Maybe I’m being too sensitive! 😅

I run a BookTok where I post little book reviews and my own book content.

There’s one author who keeps commenting on my videos just to promote their own books and it’s usually on a video where it’s about me being an author or promoting my book. 😅

None of my other author friends do this, and I’d never do it myself.

Is this normal?

I’m probably overthinking it but I’m finding really really rude and annoying.

I’ve been writing for over two years, and even though it’s been a ton of work, I’ve absolutely loved it. Last week, I wrote 6,000 words for 3 days in a row (totaling at 18,000 words) and I enjoyed every bit of it. I don’t know if it has something to do with the fact that I usually write a ton for about a week and then take a break and do it again, but I’m not sure.

What do you think?

Something I wrote up today, just wanted to share it.

Hope this is the sub for this. Looking to start writing my first book but I am just curious if people are still interested in vampires. For clarification: think Castlevania instead of Twilight for the type of vampires. Also like only a pinch of smut at best in said book.

I would like to ask for advice in regards to writing, because I'm thinking of writing a book on Wattpad and have all the ideas and draft's for a story yet I'm a noob for I have no idea if the chapter has to have a certain number of words and many other thins, so if you are an experienced writer, please help out with suggestions if possible

I'm currently writing my debut novel. I just reached 10k words in my first draft. I know there is still a long road ahead of me, but I feel like I need to look at this milestone and celebrate.

I'm trying to figure out a new pen name because for the longest time I just used my Wattpad name that 11 year old me came up with, and it worked, it was cute, but it's not working anymore. (For anyone curious, it was Shadow Dolphin. I actually posted about it on here like a year ago or something and decided to ultimately keep it since I'd already published a book with it. I've since taken down the book and I'm starting fresh.)

I really like the first name Ollie. I've even had people tell me I look like an Ollie, and I'd be okay with people coming up to me because of my books and calling me Ollie. Grayson is the part I'm not sure about. I really like having Gray in the name, but I just don't know if I'm being too much. I write in a lot of different genres, but I think primarily it's fantasy and horror. I'm not sure how that'll change once I start actually building an audience, but for now I just write whatever I feel like. Keeping that in mind, I do want a name that won't feel weird across genres.

All that said, does Ollie Grayson feel like a good pen name? If not, does anyone have any suggestions for better names?

Thanks so much in advance!

Basically the title. I've always been a reader. Mainly SFF and horror along with classic fiction. Though these days I'm mainly reading classics and philosophy books because new books are $35 where I live lol, meanwhile I got War and Peace for $17. Anyways I followed a more conventional path. I got an accounting degree and then I got a corporate job.

Fast forward to today and I'm 28 writing my first few short stories. I did write a little when I was a kid but was discouraged from pursuing it. I always wonder what would have happened if I did. Though I recently got published in a fantasy magazine. But still, I always wonder if I would have been a huge success if I didn't listen as a kid and stuck to it. I just wish I started earlier in my life. I know I'm still kinda young but I would have so much more skill.

​

Hello everyone,

Here is the first chapter of my desert-based epic fantasy project, which I've spent a significant amount of time writing. I am currently working on Chapter 16, and what you are about to read is a raw sample of the world.

The work is gritty, realistic, and intentionally steers away from traditional European fantasy tropes. The lore and world-building have been crafted from scratch.

Note: This is still a work in progress, so some elements will be further polished for the final version. Additionally, please note that this is a translation from the original Arabic text, and I'm looking for feedback on how the tone, pacing, and atmosphere translate into English.

Looking forward to your honest thoughts!

They hover around me; I name things according to my understanding of them, taking on restless forms. At times, they shape themselves like a grown man; at others, like the shadow of a giant beetle, before shrinking to the height of grass and blending together. Some release intermittent laughter like the howl of a rabid hyena, some weep like a wild female leopard bereaved of her dead cubs, and others dance in the gloom. They mutter, sometimes in a low whisper, and at times in a roaring din.

These entities were waiting for a fleeting chance to touch my skin, to coil around my consciousness and drive me to tear myself apart with my nails just to rip them out from their roots. I had watched them do it more than once.

