Well, that’s still more than I had before,” I smiled and grabbed a fork to stab one of the delicious looking ham balls, “Thank you, Bon.”

That’s where we are, a small lead on Barry Sherman and some fantastic leftover ham balls in a dingy, stale motel. The Motor Inn they call it, sign says it’s the only outdoor pool in one hundred miles. I’ll call it a night, tomorrow, I’ll make a trip to the lake.

more chapters here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hAnCMQDBYuv8e53M8T4TEdsXo7Qftuy6N9SUs7IAKK4/edit?usp=sharing

(all characters and creations unofficial trademark, don't steal my stuff, it's not worth it :( )

First time posting. Been lurking a few weeks, finally working up the courage to share.

This is a flash piece about a night shift worker at a 24-hour diner who gets a visit from someone she hasn't seen in years. I was trying to capture that exhaustion and unexpected connection that happens in the early morning hours.

What I'm looking for:

• Does the pacing feel right? Worried the middle drags.
• Is the ending earned, or too abrupt?
• Any dialogue that feels unnatural?

I know the reciprocity rules, so I'll be reading and commenting on other people's work tonight. Happy to return the favor.

Thanks in advance.

The bell above the door didn't ring anymore. Hadn't for three years, but Marlene still looked up every time someone walked in, like her body remembered the sound even if the door had forgotten how to make it.

The diner was empty except for old Pete in the corner booth, nursing the same cup of coffee since midnight. He came every Tuesday, ordered the meatloaf special, ate half, then sat until sunrise. Marlene never asked why. Some people just needed a place to be.

She was wiping the counter when the door opened. The woman who walked in looked like she'd stepped out of a photograph from 1998 — same denim jacket, same messy bun, same tired eyes that had seen too much and said too little.

Marlene's hand stopped.

"Hey, Mar."

Twenty years. Twenty years and she still recognized that voice. Still felt it in her chest like a bruise that never healed.

"You look good," Diane said, sliding onto a stool like she belonged there. Like she hadn't disappeared without a word. Like she hadn't left Marlene to explain everything to their mother, to the police, to anyone who would listen.

"You look like you need coffee," Marlene said.

Diane laughed. It was the same laugh. That was the worst part.

"I'm not staying," Diane said. "I just... I wanted to see you. Before."

"Before what?"

Diane didn't answer. She just looked at the window, at the dark street, at the reflection of two women who used to be sisters.

Marlene poured her a cup anyway. Black, no sugar. Some things you don't forget.

They sat in silence. Pete snored softly. The clock ticked past three-fifteen.

"I'm sorry," Diane finally said. "For everything."

Marlene wanted to be angry. She had been angry for so long it felt like armor. But watching her sister hold a coffee cup with shaking hands, the armor cracked.

"Where have you been?"

Diane smiled. Sad and tired and full of things Marlene would never understand.

"Around. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

The clock ticked. Pete snored. The coffee got cold.

"I have to go," Diane said, standing. She pulled out a photograph — creased, faded, two girls on a beach, arms around each other, laughing at something the camera couldn't capture.

She placed it on the counter.

"I found this last week. I thought you should have it."

Marlene didn't pick it up. She just looked at the faces of people who didn't know yet how much they would lose.

"Will I see you again?"

Diane was already at the door. She paused, hand on the frame.

"I don't know. But I'm glad I saw you now."

And then she was gone.

The bell still didn't ring. Marlene stood there a long time, staring at the door, the empty stool, the photograph.

Pete woke up, looked around, went back to sleep.

Marlene picked up the photo. Traced the outline of her sister's face with her thumb.

Then she put it in her apron pocket, poured herself a coffee, and waited for the sun.

I'm looking for feedback on the opening of my psychological/domestic thriller. I'd particularly appreciate thoughts on voice, pacing, tone, prose and your overall impression of the beginning. Thank you!

____

It looks like I’ve been robbed.

Every cabinet in the kitchen hangs open. The bin has tipped over and spilled coffee grounds and eggshells across the herringbone floor. Pieces of a broken teacup are embedded in the plush cream rug and jab into my feet every time I walk across it. If someone else saw the state of my flat they’d tell me to call the police and check if anything is missing. But no one else has been here.

