babbles-and-drabbles

[babbles-and-drabbles]

The Demon Lord has accomplished a great many things in his life. He's tried to obliterate the entire mortal realm three times. (So very nearly succeeded that last time too! He's going to get it right one of these days.) He's conquered and destroyed too many mortal civilizations to count. That last one was a particularly good bit of fun. After the conquering and destruction, he tossed that civilization's most revered Demon King in an eternal and endless abyss of screeching demonic eels. Shows that guy for calling himself "Demon" anything. And, he's well on his way to figuring out a spell that would make sure no knot stays tied for more than a few seconds. Oh, when he finally irons out the kinks in that one...

What he hasn't gotten around to do yet, in his life spanning eons and eons in mortal years, is take a lover. And judging by the face of the woman he's been courting the past two millennia, he isn't going to be taking a lover any time soon.

"You thought I liked you?!" The woman screeches, spittle flying from her mouth in all directions.

The Demon Lord scrunches his face. "...Yes?" He manages with a shrug and two upturned palms.

"Is that why you kept wearing those tight outfits?"

"I mean," The Demon Lord raises an eyebrow and looks down at his clothing, "this is the traditional garb that all Demon Lords have worn since time immemorial. But now that you mention it, it is a little tight around the nether regions..."

"And, and what was with all that tilting my chin up with your sword and doing that villainous murmur thing in my ear??" The mortal woman is beside herself, shrieking at the Demon Lord in a voice he hasn't heard her use before. He couldn't help but wonder about what other sounds he hasn't heard her make.

"Is that not," The Demon Lord blinks at the woman, "is that not what women are into? Maybe I misread something in those magazines..."

"What the hell are you going on about? What women are into?" She is frothing at the mouth with barely contained rage. "I am trying to kill you!!

"That much has been obvious from the start," The Demon Lord huffs, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one foot, "Why are you making such a big fuss about it now?"

"A big fuss? You burned down my entire village! You killed my entire clan! I am the last surviving member of my people, and I will have to live with that weight and that loneliness for all eternity! My only salvation is the thought of driving my sword through your body and finally ridding the universe of your cursed existence."

They had been doing the cat-and-mouse dance for the last couple of centuries. He captures her, but she escapes. She kills him, but he revives himself again. And on and on it went for decades at a time, and the Demon Lord was beginning to worry that she was just leading him on. Last century, though, she took up as a fighter-cleric of some obscure holy order to learn ancient spells to vanquish him. That got his hopes up that maybe something real was finally happening. So...he decided to spice things up.

"Look, I am just as serious about all of this as you are. I just thought it was time to take our relationship to the next level."

"What relationship!? Did you hear nothing of what I just said? You are my most hated enemy--"

"--to lover!"

The woman goes slack jawed, frozen still in confusion.

"Enemies to lovers!" The Demon Lord tries again, waving both hands at the woman in what he's learned is the universal mortal sign for "ta-da!"

No response.

"Oh, come on now. I love our verbal spats as much as you do, but we've finally come to it after all this time. We've been doing this enemies-to-lovers thing for more than two millennia. Don't play coy now."

The woman shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to deflect the Demon Lord's last words. "I tire of your twisted words, you vile fiend," she draws her sword from its hilt. Glowing Holy symbols and scriptures decorate the blade. "I am going to end you once and for all."

"Oh, you can certainly try--" The Demon Lord stops abruptly as the blade of the woman's sword sinks into his chest. He sighs, giving the woman an annoyed look as blood oozes from the wound, staining his shirt.

"Really? I just had this cleaned--" He is cut off again when the woman shoots a blindingly blast of holy energy at his face.

"I can see--" He takes another blinding blast of holy energy to the face.

"--that you are upset--" Another blast.

"--can we talk about--" And another.

"--please stop--" And another.

Relenting, the Demon Lord dissolves into a cloud of dark smoke and rematerializes a few feet away from the woman. "I get it, I get it," he says, raising one palm at her as he heals his chest wound with a casual flick of his other hand. "I'm moving too fast, and you aren't ready."

"Enough!" The woman shouts, taking another attack stance, "I will not fall for whatever sick game you are playing! Prepare to die!"

"Enemies-to-lovers is not a sick game!" The Dark Lord retorts, affronted, "In the romance genre, it is a common and beloved trope-" The woman's blade sinks into his torso again.

Sighing audibly, the Dark Lord drags one hand down his face. This is going to be a long fight.

From [WP] "You thought I liked you?! Is that why you kept wearing those tight outfits and tilting my chin up with your sword and doing that villainous murmur thing in my ear?? Are you crazy?! What the hell do you mean enemies to lovers?! You burnt down my entire village, I'm trying to kill you!!"

[babbles-and-drabbles]

Well, I sure got into work early today.

The not-me, rather. When I reach my cubicle, the not-me is already fastidiously chipping away at my inbox, dispatching emails with such pep and fervor that I am momentarily envious of myself. Envious of the not-me that I could be, rather. My unread emails tick to zero at a quarter past nine. Satisfied, the not-me starts making small talk with the cubicle over about my--our--weekend.

