louder grow the words that fall from fortune's jagged lips
@bluewritesbadly
the name is blue or grey, 21, any pronouns, writeblr, trying and failing to write many books, check out my about me and wip pages, send me asks! read my short story and check out the progress of my book Tenets of Stone!
Hey! I go by Blue or Grey, any pronouns work. I like to write a lot but lack motivation, love werewolves and anything involving magic, and I start so many wips that I often lose track. Iâm about to start law school, trying to get through life with autism and chronic pain.
Iâve been away from writeblr for a while, so if I donât respond on this account, you can find me at the-diary-of-me. Itâs where I talk about my diagnoses and gender experience.
Check out my wips, especially my old short story the Neo-Oxford Hotel! Asks are always welcome! One of my longest wips is Infinity Runs, check it out, also at the tag âinfinity runs wipâ!
I have just finished my first draft for a book called Tenets of Stone, a story about three entangled dimensions and their inhabitants. It is rife with magic, friendship, a government out for the main charactersâ blood, and so much more. Hereâs a little excerpt!
âI am helpless, Jakse,â she says through bared teeth. âAnd I hate it.â
âYou are the ideal Stoneblood, little one,â her minder says. He clicks his teeth together and runs his claws against the stone below them. âYou have the true protective drive that any Elf or Humabeig would kill to have. You do our people proud, Savvi.â
She melts at the sound of her full name. Nobody has ever said it like Jakse has, but thatâs because heâs the one who Named her when she became a true Stoneblood.
âBut I cannot protect her,â she says with a hint of a whine. âAnd even if I could force her not to jump away at any moment, I do not know enough about elven magic to fully defend against it in the case of an attack from the Orchard.â
She hesitates. Jakse hums low in his chest as she thinks through what she wants to say, a familiar sound that reminds her of the lullabies he used to sing to her when she was a pup.
âIf they do come for her, I am not sure I would be able to hold myself back,â she admits in a low voice. âI would kill them all if it meant Cass gets to be safe.â
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Finished my first draft of Tenets of Stone a while ago, but now I'm starting the rewrite... also fondly called ToS Take Two. I'm 10,000 words in! It's going surprisingly quickly, though I suppose I've already written 140k in this same world so that makes some sense.
The war has been over for four hours and seventeen minutes.
Acrid smoke fills the air, making my lungs sting. In the distance the lucky children wail. It has been hours since the end, but nobody cheers. Nobody sings. Nobody celebrates their victory. It is over, at last, but the smog covers the world like a blanket, suffocating the survivors, hoping to put them out of their misery.
The war has been over for four hours and seventeen minutes.
The ground is scorched, burnt. The grass is ash now, after the fire came, and rock juts out of the scattered dirt like teeth. There are no clouds in the sky, not after everything, but the smell of water hides slightly behind the scent of acidic smog.
I wonder what the deserts look like, what the oceans have become, since the valley looks like this. Dear god, the cities⌠They were the first to fall, the cities; the buildings were leveled, the streets were ripped up, everything came apart like sand in the wind. I donât remember if it was the beasts that did it or us.
The war lasted twenty eight days. Twenty eight horrible, terrifying, bloody days.
The beasts up above and the beasts down below are scattered in the wind now. There are no survivors, not from above or below. All that remains is us in the in between.
The beasts forced us to choose. They made the world in between their playground, their battleground, their new kingdoms, and they forced the people of the world to choose: the beasts of above or the beasts of below. Choose or die. Bleed for the beasts or be condemned to immortal pain.
The beasts did not bleed. That was the thing that horrified me the most, I remember. Even from the beginning, word spread that they did not bleed, that even if they could be hurt they just kept moving forward, kept killing, kept conquering.
The war didnât start when they appeared. We were lucky, in an odd way, when the beasts started to fight. They fought each other, the beasts up above slashing at the beasts down below, the beasts of below flattening the beasts of above. Those of us that survived that long, long enough to see the real battle, got off easy. We at least had a chance of survival. Those that fought back had none.
4:17.
Four hours and seventeen minutes.
My lungs hurt. My skin stings, and not just from the smoke in the air that is the only thing keeping me on my feet, keeping me awake. Iâm bleeding, I think, though the red covering my skin might be someone elseâs. In the end, before the end, when the beasts were failing, fading, fighting, they forced us to act on our choices. It was no longer enough to pick a side, the beasts above or below, no. We had to fight each other in their glory too.
