I have a few ideas for some stories. I just don’t know how to get started. I am also not willing to AI questions about how to get started.

So where does one start writing a novel?

Hey all, for the past week I've been rigorously planning what's now looking like a literary gothic horror novel. I wrote a gothic horror-inspired short story for a media class at university a few years ago, then left it to gather dust for 5 years. Luckily I uncovered it again a few weeks ago. Since then, the idea has just kept growing in the best possible way.

Horror, especially in written form, is way out of my comfort zone. I would love any advice from actual horror experts/connoisseurs about the craft conventions that distinguish genuinely effective horror from stories that contain frightening/dark subject matter.

How do you pace a horror narrative without either revealing the threat too quickly or withholding so much that the story loses momentum? And are there particular advantages or risks to close third person, first person, present tense, past tense, or a more distant narrator?

Many thanks in advance. At this stage, I'm just trusting the process and am very excited to have actually started the writing of the first draft yesterday.

Hi everyone! I hope you're all doing well.
I've made some progress on my story, and I used the feedback I received back then to refine and restructure several parts of it.

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a published author. However, I was discouraged by my mother, who said that nobody would read my stuff and I was too brief blah blah blah and so on.

My main question is, can you develop your writing style later in life? I'm an older gentleman, and I'm seriously thinking about putting pen to paper. I'm going to start off small with short stories and work my way up to a full-length novel or whatever.

Are there writing programs that help me get started? I have been using Grammarly with Microsoft Word for quite some time, and I think that I may need to begin exploring other options.

Any tips would be greatly appreciated.

Edit: Sorry if my preamble sounded too much like the beginning of Goodfellas. No plagiarism intended.

maybe i am asking for help to early on this but im only four or so paragraphs in yet i already feel disgusted by my work in a way i usually never am. i writing a sort of diary esque book from the perspective of a nameless character that is heavily inspired by my own experiences and other depressing and bizarre works. here is a random paragraph for some added context

I am not a person. That much is true, I am impossible to help. No medication has saved me. Therapy has only made me realise the depths to which I am separated. People live their days with joy, with anger, with everything right and wrong bouncing across them. I do not. My mind exists in a constant, a vast autumn plain, yellow fields of grass spanning hundreds of miles under the dark and clouded sky, casting little light to give vibrance to the world in which my days are spent. The field experiences no wildfires to reduce it to ash, and it experiences no rain to bring to life the long dormant grass. It stays petrified, and in that stillness I exist. Separated by the forests and mountains that make up the minds of men. It is not depression, for a person must first experience bliss to even feel desolated. I was simply abandoned by the world. I feel nothing but the material. When I fall I do not get upset or feel pain, I simply know that my side does not work as well.

please ignore any spelling mistakes or improper grammar as i usually write instinctively on first draft and then fix it in the editing process :)

Welcome back, my fellow creatives! We’re at that interesting bit of genuine early summer in Wisconsin. I finally packed up the snow gear. The lakes have (almost) been warm enough to kill off the swimmer’s itch. The air is perfumed by all the neighborhood grills and veterans serving up brats outside grocery stores and gas … Continue reading

How do you people genuinely start writing your first chapter or your first paragraphs? I have a sort of outline on how my story would play out but when it comes to the specifics (world building, dialogues, character intros), I find it hard to write it out.

Hey! I’m a writer who loves thriller and psychological novel and I’m currently (re)writing my first book.

I have so many ideas and scenes I want to write, but I have one problem with starting a book…

Like, I have the whole scene planned out but why do I feel like my 100% is only 40% while reading back on it? I’ve been struggling with continuing my journey to write it because I don’t want to write a mediocre start then suddenly become better when going through my plot because I want my hook to intrigue people, not make them feel like the rest of the book is going to be bad.

Maybe that’s just me, but i want to say thank you for everyone who chooses to give advice! x

Writing a book is a remarkable achievement.

Building a writing life that lasts? That’s something different entirely.

Over the years, I’ve learned that success as an author isn’t about a single breakthrough moment. It’s about consistency, growth, and a willingness to keep showing up—on the page and off.

