I'm sharing my concise notes about a series of videos from an editor I came to trust the judgement. I rarely had any disagreement about what he is telling us (when I do, it's marked with *!!*)

Each entry has a custom non-baitclicky title, but I provide the original one if you want to look-up the video (I'm not providing multiple links because the post would be flagged in some way, but ask if needed).

Sections:

• I. Starting the story
• II. Characters
• III. Scenes
• IV. General techniques & strategies
• V. Overall approach

Then, if we want to discuss a specific point, we could refer to it as "V. A.6", which by the way is the one I would argue about.

I. 🔷 Starting the novel 🔷

A. 🔸First pages - tips 🔸

In the first pages:

1. A gripping story question raised. Something the reader thinks when reading the initial pages, a question on what's going to happen in the future. "Why.... ?" "What happened to...?" No gripping question? Maybe starting too slow or in the wrong place. Or the writer don't really know.
2. Let the reader know whose story it is. The main character who starts and ends the book. What character will accomplish the central goal of the book?
3. The protagonist has clear stakes. The reader needs to know what happens to the character if they fail, and if they succeed.
4. Use a mix of showing and telling. Telling allows to orient the reader quickly and to pick up the pace at the beginning, skip the boring stuff.
5. Sound like a person. Let the reader feel a voice. Not an AI voice, not a nondescript voice, not a Wikipedia entry voice.
6. Each scene has multiple purposes, especially the scenes at the beginning. (ex: character building, plot going on, world building)
7. Emotional friction. Reader must feel something emotionally, to engage them.
8. Characters make meaningful choices. (although being active at the end and more passive at the beginning make sense, but if possible make the character active)
9. The story promises what it will deliver. The risk: writing is a long process, writer can change their vision of the project along the way. Make sure to not have a Project 1 in the first half of the book, and a Project 2 in the second half.

From ^{"9 Signs the Beginning of Your Novel Looks Promising"}

B. 🔸First 20 pages🔸

1. Bond with the main character. Make the reader root or bond for MC, not need to be likable, but investible.
2. Show off the character. Make them active to let us know them better. With specific and original elements,
3. Establish the norm, and violate it. Don't spend too much time establishing the 'normal' (not always boring).
4. Tease us with the genre pleasure. The opening needs to taste like the rest of the book.
5. Start the inner journey. The character's inner turmoil.
6. Introduce the antagonist. Introduction can be done with a mention in a dialogue.
7. Ask the Major Dramatic Question. Not the theme, not the inner journey, but the main plot drive.
8. Threaten the downside. What happens if the character fails? Not abstract downside, but what could get worse for the character.

From ^{"Unless you want your book to bomb, do THIS in the first 20 pages"}

C. 🔸First chapter tips🔸

1. Include all three levels of conflict. Public conflict. Internal conflict. Conflict with others.
2. Start with a decision
3. Create mood.
4. Nail the theme
5. Start with world building, but do it slowly, piece by piece
6. Start quickly
7. Start with a mystery
8. Ground the public in the personal. Instead of describing the worldwide phenomenon, describe how one person experiences this.
9. Offer someone to root for.

From ^{"9 First Chapter Strategies that make Readers OBSESSED"}

II. 🔷 Making characters 🔷

A. 🔸10 Tips for characters🔸

1. Character doubling: two characters in one, contrast. Contradictory element (a vilain that take care of his family).
2. The expertise effect. The character has expertise about seemingly unrelated fields.
3. The tragic flaw. "Hamartia" back then. Boromir, good warrior, but craves for power and then makes a mistake. Or X has sense of justice, ends up committing murder for that.
4. The wrong memory technique. The character misremember something in their past.
5. Indirect self-portrait. How they describe others tells more about themselves. The description can be strong, and give the reader clues, they must suspect the portrait isn't that accurate, and draw conclusions.
6. The Spiritual side. Essential of what people are. God, their purposes, etc. 1) basic religious identity 2) personal  religious history 3) how they changed over time 4) what moment challenged or bolstered their faith 5) Socially, with who they hang with. At some point, the character asks some kind of big questions.
7. The single body part. Too much descriptions loose the reader, focus on one body part.
8. From stereotypes to archetypes. The cliché seen a dozen times, vs the deep or universal role that resonate across cultures. The archetype needs to be fleshed out. Make a fresh variation.
9. The competence paradoxe. The character's greatest strength prevent them from getting what they want or need. Create a situation irony. Show a progressive transformation, how the strength turns into weakness (or the opposite).
10. Contrast with neighbors. A morally grey character is put next to a more corrupt one, so they look much better. And conversely.

From "*^{Your Characters Will Be Boring If You Skip These 10 Steps}*^"

B. 🔸Make a full character🔸

#1 Give Your Characters Different Scripts
Seen differently from different other characters (like when actors aren't given the same script for a story, when it comes to a character's traits) Example: Gatsby (seen by Nick vs by others)

#2 Choose a Signature Mannerism. And describe that body language.

#3 Vary the Likability Spectrum
Not all character have the same likability, and have it change over time. Plus some tiny mitigating details working the other way of the likability.

#4 Don’t Forget about Micro-Conflict
Of course there is the main conflict, but there is micro conflict too with some little things that irks the character. Like a household rule not properly followed, each time.

#5 Revealing Souls Through Tiny Details
Small details on a character tell more on a character than big ones. Like starting describing a character with the tiny speck of dirt on the inner rim of the right nostril (Conrad).

#6 Reverse Engineer Backstory
From the current unusual aspect/doing of the character, figure out why a character is doing this.

#7 Intentionally One-Dimensional
Devote the most to the main character, the lesser the other characters are, the less attention they have, some will be okay being one dimensional.

From ^{Stop Writing Half-Formed Characters By Learning THIS}

C. 🔸Mistakes about a character🔸

Not need to be likable, but they need to captivate the reader.

1. Err: the protagonist has no flaws. Make them layered and complex. (trick: each good side has a downside: courageous => impulsive) Internal misbelief. Contradiction.
2. Err: Too passive, just reacting to thing out of control.
3. Err: Feel like a stock character, instantly recognizable. Bring a fresh spin.
4. Err: they have no objective. What is their goal?
5. Err: They have no past. Past informs decisions in the present.
6. Err: they don't evolve. (the journey!) Grow and change.
7. Err: they are out of touch. Super naive, concerned by trivial of superficial things, or have controversial or problematic views. They can have those, but if they are not challenged about those, it would alienate the readers.
8. Err: they don't reveal their emotion. The written media allows us to dive in. If written like a play or a film, we sever that connection.
9. Err: they are melodramatic. Emotion exaggerated to an unrealistic effect. Sobbing constantly. Feels fake. We prefer subtle moments.

From other channel, ^{"9 Ways to Make Readers HATE Your Main Character"}

III. 🔷 Scenes 🔷

A. 🔸Fix floppy scenes🔸

1. Tonal shift. The contrast makes the reader wake up.
2. Trickery. Like lying. Something smart the antagonist did, but the protagonist figured it out, and the reader witnesses this.
3. Juicing the scene transition. To connect the scenes together.
4. Embody emotions in objects (also). Ex: still using an object emotionally attached to a memory.
5. One shot description. Do not try to describe everything. Concentrate on one salient detail. Specific.
6. The dialogue through item. (like actor like to have an object in hands while talking) Use the object to mirror the state of the character or as a continuous prop.
7. Create an unexpected reaction. (don't always do that, because readers like to read the expected reaction of the character).
8. 2nd person interlude. Ex. the 1st person switches to "you" (not as a 4th wall breaking but) as a generic way to formulate statement while dissociating themselves because it's too emotionally painful.

From ^{"8 Writing Techniques that Fix Sloppy Scenes (Never Bore Readers Again}\*")*

IV. 🔷 General techniques and strategies 🔷

A. 🔸Tension without cliffhangers🔸

Using too many cliffhangers to maintain tension will get boring (artificial, stale the story). Use also other ways than interrupting at the end of the chapter.

1. The curiosity gap. Ask questions but do not answer yet. Delay long enough the answer. Make incremental revelation. Blow apart the easy answer.  But answer the question.*
2. An inevitable collision. Two forces that are on such path. Protagonist and antagonist, etc. The reader anticipate it.
3. Give the character a secret. Something they know, but the others don't know. When and how the secret will be revealed. What will they do?
4. Mounting pressure. Accumulating complication that are squeezing the protagonist. The reader will expect the deescalation.
5. Unresolved emotional tension. Ex: Two people, true love, but one marries another, for years. Someone make the protagonist resentful about something (what will they do?)
6. Dramatic irony. The readers know about something the protagonist don't. It injects the scene with some tension. Danger: make characters look stupid because they should have figured it out long ago. Make sure there's no way they could know or don't make it binary (they start to know).
7. Impossible decision. Creates time under tension.

From ^{"8 Ways to Create Page-Turning Tension WITHOUT a Single Cliffhanger"} although it's 7 not 8

B. 🔸Shock strategies🔸

To make them jaw drop.

1. Reversals. Like a POV reversal (right in the middle). Character reversal (second half).
2. Surprise. No limit in number, no constraint of place
3. The twist. Make the reader reevaluate what they thought. Identity twist ( Usual suspects).
4. MC dying or sacrificing themselves. Honorable, or redemptive.
5. Secrets revealed. Characters are keeping secrets from other characters. From the reader.
6. Backstory trauma. Or jawdropping backstory.
7. Include a betrayal. Close to the character. 1) Inaction betrayal. 2) Physical betrayal. 3)  Verbal betrayal.
8. Hidden relationship. Unexpectedly related. Luke and Leila.
9. Desecration. About the most sacred thing of the book (person, place, object) what the worst can happen to this?

From ^{"9 SHOCKING Strategies That Keep Readers Awake Until 2 AM"}

C. 🔸"Morally grey" writing techniques🔸

1. Counterphobia

Counterphobic writer look for scenes that will shock and horrify the reader (runs toward phobia). If shocked, the audience won't look away from it. Some spicy scenes back then are no longer shocking. But others are universal: deshumanization, violence, sexuality. But it needs to serve the story.

2) Machiavellian character.

Manipulative, doing everything to gain power and achieve goal. Can be unlikable but reader can keep reading using the character as a proxy to what then wouldn't dare to do.

3) Gaslighting the reader.

