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✧ 𝖆.𝖔 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜

✦ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

✸𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: dark fantasy, romance, new adult.

✸𝐩𝐨𝐯: Ellowyn & Roman.

✸𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬&𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬: death; change of power; facing darkness; family; desire to escape; disillusionment and dreams; faith versus doubt; fate and free will; moraly grey characters; illusion of power; greed as downfall; identity crisis; supernatural; gods; individual versus society; inner versus outer strength; loss of innocence; love and sacrifice; manipulation; power & corruption; devotion; lgbtq+; tragedy.

✸𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: blood; murder; violence; classicism; gaslighting; manipulation; death; abuse; cannibalism.

✸𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: planning / writing.

⟢𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the kingdom of Mireap, where half-demon Essebris hold sway, Ellowyn and Roman are thrust into a deadly dance of deception and destiny. Ellowyn, resurrected to fulfill a deadly bargain, grapples with newfound hunger and the consequences of defying death. Meanwhile, Roman, destined for the throne, battles against unknown assailants and his father's unraveling sanity. As time dwindles and shadows deepen, their intertwined fates ignite a cascade of chaos, unraveling chilling truths that could reshape their world.

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤:

—by @mandhos

—by @annazees

based on the soundtrack of stories post!

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊—In Between by Robot Koch, Finnegan Tui

(skipping the B-rolls) As the screen fades to black, wisps of shadow curl and twist through the darkness, shifting like living smoke. A faint whisper of wind cuts through the silence before the bold, silver letters of ESSEBRIS emerge, forming from the swirling shadows. The text flickers as if struggling against the darkness before solidifying with a soft metallic sheen. The shadows linger for a moment before dissipating, leaving nothing but silence.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝕺𝖋 𝕬 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗—Rival by Ruelle

"Rival" by Ruelle fits Ellowyn because it captures the tension of being trapped in a fate she never chose. The pulsing energy mirrors her slow unraveling, the way she fights to hold onto herself even as she’s forced down a path she can’t escape. The lyrics echo her struggle—not defiance, but the weight of inevitability, of becoming something she never wanted to be. It’s the sound of her last moments of agency slipping away, of her being shaped by forces stronger than her, until there’s nothing left but the madness taking over.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖞𝖘𝖙 𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖐—Song of Hal: Strings in B Minor

"Song of Hal: Strings in B Minor" is the perfect catalyst song for Essebris. The slow, mournful strings and deep cello carry the weight of the story’s emotional downfall, mirroring the inevitable loss and descent into madness. The lingering hums feel like echoes of what once was—fading memories, fractured identities, and the quiet sorrow woven through every choice the characters are about to make. It’s not just a song; it’s the sound of Essebris unraveling, of everything slipping beyond repair.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝕿𝖚𝖓𝖊—Bathroom Dance by Hildur Guðnadóttir

"Bathroom Dance" by Hildur Guðnadóttir is the perfect theme for Essebris’ so-called villains—though I don’t see any of them as truly evil, just victims of their own pasts. This song, in particular, fits Roman the moment he crosses the point of no return. The eerie, almost hypnotic strings reflect the unraveling of his mind, the quiet acceptance of his descent. It’s not rage or chaos—it’s something colder, more intimate, the moment where he no longer fights what he’s becoming. This song isn’t about madness—it’s about surrendering to it.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖑𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖝 𝕾𝖔𝖓𝖌—Beneath The Brine by The Family Crest

"Beneath the Brine" isn’t just the climax song for Essebris—it’s the song that started it all. It’s the scene that pushed me deeper into this world, the one that set everything in motion. A moment of blatant betrayal, raw and undeniable, where any hope between Ellowyn and Roman shatters completely. The contrast between the song’s upbeat, almost whimsical sound and the sheer devastation of the scene makes it all the more unsettling. It’s the kind of moment that lingers, that twists everything beyond repair. This song isn’t just part of Essebris—it is Essebris.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕰𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊 𝕸𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖉𝖞—Death In The Afternoon by Sin Fang

"Death in the Afternoon" is the only melody that fits the epilogue of Essebris. It carries that unsettling weight of an ending we all saw coming—one with no true winners, no real catharsis, just the inevitable collapse. We held on, hoping for more, even when we knew it was never meant to be. And now, all that’s left is the heavy aftermath, the silence after everything has unraveled. It’s final, yet it lingers, never quite settling, just like the story itself.

Writers, imagine your WIP as a movie or a series—what would its soundtrack sound like? This isn’t just about picking songs; it’s about crafting a musical journey that reflects your story’s heart, tension, and emotions.

Your challenge: Curate a 6-song playlist for your WIP, where each song serves a unique storytelling role. Think of it like selecting tracks for a film score, with each one carrying a different narrative weight.

