#writing courage

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta character-arc-alert="REAL_STORY_REQUIRED"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CHARACTER_PUNISHMENT::DISNEY_ARC_CULL::NO_ESCAPE_BUTTON" EFFECT: audience discomfort, plot consequence enforcement, emotional story architecture TRIGGER_WARNING="death of idealism, harsh realism, story pain" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “IF YOU’RE NOT WRITING A SERIES, THEN WHY ARE YOU SCARED OF A REAL ENDING?”

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Let me ask you something that might sting:

If your character arc isn’t going to have a sequel… Why the hell are you so afraid of giving them a real ending?

No, not a sanitized redemption. Not a little bow-tied “he learned something about himself.” Not that soy-drenched “and they all healed” finale you got hand-delivered from the mass-market mouse you subconsciously worship.

I mean a REAL ending.

One where they lose.

Where they get punished.

Where they succeed too late, or fall just short.

Where they save the world… but nobody ever knows it was them.

Where the truth dies with them.

Where no one claps.

Where no one is waiting on the other side of the final door with open arms.

Where the audience stares at the screen in silence when the credits roll — not triumphant, not inspired… but changed.

Let’s be blunt.

Your character doesn’t need another trilogy.

They need to suffer the consequence of this one.

Remember the ‘80s and ‘90s? When you could end a film or a novel or a game on a gut punch?

When the hero might not make it?

When someone would throw themselves on the grenade… and that was it?

No resurrection clause. No surprise teleport. No fade-to-white escape.

Just gone.

Because some stories were meant to be told ONCE.

That was the power.

You got ONE shot.

And what you did with it? Defined you.

But now?

Now you’re writing like everyone gets a reboot.

Like narrative gravity doesn’t exist.

Like every death needs a flashback clause.

You’re writing the emotional version of a participation trophy.

“Look, everyone made it home!”

No.

No they didn’t.

No they don’t.

And no — they shouldn’t.

Let me say this slow for the writers in the back:

👉 If your story has no sequel, there’s no excuse not to bring the hammer down.

They don’t get to walk into the sunset if the path was lined with corpses they stepped over.

They don’t get a kiss and a cozy flat in the epilogue if they started a war that broke the world.

They don’t get to learn something at the last second and be absolved by the audience because you didn’t have the spine to follow through.

I want you to remember something:

The most unforgettable endings wound you.

Not because they were mean.

But because they were honest.

Because they didn’t lie to the reader.

Because the author didn’t flinch.

📜 WRITING EXERCISE: “THE ONE WHO DESERVED WORSE”

Pick a character you love.

Now delete your cowardice.

Write the ending they earned, not the one you wish they had.

If they manipulated people? Let it cost them their last chance at connection.

If they killed? Let someone’s child recognize them, scream their name, and ruin their last peace.

If they hesitated and got people hurt? Let their final act be alone, unwitnessed, and uncelebrated.

Then write yourself watching that ending.

Write the you who let it happen.

Write the author who didn’t flinch.

You are not weak for writing endings that bruise.

You’re weak if you don’t.

You are not cruel for showing a character fail and stay failed.

You’re cruel if you give them a clean exit they didn’t earn.

Stop writing with one eye on BookTok.

Stop calculating your plot beats based on what might get adapted.

Write like no one will ever read it except your ghost.

Write like it’s the last story you’ll ever get to tell.

Because sometimes?

It is.

Some of the greatest characters in literary history didn’t get closure.

They got obliteration.

They got humiliation.

They got a final frame where the light hits them just wrong — and you realize:

They were the villain all along.

Or worse—

They were right the whole time… and it still didn’t matter.

Because reality doesn’t care if you meant well.

And neither should your ending.

Every time you soften a blow…

Every time you throw in a last-minute reveal to “make it okay”…

Every time you send them off with a hug and a smirk…

You weaken everything that came before.

Your story is not a daycare.

Your story is not a theme park ride.

Your story is a goddamn weapon.

And if you’re not stabbing with it— you’re wasting metal.

So do it.

Kill him.

Let her fall.

Let them not come back.

Let the reader scream.

Let them hate you.

And then — when the rage subsides, when the betrayal melts into quiet awe — they will thank you.

Because for once, someone dared.

Someone ended it.

And you know what?

That ending?

Will outlive the reader.

Just like it did the character.

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Reblog if you’ve ever seen a character deserve worse—but the author chickened out. Reblog if you crave endings that hurt, because they were earned. Reblog if your favorite story was the one that didn’t blink. 🧠 Read more scrolltrap doctrine and unforgivable narrative strategy at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Character punishment. Plot consequence. Emotional extinction. 🚪 Warning: This one made a writer cry. That writer was you.

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[azus-reyan]

Can you write Don Quixote?

If you must aim, aim for the stars.

Reading Don Quixote made me realize that the book's claims of being the best weren’t exaggerated. It is every bit as simple yet complex and adventurous as they said.

Although Don Quixote was written four centuries ago, its spirit remains as strong as ever, if not stronger. It continues to be relevant, drawing readers by the millions each year.