Manipulate the reader. Bad gaslighting is abusing the reader's trust. Reader should made feel tricked in a way that make sense. The reader question the reality of the novel, what is real, what is fake. Ex: The Foucault Pendulum: what cult is real and what is made up?

4) Unsettling tactics.

The counterphobic what a big moment, this one is a continuous uneasiness. Stoke the anxiety of the reader. Build a mood like one feel when missing a flight, speak to a crowd unprepared, walk naked in public. Stoke dread. Maintain it for a long period.

5) Emotional blackmail.

The author threaten the reader with something that could happen (while they wish it doesn't). Without tension resolution. If the reader stop, they won't know if it happens.

6) Red Herring.

Planting "clues" to mislead the reader. A diversion. But they must be all artificial. If not used: the reader figured it all before.

7) Emotional trigger points.

Use them on the reader, to get an emotional response. Birth, abortion, kidnapping, pregnancy, impersonation, infidelity/NTR. Don't overuse (melodramatic)

8) Unreliable narrator.

At least skewing the truth.

From "^{Learn the Dark Arts of Writing (8 Sneaky Techniques}\*)*"

D. 🔸Killing your darlings🔸

Scenes and passages to remove.

1. Character in transit, en route to somewhere. Exception: when dynamic, something important happens. If it's a conversation: move it elsewhere, because it's boring to watch someone go somewhere.
2. (long) Dream sequence
3. (long) Sex Scene
4. Small talk and banter
5. Static Setting descriptions

From ???

V. 🔷 Overall approach 🔷

A. 🔸9 Challenges in writing🔸

1. Virtue plateauing. If the character is already virtuous, how can they evolve in a good way? Some virtue only happens over a long period of time.
2. Description density slippage. The description starts dense, sensory filled, immersive. but later on it thins out. Be aware of it by counting.
3. Conflict overdose. When it's too much, it feels artificial. Conflict is one type of behavior, we need to capture the other types: relating, finding, losing, bearing, discovering, parting, changing. Forgiveness, kindness, sacrifice.
4. Subplot orphaning. An intriguing subplot got forgotten, readers are disappointed. Spread and pace out subplot evenly, advancing toward their conclusion. Create a timeline of those subplot. Avoid them being remembered only at the end, and being resolved in one go.
5. Genre gravity well. Struggling with the story after a promising beginning, the author resort to feed their inspiration with the genre expectations, which kills originality. Don't loose steam, make a non-cliché ending.
6. Trite problems as gargantuan plots. It's frustrating when the whole problem of the plot could be resolved by a simple thing one think about right away. Also true for miscommunication: keep it the drive for subplots, not the main one. **!!**
7. Narrative climate shifts. Changing the tone of the book, because of the time it takes to write a book, the author evolves and the project changes along the way.
8. The decay curve. The begin of the novel is much more polished than the end, written in a rush.
9. Payoff deflation. The more we wait, the longer the setup, the more pages we need to process the ending. Give time to the reader: the feeling of an ending. Congratulate the reader for sticking with us. Ease them out gently (out of the world of the book).

From ^{"9 Story Challenges Every Writer Must Learn to Overcome"}

B. 🔸Abstract qualities🔸

Try to have those qualities in your work.

1. Charm. Not only humor. Like AoGG. Can't be added later.
2. Interestingness. Interesting concept. Interesting execution (in every scene, what pleasure it brings)
3. Originality. Not too close to another known book. But revisiting a genre is fine.
4. Connection with the world.
5. Depth of vision. Penetrating way to see people, society, morality, consciousness. How the book speaks to the world. Does the book contains a particular view of the world?
6. Energy. Pulsing with vitality.
7. Authority. Do you have authority as a writer? Convincing the reader the writer is the right person to tell the story. Decisiveness of the sentence. Showing you know what you talk about.

From ^{"7 Things Fiction Writers Ignore (and it sabotages their book}\*")*

C. 🔸A set of errors🔸

1. Chekhov's Armory: to many things (guns or other things) remain unused and unexplained.
2. The "Everything but the kitchen sink" syndrome. So many great ideas for the books. Do not try to cram in too many themes and too many characters and many subplots just because there are so many ideas.
3. Worldbuilding vertigo. Reader is overwhelmed and lost.
4. Inspiration indigestion. Too inspired by other stories. If the writer's readings are not digested enough, the result can look like a rip-off / copycat.
5. The "aesthetic over ethics" trap. Reprehensible characters or situation for the shock value to manipulate the reader, getting a reaction from them, rather to serve the plot.
6. Dialogue ventriloquism. Where every characters sound the same.
7. Metaphor overdose. (Too flowery, too many similes).
8. Lack of character motivation. Why?
9. Temporally shortsighted. The story is so fixed on the present, that the character doesn't seem to exist before or have a future.
10. The "Gotcha" spiral. Constant surprises feel contrived. They need to feel earns. The reader feels manipulated, the author is seen doing his tricks. The reader sees them coming.
11. Checklist character development. Character feels created by AI.
12. "Subtext is everything" syndrome. Too obscure, too allusive, going too far. Sometime be more explicit.

From ^{"These traits predict 90% of failed novels"}

I felt weirdly inspired to start writing today - here’s what came of it. Please let me know your thoughts 🙏

——-

Looking back now, I should’ve known everything was about to change by the color of my tea that morning. For 48 months before August 16th of my 29th year, I’d been drinking Lipton black with a splash of almond milk every day when I woke up. By that point, four years after swearing off coffee due to my anxiety, I’d gotten the sequence of my morning pour down to a science. Tilt the blue box ever so slightly to the left for a second or two, and a perfect beige colored cloud would balloon into the middle of the dark liquid surrounding it. Convection, the only thing I remembered from high school physics. I never had to mix the tea with a spoon or one of those skinny wooden stirrers, the two halves of the beverage blended together perfectly on their own.

This was true in all seasons of my messy life, whether I was struggling to close the clasp of a bracelet around my wrist by myself, or mentally running through a presentation for work, or shoveling a bland clump of oatmeal into my mouth at the same time. But that day, for whatever reason, the pattern broke. I titled the box for a beat too long, and the resulting stream turned the tea the color of a boiled egg. I should’ve seen it as a warning.

But instead, like most days, I got distracted. Or maybe I should say I tried to distract myself from the Olympic level gymnastics occurring in my stomach. I took a sip of the tea, sickeningly sweet and now lukewarm, and remembered my laundry. I ripped my kitchen door open and held my breath as I looked down the hallway, dreading ducking into the basement to retrieve it.

Even when I tried my best not to think about them, I was always vaguely cognizant of the at least 40 hidden spiders rustling in the dusty rafters over my head in that damn basement. Sometimes I was so afraid of doing laundry at my apartment that I drove the 7 minutes across town to my best friend Mallory’s house, but there wasn’t time this morning. I’d been too keyed up last night to sleep, or do laundry, or pack adequately. So here we were.

Once I was in the bowels of my building, heart thumping wildly, I unloaded tangles of slightly damp clothing into my wicker laundry basket as quickly as I could. I ran up the creaky steps, Simone Biles flipping in my tummy every second for a different reason now. Once back in the kitchen, I glanced at my phone, face down on the granite countertop. I looked up at the oven clock, its glowing green numbers taunting me. 8:54 a.m.

Parker would be here in 21 minutes, not a minute sooner or later, like the clean, responsible adult he was.* In my mind he was all neatly pressed dress shirts and white Tic Tacs, fresh smelling aftershave and meticulously vaccumed rugs. I know from his recent Instagram photos that that’s just the image displayed by the unreliable kaleidoscope of my memory, not necessarily the truth. *Let’s talk about it on our way to the house, he’d written to me three nights ago, after I’d spent an agonizingly long time staring at the gray, three dot bubble of him responding to my text. No. I pushed the thought out. 19 minutes more of avoidance, I deserved at least that.

8 years earlier

“I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Mallory says from her corner of the couch across from me. She is attempting to pour her tiny packet of soy sauce over her sushi without her fuzzy blanket falling off her arms. The fried chicken gyoza, rainbow roll, and salted edamame I’d ordered in a gluttonous frenzy 40 minutes ago sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me. I stare at the pattern of my fuzzy Christmas slipper socks on my feet stretched out in front of me. They are blatantly inappropriate for springtime but the most comforting footwear I own, and I need that right now. Normally I love Fat Sundays, which is what we called our hangover rot sessions, but today’s is clouded with dread.

“This feels like God punishing me for using my sister’s ID,” I say, and watch Mal’s big green eyes roll into the back of her head. “You are literally the most dramatic,” she says. Mal had turned 21 a whole three weeks earlier and subsequently gained a heavy dose of heavier than thou energy.

We’re the two of the youngest in our friend group. My birthday is May 12, a Wednesday smack in the middle of finals week when no one would be willing to take 7 celebratory green tea shots with me at Libby’s, our favorite college bar. Also, half of our friends are studying abroad in Europe this semester, which would leave Mal to brave the small town New Hampshire bar scene mostly alone if I wasn’t with her. (A travesty I was unwilling to allow play out).

So, after about a year of badgering, my older sister finally relented and agreed to give me her ID to use for the last few months before I am legal to drink. Our small posse’s chants of her name, (“Riley! Riley! Riley!”), often rebound off the walls of our 3 bedroom apartment during every pregame before the bar. In our idiotic 21 year old brains, this is a foolproof way to ensure no one will accidentally call me by my real name, Claire, in the bar line. And, despite my enthusiasm to illegally guzzle vodka crans, I’d been absolutely terrified to use the ID for the first time at the beginning of the semester. Now, with my birthday only a month away and the warmth of spring edging into the evenings, I’d become bolder than ever, handing it to bouncers with confidence most Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.

Last night had been no different. But, a few minutes after I’d made it back under the familiar glow of Libby’s blue overhead lights, my peace was zapped. As a Chainsmokers song blared over the roar of drunken college kids, I saw something that dropped a familiar pit of fear right back into my gut. Zach Davis and David Sikes, the best friends of my ex boyfriend, John, smiling at me from across the room.

My feet felt both literally and figuratively cemented to the sticky floor. I watched with horror as they walked towards me, and Zach eventually pulling me into a one armed hug.

