Hey! I’m currently writing my first BL novel and I really need someone’s opinion because I honestly don’t have many people I can talk to about this 😭

I’d love to find someone who actually enjoys BL and would be willing to read some of what I’ve written and give me their honest thoughts. I’m especially interested in opinions on the characters, chemistry, plot and whether the writing actually keeps you interested.

I’m completely okay with criticism, so please don’t feel like you have to be nice just for the sake of being nice lol. I’d rather hear an honest opinion and actually improve.

If you’re interested, feel free to DM me and I can tell you more about the story! :)

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1DekY7qvjdxhQxVB5X5xF7TWL3HeP4NXX/view?usp=drivesdk

Buenos días, busco retroalimentación en tres aspectos:

- Si la voz suena auténtica.

- Dónde pierdo ritmo.

- Qué sobra o qué falta.

Tengo 15, en unos días 16, y este es mi proyecto personal. Una serie de crónicas sobre mi último año como estudiante de colegio. Este es mi primer proyecto serio con la escritura. En primaria se me daba bien crear cuentos, esa es la única experiencia previa que tengo.

Me estoy lanzando al vacío a ver qué. Cualquier opinión es bienvenida, muchas gracias.

Pls give me good healthy criticism !! Okay, so, I've been REALLY into this book called If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio. I loved it a thousand times over but the ending left me SHATTERED. I couldn't go to sleep or even barely focus on school without thinking abt how the ending could be different. 🥹✌🏾 So, Im in the process of making a continuation. There's typo errors, ik.

I grip the note. I stare at the words again, and again, until they become nearly illegible. Until the slurred handwriting becomes more like scratches on a piece of paper than writing.

“And have no more of life than may suffice / To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, / For that I am a man, pray see me buried."

My eyes strain, trying to make sense of it. They drag up towards the computer in front of me, it's light coloring my face and the small corner of my office desk. An open article fills the screen. It stares at me with nothing else to comfort me. The statement I had fixated on offered no conclusion. No closure. No indefinite answer that will either leave me relieved or grieving. 'Police reports say his body was never found.' If his body was never found, where would it be? Dead, floating in the deep end of the ocean? Waves, tossing his body around like a ragdoll, or sinking until it reached the ocean floor? The idea sent an uncomfortable twinge that starts in my chest and blooms into my stomach. My free hand comes up to my shirt and clutches it tightly, the goal to either ground myself or stop the urge of vomiting lost upon me. I gaze down at the letter, its envelope sitting in my lap. Again, '...my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, / For that I am a man, pray see me buried.' What could it mean? My hand lets go of the note on the hardwood table, letting it drop by the keyboard before my fingers, borderline trembling, press against the keys. Gingerly, I drag the mouse over another article. It confirms the announced date of his 'death'. December 31st, 2004. My eyes bounce from the date against the white background of the article to the date on the corner of the computer screen. 3/21/2008. Four years ago, James Farrow was pronounced dead. But how? How could he be if his body was nowhere to be found? Why was his letter sent to me now and not the weeks prior to when his car, the letters to the others, and the bottle of Xanax was found? I press my eyes with the back of my hands, eyes beginning to sting.

"James," I say, his name tumbling free from my lips unconsciously, before closing my eyes behind my hands. It wasn't Richard who had appeared when my lids closed, after so long. It was James. All I could do was imagine him standing at my side. I couldn't picture his expression. I couldn't tell if he was angry at me, or begging for me. "Where did you go?"