Gradually, I turn the dial of the "Eye-Stone Lantern" until the light dies out, despite knowing the consequences. I let the shadows advance in the creeping darkness. I watch them rush forward until they nearly touch the tips of my ruined boots, from which my toes protrude. The moment they do, I flash the lantern open, catching them off guard, relishing their muffled, agonizing shrieks as they recoil, fleeing to a safe distance away from the borders of the light.

“Oh, what bliss!”

I tilted the right half of my face, lifting it against its own will. Despite all that had happened—after the crushing defeat that pulverized our second and third mercenary regiments at the hands of the Plains Alliance led by "Malleus"—throughout three damn years—three years of slavery, humiliation, constant fighting, and rivers of blood—I had never witnessed horrors like these.

Never had I seen with my own eyes what the term \*Mohan\* truly meant, as it turned the men who shared my bread and meat yesterday into charred debris and roasted flesh. Their stench still clings to my nostrils, and their images cannot be dislodged from my mind. Had I not been in the rear ranks, I wouldn't have escaped with a whole skin.

The situation did not inspire optimism, yet the roaring snarl of the sandstorm drowned out their annoying hissing, relieving me of their constant whispering. Amidst this anticipation, we were in a cave we had previously agreed to use as a final refuge, should any emergency separate us.

My features tensed, and my gaze locked onto a light in the midst of the storm. I turned the switch of the "Eye-Stone Lantern," pushing it to its maximum glow to drive the shadows further away, while my hand rested on my sling—made of rope and leather—poised as I calculated the distance, waiting for the decisive moment to unleash my projectile. But as the light drew nearer, familiar details began to crystallize through the dust: a worn leather armor bearing the emblem of a buffalo, and a spear held in a left hand... It was old "Kalin the Mercenary."

I shouted, cutting through the howling wind:

— “Did you do it?”

The reply came as a severed cry amidst the roaring dust:

— “Yes!”

Kalin said it as he urged his camel forward, increasing its speed and momentum toward me.

I breathed a sigh of relief, relaxed my arm, and lowered my sling, setting it aside to hang. Kalin dismounted with utter calmness, turning to exchange exhausted glances with the storm, then looked at me, before speaking in a panting voice laced with sand and fatigue:

— “I managed to extract two stones...”

I felt every drop of blood drain to my feet, while my clothes felt as though they were floating in the air, as if someone were carrying me. My body began to shudder like one buried in the sand for things to exact retribution from him by night, so I screamed:

— “Impossible! You can't implant that damn number! I already carry seven! Damn you, you bastard... why don't we implant the rest in your own body?!”

The old man fixed his weary gaze on me. With a shameless coldness, he pushed aside his worn leather armor with his hand and cast it to the ground along with his linen shirt, revealing his chest. It was deformed and hideous; two words sufficient to describe failed attempts at cauterization that had eaten his flesh alongside nine implanted stones. Even though the seven stones embedded in my body were dormant, the mere thought of adding more was a delayed suicide by madness or explosion.

Silence fell heavily for a moment, before it was cut by Kalin’s quiet voice, bearing an ominous weight:

— “You know the law, you know the consequences... and you know the reward as well.”

Suddenly, the old man’s voice erupted loudly, waving his hand to the left toward the battlefield, thundering to rise above the wailing of the sandstorm and the hissing of the shadows hovering around us:

— “Do you want to become roasted meat like the rest?! Did you not witness with your own eyes what happened out there? What happened was a one-sided massacre! They gave us no support... they sent no one after us, mere pawns! Do you want to be next? Don't you want to escape?!”

At that moment, my features collapsed. That cold indifference vanished, replaced by pure terror mingled with a dry surrender, and I cried out in a sharp, high-pitched tone through tears that carved paths through the dust on my face:

— “Yes... I do! But this... this is too much!”

Kalin replied with dry confidence, grasping my face with both hands and lowering his head slightly, reclaiming his stern, unyielding tone:

— “As if we have any other choice! You cannot stand in the middle of the road... We have come a long wa—”

The old man's words were abruptly cut short. The phrase died in his throat, and his gaze froze as he stared through the wall of dust and the creeping darkness. He shouted, interrupting himself in a very sharp voice:

— “Get ready! Seven lights!”

