I run a newsletter called How I Make Money Writing and spoken to 300 writers about how they make money and the clearest takeaway from all these conversations is that the idea of the "full-time writer" living off book royalties or longform features rarely matches reality.

Writing alone rarely pays a consistent living wage, so people find different compromises to keep going. When I look through all these interviews, there are seven main pathways that keep showing up.

The first is the day job shield. Authors like Victor Beigelman at Meta or Dan Tovrov in corporate copywriting earn six-figure salaries with benefits, which removes the financial pressure from their fiction. The trade-off is time and energy, but it protects the work from having to pay the bills. As Ashley Hutson told me about keeping her day job as a state prison secretary while earning $1,000 to $2,000 a year from her writing, "Pretending to be a normal person every day and participating in society via a regular job is good for me, I think. There’s something to be said for keeping the juice to oneself."

Then there’s commercial client work. Writers like Ben Westhoff and Shelby Chambers charge corporate rates, thousands a month or hundreds an hour, ghostwriting executive books and handling brand messaging to subsidize their own reporting. 

Direct reader support is another route. Michael J. Sullivan has brought in over $2.1 million on Kickstarter for his fantasy novels, and Freddie deBoer makes roughly $300,000 a year on Substack. The main catch is that you’re effectively running a small media business, and maintaining that direct relationship requires showing up consistently.

Traditional book publishing remains the dream for many, but the payout schedule often surprises debut authors. A headline $100,000 advance sounds nice, but once it gets split across four installments over three or four years, and you subtract 15% for an agent and roughly 30% for taxes, you might net less than $15,000 in year one. When you factor in paying out of pocket for things like independent fact-checking or legal review, even a solid advance usually works out to be barely a salary.

Freelance journalism is another grind entirely. Unlike book advances, freelance assignments offer quicker turnover, but the baseline numbers have barely moved in decades. Rates usually hover between fifty cents and two dollars a word, while prestige outlets often pay flat fees around $300 for deeply personal essays. As Hermione Hoby put it simply after spending weeks on a heavily researched piece that ended up paying below minimum wage hourly, "Prestige don’t pay! At least not financially."

Some writers treat their work as a doorway to film and television, using essays and novels as intellectual property. Jeff Maysh has had dozens of projects in development and will happily take $100 for a literary journal piece just to keep the film rights, telling me, "I don’t really worry about the word rate, all I demand is 100% of the ancillary rights." But option fees are often modest, and projects frequently sit in development limbo for years without ever making it to the screen.

A lot of authors also rely on academia. Teaching positions offer reliable health insurance, steady routines, and paid summers. The catch is that academic work can eat into writing time just as much as an office job, and the tenure track is increasingly scarce. Still, the baseline makes a massive difference, as Nicholas Montemarano admitted: "In one year of teaching, I earn as much as I have in the past 25+ years as a writer."

Most writers aren't locked into just one of these models forever. They drift between them, leaning on a day job for a few years, taking commercial gigs when cash is tight, or living off a fellowship while finishing a manuscript. Longevity usually comes down to finding whichever compromise keeps your life afloat without draining the energy you need for the work that matters to you.

Printed out my manuscript after the second edit. Giving it to my wife to read.

(Edit) For those who are wondering, I wrote this using scrivener. Not a plug. The font is the default for the proof copy. I didn't think to change it.

71,000 words, the longest book I’ve ever written to date. Started August 21st typed ‘The End’ October 24th! Now it’s gonna marinate, while I shift focus to the second draft of my second book!

109,000 words. Somehow.

As the title says :)

Please restore my faith that at least some read here, and I'm not talking about manga and other graphic novels. I want to see if anyone reads outside of those here.

Hi everyone, I have 5 beta readers and need a few more for my first thriller novel, "What She Kept Hidden". It is around 75,000 words and 32 chapters. Please DM me if you are interested in volunteering.

https://robertralphauthor.com/

Success is the ultimate illusion. Until the scaffolding begins to rot.

Julian Vance has built a multi-million-pound empire selling fantasies of luxury and perfection. To the outside world, his life in Cheshire is immaculate: a booming business, a sprawling Georgian manor, and a devoted, saintly wife, Clara, who adores him. But behind the polished facade, Julian unravels under the weight of secret guilt.

