Reblogging To Add A Story To The Unfinished With More Than 30k

Reblogging to add a story to the Unfinished with more than 30k

Tales That Were Lived (70k)

At this rate I'm gonna actually finish this story (let's hope I didn't jinx myself 😀) and I really like this story. I'll share more about it once it's finalized more 👋

I randomly decided to make a more condensed version of my WIP/story list.

Though, here's another list of stories I'm not really working on atm 🍊 Idea list 🍊 and here's 🍊 my writeblr intro 🍊

This one is just a more condensed list in case the others are a little too much to read through.

Finished with more than 30k

Devine Intervention: The Demonic Repentance (63k).

All the Screams (61k).

Same Breeds (40k).

normalities (36k).

Finished with less than 30k

Before the Reignfall (27k).

Secrets of a Teenage Man (22k)

A Fourth Dimension Reality: The Strange Beginnings (22k).

A Fourth Dimension Reality: The Crimson Soul (19k).

A Fourth Dimension Reality: The Interpose of Idiocy (30k Ik this is thirty, but this is a series.)

A Fourth Dimension Reality: Untitled 4th book (23k).

Unfinished with more than 30k

The State of Quandary (62k).

The Makings of a Love Story (46k).

Unfinished with less than 30k

Kingdom of Bumalia (29k).

Orange Perfect (21k).

Before the Love Story (15k).

One of Malovence (13k).

The Promiscuous Journey of a Virgin (10k).

Manifested Malovence (6k).

Devine Intervention: Sirin's call (6k).

Writing question tag game!

Thanks for tagging me @harleywritesshit. I always love talking about my stories and I'm actually in a bit of physical pain and couldn't write this idea I got, so this is a good replacement!

Original post here.

I'll prob tag my entire following/follower list since they're all fellow writblrs and I always love seeing writers talk about writing 😊

I'll tag @xlciaz @jgmartin @tzipor-feather-blog @lyutenw @snarkelf @ghostswithteeth @kazenokaori @vinylandvalium @risingshards @reysfictionalworlds @arijensineink. Low pressure though, no need to feel pressured to participate!

Rules: Answer the 10 questions if you feel like it ^^

Questions at the bottom!

1. What is your absolute all-time favourite ideas you’ve ever had?

Honestly, all my ideas are my favorite because my brain comes up with whatever and I have to sort through the broken pieces to get a good story. If it makes it out, then I love it. Also, I cherish all my ideas and can't really pick a favorite.

2. Is there a question you’ve been asked in the past that really stands out to you, and you still think about sometimes?

Unfortunately not really. People don't talk to me and on the off change I do engage with someone, my anxiety usually makes me clam up so much they stop talking since they think I'm not interested 😅

3. What is your favourite part of being a writer? What parts could you take or leave?

Adding to my previous question, my favorite part has to be how I can actually express myself, my words, feelings, experiences, etc... in written word. I struggle so much talking to people that writing is the only place where I feel I can say what I really want to.

What I would leave out is how little most people care about writing. I wish we lived in a world where instead of Monday Night Football, we got Writing To Tomorrow or smth idk.

4. What is your greatest motivation to write/create?

The idea that I might one day be the author/owner of a book/character that heavily impacts someone's life for the better.

5. What is the best piece of advice you’ve ever read or been given as a writer?

I think that would be the advice where people say "your favorite author started off with terrible ideas too."

That made me realize I don't have to rush in making a "masterpiece" because it might not even be seen as one. I can just make good enough stories and go from there.

6. What do you wish you knew when you were first starting out writing?

That I can actually write whatever I want lol. When I was younger, I thought that you had to follow strict formulas; like, you could only write women as damsels and men as heroes. Little Miss Ann found out that's definitely not the case 😂

7. What is your favourite story you’ve written to completion? Link it if you’d like and can!

8. What is your favourite out-of-the-box quote?

I'm terrible at endings and even more horrible at actually ending my stories, but the few that I have are normalities because of how easily the story came to me and was written, and A Fourth Dimension Reality: The Strange Beginnings because it's my crack baby that I technically "completed" because it was so long I broke it into separate volumes.

