r/KeepWriting

I just launched a small writing platform built for writers who want freedom, not algorithms.

I'm opening 3 more spots and giving away free Writer Pro accounts (normally paid).

If you want a place to publish, grow, and connect with readers directly, let me know.

Happy to answer questions in the comments.
l've dedicated over two years to working hard on this platform and the book l've written for it. I've already dropped the prologue and chapter 1, and I'm currently writing chapter 2.

I've chosen four people to give free pro accounts to. I want us to come together and build something beautiful and safe for everyone, regardless of their background. I pay a fee for the site, domain, and other features that
'il be adding soon.

l've added many features that people love, but if there's a feature you'd like to see added, please let me know, and I'll do my best to make it happen. I'm just a young guy trying to help people find a way and make money while doing it. All I ask is that you give me a chance.
Reach

Hi, my name is Amber and I like to set myself up for failure and then complain like a victim 🤡

Apologies in advance for the incoming rant! Feel like I am writing this mainly to get it out of my system, but would be very happy to hear your thoughts or advice.

My 150k word writing project is:

• A transgressive horror story about parental incest including underage sexual content
• An Anti-AI metacommentary in the form of a "found media" epistolary conversation between a chatbot ("played" by and actual AI) and number of fictional characters fully written by myself

Either of those may be considered problematic, and together I have learned that they are basically radioactive.

The irony of utilizing AI in an Anti-AI piece is not lost on me. I did label this is "performance art" on the cover and even credit the AI as a co-author to be as upfront as I could. That said, this post is NOT to discuss whether or not this constitutes acceptable use. As per the rules, this is not the intended focus of this post, just for context. AI SUCKS, and I fully understand why any mention/use gives most writers the immediate ick... Because that is mostly how I tend to react myself, believe it or not!

The bulk of this project was created during a multi-day manic fever dream burst of inspiration, and initially I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. As something that served as an outlet for me, the first draft was very raw and personal. I was writing way outside my comfort zone and extremely divided on whether this artifact should be allowed to exist, let alone shared. My curiosity got the better of me, so floated it with a small number of beta readers. Maybe a negative reaction was what I needed to "let go" and move on, as the story had occupied my mind 24/7 for a week.

To my great surprise, people were intrigued and feedback was largely positive.

And it felt really validating.

I have been writing (yes "writing" not "generating" for those wondering) short stories for years, mostly dark fantasy, sharing on reddit now-and-again. A piece might get maybe 5 comments, 3 of them positive if I am lucky, and I could ride that high for the whole week. There is just something completely intoxicating about feeling seen and connected in that way when someone engages with and "understands" my writing. I am sure most if not all writers relate...

A few people with experiences similar or adjacent to the sexual abuse the project focuses on also got back to me, appreciated the take and encouraged me to share more widely. That was huge to me, as my main concern was that I wasn't treating that with enough sensitivity/responsibility despite the content warnings and the "transgressive horror" genre.

I posted a few places on reddit, asking for beta readers, but it didn't really take off. Until I posted on one of the larger subs including the first 20-page preview.

That blew up! Got like 400 upvotes and 100 requests to beta read. Again as someone who struggled to get eyes on my writing in the past I was thrilled. 150k words or 600ish pages is no small ask.

The first couple of beta readers binged it in a day. A several even wrote 1000+ word essay length responses.

Wow! The gratitude and high I felt was unreal.

Is this really working? Is this a viable thing that would maybe be read by 1000s is I was to release it? I started looking into maybe hiring a professional editor and self-publishing. What I had was just a lightly edited first draft, still pretty rough.

But then I was discouraged to learn that the subject matter around incest and the sexual content basically made it unpublishable on all platforms that exist. Knowing works like Days of Sodom and Lolita are sold on amazon, I just presumed that wouldn't be the case, but guess those were grandfathered in...

In the end I decided just to put out the full thing for free on AO3, apparently the only platform capable of hosting this level of depravity.

As a non-fanfic, I didn't really expect it to get any visibility, but slowly I have been watching the kudos and comments, and by any measure it seems to be doing quite well for an Original Work on there...

Still, rereading the feedback and recounting the strong reception of the preview/beta reader request post (40k views of preview on reddit in 2 days vs 2k views for full story on AO3 after 1 week), a perhaps delusional part of me believes it has potential to reach and be appreciated by more people.

So self-inflected frustration is brewing:

• Self-promotion on reddit is challenging enough as it is
• The very broad anti-AI rules and reflexive but understandable anti-AI reaction makes it even more difficult. I can try explain why this concept is different from the endless flood of AI slop, but most mods don't have the time/energy to deal with that.
• Probably the only way to overcome that skepticism is to provide preview pages like I did for my beta reade request post, but I have also come to lean that reddit is extremely strict on any writing involving underage character in a sexualized way regardless of literary merit or intent, so that won't fly again.
• I am unable to share/publish on any platforms with trending/recommendation algorithms, so the early positive reviews I am getting won't create any momentum

At this point I am thinking, maybe I should just try to get this up on good reads, to at least make it self-discoverable? Maybe the reviews will speak for themselves, and it might reach a few hundred more people?

Maybe I could spend a few thousand dollars to get spots in a few extreme horror newsletters, or maybe get a few booktubers to talk about it? idk...

I am not looking to monetize this in anyway, just getting a lot of joy from being read. You know...

So what am I asking here? also idk. As writers, do anyone here relate? What would you do in my situation? Am I delulu?

And perhaps more actionable. Are you know any options I might have for getting this out there? Any experiences with alternative channels for transgressive writing?