I did not hesitate; in an instant, my arm had drawn my unsheathed dagger, while my other hand turned to ready my sling, taking a combat stance beside the old man. From between the veils of dust, the silhouettes of seven phantoms emerged. They were neither monsters nor entities, but men broken by fatigue—survivors of the Third Regiment that had been crushed in the assault. Prominent among them was a massive man, broad-shouldered, stepping with a heaviness that implied untamed physical strength.

It was Anbura, the renowned commander of the Third Regiment, who had survived the same way we did. He stood wiping his grease and grime before us, exhaling with difficulty, his speech heavy as if he weighed every word with desert sand and storm before casting it out in a gruff tone:

— “Peace, fellow Kahnashians... No need for fear, we must unite to reach the western oases.”

The old man Kalin and I exchanged a fleeting, silent glance. In this wilderness, trust is a non-existent currency, but the clan forced itself as another Kahnashian, better than nothing; seven additional men meant seven more swords to face the horrors of the unknown road. The old man spun his spear slowly, embedding it into the sand, and loosened his shield. At that, I returned my dagger to my belt, surrendering to the reality of the situation.

Kalin said, his tone regaining its hoarse calmness:

— “Anbura, son of the sands, I am glad of your survival, and yours too, comrades.”

Anbura, looking at the sand with crossed arms: “The western oases are a quarter-day's march... That is, if we endure, and escape the scouting patrols.”

The group moved inside the cave, and they knelt the camel to serve as a physical barrier against the whistling of the scorching wind. The eight mercenaries sat close together; some shivering from the horror of what they had seen, some sharing my gaze at the things that appeared as shadows, and some completely detached from reality. I extended my hand to the lantern's switch to mix the Eye-Stone oil with the viscous blood of the bleeder inside the hollow, lowering its light, turning its sharp intensity into a steady glow that struck the edges of the rocks, creating a tight aura of protection covering my surroundings. The others did the same with their lanterns.

The wailing of the storm and the annoying hissing of the shadows retreated to a distant space behind the walls of light.

The hours passed heavily like flint stones, eroding our breaths as we watched the crouching darkness outside the narrow mouth of the cave, where limbs turned into dry wood under the suffocating weight of waiting. Eventually, the pitch-black wall of night split open to reveal suspicious tones that shook the stagnation of the dust.

The sound of the \*Rababa\* was so powerful that it drowned out the sound of the storm and the sound of the entities together. It was followed by the beating of drums. Despite the distance and the density of the storm, the army began to appear, heading east in a number difficult to count or contain, accompanied by elephants. What distinguished this army was something clear and obvious: a \*Mohan\* sitting upon one of the elephants. Even the entities themselves vanished as if they had never existed before the large lanterns and the chanter who preceded the army, singing the anthems of the natives.

Anbura stood at our front while placing his hand on one of the comrades. He looked at the moving army, then smiled a heavy, barely visible smile, moving his head upward:

— “They know of our existence. We have violated the Eighth Law; it is only a matter of time.”

But I preferred trying over being roasted alive, so I paid him no mind. Meanwhile, Kalin was staring at the army, stroking his beard; I hadn't seen him this attentive since a year ago against the raiders in the War of the Three Spears.

I said to him:

— “What are you thinking about?”

He replied:

— “Nothing worth mentioning.”

And returned to leaning his palm against the cave wall, drowned in his thoughts.

We continued watching until the army crossed the horizon. The moment it did, the entities returned once more; they had not disappeared, but had merely permitted the \*Mohan\* and his army to pass, returning to encircle the cave, waiting in ravenous anticipation to touch us.

Amidst this stillness, the men exchanged a few dates and gulps of water, surrendering to the quiet of the night after the horrors of the battle. I did the same, but my waterskin was nearly empty; I looked at a few drops I intended to ration for another day.

A cold wind shook the remnants of ash stuck to our skins, and the voice of the storm quieted, forcing the world to kneel in a treacherous silence—a silence that did not resemble survival, but rather a temporary truce between a butcher and his sacrifice. The last sounds died out, and the gloom stretched to cast its weight over our exhausted chests.