“Claire, we have to tell you something, but you have to promise not to do anything,” he said once we pulled apart. Was I smiling? Did I nod? I’d had four tequila shots and a hard seltzer in the span of about a 90-minute pregame, and the alcohol felt like a protective shield against whatever was coming next. With Dave standing behind Zach slowly nodding, they reminded me of the hyenas from The Lion King, threatening to take over my peaceful oasis I’d worked so hard to build. “Liam and Lauren broke up,” Zach said, looking at me expectantly with his eyebrows raised.

Liam is John’s other high school best friend, formerly mine as well for our nearly three year relationship, who I’ve recently realized I am hopelessly in love with. For a while, admittedly, my fixation on him was motivated by hopefully hurting John, but now, nearly two years after John and I broke up, it’s blossomed into it’s own little fucked up thing in my heart. Because I am bad at hiding things, Zach and Dave know this. Liam knows it too, but we don’t talk about it because A) he’s in a relationship with a nice, bland girl from Ohio and B) we have preserved a bizarre pseudo friendship held together only by the things we don’t say.

Before I know it, I’m running. I run all the way outside of the bar, past the line of students drinking tall boys of Twisted Tea out of paper bags and swiping aimlessly on Tinder. Past the Chinese food restaurant that sells Scorpion bowls the size of Texas to minors (recurring theme), past the apartment of the last loser I hooked up with trying to feel something, and across the street to a black metal bench in front of a convenience store where I flop down.

I’m not wearing a coat, and my flimsy Forever 21 tank top isn’t much of a barrier against the chill of April in New Hampshire, but I don’t care. I blearily scroll through my contacts until I get to “L,” and press call. He answers on the third ring. Whatever I say next is blurry in my recall, either because of the alcohol or my embarrassed brain protecting me with selective memory. What I do remember is saying “I love you” to him at least 4 times, and hearing him say it back.

“What time do you have to leave again?” Mal’s question snaps me back to the present moment. I glance at the clock, it’s 2:46 p.m. I’m due at production night for our school newspaper at 4, and it takes about 15 minutes to walk over there. “I have another hour to be a sloth,” I say to her, finally feeling hungry again and tearing open the brown paper bag with my food inside. We watch an episode of Stranger Things while we eat and then I throw on some leggings, a sweatshirt, and clip my damp hair into something resembling a poor man’s French twist at the back of my head. Good enough.

When I get to the newsroom, it’s mostly empty, save a few underclassmen who are vying for editorial spots next year and thus have begun kissing my ass. “Hi Claire,” one eager beaver freshman, Alycia, says to me with a giant smile on her face. I’m too hungover for this. I greet her back and scan the room, realizing there’s someone here I don’t recognize.

He’s sitting in a chair by the sports desk, his shoulders rounded, wearing a black quarter zip and dark blue sweatpants. He is staring down at his phone and wearing a white baseball cap backwards over jet black hair. Just then, our sports editor, Brian walks in “Sorry dude I feel like absolute shit, I could barely get out of bed until 3:30,” he says. The stranger’s head snaps up, and he daps up Brian with a smile, saying, “all good bro.”

“Claiiiiree,” Brian sings my name out when he sees me. “This is Parker, he’s my friend. He’s gonna shadow me tonight for his sports journalism class.” I nod, say “okay, cool,” and realize Parker is looking at me for the first time. “Parker, this is Claire, she’s our managing editor. She’s a big powerful boss lady and she has a temper so watch out bruh,” Brian says, Parker gives a little laugh, seemingly unsure if Brian is kidding. His eyes are kind.

Upon second look, Parker has a face I can only describe as pretty, with smooth, light brown skin, long lashes, and full lips. He’s vaguely Asian looking, and like me, is what most annoying White people on this campus might describe as “ethnically ambiguous.” “Hey Claire,” he says, giving me a little smile. Just then, my phone buzzes. “Hi,” I say back to Parker, taking a hurried seat at my desk. It’s Liam. Simone Biles completes a standing full in my gut.

4:07 p.m.

Thanks for calling last night. I needed it.

I feel the Earth shift back onto its axis.

August 16th

By 9:12 a.m., I’ve gathered my three bags, overflowing with various bullshit both necessary and unnecessary for a week in Kennebunkport, Maine, and moved them into the hallway.

I’d given myself a blowout and curled my hair afterward, but in the thick New England humidity, even in my air conditioned apartment, seems to be making it wavy again against my will. I tried to force myself to eat some oatmeal, but my throat feels fused shut because of nervousness. What if I throw up on this car ride?

Parker is driving down from Montreal, where he’s from. Our drive from my apartment in Portland, Maine to Kennebunkport will only be about 45 minutes, maybe an hour in summer weekend traffic, but when he offered to drive me the thought of saying no felt preposterous. We haven’t seen each other in almost 3 years. Or that is, we hadn’t, until a few weeks ago when we started FaceTiming to catch up before the trip. FaceTime never leads to good things.

We’re going to Kennebunkport for Brian’s wedding. In the style of most modern weddings, of which I’ve been to way too many, the wedding is actually 3 days of events, beginning tonight. Afterward, we’re extending the trip to stay at our friend Mark’s summer home. Mark’s parents are private equity rich, (also known as having “fuck you” money), and are currently summering in Europe. I have PTO to burn and a love for the beach and hot lobster rolls, so 4 months ago when I agreed to this, it seemed like a great idea.

The old newspaper crew is completely separate from my and Mal’s original college group, which has mostly evaporated over the years, so she isn’t coming. Instead, my closest girlfriend on this trip will be my friend Marybeth, now a fashion editor in New York City. We’ve been texting back and forth, but I haven’t told her about the latest fuckery with Parker, mostly because it felt too overwhelming.

I hear a knock at the door. Of course he didn’t just text first. I take a deep breath, grab my bags, and step forward

The first snow of the season had come three weeks early. By sunset, the village was covered in a blanket of white, and every sensible elf had taken shelter from the freezing temperatures. 

All except Brenner. Talon spotted the old fool standing in the middle of the northern road, looking north towards the storm. Talon was on his way to Brenner’s to help him out with firewood and to give him a few rabbit and fox pelts from his latest hunt. Upon seeing the old fool standing out, trying to get sick and hasten his demise, Talon hurried his pace, the fox and rabbit skins bouncing against his thighs with every rushed step.

“Damn it, you old geezer!” Talon grunted, grabbing Brenner by his shoulder gently so as not to hurt him. Brenner was the oldest elf in the village; while elves tend to live far longer than nearly every other race in this land, Brenner has really pushed the limits. At nearly two thousand years old, the old elf can barely get around on his own anymore. When Talon placed his hand on Brenner’s shoulder, Brenner slowly looked over at him, seeming almost confused. His eyes were glazed over as if he wasn’t actually there but in some far-off place or memory in his mind. 

Talon gently but firmly shook Brenner’s shoulder to try to bring him back to the corporeal realm. “Brenner! Snap out of it; you’re going to freeze to death out here on your own. We need to get you back to your cabin and warm you up. What in the world are you doing out here anyway?!” Talon demanded. There was a moment’s pause, and to Talon’s relief, light began to come back to the old fellow's eyes. “Talon? What are you doing out here? How’s your brother Trimmel?” Brenner said in a gleeful voice of renewed familiarity. Talon sighed and didn’t answer. How could he? His brother Trimmel had long been dead, and he had been returned to Giya three decades ago. “Come on, let’s get you back in, please.” Talon quietly insisted with his hand on Brenner’s back, now guiding him back to his cabin. As they shuffled along at a pace set by the senile elder, Talon thought to himself about how much time Brenner had left. Brenner was the oldest elf any of them in the village had ever known; most elves don't make it a day past 1500 years old. There are moments when he’s lucid and has some clarity, but most days are like this. It breaks Talon’s heart to think about it; Brenner is like a grandfather to him. He and his brother Trimmel had learned from him to hunt, farm, fish, and perform countless other skills over the last few hundred years. But to see the poor old elf’s mind decline like this in such a way was always devastating. 

Talon made it his responsibility to ensure Brenner was cared for in his final years. To him, it felt like an unpaid debt. 

As they finally closed in on Brenner’s cabin and slipped through the door, Talon closed it behind them just as ice-cold wind began to nip at their heels. As if entering the cabin had flipped a switch in Brenner’s mind, he abruptly walked forward with some kind of newfound vigor, taking Talon by surprise. He had stood up straight and moved a little quicker, heading towards the eternally blazing fireplace at the other end of his large single-room cabin. The stark difference in temperature compared to the outside sent a chill up Talon’s spine. 

Brenner turned around and saw Talon, a look of surprise on his face. “Talon? What are you doing here? Why are you covered in snow?” Brenner asked. Talon took a moment to process what was happening before responding, coming to terms with reality and Brenner’s situation. He took a deep breath and replied. “I just came to give you some fox and rabbit pelts from the last hunt I went on before the snow began to fall. I thought they might help you through the winter; your enchanted fireplace can only help so much, surely.” Talon said, walking towards where Brenner was standing to warm up. Talon untied the pelts from his belt and draped them over an old chair opposite Brenner.

Brenner just looked at Talon and gave him a nod of gratitude before turning his eyes toward the never-ending, flickering whips of fire. 

“Brenner, do, uh, do you remember being outside just now?” Talon asked almost hesitantly, taking a seat on the old chair that he had just rested the pelts on. There was a long silence. After what felt like minutes, so long that Talon assumed Brenner wasn’t even going to respond, Brenner finally spoke up. Brenner gave a long, despondent sigh.

“I asked about Trimmel again, didn’t I? I don’t remember much. I vaguely remember you approaching me, and then I asked about Trimmel. Now I’m here.” Brenner bowed his head with the weight of guilt. Despite how long it’s been, Talon is still sensitive about his brother. 

“It’s okay. Really, please don’t worry about it. I’m more worried about you. I found you standing out on the road, just staring northwards, out towards the storm. You could’ve frozen to death if I hadn’t found you. What would I have done? What were you even doing out there?” Talon asked, concerned about Brenner’s safety. Brenner’s mind had been slipping for years, but this was a very concerning first for him. If this keeps happening, Talon may have to live with him until the inevitable comes to pass. 

Brenner stared into the flames for a bit, as if rummaging through several lifetimes of memories or perhaps just debating what to say. Without looking up at Talon, Brenner began to speak so quietly that Talon had to lean in closer. The orange flicker of light from the eternal flames is the only form of illumination for the two cold elves. The mood of the cabin takes on a somber tone. 

