JWritesAlright @jwritesalright - Tumblr Blog

A bit about my page, a bit about myself.

Hi there!

Welcome to the show! Long story short, I'm an aspiring writer, a hobbyist that just wants to provide a couple of good stories to the world. Aaaand maybe build a community on the way.

I am currently working on a fantasy novel named "The Blindfold & The Quiver" (it's WIP, I know, not the most original.)

This blog is mainly going to be just my journey through writing, any questions I might have, any cool thing I've discovered, and maybe a few quotes from the books I'm writing that I deem good enough to put on the web. Those may not be aplenty. Perfectionism is a b****.

Where to find me? Here. Yes. Hi. This is me.

If you find my writing interesting, a follow would be appreciated, if not, a comment and critique would be welcome even more.

Enjoy your day,

-J

The Choice.

“What about you?” the barber surgeon muttered, sewing the wound back shut. “What about me?” “I’ve told you a bit about me,” he said, not taking his eyes off the incisions he had been patching. “What’s your story?” “Are you really that interested?” “No,” he shrugged. “Conversations are a good painkiller. And I just doubt I’ll be able to ask you again.” “Why so?” “Hopefully it won’t happen, but they’ve put an executioner’s stone up in the middle of the courtyard,” he said bluntly, and coughed. “You and your comrades in arms will likely be subject to a trial.” “And?” Elliot asked, sensing more to come. “The commander’s pissed off,” Baltair’s eyes bulged lightly. “He was no ray of sunshine beforehand, but now…” his eyes widened, and he looked at Elliot with no hope. “His brother got killed, see,” he added. “In the siege?” Elliot inhaled through his teeth, as the needle once again twitched through the wound. “Afterwards,” he corrected him. “They were chasing after a pair. A girl and her father, so they say. The guy was mean with the sword.” “I know them!” “Quiet down,” he ushered Elliot’s mouth shut, cutting the string he’d been patching the wound with. He leaned in, looking around, assuring himself that nobody was watching. “You know them?” “I do. I came back home with them.” A moment of silence followed. “Then you might have a shot at surviving this ordeal.” Baltair muttered after a thought crossed his mind. The barber surgeon glanced at Elliot meaningfully. “No,” Elliot shook his head. “I’m not selling them out.” “Even if the price is your own life?” the self-made surgeon glanced at him sideways. Elliot stayed quiet. “What’s your prize in all this?” he finally said. The barber-surgeon looked at him, puzzled. “What have you got to lose here?” Elliot restated. Baltair rubbed his thumb gently over the sewed-up wound. “Me?” he asked after a moment and exhaled through narrow lips. “The time it took to patch you up. Not to mention the string, oh heavens!” “I’m serious!” he croaked. He couldn’t scream, not quite just yet. "What would you lose here?" “Not me,” Baltair exhaled. “The world.” “The world has a lad to lose.” He finally continued. “Probably a decent lad, if I had to guess,” Baltair began picking up his tools and stuffing it into a torn and repurposed saddlebag. “Besides, does it matter? You’ve got, well, you to lose.” After the quip, he stood up and headed for the door. Elliot swallowed. The wound still pulsed in pain. His stomach that was empty – not only of food, but also of courage. He looked around the cold room. He didn’t want to die, especially not after rotting away in a cold, dark place such as this, for what felt like days. “Choice is all yours.” Baltair turned, standing in the doorframe. “I know what I’d choose.”

Chapter Sixteen Beginning

Had a bit of a dry streak regarding writing, been preoccupied with life.

