Real writer insecurity hours: having no writing community in my life and feeling like no one’s going to read it online, as it is not fanfiction nor am I a published author.
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@cminerwrites
Real writer insecurity hours: having no writing community in my life and feeling like no one’s going to read it online, as it is not fanfiction nor am I a published author.

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how to start a chapter/book? Like i know what needs to happen but i never know at what point in the scene to start.
Good question! So, first off, starting a chapter versus starting a book is going to be a bit different in terms of what you need to do–but, the process is similar. Let’s start with talking about beginning a book. STARTING A BOOK: Before choosing what scene to start a book on, you should probably take a look at how the whole plot is going to play out on at least a basic level. You should know the main conflict and how the story is going to end. Keeping those things in mind will make it easier to determine where your story needs to start. **(If you don’t want to do the step I’m about to list, though I recommend it, skip down where I pick back up with the asterisks.)Optional step: If you want to go a little more in-depth, something I personally do is to create a series of timelines for each of my characters. I start the timeline at when they were born, and fill in significant details that happen to them before, during, and (sometimes) after the story. I stack the timelines for each character vertically on a piece of paper (so that they run parallel to each other). This will show you the trajectory of each individual character’s story, and get you thinking about how and why they might be meeting and interacting. **So now that you’ve either got at least your conflict and end in mind, and possibly some character timelines if you followed the optional step, you can decide where to start your book. The best place to start any book is as close to where the action starts as possible. You can reveal things prior to that later through dialogue/flashbacks/etc. This will improve your story’s momentum and will make readers more interested from the very beginning. Now, this doesn’t mean you have to start in the middle of some big fight scene, just that you shouldn’t start months before anything interesting is going to happen. Your story shouldn’t be long for the sake of it. If it’s long because you truly need that word count to achieve the story you’ve got in mind, that’s fantastic! But otherwise, start your book as close to the first important event as possible. The beginning of the book should: - Set the tone- Catch the reader’s attention- HOLD the reader’s attention- Establish expository details about the character(s) and setting- Introduce the story (your conflict doesn’t need to be obvious to the reader yet, BUT you should give them a taste of the plot, at least). STARTING A CHAPTER: Not unlike the beginning of a book, the beginning of a chapter needs to set the tone for everything that follows it. Each chapter serves an important, unique role in furthering the story, but don’t think of chapters like disjointed pieces in your story. Instead of like slices of pie, think of your chapters like links in a chain. They are individual units, but they all connect in some way. One of the main differences in starting a chapter is that you already have (at least some) of the book behind you, unless it’s the very first chapter–in which case you should just refer to the advice about starting a book. This sounds obvious, but it’s important. Here’s why:When you begin a chapter, you need to keep the previous chapters in mind–especially the one that came directly before the one you’re starting. You should, like you did at the beginning of the book, cut as close to the action as you can. But don’t confuse that with making your book ALL action. Everything should move the plot forward, yes, but don’t try to bog your plot down with constant, high-stakes adventure. If everything that happens is the most exciting, most awful, or most horrifying thing to ever happen to your character, then your reader becomes desensitized. Writing is all about balance. You could start a chapter with sensory details, with dialogue, or with action. Whatever you do, the best way to move forward with a new chapter is to consider how the reader might have been feeling, thinking, or wondering at the end of the last chapter. You can give them what they want to know right away, move in a new direction to build suspense, or even take the opportunity to move forward or backward in time where the story calls for it. Remember that some readers like to read chapter by chapter. The beginning of each chapter should be what makes them say “One more chapter,” instead of putting down your book. And if they absolutely HAVE to put your book down and come back fresh at another time, the beginning of a chapter should be what pulls them back into the story after they were away. – I hope that helps! I’m sure there’s something I’m forgetting, but this is what I could think of off of the top of my head! Good luck, and keep writing!
Do you have any writing questions? Need advice? Send me asks!
I'm here to help.