Co-existing is supposed to help with the transition they say, but I can never get used to it, seeing myself outside myself. How do I even refer to this me? This not-me who is me, rather. This not-me who is more of a "value add" in meetings than I am. This not-me who is more of a "team player" than I am. This not-me who scores higher on the productivity scales than I do. This not-me who fills the shape of the corporate employee better than I can.

My own reflection peeling away from the myself until I become the reflection, trapped and momentary, in a funhouse mirror.

[WP] You arrive at your office only to find yourself already sitting behind your desk

[babbles-and-drabbles]

Chosen, No More

They say that Marion was born on the day of a total solar eclipse. The village where Marion was born was not in the path of the eclipse, and the people living in that village at that time did not see any signs of the eclipse. But, still, Marion, Daughter of the Eclipse, was dubbed the Chosen One by the village elders. She is the fated one, they told Marion's parents, the one fated to embark on the greatest of Great Adventures and become the greatest of Great Adventurers.

"Wait for the Great Sign to call her to Greatness," the village elders said to Marion's parents right after Marion was born.

One of the village women entered the room with a musty blanket. The dyes were faded and the edges frayed, but in the middle was the clear depiction of a total solar eclipse. "This is the Great Blanket," the woman informed Marion's parents as she swaddled Marion in the blanket.

"What sign? When will she know?" Marion's mother asked eagerly, taking Marion back into her arms, sneezing a little at the dust coming off the blanket. She had always wished she herself had been destined for Greatness, so she happily took her daughter being the Chosen One as a consolation prize.

"There will be no sign," Marion's father said sternly.

"The Great Sign shall reveal itself in its own, great time."

"This is a bunch of bull." Marion's dad was a non-believer from the beginning.

The Great Adventures of the Great Adventurer was a children's bedtime story. Marion's dad knew better than anyone else, his dad, and his dad's dad before that, being the village storytellers who told that story every night for decades at the single pub in town. The Chosen One was born beneath a total solar eclipse, his dad would begin each night, destined for Greatness. And each night his dad, and his dad's dad before that, would entertain the children and the drunkards with made up tales of the Great Adventures of the Great Adventurer. By the time he became a teenager, Marion's dad had grown so sick of these stories that he abandoned the family business of storytelling and became a blacksmith.

As a child, Marion did not really understand this Chosen One business. Her mom made her sit inside the house all day, dressed in Great Clothing made from musty, faded fabrics, seated in the Great Chair made from the Great Tree that the previous Chosen One was said to have felled himself. The Great Clothing itched, and the Great Chair was stiff. A parade of villagers would visit the house and place offerings and pray for Greatness at her tiny feet.

Some days her dad let her climb trees and run around outside with the other villager kids, but her mom would always yell at him and make Marion come home. Some days her granddad would visit and tell her stories of the previous Chosen One while she sat on the Great Chair waiting for villagers to come, but her dad would shoo him away.

Year after year, Marion's mom waited for the Great Sign to reveal itself and, year after year, Marion's dad would make a big show of how no Great Sign had appeared. With each passing year where no Great Sign was revealed and Marion was not carted off by fate and destiny to go on the Great Adventure, fewer and fewer villagers came to worship at her now teenager-sized feet.

By her fifteenth birthday, Marion had had enough. No Great Sign was coming. But more importantly, she was bored of wearing the itchy Great Clothing and sitting the stiff Great Chair. Despite her mother's yelling at her dad and making Marion come back home, she had climbed all the trees in the neighborhood and had played all the games she wanted to play with the village kids. Despite her father's shooing away, she had heard all the stories she wanted to hear from her granddad's deep repertoire of tales of the Great Adventurer.

"I am not going to be the Chosen One anymore," Marion declared at her fifteenth birthday party. Her dad had just settled down with a piece of cake, and her mom was about to pour herself a glass of lemonade.

"What did you say? You don't want to be to frozen and sore anymore? But it is nearly summer..." Her granddad murmured, cupping one ear and leaning closer to Marion.

"I am not going to be the Chosen One anymore." Marion repeated.

The pitcher of lemonade slipped out of her mom's fingers and shattered dramatically on the floor.

"Someone else can wear the Great Clothing and sit in the Great chair," Marion looked at each of her closest family members in the eye, "but it won't be me."

"That's my girl." Her dad said, tucking into a piece of birthday cake.

From [WP] You have been destined to go on a life changing quest since your birth. Thing is, you don't want to go on the quest.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Uh, did you pick up the dry cleaning yesterday?"

"No, shit, sorry. I forgot."

"Yeah, okay, that's okay. Can you get it tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Yeah, I think so. I have to pick up Tony from the airport and drop him off at Eileen's but, yeah, I can grab the laundry on my way back."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, great. I'll see for dinner tonight at eight?"

"At eight? Uh," silence on the line. In the background, the murmurs of a corporate office on a Friday afternoon. Someone needs reports done by tomorrow AM. A printer beeps and huffs. Her manicured fingernails click and clatter across the keyboard. She's writing an email or messaging someone on Slack. "Yeah, eight, I think so?"

