#writingshortstories

[artistic-alpaca]

My family probably thinks I'm insane.

So a few months ago I came up with this cool idea for a short story, started writing it, didn't like that beginning, wrote another beginning, and then got distracted by other projects. Then yesterday out of LITERALLY NOWHERE I got super motivated to keep working on this story while riding my bike. So I came home and I printed out my two beginnings (which are actually both good in different ways) and I spliced them together in a different notebook. I was working quietly for a while but then I just had to ask my brother's opinion on a scene, and then I was explaining half of the plot to him, and then I was kinda just yelling about it with him and two of our other siblings (there are eight of us). Later that night I was talking to my older sister about concert tickets or something, but also still writing, and I just said, "so, dystopian corrupt government." She gets scared when I use the word dystopian. I was trying to ask her opinion on a plot factor, but she wasn't all that helpful, so I went back to my brothers' room (they were in bed but not asleep yet) and asked my one brother (same one as before) what I should do, and he actually helped me figure out the plot. At some point I was also explaining to my parents why my character, Jayke, has a y in the middle of his name and ended up feeling stupid (even though I still fully support J-A-Y-K-E, despite what his math teacher has to say). Even later that night I declared to my sister that Jayke is kinda a blob, as in he doesn't have much of a personality yet, he just exists for the sake of it, and to narrate and forfeit his house as a hangout. In explaining this, I needed to give her a rundown of every character and their personality traits. Today I asked my sister for song recommendations from a certain artist that sound like they'd be in an intense movie. Why? I was making a playlist for the story that has apparently taken over my life. Is this normal? It kinda smells like a hyperfixation.

[kids-worldfun]

How To Write Short Stories? Writing short stories is a great way to hone your writing skills and explore different types of fiction. Here are some writing tips for you. 

[cakeandcaffeine]

I have to keep telling myself this. I got so much done today, but none of it was pertaining to the projects that need my attention now. I think the hardest part about creating is not getting lured off task by shiny new story ideas and random plot fillers for abandoned stories that pop into my brain. One. Story. At. A. Time. Please. #writing #writingcommunity #writingshortstories #writingbooks #indiepublishing #indieauthorsofinstagram #creating #distractions #writerproblems #onestoryatatime #ideas #mantra #amwriting #amcreating #wordboss #werdnerd #cakelife #cakeandcaffeine #focus #writerscommunity (at Las Vegas, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/BpGZn6jFcb5/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1csj3yfwdnj49

[sheamcgeeme]

NEW BLOG POST is up on my blog "Written and Undone" on #wordpress dot com. Back with blog exclusive "Bloody, Sexy Magique" and this intro is for the matriarch of the Triboli girls, Tamina. Click on the link in my bio to read the post as well as FOLLOW the blog for my short stories, chapter shares, and more! #wordpressblog #blogger #writingshortstories #writersofinstagram #writerscommunity #writer #bloodysexymagique #blogpost #Triboligirls #author #mamaTriboli #writtenandundone #follow #like #supportindieauthorstheyreawesome

[sheamcgeeme]

Writing kick paid off! Went from 3,000 some odd words to 7,507 words! Short story will be done soon enough! #writingkick #writingshortstories #amwriting #writerslife #BreakingDown #lovelost #life #wip #writemore #writemotivation #makingof

[elektric-ocean]

Living Without Color

The pub was by all appearances small, ill lit, and dirty, with a bar bereft of stools, and only two dusty tables, seating a mismatch of chairs, two of which were inhabited by an old, hunched human and his female counterpart. As I slammed my fist on the countertop, the couple jumped, and the woman swore. Fock, wot’d you do that for, then? I ignored her, looking instead over the bar at the man tending. He was tall and lanky-his grey hair was pulled back in a bun, jawbones sharp and covered in stubble. He smirked, or attempted to; his teeth were all missing, with the exception of a stubborn upper front tooth, and a few scattered in the sides. He spoke, his guttural voice almost unintelligible.

Cun I gut you sumting?

Damn right you can. This girl, I growled, throwing a flier onto the bar, my finger following to point accusingly at the picture. Have you seen her?

Nuh. Nevur be’or.

You sure about that? The man grimaced.

Nuh. She luks like suh many uthurs.

I sighed. Yes, I know that. I wasn’t getting anywhere.

The image depicted a young female of average beauty, with shoulder length grey hair, wide grey eyes, and grey skin. The only color in the photo came from the clothing she was wearing, a shirt that was a brilliant shade of pink, and a neon yellow skirt. She was fourteen in that photo, a few days before her age-day, when she, like many other girls, was given a profession and sent off to apprentice with a master for a three-year term. The society I lived in now was a far cry from the one I grew up in, three centuries before, when people came in all shades of color, and not just grey. But rapid evolution had erased the variety I recalled from my youth, as well as the societal issues that were centered around that variety. Now the only color humans had was that which was manufactured in their factories, vibrant reds, blues and yellows, like the girl in the photo was wearing.