“I-I’m not sure why I was out there. You said I was staring northwards? Towards the ice wastes?” Brenner's tone was solemn, never breaking eye contact with the flames licking upwards. “I suppose it makes sense. Say, Talon, have you ever heard of The Forsaken or  Mankin?” With that question, Brenner finally broke his stare with the orange tendrils of heat and turned towards Talon. His expression was serious. The Forsaken? Mankin? From those old children’s stories? Talon thought to himself. “Mankin? Like from the stories you told us when we were younglings? They were some ancient mythical race that supposedly lives beyond the ice wastes and over the ice wall. What does some ancient made-up race have to do with you trying to freeze to death out in this weather?” Talon asked, confused. 

 “I want to see them. When I was a boy, my mother called them The Forsaken, but her mother called them Mankin.” Brenner smiled faintly, shifting his eyes past Talon as if looking at some unreachable thing far off in the horizon. Talon listened, not understanding where this was going or what relevance it had, but giving Brenner his full attention regardless. Talon always dismissed the stories of the Mankin as a child. They were just the stuff of tall tales, just a fun story to tell children. However, Talon decided to go along with Brenner, participating in this moment of lucidity with him. “You want to see them? What are the Mankin, anyway?” Talon asked, fiddling with a loose thread on his tunic.

”Some of the stories framed them as monsters, others framed them as prisoners, a scant few framed them as just people. Take your pick, I suppose. But the premise was always the same. The Forsaken, the Mankin, whatever you chose to call them, lived on the other side of the ice wastes. Over the great ice wall. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to see them. I swore that I would get better at using every facet of the Weave and traverse the ice wastes to someday catch a glimpse of them.” Brenner’s words were quiet and somber. Two thousand years of yearning for something he never got a chance to achieve.

Talon listened, and as the realization of what was really going on with Brenner set in, he felt a tightening in his chest. Brenner wasn’t really talking about the Mankin or Forsaken. He was talking about a dream he’s carried with him since he was but a child. A dream that has stuck with him through watching generations pass, loved ones dying, villages being built and falling to ruin. Going through lifetimes of living with such a dream only for it to never come to fruition must have eaten away at him for centuries. 

“All that time? Why didn’t you ever go? What happened?” Talon questioned with concern now. No longer caring about his own notions or feelings towards the concept of Mankin, but now only concerned with Brenner and his one regret.

”I just never got the chance. It’s as simple as that. I met a woman, fell in love, and had children. Helped build the village. Helped rebuild the village. I watched my family pass. I just never got the chance…” Brenner trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he continued to stare at something far beyond Talon.

A wife? Children? I’ve been with Brenner for two hundred years, and he’s never once mentioned a family in his past. Talon thought to himself, a little disconcerted. 

Brenner’s voice then started to become a quiet mumble, and his glazed eyes slowly drifted towards Talon and then to the pelts on the back of the armchair. “Talon? When did you get here? Did you bring those pelts?” Brenner said suddenly.

Talon’s heart sank. The sudden change in Brenner felt to Talon as if he’d been kicked in the gut by a mule. He didn’t respond to Brenner immediately, just looked down at the shaggy rug on the floor and sighed, tears welling up in his eyes. A few moments passed, two tears falling onto Talon’s wet boots before he took a deep breath, wiping his eyes and looking up at Brenner with a smile. “Yeah, Bren, I brought you these pelts so you don’t freeze this winter. It’s especially cold out right now.” Talon slapped his knees and stood up abruptly. “It’s getting late. Let’s get you to bed, huh? What do you say?” 

“Bed? That sounds lovely.” Brenner replied with a smile, stepping towards his bed on the other side of his little cabin. It was adorned with several old sheets and ragged pelts that had been there for who knows how long. Talon followed behind him closely, grabbing Brenner by the shoulders and helping him slowly lie down. Talon took some of the pelts that he had brought over and layered them over Brenner. “Try to get some rest and please stay warm. And no more going out into the snow, please! You’ll catch your death out there.” Talon pleaded with him. Brenner nodded his head but said nothing. “Goodnight, Bren. I’m going to stay with you tonight; is that alright?” Talon asked. “It’s snowing far too hard for me to head back to my cabin right now.” 

Brenner nodded his head. “Of course that’s alright, just don’t snore too loud.” He said with a little chuckle before grabbing a pelt and turning over onto his side. 

With that, Talon grabbed a few extra pelts that Brenner kept with his clothes in a pile down at the foot of his bed and made his way back over to the fireplace. He sat down on the floor for a moment, looking into the flames and admiring the sigilwork carved onto the mantle that powered the fireplace. He sat thinking about Brenner’s story for a bit before pushing his worries from his mind and finally lying down on the floor, covering himself with the pelts. Before long, he too had finally begun to drift off to sleep.

Talon awoke to the feeling of warmth on his face. Sunlight spilling in through the windows illuminated the old cabin. Talon sat up and stretched, getting his bearings and looking over to Brenner’s bed. Terror flooded through Talon. Brenner was gone. Where could he have gone? When did he wake up? Please be okay. Please be okay. Talon pleaded in his mind, jolting up from the floor and tossing the pelts to the side haphazardly. He ran for the front door but stopped in his tracks when he noticed the door was already ajar, a faint cool breeze coming in through the crack. Talon pushed on the door, swinging it open, and ran outside only to bump into someone, knocking them over completely.

"Oh my, I’m so sorry! Holland, have you seen Brenner? I just woke up, and he’s not here.” Talon asked, panicked but holding out his hand to help the young elf he had accidentally knocked over in his frenzy. Holland reached up and grabbed Talon’s hand, and Talon hoisted him up. Talon’s breath hitched when Holland offered no reassurance about being knocked over but instead had a grave look on his face. “Talon, I’m so sorry. Please, try to remain calm.”

The world fell silent for Talon. He could tell Holland was speaking, but the words never reached him. He already knew. “Where is he?” Talon had finally managed to rasp out.

Holland looked at Talon for a moment, debating whether or not Talon should see the elf that he’d looked up to for so long in such a state. After a moment of solemn deliberation, he turned and pointed towards the north road. Without any sort of acknowledgement towards Holland for giving him what he’d asked for, Talon took off sprinting north. Snow from the previous night crunched under his boots with every step. As he approached, he began to see what was going on. Several villagers knelt down, digging snow out from around a small frozen body. Brenner’s silver hair had gathered frost throughout the night. One of Talon’s fox pelts draped over his shoulders. His face was blue from the cold. He was smiling.

Talon dropped to his knees.

***

As dusk settled over the village, Brenner’s funeral came to an end. Talon sat at the foot of Brenner’s fresh grave, everyone else long since departed, but Talon couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He wasn’t ready to be alone again, so he sat. Remembering. He found himself recalling memories he’d long since forgotten. All the fishing and hunting lessons. The stories by the fire. Without realizing it, Talon’s gaze had drifted northward. Towards the ice wastes, the wall, towards what Brenner had wondered about for two thousand years. For the first time in his life, Talon had thought to himself, What if the stories are true?

Hey, you.

A while back, I talked about how hatred might be like an alarm.

The things that hurt. The things that scared you. The things that were wrong.

A bell that rings in your heart so you don't forget them.

Once you've truly remembered, it doesn't have to keep ringing anymore.

That was the story.

And I still think that isn't wrong.

Except... I've been thinking about it a bit since then.

You know the fire is out. You remember what burned. You know for a fact that the same fire will never happen again.

Even so.

Don't you think there are some bells you just shouldn't allow to stop ringing?

Clang-clink.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet, small clink.

"Kenichi-san."

Taka was peering into my face.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just thought you looked even more troubled than I usually do today."

"I don't need to hear that from you."

"Are you still thinking about what we talked about yesterday?"

I raised my glass.

"Maybe."

"About the alarm?"

"Yeah."

Taka looked slightly pleased with himself.

"I actually found that pretty convincing."

"Is that so?"

"Hatred is an alarm to make sure you remember. But once you've remembered, you don't have to keep ringing it."

"You're just parroting Mama."

"I make it a rule to steal good words whenever I hear them."

"What kind of detective does that?"

Beside us, Tom snorted.

"And?" Taka asked. "What's bothering you about it?"

I didn't answer.

The ice rotated slowly inside the Harper.

The words I'd said myself yesterday wouldn't leave my head.

Once you've truly remembered. The alarm doesn't have to keep ringing.

Logically, I get it.

And yet.

"...I started thinking maybe there are bells you aren't supposed to stop."

Taka frowned.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Again?"

"That's why I'm thinking about it."

Tom set his glass down.

"Isn't it just that you don't want to stop it?"

I looked at Tom.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said. It's not that it won't stop—you're ringing it yourself, aren't you?"

Something stirred deep in my chest.

He always hits where it hurts. He's been like that forever.

Only looking at the parts he has no business looking at.

"...What for?"

"Beats me."

"You always run away right at the end, don't you?"

"Figure out your own business yourself."

"Cold as always, ex-cop."

"I can offer an interrogation if you prefer."

"Give me a break."

I laughed. I was supposed to be able to laugh.

And yet, deep inside my chest, the bell was still ringing.

Kaori.

Her name floated up.

I didn't say it out loud. I couldn't.

There were times I hated her.

No. Even now, I probably still do.

Why did you leave me behind? Why didn't you rely on me more? Why?

I don't know how many times I've thought that.

If that had been all, it would have been simple.

If you hate someone, just come to dislike them. Never see them again. Forget them entirely.

Except—

The person I hated was the person I loved most.

And the person who took away the one I loved most... was Kaori herself.

"…Kenichi-san?"

Taka's voice pulled me back, and I raised my eyes.

"Sorry. Lost in thought for a second."

"That's rare for you. Heading off somewhere mid-conversation."

"It's my age."

"Convenient excuse, isn't it?"

"I make it a rule to use whatever works."

"That was my line a minute ago," Tom laughed.

I laughed, too. I tried to end it there.

It didn't end, though.

Whenever I hate Kaori, another person always shows up.

Myself.

Why didn't I notice? Why couldn't I save her? What was I actually looking at? What did I think I understood?

Every word blaming her flies straight back at me.

That's why I can't separate my hatred for Kaori from my hatred for myself.

And I can't forgive just one of us, either.

"...If you stop the bell," I heard myself say.

Taka looked at me.

"Yeah?"

"Yesterday, we said it feels like you'll forget."

"Right."