“How much longer to the Wall?” It was nighttime, the full moon shining brightly as a trio of riders leisurely led their horses through a narrow forest path. The conifers were laden with a thin layer of snow, which indicated the men would be far more obvious out in the open, and that was not desirable. “A couple of hours.” Elliot stood up in the stirrups. His thighs and calves were sore from all the riding. He was wearing a green cape, just like the two of his compatriots. It was evidence that he volunteered for the army and was on his leave for the moment. “And how will we get past?” he asked. None of the two answered. They just turned around. One of the men, with a shorter dark-blonde haircut and scars along his forearms, exposed by the moonlight looked at the other, whose spectacles shone in the light of the stars. He was of a slightly wider, shorter build and his ears and neck were hidden by his shoulder-long dark brown hair. “With a cool head and some luck,” Leonard answered. “Agreed,” confirmed Timothy. “You don’t know, do you?” sighed Elliot. “No idea,” both shook their heads simultaneously. Elliot sighed again; this time deeper. “How are you two not dead yet?” “Because we’ve got a cool head, and some— a lot of luck,” smiled Leonard. Elliot rubbed his eyebrows in disbelief, and Timothy lightly cackled. “Don’t you worry. They’ll let us through.” “What makes you so sure?” “We’re Rysholm’s men now,” Timothy indicated at the capes. “And as far as the Wall’s concerned, it too is Rysholm’s. I’d wager it’s not much of a border, just like it wasn’t under the previous rule.” “Wagers and betrayals,” muttered Elliot. “What was that?” Leonard snapped. “It’s all you do! Wagers and betrayals!” he argued. “You betrayed your king, did you not?” “That’d mean we were loyal to him in the first place.” Timothy explained casually, patting the neck of his horse. “We offer our services to the man that pays the most. All men that need us, and especially such kings, are rotten in some way. Kings will annex your lands, raise your taxes, cut your wages and your throats for their own gain, for the ‘good of the land.’ Why not beat them to the punch?” Elliot stood silent, but pierced Timothy with his gaze. “There are exceptions, of course,” added Leonard, browsing through his satchel, pulling out an apple. “But we don’t plan on making a living wagering on the existence of such exceptions.” “How do you live with yourself?” Leonard bit into the apple. “Doesn’t matter much,” he said with a mouthful. “It’s the fact that I am even still living which matters. These are tough times. And I don’t see it getting any better.” The three green-cloaked fellows spurred their horses into a trot, as they didn’t want to wait until daybreak to pass the Wall. When their horses stomped across a plain, Elliot saw it again – on the horizon – The Wall. It was just the same as it was when he was leaving for home, save for one jarring detail. Spent arrow shafts and fletchings stuck out of the ground, and the smell of rot riddled the field of a past battle. Elliot raised his kerchief over his mouth, perching it over the tip of his nose to bear with the smell. He, without a word, halted his steed. Timothy noticed Elliot stopping his horse. “You all right, lad?” he called back. Elliot stayed quiet. He was too preoccupied with ingesting the sight of a corpse stitched to the ground by several arrows and pierced with the bolt of a ballista. Flies whizzed around the cadaver’s gaped open mouth, like butterflies around a blooming flower. In a twisted way, it brought Elliot some solace that the man was wearing the cape of Rysholm’s army. He gently nudged the stirrups, catching up to the experienced fighters. “I threw up my first time,” Leonard tried to console the boy. “He didn’t eat anything for days.” “I don’t think I will either.” He clutched his stomach, feeling sick as they passed more bodies, and the smell of burning, rotting flesh pierced even his kerchief. Leonard tossed away the apple core.

“Of course you will.” He looked at one of the bodies, and even he grimaced a bit. “…maybe no meat for today, huh?” He smiled dryly. The silence was only broken by mild nightly winds and the buzzing of flies. They entered under the archway of the Border Gate. There, on the wall, bodies lightly swung, hung by a rope held fast by banisters, making for rudimentary gallows. Elliot, even through its grimy, bloodied and cut-up face, recognized one of the bodies. The rye-colored hair confirmed it. Jonal Sharpe, the young recruit he and the Woadharts met on their way back to Fort Glenthorne, met his end by hanging. Timothy caught him staring at the body. “You knew him?” he asked. Elliot looked back at Timothy, and then, without saying a word, turned his horse away, continuing after Leonard. On the other side of the Gates, the place was ransacked, razed to nothing. Broken up planks and crumbled walls remained of any of the barrack buildings. Broken swords, arrows and bows were burned in huge quantities. There were black spots all over the floor used as fire pits, and anything that remained intact after burning was gathered into large piles of garbage. There was one pile – bigger than all the rest – that was built up seemingly out of bloodied rags. Upon closer inspection, the rags contained flesh. Sleeves still containing severed limbs, hoods still covering decapitated heads, and some moderately intact bodies were what built up the hill of carnage. “It didn’t burn.” Leonard spat. “They didn’t even take the time to see to it that it did.” “Let’s re-light it,” suggested Elliot. “Might as well tie a noose around your neck - save Rysholm the trouble,” Timothy ridiculed. “They at least deserve to go out properly,” he still argued. “Kid, look at them,” Leonard pointed. “They’ve gone already. Those aren’t people anymore. Piles and sacks of flesh are all that’s left. You didn’t know them, you never will.” Elliot stayed quiet. “I didn’t know them,” he muttered finally. “But someone did.”