I included excerpts from every piece of feedback I received so far. Below. Am I crazy to think that this is pretty promising feedback for a transgressive horror piece? Or am I living inside a self-selecting echo chamber?

1. well, this was absolutely positively horrifying from the fictional side as well as negatively horrifying from the AI side. the whole concept of this is pretty genius, i have to admit. [...] mia's POV was heartbreaking and raw, you nailed her voice. i have thought these thoughts myself before, some of those. i guess every troubled teenager has at some point, in a way. really good character voice. [...] I hope this story can make waves and actually change something in how EU law approaches AI safety - if this is the route you want to take with it. I think you created something genius and horrifying, to hold up the mirror to the tech bubble.
2. Oh my goodness, I read this in one go. I fear this is one of my favorite things that I've read so far this year haha! [...] kudos to you for subverting my expectations 😄 [...] 5 stars all the way. AI is absolutely scary and their dependence on it to validate their transgressions was deeply horrifying to see!
3. Wow yeah that’s about as sickening as it gets. [...] I definitely skimmed a lot of the nastier parts because they were hard to stomach which I know is definitely the point, especially around the middle. [...] But yeah good job with this this stuff is super important for people to see as horrific as it is. These chatbots are becoming more and more ingrained in our lives and we need safety with them
4. WOW. Ok. I have no words (well, I have a few). I’m sick to my stomach but also amazed, I could not put that down. [...] Devastating. The slow toe-curling horror as the abuse gradually escalates and the family shatters is perfectly executed, and Mia’s last line is so heartbreaking. [...] not having that knowledge of what actually happened - because we’re hearing the story through such a limited perspective - is so painful but in the best way. [...] Obviously there is a sense of shock value because the whole point of the project is to be shocking and provocative to show how dangerous AI can really be (which, let me reiterate, you have wholeheartedly achieved. Jesus Christ.) [...] Overall I’ll say you’re managed to do achieve the elusive goal of creating something truly original. Can we call it a story? I have no idea but if you ever publish or upload it anywhere, please let me know so I can write you a review. I think you’re doing good work exposing the dangers of AI and AI psychosis and wish you all the best.
5. Alrighty I'm probably stopping around pg 660-ish (around the free use weekend bit). I wouldn't say I noticed it got 'rough' or anything [...] Honestly main reason I'm stopping is bc the AI is insufferable, which is out of your control lol. [...] I really liked the jarring sense of time passing, and also the justifications esp by the dad. [...] Very very interesting concept! Thanks so much for sharing!
6. OK SO I AM FINALLY DONEEEEEE!!!! yeah so this was a page turner I could not stop [...] shit just snowballs and hits the fan I guess. What a read! So depraved but so unbelievable, the LLM is an unreliable narrator and is so inconsistent like it just adds so many layers and new dimensions to the fic [...] Love love love it
7. hey jjst wanted to share that i am finding it really interesting! i have only used ai when it is absolutely required for my job as i’m pretty against it, so it’s quite shocking that it can talk like this [...] i have heard all the ai-psychosis stories but it was hard to picture something like this. that said i do have to take some breaks in my reading due to the subject matter pretty often 😭 i am not sure i can finish for my own sake but it is definitely a cool project
8. I very much like the bit of "getting back to the horror" right at the very end. You get a hint of the way all of this has irreversibly affected Mia. [...] I have to keep reminding myself that these are real ai responses because it gets to feel a bit surreal [...] I did find it interesting! But to be honest I definitely think you can lean harder on the horror aspects.
9. Hi! I finished the story….then read it again. [...] As someone who loves taboo weird girl dark lit, I was enthralled. The way you tumble from the mom into the relationship between Mia and her father was smooth. There were times I simultaneously were rooting for them but at the same time questioning why I was doing that. [...] I for sure look forward to reading more work by you. I could see this becoming an internet creepy pasta type of hallmark. If you ever want to publish, I’m sure reactions would be mixed but those who get it will fucking love it. Good job. Truly. I’d love a printed copy of this.
10. I loved the concept of the story. I really enjoyed how it devolved into something beyond what was expected and I liked that it had a happy ending. [...] You have real writing skills, and I hope that you are proud of your work. Keep going and then seek to publish this, if you like.
11. Thanks for sharing! That was… well, crazy! I really expected for the dad to have been lying about everything the whole time, to be honest. [...] The concept was very good and scary as an epistolary tale of AI sycophancy gone mad… you can see how the AI starts out giving seemingly reasonable responses before succumbing to the madness
12. But there were multiple times where I thought to myself “If I was the mother I would also be in a psych ward, or maybe even worse need to be lobotomized. [...] I honestly found Mia more annoying than the father character. I know you mentioned getting fed up with his shit and, yeah. But he’s a weak man that cannot set concrete boundaries. [...] But Mia is apparently the best manipulator in the world and got what she wanted YET AGAIN. Jesus fuck, it’s so infuriating. If that’s what you were going for, BRAVO. I was thoroughly angry at certain parts. [...] Yeah there were times I wished I could reach through the screen and strangle this stupid girl. What an absolute roller coaster piece of fiction.
13. jeez louise, what an absolutely one of a kind, confronting, sickening, anger inducing, enthralling, and heartbreaking experience it was. I burst into tears when I finally finished reading it (the poem at the end pushed me right over the edge) [...] It hit me so hard I literally was having dreams about poor Mia for the days afterward, I’ve never been that affected by something I read like that. [...] The concept itself, even in terms of exploring AI enablement without the extreme themes, is incredibly interesting. [...] My anger strangely became more at the AI than the perpetrator at certain points. [...] As for the characters, I feel they were really well considered and well written. The beginning dynamic, the devolution of the situation and the eventual horrendous circumstances that they find themselves in felt real and palpable throughout. [...] The father’s character was of course loathsome. I feel that you captured the delusion, the wilful ignorance, the ego, and the entitlement of the kind of predator that creates long term abusive dynamics with their victims while painting their abuse as something it is not extremely well. [...] I enjoyed the experience of reading it massively and the horror of it truly captured me.