"Don't forget to eat breakfast tomatoes."

I don't know what to even tell you, this is my humor🗿

9. Which of your characters would you say has the most controversial mindset? Why do you say so, and how do you personally feel about their ideals?

Probably them all. So, typically, I tend to have strong opinions and some of them are considered "hot takes." This bleeds into my stories, but I'd say the character who'd rub some the wrong way is one old one, Dia, and one new, Lazarus.

Dia is a demon who believes angels are no different than his species. Considering he was a former angel, he knows angels can be just as "evil" as demons and doesn't have a concept of "good" and "bad"

Lazarus is just an asshole who likes girls who are introverted and shy because he hates how extroverted and loud the rest of the world is.

I actually based Dia's mindset off my own since I have negative experiences with Christians and a similar negative outlook of them. (I'm totally fine with the religion itself, but not some of the crazies who practice it.)

Lazarus, on the other hand, is someone I don't agree with because I don't feel a personality trait can make someone better than anyone else. Still gotta love Lazzy boi tho~

10. If you, when you first started writing, met you now, what would younger you think?

Probably that she was doing less than she expected 😅 see, I had very high and unrealistic expectations of future me. At this point, she was hoping I'd be a well off author sitting in my log cabin in the woods with my husband Aizen 🙉

Questions

1. What is your absolute all-time favourite ideas you’ve ever had?

2. Is there a question you’ve been asked in the past that really stands out to you, and you still think about sometimes?

3. What is your favourite part of being a writer? What parts could you take or leave?

4. What is your greatest motivation to write/create?

5. What is the best piece of advice you’ve ever read or been given as a writer?

6. What do you wish you knew when you were first starting out writing?

7. What is your favourite story you’ve written to completion? Link it if you’d like and can!

8. What is your favourite out-of-the-box quote?

9. Which of your characters would you say has the most controversial mindset? Why do you say so, and how do you personally feel about their ideals?

10. If you, when you first started writing, met you now, what would younger you think?

So, this is to my followers and anyone else who fits the bill.

After reading a post about the chance of Google using google docs in their AI learning, I had a large urge overcome me and I really want to do something as a small ant.

As much as I don't like bugs, ants aren't very strong on their own, but we all know the damage they can do as a group.

So, I've decided to make a writing group and if you're interested keep reading. This also isn't just a writing group, it's a group for anything related to writing. So that can be an artists who draw character concepts.

Again, read more if this piques your curiosity...

The Unserious Writing Group

Writing is a serious craft that needs some fun brought back into it. I've been inspired by several people in the last few years and I want to try something to contribute to my favorite thing to do: writing. I've tried to join other groups and it simply doesn't work since my writing doesn't fit into a neat category, so I feel isolated from the group rather quickly, in order to avoid that feeling I'm making as many of the things I do a part of the group's core. I'll also be considering my anxiety into this knowing how tasking it is for me to interact with a group I'm being overwhelmed by.

Plans: I'm better at organizing than actual execution, so I'm making this list of things I want to expand on (06/15/23)

Monthly (or weekly) Prompts

Shameless sharing

Friendly Discussions

Writing Assistance

Review Swaps

Editing Help

Projects

Book Club

Check-ins

Venting about writing

I don't want this group to be just for writers or just for poets, I want to include everyone that I can because I write in almost every genre and include almost every interesting element I can. As long as it's related to writing in some way, you're more than welcome to join!

This includes:

Novelists

Short Story Writers

Poets

Artists

Fanfiction writers

Avid readers

Editors

Critiquers

Playwrights

Song writers

Publishers

Hobby writers

And more!

Every aspiring author or published author knows networking is important and with how little accessible support there is for writers, I want to try and create a space for writers to feel as everyone else does in their field. I can only speak for myself but my journey to publication has been nothing but dead ends and it's very discouraging. Nothing I've tried works and I can't find the exact source to the problem and therefore can't fix it—I don't know if I'm a bad writer or if it's just my cover that's bad.

I want writers to feel like they're heard and supported no matter if you're writing the next Star Wars or a story about pieces of paper thinking they were trees in a former life. I want writers to be acknowledged for giving the world their fandoms.