Why didn't you tell me?

Been a while. Here's something more.

For context:

a "Misthrall" is a creature of my own making - effectively an undead with a couple of caveats. They haunt the base of the castle the main character is currently in.

Just like all the other texts, the MC, henceforth [E], is blind.

[E] left the room she assumed to be an armory and instead ventured into another part of the castle, one where her feet were no longer scraping against the cold stone floors but were instead cushioned by worn and dusty carpet. She stepped to a large door, pushing it with all she could muster, and it yielded ajar. Cold wind hit her like a slap on the cheek. There, in the courtyard, she felt the presence of that black stone, that archway that didn’t give her peace. Across the cold dirt, she stepped onto a platform of just as frigid stone. She wobbled a bit from the cold – her feet were bare. She reached out a hand and grasped one of the coal-like bricks in the broken archway. Clearly, she saw her hand in front of her. Just as clearly, the stone that she was touching with her fingertips. But the scenery was far too bright for a late winter evening. It was not reality – it was a vision. There, in the courtyard of the keep, small children played and giggled, young ladies gossiped, and passersby nodded to them in kindness. The sun was shining brighter than ever before, and the mist was nowhere to be seen. The archway was fully restored – in place of the underpass, energies of all shapes and colors now swirled and danced. Something caught [E]’s eye. The people here. They were not human. Evident by their pointy ears and tall, slender statures. This was once their castle. It was possible they simply outlived its crumble under time, but another explanation was much more plausible – and far more harrowing. She let go of the stone, and the vision ceased. “The misthralls are elves, aren’t they?” “They are,” [C]’s voice answered, as he took to standing behind [E]. “Do you know what happened here?” [C] stayed silent. “Are you—?” [C] again did not utter a word, but he grabbed [E]’s hand and held it up to his ear. She felt around, and sure enough, his earlobe was shorter than a human’s, and the tip of his ear was far sharper, far more pronounced and outward protruding. Her teacher was an elf. “They fought,” he said somberly. “They fought, but not for days or months like you humans do. For decades and decades, the Fourteen Armies raged across the lands. There were fourteen at the beginning, anyway. This keep was the last one that kept the army that I was supposed to destroy. A foolish and utter waste of blood, looking back on it. My war-brothers and battle-sisters should lay in the ground, buried with honors – no, they should be alive, but me, the one that led them on this pointless quest, was the sole that survived. Now they linger on here, haunted and despaired, while I haunt the rest of the world with my woe. All because of hubris. My hubris, and of my peers.” “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” she asked exasperated. “That you’re of elvish blood?” “I was selfish.” “Selfish?” “I just wanted—” He choked on his words. “Everywhere I go, every land or town I visit, everyone looks at me first. Every room I step into quiets immediately. They gaze and stare at me as I pass by, like I’m some freak. You’d think I’d get used to it after all these centuries, but I always feel like I don’t belong. And so I—” “—kept it secret, to feel humanly” she completed. “I don’t think that’s selfish.” “I—” “When you met me, you saved my life,” she smiled. “If I repay you by simply treating you like any other, that is the least I can do.”

jwritesalright

One stands to gain nothing without perils.

