kate-leroi

[kate-leroi]

[kate-leroi]

Beautifully put. Long live the cup of coffee the FMC drove three miles to get or the cute little potato dog trotting along, giving one little yip of a greeting to the villain…

Working on my novel and couldn’t figure out why it felt so empty. I didn’t have any filler. It was all 100% plot. The characters only interacted when necessary. I didn’t prattle on about the scenery or how the birds sounded. I had all my fuller stuff that I loved saved in another file because I “didn’t need it”.

Y’all, I knew this existed in TV shows but it didn’t hit me until this that everything is being whittled down. We are so starving for filler that we snap up anything. I unload all mine on Tumblr or keep it in a massive Google Docs. It SUCKS.

Honestly? Death to plot necessity. Revive filler. Revive unnecessary interactions. Revive just vibing with characters sometimes. I don’t want to just consume the plot and I don’t want to just create the plot either.

[kate-leroi]

Don't abandon your writing

It’s pretty common to lose love for a project at some point during the writing process. If that happens, it’s always okay to step away.

But (and this is the important part), don’t quit! Take a break, give yourself a breather, but always remember to come back. Your story deserves to be told.

[kate-leroi]

[kate-leroi]

October Prompts 🎃

Word prompts to use for doodling or writing

ruffled hair

apple scent

full of colors

walks in the forest

autumnal

falling leaves

chestnuts

umbrellas

ravens

Oktoberfest

pumpkin spice

cornfields

black cat

spooky

first wine

flying kites

whispers

picking apples

ghosts

sweater weather

acorns

pile of leaves

harvest

fog

Jack-o-lanterns

campfire

witches

samhain

stormy days

seance

trick-or-treat

[kate-leroi]

the stages of writing:

amazing idea

doubt

despair

snacks

somehow, a finished story.

[kate-leroi]

*taps mic*

Fuck NaNoWriMo

It's always been a shit way to write a book. Slamming through fifty thousand words in a month leads to burnout and a garbage draft you'll spend more time unfucking than if you'd actually just paced yourself.

I'm proposing Novel Outline November

Start with your idea on November 1st.

Write something for your novel every day. The only unacceptable amount is 0.

Attempt to complete the plot in 50K words. Stick with that as a limiting factor so you focus on what's most important to your story.

When it's done it's done! Everyone is a winner!

You will

Develop good writing habits

Challenge yourself to write long form

Create a base that can be expanded into commercial fiction (70-100K) or genre fiction (100-110K)

Happy writing!

[kate-leroi]

I did it! Haha, I used all these prompts to write a short story! It’s weird and funky. A bit of a whodunnit mystery type thing… but it was fun to do and was so great at exercising that writing muscle. Enjoy!

“The Lemon Tree Murder”

Upon the air, a coffee smell permeated the path along the docks. I could just make out Cafe De La Rue on the horizon. The morning sky glowing like the softest cotton candy, it’s sugary pink just breaking through the foggy mornings around Laketown. Adjusting my satchel on my shoulder, I jogged a little bit faster, almost tripping on a raised piece of sidewalk concrete. I get too excited knowing that there are chocolate croissants waiting for me. They are made fresh every Monday morning!

As I made it up the three steps to the cafe door, I could hear the jukebox belting out tunes from the 1950’s. The usual vibe at the cafe along with its regular early morning customers, which includes one of the town’s surly Sheriffs. “Did you hear about the body found at the lighthouse Darlene,”Sheriff Wilkens asked gruffly to the waitress pouring his coffee. He turned slightly, glancing at me through his peripherals. “We aren't supposed to say much about it but it seemed to have happened after the bonfires last night.” Darlene, being the soft spoken sweetheart she is, gasped, a suspected reaction. Her eyes darted to all the current customers and as she set the coffee pot back on its warmer, put her hands on her hips and scolding the Sheriff, “Danggit Ned! You better shush. It’s too early to be talking about something so . . . upsetting!”