"You think so?" He's trying not to sound annoyed. He made this reservation months ago. This was supposed to be that dinner.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well," he is about to get snippy. He feels it building up. His meditation teacher would tell him and take a "sacred pause" but all he wants to do is put his foot on the pedal of his rage. So he does: "Would it kill you to respond with a little certainty?"

"What's the big deal?" Rising agitation in her voice, but he can tell she's trying to tamp it back down.

"Don't give me that. You know why it is a big deal."

"No, I don't. I just said I think I can make it to dinner."

"And I said, I would like you to be a little certain."

A beat. The printer is still going. Who still prints things out in this day and age. The report, it sounds like, is not going to be done by tomorrow AM and someone's head is going to roll. "I don't have time for this. I think I can make dinner. I don't know what else to say to you."

"You can say yes."

"Are you never going to--" She sucks in a breath through her teeth. "Jesus fucking Christ, I really don't have time for this."

"Just say yes."

"Look, I'm sorry I couldn't say yes to you then. I'm sorry, I really am. But you have to move on. You can't turn everything into a, into a--"

"Easy for you to say move on when no one's rejected your proposal."

"Christ's sake. Fine, yes, yes, yes, I'll be at dinner. But just because I said yes to the dinner doesn't change the fact that I didn't say yes to marrying you."

[babbles-and-drabbles]

At a time he no longer remembers, at a place he no longer can name, he saw a pale-yellow stroke of sunlight gleaming against her hair. Watch, the sunbeam had said, running its fingers—warm and heavy, tender and knowing—across the sweep of her hair as if they were the strings of a harp. Listen, the sunbeam had said, weaving a well-worn melody through her flowing locks, each strand alight with iridescent resonance under its familiar caress. Remember, the sunbeam had said, before fading away, teasing and mercurial in its attention.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

Evenings, I’ve come to learn, are timid with unspoken possibility. The solitary car passing down the block, two beams of light arcing across dark windows and the hush of tires against asphalt. A truck hissing and thumping over potholes, past dull amber streetlights looming over vacant sidewalks. Drunk twenty-somethings stumbling past your window—hollering, yelping—bodies straining against the sharp winter sky.

In the dark, I can hear myself think, thoughts clear and bright, like pins striking a cymbal, reverberating out and out and out. In the stillness, I can feel myself move, fingers dancing in the blue tint of a computer monitor, toes singed by the red freckles glowing on a power strip under my desk, whispering, winking, conspiratorial in their electronic silence.

As if I’m moving through the past, and the future is nascent. As if I’m holding my breath, not wanting to let any of it out. Because I am alone and I am here and the night is unfurling its slender reach and swallowing me up from the ankles and I am falling into the gap between then and later.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

I met you for the first time today, standing on the stairs leading up to a life I can see but cannot believe in. With a crooked grin on your face and a twinkle dancing in your eyes. You reach your hand to me and ask me to follow. I stand motionless, arrested. Have you always been here? With your grins and twinkles, just out of reach and in the shadows, in the nooks and crannies, in pockets like old receipts and used napkins wadded up and tight and stiff after running through the laundry. Have you always been here?

I met you for the first time today, waiting for the ocean and the sky to kiss at the horizon of a life I want to try for but cannot achieve. Or, rather, I am afraid to try to achieve. Or, rather, I am afraid to try. Or, rather, I am afraid. You stand there with your pockets in your hands and your hands holding your pockets. Misaligned. Out of whack. Out of shape. Take a look back at me sometimes and you'll see.

I met you for the first time today, somewhere.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

7. “I’m sorry, run that by me again.”

"I'm sorry, run that by me again."

It is a Friday afternoon in late August. She's come back from work to find her husband and his best friend standing in their living room amidst a jumble of tools and cables and dirty towels. An oblong patch of sweat is visible in her husband's t-shirt. Record high heat across the city. You can cook an egg on the asphalt, and all the neighborhood kids are running and splashing in the spray of busted fire hydrants up and down the block, but there is no air conditioning in the apartment. Only hot, muggy air wafting into their sixth-floor walkup from the open window.

"Okay," her husband gestures towards her with both hands, "so you know this morning when you left, the air conditioner was in the window."

"Yeah," she draws out the word, eyes darting between him and the now vacant space in the window. The synthetic fabric of her work appropriate blouse from Ann Taylor clings to her skin, and the lining of her work appropriate gray trousers from Macy's drags against her legs. Her tote bag, burgeoning with things she thinks she needs to carry every day but never actually uses, digs into her right shoulder. She slips out of her sneakers before dumping her bag on the couch.

"Now it is not."

Her eyes narrow to slits. "What do you mean 'now it is not'?"

Her husband looks to his friend, and his friend looks back at her husband. The two hold each other's gaze but neither speaks.

"Well? Spit it out."

Her husband runs a hand through his hair damp with sweat, mouth opening and closing a few times before finally pivoting towards the window, "It, uh, fell."

"It fell?"

"It fell," his friend echoes apologetically and casts a sideways glance at the open window.