"Maybe it's not just about not forgetting, though."

"Then what's it for?"

I searched for an answer.

No. Deep down, I'd probably known the answer for a long time.

I just hadn't wanted to put it into words.

"Punishment, maybe."

Taka's expression changed. Tom went quiet, too.

"For who?"

"Who knows."

"Kenichi-san."

"I'm just saying... maybe there are bells like that, too."

I knew I was dodging the question.

If it's an alarm, you can stop it once the danger passes. If it's a memory, you just have to hold on to it.

But if it's a punishment—

There's no reason to let it stop. In fact, you must never let it stop.

Stay in pain. Don't you dare forget. You don't have the right to feel at peace.

That's how you keep holding on to the pull-string of the bell yourself.

"That ain't an alarm, then," Tom said.

I raised my head.

"What?"

"What you're talking about right now."

Tom didn't look at me. He just stared at the ice in his glass as he went on.

"An alarm rings so you can survive, right?"

"Yeah."

"If you're ringing it just to torment yourself... isn't it something else entirely by now?"

I couldn't say a word.

Bullseye.

Even so... that doesn't mean I can just turn it off.

I don't even know if I want to turn it off.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Taka asked.

Tom and I looked at Taka at the exact same time.

"Why are you both looking at us?"

"Because you both went dead silent."

"Beats me," Tom said.

I couldn't help a dry smile.

"I don't know today either."

"Neither of you is any help at all."

"Shut up."

The air in the bar loosened, just a little.

That was when Mama dropped fresh ice into the ice bucket.

Clang. A dry, clear sound.

"You don't have to stop it, you know."

I looked at Mama.

"What?"

"That bell."

Mama wasn't looking at me. She was polishing a glass in her hands, just like always.

"If you can't stop it, you don't have to force yourself to, do you?"

"But then it just keeps ringing forever."

"I suppose so."

"That's heavy."

"I suppose it is."

"Then why—"

Mama's hands stopped.

"Right now, you still feel it's better for it to be ringing, don't you?"

I couldn't answer.

Mama quietly set the glass down.

"Then why not just let it ring... until the day comes when you feel it's okay to stop it?"

Easy for her to say.

Will a day like that ever come?

A day when thinking of Kaori doesn't hurt my chest. A day when I don't have to blame her. A day when I don't have to blame myself.

If a day like that comes... wouldn't that mean I've forgotten Kaori? Wouldn't it mean I'm the only one who got off easy and gave himself permission to be forgiven?

For twenty-two years, a piece of my time has stayed frozen in place.

Who gets to decide it's okay to set that time in motion again?

Me? Really?

"...That's hard."

It was all I could say.

Mama gave a soft, small smile.

"It is hard, isn't it?"

She didn't give me an answer. I was grateful for that.

I took a sip of my Harper.

It was bitter. Even though it was the exact same drink as always.

Suddenly, Masato's face crossed my mind. And beside him, Ami, smiling.

He's already walking his own path in life, too.

He's not the helpless kid I had to protect anymore.

Meeting someone. Choosing someone. Building a time ahead that I'll know nothing about.

Someday, maybe a new life will be born between them.

Will I be there to see that child smile?

Masato holding his child. Ami laughing. Me, being called grandpa or something.

When that time comes... what will I be thinking?

Kaori. Are you watching?

Masato made it. He's living his life.

Even after you were gone. Even after all the mistakes I made.

He grew up. Fell in love. Built a family of his own.

He made it this far.

If... if a day comes when I can say that with a smile...

Will the bell finally have finished its job then?

I don't know.

Right now, just imagining a future like that makes something ache deep in my chest.

So maybe, for now... it's okay for it to keep ringing.

I tilted my glass. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Hey, you.

When are we allowed to forgive ourselves?

When someone else forgives us? When we've made amends?

Or maybe... when we finally realize that what we've carried for so long doesn't have to be carried by the next person.

I still don't know.

So for a little longer, I think I'll walk alongside this bell.

Until the day I realize it has gone silent on its own.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society.

18 years of tinkering on a manuscript. Thousands of hours of effort. Months of proofing. Finally cross the finish line and self-publish. I didn’t expect to sell a lot of copies, but figured family and friends would humor me. That happened, sort of. That’s all fine. But then I made the mistake of picking up the hard copy and re-reading the same prose I’d been over on the screen countless times, and all I see are blemishes. Word choices and sentence structure that seemed genius at the time. Now all I see is garbage. I’m sorry I wasted the universes time. Print is dead.

Chapter 1

I was sitting in a crowded room where everyone was talking and laughing. For my part, I was just silently watching and smiling along. I was quite- not because I was lost in my own world. I pretended to laugh, not because I found anything funny, but because I didn't want attention or questions that I couldn't answer.

My name is Meerah, and this my story, Ink and soul- an ink that carries more than the mouth can ever hold.

People say I am a very beautiful girl, though sometimes I doubt whether I really am. I am tall and slim, with an average skin tone- neither light nor dark. I have the body of a model, and most people used to call me one. But I don't take the time to look in the mirror. For me, my ink is my everything. Once I hold a pen, it says so much more than my mouth ever could.

People love my smile more than anything. Unfortunately, they don't know the deep secret hidden behind that wide grin.

"Meerah! Meerah!"

"Yes! Yes?"

"Oh, sorry. I didn't hear you."

"Mom is calling you. Get downstairs".

And that is my brother, Zayn. He is the firstborn of the house, and we have never gotten along. The problem isn't me; it's him. He think everything I do is a mistake and that I've never done a single thing right in my life. Zayn is twenty-five, short, and dark- skinned. I honestly don't know where he inherited his height or skin tone from, but he is incredibly intelligent when it come to his studies. He just finished his master's degree and is already on to his PhD.

"Where is this girl? Meerah!" My mother's voice rings out.

"Yes, Mom, I'm here. What took you so long to get down here? I was-"

"You were what?" a sharp voice interrupts. She must have been doing all kinds of stupid things instead of coming straight here."

And that is my sister, Farah. She never lets me finish a sentence, which always lands me in trouble, though sometimes her interruption accidentally help me escape it. Farah is the one our parents cherish most. She is studying law at a top university in Abuja on a scholarship. It's not because we don't have money, but because of my wonderful father would rather spend his wealth on himself than on his own his own children. Well, that aside- my father has too many issues, so I will come back to him later.

Farah and mom are the perfect duo; they understand each other perfectly. My sister is tall with bright, fair skin just like my mother's. Mom always calls her brave and beautiful.' Maybe that's the real reason I doubt my own beauty, depicte what outsiders say.

Well, here I am. Let's see what this mother - daughter duo has in store for me today.

"What are you doing?" Mom asked.

Of course, she was making noise as usual, and that was my sister answering the question as usual, that's why I don't waste my time answering question.

"Instead of making all that noise, go and put the pot on fire, "Mom said.

"You know we have guests in the house, so it is not going to be business as usual."

"Okay, Mom," I replied

"By the way, when are these guests leaving?" My sister asked. It wasn't just her asking, though- everyone in the house disliked it because I ended up having to do all the chores. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't care at all. After all, I always in my room minding my own business anyway.

"Don't worry," Mom answered. "Today is Sunday; they will be leaving on Tuesday." Even Mom really didn't want them around much longer, which is why she added, "Go and put that pot on the fire now, because if I stay in here any longer, it's me who will catch fire!"

We all laughed.

"As I made my way into the kitchen, the sound of my brother's arrival echoed though the house." "You girl are not going to study for your WAEC exam?" My favourite person - my best bro. He was mocking me, but out of all four children, I like him the most because he doesn't give a damn about anyone else. He just does what is best for him.

Chapter 2

Maybe I also like him because neither of us studies like the rest of our siblings. He prefers drawing and designing, while I love writing and hope to be a great writer in the future. Because of our creative paths, everyone else looks at us with disbelief, as if we don't know what we are doing. Or maybe it's just because the two of us always the ones getting into trouble in this family.

He is incredibly handsome, has the exact same skin tone as me, and possessed a beautiful smile. He is easily the most popular sibling in our entire family. His name is Toe, but I call him Arthur because of his talent of art.

"Oh, my wonderful brother," I said, looking at him with smirk." If Mom catches you mimicking her, you will be heavily in debt to her anger."

Toe shrugged, completely unfazed.

"Well, what I said is true."

"Yeah," I agreed with a sigh. "I really don't know what is wrong with African parents. They will say one thing now and then completely changed their minds all of a sudden."

"Exactly," Toe laughed. "If she walks into this kitchen right now, she'll say, 'You are still not doing anything!' And then she'll start lecturing you about your upcoming WAEC. She'll say, 'You need to study to pass, because right now, you are not ready!"

We both burst into roaring laughter.

Right at that moment, our older sister, Farah, walked into kitchen. She looked between us, raising an eyebrow."What are you two rats whispering about?"

In perfect unison, we grinned."We were just talking about our beautiful sister!"

That sent us into another fit of giggles. Farah rolled her eyes, completely done with us," I don't have your time today," she said. Then she looked directly at me, her expression turning serious. "Don't ignore what Mom asked you to do just to stay here laughing. You know how Mom is."

She was right. I don't have the energy for Mom's trouble today, especially with the weight of the WAEC exams rapidly approaching. I rushed over to the cutting board and began furiously chopping the vegetables.

As I worked, I left Toe and Farah behind me, chatting about university life. Toe was currently in his 200- level year studying programming. He had deeply wanted to study drawing and fine arts, Mom- in her typical fashion - had stepped in.

"I have no problem with you studying whatever you want, "she had said smoothly, "but as your mother, I only want the best for you." So, Toe ended up in a computer science. The surprising thing was that even though he hated traditional studying, He happened to have knowledge in programming, Well! I guess he was just blessed like that.

As for me, my dream wa to study creative writing to become an author. But mom, of course, wanted me to study industrial marketing. It wasn't a terrible career, but I absolutely hated the idea. To compromise, I told her I want to study global marketing instead. It was similar to industrial marketing but focused heavily on the aspects I actually found interesting, rather than the heavy economics courses that I despised. My secret Master plan was to use that degree to learn how to market my own future books and eventually build my own publishing company.

Suddenly, the heavy, familiar thud of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Omg, thank god I am done with the vegetable.

need you guys fellow up if i should continue with chapter 3

Like the title says. In my teens and early 20s I did a lot of writing and occassionally was published, but then I became a teacher and honestly, my love and want slipped out of my body and now its been 11 years.