It wasnât clear at first what the beasts wanted us for. They were strong without us. They needed our world, the in between, and they took it with barely an effort on their part, despite how hard we fought to keep it, but when they asked us to choose we had no idea what that choice would lead to.
The sun shines down through the cloudless sky above the decimated battlefield, catching on the thick layer of smoke like shadows under water. Refraction, sunlight mutilated by ash and scattered across this side of the world like parts of a beast.
Some of us thought they were gods. They liked that.
Our first job, those of us that had the luck to choose a side and not fight back, was to build temples to our new gods.
The war had not started then, not yet.
The beasts up above chose the mountains, the spires and heights that reached for the sky, and the beasts down below chose the valleys, the craters and crevices that kept close to the center of the world.
They made their kingdoms with the hands of the conquered.
By then most of us knew they werenât gods. They werenât angels or demons, they werenât good or bad. They just were. And they were merciless. It wasnât mercy that made them spare those that bowed and obeyed. It was power.
Then they told us to fight.
Iâm cold. I donât know how Iâm cold, not with the last traces of fire seeping back into the ground, but my skin prickles with it. Bumps rise on my bare arms despite the red scabbing over them, a layer of dried blood keeping me safe in a parody of armor.
Donât think about armor.Â
My mouth stings, and I blink. The taste of copper. Carefully, I unclench my jaw and prod at the torn inside of my mouth with my tongue. Itâs not too bad, not like it could be. My teeth are much less sharp than the beastsâ were, smaller too.
The war has been over for four hours and eighteen minutes. Time conforms around us like molasses, but I know how long has passed since the fire came and destroyed the beasts of above and below, sparing us for better or worse.
I swallow, gagging on smoke that forces me to acknowledge the world around me. Looking around, I see survivors. Thereâs not many of us. Between the Warriors and the beasts, we were killed in numbers I canât fathom.
We did what they wanted! We chose sides, we built temples to their glory, we took care of their weapons and fought for our lives, sacrificing our energy to charge the temples and empower the beasts. And in the end, we fought for our chosen sides. We killed in their names, killed other humans at least. Killing a beast wasnât that simple.
Maybe they were gods. Maybe they were angels, demons. That would make sense, wouldnât it? They were powerful, more powerful than anything our world has ever seen, and they came from other worlds to fight on ours.
What makes a god? Is it power? Belief? They had plenty of both.
Those of us that excelled, those of us who were persistent enough to find a way to kill an opposing beast, joined the elite few. Adorned with armor cut from scales and hide not of our world, the Warriors took to their new lives with an excitement and loyalty that was inhuman.
Or maybe they are more human than the rest of us.
I did not excel. I did not revel in killing my fellow survivors. Hell, I didnât even want to fight the beasts. I was lucky like that. Nothing drove me to protect the ones they killed, nothing pushed me into action to protect the others. I was a coward, and that saved my life.
Luck, cowardice, whatâs the difference?
A shiver runs down my spine, almost knocking me off my feet, as I catch the eye of one of the beastsâ Warriors. I want nothing to do with them. My very being cowers at the thought of them, the blood staining their shining red armor. The blood of other humans.
I need to get away.
Iâm running before Iâm aware of my limbs beyond the sensation of the smog and the dried blood. My feet hurt as they pound the ground in a horrible recreation of the beasts down below. The Warrior does not chase me, and I donât know if itâs because they have no reason to, the war is over after all, or if they donât see me as a good enough challenge.
I am prey, they are predators. The predators have eaten already, evidenced by the blood coating every inch of their bodies; for the time being, the instinct to hunt is eased. It is as simple as that.
Jumping over jagged rocks and skidding across patches of ash, my feet take me up the side of the valley.
Twenty eight days of battle. I remember every day, every hour, every minute, every second. The memories come to my mind unbidden, a cry leaving my throat as they rush at me and force me to remember.
The spindly legs of the beasts down below; their horrible pincers; the scales and chitinous horns nailed to their spines like keys; the high, shrieking cries that echoed throughout the battlefield like war horns; the sheer power they held in each of their limbs; the way their footsteps tore through rock with just a gentle touch.
The beasts up above with their eyes, hundreds of eyes; the feathers as sharp as blades that stuck into human skin like spears of wind; the low, rumbling roars that shook the very air and raised entire craters up to the sky; the horrible feeling of fate pressing down on you when even one of those hundreds of eyes fixes on you in the midst of battle.
I remember it all, and even though Iâve survived, even though Iâm one of the lucky few to make it out of this war with all my limbs intact, for a moment I wish the beasts had killed me too.