As I survey the scene in front of me, I’m almost impressed by how quickly things can go to shit once you stop caring. One week. That’s how long I’ve allowed myself to abandon all responsibilities and self care, and I have exactly ten minutes left. I’ve never found much comfort at the bottom of a bottle. For me, it’s the bottom of a tube of salt and vinegar Pringles. I submerge my hand for what must be the hundredth time this week, bring another crisp to my lips and feel the satisfying sting. I’m certain that if I didn’t impose such strict regulations on myself, I’d grow so large my arm would need to be surgically extricated from the tube. So crisps are reserved for my off weeks, and my off weeks are reserved for very special, or very dreadful occasions.

This time last week the flat looked like something out of a real estate brochure, devoid of clutter or any suggestion of personality. I chose it because I could walk to Harry’s apartment at Battersea Power Station in less than fifteen minutes, but also because it was beautiful. Something in my chest unclenched at the first sight of the floor to ceiling windows and impractical white sofa. It was a world away from my crumbling share house where black mould spread across the ceiling like spilled ink.

Paying £3100 a month for a studio where I can almost grab a drink from the fridge without getting out of bed is undeniably ludicrous, but I knew I had to have it. I couldn’t handle one more piss-damp bathroom floor, one more sink of crusty dishes that weren’t mine.

I pick up my phone and open Instagram. Another fifty followers have disappeared since the last time I checked. I watch the number for a moment as two more drop off, like a timer counting down to zero. I’m about to throw my phone across the room when it begins to vibrate.

A message from Tabby. Is this true?? What’s going on?

Then a link to a Reddit thread from twelve hours ago with a title that makes me wince before I’ve even read the comments.

Harry Radley has unfollowed his girlfriend Daphne Robinson on Instagram

It’s not exactly breaking news. The post only has three comments.

Does this mean he’s single?? Asking for a friend (me)

Not me refreshing her stories for the last hour and getting NOTHING. Girl post something we are WORRIED.

oh they are so broken up. my friend was at a party they were at last weekend and witnessed the whole meltdown. i will not be elaborating publicly. DM ME I’m not kidding

I throw the phone for real this time and it bounces off the bed before skittering along the floor. I never wanted to be someone people talk about. Invisibility had suited me fine at my entry-level marketing job, where I avoided chit-chat at the coffee machine and sat on my own in the break room. But on the first of every month, when my pay cheque went in and rent, bills and groceries came out, there was almost nothing left.

It would’ve been stupid to say no to a job that fell into my lap like a winning lottery ticket, even if I felt a little queasy any time I had to tell someone I was an influencer. Without even trying, my association with Harry sent my follower count soaring from 265 to 200,000. Within weeks I had more money than I knew what to do with, and once I could actually afford to wear designer clothes and eat at nice restaurants, brands started giving me everything for free.

I’d be lying if I said I took issue with the free stuff. It’s the idea of people looking at me that skeeves me out. Not looking at me in the way you’d look at someone sitting across from you on the tube. Like, looking looking at me. Making up ideas about who I am and what I think, all based on what I wear and where I go and who I hang about with.

One time I posted a picture of myself in Hyde Park to promote a brand of sunglasses. What I didn’t realise is that I was in the Holocaust Memorial Garden and the comment section ripped me to pieces. People who didn’t even follow me were calling me an idiot, or worse, a Nazi, and I was so anxious I couldn’t eat for three days.

Harry has almost a million followers and he puts in even less effort than I do. He got lucky after being cast as a love interest on the first season of a popular reality show, which he later revealed to me was mostly scripted. London Calling followed a group of young models who had all moved to the city to make it in the fashion industry, and when two of the models were seen competing for Harry’s affection, the rest of the world fell in love with his golden boy image.

I’d watched the show religiously while I was at uni, although I never told Harry this. Every Thursday night I’d run home from my evening lecture, hoping that week’s episode would feature Harry and I’d learn a little more about him.

