sunrise, abram, death.

third fucking intro guys !! hey y’all i’m marti and you know me by the url @tsaikovs. recently, i was thinking that its too cluttered to have both my writeblr and main blog condensed into one single blog that often mismatches themes because of all the different kinds of things i reblog and therefore i decided to make a seperate side blog for writeblr purposes alone. so this, @shezadis, is my new blog and stuff. so like i can read anything to everything so as long as it does not reinforce homophobic/biphobic/anysexualityphobic, misogyny, patriarchal, pugilist or racist ideas. that being said, i tend to bend towards fantasy settings that have extensive worldbuildings, out of the norm plots and of course, dark academia. i’m tagging my favourite writeblrs here (love u guys ok): @vandorens , @popovs , @apollchiles , @astorsa , @semblanche , @doevell , @liarede (dude i gotta get on your wips soon ma’am) , @fartistically and @adrestaie. slide into my dms if any of y’all wanna be mutuals, i don’t bite!

wips !!

acta non verba (max found family trope).

when vodka aunt stumbles across the dead body of her classmate and is suspected of having something to do with her death, true neutral and his (future) husband, satan’s child, help her uncover the truth behind it while accidentally adopting a runaway autistic high schooler. 

it’s not our secrets that harm us, it’s all this shit that we project onto others.

kill singer (max redemption arc trope + conspiracies).

in which, devil’s incarnate yan sangma accidentally mass murders a whole street trying to stop a greater evil before ultimately dying herself only to find out that due to a curse, not only will she be brought back to life but also be damned from this world if she doesn’t pay for her sins (a difficult thing to do considering enemies-rivals-friends-enemies destin is hell bent to not let her go again).

she is not a god, she is just a girl. one day, she will die.

template 001: murder.

hey y’all, murder is a wip intro template that really is just one of my attempts to try and make something new. so i’ve never done this before and don’t know how all this resources give-away thing works but one thing that i know for sure is that these resources are mine and if you use them you should credit me. please do not repost this psd and claim it as yours. basic knowledge of photoshop required. all three slide designs present inside psd. colouring by @honeycoloring and @packswild. 

easy to use

works better with pictures that use black bg

do not use without giving credit

So, you’re working on a book, or maybe you’ve finished it. But you know something just isn’t right, or the first readers didn’t like it. What could be the problem?

1. Story not plot

The issue could be that you have written a story and not a plot.

A story is a string of events occurring one after the other. It’s basically: this and then that and then that etc.

Plot is a series of events/occurrences that are interlinked in a cause-and-effect manner. A happened because of X, which resulted in Y.

Oftentimes, the idea for a new WIP comes to us as snippets of happenings that are random. However, that does not a book make.

A book needs plot. Your events need to follow some pattern or logical consequence of cause and effect. One plot point must give rise to another in a structure that makes sense and ensures maximum interest.

There’s a reason there are so many pre-determined plot structures out there.

If your book is just story and not plot, try to outline the events in a more organised way. Maybe you can consult guides like the 3-Act arc or Save the Cat if you need help.

2. Pacing

Maybe you have a structured plot, where each occurrence is logically and entertainingly linked to the rest, but you don’t pace out those events correctly.

Apart from good structure, the most important aspect of plot is pacing. 

There is an art to writing good stories, and a lot of that involves good timing. You should not litter big event after big event with no space to breathe. You also shouldn’t write 500 pages of nothing.

It’s a difficult balance, but plotting aids could once again help.

I also have a post on conquering pacing, if you want to check that out.

3. Weak characters

This is a fatal mistake.

If you have flat, one-dimensional characters that do not interest your readers, no amount of plotting will save the book.

I know this comes across as harsh, but it really is true. Character is key.

So, if you have no problems with your plot per se, but something still isn’t working, you might want to review your characters.

Are they three-dimensional enough? Do they have strong, identifiable motivations? Do they have interesting combinations of traits and interests? Are they diverse?

You can check out my post on designing a simple character arc if you feel really stuck.

I would also recommend creating character sheets in which you flesh out each character. Personality tests such as MBTI and Enneagram are also great ways to create complicated characters.

4. Too many overused tropes

Everything has been done before. I’m sorry to break it to you. However, not all variations/combinations of things have been done.

It’s okay for your book to feature a cliche or a popular trope. What might be damaging is using a bunch of overused ideas in one book.

There are some elements, like the “wise old wizard” or “the chosen one” or “the answer was inside you all along” that have become distinctly predictable. This is because most people have seen them a thousand times.

This means that your readers won’t be interested in reading further, since they’ll feel like they already know how things will play out. It’s old and boring. The market for these types of stories is also saturated.