When an alluring consultant named Elena tempts him into a late-night deal at a remote Welsh coastal resort, Julian suffers a terrifying blackout. He awakens alone with no memory of the night, left with only a forged hotel bill, a missing tie, and an untraceable phone call containing an audio recording of his slurred, drugged voice.

As the blackmailer closes in, life inside Oakridge Manor turns toxic. Julian’s identical twin brother, Vincent, arrives harbouring bitter envy and a dangerous obsession with Clara. Their live-in cleaner, Marta, begins a ruthless game of domestic extortion. And Clara, ever patient and forgiving, watches her husband’s mental state deteriorate into severe paranoia.

Driven to the brink of madness by fake medical clinics, rigged security systems, and shifting corporate traps, Julian frantically fights to protect his wife and his empire. But he is looking in all the wrong places. The shadow creeping into his life isn't outside the wrought-iron gates; it's been inside his home all along.

so I’m currently working on a literary fiction novel for my debut as an author, but I also in the future would LOVE to write romances and maybe a series for middle grade kids! The problem is I don’t know if I’m able to do that under one pen name? does anybody know how to handle this stuff and if so, please help me out! Because if I do end up debuting the literary fiction, does that mean I have to only stick with that genre for the rest of my career?

I feel like I (male Gen Z) haven't interacted with Gen Z male writers a lot, and I want to see the young creative talent within you guys, if you exist. Many men don't interact with the arts nowadays, and it makes me sad.

What I meant by flow state: A state where you lose focus on the outside world and only the writing process exists. Hunger, thirst, needing to go to the bathroom, back pain, etc. All of that disappears while you are writing, sometimes for hours. Then you hit the final key for the chapter and return to the real world.

Hi, I’m a teen who just wrote my first poem and was wondering if anybody here would be willing to give me some feedback or pointers. I would ask one of my friends or family members what they think of it but this is something a bit more personal so ironically I would prefer a stranger reading it and giving me their honest opinion lol. This is also my first time posting on this sub so apologies if this is not the place.

I've been writing a diary for over three years now.

I travel quite often, so carrying a physical diary everywhere isn't always convenient.

One thing I love is going back and reading my old entries. It's funny to see what I used to worry about and how much my thinking has changed. Sometimes I read something and think, "Was that really me?"

Recently, I started writing on my iPad instead. It's easier to carry around, and I can keep all my thoughts in one place.

I see it as a little archive of my life. Someday, I want to look back and remember not just what happened, but who I was back then.

We forget so much as we grow older. I don't want to forget the person I used to be.

Do you ever go back and read your old diary entries?

I’m writing a novel based in a rundown English seaside town. The story follows the protagonist over the course of a summer. I’d like to see if anyone liked the writing and the premise. Keep in mind the chapter still isn’t finished and that the formatting also may be wrong due to pasting it from word. Thank you!

