I am stuck in a writer's block a bit.. + some comments made got in my head just a little bit, and I want to see if i can improve in my words just a little bit and do better with my stories.

I love detailed comments too so if it's rlly long I don't mind it! the more the better ✨

The idea of this first chapter was around a commentary novel where every chapter starts with "They tell..." with a group of people who are only referred to as it, us, them, me, etc.. Please note that instances where the use of the word I is replaced by me or them is replaced they is very intentional as that is how our main character refers to himself or they. If possible I want feedback if you can take your time to read this and especially on a very specific line(Another story...) and whether or not that gets annoying in this first chapter. Also, I've never studied philosophy but very interested in it that's why i included elements of it. Anyways, here it is(NOTE: the syntax of dialogue did not transfer over to reddit so that's why it might look weird):

They tell me to trust them. They tell me so I believe. 
“Your name, sir,” the deadpan of they drones. It sounds like a softened machine gun firing faster than intended. How fast is a machine gun supposed to fire? They stay silent. I say this because I presume they know my thoughts. But then, why ask me my name? They know I don’t know if it were true they could read my mind.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, since we have no identification of your instance we will have to settle for something more practical than ‘unnamed subject’… unless that is what you prefer to be called?” they ask. It seems like a rather peculiar amalgamation of words. Unnamed subject. What is my preference? Well that takes out the idea they know what I think. All these questions would be useless, unless they want to mess with me? But who am I? A different person might tell you that’s a story for a different day. Maybe a different person would never tell you what makes them up. Well sadly, that different person is me. It might sound like a cliche but that makes it all the weirder for a person of my stature(or rather lack thereof) who is anything but cliche to not know who they are. How do I know that I am not a cliche human. Does the hero have no memory of the world “before”. In a certain story it could be possible. But then, who decides who is the hero? The winner? Some people may tell you that and that is certainly true for most stories or maybe even most history. Well, neither of these are true in a way. I have memories of something but also nothing. Would you understand a full explanation, I think not. Am I one to fully speak on the terms of your intellect? That is one of your choosing. Identification is a unique idea I would think. Most people would make up a name at this time as a point of familiarity perhaps. Perhaps I would have done this.
“We don't quite have the time for meaningless pleasantries to deal with a form of identification. For now we will have to settle with no identification. However, to give this information as early as possible, we have your wife and 3 daughters in custody inside another facility,” they say. As I am sure your imagination runs wild with who “they” are. I must tell you, I don't know. Maybe you think that’s another cliche which seems like a large coincidence for the man who isn’t cliche. Not knowing who your capturer is is quite an overused trope. For what I can tell you from my knowledge, they sound like a chorus of voices in unison. Not like a choir but more like the same person, with very slightly different timings giving it the sound of a round like Helena used to sing with her friends.
“I do not have multiple daughters… being,” trying to address an unknown entity. Is it an entity? In a different story you could eventually learn what the thing is. But this isn’t that story. It’s a story about me and about they. About Us, them, and it… most certainly it. But that’s too far ahead for someone with no sense of time in this world. For now we must go back to what me knows.
“Me, we have three people in custody from which we have taken samples matching your samples. Unfortunately your state after the return from the program has left… the rest of this sentence would have aroused precautions in our system. As a simple fact for your simple brain, we have three daughters of yours as well as your wife in custody,” they say.
“May I see Helena,” Me asks. There is no word to explain the way I ask things. At least not one simple enough for your likings. You may ask the question of how I know your knowledge. I must say that I never intended for questions to be asked by people. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Sorry, Me is getting ahead of ourselves. In a few stories someone might drone on about questions they want to answer. This is not that story. Certain individuals would ask me why. For the people who ask me the truth, that is exactly why me can’t answer.
“We are sorry to be unable to help in any manner without clarification into the matter of Helena,” they enunciate. Enunciate would be a word some authors would avoid. But focusing on the truth of what I know that would be accurate to the situation. Another thing some authors would avoid is the idea of subtlety. Some stories would do the same. But this story would be different from those stories. Because, they know what I know.
“My daughter, Helena. May I see her?” Me clarifies.
“We know, however, according to our records, you do not have anyone… There is no person with the name Helena. You do however have three daughters who are currently in custody with your wife,” they say, “Those three daughters have given up their names for your safety.” The irony of such a statement could be debated in another story. Perhaps another story would tell you that what they say is wrong or perhaps even right, but this is not that story.
“I only have one daughter,” I say with what another story would say ironclad will.
“We are sorry for your confusion however we must continue onward and will therefore leave you alone at this point.”
“Prove to me that I’m hallucinating!” I scream. Screaming is something that other stories would leave at that; an enunciated statement that's loud that they may even leave the idea reverberation out of it. But perhaps as you might have caught on, this is not that story. Maybe a few stories would go into how that scream sounds, maybe show it instead of telling as some may see. This story would not be that story. Every story is different yet we group them to try to prove points. But that is beyond what happens.
They don’t respond. Some stories would tell you what happens next: a man continues screaming at something with no answer trying to find answers. You don’t need the rest of that sentence.
“Show my supposed daughters!” “Or show me proof that Helena isn’t real!” His words reverberated around the room.
“Is that what I would think it is! Silence? Show me the truth you try to hide!”
Silence.
“What is that; there is no truth? Or does you silence say something else?”
Silence.
“Answer me!”
“Answer me.”
“Answer me,” I whisper.
Answer me, I think. A different story would tell you how the valiant fall of the hero or heroine would cause the truth to come from a story, yet, you know the rest of what happens — at least in part.
I fall on the floor as the silence fills my mind. You go black.