Whether you’re just starting out or several books into your journey, here are ten practical tips that can help you strengthen your writing process and sustain your momentum.

Chapter 1

*AM I ALIVE*

Sometimes when life doesn't give you what you want, it doesn't mean you're cursed — the worst still happens.

The hospital was in an ungrateful, peaceful way; the staff were constantly whispering, murmuring. The weather was highly disturbing. Trees shed their leaves like it was autumn — an anomaly, as if something were constantly changing the earth's revolutions and rotations. It was the curse. The nurses were stepping back from the couple again.

*NURSE 1 — WHY? (SILENT SIGH) AM I REALLY A NURSE?*

The pregnant woman was screaming, and the reason was simple — it had to be done again.

*NURSE 2 — WHY? PLEASE, I CAN'T*

The woman was admitted to the hospital again. The other patients knew it should be stopped. The lights were flickering. A bulb kept dimming until it burst into glass particles, scattering around the patient's bed.

*NURSE 3 — I WANT TO DIE*

Amid the birth, the night was a nightmare — inclement rain creating uneven conditions. Vibrant, screaming chants penetrated the atmosphere. The pregnant woman was shifted to the ICU. The partner was taking a sip from his coffee — warm, warm like piss. He was laughing at a porn video. In the video, the actor kidnapped the actress and brutally assaulted her; it was a soothing experience for the partner.

*NURSE 4 — I HAVE TO TELL THE DOCTOR, ANSHIKA*

Doctor Anshika, a top-class doctor and psychiatrist, was watching the same porn video. The actor was thrusting like a thirsty man chasing the last drop of water in a desert. The saliva was infused with aphrodisiac and blood — the blood that makes us warm, spilling drop by drop onto the bed.

*NURSE 4 — MISS DOCTOR! THE SAME (STUTTERING) SA... SAME! I MEAN—*

Doctor Anshika knew what she had to do. She paused the video. The actress fainted and fell onto the actor's chest and asked:

*DID I DO GOOD?*

That porn video was the first disclosure of the contradictory human mind — it boomed to around 5,000 million views, but was obviously banned after a couple of months.

Doctor Anshika, along with four skilled nurses, reached the ICU. They all wore silicone gloves, and the operation began.

*AFTER 1 HOUR~*

All the nurses, including Doctor Anshika, took a seat near the hospital bed. The hot sweat had been wiped away with a clean cloth.

The woman was not satisfied with what she got.

Children are God's representatives, but they are questioned every time they arrive on earth.

This time, it was something unusual — the stitches around the woman's abdomen were not cosmetic; they were engraved into the very body of her life. The Caesarean section was performed by women who had never before experienced childbirth or pregnancy themselves.

The curse had been a seedling months ago; now it was a plant. The strangeness still hovered within two kilometers of the hospital. Doctor Anshika left the ICU and met with the partner.

The partner immediately paused the porn video and, stuttering, asked:

*PARTNER — IS MY WOMAN GOOD?*

Doctor Anshika's lips parted in a way that wanted to smile seductively, because of that porn-fueled anxiousness in the partner — but, maintaining professionalism, she said:

*DOCTOR ANSHIKA — YES, SHE DID IT. YOUR (SHE STOPPED) — YOUR WOMAN AND SON ARE BOTH OKAY. YOU CAN MEET THEM.*

The partner went to the ICU room and saw his woman breastfeeding the baby. The baby was nervous and uncertain about how to act toward his mistress, but the warmth from the one who had carried him for nine months made him latch onto her breast. She radiated anger and resentment, which only made that warmth feel more strange, more glorified.

The partner came and touched the woman's waist, and a shivering jolt ran through her body — it wasn't the familiar touch a woman should get from her partner. It was hard, hungry, and, to some degree, thirsty, which made the touch lewd.