Heya, been a while since I last posted. Have a small passage. Feedback appreciated.

Context: [T] is a blind person, just like the protagonist. [C] is someone who lead the protagonist on the path to [T]. They talk of the protagonist.

“I was hoping you could help. You’d be more… attuned to her state of mind, I suppose.” [C] argued. “You’re far more like her than I’ll ever be.” “So, allow me to understand your thoughts.” [T] rubbed his forehead, as a fireplace crackled in the back of the room. “You took a blind girl, quite literally speaking, from the brink of death, made her endure a horse ride of three days, then, as I suspect, subjected her to the element that is most likely the source and cause of all her trauma, and then made her scale a mountain all by herself? A mountain is putting it lightly! Anam Karn, ‘The Mountain of Mists’, no less! A peak infamous for its perils from the myths that were shaped before my family line even began!” “But now she knows more of it than nearly anyone born in the past century.” [C] answered. “And she knows to command her spirit to walk without help. How long was it before you mastered such a feat? Thirty years of meditation? Twenty? She did it in a mere five days! You did it in a study, under a lamp that burned for weeks as you made next to no progress. You were not motivated by perils. She was. You people work best when facing overwhelming adversity. All she needed was a push and some will.”

plip-plap-plop

The scene’ setting as well as the dialogue give me the feeling of two people tensely discussing by the fire. I say this, because it genuinely could have not felt like that if done poorly, and so it is an act of skill.

I am curious as to how the story will explore the theme, because I, personally, have a unique-ish relationship with the theme.

on the one hand, the environments I grew up in prized perseverance too much, to the exclusion of virtues like rest, carefulness and kindness.

But on the other hand, perseverance, in its way, is a necessary lesson.

If you’re going for a theme of struggle yielding results, you’re saying something about the world and human beings to the effect that the world isn’t so cruel that you can’t do something about the plagues that ail you. It’s a very optimistic theme, and done well, and I think this might be, it can be very powerful. Especially if the disability aspect is handled well and especially if they stay disabled throughout the story. I’m really excited to hear about a blind protagonist because I so lack a template for that that I would really struggle and would be very wary of beefing it.

I don’t know this protagonist but it’s interesting to hear about her. She could be someone that I really like. She sounds like she has and will go through the ringer but will be, to steal a description of Jolyne, my favorite Jojo, “a [metaphorically] self-immolating badass.” (Quote from Super Eyepatch Wolf’s Why You Should Watch Jojo’s Part 6)

I’m very curious to see what jwritesalright has in the future, cause j writes, alright, and j writes quite alright

jwritesalright

I... I don't even know what to say. That last paragraph just hit me in a weird part of the feels that I've never quite experienced. Thank you.

On a different note, you make my MC sound way cooler than she is right now. I do appreciate it, and it gives me bigger boots to fill - I like a challenge. I will keep chipping away at the stone, and once the statue is complete, hopefully it is half as good as anything you, or anyone really, was imagining.

The idea is that the world will be bloody and cruel, but if you survive and endure the cruelty, you can rise above it and fight it. Blindness is something I don't personally struggle with, however it feels like I am, because the story is mostly portrayed through the MC's eyes - therein is the problem. In another post I explored different ways of how to fight such an ailment, and I landed on either curing her blindness (no), every arrow she hits (did I mention she's an archer? a fun kind of oxymoronic image that is - a blind archer) being a stroke of luck (hell no), or a weird kind of magic-induced synesthesia that causes her brain to paint her field of view with her remaining senses. So instead of seeing a wine glass across the room, she'd kind-of-telepathically taste its contents.

Again, thank you for the compliments and your thoughts and just in general, for your time to write up such a detailed assessment of such a short scene.

I do write, alright? And if one person besides me thinks I write alright, I write quite alright.

One stands to gain nothing without perils.

Heya, been a while since I last posted. Have a small passage. Feedback appreciated.

Context: [T] is a blind person, just like the protagonist. [C] is someone who lead the protagonist on the path to [T]. They talk of the protagonist.