Can your book do that? Can your story inspire countless souls in the annals of history? Why should it, and what gives it any right to be so cherished?

Many things make Don Quixote remarkable. The character Don Quixote is an absolute treat, making him fun to read with just a tinge of incomprehensibility that turns him complex. His mission is bold, going where few have gone. And the adventure he goes through is a striking fable. But more than anything, Don Quixote is a masterpiece because it was written with real passion.

While I can’t tell you how Maguel De Cervantes felt about the world he created, anyone can see the care that went into every word. The love is clear in his characters, in Don Quixote, whom I don’t doubt carries a bit of the author in him.

The story is set in Spain, where the author grew up. He loved his country, his customs, his culture, and you can see that in every scene. 

Real passion goes through your words into the reader's heart. Don Quixote contains so much passion that countless people have tried to capture in their translations. Most of them failing to capture the nuances or falling very short.

If you dare to write your story, dare to love it with your heart and soul. From beginning to end, with every word—scene—character—or conclusion, love your story like no one else can. Love it like a mother would her baby. Like a father to his daughter. Love it so much; passion raw can’t be denied. 

Can you write Don Quixote? Can you bring yourself to love your story?

[howtofightwrite]

Q&A: If Cowardice is the Absence of Courage, Clichés are the Absence of Detail

Anonymous said to howtofightwrite:

Do you have any advice on writing a “cowardly” character without making them “cliché”? Usually people write “brave” characters as not being afraid of rushing headfirst into combat, or the “cowardly” character is also shy but I find that boring. 

Well, you know there is the saying, “only fools rush in.”

The issue with the labels of brave versus cowardly is not that the issue is complex, but rather that people tend to apply them to actions instead of motivation. The same action can be brave or cowardly or neither, depending on who is doing it and why. 

I’ll break it down for you:

Coward – Cowards always take the easy way out.

“Cowardice is a trait wherein excessive fear prevents an individual from taking a risk or facing danger. It is the opposite of courage. As a label, “cowardice” indicates a failure of character in the face of a challenge. “ – Wikipedia

Whether you will be a coward or not depends on the challenge you’re facing, those challenges can be physical (commonly understood as part of physical conflict and violence), but they’re also emotional, social, or facing what causes you fear or anxiety. A coward is defined by specifics, not abstracts.

Example: a great hero who goes on a quest to save the world in order to escape the emotional difficulties of dealing with their significant other or loved ones is, ironically, a coward.

Example: an anti-social individual who is circumspect and distant from strangers, but not afraid of social interaction isn’t a coward.

Example: an individual who rushes in because being called a coward negatively affects their self-image is… a coward.

There are plenty of times when people are called cowards when they aren’t, usually this has to do with confusion over action versus motivation and cultural bullshit about courage.

Courage – Merriam Webster’s definition of courage is “mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.”

I think the key word for you to understand is “difficulty.” Courage is not about being fearless, it’s about facing what you’re afraid of. In a limited scope, only the individual can define what actions are courageous for themselves. No one else can tell you what to be afraid of, or define what’s difficult for you. If you are someone for whom the words and labels applied to you by others define who you are, then rejecting those cultural standards may be courageous.

You want to be careful about saying bravery is the absence of fear, or logic. Stupidity isn’t courage. Someone who lashes out because they’re afraid isn’t more brave than the person who runs. Running at your problem can be the same as running away. When you don’t consider the problem, you’re still practicing avoidance. Building up walls, filling your day up with pointless tasks, putting off dealing with what’s bothering you, those are all symptoms.

A character who isn’t bothered by or afraid of physical conflict isn’t brave or courageous. There are plenty of characters, like people, who will use physical conflict or action to escape from what makes them emotionally uncomfortable.

If you’re retreating into what makes you comfortable, you’re not being brave. If you’re taking stupid risks trying to prove you’re not scared of something, you’re probably afraid of it. 

Example: adrenaline junkies aren’t brave, they’re looking for a high.

If your character is talking back to a villain who would kill anyone else who wasn’t the protagonist for doing the same thing, they aren’t being brave… they’re engaging in author sanctioned stupidity. (I mean it too, there are plenty of authors who can’t handle their protagonist being powerless and use witty comebacks as a means of restoring control. Undercutting their villain, and the scene’s tension, in the process.)

How do you write it?

This part isn’t easy.

Writing characters who are brave versus characters who are cowards requires sitting down and figuring out what your characters are afraid of. You have to figure out what situations and scenarios are physically, emotionally, or morally challenging for them. That’s complicated, usually requiring a fair amount of self-reflection. However, it’s the only way to escape clichés.

No one likes dealing with uncomfortable situations or making challenging choices. If you use your writing as an outlet for your personal fantasies then writing characters who are courageous can be difficult because what is uncomfortable disrupts that fantasy. The power fantasy, for example, is tenuous and reliant on a narrative where things aren’t specific even if they’re difficult emotionally. Fears begin to define a character and the more a character becomes an individual, the more difficult it is for the reader to insert themselves into the story.