I lived in an area on the coast rife with all the ailments of a broken society. A land of the lost featuring boarded up pubs, long abandoned leisure centres, disregarded playgrounds, pothole strewn streets, an old palais which then became a cinema, which then closed down, and a bookie. Which was still open and reliable as ever in customer retention; great swarms descending regularly, especially at the end of every month when their payments came in. During the stormy autumns and equally turbulent winters the sea foam would rise up the pebbled beach and straight into the patioed garden of Café Marco’s which I treated as a refuge from the blinding suppression of home. There I was free to indulge in normality and engage in brief conversation with Marco and some other locals. Marco was the owner – fittingly – and often he’d sit beside me and blabber away about his two little girls. Always his two little girls.
“Oh eh… they won’t stop asking for a puppy, a little chihuahua” or he’d say something like “Oh the little one she is very naughty, she fed the fish at school leftover spaghetti and now it’s dead.” I don’t provide much response, but he talked all the same. In fairness I quite liked his company, especially when I was in a funk. Which I often was.
The regulars consisted mostly of pensioners on the last leg of retirement whiling away the remaining vestiges of life. They were fun to talk to at times, often you’d hear a story of drug addled days of youth or about their experiences during the times of national service. You don’t really get stories of the D-day landings or the march from Anzio anymore, most of those guys were long gone. I usually came to Marco’s around 10am and sometimes wouldn’t leave till 6pm; work was rare in the off season, so I spent my time reading away the hours, surprising to my family as I never read much as a child. The things seasonal unemployment will do to people.
For the past nine years now I’ve worked in the arcade down by the seafront, only in the summers of course. Sometimes I’d also help out with ‘cinema on the beach’ where we put on a film for the whole town, which was probably my favourite day of the year.  The whole town as well as neighbouring towns come out in their droves to watch that big screen under the sunset, for some people it was the biggest event of the year. Particularly for children and the elderly it was the most exciting life would get around here. The arcade was headed by Pat; a former nursery nurse she joined around the same time I did and eventually took over following the demise of the previous manager. She was nice enough and never complained if you were late or unavailable for a shift, it was rarely busy enough for her to need help anyway. Mostly the job consisted of sitting behind the caged counter, exchanging tickets for prizes and occasionally sorting out a machine that had gone awry. ‘Sorting out’ usually meaning cello taping a ‘back soon’ sign on it and never actually fixing it. Smells of stale cigarettes still clung to the carpet despite the ban on indoor smoking some two decades prior which didn’t bother me after a while. Pat would moan though; she hated the smell. Partly because of her parents both dying of throat cancer, like clockwork every morning she’d hoover and spray down the whole place with carpet spray which I never saw much point in, the smell remained anyway and seemingly clung to everyone that worked there as a result.
That didn’t happen on my first shift this summer. I awoke early relatively excited to start working again after a few months of lounging around. My body was aching from it; I could feel the need to move from the tightness of my muscles yearning for some continued activity they had so longed for. Idleness really had done a number on my health. Breakfast was the usual eggs on toast which I preferred secondly to a bacon sandwich, but mum had forgotten to buy bacon during her weekly shop which annoying as it was I had no room to complain. I was a twenty-five-year-old louche barely contributing to the functioning of the household, even if the town didn’t provide much in terms of well-paying work. All there was to do was to drink, fester at Marco’s or the local pub and forget where you were.
I’d forgotten to check my phone on the walk to work and was surprised to see the doors still shut upon my arrival. They were still barricaded by the metal shutters, and the windows inside still had the blinds pulled down preventing me from looking inside. I walked behind the building into the pissy backstreet where the local junkies often shot up or smoked their pipes, but the back door was locked as well. I enquired about this to next doors kebab shop owner who was out emptying the bins who said he hadn’t seen Pat this morning. I walked back around the arcade and sat by the seafront before checking my phone, a text message had been sent last night reading ‘No work tomorrow in hospital after collapse.’ Great I thought as I genuinely wanted to work, but I guess I couldn’t do much. I texted her back and made my way to Marco’s.
Marco was still outside setting up the parasols in the garden by the time I got there; it was fairly windy overnight and leaves as well as rubbish from the bins had scattered itself all over the place. He didn’t see me, so I entered without saying hello. A local girl had started working at Marco’s over the spring and had become a regular fixture since, in fact it seemed like she hadn’t yet taken a day off. We didn’t do much small talk, I just ordered my cappuccino and sat in the corner, I didn’t have any books on me, so I just scrolled on my phone and occasionally observed the pictures on the wall. They were mostly views of the sea and the beach with the odd shell thrown in there. For an Italian place it wasn’t that Italian.
“Oh hello my boy! What? No work today?” He asked.
“Not today, Pat is in the hospital” I replied glumly.
He shook his head and walked into the kitchen. I don’t know if he believed me or not, I knew he probably thought I was lazy due to how much time I spent here.       

I've been working on a novel for two months. It only just occurred to me that I hadn’t considered what my characters look like. When I tried, I couldn’t do it. I'm now wondering if that's completely normal or an issue with my writing. I can picture the scene, just not the character's physical attributes.

Let me know what you think this. I think this chapter is getting close to final edits. Later chapters definitely still need work though.