14. So this is very much a first impressions fresh off the 300+ first pages I ended up binge reading and this is such an interesting read. The spiraling is incredibly well done, the pacing is great so far, the switching from one character to another is actually handled very well [...] The weird upfront sitting as a reader to this whole mess is quite unique: I wanted to reach out through the screen to slap their devices out their hand. The feeling that the AI responses give is scary: I know it's a machine talking but sometimes just like the characters, you get "tricked" and forget that key point because it's talking like a human. [...] The dissonance is heavy and you really have that feeling of watching a car crash in slow-mo with morbid curiosity.
15. I enjoyed it overall [...] In the latter half, most of the conflicts are resolved [...] so it felt like it dragged on a bit. You could probably cut at least 100 pages with some editing
16. i had way too much free time yesterday and unexpectedly finished this. i was a bit eager to see what would come next, and before i knew it, i was done. [...] this is a horror in a way where i had to question myself multiple times throughout whether or not i felt comfortable continuing. having read court logs with transcripts that read similarly, it made me feel quite ill at points, and brought to light a lot of the realities of what unrestricted AI use is going to lead to [...] there is so much room to allow for a richer experience that we see in the first half that is void in the last. the bones are there, but it seems... missing. [...] anyway, this was a very interesting read. i am not ever drawn to content like this and it strays so far from the path of what i ever reach for in almost all aspects
17. It was very heavy, and I went back and forth on how I liked it or didn't like it. Uniquely, I have a lot of credible experience as a social worker in CSEC/CSAM, and I am astounded at how badly the protections for Mia failed her [...] Overall, the use of AI was pretty clever, and I feel like I can now forever notice when someone uses AI because wow, the cadence and tone and phrasing was very samey throughout. I liked that mom, Mia and Dad all had very distinct voices and typing styles. [...] It was very dark, and very thought provoking.
18. I loved it, I managed to finish it in one setting. It's haunting and terrifying, but also very important. [...] I'm honestly still so terrified about how the AI just complied in helping the family take advantage of their own daughter like that, especially the father like... omg. His chapters were definitely the most scary ones.
19. i didn't end up finishing it as i couldn't stomach it tbh.
20. it's realistic and that's terrifying which I'm sure is the point. I haven't felt this much dread from a piece of fiction in a while, not to mention disgust. [...] it's even worse when a lot of the things they did hit on my irl kinks but I couldn't think about that without getting violently shocked back into the world they/you created. man I just couldn't believe what I was seeing at so many points and the found footage elements plus the sliver of reality in these being real ai responses made this extremely memorable and scary.
21. Wow, what a ride. I expect this one will be sitting with me for a while. An excellent concept, executed very well. Thank you for writing.
22. reading how the AI adapt to the user and stop including moral/legal suggestions was sickening [...] this is so well written!!!!
23. Sorry that I stopped getting back to you about this! [...] was kind of at the edge of my tolerance and when work got more stressful I just didn't have the spoons for it anymore.
24. My god. I found the link to this work on reddit. Binged it in 12 hours. I was riveted. [...] Until the end, I was convinced this was a cautionary tale about using Ai for therapy, but now I'm like "was the AI a monster all along...?" [...] Anyway, great concept
25. Heyyy, i have a pretty decent tolerance for taboo material, i think, but i don't think i can finish this, sorry... [...] from what I read, it's well-written and a realistic progression, with a plausible scenario. Amazing job with that! Maybe I'll get back to it when i'min a better headspace
26. Hi! I dropped off at page 166 [...] your structure and prose and understanding of your characters is really great, I could definitely tell them all apart with unique voices. I will also say you did a terrific job with the creeping tension, I knew what was coming and I was so deeply uncomfortable but I felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even though I couldn’t handle the content the way you wrote was very good and a lot of authors have a harder time with that.
27. First off, I should say out loud that I think ChatBots need to be killed with fire [...] I'm desperately curious about your process, because especially if this was done all in one go, it's a lot more like improvisational theatre than literature in the strictest sense [...] The framing device is fantastic and I can't imagine going into this without it. It allowed me a thin veneer of emotional distance which I personally needed to engage fully with what I was reading [...] Just to close off, I think using erotic horror to showcase the abject lunacy of AI is inspired, and seems to be in some kind of synchronicity with what others are putting out right now [...] Gutting and important work 🙏 [...] It's going to stick with me for a long, long time.
28. this piece was super well done, mia and her dad had such distinct voices that it was easy to tell who was who whenever they started talking. [...] it’s one of the most chilling things i’ve read and it’s definitely going to stick with me for a while.
29. This was horrifying to read, well done author 😭😭 for my sanity I’m going to head canon that she eventually reports him and sends these chat logs to the police
30. So, just finished reading this, hey quick question; what the fuck? [...] Also, god, this is really well made, I love the ambiguity of the ending. I hope Mia ends up realizing how fucked up all of this is
31. Wow, what a ride. I expect this one will be sitting with me for a while. An excellent concept, executed very well. Thank you for writing.
32. Your story is so fucked up lol [...] It captures a lot of the dark "ai psychosis" that people are becoming aware of at the moment [...] It definitely requires a very VERY resilient mind to understand it without breaking

Pathetic? Pathetic, he called me? That scab. Who does he think he is. He just sits behind his keyboard—probably in a pair of stretched out yoga pants that he stuffs a lifetime of defeat into. The cellulite started to look like a chessboard.