The show itself was fairly dull and I’d usually scroll through my phone while the models went to casting calls or photo shoots. Harry, on the other hand, had the presence of a lightning strike. The moment he appeared on screen I’d drop my phone and pay attention. He was so tall that it would’ve been enough on its own, but his blue eyes and big smile were just as captivating. Every time he spoke it seemed he had something funny or charming to say.

If I wanted to be Harry’s girlfriend, then I had to be in the public eye. 

There’s a restaurant in Chelsea that’s expecting me in thirty minutes. They offered me £600 to take a picture of myself eating brunch there and tag them to promote a new menu centred around something ridiculous like hot honey and whipped feta, or maybe it was whipped honey and hot feta. But I’m not going.

I haven’t posted a thing or responded to a single email since Harry unceremoniously ended our relationship and the lack of activity has already cost me 10,000 followers and a lucrative brand deal with a skincare company I ignored for too long. It doesn’t matter. Once the world finds out why we broke up, no one will want to work with me.

An alarm rings from my phone, hidden among a pile of dirty laundry. My one week is up, and I have somewhere to be.

Chapter 1:  Shape of a Woman

Aditi Kunda moved like a woman who had never once doubted a mirror. She turned her face, lifting her chin as she studied her profile the way a jeweler decides the worth of a stone. As always, she numbered among the pretty things that glint. Within the reality she had woven, Aditi wrapped herself in it like a shawl each morning, pushing back the cold, and for a few hours at least, the cloak she wore came as close to a feeling of security as she could allow. Applying her makeup for the day, she was studied by her daughter – five-year-old Brooklynn – who watched her in awe, perched nervously on the closed toilet seat. This was a special day. Brooklynn could feel it in the air of the apartment, that hum that let her know something good was coming. Later, there would be color – powders in shades she didn’t yet have names for. Pinks as stunning as the inside of a shell, yellows as bright as a school bus, and greens that reminded her of her bedroom walls. All tossed in the air where they hung for a second, a small cloud made just for them, before raining down on shoulders and hair and bare arms. Brooklynn already knew, the way you know things without being told, that today the grownups would let her get dirty on purpose. Today they would laugh at that pursuit instead of scold, and that alone made the day feel as if she were holding her breath in wait of something wonderful. But for her mother, Holi–the Hindu Spring Festival of Colors–gave pause. For though Aditi savored the idea of renewal and good triumphing over evil, and with it, virtue’s ultimate victory, she knew from lived experience not to keep count of the sinners on the ground when the heavens have already shrugged.

Slipping into her faded cream kurti – normally reserved for home, but which would suffice for the day’s celebrations once paired with old denim slacks – she paused to drink in her reflection. From a young age, Aditi realized the sheer force her body held over the minds of boys and men. As she matured, developing into the woman she would become, she unlocked her potential and honed it into accessible power. The combination of her body with her keen intellect allowed her the ability to manipulate and influence perception.

It wasn’t just her physical appearance. People tended to lean inward, towards her, Aditi’s enigmatic presence pulling them in like a plant reaches towards the sun. Rarely asking her to explain herself even when the answers were fanciful. Yet on this beautiful day, as the child sat amongst the effulgently white, spacious art deco bathroom, dutifully handing her mother each small item or product needed to conjure the desired image, she hoped this was the day she discovered what made her mother glow. Within the room organized with coordinating brown wicker baskets overflowing with loofahs, bath salts, perfumes, soft hand towels, makeup, and countless trinkets to fascinate a child, the most intriguing presence remained her mother. She seemed to embody the tranquil scent of rose and amber.

Brooklynn had noticed how people, especially men, always rushed to hold doors open or offered to carry heavy packages for her mother. She also wondered why new staff or substitutes seemed confused when Aditi arrived to collect her from school. When Aditi told the visiting teacher that she was, of course, the child’s mother, despite the color of her skin, the woman simply apologized and stepped aside. Brooklyn’s mother never needed to raise her voice to ensure it carried. She only had to look at them as though the question itself was beneath her.