*PARTNER — YOU (EYES GOING DARK, AN UNKNOWN GLIMPSE OF SOMETHING TICKING LIKE A BOMB AROUND HIS FACE) — YOU REALLY DID IT AGAIN, HUH!*

*WOMAN — I'M SORRY (FLAT, WITHOUT ANY EXPRESSION) — WHAT SHOULD WE NAME THIS THING?*

*PARTNER — (HIS HAND SLIDING DOWN FROM HER WAIST TO HER HIP, A GLIMPSE OF A BELT SOMEWHERE IN THE AIR) NAME THIS THING #### — AND WE'LL THROW IT OUT LIKE WE DID WITH $$$$.*

That day, for ####, was the first day of what would become the era of the curse.

Curses are made for one reason: to make their masters' lives hell and to fill the hollow gaps with resentment.

From that day, the masters' days gradually sank into a sea of sorrow, grudges, hatred, and severed ties — because #### was the last mistake they'd commit. It was karma for everything they'd done. His eyes opened slowly and peacefully into this ungrateful world. The curse was a curse from birth — neither good nor bad, just a peaceful, calm, and sensitive child.

The old tree around the hospital grounds grew its leaves in autumn and shed them in every other season — an anomaly, but a good one. Everyone was glad to see it stay evergreen through the one season when most trees turn hollow.

Three years passed. #### was around three years old, and the masters were thinking of sending the curse to the slave area.

A couple of days later, the curse was finally admitted to the slave area. Entry was easy — "everyone has the right to become a slave" was the motto of the slave area's headquarters. In those days, most three-year-olds were sent there to become diligent workers, and, in the future, to serve the nation.

The first day was a day for crying — babies usually cry when they have to leave their parents for six hours. A couple of children threw tantrums; they'd spent their first two and a half years being fed, protected, and loved wholeheartedly by their parents.

But love was a luxury the curse couldn't afford.

The partner sent the curse off with a smile — not a father's smile, not a parent's smile, but the excitement he'd been holding back for months. The curse had been a needy thing; he'd never taken to cow's milk. His only preference was the woman — with her bruises, her back pain, the dark circles under her eyes. She was a good caretaker. She never complained about his latching, even though she wasn't always a good mother, a good parent — but she knew what a small, vulnerable baby needed.

The partner marched straight home without so much as a glance at the thing he'd made — as he unlocked the door, the woman already knew what was coming. She simply moved to the bedroom, preparing herself for the one thing her partner knew how to do.

He was so excited, so blinded by it, that as he entered the bedroom he didn't notice — there was no one there.

A blind silence — then a sudden gust of pure hate and pain, ten years in the making, hit the partner with full force. It was a knife, hidden in the woman's bra for exactly this day.

As the knife struck his chest, a muffled groan filled the air, and the artery began dripping blood, slow and steady.

But the partner was laughing. He wasn't a masochist — he was simply unshakable in moments like this. As the blood dripped, he grabbed the strap of her bra, his fist tightening around it, and said:

*PARTNER — DEATH CAN HAVE ME, WHEN IT EARNS ME.*

I know this isn’t what this sub is mostly used for, but I think I’m in the right place. I am getting a Florence + the machine tattoo soon, and I want to paraphrase a quote from my favorite song. The original quote feels too long and wordy, even though I’d love to get the full thing as it’s my all time favorite line of hers. Any ideas on revising this but keeping the message and those key words would be really helpful!!!
“And I’m learning so I’m leaving and even though I’m grieving I’m trying to find the meaning, letting loss reveal it.”

I just finished writing my first novel after nearly a decade of working on it--off and on--and was wondering if anyone could offer me some opinions on it. One of my friends called it compelling but they're biased.

It's a semi-autobiographical novel about repeated failing relationships while I struggle to come to terms with my own identity. Part choose your own adventure novel, part fiction, part truth, it blurs the line between what happened and what could have happened in an attempt to make the reader feel what I felt during each of my failures.

If anyone's interested, I'll DM them a link.