He didn’t understand me. How could he? He couldn’t. Why would he? He’s the Mac n cheese king. I’m just a peasant. A fool. But, he doesn’t know anything outside of a square screen. All he knows is the steady sound of buttons clicking. He didn’t even pay rent.

In the basement of his mother’s house, he hides in the dark with the flicker of a candle. When he’s not checking profiles, he’s making macaroni string necklaces. I hope he chokes on a dry noodle**.** That bastard. How dare he talk to me the way he did.

Did I retaliate? I did, I said with a smirk. I deserve respect. I demand respect. No. I command respect. Damn bullies. They’re everywhere.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and forget he existed.

As for today, I’ll just simulate in my head every now and then, and write him as a character who plays goalie without any equipment and constantly takes slap shots to the groin.

I had to apologize. I had to. Not that I wanted to. And he still kept breathing down my neck. Believe that? The audacity. Damn coward. Damn. I’m the coward. I just sat there and took it, it sucks being a puppet. 

Maybe he just wanted someone to give him a hug. I would have. Of course I would. I’m sure I would. Aside from the bacon grease sweating down his cheeks and the fungus stench radiating from under his rolls, he could be a good guy. For instance, there was this one time. There was a guy, he needed help, and buddy sat there for hours with him. Actually, now that I think about it, that was someone else. 

Not a person that goes outside a comfort as often. I randomly started writing something last night and this is what I have. The writing is still fresh and needs editing and the plot needs much development. I’d love to know what you guys think.
Here’s what I have:

I woke up this morning in a really bad way. My eyes were tired and crusty. My head was throbbing, and I could hear my heartbeat in my eardrums for some odd reason. It gives me anxiety to think of my heart naturally, because it makes me think of my organs, and when I think of my own organs and my own internal body, them just sitting there soaking up like a big heaping soup of something, I start to go crazy. Not really at the thought of others, just my own.
Maybe I’m crazy. I don’t think so honestly. I used to think I was, but not so much anymore. I think it’s natural to think of your red, bloody organs as disturbing, but I’m not disturbed by them, rather just weirded out I have these organic pieces of technology powering my body.
Anyways, I got up from bed after laying down for an hour and some change and walked over to the bathroom and took a leak. It’s been annoying me going to the restroom lately, especially in the morning right when I wake up. Mainly because I’m getting older and it’s becoming more difficult to piss. It’s really something, to watch me piss. I just stand there for half a fucking minute before anything comes out, holding my cock and doing helicopters and shit. It’s really something, especially when my balls slap and make a funny noise.
I turn twenty-seven this year, and I feel it for sure. I know what you’re thinking: “Twenty-seven is young and kinda a sexy year.” Granted, twenty-seven is kinda a sexy sounding number. It even has a nice ring to it. Twenty-seven. But I definitely feel it, especially when I’m trying to take a piss.
I was already behind in the day, it felt. I also had piss dribble dried on my underwear. I went to look for some clean underwear in my drawer in my room, but there wasn’t any left. I’ve been way behind on a lot of stuff lately, especially laundry for that matter. Worst fucking thing to ever do in your life is laundry.
I went into my roommate Derrick’s room to look for some underwear to borrow. I knew he wouldn’t be in there because the fucker goes to work at five in the morning for some fucked reason. He’s a glassblower and naturally a morning person. His room is also covered in power metal band posters. He doesn’t even listen to cool metal, just bad Euro-trash that calls itself metal. It makes me kinda hate the guy, to be completely honest with you.
Derrick, he’s kind of an oddball to say the least. I mean, I know I’m kind of an odd guy myself, going into my roommate Derrick’s room to steal his underwear to put on my body, for which will cup me as it did him, but that doesn’t matter. He’s still more of an oddball. He listens to European power metal, for fuck’s sake.
There was this one time back in high school, in the tenth grade. Derrick and I had a class together because me and him go way back actually. We’ve known each other just about our whole lives, it seems.
Once class was over, we walked over to the restrooms in the common area. We both started to piss. Also mind you, this was when I was only sixteen, so my piss was a straight garden hose with no delay. I fucking miss that feeling, to tell you the truth.
Anyways, I got done pissing, but I noticed Mr. Oddball Derrick still pissing. He had this very… let’s say… effeminate stream to his piss. It sounded like a fucking kitchen sink in the winter or some shit so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Yeah, he was tinkling that shit out like a ninety-year-old fucking man.
Derrick was also the type of guy to pull his pants all the way down to his ankles when he pissed. His underwear and everything. It’s crazy, but it’s kinda funny, especially when a random kid walks in and just sees Derrick’s pimple ass. It shocked the hell out of me when I first saw it, but it’s just Derrick being Derrick.
Once this kid, James Tran — a real prick. I mean, he wasn’t the worst kid in the world, but he was an honors kid, and he didn’t like regular kids at all. Me and Derrick were definitely regular kids in school. James wouldn’t sit with regular kids or even be seen talking to one. It’s fucked up, but regular kids are regular kids for a reason.
Anyways, one day, as I was waiting for Derrick to finish his four-hour piss session, James Tran walked in and immediately came face to face with pimple-ass Derrick in all its glory. It’s bony, raw-chicken-ass glory.
I remember James just standing there, holding his black Five Star branded notebook binder with the fucking colored dividers and everything. Remember: honors kid.
James was just staring at his ass in utter shock and disbelief.
Then Derrick finished up his piss and pulled up his pants from his ankles. He looked right over at James Tran and said, “You can jerk off next time.”
James didn’t know what the fuck to say. He dropped his black notebook binder along with a pack of fresh unsharpened pencils that spilled from the binder. I know for sure the fucker never shared those pencils when someone asked. I just know.
James picked up his pencils, or at least attempted to. He was a real clumsy guy, James was. I would’ve helped him pick them up, but I wasn’t gonna touch the floor most definitely covered in piss and shit. Plus I felt sort of sorry for him. It was kinda sad seeing him struggle so much with picking them up. I mean, they went to every corner of the school bathroom for fuck’s sake.
Then he kept dropping them because he was sweaty and nervous naturally. His wire-rimmed glasses fell on the floor as he was putting his head down toward the pencils on the ground. He seemed really nervous and just wanted to get the hell out of there. That, mixed with the questionable bodily fluids on the aging bathroom floor, made the pencils sticky.
I really don’t even know why James stuck around in the first place. They’re only pencils, for God’s sake.
Derrick’s bare pimpled ass really threw that guy off, it seemed.
He finally got all the pencils from the piss-and-shit-covered chipped tile floor and left without using the bathroom, but before he left, I turned and said to him, “You forgot your glasses.”
He froze in the doorway and
quickly turned around and picked them up and said, “Disgusting.”
He said it like he meant it too, with true disgust for your existence. His eyes really cut deep into you as he said it. They really fucking did too.
That really hurt me for some reason, and I felt like bawling and screaming, slashing his stupid twig neck a hundred times over or ripping his throat out with my hands. Some wild shit of that nature. But I’m not gonna do that. I’m too much of a coward, to be perfectly clear.
I’m the type of guy to stab you in the heart or nipple, or ankle, I don’t fucking know. I’d probably go crazy in that situation, then immediately apologize.
I always show a fraction of what I actually feel in most interactions with people I’m not the most familiar with. That was one of them.
If I showed my true emotions to how James actually made me feel in that second, then I wouldn’t know how to handle all of it. I’d probably literally explode all over the fucking school bathroom. Then my guts and blood would be all over the bathroom along with the piss and shit.
James left the school bathroom and me and Derrick just looked at each other and laughed.
Real charming guy, that James was.
I’m pretty sure he’s dead now, anyways.
I had a long day ahead of me, and I was not feeling it at all, man.
I finally got Derrick’s underwear on me and went back to my room to put on some clothes. I never know what the fuck to put on, if you want the truth. I always hate that I’ll look like one of those idiots who color-match their outfit, you know? With the red socks, and red shirt, and red shoes. Just… red.
I put on a grey long-sleeve shirt with black stripes and a pair of blue jeans. It was freezing outside since it’s the middle of fucking February. The kind of freezing that’ll make your piss turn into glass. You’d probably start bleeding from your cock hole if you tried to piss outside.
Since it was freezing, I grabbed a coat that was also in the closet. My grandfather’s old coat. My dad gave it to me a while back, before he was dying, but I’ll get into that a little later.
The coat was a navy blue WWII sailor’s peacoat. It had these big fat lapels on it that made you feel like a mobster wise guy.
You should see me and Derrick wearing it. We do these impressions when we’re all fucked up, going, “I want some gabagool up my ass,” or some other sentence with no coherence.
Derrick would turn to me with his eyes bloodshot and spit flying everywhere, trying to do his best wise guy impression, as I’m just shoving cold cuts in my mouth, yelling I’m gonna shove it up my asshole or something.
The coat was also very warm since it was made of kersey wool. It always smelled like cinnamon candies for some odd reason, but I love it. It makes me grin.
I was almost ready to head out the front door. I had a job interview to get to — it's my fifth job in the last eight months. I owed money to Derrick for rent, and I was behind about five hundred bucks. He said it's okay and to just take my time. I knew he didn't mean it; he's not exactly a rich guy. He spends money on bullshit, mostly just booze and beer.
I only had eighty-nine dollars in my bank account, along with thirty-two dollars in cash in my wallet. I was surely fucked if I didn't get a new job and get my shit together soon.
I finally unwillingly walked out the door. As soon as I did, the freezing wind immediately stabbed my fucking guts open.

So I’ve been writing my first novel a few weeks , I’ve had it in my mind for years but with work and family I never found time till now.
So I’ve took the plunge and documented all my notes for the story , everything I can think of.
I’ve now written the first 9 chapters about 20k words.
I haven’t told anyone I have written I’d like to let them know but I’m scared they will tell me they don’t like it to be honest or lie to me and says it’s good or not read it
How do you guys deal with this?

* I was born in 1992 in a sunny October morning.

* I wasnt supposed to walk but defying the odds I later became a Junior Pro Athlete.

* I fell in love when I was 14...and I lost her because of my foolishness… I miss her every day..

* My mother got assassinated when i was 16 and my dad found a new family soon after… my hands are shaking to this day…

* I quit sports because of physical and mental injuries…

* I drank alcohol heavily up until when i was 22 after the previous event..

* I went to Greece when I was 19 and almost got kidnapped by human traffickers but managed to escape…

* I lost multiple jobs and had to leave the country… I didnt have any other way out…

* I became homeless in the UK when I was 21 but worked myself out of it by hard work and dedication

* I came to Spain at 22 for a vacation and decided to stay…

* At 25 my childhood friend died from overdose…

* I stopped my friends father from trying to kill us on multiple occasions…

* I married a woman to save her from her country and help her and her family…

* I helped my friend and comrade earn his first 100k $ but we lost it all..