So, make sure that you combine elements of storytelling in a somewhat unique and surprising way. No, you don’t have to set out to write something absolutely revolutionary. There should just be some originality - even if it’s just in your writing style.

5. Messy prose

Sometimes the premise, plot and characters of a book are amazing. But you just can’t enjoy reading it. Why? Because the writing is terrible.

Writing inundated with spelling errors, run-on sentences, boring word-choice etc. is very difficult to find entertaining.

Do not allow your good story to be discarded because of messy prose and grammatical errors.

Grammar, spelling and syntax exist for a reason. They facilitate ease of reading.

So, before you put writing out there, use ProWriting Aid or Grammarly, at the very least. If you’re putting it out in a professional capacity, hire a qualified editor.

You don’t want to be labelled a bad writer because of something that is easy to fix.

There are probably many more reasons something could feel off, but these are some of the main ones. Keep in mind that these problems can be fixed. 

the entire gang shares 1 (one) braincell which they takes turns passing around

unwilling teammates gradually grow on each other

Area Man Forcibly Adopted by Several Children

bonded over shared trauma

none of us have actual families or homes to go back to anymore, but at least we have each other

“every single one of these guys has tried to kill me at least once, but we’re cool now and i’d trust them with my life”

redemption arc comes with bonus new family and friends (bonus feature is non-negotiable and eventual acceptance inevitable)

i WAS going to leave the group and go my own way as soon as this job was over - and i would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for my meddling heart!

villains with Feelings™

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wip — HALF-DEAD HOPE

age — 20

gender — female

status — english literature student at st. salem's university

traits — loud, funny, obedient

excerpt —

I knew Piper, not from any particular choice or venture of mine, but because one would have to be hard pressed to attend St. Salem's and not.

Her family name was inscribed on the door of each one of our classrooms, her seal on our sport's team's uniforms. In the library stood a great marble bust of her grandfather, sporting the silver letters "In honor of RICHARD THRUSHREED, generous benefactor of St. Salem's since 1962" underneath.

But even beyond her family, and the impossibly long shadow they casted, Piper was a presence that demanded attention in her own right. She governed the classrooms and held up the halls, surrounded by people whose lives she somehow all knew.

"Barry," she'd cry out passionately, ruffling some younger boy's hair until it frizzed. "How's the old man, well? You tell him I said hi", or "Samantha! You finally let your hair grow out, I told you it'd look good", and so on and so forth.

I watched her, and noted the way her teeth flashed like crooked pearls under the hallway's flickering lights. The way her hair flew as she bounded away. Piper wasn't pretty, not exactly, but she was something better - loved.

‘by grand central station i sat down and wept,’ elizabeth smart (!)

‘life and death,’ andrea dworkin 

‘seam,’ tarfia faizullah (!)

‘play it as it lays,’ joan didion 

‘war of the foxes,’ richard siken

‘midwinter day,’ bernadette mayer

‘in the pines,’ alice notley

‘death is not an option,’ suzanne rivecca (!)

‘the dead and the living,’ sharon olds

‘the melancholy of anatomy,’ shelley jackson

‘edinburgh,’ alexander chee

‘the woman destroyed,’ simone de beauvoir (!)

‘monster: poems,’ robin morgan

‘how we became human,’ joy harjo

‘ayiti,’ roxane gay (!) 

‘our andromeda,’ brenda shaughnessy

‘second childhood,’ fanny howe

when rome falls, yves olade

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wip — HALF-DEAD HOPE

age — 19

gender — female

status — english literature student at st. salem's university

traits — calculating, closed-off, methodical

excerpt —

Although her lips were flushed with color, the rest of her was so pale she was almost translucent, with a sickly tint clouding her features and her skin stretching, drum-thin, over coat hanger bones.

She looks terrible, the students whispered. She looks divine.

I saw her walking across campus sometimes, her scarf whipping in the wind, her hands buried deep in her pockets. Did I talk to her? Of course not. I had nothing to say, and even less of the words to say it. I was still in the habit of telling people who tapped me on the shoulder to "fuck off."

But did I want to?

I told myself I didn't, hid my wandering eyes with a book or paper. But then she would appear, ghost-like, with hair as white as the first shock of winter, and my eyes would instantly be drawn to her again, like a sunflower chasing the light.

She was terrible. She was divine.

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wip — HALF-DEAD HOPE

age — 18

gender — female

status — english literature student at st. salem's university (on partial academic scholarship)

traits — kind, hopeful, loyal

excerpt —

Wren herself was radiant, a rare combination of both her parents’ best qualities. She had her father’s luck, and her mother's warm handshakes.