"What--" Then it dawns on her. She rushes to the window, leaning out far enough that her husband has grabs her waist to keep her from also falling out. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, it fell."

"Are those Mrs. Lawson's petunias under there?"

"Yep."

"We're so fucked."

"Yep…"

(from 101 Drabble Prompts)

[babbles-and-drabbles]

5. Why did you choose me?

"Why did you choose me?"

He is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, chin resting in one hand, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. Flickers of light lap at his downturned face, casting his features in waves of shadows. A heavy, leatherbound tome rests in his lap. Knowing him, it is probably some dense and obscure text that he deems beyond a servant's comprehension. He draws his index finger lazily down the length of each page before flipping to the next page. When he comes across something of interest in the text, he makes low hums in the back of his throat, eyes glittering in the firelight.

Her words do nothing to pry his attention from the book. She squirms in the servant's garb, her face hot and her skin suddenly sensitive in the woolen material. The high collar, with its double rows of buttons, feels like a snake constricting around her neck. She should never have opened her mouth.

He snaps the tome shut just as she resolves to turn and flee.

"No reason."

Her only response is a startled look.

"No reason," he repeats, setting the book down on a nearby table. He rises from the armchair and closes the distance between them in slow, soundless steps. Lithe, easy movements of a predator stalking his prey, certain of the kill.

With his body nearly flush against hers, he bends his mouth to her ear, "Did you think I owed you an explanation?"

She shrinks back from him, but he presses forward and walks her up against the door. Drawing her arms tight against her body, she tries again to put some distance between them, but it only has the effect of pressing her bosom against his chest. Heat rolls off his body in scorching waves, lapping at her already overly sensitive nerves, urging her breasts into stiff points visible through her garment. Shame and desire engulf her.

She lets out a shuddering breath, closing her eyes and turning her face away from him. A tightness builds in the back of her throat. "No, sir. I'm--"

"Look at me," he commands, twisting her chin back towards him. When she doesn't obey, the grip on her chin tightens until she finally opens her eyes. A look of barely restrained hunger stares back at her.

His breath is shallow against her lips, his body tense and taut like a drawn bow, resisting something that he doesn't fully understand except that it has everything to do with her. That everything rests on a pinpoint and that any small thing between them--a careless breath, a stray hair falling across her face, a faint tremble in her soft, pliant body--would upset the balance.

"I did not choose you," he says, voice low and dark, eyes dropping to the glistening curve of her bottom lip, "I've never had a choice when it comes to you."

(from 101 Drabble Prompts)

[babbles-and-drabbles]

more reference

Research Sites for Writers

I've starting a research resource page on my website. I'm a science fiction writer, so it will probably lean in that direction. It's going to be regularly updated, so add it to your bookmarks maybe?

[babbles-and-drabbles]

15. “Why don’t you say that to my face?”

[playing around with three-way dialogue without tags]

"Why don't you say that to my face?"

"I just did, you fucking idiot."

"Yeah, no, it doesn't count, because you said it over the phone, you dumbass."

"Whatever, it's video chat--it's the same fucking thing! And I would love to say it to your actual fucking face but I can't because, if you haven't noticed by now, I am stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere in a fucking blizzard because somebody forgot to take the fucking car to the fucking shop like he fucking said he would."

"I would have taken the car to the shop if you brought it home on time instead of getting drunk and passing out at the bar."

"Oh, I am going so going to fucking kill you when I get back--"

"Hey guys, can we slow down for a minute--"

"NO!"

"You fucking stay out of this! This is between me and him."

"Yeah, this is between me and her."

"Then why did you guys add me to the call…"

"I didn't add you to the call. She did because her dumb ass can't figure out how to use a smartphone."

"What--I know how to use a fucking phone. I just didn't mean to call the whole group chat…"

"Yeah, calling the whole group chat by accident means you don't know how to use a phone."

"And fucking my best friend means you know how to put your fucking dick where it doesn't fucking belong!"

"Woah, okay, guys, this is starting to get super personal…"

"For the love of all that is holy, not this again. I am telling you I just fell asleep on her couch."

"Like anyone is fuckin going to believe that fucking bullshit."

"So…I'm going to hang up now and let you guys deal with whatever this is…"

"No, you stay on the line. I need a fucking third party witness for this shit or he's going to turn it all against me."

"I don't turn anything against you!"

"Why am I even in this group chat…"

(from 101 Drabble Prompts)

[babbles-and-drabbles]

more reference

Write your book STEP BY STEP

hello hello, it's me again!

today i'm bringing you a step-by-step / checklist to finally get your book done. i know it can be a bit complicated to put everything together to make your idea come to life (you're definitely not alone!)

that's why i compiled some tips and made this post, in hopes to help some author out there :D

let's get started.

PREMISE

assuming you already have a good idea in mind, you should start by writing a premise. to help you with that, try to answer these questions:

who is the main character?

what are their goals?

which troubles will they face / what's stopping them from achieving their goals?

do they have an opponent? if so, who?

now that you know the answers to these questions, it's time to write the premise. the premise consists in a sentence that summarizes your whole idea.