This needs to be said.
I don’t usually post things like this. But, I want to give these feelings away out into the world in case anyone else has them too. I feel like an imposter. For as long as I have been sure that I want to pursue writing, I have been sure that I am a fraud. But, being sure of something doesn’t always make it true. A blank page doesn’t usually hit me as hard as does the feeling of writing and deleting, rewriting and deleting again, a paragraph’s worth of first sentences of a chapter, story, or book that I’m sometimes unsure I’ll ever actually finish. Recently, I’ve been doing very well. I’ve gotten farther than I ever have into writing a book. I’ve finally found a story I’m excited about and that I want to stick with. Still, I’m so, so full of doubt. I post excerpts in hopes that seeing people respond will make me want to keep going, and sometimes that’s the case. Sometimes, though, nothing can help me shake the feeling that no matter how much I write, I’m not a writer. Worse still, I’m afraid that if I really am a writer, that I’m too horrible at it to move forward. I’m trying today to defeat these thoughts, because the advice I would give anyone else is the advice I should give myself. The more I write, the more I grow. It’s easy to see nothing but the bad in yourself, but there isn’t a person on earth so bad at writing that they should give it up if it’s what they love. The point is that for as much writing advice as is out there, sometimes what people need to hear (myself included) is that making mistakes is alright, and that feeling unmotivated is alright, and that not writing every single day if your mental health won’t allow it is also alright. There is so much advice that focuses on how to fix and avoid writing mistakes, and on how to write well. All of this is amazing, and this kind of advice is a wonderful resource. But, it’s also important to remember that making these mistakes at any point doesn’t mean you cannot write. If you want to write, you can. A lot of people will try to make you feel as if pride in yourself is inherently egotistical but sometimes it’s all you can do when you’ve lived for years feeling lesser. So I’m going to say it. I’m proud of myself. I’ve grown as a writer and a person. I have found the missing pieces that kept me from moving forward before and I won’t let my fear of failure hold me back. You are not a fake. You are not an imposter. If you write, you are a writer. And you can reach out to me, always.
Do you write poems or just post them????? Just wondering cuz these poems are really good
Everything on my blog was written by me :) Thank you!

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We do not sit on silk pillows and when we do it is not medicine for silk skin. We are full textured--the brush of sage, dust-full as plumes who gave up floating to live in love with soil.
The pond mouth tops of our heads will catch rays from blue between white belly fish who crowd the sun in a sky insufficient to be our head's surrogate. Our wonders and the stamps unused on unwritten letters to family who miss us will sidle clean through their gills, and the
yellow that lets us see them leaves handprints on their stomachs.
Stay thankful or just stay, and make wholeness a mural on the insides of your eyelids as a reminder of the shapes that sun and sleep and holding yourself in new places will leave on your shoulders.
Texture --C.A. Miner
And when I cough, hard, in the half-drained bath my back slaps the water into sounds like a seal on olive sand, thrashing to or from the sea
Still I am full but not abundant with mystic salt. And because I am made this way, and because I am not in the sea and because what I am is solvent in the bath: I am sure I need no shore to run to.
No need to run to shore.
Thrash or float I will arrive
Headcold --C.A. Miner
Actually, Madeleine didn't feel sour. She, instead, felt bereft—like the seedy, acidic water left behind in a bowl eaten near-clean of freshly-washed strawberries. The few thoughts and impulses she did have were not unpleasant, but partial and residual as leafy berry-caps, steeping in the evidence of their lost wholeness.
