#lonelywriter

Sometimes I catch myself feeling bad when a new chapter gets fewer comments than the previous one, or none at all. It’s not about the numbers, not really. It’s about that strange silence after you’ve poured a piece of yourself into something and it just… disappears into the void. You refresh the page once, twice, three times... hoping for a sign that someone out there felt something, anything. But the quiet stays.

Writing fanfiction has always felt like being part of something shared: a little corner of the internet where stories are gifts, not products. A place built on love for the source material, on excitement, on connection. But lately, I can’t help worrying that the fanfic community is starting to feel like the service sector: someone creates, someone consumes, and that’s the end of it. No real conversation, no shared joy. Just quiet transactions that leave both sides emptier.

It’s a lonely feeling, the kind that makes you wonder if people are still reading with their hearts, or just scrolling for something to fill the silence in their own rooms. I don’t want to measure my worth in comments, but I miss when stories felt like dialogues instead of broadcasts. When readers left a line or two, not just as praise, but as proof that the connection was real, that someone had been there, and felt something too.

I guess I just miss when fandom felt like community (messy, warm, full of chats) and not like a platform where creators quietly serve and audiences quietly consume.

_____

Despite all this, and although I have experienced a drop in comments between chapters, I'm fortunate to currently have a small group of kind readers who send me very high-quality comments (300 words per comment? Marry me!). But I see the difference between visits and comments and I wonder why a reader would read 8000 words and have nothing to say. I always have something to say hahaha

Writing is a lonely craft. It’s you, your keyboard (or notebook if you're fancy 🖊️📓), and the whirlwind of ideas in your head. But writing fanfiction? That’s a different kind of magic. That’s stepping into a shared universe, playing with beloved characters, and knowing that, out there, someone is just as obsessed as you with the same dynamics, the same what-ifs, the same need to fix that one scene that haunts you at night. 👀✨

Fanfiction is never written in isolation. Even if you’re typing away at 3 AM, half-delirious, fueled by caffeine and questionable life choices, you know that someone will read it. Someone will comment (although people are becoming more and more stingy and it is something that we MUST solve as a community). Someone will scream in the tags. Someone will send you an ask saying, “HOW DARE YOU HURT ME LIKE THIS” (which, let’s be honest, is the highest form of writerly praise 😌💅).

But original fiction? That’s a whole different beast. You’re still creating worlds, shaping characters, bleeding onto the page… but there’s no built-in audience waiting. No immediate feedback loop. It’s just you, hoping that one day, someone will care about your world as much as you do. And that loneliness? That silence? Sometimes, it’s suffocating.

I’m not saying one is better than the other—both are acts of love. But writing fanfiction feels like sitting around a campfire, sharing stories with friends who nod, gasp, and laugh at all the right moments 🔥👥 .Meanwhile, writing original fiction sometimes feels like shouting into the void, waiting for an echo that may never come.

And yet… we write. Because stories demand to be told. Because whether it’s in a shared universe or one of our own making, we crave connection 💜

So, to all the writers out there—whether you’re posting fics at breakneck speed or painstakingly crafting an original novel—I see you. I hear you. And I hope you find the audience that makes you feel a little less alone, even if it's just a good friend who years later asks you why you didn't finish that story.

standing ovation for LonelyWriter and Youreblindtowhatyousee for their SENSATIONAL crack videos

The phandom thanks you❤️

Uma noite, escrevi um poema.

 Talvez um qualquer, talvez um tema.

Daquela mulher, que não me quer.

 Que pena, seria uma perda,

não do poema, mas de sua bohemia.

 Insignificante, mas cativante

To perdido, que lance esquisito,

 é só insônia, que dava uma crônica.

Mas dela fiz esse poema, que não era um qualquer.

 Virou-se atual, magestral.

De suas poucas palavras, faço um livro.

 Faltaria algumas páginas, mas eu crio.

Se fiz esse poema, imaginar eu e você,

 não seria problema.