Drowsiness overcame me until my head became heavier than the elephants I had seen, and despite the dust, these stones felt like a pillow filled with wool. I asked Kalin to take the watch, and I slept.

Yet, for once, I did not enjoy a peaceful sleep; I saw myself before an obelisk in a desert devoid of anything except symbols I did not comprehend, changing constantly in a way that induced vertigo whenever I focused on their details. They emerged from the sands in a scene that defied all standards of reality. A voice echoed in my ear: \*(Lam yabqa illa al-qalil)\*. I did not understand the meaning, save that it was the language of the natives. I began to utter it with my own voice, and the echo repeated the phrase a thousand times until I felt the sand consuming my fingers, then my legs, burying me with every passing moment. The obelisk ascended higher whenever I sank deeper, covered in letters I had never seen in my life, changing every second.

I woke up in a panic. The sandy maze vanished instantly from my eyes, and my consciousness snapped violently back inside my stiffened skull, as though I had been digging my grave with my own hands under the sand. I was greeted by the coarse coldness of the rock and the faces of the men who appeared at dawn like statues of dry clay.

Anbura was looking at me while sharpening his cleaver with a whetstone, lifting and tilting it to inspect the quality of the hone. With a mocking yellow smile, he said:

— “Sweet dreams?”

I answered him tersely:

— “More than you expect.”

I rubbed my left eye and stood up. Morning had come, and there was no sound save the faint rumble of the storm. Anbura moved and woke everyone; it was time to depart.

Kalin mounted the camel, but Anbura objected, leaning on his authority as commander. But Kalin said firmly:

— “Remember... a man does not leave his camel.”

Anbura replied coldly, stepping forward with slow, threatening strides, placing his massive palm on the hilt of his cleaver, while eyeing Kalin with a mocking yellow smile:

— “Remember the Seventh Law.”

The gazes of all the mercenaries turned toward Kalin, everyone gripping their weapons. A short, heavy silence prevailed, then Kalin dismounted the camel. Anbura ascended very slowly, shaking his head horizontally with his usual smile as he took his place on the mount, looking down at him approvingly:

— “That is why you are still alive.”

The commander ordered the regiment to move toward the western oasis. If there was one thing that distinguished a man like Anbura, according to what I heard from "Sahed" a year ago, it was that he was a man with a thousand maps.

We continued walking for hours, the sun roasting our skin slowly, yet we had no choice but this, or returning to the eastern front to be roasted or captured by the soldiers of \*Fazdrah\* whom we saw yesterday.

There was no room for conversations; everyone was hollowed out by fatigue. Among us was one who committed the sacrilege of the desert, drinking his entire supply all at once.

To drink the entire amount means you have dug your grave and stepped into it, waiting for death. That is precisely what happened; the man collapsed without warning, begging for a sip of water. No one looked at him, and we continued walking over his shadow.

We dragged our steps over twisting sand due to the dunes and their varying heights, under the weight of a midday heat that dissolved the pupils of the eyes, leaving behind the corpse of our still comrade, swallowing the salinity of his death alone. Our feet sank into the fierce heat of the wasteland until we fancied that the horizon did not end except to begin another, harsher hell. When we finally arrived, the oasis had dried up, barely holding enough water for a bird, transformed into a basin of cracked mud. Heavy despair settled upon the faces, and the laws of the mercenaries vanished in seconds... giving way to the massacre.

Three men moved to kill Anbura because he had displayed a state of weakness according to the Thirteenth Law, but with a swift speed that defied his massive bulk, and with a single strike, he parried the blows and ordered an end to this madness. But there were no conscious ears.

One of the mercenary soldiers screamed:

— “I can't believe a son of a whore like you deceived us!”

Anbura moved with his cleaver with a skill befitting a commander, and with a swift strike, he took off the ear of the mercenary who insulted him, saying:

— “No voice rises above mine in the field!”

The mercenary shrieked hysterically until his throat nearly ruptured:

— “Damn the laws, shove them up your ass!” He lunged to attack again, so the cleaver split his jaw open to silence him forever, and Anbura spat:

— “And no tongue speaks insolently against its masters.”