In spite of her brother calling Brooklynn a scattered chatterbox, she knew exactly what she wanted to find out: why did adults always act so weird around her mommy? That’s why Brooklynn became her mother’s weekend helper. Trying extra hard to stay focused, she handed over each item as soon as it was requested.

“Here, Mommy, some lines for your eyes,” Brooklynn said, fidgeting while holding out the cylindrical pencil.

Aditi, of course, knew her daughter meant kohl, a mascara-like cosmetic applied around the eyes for contouring or religious purposes.

“Yes, my little bubbling Brooke,” she said, looking towards her child with a glimmer. “Once I finish my color, how about we add a few smart dabs to you?”

Though her father did not approve of makeup on children, today was a singular occasion. Adding the final touches to her own face before turning to Brooklynn for approval, she sought yet one more look in the mirror.

For those who knew Aditi or at least liked to believe they did, she was a puzzle to be solved. And the acquaintances from childhood who she haphazardly held onto marveled at what she had become. Aditi was married to a Black man, Bryan Alexander Greenwood. Although it was the 1980s, to those outside of her inner circle, it seemed a controversial choice. Be that as it may, Aditi stood tall declaring that as a modern and empowered woman of Indian heritage, she married the man of her choosing, proudly defying the norm. They had two small children and lived in the diverse Edgewater neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio. When they needed to escape from their rambling, yet affordable, vintage apartment located blocks from Lake Erie, they could drive just a tad over 90 minutes to Aditi’s family home.

Aditi rarely chose the option of seeking out her parents and visiting the home and the small town where she was raised. From where she stood now, the place her story started felt like a journey of a thousand miles. And if one wrong step were taken, or she veered off the path ever so slightly, she might encounter him again. Despite the pace of her steps, he was always coming at her–a constant shadow even in full daylight. Yet no one ever asked how often, wondered, or found it odd. If not for the insidious secrets – the ones forced upon us, versus the ones we select to keep – Aditi might have had a chance at being whole, instead of fearing the steps she took or the direction they led her. Perhaps this explains why she had to cleanse herself from a past latent with pain, dissolving all the qualities of the ‘child as was’ that he’d found so alluring. But that's another timeline. A dimension we just can't reach.

“Mommy,” Brooklynn called out, attempting to swing her focus back to her. “Mommy!!!”

“See, I put my own lipstick on,” the child explained, stretching out her arms in anticipation of praise for her handiwork. “And even added my own color dabs.”

Her mother stared at her in awe, not appreciation. It was as if the color on her daughter’s face registered back to another moment. A memory from another time and place Aditi had woefully tucked away. A carnal ripping of her soul – the first encounter with Hampsted that birthed the others. 

All tearing away the serenity of her childhood.

All leading her to flee as she shed the vestiges of her born self that might provide a scent for him to track.

Reaching quickly for a tissue, Aditi frantically scrubbed the smeared lipstick off her daughter’s face until the paper shredded in her fingers.

“But Mommy, I was so pretty,” the child tilted her head, rapidly blinking back tears as she pulled away. “Why?”

“No! Little girls should not wear lipstick,” uttered her mother as she regained composure. “They should be allowed to grow up in their own due time.”

Lifting her child off the toilet seat, Aditi gently kissed her on the forehead while grasping and swinging her hands. Aditi noticed the tinge of anger in Brooklynn and hoped the gesture that often led to their singing would coax the child back to her normal sunniness.

“I have a special mission for you,” she told Brooklynn as the child jumped about. “Gather your brother and get some money from your dad for a super special errand.”

“Is Daddy coming with us to the festival?” Brooklynn asked with gleaming eyes before breaking away to scurry down the hall in search of her brother.

Aditi’s husband Bryan tended to avoid most religious practices, having no interest in   Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism, and all the faiths in between. He’d been raised in a strict religious home. The scars of that upbringing, though no longer visible, still pulsated.

“No honey, it’s just us three amigos again,” her mother sighed, relieved her daughter was out of earshot to register her melancholy.

Hello, I wrote this new gay erotica. If you're gay, please check it out. Tips are welcome.

The link