PLOT OUTLINE

there are infinite ways to plot your story. you can do it by writing down ideas and linking them together, following a scheme, or any other method.

the most common plot outlines are these:

synopsis outline: one to two pages, where you hit all the major beats of the story

in-depth outline: outline each chapter/scene

snowflake method: develop the premise into a bigger paragraph, and that paragraph into a page (etc.) until you have the whole outline of your story

booken method: plot the start and end of the story, and the main characters

the novel factory created plot sheets for free, and you can choose from eight different templates. you might want to check it out!

KNOW YOUR CHARACTERS

having your outline defined, you should start developing your characters now. the main character's profile might be more detailed than the others, however, it's up to you. there are many character sheets out there on the internet that will help you create flawless characters.

i have a post with resources that might be helpful when creating a character, check it out!

and here you have some prompts and sheets to create a character:

Quick Character Creator - EA Deverell

Extremely detailed character sheet template - @hawkasss

The Best Character Template Ever - Dabble

Character Twenty Questions Worksheet - The Writers Circle

at this point, you should also define the narrator's voice, tone, etc, as well as the pace of your novel.

LOCATIONS

define the principal locations of your story, the settings, and where the story is taking place. it's important to know how the environment looks, and how your characters feel about it.

for this part, you might find it useful to do some research about some locations, if you're not familiar with them. find inspiration on Pinterest, Tumblr, or even on books, paintings, and art. everything is valid.

if your story takes place in a fantasy environment, you might need to fill out a template to create it or write down the way you imagine it to be. try to get as many details as possible, so there are no holes when developing the novel.

SUBPLOTS

you might want to give more depth to your novel by developing a subplot (or more than one). make sure it doesn't get too confusing or that doesn't take the focus away from the main action.

the subplot can be a romance, another character's relationship, a character's arc, a backstory, etc. this will make your story more real and 3D, more realistic.

develop it as a side story and mix it with the principal plot but don't make it as important as the main story, otherwise, none of the plots will make an impact.

SYNOPSIS

write a synopsis as long as you wish, covering every important part of the story. this will help you to really know your idea, and have a solid structure for it. it can range from 500 to 2,500 words, but you don't have to restrict yourself to a number.

things the synopsis should cover:

the status quo

the complication

initial challenges

midpoint

further challenges

the low point

the climax

the resolution

DRAFT

and we get to the best part which is writing! now that you know everything about your story, characters, locations, and scenes, all you have to do is to put all that together in words. don't feel pressured to make everything look perfect already, just write what comes to your mind. if you have a new idea for the plot, good, write it down! if this character doesn't make sense anymore, okay, get rid of them. just go with the flow, following the structure you've planned, and everything starts to come to life.

i know it's so tempting to go back, read what you wrote, and start editing and polishing, but trust me, don't do that! it's a waste of time, and you will take so much more time to finish your first draft. in fact, i've given up on so many stories because of that...

just when you finish the first draft, you will re-read everything and start editing, fixing plot holes, changing what doesn't fit well, etc. but for now, just write, get the first draft done. enjoy the process, don't rush.

thanks for reading!

i hope this post was helpful!

also, you might be interested in this free workbook with over 90 pages and many exercises! check it out here: THE WRITER'S WORKBOOK

resources for this post:

How to Choose a Plot Outline Method: 4 Techniques for Outlining Novels

How to Write a Novel: A Step-by-Step Guide

[babbles-and-drabbles]

also for reference

WEBSITES FOR WRITERS {masterpost}

E.A. Deverell - FREE worksheets (characters, world building, narrator, etc.) and paid courses;

NotionByRach - FREEBIES (workbook, notion template, games, challenges, etc.);

Hiveword - Helps to research any topic to write about (has other resources, too);

BetaBooks - Share your draft with your beta reader (can be more than one), and see where they stopped reading, their comments, etc.;

Charlotte Dillon - Research links;

Writing realistic injuries - The title is pretty self-explanatory: while writing about an injury, take a look at this useful website;

One Stop for Writers - You guys... this website has literally everything we need: a) Description thesaurus collection, b) Character builder, c) Story maps, d) Scene maps & timelines, e) World building surveys, f) Worksheets, f) Tutorials, and much more! Although it has a paid plan ($90/year | $50/6 months | $9/month), you can still get a 2-week FREE trial;

One Stop for Writers Roadmap - It has many tips for you, divided into three different topics: a) How to plan a story, b) How to write a story, c) How to revise a story. The best thing about this? It's FREE!

Story Structure Database - The Story Structure Database is an archive of books and movies, recording all their major plot points;

National Centre for Writing - FREE worksheets and writing courses. Has also paid courses;

Penguin Random House - Has some writing contests and great opportunities;

Crime Reads - Get inspired before writing a crime scene;

The Creative Academy for Writers - "Writers helping writers along every step of the path to publication." It's FREE and has ZOOM writing rooms;

Reedsy - "A trusted place to learn how to successfully publish your book" It has many tips, and tools (generators), contests, prompts lists, etc. FREE;

QueryTracker - Find agents for your books (personally, I've never used this before, but I thought I should feature it here);

Pacemaker - Track your goals (example: Write 50K words - then, everytime you write, you track the number of the words, and it will make a graphic for you with your progress). It's FREE but has a paid plan;

Save the Cat! - The blog of the most known storytelling method. You can find posts, sheets, a software (student discount - 70%), and other things;

I hope this is helpful for you!