Despite my ambitions, I obviously have some concerns I feel will come up:

I get overwhelmed easily (and guess what I already am overwhelmed and no one has even joined yet 🤢) and I would need someone to assist me as a co-leader essentially. If anyone would be interested in that role, DM me.

If this moves to Discord or some other platform, I will have no idea how to set that up. For now, I was considering just having a large thread.

Unfortunately, until I can get moderators or any other form of help, I can't have the group open to minors. It would be 18+ only until then, I wanna allow people a safe space to discuss anything.

Activity is a big issue in most writing communities. It comes with it, but I want to have something going on whenever possible.

for the worldbuilding ask game!: 1 and 3!

Thanks for your kind words on my ask btw 😊

1: Honestly, I love my simpler worlds. Just taking a normal backyard and turning it into an entirely different world is something I always love doing. Even as a kid, I used to imagine monsters making their way in this ditch we had in our backyard!

3. I kind of answered this, but most of my worlds are the same place at different points in time. It's actually based on the state I grew up in because it's always so quiet where I live. It's easy to imagine all the different things going on or wonder if something was going on. Even though I joke around and say where I live is sleepy, I honestly think my ideas flourish because it's so slow paced here.

I-

I don't know, but all I can say is I love this picture I took and every fiber of my being wants to turn this into a original character sweats

There are one thousand and eight hundred seconds left in the universe and Will is stirring too much creamer into his coffee. He's overpoured the liquid--- maybe because his hands are trembling, maybe because he figures that if we're all about to kick the bucket, he might as well do what he wants. Either way, the clouds are drifting slow circles around his cup, long and lazy, twirling around each other until the coffee is blanched a pale tan. The color of divorce papers in a thick manila envelope.

"That's disgusting," I say. I mean it, too. The roads out the window have stilled to a dull silence, the air thick with the miscarriage of the rush hour that should've been.

Will snorts. "At least I know what I like." He lifts the steaming mug to his lips, winces as the liquid scorches its way down his throat.

"I do so know what I like," I say, but he doesn't answer, just nods to the mug of green tea growing a skin on the table, raises an eyebrow.

Will's been drinking the same coffee since I met him for the first time: black, bitter, and lots of it. Our work still stocks those little Styrofoam cups with the nineties pattern splashed across the side, even though there's been about a thousand studies since then explaining exactly how and why they're single-handedly killing the Earth. He used to collect them in a tidy, ever-expanding line at the edge of the desk in the basement that we use for breaks. It was because of him that the space no longer reeked of stale leather and rotting cardboard; the smell of cheap, instant coffee was too acute for any trace of shoe store smell to seep through.

Maybe it's because of him that this whole thing is happening. When I first got the alert on my phone, I thought it was a prank. We used to joke about it all the time in college, back in Maryland, a million years and dozens of friend groups ago: it's the end of the world, we'd moan, stumbling back from the bar with our heels dangling from our fingers and collared shirts unbuttoned down to the sternum. It's hangovermageddon, I'd say when I unpeeled the crust cementing my eyelids shut the next morning, leaned over to spray water-colored vomit into the sink. It's apocalypse now.

Some people believe in superstitions like that. My mother is one of them, though God knows I made fun of her for it near-relentlessly once I got old enough to figure out that stepping on a crack wouldn't necessarily break her back. Words that you spoke out into the universe came back around to you, she would always say, thwack me on the shoulder whenever I cracked a joke about our car getting slammed by a drunk driver or our plane nosediving into the Pacific. If I could get through to her now, she'd tell me the same thing. You pushed it too far, she'd say, in that paper-thin voice that afflicted her whenever she got upset. You never realize what you have until it's too late, you know.

I'd prefer to blame Will, though, and his relentless consumption of carcinogens compressed into a neat, to-go-optimized package. My mother would say that it's easier that way.

"What's our E.T.A.?" he says, swishing coffee around the backs of his molars. He would check for himself, he explained to me the first time he asked, but he can't bear to look at his phone.

"T minus thirty."