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🎬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬: 6 𝐄𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬

▥ 1. The Overture – The anthem of your WIP. If your story had an opening credits scene, what song would set the tone?

▤ 2. The Soul of a Character – Choose one main character and find a song that embodies their struggles, dreams, or internal conflict. (Tell us why you chose it!)

▧ 3. The Catalyst Track – A song that represents a pivotal turning point in the story. A betrayal? A revelation? A moment where everything changes?

▨ 4. The Villain’s Tune – Every great story has conflict. Pick a song that embodies your antagonist (or biggest obstacle). Is it chaotic? Lurking and slow? Charismatic and deadly?

▦ 5. The Climax Song – The moment everything builds up to—the final confrontation, battle, or emotional peak. What’s playing when it all comes crashing down?

▩ 6. The Epilogue Melody – The final track as the story ends. Does it leave behind sadness, hope, nostalgia, or something unresolved?

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Lately, I’ve been haunted by a particular fear—not of failure, not of rejection, but something more subtle, more sneaky. The fear that my stories, the ones I’ve carried with me for years, have outgrown me.

I think every writer dreams of doing justice to the worlds they create. We spend years crafting intricate histories, weaving together characters with loves and losses, and constructing entire mythologies from the ground up. And yet, there’s a moment—one that sneaks up on you—where you start to wonder: What if I’m not the right person to tell this story?

What if my writing skills don’t match the weight of the story I want to tell? What if my execution is clumsy, my prose inadequate, my characters lacking the depth they deserve?

My biggest fear isn’t that my work will be bad—bad writing can be improved, revised, rewritten. My fear is that it will be almost good. That it will sit just on the edge of brilliance but never quite cross that threshold. That if I ever put my work into the world, someone will read it and say, This had potential.

And I know what they would mean. They wouldn’t mean it as a compliment. They’d mean that it could have been great—if only someone else had written it. If only the right writer had taken my idea and shaped it into something truly breathtaking. And the thought of that—that my ideas, my worlds, my characters could have flourished in different hands but are stunted in mine—is devastating.

Because these stories matter to me. They aren’t just things I came up with one day and decided to write down. They are a part of me, pieces of my soul spilled onto the page. And yet, there’s a voice in my head that whispers: Maybe they deserve better than you.

It’s a paralyzing thought. It keeps me from finishing projects, from taking the next step toward publication, from believing in my own work. It makes me hesitate before every sentence, second-guess every plot point, wonder if I should just shelve the entire thing until I’m "better"—as if I’ll ever reach some magical threshold of good enough.

But then, I remind myself of something important.

These stories, these characters, these ideas—they chose me. No one else has spent years breathing life into them. No one else has carried them in their heart, through every rewrite and every late-night brainstorm. No one else has agonized over the details, shaped their voices, or felt the ache of their struggles the way I have.

Maybe someone else could write them better. But they won’t—because they weren’t meant to. Because these stories, flawed as they may be, belong to me.

Aw, thank you so much! I usually don't give writing advice since I really do see writing as a self learning experience. But I'm glad that this is able to help others in some form or another! Will be making on how i approach the eight chapters method soon!

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about anonymity in writing. In a time where authors share their lives, personalities, and even their faces as part of their brand, anonymity doesn’t seem much of a popular choice. I don't know, I could be wrong. (Personal experience from what I've seen. Writeblr is an exception to this)

And to be clear—I don’t think there’s anything wrong with writers sharing themselves publicly. Some people thrive in that space, and it’s beautiful to see authors connecting with readers in a deeply personal way. But I’ve realized that’s not for me. I don’t feel the need to be seen or known outside of my stories. My words, my worlds, my characters—that’s what I want to leave behind. Not the online presence I would have cultivated. Just the stories themselves, standing on their own, hopefully continuing to resonate long after I’m gone.

We often talk about writing as an extension of self, but does it have to be an invitation into the self? Can an author exist separately from their work and still be meaningful? I believe so.

That’s the kind of legacy I want. One where my name—if it even matters—becomes secondary to what I create. I want my books to find their way into hands that will love them, without needing my face attached to them. I want my characters to live in the minds of readers, without the distraction of knowing too much about the person who created them. And, honestly? I want the freedom of existing outside of my own work, of not having to perform a version of myself for the sake of visibility.

Maybe that’s an unpopular take in an era where social media thrives on who we are just as much as what we make. But I think there’s power in remaining unseen. In letting the art breathe on its own, without a creator’s presence looming over it. In knowing that even when I step away, the stories will still exist, moving forward without me.

So, here’s my question: Is there still space for anonymity in writing? Can we allow authors to fade into the background while their work takes center stage? Or is the nature of storytelling too intertwined with the storyteller now?