#creativewriters

⟡ Collage: cut things up, rearrange them, call it art because it is

⟡ Linocut printing: carve a stamp, press it everywhere

⟡ Making your own ink from berries, walnut shells, iron

⟡ Watercolor: the most forgiving medium for imperfect people

⟡ Hand lettering: start ugly, get better, it takes exactly as long as it takes

⟡ Making playlists as an art form

⟡ Crochet: meditative, portable, produces something cute

⟡ Bookbinding: turn anything into a journal you actually made

⟡ Embroidery: more forgiving than it looks, more satisfying than expected

⟡ Soap or candle making: VERY functional and deeply satisfying

⟡ Charcoal drawing: messy in a way that feels free (love it)

⟡ Block printing on fabric: turn old plain things into something yours

⟡ Pottery hand-building without a wheel, its more accessible than you think

⟡ Pressed flower art!!!

⟡ Journaling with mixed media, like glue, paint, pen, tape, anything goes

⟡ Dried flower arranging

⟡ Sketching architecture: trains the eye to see structure everywhere

⟡ Leather tooling: more accessible as a beginner craft than expected

⟡ Natural dyeing: plants and fabric and patience and lot of magic

1. Betrayal and deception

• A secret organization erases memories, leaving victims to rediscover their lives. One survivor remembers everything—and they’re the one who betrayed everyone.

2. Strange bargains

• A god grants a dying soldier immortality in exchange for serving them—but the soldier wasn’t told how they’d serve.

3. Forbidden connections

• A guardian angel falls in love with their charge, breaking all celestial laws.

4. Power with a cost

• A character gains the power to heal any wound, but every time they use it, they lose one of their most important memories.

5. Unraveling mysteries

• A village’s water turns black overnight, and drinking it gives people strange visions of the future.

• A character receives letters from someone who knows personal details about them—but claims to be writing from 200 years in the past.

6. Survival against odds

• A group of strangers wakes up in a sealed dome with no exits and an unfamiliar night sky. One of them disappears each night.

7. Love and tension

• Two astronauts are stranded on a desolate planet, forced to work together to survive while grappling with growing feelings for each other.

8. Twisting morality

• A rebellion leader discovers their closest ally has been secretly sabotaging the cause—for reasons they might actually agree with.

9. Uncharted worlds

• A city floats above a sea of clouds, but no one knows what lies below. A expedition seeks to uncover the truth.

I spent six months worldbuilding my first fantasy novel before I realized I’d built the wrong things. I had detailed trade routes, a calendar system, and regional dialects. I didn’t have a clear conflict. When I finally started writing, I had to rebuild half the world because none of it served the actual story.

Here’s the question that should guide every worldbuilding decision:

"What is the core conflict of my story?"

Not the premise. Not the cool concept. The conflict. The problem your protagonist needs to solve or the choice they need to make. Because your world’s job is to make that conflict harder, more complex, or more meaningful.

Once you know your conflict, you know exactly where to start building.

If your conflict is political (throne disputes, revolution, war): Start with your government structure and the power imbalance that creates tension. You need to know who has power, who wants it, and what rules govern the fight for it.

If your conflict is personal/relational (forbidden love, family secrets, identity): Start with your social structure and cultural rules. Build the customs, expectations, or taboos that create obstacles for your character’s desires.

If your conflict is survival-based (quest, escape, resource scarcity): Start with your geography and what makes it dangerous. You need terrain, climate, or environmental threats that create constant pressure.

If your conflict is about power/corruption (magic going wrong, technology backfiring): Start with your magic or tech system and its cost. Define what power exists, who controls it, and what happens when it’s misused.

If your conflict is ideological (religion vs. science, tradition vs. change): Start with your belief systems and the groups who hold opposing views. Build the philosophies and the people who will fight for them.

If you don’t know your conflict yet, stop worldbuilding. I mean it. Spend a day or two figuring out what problem your protagonist faces in Act 1. You can’t build efficiently until you know what you’re building toward.

This approach saved me months of wasted worldbuilding on my second novel. I knew my conflict was about a character choosing between personal freedom and family duty.

So I started by building a rigid honor culture that would make that choice excruciating. The geography came later. The magic system came last. And the world worked because it served the conflict from day one.

Alright, so i've been having a lot of fun with character exercises lately and thought i'd share some of my tips!