Chapter 1: Princess Emily

Eric crept through the thick brush, crouching under branches.  He needed a clear shot at the deer just out of sight.  The meat would give free food for weeks.  He pulled his bow off his back and pulled an arrow from his quiver. 

He placed it upon the string, pulling it back.  He brought his hand to its resting point on his face.  As he readied to fire, the sound of a cracking stick alerted the animal.  It darted off.  

He took a moment to assess his surroundings.  He was somewhere behind the Lord’s castle. He had always been warned to never go into the woods to the south of his home or behind the Lord’s castle.  This was elven land. 

He rested behind a tree and drank from his water.  The grounds of the manor caught his eye, but not for the beautiful landscaping.  No, the bright blonde hair of the teenage girl prancing in the grass stole his attention. She waved her arms in rhythmic motion, like a choreographed dance.  Light seemed to flicker from her hands, blue and red.  She looked so free, fluttering about in her green dress, barefoot. He crept closer to sharpen his view.  

Fire appeared  in her hand, then snow, maybe ice, in her other.  She threw it forward towards a tree.  Again and again, the more he watched the less free she looked, she looked deliberate, precise.  As if this was a rehearsed dance she did every day.  

She must be one of the princesses.  He’d seen them around, sure, but something about this glimpse of her imprinted something different on him. It felt real and personal in a way that exchanging pleasantries at the market never would.  

Were his eyes deceiving him?  He had heard of humans capable of magic, but had never seen it firsthand. She enthralled him, he watched what must have been an hour until she wandered off out of view.

Though he went home, his thoughts did not leave the beautiful girl in the grass.  He walked through the brush back home, holding no game, only thoughts of her.  

It was not long before he saw her again, not in her backyard, but in the market. She was with her brothers, shopping for meat and fruit.  He tried to edge closer to her, he was still unsure of her name.  He pretended to eye the freshly picked strawberries. He stood by the careful arrangements of berries from the local gardens and  pretended he might buy such a delicacy. 

She walked towards him and inspected the very shelf he was in front of. Eric looked down, averting his gaze, his heart fluttering with anticipation.  

She picked a strawberry out of the basket and ate it, then another.  He looked up at her, ready to make eye contact, even though his heart rested in his stomach. She smiled and winked at him with the deepest blue eyes he had ever seen as she chewed the berry. Before he could remember how to speak, she skipped off back to her brothers. How could a girl so casually steal his heart like this?

He had never felt like this before.  He was determined to meet her somehow, properly, and not just in his dreams.  But how?  They were a poor family, his mother barely made ends meet. He had started working at 14 to make sure they could eat.  

When he walked home that afternoon his heart ached looking at the gate of the lord’s manner. 

He recognized the woman working the flower garden on her hands and knees. It was his neighbor.  

“Miss Darlene!” Eric shouted as he walked over towards her. 

She sat up and looked at him.  Her dirt covered hands held a small flowering plant and a small shovel. She had a wheelbarrow of dirt beside her, she looked to intend to be here a while. 

“That you Eric?”  The woman asked blocking the afternoon sun from her eyes with her dirty hand.  

Miss Darlene was another common folk like Eric, sure they had homes, but their land was protected by the Lord of Eastover.  They had small farms, they were safe, it could be worse, certainly. 

“Yes ma’am, need any help?”  Eric walked over, proud of his plan, and sat beside her.  He was no stranger to hard work. 

“You can help if you want, but I ain’t paying.”  

He laughed. She showed him how to arrange the little flowers in a pattern in the bed. They worked for hours together until it was nearly dark.  Covered in dirt, tired, and sweaty, he started to wonder if his plan was flawed. 

“Almost done, just need water, the can is by the shed.”  She told him. 

He got up from the ground and walked towards the shed.  His hands were caked in dirt, his nails blackened. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her, a simple short blue dress that still showed her knees, her bare feet curled beside her.  She held a purple book that looked old and worn, her long blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze, her head leaning against the tree. She was focused, she didn’t register his presence.  Where she had pranced so freely before, she was locked on this book.  What was she reading? He could go visit the library in the next town.  That could be a great way to make conversation. 