My eyes flutter open at the top of the hill, almost against my will. My skin is cold below the sunlight and above the seeping fire. I see the spoils of war spread out before me, laid out like a map and marked with signs of a battle fought, a battle lost.
I⌠I donât know if I can describe the full depth of what I see. I donât know if anybody could. Smog, smoke, whatever the hell you want to call it, covers the ground in puddles of darkness. No grass, no flowers, only black smoke and red, red blood. Craters where beasts of below stepped, spires where beasts of above lifted their prey and devoured them. Bodies, too many to count, splayed open and torn to pieces, consumed by the hungry, cavernous mouths of the beasts of below.
Off in the distance, I see broken concrete, hints of bricks. A town once sat there. Only scraps remain. The flakes of walls and floors that I have to squint to make out are covered in a thin layer of ash, burned to a crisp just like the beasts.
To behold something like this, something this powerful, this heavy, I donât think I deserve it. Lucky, I call myself. (Coward, my mind whispers.)
First came the beasts. They pulled their way into our world, what they called the in between, with pure power, tearing holes in the Above and Below without remorse, all to find the predestined battleground; the battleground that was already inhabited.
They built temples to themselves with the hands of the conquered. Weapons arrived through the rips between the worlds of monsters, and the conquered powered them with their souls.
The war began. Warriors were crowned.
The war lasted twenty eight days.
A spark of something, maybe hope, drove those who survived to do something mad, something impossible. It shouldnât have been possible. It was insane. The plan couldnât have worked, not when their only messages to each other were whispered through layers and layers of deception, passed to each other in the forges of the beasts, conveyed in hand gestures from across the battlefield. More than half of their numbers were killed by Warrior hands just for thinking about the plan.
Luck. It was luck that someone survived long enough to build what they needed to. The poor people who sacrificed their minds and souls to power the mutilated weapon of the beasts were lucky to be put to use.
At the end of the war, even when the beasts planned to fight for years longer, maybe even millenia, the fire came at last. Time reset again, this time with no gods to take over what remained.
00:00.
Devastation.
Luck. That one lucky survivor took a weapon of the gods and turned it back on the conquerors that were powerful enough to tear holes in reality itself. With the power of billions dead, the bastardized weapon had enough power to take out the beasts in one fell swoop.
Devastation.Â
I want to throw up, but thereâs nothing left in my stomach.
And above all the destruction and ash, below all the smog and broken human bodies, the temples stand clear as day. Even from this distance, with the temples placed solidly on either sides of the world, they make themselves known just as the beasts did. The temple of Above towers over everything, gleaming like a knife, red enough that nausea makes me clench my jaw and groan. The temple of Below opens into a chasm so deep that darkness seeps out of it, consuming the sunlight and slowly pulling in everything around it.
I canât look at either of them for too long, not without finally giving in to the fatigue pulling at my bones and stiffening my muscles. My eyes hurt at just the sight of them, the shining red spire and the void that splits the ground like an open wound.
4:19.
The war has been over for four hours and nineteen minutes. Nobody has moved, cheered, celebrated, sung their victory from the ones who tore them down and made them build kingdoms for. Nobody smiles.
No one can run from this. The beasts are gone, dead, scattered to dust at the will of the survivorsâ fire. The war is over. The world is destroyed. Only we remain.
The war has been over for four hours and seventeen minutes.
Acrid smoke fills the air, making my lungs sting. In the distance the lucky children wail. It has been hours since the end, but nobody cheers. Nobody sings. Nobody celebrates their victory. It is over, at last, but the smog covers the world like a blanket, suffocating the survivors, hoping to put them out of their misery.
The war has been over for four hours and seventeen minutes.
The ground is scorched, burnt. The grass is ash now, after the fire came, and rock juts out of the scattered dirt like teeth. There are no clouds in the sky, not after everything, but the smell of water hides slightly behind the scent of acidic smog.
I wonder what the deserts look like, what the oceans have become, since the valley looks like this. Dear god, the cities⌠They were the first to fall, the cities; the buildings were leveled, the streets were ripped up, everything came apart like sand in the wind. I donât remember if it was the beasts that did it or us.
The war lasted twenty eight days. Twenty eight horrible, terrifying, bloody days.
The beasts up above and the beasts down below are scattered in the wind now. There are no survivors, not from above or below. All that remains is us in the in between.
The beasts forced us to choose. They made the world in between their playground, their battleground, their new kingdoms, and they forced the people of the world to choose: the beasts of above or the beasts of below. Choose or die. Bleed for the beasts or be condemned to immortal pain.