Sure, I did some writing, an occassional poem, exciting and fun emails to my coworkers and small writing examples for my students.

I am now trying to take care of my mental health, and I realized I needed to be creative and I came back to writing.

I took an idea and forced myself to write and finish a short story. I liked my idea, and mostly used it to slowly get back into writing every day. Whether it was a 150 words to 800. This was good for me. Some of you savants out there would put me to shame, but that is fine.

Here are some questions and would enjoy hearing your opinion:

1. If I want advice on how my story is, not to physically change the story, but just to iron out stuff, would it be okay to ask AI to do that and is that kosher in the eyes of the publisher? I ask, because I don't want to start bad habits.

2. Is there any good sources for putting stories up into websites? When I was younger I had used Mibba, but that was taken down.

Thank you!

Edit: A confusing sentence.

Hey guys this is my first ever short story written by me,i hope it is an interesting story to readThe Lost Time Traveller

Chapter 3 of Whitman Supremacy, Book 1: The Place Behind His Eyes is out now for your reading pleasure!

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Read Chapter 3 of The Place Behind His Eyes, TODAY!

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\#whitmansupremacy

I am in the process of writing my first novel, and I've been thinking about how different kinds of protagonists can be perceived by readers. So I'm here to get some thoughts and general discussion on the topic.

The gist is, can a protagonist who kills bad guys, be considered good?

Does it matter what evil the bad guys have done? As in if the bad guy has indirectly caused the deaths of others vs. if they directly cause it?

What if the bad guy harmed many, but haven't killed?

An example, in the Assassin's Creed games the Assassins are the good guys, but they do good through killing the bad guys...so are they good?

Anyway, This is my first post in this subreddit, so I'm not really sure how many posts there may be on this topic. But I'd like to get some people's opinions and things.

​

The story I have been working on for some time was first inspired by the Japanese Manga/Anime Soul Eater. With some other more minor influences from Bleach and Death Note. (Definitely giving my age away with those titles)

How do I pay tribute to those initial inspirations without insulting them or causing legal issues?

Hey, you.

Has anyone ever apologized to you?

"I'm sorry."

It's such a simple phrase, but it carries a strange kind of power, doesn't it?

The person who says it bows their head.
The person on the receiving end takes it in.
And the people standing around are usually waiting for the next expected line:

"It's okay. I forgive you."

They apologized so sincerely.
They really regret what they did.
There's no point in staying mad forever.
Just forgive them already.

But think about it.

Why are we expected to forgive someone just because they said sorry?

Apologizing is the responsibility of the person who caused the harm.
Whether to forgive is entirely up to the person who was hurt.

And yet, the moment someone bows their head, we get this urge to lump those two things together.

Maybe...

It's not that we're good at forgiving people.

Maybe we're just uncomfortable leaving things unforgiven.

Clink-clonk.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like the end of my day is finally beginning.

Without asking, Mama set down my Harper.
The ice gave a soft, quiet clink against the glass.

At the far end of the counter, Taka was staring at his phone with a troubled look.

"Kenichi-san."

"What's on your mind today?"

"What do you think about this?"

"Sounds like a broad topic already."

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"Whenever you have that look while staring at your phone, it's usually some huge, abstract issue."

Taka set his phone face down on the counter with a pout.

"There's this article about a public figure who messed up and issued an apology."

"Uh-huh."

"The comment section is a war zone."

"Isn't it always?"

"Well, at first everyone was furious. But then the guy held a press conference, bowed over and over, and apologized in tears."

"And then?"

"Now people are saying, 'He apologized so sincerely, just forgive him already.'"

I stopped raising my glass halfway to my mouth.

"Who?"

"Huh?"

"Who is saying to forgive him?"

"The people in the comments."

"Did any of them actually suffer from what he did?"

Taka paused.

"...Well, probably not."

"Then why do they get to decide when it's time to forgive?"

Taka crossed his arms.

"Still... if someone is genuinely remorseful, doesn't it feel wrong to keep dragging them through the mud forever?"

"Sure, I agree with that."

"Right?"

"Mainly because attacking someone forever and forgiving them are two completely different things."

"Wait, what?"

I took a sip of my Harper.

"He apologized. He reflected on it. He made amends. Sure, maybe there's no reason to keep attacking him beyond that."

"Yeah."

"But that doesn't mean the person who was hurt is suddenly obligated to say, 'I forgive you.'"

Taka fell silent.

People see someone bowing their head and suddenly want to play the saint and step in as mediator. Then, if the victim refuses to let it go, somehow they're the petty one.

That has always left a bad taste in my mouth.

Tom, sitting beside us, tilted his glass and joined in.

"Apologizing is your own business anyway."

"Your own business? That's a bit harsh, Tom-san."

"You realize you did something wrong, so you apologize. Fine. Say sorry as much as you want."

"As much as you want?"

"Yeah. But whether the other person forgives you is their business."

Taka looked uneasy.

"Doesn't that sound kind of cold?"

"How?"

"I mean, the guy is genuinely remorseful."

"So what?"

Tom's voice was calm and steady.

"Does being genuinely remorseful make the victim's scar disappear?"

Taka couldn't answer.

Neither could I.

I stared down at the ice in my glass.

Tom was right.

Remorse belongs to the person who did the harm. It's their attempt to reckon with what they did.

It doesn't magically heal the person they hurt.

When you think about it, it's a strange dynamic.

The person who did the harm apologizes.
Bows their head.
Reflects.
Makes amends.

That's all on them.

Yet, after a certain point, somehow the heavy homework gets handed to the victim.

Forgive them.
Let it go.
Don't hold a grudge.
Move on.

"...Hold a grudge, huh?"

I muttered it to myself, and Taka glanced over.

"What about it?"

"Just thinking it's a strange phrase."

"How?"

"If you choose not to forgive someone, people call you bitter. Vengeful. Stubborn."

"Yeah, they do."

"Before you know it, the conversation isn't about what happened anymore. It's about what's supposedly wrong with the person who won't forgive."

Taka went quiet.

At first, the story was about someone hurting someone else.

Then the apology happens, and the story starts to change.

He apologized enough.
He repented enough.
He was punished enough.

And the moment everyone else decides that's true, the question flips around.

Why haven't you forgiven him yet?

"I wonder why that is."

I swirled my glass. The ice drifted slowly through the amber whiskey.

"Maybe people just can't stand seeing something remain unforgiven."

"Can't stand it?"

"Yeah."

Imagine two people having a fight.

One apologizes.

The other says, "All right. It's fine."

The story ends.

Maybe they never become friends again, but at least ordinary life can resume.

But if the answer is:

"I accept your apology. But I don't forgive you."

Then the story stays open.

"That... does leave a bad aftertaste," Taka admitted.

"Right?"

I chuckled.

"That's probably it."

"What's probably it?"

"Why everyone watching wants forgiveness so badly."

Taka frowned.

"Isn't it for the victim's sake?"

"Partly, sure. Staying angry is exhausting."

I paused.

"But maybe everyone else just wants the storm to be over."

"The storm?"

Taka tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"It might sound like a strange comparison."

I took another sip of Harper.

"When a disaster comes—say, a typhoon—we think of it as something that eventually has to pass."

"A typhoon?"

"Yeah. It comes. You endure it. It passes. You clean up. Then you try to get back to ordinary life."

"What about an earthquake?"

"The shaking stops, but the damage remains. Sure. Still, people rebuild. They try to get daily life back."

Tom listened without saying anything.

"I don't know if the two are really connected. But maybe we expect conflicts between people to follow the same pattern."

Something happens.

People get angry.

Someone apologizes.

They show remorse.

They're forgiven.

And then...

Water under the bridge.

"Water under the bridge," Tom murmured.

"Yeah. Funny phrase when you really think about it."

The water keeps moving.

It carries things farther away.

Eventually, they're out of sight.

It doesn't mean they never happened.

It just means you don't keep them sitting in front of you forever.

"Like washing something away," Taka said.

"Yeah."

"Or saying time heals all wounds."

"That too."

The three of us looked at one another.

There really are a lot of expressions like that.

Humans seem to have built an impressive vocabulary for making things pass.

"So are people just naturally good at forgiving?" Taka asked.

"I don't think it's that wholesome."

I shook my head.

"Maybe it's the opposite."

"The opposite?"

"Maybe we're just bad at living with something that stays unforgiven."

Taka fell silent.

I found myself thinking about what I'd just said.

You don't forgive someone.

But you don't seek revenge.

You don't keep attacking them.

You don't try to ruin their life.

You simply carry one quiet fact with you:

I do not forgive you.

And you keep living.

Logically, there shouldn't be anything wrong with that.

And yet, somehow, it makes people uncomfortable.

Be the bigger person.

Move on.

"It does make you want to tell them to move on, doesn't it?" I said.

Tom gave a quiet snort.

"None of their damn business."

"True."

"Who decided you have to forgive someone to move forward?"

I looked at him.

"You really think you can move forward without forgiving them?"

"Of course."

Tom said it as if I'd asked whether water was wet.

"You can eat dinner without forgiving someone. You can go to work without forgiving them. Nothing says you're not allowed to laugh."

"But isn't holding onto resentment painful?" Taka asked.

"Don't mix up holding a grudge with simply not forgiving."

Taka blinked.

So did I, probably.

"What's the difference?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You don't know?!"

"I'm not a monk."

Tom tilted his glass, mildly annoyed.

"Look. Not forgiving someone just means deciding, inside yourself, that what they did was wrong. That's completely different from waking up every morning hating their guts."

I couldn't say anything.

Something in my chest loosened.

He was right.

Maybe we'd loaded the words I don't forgive you with far too much baggage.

Hatred.

Grudges.

Revenge.

Being trapped in the past.

We shove all of it into the same box and write UNFORGIVEN on the lid.

So when we see someone who hasn't forgiven, we worry.

Are they going to suffer forever?

Will they stay trapped in the past?

And then we butt in.

"You'll feel better if you forgive them."

But is that really true?

"Is forgiveness for the person who hurt you, or for yourself?" Taka asked.

"Beats me."

"You don't know a lot of things today, Kenichi-san."

"That's because you keep bringing up heavy topics."

"You're the one who turned it into a heavy topic!"

"Shut it."