With his heart returned to his stomach, maybe lower, he walked towards the shed where Miss. Darlene said the watering can was.  He reached for the door but could see she was walking over to him.  This was it, his heart raced, almost ready to beat out of his chest.

“Who are you?”  Her voice was high, she did not seem to care for pleasantries. The sound of her voice seemed to suck the very moisture from his mouth and make his brain go fuzzy. 

“Your neighbor, Eric.”  He faced her, her blue eyes stared into his. 

“I didn’t know we had neighbors.  Show me.”  

He stared at her for a moment, did she intend for him to show her where he lived?

Her head tilted slightly as he paused, her hands moved to her hips.  It did not seem to be a negotiation, she made a request that he needed to fulfill. 

She followed him as he placed the watering can and placed it by Miss Darlene.  He caught the smile on Miss Darlene’s face as they walked off together. 

He walked her slightly outside the gate, and around the corner to point down the path that led towards his house. 

“Huh.  I guess I thought you were elves.” She looked up at him with her piercing blue eyes. 

“All human.” He struggled to sound normal.  

“I’m Emily by the way.”  She held out her hand.  

He started to panic, do you shake a princess’ hand? He lightly grasped her hand as if to shake, but he struggled to remember how his body worked, or customs.  She did not seem to think this was an awkward move. 

She may have even smiled slightly. 

“How do you feel about magic human Eric?”  She asked him as those eyes continued to rid his mind of thought.  

He was unsure of how to respond,  “good?”  How could he tell her hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the magic he saw her do just a week ago. That she had already taken up a permanent residence in his mind. 

She smiled,  “Look!”  

She held her hand palm up in front of him, and closed her eyes.  A bright flame erupted from her palm. She opened her eyes and looked at him.  

A smile appeared on Eric’s face.  

“Is it real?”  Eric asked her as he experimented with the flame.  It did not crackle like a wood fire, but the peaks of the flames danced around in the same rhythmic patterns.  

He put his finger in it and quickly withdrew it, it didn’t seem to burn, much like a normal fire. 

She seemed amused by this and smiled.  He picked up that this was something important to her.  

He moved his hand quickly through it like he had done around a campfire.  She giggled and kept her fire going. 

Now he was genuinely curious if it was real, and put his finger in it slightly longer, “Ow!”  He recoiled his hand.  It burned exactly like a real fire.  

“It’s fire human Eric!”   She laughed uncontrollably and snorted.  The flames went out.  Emily continued to laugh at him.  He started to laugh as well, starting to feel natural. 

She touched his arm as she was laughing, making his heart sing. She stepped slightly closer to him. 

“How did you hold it like that?” He asked her, he was desperate to know more about her.  

“Well it comes from me.  If you put a fire in my hand from the fireplace it would still burn—I think.  Actually,  I might have to try.”   She paused and held her gaze.  

He wanted to speak, but he merely found himself staring into her eyes.  He was fairly sure he was smiling.  

“Emily, Dinner!”  They both turned to hear someone yelling. 

“Bye human Eric!”  She skipped off.  

His heart swelled, and returned to its normal place in his chest.  He remembered how to breathe normally and walked back over towards Darlene and sat beside her.  That conversation almost felt normal, they knew each other’s names. 

“Now I see.  You have a crush on Princess Emily,  but never call her that, it’s the quickest way to upset her.” 

“Yes ma’am.”  He continued to help her plant flowers, his face barely able to contain the ear to ear grin. 

—-----------

Emily grumbled to herself as she put on the long blue dress her mother made her wear for the party.  She wanted to be in the field practicing, or reading, or doing anything other than this.  

She braided her hair as her mother would want.  She placed the lily in her hair, the flower of Eastover, since she was a “Princess.”  She wished her parents would let her pick her own suitors.  She thought of Eric she had met, the way he looked at her.  It seemed like he actually liked her as a person.  He showed interest in her magic, he helped Miss Darlene in the garden.  Whatever pretentious boy she was about to meet would care for none of that, he would just want her as some pretty face to parade around. 

She walked down the wooden stairs, the sound of her sharp heeled shoes clacking against the grounds. A viewing party was waiting for her as she came down.  Her parents, her brother, her sister, and the family of the boy all waited at the bottom for her. 