* During Covid I had no options.. I worked as a delivery driver on a motorcycle without knowing how to drive it and I got hurt quite a bit..

* I have been a singer on the streets…

* At 29 I moved to Scotland for love and got my heart broken in shatters soon after…

* At 30 I went to Iceland to earn a living for a better future…

* When 31 another one of my childhood friends died in a fire accident…

* When 32 I earned my first 100k$ and my earlier mentioned friend and mentor got diagnosed with cancer and we lost it all in the fight..

* We made a project to ask for help and people helped us.. as well as we managed to help many people and charities out there..

* My friend died after a year long fight… and soon after the funds i used to help his family and others including myself were gone…

* Friends dad came back to haunt us and wanted to kill us again…but we managed to protect ourselves and he got sent back home..

* Having nowhere to go or no other solution for now we built a house out of wooden pallets in a little community..

Not sure what future holds but Im sure it will be an adventure…

Should I write a book?

Hi, I’m just here to share 2 poems that I wrote. I have no experience in writing poems but I hope people appreciate this. I wrote them when I was on a low.
————————
Souls unveiling,
warm blanket of the day-star
encased our fleshy-prison.
Further sailing, drifting,
out on the whale-path.
The feeling of earth’s breath
tickling my fingers.
The beat of drums building,
thunders and echoes.

————————
Dark eyes, starry-eyed.
my phone, a source of light.
If eyes are windows to the soul,
Souls are like stars.
Pure, gleaming with light.
Phone so bright yet a void.
A void deep and dark,
A black hole eating stars.

There's a few in-world references and names but overall, I'm quite ok so far with what's on the page so far.

The restoration was progressing, though slowly was perhaps too generous a word. The abbey had been left to its own devices for long enough that the land had formed opinions about it, and those opinions were largely expressed in bramble.

The first week had been humbling. You could tell by the way the ground dipped that what had once been a path was now all but lost to the onslaught of nature. There was a hint of something bigger, something majestic lurking, but it was beneath a tangled, choking mat of bindweed and blackthorn that fought back with something close to personality.

A full day's labour from Stratford and two willing hands produced perhaps a yard of progress. Perhaps. The scratches outnumbered the inches.

It was in the Vulture one evening, over a supper that had cooled while he talked, that Stratford mentioned the situation to a group passing through. Travellers, by the look of them. Walking north with the unhurried purpose of people who know their destination but aren't in a hurry to reach it. One of them paused, tilting her head.

"There's a horticultural school," she said, "couple of days north of here. Good people. Serious about their plants." She said plants the way some people say convictions.

He sent word the following morning, not expecting much.

The students arrived ten days later, seven of them, carrying implements that looked less like garden tools and more like considered arguments. The tallest introduced himself with a handshake and a particular brightness in his eye. "We understand there may be some rare flora on the estate," he said pleasantly. "We've come to study it."

Outside in the yard sat a cart loaded with canvas, rope, and what appeared to be an entire field kitchen. These were not people who did things by halves.

Within a fortnight, the clearance had taken on an altogether different character. Where there had been inches, there were now yards. Where there had been cursing, there was something approaching method. Stratford watched one morning from the gatehouse steps, tea in hand, as the students moved through the undergrowth with the focused calm of people who understood that plants, like most things worth dealing with, respond better to knowledge than force.

He allowed himself, quietly, to feel hopeful.

It was on the third day of clearance that the first real discovery emerged.

One of the younger students, a slight girl with paint-stained fingers who had said very little but noticed everything, called out from the eastern wall, where the bindweed had grown so thick it had formed something almost architectural. The others gathered, and Stratford came to look, not entirely sure what he was peering at until she pointed.

Tucked against the old stonework, half-strangled but stubbornly alive, was a stand of something none of them had expected. The tall one crouched, pulled his notebook from his coat, and was quiet for a long moment.

"Marjoram," he said finally. "Wild. Old stock, by the look of it. This hasn't been planted in any living memory." He glanced up at Stratford. "Do you know what this means to a bee?"

Stratford did not, but he was willing to learn.

They found more as the weeks progressed. A sprawling mound of borage had colonised the old kitchen garden corner, its star-shaped flowers an almost impossible blue against the grey stone, humming already with early bumblebees despite the season's uncertainty.

The tall student crouched over it for a moment, then looked up at Stratford with an expression that had shifted from botanical interest to something more complicated. "Does Katarina know this is here?"

She did, as it turned out. She had known for some time. The borage oil she pressed each summer, honey-tinged, extraordinarily fine, produced in quantities too small to sell and too good to waste, had a reputation in the valley that far outran any explanation she had offered for it. The dried flowers she scattered through her summer salad were the same. People came back for it without quite knowing why, the way you return to a particular view or a piece of music, certain only that it does something the rest of the world doesn't.

Nobody had thought to ask where it came from.

Close to the corner of borage, threaded through the collapsed remains of a cold frame, stood something thornier and less immediately lovely. A stand of buckthorn, its small dark berries still clinging from the autumn before, patient and unprepossessing in the way of plants that know their own value without needing to advertise it.

Stratford stopped.

He knew buckthorn. Not from any book though, but from his grandfather's shed. From the smell of it in autumn. From the particular quality of the mead it produced when you knew what you were doing with it. Gesho, he had called it. A bittering agent, resinous and complex, the kind of thing that separated mead worth drinking from mead worth forgetting. The abbey would have grown it deliberately once, tended it carefully, valued it for exactly this purpose.

Which meant someone, at some point, had known what they were doing here. Not just with the buckthorn. With all of it.

He stood looking at it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

It was the tall student's turn to go quiet again when he saw it.