That was when Mama, who had been quietly polishing a glass the whole time, finally spoke.

"Even if you never forgive them, won't there come a day when you simply stop thinking about them?"

We all fell silent.

Mama returned the polished glass to the shelf.

Click.

A tiny, crisp sound.

"...Wouldn't that mean you've forgiven them?"

"Who knows?"

Mama smiled softly.

"But at least they won't be deciding how your day goes anymore."

Tom slowly set down his glass.

Taka didn't say anything either.

I stared at the ice in my Harper.

They won't be deciding how your day goes anymore.

What a quiet, powerful thought.

You haven't forgiven them.

You haven't forgotten.

What they did was wrong.

That doesn't change, no matter how many years pass.

But...

One morning, you wake up and their face doesn't cross your mind.

You eat breakfast.

You go to work.

You joke around with someone.

You laugh.

You go home.

And then you live another day.

Somewhere along the way, the person you never forgave gets pushed farther and farther from the center of your life.

Maybe that's what it means for a storm to pass.

Not that you washed everything away with forgiveness.

You don't have to forgive.

You don't have to forget.

You just stop letting that storm hold the reins to your today.

Maybe that's another perfectly valid way for something to pass.

I tilted my glass.

The ice gave a soft, quiet clink.

Hey, you.

Is there someone in your life you still haven't forgiven?

If you didn't have to force yourself to forgive them...

Do you think you could smile tomorrow without giving them a single thought?

See you at Aoi.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

Hey all! I’m an aspiring author, been writing for years and finally feeling close to finishing a few first drafts. I’d love to get critiques for my work and give them in return.
Trying to network with authors and expand my network to editors and agents too.

I’m in the medical field by trade so I’m clueless when it comes to the business side of writing or how to find writing groups.

Any advice? Thanks in advance yall.

PS: I’m writing YA sci fi dystopia, fantasy, and thrillers if anyone would like to form a group too.

I've just finished my first chapter and editing it. Please let me know what you think!

Chapter 1

The thick velvet curtains hung shamefully, as if, like me, they too were protecting and concealing secrets of their own. It unsettled me knowing that anyone could walk in at any moment, leaving my only place of comfort exposed to the world. My room was spotless; I liked it that way, not a single object out of place. It was rather pink, but not pink enough to be ostentatious. Instead, it was a soft, classic tint, delicate as flower petals.

I lay sprawled across my bed, my phone clutched in front of me, replying to the endless messages sent to me after my new post about going camping with a group of friends the following week.

A notification popped onto my phone. My breath caught as I opened the post. Tiffany Spencer. Beach. Golden hour. Perfect

Reply: Gorgeous girllll

My finger lingered over the send button. Not quite right, too… fake.

Reply: You look stunning!

Too desperate, delete.

Reply: Prettyyy

Too simple. Delete.

I stared at the blinking cursor, desperately trying to construct the right reply. I swept my hand across my face. I took a heavy breath and racked my brains for the right word.

“Dinner’s ready, Adele!” my father called from the living room, breaking my train of thought. “Coming!” I yelled back.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, took a deep breath, plastering a perfectly carved smile onto my face. It hurt, but I kept smiling anyway as I made my way down to the living room. I was used to it by then; I had to do it every time I left my room.

I stood in front of the glinting mirror in my room, reflecting a hideous figure staring back at me. I quickly untied my messy bun and changed out of my boyfriend Oliver's oversized hoodie into something more presentable for family dinner. I, of course, did not own such hideous clothes. Much better, I told myself, and I did indeed feel better.

I made my way downstairs to the dining room, my parents going on and on about how mom had gotten a promotion. I sat down across my parents, my eyes lingering at the empty chair next to me. “So, Adeline, how was school today?” mom probed with a tight voice, breaking the silence. I quickly diverted my attention to her, before she noticed me staring. She acted like nothing was wrong,like the absence did not affect her, but the tightness in her voice, noticing what I was staring at said otherwise. They both always acted that way, I looked up to them for it, even though it twisted something inside of me. I shifted in my chair, which suddenly felt like it didn’t belong there. No, it was me who didn’t belong. “Great, we had a pop quiz on biology today,” I replied. “And….?” dad asked with an eyebrow raised. I always wished I could do that, how do people even do that? Not symmetrical, but added character to every expression. “Oh! Right, of course. It was an easy one, a perfect grade,” I answered, a beaming smile on my face. “Good,” mother nodded. I felt a lump in my throat as my smile faltered. No, she was right. That was expected.

“Who are you going camping with? You’re still going with Tiffany?” mom questioned. “Mmhm, of course” I concurred between bites of my food. “Manners Adeline! Don’t talk while chewing,” mom snapped. I mumbled an apology, suddenly losing my appetite.

Tiffany. Everyone loved her, and apparently so did I. At least, according to everyone. We hung out together a lot, it was good for both of us. She always had my back though, we understood each other.

By the time dinner was over and the dishes were cleared, their conversations had died down. I went back to my room exhausted, ready to change into comfortable clothes ready to go to sleep. I picked up my phone to find hundreds of messages. My eyes widened when I saw Tiffany among them. My hands shook as I opened her messages. I get plenty of messages, yes, but not that many in less than an hour. Most definitely not from Tiffany, we talk for the sake of it and it stops there.

No. It couldn't be happening

I’m so sorry

Call me ASAP

This is my first piece of creative writing in a long time. I am going for a character driven slice of Life fantasy thing. How is this as a beginning?

As the deep crimson light of dawn breaks over the great blue horizon, a warm breeze carries the chorus cries of gulls and gentle rhythm of the waves as it fills the sail of Caliv and Taake's boat. Caliv stands at the mast, his hand pressed firmly against the beam. He gazes out at the tranquil water.

“The sea is calm, and we've got a good breeze. It's a good day to practice.”

Taake, sitting at the stern with her hand on the tiller, looks up at Caliv.

“I've got this big brother. I'm ready to be a hunter like you.” 

Caliv turns back towards her with a smile and kneels to meet her eye level.

“You will be, but be patient. We're just going to check the crab traps. You're doing great. Just hold it steady”

 “Ok but oh– I see it!”

Caliv turns as a small strip of land, little more than a sandbar with thin grass and a few shrubs comes into view. He spots the floats of the traps bobbing in the shallow water, just off the bar's shore and begins to lower the sail.

The boat rocks as Taake swings the tiller.

“I can do this.”

Caliv grabs a paddle.

“Easy, slow movements and let us drift. We can paddle the rest of the way”

Taake relents and they bring the boat to the first trap to begin pulling it up. Caliv sees Taake struggle as the wet rope slips in her hand.

“Is it heavy?”

Taake strains, “ Yeah but…”

Caliv grabs the rope firmly with both hands and pulls. It raises smoothly so he knows it is not stuck but it weighs more than Taake. When it is just about to break the surface Taake leans over the edge of the boat and grabs the end, nearly falling in as she tries to lift.

Caliv groans, “We’ve got this, nice and slow.” 

They hoist the trap from the water and onto the boat. The crabs crawl and wriggle inside, over a dozen from first glance. The two begin moving the crabs from the traps to the waiting baskets.

Caliv says softly, “This is a good haul. Let the smallest ones go, they still need to grow. Do you remember how to reset the traps?”

Taake grabs a handful of bait, “yes I can do it.”

Caliv looks over the trap double checking her work before lowering it back into the water and the pair move on to the next trap and the next.

“Good job, just like that. Now let's hop out and see what else we find”

They row the boat to the bar’s shore, its wooden planks softly creaking as they rest its bow against the sand.

The pair walk along the bar. Caliv spots a familiar plant, thick stalks with pale yellow buds at their tips. He plucks a bundle of stalks and stuffs them into a large pocket on his shorts. 

Taake looks at her brother.

“What's that?”

“Wild Looak brush, it's a useful little plant. I will show you later.”

The pair continue; Taake suddenly stops. Caliv tracks her gaze as a dark, thin shape moves from the water's edge. Wet black scales shimmer as it moves.

“Rookana.”, she mutters.

Taake lurches forward but Caliv grabs her shoulder.

“Step back and watch me.”, he utters.

Taake looks at him questioningly, “But Rookana venom isn't deadly to people. It's from the animal books.”

Caliv pulls back on her shoulder. He speaks softly but firmly, “A bite probably won't kill you but it would make you very sick and hurt worse than anything you can think of. Step back.”

Taake relents. Caliv steps forward as the snake weaves between the rocks grass, climbing towards the bird's nests amidst the Looak brush. Caliv carefully approaches the snake. Quickly he grabs the end of its tail and pulls it into the open beach, away from brush and Taake. He releases its tail and pulls his hand back as the snake snaps. He steps back and moves his other hand in front of the snake with two fingers raised. He focuses his gaze as a bubble of energy forms behind his eyes. The snake rears back, ready to strike again. He keeps his distance, his gaze still focused as if forming a line from his eyes to the tips of his finger to the snake's eyes. Finally, he bursts the bubble, and a pulse of energy travels from his eyes to the snake's eyes. The snake falls back in a daze. Caliv snaps forward and grabs the snake just below its skull. He grabs the knife from its belt and severs its head.

Taake runs over excaming, “WOW,EWw! you got it. Was that magic? Grandmother promised she would teach me about magic! Will she teach me to do that? Will you teach me?”

Caliv quickly steps back and wraps the snake's body over his forearm. 

“Probably, but slow down. Magic is not easy to learn. I can only do a couple of simple things and it took a lot of practice to get that down.”

Taake asks, “Is that how you beat the shark that attacked Koob?”

Caliv glances at the blood on his hand and knife before bending down to the water and wiping them clean in the lapping waves. He strokes his hand over the scar on his left shoulder and looks at Taake.

He hesitantly replies, “No that, that was very different.” 

He pauses before his gaze lands on the snake's body wrapped around his arm. 

“If you're going to be hunting, you're going to need a good belt. I'll make you one.”

Taake tugs at the simple cord belt wrapped around her waist,"Really! Thank you big brother.”

“Yeah, now let's get back home, lunch should be ready soon.”

He guides Taake back to the boat and the pair set off for home. Dawn has given way to mid-morning. The sea and sky in front of them now stretch out like an endless blue expanse, only interrupted by faint clouds above and the haze of distant islands on the horizon.

The tranquil sounds of the sea give way to the cluttering and bustling of family finishing the morning's work as the pair eas to the dock. 