In true small town fashion, many ears perked up, including one of the dock workers. I grabbed my spot at the countertop and nodded to Darlene to let her know I was ready for my piece of heaven: a giant mug of black coffee and one of her delicious chocolate croissants. Randall, the dock worker, cleared his throat and decided to add his gossip to the fray, “Well I heard that they found Dorris Ray’s recipe book near the body. What do you make of that Sheriff?” All the curious gazes turned toward Sheriff Wilkens as a small bead of sweat ran down his temple. I could tell he was starting to squirm. I don’t think they knew much yet about what happened or if there was foul play. What a shame.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that type of information at this time,”Sheriff Wilkens tossed back the last of his coffee, slamming his mug just a little too hard onto the counter making Darlene jump. He abruptly swiveled and stood from his stool, the walkie at his hip crackling with static as a slow drawl of the dispatcher rambled out a string of instructions. He tipped his hat to Randall the dock worker all the while side-eyeing me, and then bid Darlene a curt goodbye before exiting the cafe. Several grumbles and disappointed murmurs could be heard across the span of the small dining area. Typical.

Darlene slid the mug of coffee and plated croissant in front of me, shaking her head at the strange conversation that just took place. I caught her attention as I sipped the glorious warm liquid and asked, “When will you get rid of that horrid Windmill painting?” Wanting to lighten up the mood, making a few townsfolk chuckle, I went on a little more, “I would gladly buy you something not as desperately tacky as that thing!” Darlene smirked, catching on to what I was trying to accomplish and knowing full well I was just messing with her like always. “Didn’t you say you got that disastrous painting from the gas station at Perry and Severes, when it went out of business?”

By this point, everyone was smiling or had turned back to their breakfast, hopefully letting those unseemly details about the murder float away. Darlene let out an exasperated sigh, turning to grab the coffee pot and make her rounds to refill those who had finished off their first cup. I dipped the last piece of my croissant into my steaming mug and plopped the bite into my mouth, reveling in the mixture of flavors of bitter and sweet. Much like the bouquet of wildflowers I left for my darling sister, there was a taste of remorse but also a sort of release as well.

Grabbing my mug and heading to one of the empty booths, I passed a couple talking heatedly over scrambled eggs and toast. Arguing about who’s turn it was to go to the parent teacher conference, they noticed me walking by and lowered their voices to more of a whisper. I shook my head and scooted over the squeaky old booth seat, setting my coffee down and pulling a book out of my satchel. The bookmark between the pages of my newest obsession, cave exploration, signified that I was almost done and needed to pick my next read.

The wind outside had picked up and as I walked back towards the docks, a shiver ran down my spine. Rose bushes rustled and lost delicate petals as pine cones dropped like bombs from the nearby copse of trees. A storm was heading our way and we all needed to make sure everything was in its rightful safe places. When I made it back to my houseboat, making sure to check all of my knots and anchors securing me to the launch, I headed to the kitchenette to make sure the nightlight was still charged and working.

Satisfied with my home being ready for the late fall storm, I went to sit in my mother’s old rocking chair with faded wooden slats. As I rocked back and forth, I thought fondly of the days when my sister and I came up with the bright idea to run away, due to lack of candy before dinner time mind you. It was a good enough reason. Our mother was beside herself and had Sheriff Wilkens out searching for us. He found us hitchhiking not far from the highway that lead to the docks. Needless to say, my sister and I didn’t get candy for quite some time after that.

The storm came rolling in, loud and haunting, like a specter who knows you’ve been up to no good. I tossed and turned, not able to sleep. Throwing all the covers back, I got up to the gentle swaying of my home. A dance it was partaking in, one where I wasn’t enjoying the entertaining performance. I grabbed my book and sat on the small sofa with velvety cushions the color of russet fallen leaves. I thought of the day prior, when I met my sister by the lemon tree. She was wearing that vintage dress I loved. It was mother’s and my sister Corrine knew it was the only thing I wanted when mother passed. Of course, she took it and most of our mother’s things. I let her.