Anything After --C.A. Miner
For those unprepared: be as you must as a daytime stitch in your own moony soil. With her far face find your needle and thread in the core from which you grow, the numb seed too preciously deep under years of forgetting it's there--stored too long for winter Nevertheless, you will sometimes, on days your hair is the twine of love letters, be the atmosphere to strangers. Imagine yourself a starscape without fear of posthumous glow or occasionally fog fat hours in a bed alone with restless legs
Adulthood Pt 2 --C.A. Miner
I want to think of death the way you do in gardens: unfortunate but ready and small and with better luck for future flowers in the greener half of sometimes. With a closer palm, flat--sending up shoulder pins and twitching muscle--press to a full, plush, firm and sprouting chest in hopes you might fall through into the clear, into the glass dish she keeps empty for cases like yours: the throb, the weed, the thrashing-- the seed of holding yourself too tight to taste the fruit in the garden you're afraid to lose
Adulthood --C.A. Miner

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There's a heavy penny in the nothing-- Ground penny, finger phobic coin flat under air fat and non-pronounced: nothing. she says nothing and all is a pressed flower dressed as her hateful cousin, living misplaced and then a black down push, bedside, spooning a hopeless dog ear--page something. Turn, no turn, no, turn--no place between thin, vague wordy, solid giants in their nowhere catacomb in the center of the center of my center sent straight under a chapter on the full, spring chest of a flightless breed. Unsteady prey: are you anywhere? Under what is not coming, will you dive through a stone throw length to find your body playing Ophelia? Let 'your' become 'my ' in the sacred, stoney bottom of a well that has no bottom? Please, please snap open like a green soy jacket and lose dead from dead awake if, the same as moss, your fingers are friends with rocks elsewhere and unable, just like you. You are an earth part. Something lies on and with you and you are nothing but a hot brick in an empty pond
Sleep Paralysis --C.A. Miner
Lola was staring nowhere in particular. Her eyes, once a patient brown, were blurry with nostalgia and a distant, milky blue. Their crow’s feet were well-earned and deep with years of kindness. Shaped by having lived her youth unafraid of happiness or the pain it sometimes brings, Lola had never truly grown old. Today, she was merely the sum of all the many selves she’d ever been. She was as much the pin-curled girl in the photo as she was the woman who, in that moment, was standing somehow both inches and worlds away. What would all of her selves look like, Madeleine wondered, when it came time for them to share one old body.
Anything After --C.A. Miner
“Surreal” couldn’t begin to describe the anxiety and anticipation floating in her abdomen like blocks of polar ice. The narrow walls were full floor to ceiling with photos, including one Madeleine was caught by just before reaching the back door. It featured a young, pin-curled Lola on the arm of a familiar man. Lola stopped too.
Anything After --C.A. Miner
Lately waking up is something sweet and messy. It's eating canned peaches with your hands and finding out the syrup stings when you cut your palm on the lid and smiling at your mistake knowing life could be worse than ruined fruit.
Little Words on Fruit and Morning --C.A. Miner
The view out the window from over his shoulder was all Madeleine could stand to think of. Her arms, tight and childish around him, were miles away from her mind. Still, it was then that she remembered, leaning pathetically on the tired, half-sober Mr. Mason, how it felt to be innocent and overwhelmed in the arms of another person. The embrace had been automatic. She couldn’t remember having initiated it, but could feel within what was to her what rings must be to trees that she must hold on to the things she had yet to lose. “I’m so sorry,” she heard her own voice as if from far away. “I’m so sorry.” From that same faraway place, she heard Mr. Mason say he was sorry, too. Then, Madeleine had her answer.
Anything After --C.A. Miner

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I want to see summer through closed eyes in the backseat, and feel precious like sunny colors are to the girls who wear them out, your hands through my hair salt damp on the couch at midnight like honey dripping from a spoon in a cold room, a ten-year old fruit tree who is happy with just her blossoms and never misses the privilege of losing children to the ground, coffee-gone-cold nausea like breathing sea breeze through your nose, feeling it become a thistle in your stomach, but loving the purple flower who makes the aching worth it, and like a downhill bike ride on grass you aren't afraid to fall in because the shade of green looks so much like love you would trade the sugar in your tea to never drink anything else in all your days.
Things That Are Precious--C.A. Miner