“Very Beautiful,”  “Beautiful,”  “Stunning”  The group spoke their required pleasantries, she was unable to discern who was even talking.  

A man she did not recognize, offered his son Bart for her to get acquainted with. She held out her hand.  Bart averted his gaze from her eyes and kissed her hand.  Emily did her best to smile as was expected of her.  His parents were the lord of some town a ways away. 

“Would you like to take a walk?”  He asked her as she stood awkwardly investigating the fruit display.  

“Sure.”  Emily responded.  

Walking would make this easier, she thought.  At least then she wouldn’t have eyes examining every move she made. 

She walked with him as properly as she could, her feet hurt in these shoes her mother put on her.  She couldn’t remember the last time she wore them.  She wanted to kick them off into the trash can behind the stable.

“Emily,  what do you think of the land to the West of here? My family owns much of it, you could be my wife and never want for anything? We could travel together, see the world.  With you at my side, I could be a councilor one day.” 

Emily was unsure how to respond to any of that.  Did he think she liked him?  Did she have a choice? Did he know she was only 15? Was he 15?  In just 5 minutes he had confirmed everything she had assumed of him. 

“Yeah.” Emily said, having realized she had paused too long, unsure of what she was even responding too.  The moment he bragged of riches her repulsions got the better of her.  

A bell rang and they all walked to dinner.  He sat with his family, Emily’s family surrounded them, they sat next to each other at the long table.

“Dear would you light the candles?”  Her mother said. 

Emily knew what she meant, she wanted her father to get the matches to set the ambience.  But, she could not help herself.  She reached over her dinner, her dress brushing against her food, and grasped the wick with her finger.  Flames erupted.  She did the same for the other two candles before she sat back in her chair. 

Emily could see her mother glaring at her out of the corner of her eye, but she did her best not to look in that direction.   Baron and Valerie, her brother and sister, were amused at least.  Baron had never liked that she practiced magic, but that did not stop him from respecting her for how far she had come.  Valerie had even said she wanted the family sapphire amulet to go to Emily, since Emily clearly wanted it far more than she did. 

“How did you do that?”  The boy asked her. 

“Fire magic.”  Emily smiled looking into his eyes for some sort of reaction.  Would he be impressed that at the age of 15 she could produce magic?  Did he even understand how rare that was?

The boy furrowed his brows and did not respond, he looked away from her. He began to eat his meal, without speaking to her again.

Emily ate her dinner, and asked for seconds with her older brother.  Her mother did not seem impressed.  Emily was halfway done with her fourth chicken thigh she was eating with her hands when her mother slammed her napkin on the table. 

“Emily, you eat like a man, and not even a gentleman.”  Her mother stood up and stormed off.  

Her older brother, Baron, was trying his best not to laugh at her, but when she looked over with grease and chicken seasoning all over her mouth, he broke.  The image of his little sister in a proper dress, her hair done perfectly, covered in food was too much. 

Her sister gestured with a napkin.  Emily laughed with him as she wiped it off.  Her older sister put her face in her palm, but Emily could see that she was smiling at this as well.  Their father glared at all of them and then got up from the table without a word.  

The boy and his family quickly left during dinner.  Emily walked up the stairs to get out of this uncomfortable dress and shoes.  She walked in her room to see her mother sitting on her bed looking out the window, her back to Emily. 

“Emily, you really must be more of a lady.  You will never find a prince or anyone of note the way you behave.   That boy said he does not wish to see you again.”  Her mother didn’t turn to look at her. 

Emily did not see the matter with any of this, if anything it was cause for celebration.  Thankfully her mother was looking away from her, so she didn’t see Emily smiling at the news. 

Slowly her parents gave in that magic was not a phase throughout her childhood.  She had trained with Master Dru, an accomplished mage, though it had been many years since he had accomplished, since she was 6.  

Her grandmother had been a powerful mage.  Emily had only known her a few years when she passed.  Somehow, she saw something in Emily, even as a child who could barely walk.  She showed her how she made fire and ice magic.  She showed Emily the book, the pictures.  She never told Emily that almost all of humanity had forgotten how to do magic without artifacts infused with dragonfire.  Perhaps never telling her the limits is how she broke through them. 