The beasts did not bleed. That was the thing that horrified me the most, I remember. Even from the beginning, word spread that they did not bleed, that even if they could be hurt they just kept moving forward, kept killing, kept conquering.
The war didnât start when they appeared. We were lucky, in an odd way, when the beasts started to fight. They fought each other, the beasts up above slashing at the beasts down below, the beasts of below flattening the beasts of above. Those of us that survived that long, long enough to see the real battle, got off easy. We at least had a chance of survival. Those that fought back had none.
4:17.
Four hours and seventeen minutes.
My lungs hurt. My skin stings, and not just from the smoke in the air that is the only thing keeping me on my feet, keeping me awake. Iâm bleeding, I think, though the red covering my skin might be someone elseâs. In the end, before the end, when the beasts were failing, fading, fighting, they forced us to act on our choices. It was no longer enough to pick a side, the beasts above or below, no. We had to fight each other in their glory too.
It wasnât clear at first what the beasts wanted us for. They were strong without us. They needed our world, the in between, and they took it with barely an effort on their part, despite how hard we fought to keep it, but when they asked us to choose we had no idea what that choice would lead to.
The sun shines down through the cloudless sky above the decimated battlefield, catching on the thick layer of smoke like shadows under water. Refraction, sunlight mutilated by ash and scattered across this side of the world like parts of a beast.
Some of us thought they were gods. They liked that.
Our first job, those of us that had the luck to choose a side and not fight back, was to build temples to our new gods.
The war had not started then, not yet.
The beasts up above chose the mountains, the spires and heights that reached for the sky, and the beasts down below chose the valleys, the craters and crevices that kept close to the center of the world.
They made their kingdoms with the hands of the conquered.
By then most of us knew they werenât gods. They werenât angels or demons, they werenât good or bad. They just were. And they were merciless. It wasnât mercy that made them spare those that bowed and obeyed. It was power.
Then they told us to fight.
Iâm cold. I donât know how Iâm cold, not with the last traces of fire seeping back into the ground, but my skin prickles with it. Bumps rise on my bare arms despite the red scabbing over them, a layer of dried blood keeping me safe in a parody of armor.
Donât think about armor.Â
My mouth stings, and I blink. The taste of copper. Carefully, I unclench my jaw and prod at the torn inside of my mouth with my tongue. Itâs not too bad, not like it could be. My teeth are much less sharp than the beastsâ were, smaller too.
The war has been over for four hours and eighteen minutes. Time conforms around us like molasses, but I know how long has passed since the fire came and destroyed the beasts of above and below, sparing us for better or worse.
I swallow, gagging on smoke that forces me to acknowledge the world around me. Looking around, I see survivors. Thereâs not many of us. Between the Warriors and the beasts, we were killed in numbers I canât fathom.
We did what they wanted! We chose sides, we built temples to their glory, we took care of their weapons and fought for our lives, sacrificing our energy to charge the temples and empower the beasts. And in the end, we fought for our chosen sides. We killed in their names, killed other humans at least. Killing a beast wasnât that simple.
Maybe they were gods. Maybe they were angels, demons. That would make sense, wouldnât it? They were powerful, more powerful than anything our world has ever seen, and they came from other worlds to fight on ours.
What makes a god? Is it power? Belief? They had plenty of both.
Those of us that excelled, those of us who were persistent enough to find a way to kill an opposing beast, joined the elite few. Adorned with armor cut from scales and hide not of our world, the Warriors took to their new lives with an excitement and loyalty that was inhuman.
Or maybe they are more human than the rest of us.
I did not excel. I did not revel in killing my fellow survivors. Hell, I didnât even want to fight the beasts. I was lucky like that. Nothing drove me to protect the ones they killed, nothing pushed me into action to protect the others. I was a coward, and that saved my life.
Luck, cowardice, whatâs the difference?
A shiver runs down my spine, almost knocking me off my feet, as I catch the eye of one of the beastsâ Warriors. I want nothing to do with them. My very being cowers at the thought of them, the blood staining their shining red armor. The blood of other humans.
I need to get away.
Iâm running before Iâm aware of my limbs beyond the sensation of the smog and the dried blood. My feet hurt as they pound the ground in a horrible recreation of the beasts down below. The Warrior does not chase me, and I donât know if itâs because they have no reason to, the war is over after all, or if they donât see me as a good enough challenge.