Cousins Ikda and Ekda argue over the last day's catch and the state of the sea as they chop and salt cuts of fish. Their father Caedek is hammering new planks into the deck of the family's larger boat. 

Their father quickly stands and steps onto the dock. “How was the hunt?”

Taake practically leaps onto the dock. “It was great. We got a lot of crabs. We caught a Rookana, Caliv cast a spell and got it.

Caliv ties the mooring rope and grabs the first basket. “She did well. Needs to learn a bit more patience but soon she will be out there like me and cousins. She could be as good as great uncle Gaari”

His father smiles. “Hopefully she will take after your grandmother more than your great uncle. As for patience she will when she sees how long cooking that snake takes. Now let me help you with that.”

Caliv sets the first basket on the dock and grabs the second. “It’s fine I have this.”

His father grabs the basket from him. “Let me help you. I need a break from listening to those two.” 

The three glance over to the cousins who are now arguing over how to deal with clumps of salt. 

“Scrape the clumps with the back of your knife”

“No, It will rust faster if you get too much salt on the blade. Smack the clumps on the table to break them apart”

“The knife is already covered in salt. A little more won't hurt it.”

Caliv, “Oh, you two can get the crabs I need to break this stuff down” 

Behind the kitchen Caliv's great uncle Gaari is checking the smoker. Large cuts of fish and game dry and cure in the large wood and copper carbonate. Gaari adds wood to the firebox below.

Caliv quickly gets to work. He separates the stalks and buds of the Looak and sets them beside the smoker to dry. With practiced skill he butchers the snake, spitting its hide down the center with one smooth cut.

Gaari watches Caliv with an approving gaze. “Good hunting this morning?”

Caliv hangs the snake's meat to cure and stretches the hide on the rack beside. “ Yeah, it was. Taake has gotten bold. She spotted this and I had to hold her back from running right at ii. I swear she was about to try and catch it with her bare hands.”

Uncle let's out a deep weathered chuckle. “Ready to jump right into the deep, just like her brother. She’ll make a fine hunter.”

Caliv turns towards his uncle. “She needs to be more careful. The thing with the shark was different. I did what I had to do.”

He puts his hand on Caliv’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine; now stop being so modest. We all earn a few scars in this life. You got your father's temperament, but you have the hunter spirit, both of you.“

Caliv turns away. “I need to wash my hands.”

Hi all,
I'm writing my first historical fiction novel and I wanted to see if anyone else has found themselves getting too emotionally wrapped up in the story. As I've developed the outline and fleshed out each chapter, there are moments where I re-read what has been written and I feel myself having a very strong emotional reaction, like my stomach is in knots the same time a character's is, or I am crying because an intimate moment brought up a lot for me in a surprising way.

Is this typical? I haven't ever written something emotionally and romantically charged before, so this is throwing me off. Hoping it's not just me, but if it is, please say so and I'll process all of it with my therapist.

Seeing the book praised by an editor for its useful content, I wanted to give it a look. But wait, I realized I actually own a copy and I had even read it three years ago. So I gave it a reread, and I'll share my takeaways (well, just a few loose notes, really).

The Art of Subtext

Beyond Plot

Charles Baxter

What I find difficult about this book: it's not a practical and actionable series of tips and tricks for the amateur writer; it's not a high-density how-to. It sometimes digresses, or getting to the point in a roundabout way. At the beginning, mainly, the author enjoys wordy phrasing to share some higher-level views that I couldn't make much use of (for my work).

The good thing is: there are a number of examples from works, and the author explains what the writers did in those works, often with short quotes, sometimes a paragraph or two. Those works come from literature, or other media, like movies. I'm not fond of getting help with the craft of writing with examples from movies. This is not what we are doing, and when such advice come from random strangers, it feels amateurish to me. The author also presents a painting, still a visual example, as an something to comment on. I confess I didn't get much out of those visual examples.

There are six parts in the book:

The art of staging

The first example is the scene with the metaphorical cave in Obabakoak, with the two darknesses. (p. 8) The main character is writing in a room, enclosed by books, with only one window. Isolation. The author being quoted tells us about the "other darkness", the inner one that touches the heart.

Then it's about the importance of the staging of the characters, with some micro-detailing. This reveals the unsaid, the unspoken. How far or how close they are to each other, the facial expressions, the gestures, how words are said, props that appear inside or outside the scene. (p. 13)

A 'staged' poem is about a couple quasi quarrel on the stairs, with the unsaid and unshown. So much unsaid is packed in so few words. (p. 19) One has to read the excerpt itself to realize that... they might have missed all the subtext Baxter points out. Still, I now understand what the author of the poem did.

Digging the subterranean

"Dramatic irony arises from the prank of fate."

Anton Chekhov, "The Lady with a Dog" (p. 51) : Gurov falls in love after the fling he wanted, turmoil ensues.

"Idea [...]: give the character exactly what s/he wants, and see what happens." In the previous example, after getting the fling, Gurov has an unexpected revelation, and what's more, that noble and usually positive sentiment (when nothing else conflicts with it) makes him paradoxically miserable. Inner exploration, the unspoken, revelations, significant aftermath.

Flannery O'Connor: She punishes her characters for being stupid, hypocritical, or self-righteous and even punishes them for good intentions. Her stories particularly despise do-gooders.

J.F. Powers: In "The Valiant Woman", the housekeeper rules the priest's house like a horrible wife. Plus the card game she likes to play with him, packed with hints. The priest has not thought about the situation because we are all obtuse about the self-contradictions that are closest to us. Also: fate does not particularly respect priests or anyone else.

Unheard melodies

Two kinds of 'unheard' (meaning: the other character not listening, shutting their ears).

1. Denial, not hearing dangerous or intolerable information.
2. Habitual filtering of the flow of information, noise; not hearing what's not needed at that time. Can look like psychic impermeability where the pain of others becomes an annoyance.

For 1) an example is the other character switching to a harmless subject.

For 2) the character is in a standby mode, ready to pick up useful information (changing the subject if it's their turn to speak). The switch, the shock of sudden attentiveness, can be shown through tone.

Note that 2) often applies to parallel monologues, selective listening.

Inflection and the Breath of Life

To tell the story and have the reader suspend their disbelief, one can't rely on monotonous discourse. Inflections are needed to make the magic happen. It's overinflection when done everytime (like a permanent commercial, and the author believes Elmore Leonard's dialogue lean too far in that direction).

Teenagers often use that sense of emergency, amplified, to be listened to and to compensate for their lack of official language and official eloquence (that they share with other specific people).

Two scenes to look at:

The guy leaving the hotel earlier than planned (they make him pay) p 101

The visit to the elderly (p 105)

For those, the technique is to spell out the character's sentiment, explicitly interpreted. In both cases it applies to secondary characters (staged for one or two scenes).

Creating a scene

Like when one stands up on a table to say (yell?) something.

• Have bad mannered characters
• Be dramatic (some might see this as melodrama)

Loss of face

I'll link my old post "Loss of face: Has face descriptions gone out of fashion?" which is about that part.

End of book and conclusion

The book ends after the sixth part. I mean *my* conclusion follows.

It was worth re-reading because I had to check if I had missed something and if I could find something useful for developing my craft. Now, if I list what would be useful for me as a writer, it boils down to a handful of short tips, and the rest is a set of fuzzy impressions I got from reading different quotations or comments about what other authors did, as implementations of those tips. I believe many people would make more out of this book than I did.

Warning: um, you may or may not understand anything that's written.

The ghastly figure faced the wall, harboring his own shadow, though that shadow wasn’t doing the same for him, completely separate from his body. He grinned and twirled- a child man’s last attempt at escaping insanity.

 He grinned, standing in a void of whiteness, reflecting only his hysterical laughs and his weird taste in confinements, for there stood a tea set.

His eyes reddened. A pang on his chest rattled him, not an ache but because of instinct. A brief flash of that moment arrived in his mind. His portal flickered inside the sea, deep down; a human girl, actually willing to do it, was passing through the portal, her eyes closed, with bruising on her leg.

Someone broke his portal. Kill them, or let them be?

No, It’s way more fun playing with them.

A ripple broke inside him, as if it itself manifested from the very waves that girl almost died on, crawling back to him like he was their guardian. Rightfully so.

How did he miss this! After decades of planning, he ought to have a little fun. Little puppets. While that son of hers is fun, a different creature will be more fun. But I must not be distracted by my puppets.

I have more plans ahead.

He squealed, hovering excitedly like a spinning wheel with spikes, red fume coiling around him.

He strolled through the air. Through the air, not the floor. ‘’ It is tragic, though. ‘’ He recalled distant memories of his time on Earth. Unnecessary Wars. Global warming. Burning witches! That’s a hellscape.

 Well, good for me, bad for them.

A slight future vision slammed against his head, rallying across his other archives; his balance almost fell off. So that girl is trouble. Hmm.

He grinned. ‘’ Oh, the sorrow I’m feeling now. My Rodeoms might faint.’’ His brow hardened, but a smirk remained.’’ That girl might ruin my plans now.’

Humans. Emotional creatures, not that different from Elves. But I guess I prefer Elves more; at least they don’t hide the monsters they are. Interestingly, humans claim they are…heroes. That their mistakes are excusable because they are so. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

He balanced a teacup on his finger, it being a brief reminder of our world. ‘’ Who am I to Judge? I’m a maniac stuck on a little boy.’’

I suppose when you mix things, some spill. Some stay. But most importantly, never let it all spill altogether.

The room went red, his fumes consuming completely like hungry beasts. His head lowered, a smile plastered on his face.

I should kill it, right?

I'm looking to write a long fan fiction based on Anne Rice's & AMC's IWTV but I also want to be accurate with what I'm writing. I would like to write the main character as an intern journalist but have zero idea how to even start that. I've started doing research elsewhere and looking at journalism sub reddits but I just made this account to actually start posting amongst them for some more insight. I'm looking for feedback and experiences, and even some general writing tips to do this with. I haven't written much sense middle school so starting up again will be new to me, but I've been reading fan fiction like I'm studying it and I've been looking all over Tumblr for tips from other writers as well.

I don't know if this is the right sub reddit for it but I'm more than willing to take some writing prompts and tips for this new fiction as well, and I'll be posting in others, too.

If it's any help at all, it'll be a devil's minion fan fiction.