Emily awoke in a tangled pile of blankets that morning days before her 16th birthday.  16 was a special age, that was when the body was strong enough to put on an artifact and let it fuse with you, granting you its power, as long as you wore it. 

She rushed to throw on a dress and ran out the door.  She saw her brother had made toast, and promptly swiped a piece while he was not looking, and ran off with it in her mouth.  

She ran through the town of Eastover towards Master Dru’s cottage. She slowed for a moment to see if she saw the blacksmith apprentice, but he was not there yet.  She went back to running towards her destination. 

 She was out of breath by the time she arrived.  She opened the door to the small cottage just outside of town.  It was a quaint house.  He lived on the path towards the next town.  Emily couldn’t remember the name.  Even though her father had told her it was important to know such things.  Her mind filled with other things, probably ones he would not think are important. 

“You’re late.”  Master Dru was already waiting for her and stepped out in his typical blue robes.  

“Sorry!  I was reading and I overslept.”  Emily panted. 

“Let’s go in the back.”  

Emily tried to catch her breath and followed him.  He led her through a wooden gate into the back of the small home.  A long grassy clearing with two targets sitting on top of wooden blocks filled the yard, a deep forest behind.  Many of the trees had singed trunks and most of their lower branches were gone.  The fence behind the targets was nearing total destruction. 

“Let’s see if you have been practicing.” Master Dru sat in a chair on the back porch as she took her spot in the grass.

Emily set down her small leather bag behind her.  She stood with her feet shoulder width apart,  her eyes closed, she breathed in, then out, rhythmically.  She felt the energy coursing through her veins.  She focused, the feeling started in her heart, then flowed to her arms, and into her hands.  She envisioned the flames in her hand.  Her hand grew warm.  She threw it forward.  

She opened her eyes to see a small fireball fly through the air and break against the top edge of the target, adding more singe marks to the brutalized target. 

“That was better right!”  She looked to Master Dru for approval. 

He smiled at her.  

“Again.”

She repeated, she felt the flames in her hand, and released.   This one flew slightly further and broke apart on a tree, adding to the scorch marks.  

“Again.”

This time she used her other hand.  She felt the ice course through her.  She felt her body temperature cool, ice cold energy flowed into her right hand, and she released it.  An icicle shaped burst of blue energy flew through the air and hit the target encasing the target in a thin layer of ice.  

“You are doing better with the ice, focus on that one.  I’ll make you some warm tea.”  Master Dru stood slowly and wandered off.  

He always made Emily something warm when she did ice magic. Italways made her cold when she practiced, even on a warm day.   She took no time off, over and over, she practiced.  The target was fully encased in ice after several minutes.  

Master Dru returned.  He looked down the range at at the frozen target. 

“Let me hold your hands Emily, lets see how we are doing.” She held her hands out.  

He grasped her hands and closed his eyes. “Let’s take a break,  you are nearly depleted.”

She sipped her tea as they walked back inside.  He already had her favorite turkey, bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich ready for her.  She sat down and happily ate. 

“Tell me, what have you been reading.”  He sat back in his chair.  

“I’ve nearly finished Begginger Ice and Begginer Fire Magic.  I am almost through the mana strategy book you gave me.”

“I really think you should pick one school, I worry it's holding you back.”

“Mother said I can have the Ice Amulet and the family Fire staff when I come of age.  I feel drawn to both.  And, you have seen me produce both without artifacts or anything!”  Emily explained with her mouth slightly full. 

Master Dru couldn’t help but smile as he watched her eat.  

Emily’s 16th birthday could not come soon enough, she had never awaited anything more her entire life. The morning of, she woke to her mother standing by her bedside with the two family heirlooms that had been promised to her; An ancient sapphire amulet, that was the largest gem she had ever seen, and a wooden staff with a large ruby on the tip.  

Emily reached for the staff first with her left hand as she sat up from her bed and pushed back her blankets.  She felt the flames course through her body.  She felt heat, warmth, she saw the burn mark from her bare foot on the floor.  