I am prey, they are predators. The predators have eaten already, evidenced by the blood coating every inch of their bodies; for the time being, the instinct to hunt is eased. It is as simple as that.
Jumping over jagged rocks and skidding across patches of ash, my feet take me up the side of the valley.
Twenty eight days of battle. I remember every day, every hour, every minute, every second. The memories come to my mind unbidden, a cry leaving my throat as they rush at me and force me to remember.
The spindly legs of the beasts down below; their horrible pincers; the scales and chitinous horns nailed to their spines like keys; the high, shrieking cries that echoed throughout the battlefield like war horns; the sheer power they held in each of their limbs; the way their footsteps tore through rock with just a gentle touch.
The beasts up above with their eyes, hundreds of eyes; the feathers as sharp as blades that stuck into human skin like spears of wind; the low, rumbling roars that shook the very air and raised entire craters up to the sky; the horrible feeling of fate pressing down on you when even one of those hundreds of eyes fixes on you in the midst of battle.
I remember it all, and even though Iâve survived, even though Iâm one of the lucky few to make it out of this war with all my limbs intact, for a moment I wish the beasts had killed me too.
My eyes flutter open at the top of the hill, almost against my will. My skin is cold below the sunlight and above the seeping fire. I see the spoils of war spread out before me, laid out like a map and marked with signs of a battle fought, a battle lost.
I⌠I donât know if I can describe the full depth of what I see. I donât know if anybody could. Smog, smoke, whatever the hell you want to call it, covers the ground in puddles of darkness. No grass, no flowers, only black smoke and red, red blood. Craters where beasts of below stepped, spires where beasts of above lifted their prey and devoured them. Bodies, too many to count, splayed open and torn to pieces, consumed by the hungry, cavernous mouths of the beasts of below.
Off in the distance, I see broken concrete, hints of bricks. A town once sat there. Only scraps remain. The flakes of walls and floors that I have to squint to make out are covered in a thin layer of ash, burned to a crisp just like the beasts.
To behold something like this, something this powerful, this heavy, I donât think I deserve it. Lucky, I call myself. (Coward, my mind whispers.)
First came the beasts. They pulled their way into our world, what they called the in between, with pure power, tearing holes in the Above and Below without remorse, all to find the predestined battleground; the battleground that was already inhabited.
They built temples to themselves with the hands of the conquered. Weapons arrived through the rips between the worlds of monsters, and the conquered powered them with their souls.
The war began. Warriors were crowned.
The war lasted twenty eight days.
A spark of something, maybe hope, drove those who survived to do something mad, something impossible. It shouldnât have been possible. It was insane. The plan couldnât have worked, not when their only messages to each other were whispered through layers and layers of deception, passed to each other in the forges of the beasts, conveyed in hand gestures from across the battlefield. More than half of their numbers were killed by Warrior hands just for thinking about the plan.
Luck. It was luck that someone survived long enough to build what they needed to. The poor people who sacrificed their minds and souls to power the mutilated weapon of the beasts were lucky to be put to use.
At the end of the war, even when the beasts planned to fight for years longer, maybe even millenia, the fire came at last. Time reset again, this time with no gods to take over what remained.
00:00.
Devastation.
Luck. That one lucky survivor took a weapon of the gods and turned it back on the conquerors that were powerful enough to tear holes in reality itself. With the power of billions dead, the bastardized weapon had enough power to take out the beasts in one fell swoop.
Devastation.Â
I want to throw up, but thereâs nothing left in my stomach.
And above all the destruction and ash, below all the smog and broken human bodies, the temples stand clear as day. Even from this distance, with the temples placed solidly on either sides of the world, they make themselves known just as the beasts did. The temple of Above towers over everything, gleaming like a knife, red enough that nausea makes me clench my jaw and groan. The temple of Below opens into a chasm so deep that darkness seeps out of it, consuming the sunlight and slowly pulling in everything around it.
I canât look at either of them for too long, not without finally giving in to the fatigue pulling at my bones and stiffening my muscles. My eyes hurt at just the sight of them, the shining red spire and the void that splits the ground like an open wound.
4:19.
The war has been over for four hours and nineteen minutes. Nobody has moved, cheered, celebrated, sung their victory from the ones who tore them down and made them build kingdoms for. Nobody smiles.
No one can run from this. The beasts are gone, dead, scattered to dust at the will of the survivorsâ fire. The war is over. The world is destroyed. Only we remain.
Are there place that surprised you as you read your first draft?
- Why do you suppose that is?