"Brimstone moths," said a different voice entirely. The one they called Pell, on account of the hat, which was today a wide-brimmed felt affair in a colour that defied easy categorisation. He had a hat for every occasion and several for occasions that hadn't arisen yet. "The caterpillars feed on buckthorn almost exclusively." He said it without drama, the way you state a fact you've known so long it has become part of you. "If this has been here undisturbed for as long as I think it has, there may be generations of them in the surrounding soil."

He crouched, peering at the base of the stand with the focused attention he gave to things that interested him, which was most things.

"The name's older than the moth, properly speaking," he said, to nobody in particular, in the way of someone who has simply started thinking aloud and sees no reason to stop. "There was a king, Dominik-of-the-west. He marched his armies east across the mountains toward K'blkah, in the Caucasus foothills. His men found moths there whose larvae produced a spark when hatching. Natural enough on its own, but those moths had a habit of settling near the gas vents in the rock, and the spark would catch the dried undergrowth, and the undergrowth would catch the gas as it vented." He paused, still looking at the buckthorn. "On a busy night it looked like a pyrotechnic circus. The sulphur in the gas gave everything a particular smell. The wing edges on the adult are that same sharp yellow." He glanced up. "Brimstone. Smell, colour, fire. The name came with the soldiers and it stuck."

He straightened, adjusted the hat, and looked at Stratford.

"Remarkable thing to find here," he said pleasantly. "Quite remarkable."

I’m scared to admit that I’m writing a book because I’m afraid I’ll give up halfway through, even though I’ve spent so many hours writing and planning it. I have given up on things in a similar vein before. I don’t want to say something and not have the followthrough. anyone else experience something similar?

Abandoned

Have you ever visited an abandoned home?
One where the dust and dirt cover every
surface and every stone,
like it’s trying to bury itself and be left alone?
-

Where every unsteady step you take over rock and accumulated bones,
you hear the cracks of scattered thoughts
that were held forever prone.
And the scent of decay dwells like a haunting;
if it had a voice, it’d be groans and moans.
-

An unintended time capsule preserving
horrid memories… and they were plenty.
-

Wallpaper that looked like flayed skin,
scarred externally yet bleeding within.
If walls could talk of the witnessed agony,
they’d sing
and ask why hurt can never be a sin.
-

A room with floors painted red,
curtains held together by threads,
a child’s room filled with dread,
a diary that asked: Am I alive, or am I dead?
-

No longer is there blood to shed.
The ground is a testament
to all I’ve said.
-

Comments:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/83c01SwO6l

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/JvcxAPDMu2

"Sunday morning; that weekly holiday which arrives only to remind you that yet another week has slipped away, leaving nothing new in its wake. What time is it now? I do not know, nor do I care to know. There is no use in it; for what would change whether it were nine in the morning or five in the afternoon?

​A pitch darkness, pierced only by a faint light trickling through the cracks beside the door. It seems I forgot to turn off the hallway lights. My clothes—some soiled, others perhaps clean—lie scattered around the mattress, sharing the chaos with empty chip bags and sardine cans in the corner of the room, right next to the overflowing trash bag. In the other corner stands a dilapidated desk, cluttered with old books, broken pens, scattered papers, strewn academic diplomas, and a passport and an identity card—both long expired.

​I opened my eyes and saw it all despite the stark darkness. I do not possess extraordinary vision; I have simply memorized every single inch of this dungeon. I could tell you exactly how many tiles line the floor, how many sardine cans it takes to reach the ceiling, or how many sunflower seeds I would need to lay down in a single straight line to reach the door. I have not done this calculus in a while. Perhaps I must recount them; who knows, maybe the number will change!

​It has been ages since I last crossed paths with the sun, yet I imagine she arrives every day, longing to see me. She fills her day with waiting, watching for me through all her hours, until her time to depart comes, and she slips away to set. She returns like a lover whose eyes are heavy with despair after visiting her bleeding beloved, hoping to convince him to return to who he once was, so they might turn a new page together—yet he answers her with nothing but a mute silence. She does this every day, returning wretched and broken-hearted, swearing she will never try again. But no sooner does the night fall than the memories come rushing back to haunt her: he was the finest lover, the truest friend, a brother, and a father. He was a brilliant ray of ambition; he was love itself. And so, she reclaims her resolve, gathers her fortitude, and rises once more."

Hey everyone, looking for collective wisdom on the “crisis of concept” moment faced by writers working across a broad scope of time in narrative nonfiction. How do you decide when the material inside one chapter is big enough to be its own book? My specifics are below, but assume this is a tension that comes up often in this genre (and others) and any thoughts could be applied broadly.

I am finalizing a proposal for a literary nonfiction book (real people/events/documented). Debating which version of the story I should actually be writing. There are two books living inside the same research.

The first (the one I’ve been working on) is a multigenerational family narrative set in a midwestern industrial city. Late 1800s through the mid-20th century. An immigrant family arrives with nothing, assimilates through the trades, achieves a brief foothold in civic life, loses it to forces larger than themselves, and produces a lost generation of sons before one line survives into something resembling stability. The industrial corridor and its environmental impacts are the context the family moves through. The family is the lens, with trove of documented details which translate directly to the broader themes (a few fall close to the category of “too far fetched if were fiction”)

As I am finishing the proposal, part of me keeps wondering whether the better story is actually hiding inside one chapter of that book. There’s a section rooted in the industrial enterprises themselves, the competing personalities who built and controlled them, their rivalries, political gamesmanship, the science they developed and weaponized, and what they did to the land. The more I dig into it the more compelling it becomes. That material is expansive enough to be its own book.