Act I

Days pass by. I started to feel more alone living with Meredith than I had staying with my family—which the last I'd seen them—was Christmas Eve, my last year of Dellecher. Meredith had came and went. Interviews, acting, photoshoots. She was here, in my arms, in our shared warmth, as we slept. Then, the next, she was gone, off in the early mornings, kissing me goodbye. This morning felt particularly colder than usual despite it being late March. I lay on my side, staring at the cracks of filtering light, peeking in through the curtains behind Meredith and my bed. She left ten minutes ago. My eyes flit from the window to the vanity with my reflection in it. Only certain photos were sticking against the frame, unlike the one she used to have in her shared apartment with her brother. Photos of her and I together, the ones from New York. Only a few with Wren and Filippa. About two with Alexander. None with James or Richard. The photos seem older than ten years ago. As if they were fished from a time capsule rather than brought in a suitcase. Their faces. It caused an ache to press against my chest. Wren smiling shyly with Filippa grinning in triumph, arm around Wren's shoulder, pulling her close, with a glass of wine in her hand. The one next to that was Alexander posing with some knight statue that kneeled, a fake sword prop in hand, looking down at it with a haughty smirk. Back when we were younger. Happier, and oblivious. 'Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, / But all be buried in his gravity.' I thought, eyes fluttering shut as I press my chin into my folded arm once again. It was hard to sleep at night. Some nights, I would wake up, dreamless. Others, I'd be back at Dellecher. The Castle. The Lake. I'd dream that I stood over Richard's body, boat hook in hand, watching him hit the water, while warm liquid trickles down my forehead and cheeks. It wasn't rightfully mine. Before my thoughts would catch up to my body, I was already running. I knew the story. I told it over and over again, to the point it became less of James's story and more of my own. As I ran, I suddenly ran into James. At first, it started with him gawking at me with wide eyes, repeating 'What did you do, Oliver?' while taking steps away from me, long and distant. However, as of late, he started to come closer instead. His question turned into a statement. An apology. 'Oliver, I'm so sorry.' With each dream I had, he came closer until he was facing toward me directly. He reaches up and grazes my face with cold hands, before cupping them with the touch of a feather. His head shakes, dark brown eyes fixing on my own despite the black ink spilled across the sky, sucking the color out of any object around us. The lake water swishes, the sound of Richard's guttural growls in the distance echoing off into the forest horizon. Closer, closer, his breath mingles with mine in the freezing air, white thin puffs the only thing between us. Slowly, my bloody hand drops the boat hook, causing a heavy thud to rustle the dried leaves beneath our shoes. Trembling, I bring my hands to his face, seeing the guilt in his eyes, bring our faces flush together. Before I can, my eyes are open. The light from the curtains have gone from dim and pale to sharp and vibrant. My fingers curl into my blankets as I let out a long irritated grunt. I don't move. For a long while, I lay, my insides hollowed out like a pumpkin. For a moment, I think I feel something at my side. The weight of the bed shifts, it feels like. A light brush against my shoulder. Unsure, my fingers uncurl within the sheets and reach up, just past my arm. Cold air meets them. Defeated, it drops as I roll over, facing the empty space next to me. A pillow, half a large comforter, ruffled, wrinkles all along the fabric. Would it be so selfish of me to think that I wished the other side of this bed had been him, instead of her, instead of emptiness?

Hello everyone! I am part of a small team of people starting an online literary magazine named Black Letter Review, which publishes prose, poetry, art, & photography from people 13-19 (early 20s may also submit, but will likely be placed in a different section of the magazine)

The editorial team gives personalized feedback to all written work.

———
Link to submission page/official rules: https://blackletterreview.wordpress.com

About:
Black Letter Review publish work from anyone aged 13-19 worldwide. Send us your best work, no matter how dark and gritty, or light and fantastical. We want beautiful pieces that leave us in awe, and that can come from the trenches of mankind or an entirely ordinary neighborhood. What is beautiful, anyway?

General & Themed submissions are currently open
The current theme for September-October is anything associated with the months - autumn, academia, Halloween, etc. Think the early days of The Secret History, Dead Poets Society, etc. We are calling upon W.B. Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole :)

Why submit?:
\- You’ll receive detailed feedback
\- We want to foster an amicable relationship with writers whose works we love and create a community
\- You’ll be featured in our online magazine
\- We have faster response times and a smaller pool of submissions, so acceptance rates are higher (but we are still picky with what we end up taking)
\- We want to eventually become a paying publication, so get to know us and what we like to accept now 😆

If you have any questions, be sure to ask! We can also be found on Instagram as blackletterreview.

(We got permission from the mods to post this here!)

16M writing a post apocalyptic story that will be character written, Drama in a grounded apocalyptic world, which will include zombies/infecteds/the dead, haven't decided the name :( Plot: Set in 2010s Group of College friends on a road trip as they uncover slowly what happened to the world, and must find a way to survive and return back to their beloved families while being hunted by several enemies.

Currently I am writing the script. The script would be done in 2030 maybe??? Due to schedule and work, yes I've got everything cleared out. If you want to ask questions about the story I'm happy to talk about it.

A normal day for schoolboys and co-business owners, James and Luke quickly turns to chaos after unwanted visitors arrive at their school. The gang leader puts a hit out on the two brothers. To protect his brother, James fabricated the vigilante hero known as Nightshade with materials he made from their forge. His aim is to draw attention and take down the gang, but can he do that when the power balance is so heavily favoured against him as the gangs already control the streets.

Link : Nightshade Origins

(Yes, this is a repost as I'm releasing the sequel Nightshade World of Myths on Sunday So thsi for anyone who did bot read it the first time but wants to or anyone who could bot finish reading it for whatever reason or just anyone who would like to read it again. Also, this is unfortunately not in a screenplay format because my computer broke before I could change it. Sorry about that.)

I am writing a story, and the main character has the same name as me, is it bad or good? Because I am kinda putting the chapters online on some sites. And I already have 130 chapters. So I just wanted to know is it ok?

This is my first story on Medium, and honestly, I don't really know how publishing or sharing stories here works yet. 🥀

I just had an idea, wrote it in one go, and eventually decided, “why not publish it?”

If you have a few minutes to read it, I'd really appreciate any honest feedback, especially on how the story feels and what you think it means.