- Is there material there you'd like to expand?
What are the character really doing in this story?
- Might they have issues you haven't explored fully yet?
Look to the places that drag.
- These might be scenes where you have avoided dealing with something deeper.
- What are the characters really thinking in these places?
- What are their passions, frustrations, and desires?
Imagine alternative plotlines.
- How might your plot be different if ti headed off on another tangent from various points in the story?
- You don't have to follow them, but they might suggest other streams that can flow into the main plot.
Think About Structure:
Does you story play out naturally in three acts?
Is there an immediate disturbance to the Lead's world?
Does the first doorway of no return occur before the one-fifth mark?
Are the stakes being raised sufficiently?
Does the second doorway of no return put the Lead on the path to the climax?
Does the rhythm of the sotyr match your intent? If this is an action novel, does the plot move relentlessly forward? If this is a character-driven novel, do the scenes delve deeply enough?
Are there strongly motivated characters?
Have coincidence been established?
Is something happeing immediately at the beginning? Did you establish a person in a setting with a problem, onfronted with change or threat?
Is the timeline logical?
Is the story too predictable in terms of sequence? Should it be rearranged?
About Your Lead Character:
Is the character memorable? Compelling? Enough to carry a reader all the way through the plot?
A lead character has to jump off the page. Does yours?
Does this character avoid cliches? Is he capable of surprising us?
What's unique about the character?
Is the character's objective strong enough?
How does the character grow over the course of the story?
How does the character demonstrate inner strength?
About Your Opposition:
Is your oppositing character interesting?
Is he fully realized, not just a cardboard cutout?
Is he justified (at least in his own mind) in his actions?
Is he believable?
Is he strong as or stronger than the Lead?
About Your Story's Adhesive Nature:
Is the conflcit between the Lead and opposition crucial for both?
Why can't they just walk away? What holds them together?
About Your Scene:
Are the big scenes big enough? Surprising enough? Can you make them more original, unanticipated, and draw them out for all they are worth?
Is there enough conflict in the scenes?
What is the least memorable scene? Cut it!
What else can be cut in order to move the story relentlessly forward?
Does the climactic scene come too fast (through a writer fatigue)? Can you make it more, write it for all it's worth?
Does we need a new minor subplot to build up a saggin midsection?
About Your Minor Characters:
What is their purpose in the plot?
Are they unique and colorful?
Polishing Questions:
Are you hooking the reader from the beginning?
Are suspenseful scenes drawn out for the ultimate tension?
Can any information be delayed? This creates tension in the reader, always a good thing.
Are there enough surprises?
Are character-reaction scenes deep and interesting?
Read chapter ending for read-on prompts
Are there places you can replace describing how a character feels with actions?
Do I use visual, sensory-laden words?
For a Dialogue Read-Through:
Dialogue is almost always strengthened by cutting words within the lines.
In dialogue, be fair to both sides. Don't give one character all the good lines.
Greate dialogue surprises the reader and creates tension. View it like a game, where the players are trying to outfox each other.
Can you get more conflict into dialogue, even emong allies?
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Question for other writeblrs! How do y'all find the motivation to edit/go back over your story when you lose motivation?
I've got 200 pages left to edit before I can even consider getting a professional editor or getting beta readers for the next step to publishing, but I've already gone through 40 pages and am boreddd because I've read it so many times over the process of actually writing it. Now that I'm editing I've been over it so many times that I could write it again without looking haha. Any advice would be welcome!! Thanks!! <3
Leroy made his presence known and gave him a gentle smile. "Forgive him, he doesn't mean it. We just want some information, and we think you can give it to us. Are you okay with that?" His voice was so gentle that even I would have nodded to him. I saw something in the doctor's eyes for a moment. Irritation, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
Pretend
Just for the record, a relationship between vampires is more meaningful and deeper than those of humans, who pretend to love each other, just so they can end up in someone elseâs bed.
Stars
As night fell, I quietly made my way without saying anything to the others, since it should have been a quick thing. The street was dimly lit with lamps so high you almost thought they were trying to reach for the stars.
Secret
Tagging, with no pressure, @bluewritesbadly , @taranorma , @theink-stainedfolk and open tag~
That familiar blue light pulses from Cassieâs chest. It takes Savâs breath away, as it always does. Itâs beautiful. She inches forwards, reaching out a clawed hand to get as close to the source of that light as she can. Itâs instinct, Stonebloods love beautiful things, theyâre greedy.