Also, don't forget to check my gumroad shop, where you can find plenty of FREEBIES (from notion templates for writers to workbooks and sheets).

-> Check out my freebies

Happy writing! <3

[babbles-and-drabbles]

His body is slumped against the base of a large tree when she finds him, head bent forward, chin slack and resting on his chest. Rivulets of blood and sweat mingle down his face. Beads of rain glide along the tendrils of his dark hair before settling, like jewels, at their tapered ends. Crumpled and unmoving in the light rain, he looks as if he is resting but she sees blood pooling beneath him and knows he is dying, if not dead already. This should please her beyond words, even if he had not been brought to death’s door by her own hands. But the sight of him, still and quiescent, engenders an altogether different emotion.

She tamps down the unsettling surge in her chest and surveys the scene before her. More than a dozen men--his own men--lie dead around them. She presses one hand to her lips. His men had turned on him, confident they were advantaged by their numbers, and paid the price for underestimating their commander. Yet, catching their commander off guard with their betrayal, they managed to deal him fatal blows in the melee. No, her brow knits, it is not like him to be caught out by simple betrayal or to be cut down by common soldiers, even his own. She is blind to some critical piece of the puzzle.

But that is of no concern to her now. Sighing, she kneels down in front of him. What is of great concern, however, is securing his signet ring. When she fails to find it on his fingers, she is struck by a memory of the ring suspended from his neck by a delicate silver chain. And then, of the broad span of his bare chest framed in moonlight, the look he gave her that night and how it had pinned her in place, robbing her of all breath.

Her fingers are almost at the top-most button of his uniform collar when his hand seizes her wrist. “What are you doing?” His voice is barely a whisper, words uneven and labored. Had she not been kneeling by him, hovering inches from his face as she tried to divest him of his ring, she might not have heard him at all.

Her head snaps to his face, eyes wide for just a moment before settling into an even look. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Finishing the job my men started," he grits out syllable by syllable.

“Believe me, I am sorely disappointed your men did not actually manage to kill you,” she starts, pulling her hand free, the brand of his ice-cold grip lingering on her skin. “But no,” her voice turning saccharine as she leans closer to him, hooking one finger into his collar and drawing it down to reveal the silver chain beneath. “I am merely hoping to retrieve a small token to remember you by.”

"So eager to loot my still-warm corpse," He snorts in response, an effort that sends him into a fit of coughs and sputters, forcing him to clutch the right side of his stomach where a glistening stain is quietly blossoming across the torn fabric of his uniform jacket.

"You're bleeding out,” she comments flatly, peeling away from him.

"So you’ve noticed," he spits back sardonically. His eyes snare hers for a split second before he squeezes them shut. Letting out a long, quivering sigh, he leans his head back against the tree, baring his neck to her. “Take what you want. I’m in no condition to stop you even if I tried.”

Take what you want. A thousand quips and retorts rise in her mind to meet his words, but his resignation douses her ardor for their usual exchange of verbal jabs. She swallows thickly and steals one long glance at the corded length of his neck before undoing the buttons at his throat, framing the ring in the open valley of his white uniform shirt. Only then does she realize she is all but sitting in his lap with her palms pressed against his chest and he is studying her through half-lidded eyes.

Silence settles between them, filled only by the soft drumming of rain and his faltering breaths murmuring near her lips. The look in his eyes is brimming with everything unsaid between them and, given his present circumstances, everything that may never be said between them. A sudden pressure blooms in her chest, so dense and unrelenting it threatens to swallow her whole.

"Care to humor a dying man his last wish?"

"I'm not that kind."

"Pity," he whispers as he curls a finger under her chin, "I was rather hoping to savor the taste of your mouth with my dying breath." Then, without warning, he closes the infinitesimal space between their lips.

She shoves off him immediately. Her look of pure affront sends the corners of his mouth curving into a small, sheepish grin. As his vision starts to blur at the edges, he realizes that she may well be the last person he will ever see. He wants to laugh at the irony. But more compelling desires reveal themselves. He wants to tuck that lose strand of hair behind her ear and draw his knuckles slowly down her flushed cheeks. He wants to capture her waist, pull her body flush against his and delight in her reactions when he kisses her again full on the mouth. Quite simply, he wants her. And then he wants to laugh some more, at how little he knows of life and of himself, much less anything or anyone else. But most of all, at how this clarity seems to have come at the most inconvenient of times.

For her part, she is in free fall, her world thrown off its axis by the small mystifying moment that just passed. This is the first time she's ever seen his face approach even the hint of a smile, and having seen it now, she finds herself wishing--despite what caused it--to see it again, and again, and again. But his is dying. She lets out a strangled sob, caught between the violent urge to throttle him and the equally violent urge to kiss him. And in the chasm between the two, she discovers she needs him to live.