Hi! I wrote this piece quite a long time ago and only rediscovered it recently. Gave it some light editing, and I'm wondering if it could be good enough to try and get published somewhere.

Do you feel anything for Janie? Are there any parts that read clunky, or otherwise don't make sense?

Thank you!

The beeping is always there. A countdown to an explosion you’re certain is to come.

It is soft at first. It’s always present, ticking its quiet warning. It echoes in the corners of the rooms you enter, a metronome raising the tempo slowly but surely, counting down to something you can’t quite name but feel anyway.

Some days it blares red hot, insistent,
as if the whole world shrinks to a single blinking wire you’re too terrified to touch.

Other days it stays quiet. A faint pulse under the skin, still waiting, still counting.

And when night comes and you lie still enough to hear every thought sharpen, the beeping grows louder as if the dark gives it permission to step closer. It fills the room. It fills your chest.

There is no off switch. It is not a rhythm, it is not a message, just a simple reminder that something inside you is wired to explode.

The beeping is always there. A countdown to an explosion you’re certain is to come, but never does.

The Trial of Donald H. Rumsfeld: A Novel

Prologue

I knew Donald Rumsfeld well. His friends all called him Rummy. So did his enemies. Born outside of Chicago in 1933, Rummy entered Congress at the tender age of 29. After a few years in the Nixon administration, he became President Jerry Ford’s chief of staff and later his secretary of defense. Years later, after making millions in the private sector, President George W. Bush selected him to run the Pentagon again, where he prosecuted the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.  

Not a bad resume for an ambitious fellow like Rummy. But this was all just prelude to the real drama.  

A series of unfortunate events in 2005 led to Rummy becoming president of the United States. While the path there was twisted and scandalous, he made it to the top, like he always dreamed he would. His first order as commander in chief—to invade Iran—was a disaster. And Barack Obama came along a few years later and walloped him at the polls. Rummy had big plans for a second term that never came to be.

His story, however, didn’t end there. While his rise was stratospheric—from an unknown kid in the Chicago suburbs to the president of the United States—his fall was just as extreme. Rummy ultimately became the most prominent victim of Donald J. Trump’s presidential wrath.

What follows is all this in detail, plus much more. It’s Rummy’s life story: the ups, the downs, the shock, the awe. The big parts—the ones that mattered most to him and to the world. A great deal has been told before, in newspapers, classrooms, and history books. But much is revealed here for the first time. I’ve included some words of wisdom (and, in retrospect, irony) from Rummy himself, which are plucked from his famous book of axioms, Rumsfeld’s Rules.

Whether you love Rummy or hate him (few are in between) it’s one heck of a story.

How do I fit in? Well, that will eventually become clear. Let’s just say, for now, that I had a little bone to pick with Rummy, and shedding some light on his life isn’t just good for the world. It’s good for me, too.