Depending on what you’re reading, many authors will steer toward the generic rather than specific or gloss over the fears entirely. We can make as many jokes as we like about “Pants” the protagonist, but the vague outline and generics serve a specific narrative purpose. 

If you’re using a novel where the protagonist is Pants for reference, then you might run into difficulties when writing. The narrative outline will steer you into generics, specifically for your protagonists. Pants can’t really be brave because Pants isn’t a person, they’re a simulacrum cobbled together from stereotypes. A shadowy outline of a person designed for self-insertion. While this is an intentional choice on the part of the author, it won’t help you when you’re writing.

Your characters are built from you, so the best point of reference is always going to be yourself. Which means self-reflection, acknowledging situations social or otherwise which make you or made you uncomfortable.

It is easier, for example, to have a conversation about your emotions and struggles with a complete stranger than someone who knows you. The reason is that the stranger doesn’t know you, can’t affect you, and you don’t need to see them every day so the conversation can’t have any lasting impact on your life. If you’re afraid of change, of the consequences of voicing your opinion, of those you care about disregarding what you have to say, then this can be a safe release which ultimately changes nothing. Is this courage? Not really, no.

Delving into our own weaknesses isn’t easy, it isn’t comfortable, and it isn’t always fun. Poking at the wounds inside your mind or figuring out what you’ve been avoiding, what makes you feel insecure or unsure. Then taking those feelings to your writing, to the scenarios you’re structuring. You ask yourself questions about what your characters are feeling. If it’s hard, then why is it hard? If they’re running away, why are they running away? If they’re charging forward, why are they charging forward? What motivates their actions?

Specificity combats clichés. Clichés are by their nature generic, a character who provides specific detail to make the cliché about their personal experiences isn’t.

-Michi

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Q&A: If Cowardice is the Absence of Courage, Clichés are the Absence of Detail was originally published on How to Fight Write.

[thejourneyofissabella]

The Fear Behind the Blank Space

I’ve been staring at my desktop screen for five long minutes now, watching that tiny Tumblr prompt whisper, “Go ahead, put anything.” It sounds so simple, almost gentle — yet somehow it ties my thoughts into knots.

I want to write. I really do. I want to spill something honest, something real. But the moment my fingers hover over the keyboard, this strange heaviness settles in. What if I choose the wrong words? What if I reveal too much? What if someone reads my heart and misunderstands it completely?

It’s such a small space — a blank box — but it feels like it’s asking for courage I’m not sure I have today.

And in moments like this, I find myself quietly admiring the people who do it anyway. The authors, the songwriters, the ones who bare their souls without flinching. It’s not easy to be that brave.

[joaquinwhorres]

You absolutely BLOW me away with your writing!! I’ve messaged you before about public knowledge, but this one is about bottle rockets. Your writing style transforms into a play by play movie in my head! I honestly can’t believe how well you convey emotions through your words. You’re story lines are a million times better than what’s actually going on in that mess of a show at the moment haha. But again in all serious I’m such a huge fan of yours! Ahh I can’t get over how much I love your stories

It’s funny you said I convey emotions really well, because I’m struggling to come up with a response to let you know how happy this makes me without sounding fake. Thanks a million for giving me feedback on Public Knowledge and Bottle Rockets. Not only does it make me want to keep writing for here, but it’s giving me a boost in my decision to actively pursue a writing career in 2019. You are such a gem and I appreciate you.

[sarahpaol-blog]

Ass In Chair: Day 18 Part II: What Else?

When you spend a lot of time alone, your mind can wander. You look out the window, you glare into the sky. And it looks bluer than you could imagine. I'd say "it looks bluer than you can dream" but that just sounds silly. Although silly as it seems, it's true. 

Some movies have narraters. Their characters do the talking or it's an off screen storyteller. In addition to telling the story, they ask these HUGE life questions. Wondering about life, love, mania, absurdities and strange occurrences. Occurrences that we all wonder about. That some of us might not have the courage to ask. Or to even inspire them onto others.

People have been telling me a lot about courage lately. They tell me I'm brave for leaving work. They tell me I'm brave for standing up for what I believe in, whether it's in life, within my family or just starting something with a stranger in the crowd.  ...all things I've done before. And lately. 

Leaving a job, with benefits and ...actual pay. To go to school to study something everyone wants to study (or at least, they should all be studying it.) Writing, at its most basic core, is storytelling. It's more than just arranging words in a sentence. It's more than just correct grammer, punctuation and sentence structure. We want to spread the news, the culture, the politics or the dreams. And we want it to look beautiful - to sound beautiful. Some of us notice things and have ideas that a lot of people don't take the time to tell. Or they don't notice. I'm interested in spreading them. I want to spend my life scouring the world for people and ideas. And then, I want to tell the world why they need to care. No matter how big or small the idea is, or the person.

If being a writer is being cliche, then I'm cliche. If it means being honest, or tacky, aware or unaware - call me all of those things. I like to see beyond the fourth wall or see through it. I like to break it. I will be all of these things, and more. And better. 

When a friend asked me "what kind of writer are you going to be?' I said, "well, I guess we'll find out."

I guess we'll find out.