"Stay awake. Don't close your eyes."

"So demanding," he mumbles as he veers closer to darkness.

"Shut up. Save your breath." Dimly, he hears the rustling of fabric as her deft fingers make quick work of the buttons on his uniform jacket and shirt. He registers the heat of her palms against his skin as she parts his clothes. A string of elaborate curses falls from her lips, a reaction, he presumes, to his wounds. Another string of curses followed by a series of increasingly heavy sighs when she finds the angry scarlet gashes running down his legs. He feels her weight shift. She is standing up, leaving, as she should have done from the start. But his signet ring remains on his neck. Is that not what she came for?

Then his body is enveloped by the thrum of her magic, cinnamon-scented and gossamer. She calls out a name he doesn't recognize and speaks the last words he hears before slipping into soundless oblivion, "Let him live. Whatever the price, I will pay it."

[babbles-and-drabbles]

for future reference

A Comprehensive Guide for Writing Advice

Sometimes, despite enjoying writing so much, something is not working for you. Maybe your well of ideas has run dry. Or your WIP has hit a corner and you can't find your way out to the end of the story. Or you need to go back to your finished draft and see if there are any kinks to clear up.

Fortunately, everyone at Writeblrcafé has experienced such, and to help you out, we have a bunch of links to helpful posts by fellow writers to help you along on your writing journey as well as some helpful links to other websites, resources and software.

General:

WHY IS WRITING IS SO FUCKING HARD? (@writers-hq)

Writer Block First Aid Kit (@isabellestone)

Websites for writers (masterpost @2soulscollide)

Writing advice (masterpost @theliteraryarchitect)

Writing resources (masterpost @stinastar)

One look thesaurus (a reverse dictionary where you can enter words or concepts)

Coming Up with Ideas:

97 Character Motivations (@theplottery)

Character Flaws (@fantasyfillsmysoul)

Character Profile (@mistblossomdesigns)

Characters Unflawed (@emptymanuscript)

Why Theme is More Important than Plot (@theplottery)

Weekly writing prompts on Reedsy

Drafting:

3 of the worst story beginnings (and how to fix them) (@theplottery)

Cheat Sheet for Writing Emotion (@myhoniahaka)

Creative Writing for Writers (@writerscreed)

Describing Physical Things (@wordsnstuff)

How to Craft a Natural Plot (@theplottery)

How to Write a Story? (masterpost @creativepromptsforwriting)

How to write: ethnicity & skin colour (@youneedsomeprompts)

What the F is Show Not Tell (@theplottery)

Writing advice from my uni teachers (@thewritingumbrellas)

First Draft: story outlining template meant to help with planning your next big writing project (@fauxriot)

The wonder/ discovery arc (@evelynmlewis)

How to structure a chapter (@theplottery)

How to pace your storytelling (@charlesoberonn)

How to write and research mental illness (@hayatheauthor)

Seven Blogs You Need To Read As An Author (@hayatheauthor)

Editing/Revising:

Eight steps in making the editing process of your book easier (@joaneunknown)

Kill Your Darlings (@tibodine)

Self editing tips (first pass) (@projecttreehouse)

Publishing:

Chill Subs: biggest database for literary magazines and small presses; track your submissions and get your writing published!

5 steps to get your novel ready to self-publish (by @nanowrimo)

Resources for finishing and publishing your novel (masterpost by @nanowrimo)

For self-publishing: this page gives you the exact pixel count of a book spine based on its page count, and/or a template you can use for the correct width/height ratio.

Software:

Scrivener: one time payment of $60 or 70€ (macOS/windows), $24 (iOS; no Euro listed for iOS); used by professionals, many tools to write and organize your novel

Bibisco: free and "pay what you want" version; multilingual, world building, character profiles, writing goals, story timeline, mind maps, notes and more templates to write a novel.

Manuskript: free open source-tool; outliner, novel assistant, distraction-free mode

Ghostwriter: a free and open alternative which has a decent interface with some interesting features, like Hemingway Mode, which disables one's backspace and delete keys, emulating a typewriter.

NaNoWriMo: an international contest to encourage writers to finish writing their novel with many events, groups for exchange with fellow writers, helpful writing advice and help for self-publishing and publishing traditionally.

Campfire Writing: website, desktop app, and mobile app, with tools built in to help manage characters, magic systems, research, etc. It has a great free option, plus monthly, annual, and lifetime purchase options. It also has built-in NaNoWriMo compatibility and a catalogue of tutorials and writing advice videos (suggestion by @harfblarf)

Websites And Writing Apps Every Author Needs In 2023 (@hayatheauthor)

Let us know in the comments if there are any links we could add to it! Reblog this post to help a fellow writer.

Support our work by buying a cup of coffee on KoFi.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

24. “I’ll sleep under the sheets, you sleep on top of them.”

“I will sleep under the sheets. You sleep on top of them.”

"What?"

"Exactly what I just said." She replies primly, smoothing the front of her jacket with both hands. Gesturing towards the bed, she repeats, "I will sleep under the sheets, and you sleep on top of them." She gives him a stiff nod, tugging at the hem of her jacket, as if to say this is the only conclusion that could be drawn about their current situation.