He nods. His eyes are glazed over like he's watching something on a television screen at the back of the diner, but the global internet dipped out about forty-five minutes ago, and the phone lines drowned under excessive demand long before that. "I could finish an episode of M*A*S*H in that time. Or Friends. Or The Office, maybe, but even I can recognize that as kind of cliché---"

"Will." I hold my hand up. My head is throbbing hard enough as it is, the germ of a headache gyrating right behind my eyes.

"Sorry," he says, then lowers his voice when he sees me tense. "Sorry."

"There's nothing else you have to do. Sure, you could melt the last of your brain cells watching whatever-the-hell. But"--- I raise my opposite hand --- "you could also not. That's the beauty of this whole thing." I take a sip of the green tea for the first time. The bitterness scrapes its way down the length of my esophagus.

Will narrows his eyes. "So what are you doing here?"

"Here?"

"Here," he repeats, louder. "You're sitting at a crappy twenty-four hour diner with your irritatingly charming coworker drinking a probably equally crappy mug of tea. That still counts as doing something."

"No, it doesn't," I say. "If I really wanted to do something, I'd go out and preach in the street or play a violin solo or something. Sitting alone with you doesn't count. No offense."

We already saw several of those types on the walk over here. A stubby man with white tufts of hair on his ears screeched right in my face about fire and brimstone; a beautiful twenty-something brushed my hair back from my forehead and told me Jesus had a plan for me. Will kept his hand tight on the crook of my elbow the whole time. Steering me away from them and towards this place, even though I didn't know it at the time. It'll be open, he said, and he was right. The staff had cleared out as soon as they got the notification, from the looks of it, ballet flats and leather jackets strewn across the syrup-sticky booths. They'd left the door unlocked. All we had to do was walk in.

He told me I was having a panic attack when we sat down. I don't remember it, but the look on his face was one I hadn't seen before, his little doll mouth drawn up in a frown, cheeks round and glistening with sweat. I do remember him asking me if he could call anyone, if maybe he could see if his phone would pick up any extra bars. Nobody left to call, I said, and he didn't offer again after that.

"Hey." He brushes his fingers across the sleeve of my coat. I feel their pressure against my skin, the warmth that flows from his body into mine, even through the thick skin of the fleece. "When you got up this morning, were you thinking that you'd be getting a front row seat to the end times?"

"No," I say. "I was thinking about how degrading it is that I have to put on a name tag just to sell rich people shoes they don't need."

Will laughs, glances down at the name tag still affixed to his chest. WILLIAM is emblazoned in small, blocky letters-- the manager didn't believe in nicknames, or so he said. "They might come in handy now," he says. "You never know. We might have to do some running."

I bow my head to stare at the table. The streaks where someone swiped a rag over are glinting underneath the overhead lighting. It makes my eyes ache. I can see the patches where they missed a spot, where the lacquer stays matte, dulled.

How do I explain to him that I'm tired of running? That my whole life has been spent in a marathoner's shoes, from here to Baltimore and back again? He still thinks I dropped out of college because of a medical emergency, that nebulous excuse I always give that practically begs to be sandwiched in scare quotes. While folding tissue paper around stilettos, I spun him stories of college life, four a.m. pizza runs and trips to Taco Bell. I told him about my first frat party as I unloaded shoe boxes from a truck pallet, warned him of the dangers of mixing Jaegermeister and Fireball (don't ask) as I chucked out a pair of two left feet.

He was so excited to leave. He'd already gotten his acceptance letter, even brought it into the store just so I could feel it in my hands. The card stock was creamy underneath my touch, sharp-edged and sturdy-cornered. Thicker than the papers my student loan bills came printed on.

Outside, two girls cling to each other with skinny arms, their nails carving half-moons into each other's shoulders. I can't hear what they're saying, but one of them is crying, shoving her face into the other one's sleeve, over and over again until the outline of her face is sketched on the fabric in her own tears. Underneath their jeans, the winter boots poke out, glossy and buffed-out like the surface of an egg. They're real leather-- I can tell by the way they crease at the toes. Expensive. If they were from our store, I think, they'd easily go for upwards of two hundred. When money could still be used for something more than papier-mâché.

"I don't know," I say, and turn to him. "I think I might be okay where I am."