Shaking my head and hearing the storm slowly traveling away from us, I closed my book and headed to bed. Tomorrow I will go for a bike ride into town to go see the new exhibit at the art museum. It was titled “Ghost Town” but I didn’t recognize the artist’s name. Someone not local I’m assuming. It will be Tuesday and on Tuesdays, we eat blackberries and cream scones at the cafe. I say cafe, but in all honesty, it's just a glorified diner.

The next morning as I slung my satchel over my shoulder, I spied the Harvest Moon just as round and pretty as you please, high in the sky. I spared a moment to adore that glorious orb in the heavens and then hopped on my bike, ready to get my day started. I love when you can see the moon so clearly during the day. The rebellion of the act seems so encouraging.

On the way to the cafe, I pass the lemon tree and immediately become tense, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I slowed to a snail's pace, swiveling my head to my surroundings and caught Sheriff Wilkens in his unit across the street. He seemed to be startled that I saw him due to the fact that he was obviously watching me.

Ding! Entering the cafe (diner), my eyes roam over all the picture frames on the far wall behind the counter. All the locals from town and a few tourists sprinkled in here and there make up most of the photographs. My eyes land on my sister’s picture for just a split second before I look away. We were such dreamers as children with glorious imaginations. And then Corrine just became sort of dull. She didn’t care to learn more about the world or travel. She stopped listening to my stories and theories. She’d go, “Layla, you’re rambling again. It’s too much and I really don’t care.” Imagine my shock the first time she said that. We were twins! We shared everything . . . and then she decided to change. Her feigning disinterest made me very upset.

“Layla, you alright,” Darlene had come around the counter and stopped right beside me, “You just stopped and looked a little pale sweety. Come and sit down, won’t you?” I shook myself slightly to resume my agenda for the day and ordered my coffee and scone. Taking a seat at the counter, I sat my satchel by my feet. Randall, the dock worker, was two stools down from me, peering over his cup in my direction. I nodded a silent greeting and he quickly looked away.

A few minutes later, coffee gone and second scone ordered, Darlene came by to refill my cup. “Have you talked to your sister at all today? She was supposed to stop by and drop off the flower garland for the little girl in Jamie’s wedding this coming weekend,” she paused and waited for my answer. I shrugged my shoulders, “I haven’t seen her in a day or so. Guess she’s been busy at the flower shop. Isn’t little Carter supposed to be the ring bearer?” I turn to Randall, raising an eyebrow because that’s his nephew. He sputters and chokes a little on his coffee, “I … uh … yeah, that's what he’s doing. Yes, Yes, Carter is in the wedding. Uh here ya go Darlene,” he throws a few bills on the table and leaves, oddly in a hurry. I don’t like how nervous he seems around me. I might have to remedy that later on this evening.

I head out, sticking to my plan to visit the art museum’s newest exhibit. Deciding to skip lunch, I go read under the lemon tree until just about dusk. At that point, I know I need to head back home, so I hop on my bike and wait to cross the street. I feel a presence behind me and see Randall talking to Sheriff Wilkens by his unit that’s parked a block down. A car suddenly beeped its horn at me, signifying the color change at the light and I realized I had started rolling without paying any attention. Just about to hit their bumper, I winced and mouthed an apology, pedaling towards the docks to get back home.

That night, after I had washed the day off my skin, I slipped on a nightgown Corrine had taken from mother. I finally had enough and took back some things that I knew my mother would want me to have. Suddenly, three hard knocks came from my side entrance to the houseboat. Who in the world would be at my home at this hour? I don’t normally hold company at 8 o’clock at night. “Layla, open up. It’s Sheriff Wilkens,” his harsh tone seemed set on edge.

Walking to the door, I opened it to see what all the fuss was about. The Sheriff glanced quickly at my hands and then behind me. I turned to look too but was bemused as to what he was looking for. “What can I help you with Sheriff Wilkens,” I eyed him curiously, knowing full well what was coming, “It’s awfully late to be banging on my door like you did.” He puffed his chest out and straightened his spine, like he could intimidate me. “Layla, the body found at the Lighthouse was your sister. You are under arrest for the murder of Corrine Samuels. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.” I just smiled as he rambled on. He was nervous. I grinned even wider. I knew it was over. The lemon tree told my secret. Trees never lie, humans do.