“I was hoping you could help. You’d be more… attuned to her state of mind, I suppose.” [C] argued. “You’re far more like her than I’ll ever be.” “So, allow me to understand your thoughts.” [T] rubbed his forehead, as a fireplace crackled in the back of the room. “You took a blind girl, quite literally speaking, from the brink of death, made her endure a horse ride of three days, then, as I suspect, subjected her to the element that is most likely the source and cause of all her trauma, and then made her scale a mountain all by herself? A mountain is putting it lightly! Anam Karn, ‘The Mountain of Mists’, no less! A peak infamous for its perils from the myths that were shaped before my family line even began!” “But now she knows more of it than nearly anyone born in the past century.” [C] answered. “And she knows to command her spirit to walk without help. How long was it before you mastered such a feat? Thirty years of meditation? Twenty? She did it in a mere five days! You did it in a study, under a lamp that burned for weeks as you made next to no progress. You were not motivated by perils. She was. You people work best when facing overwhelming adversity. All she needed was a push and some will.”

Seeing in blindness. [E] took off the quiver, tossing it to the ground. “Don’t ever make me do anything like that ever again.” “How else will you learn?” he said, confused. “You said you want me to teach you.” “That’s not what I mean,” she sulked. “At least tell me what to expect next time.” “Duly noted,” he said, gripping her shoulder, wanting to lead her. She pushed his hand away, walking by herself. “So, you’ve met it properly, have you?” he said, in mild surprise. “Your spirit?” “Every step feels like a leap of faith.” “Tends to be that way for a while.” A man with an old, raspy voice seemingly just barely managed to churn out the words. “So, you’re Master [C]’s new pupil. Pleased to meet you.” “Who is this?” she asked, annoyance in her tone. She was still shaken from the climb, unwilling to let some old man meander an introduction. “Manners, lady.” [C] coughed. “Forgive her, Keeper, she’s—" “I know what she is,” he denied the apology. “She’s like I was. The scars are there.” “Just what do you—” [E] said, creeped out by the older man. He, however, took no offence in this. Bony fingers gently brushed against the palm of her hand, inviting her to let them lead it. “You’ve made it to the top,” he whispered. “Whatever you wish. And I think I know what that is.” She let him take her hand, as he ran it across the upper part of his face. A deformed, wrinkly forehead, not only of age, but of something else as well. Something that marked him, just like it marked her. “You are like me, don’t you think?” he whispered, letting go of her hand. [E] didn’t stop. She kept resting her hand over his eyes, astonished by what she was feeling. A leathery texture covering them, sealing them shut. Burn marks, no doubt. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I— I didn’t—" She lowered her hand. “There’s no need for that,” the man chuckled poorly. “It’s an odd luxury, being treated like any other. We never appreciate it until it vanishes. Thank you.” “Now,” he raised his old back, and gripped his staff, tapping it against stone, as it echoed in the height of the mountain peak. “Off we go. I’ve got plenty to teach you, young one.” [C] grabbed her hand, wanting to help her along. “Oh, leave her, won’t you?” the old fellow mumbled. “Strength comes from the steps we walk by ourselves, wouldn’t you agree?” [E] smiled softly, feeling the ache of the climb but relishing the feeling of each step she took by herself. [C] walked behind her, his hand faltering mid-air, chuckling awkwardly. Before its ruin, the keep was once divided into two wings, and was sitting atop the Mountain of Mists in an L shape, the stones nestling it perfectly on the peak, as if nature itself had conspired to cradle it atop the mount. One could not notice where the mountain’s stone ended, and the walls and foundations began—it was a nearly seamless transition. The Sunrise Wing once glowed with the fire of dawn, and the Sunset Wing with the amber of twilight. That was no longer the case—the mist, while a shield, did not allow it. The Mountain of Mists cloaked the keep in an eternal veil, as though shielding it from the prying eyes of mortals. Now, of course, the castle was different. Grinding against the tooth of time, the Sunrise Wing had fallen. The other might follow soon, but ‘soon’ in the grand scheme of things still meant an eternity for any that managed to have gazed upon a sight of such endurance.