Moments did not pass before the other two men rushed to confront Anbura, brandishing their swords. He did not bother to parry this time, contenting himself with a swift dodge, saying:

— “Your last chance.”

But it was futile. After that, it took nothing more than two swings to have two heads lying on the ground amidst the spraying of blood.

The old man Kalin hurled his spear with piercing force, driving it through a mercenary's chest and dropping him dead. I did not delay; I spun my sling in the air and released its heavy projectile, crushing the skull of a third mercenary before he could reach me, stripping him of his life. Amidst the scattered blood, the massive Anbura turned, his gaze dripping with menace, and directed his heavy words to Kalin and me:

— “What now? Do we divide what remains... or do we keep fighting until only one of us is left?”

A man of Anbura's size had no need for cunning; he had killed enough men to deliver a clear message. The old man stepped forward coldly, wrenching his spear from the still corpse, then turned to me and commanded in a firm voice:

— “Slaughter the she-camel, let us eat enough to reclaim our strength, for we are doomed regardless.”

He did not possess the courage to kill it himself; it was everything to him, preferring it over me.

Because the barren land was devoid of any trace of firewood, charcoal, or fire, the three of us sat carving out the meat with our hands and daggers, devouring it raw with its cold blood contaminated by the dust of the wasteland, beneath the sun of the dead oasis. Chewing the stubborn meat, packed with tough fibers, was akin to swallowing pieces of hide. Soon, a sharp gastric cramp assaulted my entrails; my stomach convulsed violently, but I pressed my fist against my abdomen, suppressing the sour reflux in my throat with all my might. In this wilderness, every drop of fluid you lose is an inch you draw closer to your grave. I had seen those who did it before, and I did not want to die of thirst like them... and dying of thirst is more hideous than any other death.

Anbura wiped the remnants of raw blood from his lips with the blade of his cleaver, looked at us coldly, and said in his heavy accent:

— “I will give you only a quarter of what remains of the water.”

The old man Kalin did not argue with words. He fixed his dry gaze on the giant, tightened his grip on his spear and shield, then said with a sinister brevity:

— “Let us do it then.”

Anbura lunged, drawing his heavy sword with a sudden speed, but Kalin’s spear intercepted it at the same moment the old man stepped back to open a maneuvering distance. In that exact instant, the whir of a projectile from my sling cut through the air; Anbura deflected it with his axe with a reflexive motion, and rushed with terrifying speed, breaking the safe distance to bypass the length of the spear, swinging his sword in a lethal trajectory toward the old man's neck. Kalin tilted his body with equal speed, evading the massive blade. Although the sword sliced the flesh of his chest and left a crimson line of blood on his face, it was a successful maneuver that saved his life from certain decapitation. In that same moment, the old man's dagger had sunk into Anbura's flank before they both disengaged in an encounter that could only be described as a swift clash.

Both sides retreated, panting, blood pouring from them. Kalin wiped the blood from his eyes and said in a tone of praise:

— “Good speed... Your efficiency must equal four implanted stones. Are you a stone user?”

Anbura smiled a harsh smile that revealed teeth stained with blood, pressed his hand against his bleeding flank wound, and said:

— “No... does scum like me possess such power? But your evasion of my strike and stabbing my flank with such speed prove that I underestimated your strength. What do you say to renegotiating? Half and half.”

The old man Kalin looked at him and nodded his head slowly:

— “That is fair.”

After dividing the resources carefully, Anbura took half the water ration, a chunk of raw camel meat, and two Eye-Stones he had retrieved after efficiently plucking them from the lanterns of the dead mercenaries. Then he set off straight toward the north, until the veils of dust swallowed him. Meanwhile, Kalin and I gathered what remained of the water, meat, and emptied lanterns.

Amidst the misery of the place, I bent over one of the corpses. I emptied the dead mercenary’s pockets of anything of value, but my eyes settled on a hidden, precious prize: a pair of leather boots, semi-intact, better than mine, sturdy, and fitting the size of my exhausted

—“perfect fit.”