September Prompts 🌻

Word prompts to use for doodling or writing

coffee smell

horizon

foggy mornings

juke box

lighthouse

bonfire

recipe book

windmill

gas station

wildflowers

bookmark

cave explorations

rosebushes

pine cones

nightlight

rocking chair

hitchhiking

lemon tree

vintage dress

bike ride

art museum

ghost town

blackberries

harvest moon

picture frames

dreamers

flower garland

ring bearer

color change

nightgown

[kate-leroi]

How to Create A Villain

The best villains? They don’t even see themselves as the bad guys. They’re 100% convinced that what they’re doing is right, even if it’s messed up. Maybe they’re trying to “save the world” by doing something super questionable, or they think enforcing strict rules is the only way to keep society in check. They truly believe they’re the hero of their own story, which makes them way more interesting and real.

And Yeah, your villain might want power, but the real question is: Why? Were they humiliated in the past and now want control? Did they grow up powerless and now crave it to avoid being vulnerable again? When you dig into their backstory and show us why they’re doing horrible things, it makes them a lot more relatable—even if they’re totally wrong.

Flat, one-note villains are boring. If your antagonist is going to stick with people, they need depth. Show us what’s going on under the surface. Maybe they lie awake at night, doubting their choices, or they’re still haunted by a massive failure that’s pushing them toward their goal. A villain with personal struggles and vulnerabilities feels way more human and way harder to fully

A great Villain doesn’t just fight the hero, they reflect them. They might have totally different goals, but at their core, they share similar traits, maybe ambition, stubbornness, or a tragic backstory. When the hero looks at the villain, they should see a bit of themselves, and that’s what makes the conflict between them so intense.

When the villain finally goes down, it should feel big. Their defeat shouldn’t just be a fight, it should hit them emotionally. Ideally, their downfall comes from their own flaws, maybe they got too arrogant or made a mistake because of their obsessive goal. The best villain defeats leave the audience feeling a little sad or conflicted, not just happy for the hero’s win.

[kate-leroi]

I recently saw a post that said something like this, “Researching for your story/novel is like a kid looking up stuff on Google…” and it made me giggle.

Some of my last searches were questions like “How many people would have to be left on earth to repopulate it?” and “Would Cicadas survive an apocalypse?” and “What sort of Vulture lore is there in the world?”

What is in your search history for your writing project?

[kate-leroi]

[kate-leroi]

[kate-leroi]

Indeed, lots of thoughts… no writing.

I would like to announce

That I got no writing done yesterday

BUT

I thought about writing.

*round of applause*

[kate-leroi]

My current position, prone and lacking … been a bit stressed out lately so all my characters are quiet.

writer’s block isn’t just “oh no I can’t think of anything.” it’s “I’ve thought of too many things and now all my brain cells are just… laying down in defeat.”

[kate-leroi]

I definitely fall into the gremlin-like writer category and I know it. Gremlin writers unite!

[kate-leroi]

Fascinating!!

New map!

This is a section of laith’emeris, a new mage city I am building. Hope you like it <

[kate-leroi]

Uncommon villain motivations

Just have some fun with them

—Protection of a loved one, because the hero’s actively pursuing something that would kill the loved one

—They represent a part of nature (illness, natural disasters, fungi, etc)

—They’re in pursuit of knowledge

—They don’t want to be forgotten. Easier to go down as a horrible person rather than a good person to them.

—Pursuit of something that can save themselves (ex: a cure to an illness)

—To make a statement about the current political/religious/community climate

—Forced to always do the exact opposite of the hero. They’re their shadow, and when the hero saves, the villain kills. You could make them a doppelgänger, or a literal dark reflection of the hero. (Okay I’m kinda biased I really like this one. If you’ve got any ideas for it please please let me know)

—They’re forced too, not by mind control or anything, but through their own will. Arguably that’s worse.

—To make change in whatever way they can

—They’re trying to rebuild whatever (or whoever) they lost