William Cooper

New poem - different from what I normally do as I have been rhyming a lot on my previous poems

I have added more visual representations rather than just talking about the feeling

Let me know your thoughts

I'm zeroing in on my first few pages as I begin the querying process on my completed novel. I'd love some feedback, observations, etc. Please don't hold back!

It’s said a person meets thirty-six killers over the course of a lifetime. Tonight, this crowd was about to meet two. March strained on his tiptoes, fighting for air in the suffocating mass of parade-goers. The towering brick-and-mortar structures corralled ten thousand bobbing heads toward Baxter’s city center, offering zero escape. Above it all hung Zon, the eternal crimson beacon that smothered the city in a never-ending twilight. As he pushed through the mob, his hand rested heavily on the Stalker-issued Wilcox pistol in his coat. He knew the star’s presence, or lack thereof, would actually help him. And in twenty minutes, he’d finally make the man who took his wife pay.

A sharp sting bit into the inside of March’s wrist. Three quick vibrations, a pause, then a long drag. Disguised as a battered cuff, his tapper was the only way to cut through the deafening roar of the parade. He stopped scanning the bobbing heads and focused purely on his pulse point, letting the rhythm translate directly into his mind. The taps were heavy, punched out in a hasty, uneven tempo.
Dead body. Another burst of frantic vibrations scraped against March’s skin. East alley. Three blocks.

“Shades, already?” he muttered as he pushed down the rising anticipation in his gut. He tucked his finger back to his tapper and began sending a message. March slowed a bit, causing him to struggle to keep his taps clean as people pushed and squeezed around him. After a few quick taps, he finished and matched the pace of the crowd again.

Can’t you handle it? March waited for a tap back, but nothing came. He sighed. Column, his partner, was likely coming up with the longest way to lecture him over the tapper. In the meantime, March pulled back his coat sleeve to check his Merlochi. The watch was a heavy, brutalist piece of machinery—scuffed gunmetal caging a dial buried under thick layers of polarized glass. He tilted his wrist, shifting the watch face until the star’s bloody reflection slid off the crystal. Beneath the dark glass, the luminescent hands glowed a faint, sickly green. Five forty-two. Eighteen minutes until six.

March did the math. Three blocks. He glared at the crush of bodies ahead of him. Are you kidding me? If he fought his way through ten thousand cheering idiots to hold Column's hand, he’d never make it to the square on time. Before he could think of a good plan, the familiar sting of his tapper returned with a vengeance. But it wasn’t etching Column’s spite into March’s wrist. No, the cadence was entirely wrong. Six quick vibrations, a pause, then four slow, trembling pulses. The lecture March had been bracing for dissipated, replaced by a sudden, icy knot in his chest.

The body is grey, March, so no, I can’t handle it.

Multi-pov dark fantasy novel. This pov character is my primary and my antagonist. You are not supposed to like him.

I like the idea of moving this scene to the beginning of Embrose's introduction because the readers will meet his cruelty before his poise. Thoughts?

Also, general feedback on my prose is appreciated!

I posted my first chapter here recently and got feedback that the opening leaned on some common first-time-writer tropes.

So, I went back to the drawing board and substantially reworked it.

I’d love a reaction to the new version.

No need to compare it to the old version. I’m mainly interested in whether this page works on its own. 🤷🏼‍♂️

Hey! I'm writing my first full length story and would like thoughts on the opening. What works, what doesn't and anything else that comes to mind. Thanks!

Chapter 2 can be read here

​

Dear agent,

I am seeking representation for MR DEADBEAT, a 96,000-word psychological horror novel that combines the intergenerational trauma from 'The Only Good Indians' by Stephen Graham Jones with the relentless dread and family horror of Josh Malerman's 'Incidents Around the House'. It features a fresh take on stork mythology: storks don't deliver children, they take them away.

Ray Snarl was a broken father of two. Now, he’s a broken father of none.