Gold
âI thank you,â she says in perfect Gnoszian through the roaring crowd, looking up in the dim light to meet Jakseâs slitted gold eyes. âMy minder.â
Shine
The Headmistress meets his magic with her own, letting his coax hers into the air to shine in the light of pure, potent Name Magic.
Martin raises a hand to run across her jaw. âTiernahane.â
I'm tagging @bloodmoonloveletter and anyone who wants to participate!! My words are stone, cold, green, dim
Savvi is six when she leaves home behind and follows a strange creature into an an entirely underground world called Ttargnosz. She lives as a Stoneblood and learns their magic; their gods accept her as a Stoneblood and give her their blessing.
Cass is used to ignoring things she doesnât want to acknowledge. She is eighteen when people with pointed ears and galaxies in their eyes introduce her to her new world, the dimension of the Elves, Warfen. She canât go back to her family, her home, her school, and she has way too much magic than she knows what to do with.
Along with Sav and Cass, four others Elves enroll in one of Warfenâs Specialty Schools, a school where Elves go to pursue magical careers. Leabhar is one of the best higher education schools in Warfen, and as the only students in their class these five Elves and one Stoneblood have to deal with things one of two ways: together or at each othersâ throats.
Features six teenagers learning how to be friends, two dueling magic systems, three dimensions tied together, towers of wood and stained glass, runes, a mystery of too much magic, and so much more.
currently one tenth of the way through the first edit, so I thought I'd bring this up again haha! only 130,000 more words to go through out of 147,000, but I swear I'll finish by the time school starts up again! wish me luck!
What if I just like self published my book tomorrow afternoon despite the fact that it needs a lot of editing still. Like what if I just did that. Whoâs going to stop me? It would sell no copies but it would be out there.
I feel like writeblr people aren't sending asks to each other as much after that kerfuffle over whether asks need to be individual to a person's projects to count as "supporting" writeblr. Please reblog if you are happy to receive ANY asks, even if it's the same question other people get! I KNOW I AM!
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Elsind didn't have a heart, but whatever circulated their ichor in its place was working double-time as they approached the entrance to Alfburn.
Turns out, writing body language for a person-sized amoeba is a little difficult. Technically, it'd be their cytoskeleton doing that, but Elsind doesn't know those words, so too bad for me
I'll tag @somethingclevermahogony @melpomene-grey @pluto-murphy-writes @bluewritesbadly and anyone else who wants in :)
Sorry I'm late! I've been offline for a while, but I really appreciate the tag!!
Last line of my little superhero book I'm at 14 k words with:
âWhat?â Bell asks. âNo, Iâm normal. Iâm average-- less than average even. I mean, I can research and run from the battle of the week if I need to, but I am not strong. Not at all.â
tagging @rjcopeseethemald and anyone else who wants to join!
also a little follow up to that quote because I love the deadly vigilante parent that I came up with:
âOption two,â Anchor Seven drones. âYou wait and see what happens. Pray that the heroes get to you before Minos does. Judging by how determined you are to, as you put it, ârun from the battle of the week,â I think option three will interest you a lot more.â
I was invited into this one by @oh-no-another-idea (purposefully this time!). I was challenged to find the words ocean, tear, sob, and swim, and for that, I'll pull from Atomancers volume 1 again (because I have nothing else going on).
Ocean:
Even before the boat made port, Lioko could tell Kagak had transformed overnight. At every jetty and marina, there stood at least five Masters-at-ArmsâNavy military police. At the pier, where a small ocean liner was docked, there were at least a dozen; plus a few Marines.
Tear, sob, and swim:
It took until [the ride home] for the wave of terrible malaise to finally hit.
That was a gunfight. Lioko wasnât reading about it off a page or looking at it on some old historical war map. That was a real, actual gunfight. The world began to swim and churn around, and for a moment, he lost track of where the canoe was going.
He then looked behind himself to see Lia, nearly sobbing, with her face in both hands. He asked, âYou alright?â, not even sure what his own answer to that would be.
âWe couldâve died, Lioâ,â his sister replied, wiping away tears. âBut I feel like such a coward for even saying that..."
I'll extend this one to @late-to-the-fandom, @apolline-lucy, @bluewritesbadly, and of course, anyone else who might be interested! New words are revolt, react, make, and break.
thank you so much for tagging me! I'm using my completed first draft of Tenets of Stone.