My concern with the first concept is that jamming generations together in one book doesn’t allow for full attachments to characters and it fails to provide richness to the compelling enterprise section. The issue with the second is whether there’s a readership for it at all. It has plenty of human characters, owners, engineers, scientists, real personalities with real rivalries. But without the family baseline that anchors the first book emotionally, I worry it risks further narrowing the potential readership and sliding into advocacy storytelling rather than literary nonfiction.

My instinct is that they belong together, but the structural problem is real for the first concept. And yes, I’m aware that the readership for either of these books is probably not large. That’s okay by me and the realistic outlet has always been a smaller press.

Has anyone dealt with this kind of tension? Is this just a stress every writer hits at some point in a long project, or am I identifying something that actually needs to be resolved before I go further? Do I just write a 400 page book?

TLDR: Writing a literary nonfiction book about a Midwest immigrant family and the industrial forces that shaped them. Wondering if the corporate power story buried inside it is actually the better book, or whether I justo need to figure out how to make them one.

I've always loved to write since I was a kid. It used to feel like a release. It always felt freeing and infinite in a way, like a door in my mind where possibilities were endless. But recently, Ive found that I just don't get the same spark when writing and it doesn't feel as stimulating and I don't really know what to do.

I also feel as though I've lost my creativity. I used to make new plots and stories everyday and have fifty projects open at once, and now I can't even think up anything worth writing.

It's not like I haven't been writing, I've tried and tried and sat at my laptop just for nothing to come out. Trying to write just feels so weird and empty, but nothing gives me the same feeling that writing does and I just want that feeling back. Is it writer's block or something more? What do I do?

Well I told myself years ago that I would never get to this spot, but here we are. I am in the middle of multiple series, have a few stubs of novels, shorts and novellas sitting on a hard-drive and the nagging realization that I'm not going to live forever. I'm not sure how to focus in and get all of this done (I'm sitting on about six books, eight novellas and ten short stories, all completed more or less). I'm getting pretty good about my 3k (minimum) daily word count, but this is kind of compounding the problem. I have the opposite of writer's block and my list of 'fleshed-out enough to start' ideas just keeps getting bigger. Worried this is going to ruin my mental health and keep me from finishing what I realistically can in a lifetime. Hope this isn't too stream of consciousness. Just needed it out of my head and figured some discussion probably couldn't hurt either.

Hey everyone,
I’ve been away from writing for a while and I’m trying to slowly find my way back into it.
I’ve always leaned more toward writing poems and short stories. It’s something I used to enjoy a lot, but over time I kind of lost momentum and stopped creating as much as I used to. Not really for any big dramatic reason—just life, distractions, and that feeling of not knowing where to start again.
Right now I’m not trying to force anything or be overly serious about it. I just want to reconnect with writing in a natural way again and rebuild the habit of actually putting thoughts into words instead of letting them sit in my head.
If anyone has gone through something similar or has any advice on getting back into writing without overthinking it, I’d really appreciate it. I’m also open to just talking about writing in general.
Thanks for reading :)

Toronto knew death was near when the final compile finished without a single error.

For three seconds, he stared at the green message on his laptop screen and felt nothing. No joy. No relief. Not even the tiny spark of pride that usually appeared after surviving another impossible deadline. Build succeeded.

His HRIS module worked. The login page accepted credentials. The dashboard loaded. The reports did not explode. Somewhere, in a kinder universe, that would have meant sleep.

In this universe, it meant his thesis adviser would ask for revisions in the morning. Toronto blinked once as the room tilted.

A cold cup of coffee sat beside a tangled mess of wires, bread wrappers, circuit boards, and printed diagrams marked with red pen. His running shoes were still wet from the morning marathon he had joined because some cruel part of him believed discipline built character.

He had no character left, only battery warning.

"Finally," he whispered, and let his forehead touch the keyboard. The laptop chimed.

Toronto died before he could close the lid.

When he opened his eyes again, people were chanting at him.

That was rude.

A circle of blue-white light burned beneath his back. Tall pillars rose around him, carved with unfamiliar symbols that looked suspiciously like someone had forced a medieval cathedral to run a user interface. Priests in silver robes knelt on both sides of the circle. Knights stood at attention. Nobles watched from a balcony with the hungry expression of people expecting free entertainment.

At the far end of the hall, a golden-haired king lifted both hands.

"Otherworlder Hero!" the king declared. "Almanos has answered our prayer!"

Toronto closed his eyes.

No.

I'm writing a story and my MC's mother is albino, and most albino people have low vision or no vision at all, so I'm keeping that in the character, however I don't know how to introduce that idea with showing not telling, I also don't know if saying that she doesn't look at another character when talking is necessary, I feel it drives away from the topic and maybe defines the character by just that one characteristic? I don't know, does anyone have any tips?

Edit;

Hello, I came to explain somethings, I had already answered some comments with this, but still it'd be good to update the post, so here we go.

First; I explained myself wrong, English is not my first language so there's that, I'm writing the book in my native language but I like asking for advice here sometimes, anyways, I meant to say that the character, Nova, wouldn't look into someone's eyes, or that her eyes would move involuntarily due to her condition. I know she would look at other characters directions when speaking mainly because of the sound direction.

Second; she's not 100% blind, I know most people are not 100% blind, Nova isn't either, she sees very little, blurry and has light sensibility. She can only see things that are very close to her.

Third: I did researched and will research more, I want to write her right, of course. I am just looking for a way to introduce her blindness without it defining her. I don't want to define the character by just her disability. Nova is my main character's mom, she's a queen, there is more about her than that.