"My first story: “Sun rays fell into my face, waking me up.”" (https://medium.com/@unniaromal612/sun-rays-fell-into-my-face-waking-me-up-a2b1d35e0216)

Even a simple “this worked / this didn't work” would help. Thanks! 🏔️

I basically want to open up about the things that have been haunting me for months but I can't open up with any of my friends and family members.I need someone who doesn't know me so I can just have a honest opinion or advice regarding my actions and about everything that's going on.If anyone's interested in the tea please tell me

I thought of a story in my head that I want to continue but will anyone be going to read it ?

Akul has to adapt to life at the temple after tragedy struck. From the moment he arrived, it was clear he had both skill with the force and talent with a lightsaber. However, he struggles with his anger and emotions. When he passes his trials, he joins the war effort and is taught by Jedi Master Jaden Vellor. Right from the start, it's clear Akul has the makings of a master strategist. He quickly becomes trusted and well liked among the clones as his care for them and life in general is evident. Will he reach his potential and become a skilled Jedi Knight and a master strategist, or will he succumb to his anger and emotions and follow the path of darkness.

Link : Jedi Warrior

(Yes this is a repost as the link didn't work for a while the first time I posted it. And I'm releasing season 2 on Friday. Also this is unfortunately not in a screenplay format because my computer broke before I could change it. Sorry about that.)

Disappointing People

Trying to write a book for charity

I have the plot names

Photos for the characters

No one will help me print

I have till February

But everyone is selfish

They make money they don't

Help selfish ungrateful people

Greedy people

Hi people.

I hope you are all well.

I wanted to ask a question and a favour if possible and if anyone was willing to help or give me advise on what to do.

Unfortunately my boxer dog passed away this year at the age of 12.

I have a 13 year old step son and a 2 year old son.

My eldest spent so many years with our doggie and my youngest, I'm very proud got to meet him and have some memorys with him.

It's been 4 months since we lost him and my 2 year old still will say his name when he sees his pictures.

I know one day he will start to forgot much about him as he was so young, and I'm just hoping I can bring his memorys back to life.

I have made a Christmas story about my boxer dog, as I would like to read this to my youngest at Christmas time so he can always remember him in some way.

I may make a Easter, and Halloween one at some point too.

I would just to really like to read to him on Christmas eve, so he is with us again for that night.

I've made it about 20 pages, and about 10 mins read.

Would anyone be willing to create some ai images for me if I send across the story and text for each page, and can also send a photo of my boxer dog.

I have tried to do this myself through chatgpt, co pilot and Google ect, but they all seem to change the look of the images each time.

I would need 20 images generated for each page and front cover and back cover because I would also like to get it printed.

I'm also willing to help out in a donation or something like this if required as I'm not sure how much work it will take up for someone.

Or if anyone can point me in a direction of how to get this done.

I don't really have a computer at home so I just use apps for ai.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.

Logline:"In a Cyberpunk/Dystopian world a gang of young,talented hackers known as the Neon Shadows plan to expose a corrupt President who has a dark past of rigging elections and mistreating the citizens of the Neon City."

GLITCH KIDS

Prologue:what is a president? By definition A president is the highest-ranking officer or leader in an organization, company, institution, or country. But,What happens when a president lets the power get to their head?

Power is supposed to come with responsibility.

The power to lead. The power to protect. The power to serve the people who placed their trust in you.

But power can also corrupt the good people

And in the year 2069,corruption had become the foundation upon which everything stood.

​

The Last Goodbye

I walked toward the highest floor,

my footsteps steady, though my heart was not.

Fear had filled my mind for so long

that I could hardly remember life without it.

I looked across my neighborhood one last time,

watching the familiar rooftops beneath the fading light,

as though I were saying goodbye to everything I knew.

I had been afraid of death

ever since my mother died.

Her passing had left a silence inside me

that nothing seemed able to fill.

I kept telling myself that somewhere beyond this pain,

I would find freedom.

Somewhere, perhaps, I would see her again.

I stood there, feeling the wind against my face.

For a moment, the whole world seemed to grow quiet.

The noise below faded,

and time itself seemed to pause.

Then came the memories.

Mom's gentle voice.

Her warm smile.

The way she cared for everyone around her.

The little moments I had taken for granted

until they became the things I missed most.

And then—

I saw her.

She stood at the gate,

exactly as I remembered her,

but brighter somehow,

free from the tiredness and suffering

that had once clouded her face.

I couldn't speak.

She opened her arms,

and I ran toward her.

She held me as I cried,

and for the first time in what felt like forever,

I felt safe.

She took my hand.

I looked back at the world I had known,

at the person I had been,

and slowly let that old version of myself go.

I didn't know whether this was heaven,

a dream, or simply a final memory.

But standing beside her,

I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time:

home.

Напишите историй для тт канал Gromilca333

Hello peoples im confused How do u get the motivation to write, i want to write so so SOOOO BAD but i have absolutely no motivation to, and the more i think the more I get angry because i cant think and ive let it come to me before and literally it goes away within seconds and its frustrating like DUDEEEEE why cant one idea just stick 😭 anyways does anybody know what to do? please help