Dragged down through his bed by a grey-skinned, dead-eyed entity calling itself a stork, Ray is offered the chance of a new life, one that can bring an end to his constant pain and suffering. The catch? He must willingly surrender his two young children, Alice and Nathan, to the mysterious stranger, never to be seen or heard from again. Grieving the tragic passing of his wife, fearful of the violent loan shark breathing down his neck and haunted by a grotesque, murderous phantasm in the guise of his abusive father, Ray is desperate enough to accept. All trace and memory of their existence, the stork assures him, will disappear. No memories. No guilt. No mourning. No consequences.

The stork removes Alice and Nathan from our world, which moves on, instantly forgetting all about them. Ray, however, left with a bulging sack of money, a sundered cot bed and his son’s severed fingers, remembers.

Consumed with guilt and desperate to be reunited with his children, Ray is forced to walk a path beyond his comprehension, with only the terror that is his ‘father’ for company. Confronted by unfathomable horrors and a bleak, terrifying reality, Ray must face truths he would rather have left to fester under the bed, where the ankle-snatching monsters from his childhood lurk. Failure will result in Ray losing himself, and fully succumbing to the deranged darkness trying desperately to consume him, as well as never seeing his children again.

Bio.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

\[my name\]

I’ve revised this per some feedback on Reddit and a few friends, and I’d love to know what people think. This is a portal fantasy novel. My main concerns are on flow, character voice and, of course, how much it hooks the reader. Any and all feedback is welcome. Thanks for reading!

I made some changes. Let's see how far you get this time. Also, it is okay to use three semi-colons in the same sentence. There is no rule that says you cannot.

Hello everyone! 2 months ago i challenged myself to post on RR one chapter a week of this story that was sitting inside my head for years. The goal was first to, well, make the jump and post. Second is obviously writing and getting better.

Niche sports stories are rare, so why pass on one when you finally find it? 👀

618 is a sports/progression novel following Lucas Reed, a freshman who knows almost nothing about football but has a freakish talent for throwing the ball exactly where it needs to go.

I just reached Chapter 10 / 20k+ words, and I’d love some genuine reader feedback

I’m ESL and actively working on my prose as I write, so feedback is always appreciated!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-B-BtuGclyPmohFuLR5PLsbTrgCtiEj2Ky68S979hDQ/edit?usp=drivesdk

I like to write for fun, it helps with my mental health and has been a great outlet for working on my creativity. I don’t plan on being a big author one day or anything, but I would still love to finish this work in the future. I would love any feedback— honest and brutal pls. I feel like my first person POV is a little cringey at times, so I am wondering if you all think so too.

What could I improve on?

How do you feel about these characters from the snippet?

Is my formatting okay? I googled and watched videos on how to format and I also looked through some of my favorite books to see how they did it. But idk, I feel as though it still seems choppy at times too.

Anyhow, I would love any feedback you all can give. I wrote this in google docs and added those fun little corner pieces for decoration (found the design on Pinterest).

I appreciate the time you all give to reading through this, if you do. Thank you :)

CHAPTER 2. 600 words

THE READING

The enthusiastic applause continued until Lucien Ember raised a single alabaster-white hand in the air and the room went silent. As he strolled to the lectern, all those with seats parked their hind quarters. Those left standing stood completely still. Even the room’s air-handling system seemed to quiet itself in anticipation of Ember’s reading.

He opened to the first page of his best-seller and began to read.

“Let us start at the end so there is no mistake,” Lucifer said. “God does not like to be told, ‘No!’ It was my belief, however, that even the Almighty God is not infallible. God could be wrong and I told him so.”

Even as those words left the author’s mouth, thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed across the clear blue South Florida sky. Some in the audience gasped, but Ember raised his hand and said in a strong voice, “Pure coincidence my friends.” A few laughed, but it was clear that the Catholics in attendance weren’t much on the idea of blaspheming the Lord.

Ember continued to read.

“I am God’s archangel, Lucifer. Legend has it that I was the most beautiful of all the angels. I will not dispute this fact as it is too early in the telling of my story to give a full view of my fall from grace with the Lord. We angels were endowed with many gifts, beauty among them. Each of us shared these gifts, but God granted each a special gift that set us apart from one another. Intellect, will, strength, empathy, innocence, simplicity, humility, patience; there were these gifts and many more.

“God Almighty created the world and as he did, he also created we angels who would serve him, adore him, love him and follow his commands. And I, Lucifer, was his most beautiful. Of course, God made a mistake when he gave us free will – hence my belief that God is not infallible.”