“Look,” she had said once, passing me a photograph at lunch. “It's our family portrait.”

Seeing them all standing next to each other, her father's arm looped lazily around her mother's waist, her mother resting a fond hand on a younger Wren’s shoulder somehow angered me. I pressed the photograph into my palm until it left indents.

Wren noticed. Wren always noticed. She unclenched my hand, pried my fingers off of the photograph just enough for her to take it back. “I'm sorry,” she said. And I wasn't sure what for.

That's what our friendship was like, all five or so years it lasted - her rubbing my wounds with salt disguised as sugar, watching me with her wide almond eyes and twirling strands of silver around her thumb. I don't think she ever understood what it felt like, being teased with the perfect family. To her, these things were a given - attentive mothers and fathers God loved and houses with maids that cleaned out your rugs.

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wip — HALF-DEAD HOPE

age — 19

gender — female

status — english literature student at st. salem's university (full academic scholarship)

traits — quick tempered, blunt, unreliable narrator

excerpt —

Death aside, I never had high hopes for my life.

I grew up in the countryside, out near the wetlands. My father was a farmer and a son of farmers. My mother was a painted face. I had some siblings, so old and out of touch I often forgot their names, and some cousins whose faces I never recognized when they came to visit.

I didn’t mind - I made friends with my loneliness, took it on strolls with me down the marshes. Together, we’d poke around neighbors’ fences in hopes of finding foxes, or collected snail shells to slip into my rotating cast of cousins’ pillowcases.

I was a bitter kid. I’d have liked to pick fights, I think, if I had anyone to pick fights with - since I didn’t, I guessed nature would do. So I’d fly off the handle at trees and bushes, take my anger out on a passing stream or a tilted pine tree until dust flew. Once I attacked what I thought to be an empty bush being swayed by the breeze only to find out it was a rabbit and sheepishly retreat again.

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current title: half-dead hope

pov: first person, single narrator

genre: dark academia

status: first draft

summary:

Death aside, Jackie Keats has never had high hopes for her life.

Raised in a small town fondly nicknamed "The Middle of Nowhere", Jackie spends most of her days alone, with just her quick temper and on and off friend Wren for company. The days pass in blurs of red fists and grey skies, with the two hardly noticing where one ends and the other begins - and as far as Jackie is concerned, hardly thinking this will ever change.

But of course, things do change. Wren follows Jackie loyally, but their friendship soon splits off. Jackie discovers books, and loses herself in language.

Even she's not sure why she applies to the city's most prestigious college for the Arts. And she's even less sure how she and Wren get in.

Now at the college itself, Jackie has made it her goal to pass with as little commotion as possible. All she wants is to be left alone (hard to do when Wren is still making kindly efforts to rekindle their childhood friendship), read her books, and study the elites (a group of five Wren somehow belongs to) from afar.

But when the elites one day take a shine to her, and share with her a secret they think only she can help them solve, Jackie realizes she might have to go back on her promise.

Something is wrong in St. Salem's University. And Jackie might have no choice but to choke down her pride and work alongside the elites to find out what.

(A story about murder and love gone wrong. Featuring wlw, literary quotes, and so much grey morality.)

excerpt:

"Do you believe in God, Jackie?" Florence suddenly asked. She'd been prowling my room in silence so far, inspecting my belongings with a weighed look of both horror and fascination - like a road accident you can't tear your gaze away from.

I scowled at her. My name didn't feel right in her mouth, too short, too fickle. "What kind of question is that?"

"One I think you should answer before I continue."

Her tone held no room for argument, so I gave in, crossing my arms and leaning against the icon of Mary my mother had insisted I take with me 'just in case.'

"No. No, I don't."

She picked up a notebook and started to thumb through it. "Interesting."

"Don't touch that," I said sharply. "Why do you want to know?"

At my demand, she paused, eyebrows raising just a bit like she was trying to keep from laughing. Me, telling her not to do something? Demanding answers like we were friends, on the same level? I can't imagine what she must have thought of me.

But I'd faced her kind before. Girls who thought the world was wrapped around their pinkie finger like a strand of their own hair, girls who wouldn't give me the time of day unless it was past twelve and they knew it would be my word against theirs the following day. I knew how to handle girls like these, and it wasn't by bowing and praying. Like I said, I'm not religious.

I squared my jaw, and prepared to fight.

My first mistake was thinking there was anyone else like Florence Atherton.

She placed the book down. Took a step toward me. Her gaze pinned me like a butterfly to the wall.