Write a scene from each main characters perspective, even if the story only has one perspective. This really helps to get into your characters thought process and see what their motivations are, what people they gravitate towards, and if they're an optimist/pessimist/realist, etc.

Write a dream sequence or scene where the main character's worst fear happens. I've done this with almost all wips i write because it really fleshes out your character to have fears. I usually do three fears: one future fear, (not being remembered, losing a loved one, never travelling the world) one common fear, (spiders, heights, public speaking) and then one "person" fear, like if a person did this to them they would be scared, (yelling, vulnerability, grabbing their hand)

Make your characters have connections. This can be two main characters secretly being ex-lovers, or one of the characters having a younger sister who comes in handy halfway through the story. Things like this that are infrequently brought up and then suddenly come to full effect are reall fun to read and realize!

The alarm goes off.

I don’t move.

I don’t even hate it.

I just stare at it like it’s happening to someone else.

The sound keeps going,

and I let it,

because turning it off would mean admitting

the day has started

and I’m not ready to participate in it.

I think about getting up.

I think about not getting up.

I think about how tired I am

even though I’ve done nothing yet.

I think about how unfair it is

to be exhausted before consciousness.

Then my bladder interrupts the debate.

Because I have to pee.

But I don’t want to get up.

But if I don’t get up,

I’ll pee the bed.

And if I pee the bed,

I’ll have to clean the bed.

And if I clean the bed,

I’ll have to strip the sheets,

wash them,

dry them,

put them back on.

And if I pee the bed,

I also have to clean myself.

And I don’t want to clean myself.

I barely want to exist,

let alone shower,

let alone deal with the consequences

of having a body.

So I get up.

Not because I chose to.

Because the alternative requires more effort.

I pee.

I stand there longer than necessary,

staring at nothing,

letting the relief happen

without enjoying it.

I wash my hands because that’s the rule.

Then I look in the mirror.

There’s a man staring back at me

and my first thought is—

who the fuck is that?

Then I remember:

a mirror isn’t a window.

So clearly, it’s me.

My face looks tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Lines carved at the corners of my eyes

like repetition finally left marks.

Bags underneath them,

heavy, permanent-looking,

as if I’ve been hauling something invisible for years.

Crow’s feet cracking outward,

my face braced for impact

long before it ever came.

I look like the Grim Reaper

if the Grim Reaper were about to be reaped.

I feel like I’m borrowing this face—

like it belongs to a man

who’s lived a life

I don’t remember consenting to.

Then my dog interrupts me.

She’s licking my leg.

Warm. Insistent.

Like she’s reminding me I still exist.

I look down.

She’s staring up at me

like I’m her lord and savior,

like I personally keep the world spinning,

and all I can think is—

why did you pick me, bro?

Or did I pick you?

Or did we pick each other?

I honestly don’t remember anymore.

And when I look at her like that,

something opens.

I remember the day I got her.

Why I got her in the first place.

I had a chain around my neck.

Standing on a bridge. Ready to jump.

I didn’t want to die, but I simply didn’t want to live either. 

Rain was coming down hard enough

that it kept hitting my phone screen

and ruining everything I was trying to say.

I was trying to type out a goodbye message—

something meaningful,

something that made sense,

but the water kept smearing the screen.

I wiped it.

And wiped it.

And wiped it again.

I was in my notes.

And then suddenly I wasn’t.

I was on an ad.

About dogs.

How the fuck did I end up here?

Ugh…water-swiped

I was looking down at my phone,

frustrated, shaking, soaked,

and there was a face staring back at me.

A dog.

An adoption ad.

Humane Society.

I clicked it.

I don’t know why.

I just did.

It said they were overloaded.

Too many dogs.

Not enough homes.

That some would have to be put down

if they weren’t adopted soon.

Fuck.

Why do I love animals more than humans?

Why does that sentence feel truer

than anything else I’ve ever said?

And suddenly,

I couldn’t kill myself.

Because it felt unfair

that a dog who only wanted to exist

had to die,

while a man who wanted to die

simply had to exist.

So I unraveled the chain.

Went down.

And bought a dog.

My dog licks my leg again.

Pulls me back into the bathroom.

Back into the present.

I look into her eyes

and all I can think is

I love you and hate you

at the same time.

I love you because you’re alive and happy.

I hate you because I’m alive and unhappy.

But you make me happy—

how the fuck does that work?

She keeps licking my leg.

Which means I have to move.

Which means I have to take her out.

I put on shoes.