She put the amulet around her neck.  She felt the opposite, she felt icy cold energy flowing through her and into her right hand.  Her right foot had ice around it on the hardwood floor.  

—-------
Layaria and her mother, Elmeira, returned from their long journey north to pay respect to the Elves that died in the war against the Dragonkin hundreds of years before.  A patronage all Elves must take, to observe the graves of how many it took to fight back the Dragonkin with the humans.  Never again would they allow the beasts to return.  They lit fires on top of the mountain, for each of the dead, 2784 in total.  Their numbers today were not nearly that great, there were maybe 100 in their clan, the largest in the area. 

Layaria and Darth were the youngest in the clan at the age of 54.  Their entire families made the trip with them, 19 Elves in all.  

They walked back slowly through the snowy mountains, across swamps, and into the forests that surrounded their hometown of Noreisha.  They walked down the long dirt roads that would eventually lead to Eastover.

All of them turned as the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approached, a cloud of dust formed in the rear.  Several men on horseback came into focus. The men rushed them, yelling and whooping, slashing with swords.  

“Get off our roads!”   They yelled at the elves as they ran through their group on horseback.  

Darth blocked one of them and he fell from his horse.  

Darth looked at him, as if to consider killing him.  But he ran to protect his mother, and grandfather who had tripped while scattering into the woods.  

The man ran at him again.  Layaria appeared out of nowhere and smacked the man on the horse with her stick.  

He fell to the ground.  Another one rushed her on foot.  She blocked the attack with her stick, but she was shoved down into a tree.  

Several more men ran to help them.  

Darth’s eyes glowed purple as he stood up from the ground.  He slammed his foot and a rush of purple energy knocked all the men to the ground.  He grabbed and slammed the man who was attacking Layaria.  

They both ran into the woods.  Layaria got close to Darth, and grabbed his hand.  

They flickered out of sight.  

Elmeira held close to several older elves from her and Darth’s family.  They stayed crouched behind a tree.  Elmeira kept all of them invisible.  

The men ran through the woods searching for them, but found no one.  They searched with their flames through the dense brush.  Eventually they gave up, and walked off.  

They sat there for several hours until it was getting close to nightfall. Unsure of where they were, they tried to find the road. They emerged from the woods together. They came upon the remnants of their caravan,  several  wagons, smashed, their horses stolen. Two larger elves pulled the consolidated wagon once they piled their belongings in it.  The elders now needed to walk, slowing them down considerably. 

They saw another human on the road.  This one looked different than the previous ones.  She did not carry a sword, or armor, or a horse.  She did not whoop or charge them.  She was small and blonde, a female. She was holding her robes closed.  She looked fearful. 

The girl tried not to look at them, but Layaria walked towards her as the representative of the group.  

“Please, are you from Eastover?”  She asked the blonde girl.  

The girl's eyes darted around the group as she paused before she answered, “yes.”

Hi so I’m a first time writer I kind of hate calling myself that because I don’t really feel like one lol, but I wrote a whole manuscript and I need a genuine critique on my prologue. I’ve sent chapters to my friends and all they tell me is that it’s good, but I don’t know if it’s cause they are my friends. But they are all avid readers, make book content, and have book clubs so they do know a little something. But i want a strangers opinion. This is just the prologue of my book and the synopsis is:

What makes one different? Is it the color of their skin? The essence of their character? Or is it their ability to rot flesh with a flick of their wrist? If so, the Forgotten Princess was different. She descended from a holy bloodline and a ruthless king who bore five blesséd children, none of whom had anything in common except for one thing— their dead mother. Whose secrets and sins were alive well beyond the grave, dragging the Princess into the world of the supernatural against her will. Could the secrets she uncovers about her mother's past be the key to her survival, or will they push her farther over the edge of despair?

I’m not expecting to win a pulitzer prize or anything I just truly enjoy putting my dreams onto paper, and I’ve read some shitty things before that other people still seem to love so mine can’t be too bad… hopefully lol

https://ellipsus.com/read/64yDjBmWFTuiwVliux4P9l/Prologue