A hard magic system is hard to create, but a story where a soft magic system isn't Deus Ex Machina is much harder to write for me.

Thank fuck that my 'tism doesn't allow me to keep any concept of magic vague.

1hidden-pages1

Before: 'I write for publicity', 'I write for validation', 'I write for fame'.

There was:

'I write because I enjoy it'.

jwritesalright

You've been following me for a while, and I only now got to this post. Thank you for the kind message.

The Climb.

“Where are you taking me?” [C] didn’t answer, leading the horse further down the road, away from the world [E] knew, and into an unknown land, in an unknown direction. “Please.” “Anam Karn.” “Hmm?” “Oh, forgive me.” [C] stopped himself. “You call it the Mountain of the Mists here, right?” [E] felt chills all over, but not because of the weather, rather a fright. “But people go missing there, don’t they?” “They do.” “But then—” “You won’t get lost anywhere.” [C] assured her, gripping his companion’s shoulder. “You’ll scale the mountain just fine.” “But why?” she asked, clutching her chest. “Why should I do such a thing?” “There is a man at the pinnacle, waiting for you,” he explained. “You, and you alone.” “You won’t go with me?” “I cannot. It is the rite of passage for anyone who wishes to speak to the man, to climb the mountain alone, without help from the living.” “The living?” Who else could help her, if not the living? “Surely you don’t mean that spirits aren’t—” “Ah, but alas,” her teacher confirmed her suspicion. “Not like you and I, anyway.”

morallysuperiorlips

10 Ways to Ensure Your Villain's Evil Monologuing Dialogue is as Unsettling as Possible!

1.) Make sure you're mixing body language with the words themselves: You can have your villain saying the most twisted shit, but if they're just standing there like a cardboard cutout, their words probably aren't going to hit as hard. Have them touch your protag. Have them toy with a weapon as if they're going to use it. Have them pace. Have them put together the blood ritual they're ranting about. Keep them moving.

2.) Have them use personal knowledge as a tool: Does your villain have some deep dark dirt on your protag? Don't let that all go in one swoop. Let them hint at it in drops before they open the dam. Maybe they use that knowledge as a bargaining tool to get an upper hand, or use it to send the trapped protag into a frenzy because they love to watch them scream.

3.) When it comes to threats, certainty is key: A threat is a threat, but there's nothing like a threat being spoken as if the villain knows it's going to happen. Whether your villain has already caught your protag, or is in the process of doing so, everything they say they want to see happen to your protag needs to come with absolute certainty. Almost as if it's a certain warning, and not just something they’re saying to be scary.

4.) Contradictions are your friend: Nothing indicates a warped villainous mind more than some juicy contradictions. Your villain might be talking about how they're going to flay your protag's hide after catching them in their dungeon, only to throw in a subtle "but, you're probably safer here with me." Find ways to toss in twisted contradictions that also underline the crazy shit they might be saying.

5.) Mess with syntax: Unsettling dialogue calls for unsettling structure. Incomplete sentences, unforeseen pauses, longwinded explanations broken up by more unforeseen pauses. Whatever it is, keep the rhythm offbeat. Don't give your reader a chance to be able to tell what's coming.

6.) Expectations? Subvert those: Your protag and even your readers might be suspecting one thing from your villain, so throw them a curveball and hit them with the complete opposite. Perhaps you've reached a point in your story where it seems like the villain might kill your protag on sight. But no, have your villain mention exactly why they aren't going to do that, and why they want to wait it out.

7.) Mix quiet confidence and loud assertion: Some might say that the silent seether is scarier, while others might agree that the sudden explosive type takes the bigger unsettling prize. In my opinion, you can really capitalize on the eeriness of villain dialogue by tapping into both. A villain that speaks on with refined confidence before very suddenly exploding, without much warning, can really power up the dread behind their words.