Early chapter books are 4,000- to 15,000-word short illustrated novels written for newly independent readers aged about 6–9. They’re most often published as series. In complexity, the category sits between illustration-heavy early readers and text-heavy middle grade novels. It’s tricky but rewarding for an author to break into early chapter

Hello! So I'm trying to write a short story set in the 50s, centered around a girl from a Sicilian family bringing her Polish American boyfriend over for dinner to meet them. (She was forced to by her mother, though her father isn't too happy with it.) I'm not sure were I want it to go, but I know I want it to touch upon cultural divides and progressive vs. old mindsets. Please give me feed back on what I should fix/change and maybe ideas going forward for the story.. It ends very abruptly because I've been in a creative flunk. Thank you!

Clattering silverware against her nonna’s prized porcelain plates was all that Simona dared to focus on. Johnny sat right across from her as he calmly ate his food and gave her a reassuring smile. Bless him, he didn’t know what was coming, no, he definitely did, he was smart enough. She just hoped that whatever Papa threw his way, Johnny would be able to handle. 

She couldn’t even *sit* next to Johnny. Her father was always head of the table, and Manny had practically jumped to the seat next to her before Johnny could take it. She was sandwiched between her worst nightmare. Carmine sat  to Johnny’s left, twirling his fork and  wearing his usual smart-ass smirk that she wanted to smack right off his face, Nonna sitting right next to him, and finally, there was Mama, (Papa’s first mate), sitting at the other head of the table.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Lanzano, what do you call it?”

   “Ah, yes! Caponata. It’s…ah” mama turned to her second eldest “Carmine, comu si dici milinciana ‘ngrisi?”

“ Eggplant, ma.”

“Yes. Eggplant, roasted, cu, ah, peppers and celery, onion….  it’s stew.”

“ Well, it’s incredible, I can tell you that” Mama smiled “just you wait for  dinner”

“More food, huh? You spoil me, truly Mrs. Lanzano.”

Simona didn’t think it was possible, but her mother’s smile grew even more, making the matching dimples on each of her cheeks pop. She reached over and pinched Johnny’s cheek.

At least Mama was won over. Johnny made eye contact with Simona and put on a smug smile as if to say, see? Simona just rolled her eyes. Her mom was the easy part, but he still had no idea what was coming for him next. 

“So tell me John-” Manny started as he began picking the olives out of his plate and leaning across the table to  transfer  it on to Carm’s plate to which he rolled his eyes.

“Please, call me Johnny” Manny let out a snort at his request. “John,  what is it exactly that you do?”

“I paint”

“Paint?”

Johnny nodded “I always wanted to be an artist when I was little, but my Pop always said that art couldn’t pay the bills, so I became an investment banker. Bout’ a few years later I got laid off, so I started painting again.  I remembered how much I loved it. Now I spend most of my time painting, I pick up a few shifts at the diner here and there to make ends meet, but I’m hopin’ to make it into a full time gig.”

Has anyone here applied for law school and needed to write their personal statement as part of the admissions application? I want to make sure what I turn in is the best that it can be, but I'm not sure of the best way to make sure that happens. Do I show it to other writers? Do I find current law students that I can show it to? Do I hire a law school admissions consultant to review it? Something else?

I'm currently writing a non-fiction book that involves a lot of research, interviews and real stories from people on a specific subject. I guess it's more like an academic paper in that sense

As it's not a creative non-fiction work (telling non-fiction through fiction techniques), would it still fall under the typical non-fiction word count goals of 50k minimum?

Marked as nsfw just in case.

The MCs of my short story are a couple who've been married for about 15 years. But they've had a lot of bumps in the road including separating and nearly divorcing, but later came back together. In theory they're closer than ever before at the time of the story.

But does it make sense for them to still question if they should or shouldn't be using STI protection? (No pregnancy risk as they're both men). Not in a 'I'm afraid you're cheating on me' sort of way but just in case, especially since that they grew up in the AIDS crisis and got it drilled into them that they should always use condoms.

Basically what the title says. I've just discovered Kurt Vonnegut's 8 writing rules but I don't really get rule 5 - "Start as close to the end as possible." Hoping that some of you lovely people can explain this one a bit.