The wrong ones.

Converse.

It’s winter.

I think about changing them.

Because if I don’t,

my feet will get wet.

And if my feet get wet,

they’ll get cold.

And if they get cold,

I’ll be miserable all day.

But my shoes are already on.

And taking them off feels like too many steps

for a problem that hasn’t happened yet.

Before I decide,

she pulls the leash.

Wins the argument.

She needs to go.

I don’t have time to think about my feet.

I step outside.

Into snow.

Immediately.

My feet are cold.

Fuck.

She takes forever.

To pee.

To shit.

To choose the perfect spot.

I wonder if she holds it on purpose—

because the longer she holds it,

the longer we walk.

That feels right.

If I were a dog

stuck inside with a man like me,

I’d probably want to be outside too.

Maybe she likes the air.

Maybe she likes being alive.

Maybe that’s a feeling

I don’t understand.

Eventually, she’s done.

I pick it up.

Because that’s the rule.

She looks back at me,

tail wagging,

like I’m her entire world.

That part hurts more than it should.

Back inside,

I know I should eat.

I haven’t eaten in two—

maybe three days.

I’ve lost track.

I open the fridge.

I have food.

I don’t want any of it.

I open the cupboard.

Close it.

Open it again.

I don’t have the energy to cook.

Cooking requires standing,

thinking,

cleaning afterward.

I need food to have energy.

I don’t have energy

because I haven’t eaten.

I hate that loop.

My life is full of them.

So I take a spoon.

Scoop peanut butter straight from the jar.

Eat it standing up.

It sticks to my mouth.

I really hate that.

But it’s something.

Not a meal.

Probably the only thing I’ll eat today.

Maybe.

I don’t know.

I have appointments.

Which means I have to keep going.

I take the bus.

I hate the bus.

I hate how close everyone is

without actually touching.

I hate how quiet it is

and how loud my thoughts get because of it.

I look around.

I always do.

I don’t know why.

I hate that I do.

There’s a man in a three-piece suit.

He must have more money than me—

logic says that’s how suits work.

I imagine him going home

to a wife,

three kids,

a warm house,

a life that makes sense.

Then I imagine him miserable.

Just like me.

Just farther along.

Only working because he has to.

The same way I have to walk my dog.

The same way I have to get up

so I don’t pee the bed.

Different levels of life.

Same obligation to exist.

Maybe he’s happy.

Maybe he’s pretending.

Maybe we’re both pretending.

I have fucking no idea.

The doctor is kind.

I like her.

She asks how I’m doing

and I give the short version.

The responsible version.

The version that fits inside a chart.

I don’t tell her everything.

She’s not my therapist.

And even if she were,

there’s a limit to what fits

inside a fifteen-minute window.

Then there’s therapy.

I sit down.

I talk.

I don’t talk.

I wonder how someone can help me

if they’ve never been here.

Then I wonder how they could help anyone

if they have been here.

Both thoughts feel true.

Neither feels useful.

I leave feeling lighter.

And heavier.

Both at once.

Then grocery shopping.

I don’t need groceries.

I have food at home.

I’m here for pizza pockets.

Because they’re easy.

And dog food.

Because she needs to eat.

That’s it.

That’s the list.

At the counter,

the cashier asks if I want

a paper bag

or one of those reusable fabric ones.

And inside my head I think,

fuck you, you dumb motherfucker.

Not because of her.

Because of the pile at home.

The mountain of fabric bags

I keep forgetting to bring back.

I don’t want more.

I don’t want to collect them like trophies

for leaving the house.

But the paper bags are garbage.

They rip.

They betray you halfway home.

So I say yes.

Another fabric bag.

Another one to add to the collection

I never meant to start.

The day keeps going.

Because it does.

Somewhere in the middle of it,

the chant starts.

I hate myself.

I hate everyone.

I hate air.

I hate sleep.

I hate water.

But that’s not true.

I don’t hate anything.

I just don’t want to exist like this.

Not dead.

Just absent.

Depression isn’t sadness.

Sadness has color.

Sadness has a cause.

Depression is subtraction.

A rainbow turned gray.

A radio tuned just past silence.

Eventually, the day ends.

Not because it got better.

Because time gave up on it.

I come home.

I get into bed.

And there’s relief in that.

Real relief.

I’m safe.

I’m done.

But the bed is quiet.

And I’m alone in it.

Which feels sad

and devastating.

This is my existence.

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