Again, a loud thundercrack and bolt of lightning underscored those words, but Ember ignored Mother Nature’s exclamation and continued to read from his work, unimpressed with the meteorological interruption.

“If I knew then what I know now, I would have tempered my pride. I would have been satisfied with my gifts and would have worshipped the Almighty without reservation as many of the other angels did. To give God his due, he could see the entire picture where we angels were merely his means to an end. He was busy with his creation; heaven and earth; man and woman; birds of the air, beasts on land, swimming creatures in the sea.

“All we had to do was worship him and serve him. It was a simple enough command. Most of the angels – the good angels you might say – followed that command. They revered the Lord. They were in awe of his magnificence. The rest of us fell in line at first – not so much in awe as in a sense of duty. But there was something scratching in the back of my mind. My beauty had spawned pride and that pride swelled to arrogance. It was only a matter of time before the seed of rebellion was planted, and for better or worse, I was the farmer.”

Ember looked up from his novel and glanced across the room. No one spoke. No one moved. Ember slammed his book shut – the sound reverberating across the expanse of the room. And, as if awakened from a dream, Charlie Finbar began to clap his hands. Ember looked across the room at Charlie and offered him a near-imperceptible smile just as the room exploded with applause, cheers and whistles.

Hey! I’m working on an adult M/M romantasy and figured I’d throw my first chapter up here for some outside eyes.

Mostly curious about general impressions: what works for you, what doesn’t, anything that confused you, and whether you’d keep reading. Craft/prose thoughts are welcome too.

I’m trying not to give too much context beforehand because I’m curious how the opening lands on its own.

Thanks for reading!

Hi all. Just posting something I've been noodling on that came from a writing prompt. I like where it's going, but would like some feedback on its readability.

Thank you in advance.

Norwegian filmmaker here. I'm mainly wondering if the book's opening is good or catchy?

And as English is not my native tongue, does the language and prose work?

‐------

Julian was eight, and his father was about to die. The brown-haired boy was leaning against the window in the living room, listening to the wind and rain. Down below in the circular square, St. Olav's Place, water was running fast on the cobblestone. It was six pm on New Year’s Eve, 1991, and it was already dark in Aalesund.

The streets would empty after work, around five, earlier if the weather was bad. A ghost town, Julian thought. Today the weather was really bad. Only fools would be out now. Arthur’s words. A good enough reason to spy on people from the apartment window. Julian looked out and saw lights from other apartments, and water dripping from balconies. Continuing further down, in the middle of the square was a man, walking. He wore a hood, and his face was masked by the shade, leaving only his mouth visible. Julian’s eyes stopped. *Weird*.

The man was muttering something and twisting his hands. *What’s he saying?* Julian hesitated first, but his curiosity won him over. He flicked the lock on the window, and pushed it open, carefully. The cold swept in, and the howling wind and rain hitting the street was all he could hear. A little disappointed, he dared to lean out more. Seagulls were screaming off the coast, but nothing from the man. And as the wind started blowing harder, he started walking up and down the square. Still muttering. Looks like dad. Julian thought about his father in his study. The same kind of pace, with his head buried in a book, and always muttering something to himself.

A rustle in the wind drew his focus back to the street below. Then, out of nowhere, a woman appeared in the square. She was walking towards the man. *What?* Julian rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know what to think, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the pair. The woman was considerably smaller, had short hair and wore dark clothes. 

“We’re getting close!” She spoke loud enough for Julian to hear. “It has to be here!”

“Shhh! Quiet!” The man said. His voice was dark and raspy. He stopped in his tracks.

“But after all these years.”

The man gestured something at her. 

“Apologies. We’re awaiting your command.”

And with that, she was gone. 

“Julian!”

His dad’s call sounded almost muffled. Julian’s eyes stayed on the man outside. He was just standing there. Then he started his stride once again, up and down the square. Julian finally turned his head around. “Yeah, dad?”

“That took a while.” His father stood in the doorway, with a dark blue coat on and an umbrella in hand. He was staring at Julian. “What are you doing? You’re all wet.”

“Nothing, just looking.” He felt the chill from the window hitting his neck. He shuddered.