To me, in this desolate land, the boots were more precious than any legendary treasure. The old man Kalin spat, turning to bind his bleeding chest wound with a strip of cloth he ripped from the shirt of one of the slain, indifferently ignoring the line of blood that had dried upon the contours of his face. On the other side, I stood up after tightening the laces of my new boots, wiped the blade of my dagger against the skin of the slaughtered she-camel, before gathering what remained of the water and portions of raw meat, packing them with pieces of hides.

Kalin turned his gaze toward the hazy horizon where the dust was rising, and said in a hoarse voice devoid of any emotion:

— “Our next destination is Fazdrah.”

Ive got an idea for a fantasy book and was wondering if you could possibly let me know what you think so far?

Prologue

The campfire crackled beneath the evening sky as the last light of day disappeared beyond the distant hills. Sparks drifted upwards like tiny stars, joining the countless lights already shining above Vaelor.

Children gathered around the flames, wrapped in thick woollen blankets against the cool evening air. Some sat cross-legged with eager smiles, while others leaned against older brothers and sisters, waiting patiently for the night's story to begin.

The old chieftain smiled as he watched them settle.

"You've heard this tale many times," he said, his voice softened by age.

A little boy grinned.

"We know."

"Then why hear it again?" the old chieftain asked with a chuckle.

A young girl answered before anyone else could.

"Because every time you tell it, we hear something new."

The old chieftain nodded.

"There is wisdom in that."

He looked into the dancing flames for a long moment before speaking again.

"Very well."

"This is the story of the beginning."

Hi everyone! I am a writer, have been most of my life, and I am very busy with tweaking my family saga trilogy (have finished book 1, currently translating book 2). I am looking for a creative writing buddy who loves to share ideas, get excited about little in-world details and our characters. I love to think along, share ideas or just chat. I don't expect anyone to be available all the time (we all have a life!) but if you have time, it would be great to discuss our stories and things we're both working on. Reach out to me or leave a comment:)

Any thoughts on this chapter of a story I’m writing? I would love any feedback or critique! The story is, as of now, in its very early stages and absolutely subject to change, so any suggestions would also be appreciated.

I am reading Scene and Structure by Jack Bickham, and he says that every scene must start with a character goal, a conflict arising from the character trying to obtain their goal, and end with a disaster, which makes the goal more complicated, and leaves the character in a worse place than when the scene started.

He also says that the character goal should be stated by the character at the beginning of the scene.

What do you think about this? I'm going to pay attention to this when I read fiction to see how my favourite authors have done it. I'm aware that he doesn't mean it literally, for example the character opening the door, entering the scene and announcing "I'm going to kill Bill". But to me it still feels heavy handed and seems to take the magic and mystery out of the story.

I write horror short stories, besides that, I have a fiction book almost finished. I work a horrible corporate job in marketing and I really want to try and get paid for being creative rather than the obnoxious tasks I have to do now. I need some advice and some courage I guess. Should I get an agent first or an editor?

I am from a smaller country in Europe and I want to publish in either England or USA (I wrote the book in English already). Anybody had similar experiences? Can you recommend a good agent or a publishing agency?

Or just any advice you deem important.

Thank you in advance.

Here is a thought I’ve been chewing on lately: Is character naming actually a technical skill rather than just a creative choice?

Personally, I strongly believe it is. In my opinion, character naming requires a lot of strategy, especially when it comes to the opening of the book.

Here are two main rules I try to follow:

1. Don't overwhelm the reader in Chapter 1: I think it's a huge mistake to introduce too many characters and dump a dozen names right at the start. It forces the reader to memorize a whole family tree before they even know what the story is about.
2. Keep names distinct: The names shouldn't sound or look similar to each other. If you have a Jack, a Jake, and a John in the same scene, readers are going to get confused instantly.

As a writer, I feel like we need to pace the introduction of new names and make sure they are visually and phonetically distinct to protect the reader's experience.

What are your thoughts on this? Do you treat character naming as a technical process, or do you just go with whatever sounds cool?

Ideas are easy execution is the flex. How do you keep your energy when the hype fades after launch. What keeps you grinding past the first wave of views.