The knit of his eyebrows and the tightly pressed line of his mouth say he disagrees, vigorously.

"You will sleep in the bed," he replies as flatly as he could and begins to shrug out of his suit jacket. "I will sleep on the floor."

"That is not an acceptable arrangement."

He walks across the room to hang his jacket on the back of a chair. Drawing in a long breath, he turns back to her and asks, "And why might it not be an acceptable arrangement?"

"I thought this through," she replies earnestly, ignoring his expression of dubious curiosity and the drawling sarcasm with which he uttered the last few syllables of his question.

"Doubtlessly," he remarks, starting to loosen the knot of his tie.

"This room has only one bed," she begins, "and there are two of us."

Starting with first principles, it seems. He fights the urge to hurl scathing bits of sarcasm at her. Instead, he drapes his tie over his jacket and distracts himself with unbuttoning and rolling up his cuffs, letting her go on.

"The obvious answer would be to have one person sleep on the floor and the other on the bed. But . . . "

What is truly an unacceptable arrangement, he laments, is being stuck with her of all people, in this hotel room of all places, having this conversation (or whatever this is) of all things. Had she not decided to grill that poor scribe over those errors--starting after the sun had already set no less!--they would have wrapped up the onsite work with ample time to catch their train. He could have been home by now, asleep in his own bed.

"…and no one should have to asleep on a cold wooden floor, unless absolutely necessary. And in this case, it is not at all necessary, because we can simply sleep together."

He looks up at her immediately at those last words.

Face glowing red and eyes pointedly fixed on the two deflated pillows on the bed, she tries to clarify, "Sleep at the same time, in this bed, but separately, separated by the sheets." She clears her throat and crosses her arms across her chest, tapping her right index finger against her left elbow. "Of course."

"There are easier ways, you know," he quips, throwing one arm over the back of the chair.

She casts a sidelong glance at him. His grey eyes twinkling, baiting her to ask the obvious. It is her turn to sigh. With a roll of her eyes, she asks, "Easier ways for what?"

"To sleep with me," comes the reply.

Her blush spreads up to her ears, and she is seized by a sudden and nearly irrepressible urge to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face. She would never admit to anyone, and could barely admit to herself, that she had watched the way his fingers undid his tie with undue interest, that she lingered a little too long on his forearms as he rolled up his cuffs, and that for the briefest of moments she had wondered how his hands would feel on her bare skin.

"I didn't know you were interested in me that way. But all you had to do was ask, really." He spreads his upturned palms in front of him in a half-shrug.

"Look, I was just trying to be--"

"Seductive?" He interjects, arching an eyebrow at her. From the way her body quite literally scrunches up at that last jab, shoulders drawing up and into towards her ears and knuckles of both hands pale white on her elbows, he gets the sense that he might have ventured a little too far.

"Considerate," she snaps, "I was trying to be considerate. But it was obviously a mistake to think that you were deserving of any consideration. So, sleep on the floor for all I care." She turns away from him with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh no," he slaps his knees with both hands before getting up from the chair and striding over to the bed, "I think you've convinced me. I would much rather sleep in the bed than the cold wood floor. Above the sheets, of course."

She whirls on him with a scowl, lips ajar like an open door that, on second thought, she slams shut with a huff. "Fine," she relents, "do whatever you want."

And so, they spend the night sleeping at the same, in the same bed, but separately. Of course.

[babbles-and-drabbles]

"I have come a very long way," he says in a huff, throwing down a worn carry-on luggage at her feet.

She nods; he goes on. "I have gotten lost in multiple large, unbearably crowded international airports. Missed several, tightly-timed connections. Was nearly trampled trying to get on the last, very, very, very crowded passenger train into this city."

She nods again. He throws down a clear plastic bag of duty-free candy and alcohol. "I have flown through the literal planes of space-time just to be tossed around metal cans in the polluted, ghastly airspace of this Divinity-forsaken planescape."

She nods again, peering at him above her glasses and laptop.

"So that I could find the last remaining Divinity, whom my sect has worshipped in secret for nearly as long as the Known as has existed," he pauses, more for lack of breath than for dramatic pause, "so that I could beseech this last remaining Divinity to leave her self-imposed exile to come to the aid of the aforementioned secret sect before it is wiped from the plane of the Known."

She is still nodding along. He takes a long breath, "Just to find that this last Divinity, the savior of our kind on whom we had pinned all of our hopes and for whom we had sacrificed so many lives and resources to find," another breath, "refuses to come to our salvation," yet another breath, he doubles over with hands resting on both of his knees, "because she has to finish binging a show on Netflix!?"

"Yes," comes the response, quick and simple. So flat that the incredulity seems childish.

To the Divinity, the matter was settled the moment he entered her apartment. Of course she wasn't leaving until she finished all seven hundred episodes of The Simpsons. After all, American television programming was the reason why she chose this plane for her "self-imposed" (his words, not hers) exile. Why else would anyone come here?