His father didn’t pry. “Anyway. I’m going now. Food is on the table.”

Julian frowned. “Now? It looks like a storm outside!”

His father smiled. “I know. I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Arthur is coming—” He squinted at his wristwatch. “Umm, in ten minutes.”

Something was pulling on Julian to go back to the window. But he stayed where he was and nodded to his dad. “Ok. Bye!”

“Love you, Julian.”

“Be careful, dad.”

“Of course. It’s me!” 

He picked up a bag, and went outside. Julian looked at the empty doorway. Then he felt his body move to the open window again. Careful not to make a sound. The man was still there, and still walking up and down. Julian felt almost spellbound. The twisting hands looked scary to him, unnatural. He was listening hard now. He glanced toward the harbour. Everything was oddly quiet. *Where did the wind go?*

"Vosk ta dumeraq zorwen khen…”

The voice of the man rang in Julian’s ears. His blue eyes widened. *How?* The voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to him. Small gusts of wind appeared and circled around the man on the street.

"Ta grakhun vrothim..."

Julian shook his head in disbelief. It shouldn’t be possible, but there he was listening to a man’s whisper, over twenty metres away. Large raindrops were hitting Julian’s face from the side now. The wind felt more intense. The small gusts continued to circle around the man. But all he could hear was that man’s voice.

“Grakhun!”

I am writing personal essays for fun, but also with a view to leaning in to prose humour so that I can revisit my pieces later and "punch 'em up" for standup routines. I've already done that for this piece - will not share here - because I think there is enough there with a garnish from another related story, but I'm not sure how well this stacks up on its own.

Etymological Phallacy:

It’s interesting how you can find connections between the things you do. All the more reason to seek volume and variety of experience. Just recently, I was watching a YouTube video by a book tuber discussing the benefits of being a reader. In it, he observes that reading stoked in him an interest in etymology — the study of the origin of words — and how this interest has improved his life. He recalls an incident when arguing with his ex-wife over the meaning of the word priority, and his contention that his wellbeing was not truly her priority. He argues that since the word priority is derived from prior, it is in a sense, only a priority that you do something, if you do it first. 

I have two observations about this. First: I would argue that since that was his ex-wife and the point of his argument would likely have annoyed her, perhaps this isn’t the best evidence of the benefits of reading. Second, perhaps it is evidence of the downsides of not reading widely enough. For if the book tuber had done this, then maybe he would have understood he was committing the etymological fallacy — a concept I learned from a book called Thinking from A to Z, which means to always infer a words meaning from its original meaning — and thus had probably annoyed his ex-wife, and maybe had he not done so, she would still be his current wife.

But this raises a deeper question. The book-tuber was recommended to me by an algorithm. The book I had found searching for titles related to philosophy and critical thinking, sometimes using the “similar titles” feature on amazon, hence was also recommended to me by an algorithm. Both shaped my thinking in ways I’m only now noticing. I wonder if my taste in music is somehow affected in an analogous way to this. What piece of profound musical meaning is hidden from me or revealed to me by virtue of the selection mechanism which decides my taste? Who would I be without the algorithm? One title recommended to me by Youtube of late was “10 Books that build men” with a thumbnail featuring a man flexing his biceps while holding 10 books and a large mug of coffee. What are you trying to say Youtube? Aside from the obvious masculinity-insecurity connection, I can only see a reflection of myself — the sort of idiot who might like that sort of thing. 

So, who wins, me or the booktuber? He is an old man who appears to eschew the algorithm, makes his own decisions and has been for decades. He made his own mistake, or so we think. But I beat him to the ultimate conclusion about the fallacy of using a words etymology to always infer its meaning in everyday use, and spotted the irony of recommending reading to improve your life when in fact reading has made the recommender a pedant and a fool, which is probably why his wife left him. I took a shortcut, and to be honest, I don’t care anymore. Fuck the authentic, hard-won self. It was just as much an illusion as my perception of my own selfhood, just curated by more collective, analogue algorithms of education, marketing, communal interaction, publisher authority that determines what the good reads are. And yet. I am more of an atom, an individual, in my own little bubble laughing at the old man, when really, at least he shared his bubble, for a time, with others. So who wins?