8.) Sometimes, ambiguity is better than being straightforward: Whether it's obvious that your villain has a lot of tricks up their sleeves--or not--leaving things to the imaginations of your protag, and subsequently, your readers is great for building dread. You can use dialogue to make it clear that they're up to something, but never make them fully disclose what that is. They might show it instead of tell it, or it might just never happen. Either way, it'll likely have everyone looking over their shoulders.

9.) There might be times where silence says everything: You might be worried about penning the correct verbiage for your villain's big evil speech, but sometimes, silence speaks wonders. When used correctly, a long pause, or a bout of silence after your protag has said their piece can build a sense of uneasiness more than them actually speaking would have.

10.) Find ways for your villain to mirror the hero: A monologuing villain is better when they're throwing your hero's values and beliefs back in their face. A hero that believes in mercy? Well, have your villain talk about how they'll make them beg for it. A hero that believes in the greater good? Have your villain talk about their idea of a greater good.

As always, GO WRITE SOMETHING TODAY! <3

A Glimpse from the Blindness.

Hi all! A little part of the story I'm writing. The main character, [E] is blind, and has been bound to a spirit that, among other things, can read her mind. She is mildly bothered by this, however the spirit finds it playful.

It's here I explore how she could regain her sight for mere moments for storytelling purposes, also putting a guardrail up where she can't do it for prolonged periods of time.

“I can make sure your emotions are in check.” It said, playfully. “Like this. What emotion do you want to feel?”

“Uhm—keep it simple. Calmness, I guess.”

“Alright.”

A mild warmth spread over her cheeks and fingers, and her mind was soothed by a calming whistling. The knot in her stomach came undone, and a weight was lifted off her chest.

[E] mildly gasped in surprise.

“Good, right?” The spirit stopped its influence, and the feeling gradually disappeared. “A little nudge is no problem, but doing it for longer periods is…” It grew silent.

“Harmful?” she tried to understand.

“To say the least,” the spirit said, chuckling in nervousness. “To both you and even me.”

[E] thought. If the spirit can read my mind, manipulate my emotions, can it also…

“Ensnare your senses?” the spirit completed her thoughts.

“What’d I say? Stop reading my thoughts.” [E] sulked.

“Right, right. Sorry.” The voice said, retreating its influence.

“Well? Can you?” [E] asked. “Let me see again, I mean.”

“I… can try. Do you want me to?” It was reluctant. “This might—”

“I don’t care. Do it.” [E] craved to see anything again. She understood that this may hurt, but even if it were merely a glimpse, even if it were blurred, if she could peer out of the darkness for even a moment, it would be worth it.

“I can try. I won’t push it too far.”

It was like waking up. It was like a dark nightmare was ending, and her eyes were reopening. It was misty, blurry. She thought it was because of her bandages, but the dirt of the image was clearing out. Laying, she sharply saw the white of the bed linen. The warm brown of the walls, illuminated in a hue of orange by a lantern on the wall. Outside, she saw the setting sun, saying goodbye to the day. She laughed, hard. It was almost the laugh of an insane person, or maybe that of a scholar that came to a mind-boggling realization. Regardless, it felt like her mind was being scrambled, yet it was as clear as ever.

“Young one—”

Suddenly, she felt a jolt in her head. Her vision went dark, and she seized in laying there. Cramps took over her hands and neck, and her legs shook in pain. Saliva streamed out of her mouth for a moment, and then it was all over.

“Wha—” she exhaled. Her vision was gone again. She wiped the drool from the side of her mouth.

“That’s the best I can do.” The spirit said, clearly exhausted. “Any longer, and you’d lose your mind.”

She caressed her bandages. “You couldn’t do more?” she said in an accusatory tone.

“I—” the voice said in disbelief.

The air was heavy with pain, but not only [E]’s.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean…” she barely understood how she could blame it. She didn’t see herself that way.

“It’s fine,” the spirit whispered in pain, faintly. “Just— Don’t force me into that again.”

@plip-plap-plop

soniaknox

What Makes A Great Story?

The most successful stories, whether they're fiction or nonfiction, share several key elements that resonate with audiences:

Compelling Characters:

* Relatability: Readers connect with characters they can empathize with, who share similar emotions and experiences.