Revolt (not in my draft, surprisingly)
React -
âYes,â they grunt. âYes, this one will do. The Elves will react better to one who looks like them, even tangentially. This child will be the one to collect the seeds that the Bone Den needs for its forging.â
Make -
Her teeth arenât as sharp as she wants them to be, they donât make the same sound as other Stonebloodsâ do. Jakse says sheâll get to sharpen them when they stop aching with the growing pains of Ttatgnoszâs magic running through her body. She looks forward to that day, when she can take a file to them and make them match her minderâs. If only Ttargnoszâs magic would change her bones faster into stone; sheâs far too breakable.
Break -
Earlier, Martin said he isnât able to do things like create something from nothing or break the rules of reality. Now, seeing the boy gain a corporeal body, Sav starts to doubt that. She sees why Name Mages have been so feared in Warfen since the cataclysm that sent the Elves here, and all from a name that Martin knew just by looking at the boy.
I would like to tag @illarian-rambling and whoever wants to do this! words are orange, ten, underneath, and lift
Savvi is six when she leaves home behind and follows a strange creature into an an entirely underground world called Ttargnosz. She lives as a Stoneblood and learns their magic; their gods accept her as a Stoneblood and give her their blessing.
Cass is used to ignoring things she doesnât want to acknowledge. She is eighteen when people with pointed ears and galaxies in their eyes introduce her to her new world, the dimension of the Elves, Warfen. She canât go back to her family, her home, her school, and she has way too much magic than she knows what to do with.
Along with Sav and Cass, four others Elves enroll in one of Warfenâs Specialty Schools, a school where Elves go to pursue magical careers. Leabhar is one of the best higher education schools in Warfen, and as the only students in their class these five Elves and one Stoneblood have to deal with things one of two ways: together or at each othersâ throats.
Features six teenagers learning how to be friends, two dueling magic systems, three dimensions tied together, towers of wood and stained glass, runes, a mystery of too much magic, and so much more.
I've chosen one of the main characters of Tenets of Stone named Alanis (I'm about to use some of these photos in a moodboard so look out for that haha)
Hesitantly tagging (you don't have to) @illarian-rambling @surroundedbypearls
Hey! I go by Blue or Grey, any pronouns work. I like to write a lot but lack motivation, love werewolves and anything involving magic, and I start so many wips that I often lose track. Iâm about to start law school, trying to get through life with autism and chronic pain.
Iâve been away from writeblr for a while, so if I donât respond on this account, you can find me at the-diary-of-me. Itâs where I talk about my diagnoses and gender experience.
Check out my wips, especially my old short story the Neo-Oxford Hotel! Asks are always welcome! One of my longest wips is Infinity Runs, check it out, also at the tag âinfinity runs wipâ!
I have just finished my first draft for a book called Tenets of Stone, a story about three entangled dimensions and their inhabitants. It is rife with magic, friendship, a government out for the main charactersâ blood, and so much more. Hereâs a little excerpt!
âI am helpless, Jakse,â she says through bared teeth. âAnd I hate it.â
âYou are the ideal Stoneblood, little one,â her minder says through a warm snarl. He clicks his teeth together and runs his claws against the stone below them. âYou have the true protective drive that any Elf or Humabeig would kill to have. You do our people proud, Savvi.â
She melts at the sound of her full name. Nobody has ever said it like Jakse has, but thatâs because heâs the one who Named her when she became a true Stoneblood.
âBut I cannot protect her,â she says with a hint of a whine. âAnd even if I could force her not to jump away at any moment, I do not know enough about elven magic to fully defend against it in the case of an attack from the Orchard.â
She hesitates. Jakse hums low in his chest as she thinks through what she wants to say, a familiar sound that reminds her of the lullabies he used to sing to her when she was a pup.
âIf they do come for her, I am not sure I would be able to hold myself back,â she admits in a low voice. âI would kill them all if it meant Cass gets to be safe.â
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I think I've finished the first draft of Tenets of Stone... oh my god I am freaking out, I did it! I mean, I have so many changes to make and some character development to write into what I already have and a few scenes to completely get rid of or rewrite but the first step is done!! I can't wait to print it out and look at it before I start on the next draft, just to hold it in my hands for the first time even if it's not the final copy
Maybe now I can finally start creating moodboards and stuff for the story without feeling guilty. I've heard that it's best to leave the draft alone for a bit so I can sit with it and let it breathe
The word count of Tenets of Stone's first draft is officially 146,911
(anyone have any advice for a battle scene that's a culmination of everything I've written so far? it's the final scene aside from the aftermath stuff and I'm struggling with juggling so many characters that have completely different kinds of magic)