* Growth and Development: Characters evolve throughout the story, overcoming challenges and learning valuable lessons.

* Memorable: Unique personalities and backstories make characters stand out and linger in the reader's mind.

Engaging Plot:

* Conflict and Tension: A well-crafted plot keeps readers hooked with obstacles and challenges that the characters must face.

* Rising Stakes: The stakes should continually increase, making the outcome uncertain and exciting.

* Satisfying Resolution: A well-earned ending that resolves the central conflict and leaves a lasting impression.

Strong Theme:

* Universal Relevance: The theme should resonate with a wide audience, exploring timeless human emotions and experiences.

* Subtlety: A well-executed theme is woven into the story, enriching the narrative without being overly preachy.

Effective Storytelling:

* Vivid Descriptions: Sensory details bring the story to life, immersing the reader in the world.

* Pacing: The story should balance moments of tension and reflection, maintaining a steady rhythm.

* Dialogue: Authentic and engaging dialogue reveals character and advances the plot.

Emotional Impact:

* Evoke Emotions: Successful stories stir strong emotions in the reader, whether it's joy, sadness, anger, or hope.

* Stay with the Reader: The story's impact lingers long after the final page, prompting reflection and discussion.

By understanding these common elements, aspiring writers can craft stories that captivate audiences and leave a lasting legacy. Remember, the most successful stories are those that connect with readers on an emotional level, leaving them with a sense of fulfillment and a desire to share the experience with others.

trench-knife

max's writing tips 10: how to actually write your projects instead of just thinking about them

(the most difficult part)

As a newer writer, I'm struggling to use similes in more ways other than by phrases like "like", "seeming as", "as if" or other versions of these three.

What are some of the other, if any, ways to compare something to something else, to avoid a book turning mundane?

Do you think me a coward?

“Greetings,” a rougher, bothered voice resounded. “I am pleased to welcome you to my domain. I have heard much of—” “I appreciate the gesture, but is that all you wished to tell me?” [C] responded, unwilling to indulge the man’s flattery. The man chuckled mildly. “You’re straight to the point. I like that.” “No matter how much time one has, there is rarely any needed to be used on adulation.” “I see,” the man responded in a colder tone. [E] almost felt his mildly antagonistic gaze on her. “In any case,” he cleared his throat, “I have a proposition to ask of you specifically, traveler. A scourge is upon my town. Thugs and cravens that disturb the peace. I would take up the sword myself, but you can see I’ve been cut short of my ability to do so.” “He’s lost an arm—” [C] discreetly informed his blind companion, to not give rise to more belligerence. “Yet I still possess both ears.” The man slurred a bit. It was clear that his face had also been disfigured, and it made him struggle with speech. “Forgive me,” [C] explained. “I don’t want my lady-friend here to think you a coward.” “Bring her here.” “I hardly think that’s needed.” “BRING HER HERE!” he roared. [E] stepped forward herself, terrified. “Do you think I’m a coward?” His voice was almost dangerously close. She was face to face with him. “Well, do you?” It wasn't courage that she felt. Intimidation, in abundance.

"Why carry your bow?"

They packed up their things, stomped out the fire, and got back on the horse. The morning was now clearing up, and the fog was nearly gone. [E] felt a scraping in the back of her throat. She may have caught a cold from falling asleep out in the icy air, despite the warm fire. She coughed a bit. [C] took no notice of this. “Why do you still carry your bow?” he asked. It almost did seem humorous. An archer without sight. An eagle without wings. “Evidently not to use it.” She coughed again. The reason escaped him. "Why then?” “It was a gift. I’ll always have it on me," she said, melancholy in her voice. “You still can use it,” he said, leading the horse down a slope. “How? Is there any way to fix my eyesight?” “Such a thing, sadly, does not exist,” he said, a minor remorse in his voice. “Well, if I can't ever see again, how else would I use it?” she cried. Why mention such a prospect, only to take the hope away from her? “I did not say you could not see again.”

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