#bookish stuffs

[sicksadlit]

I have a story idea that I am so excited about but I am too scared to start writing it because:

What if it sucks and doesn’t live up to the expectations in my head

What if that then tarnishes the idea and I fall out of love with it or forget where it was supposed to go

How on earth do people take a burning idea and then make it as good, if not better, on the page?!

[s-soulwriter]

How do we write characters authentically?

Hello, my dear writer! I assume we've all wondered at the beginning of our writing journey, "How do I find my own writing style? How do I stand out, and how do I make my characters sound authentic?" This post is dedicated precisely to the latter question. How do we write characters authentically?

Observe Different Personalities: Observe people of different age groups, from various cultural backgrounds, and with diverse life experiences. Pay attention to their language, gestures, and behaviors to develop a broad understanding of human diversity.

Take Time for Character Development: Invest time in developing your characters, including their background, motivations, goals, strengths, and weaknesses. The better you know your characters, the more authentically you can portray them.

Utilize Realistic Settings: Place your characters in realistic environments and situations that are recognizable to your readers. Describe the details of their surroundings, such as landscapes, buildings, clothing, and everyday items, to create a vibrant backdrop for your story.

Be Open to Change and Development: Allow your characters room for growth and change. People evolve over time based on their experiences and decisions. Permit your characters to learn from their mistakes, gain new insights, and undergo development.

Everyday SituationsAn additional tip is to place your character in various small situations, even if they are a fantasy figure. For instance, have your character order coffee. What happens if they encounter a ghost? What are their feelings about Christmas? Accompany them while shopping. How do they react when meeting their greatest hero? Describe everyday scenarios that aren't part of your official story but are meant for you to better understand your character.

[nerdy-cake]

JOMP book photo challenge | January 14 - so many books

Some pictures from my trip to Hay in 2022

[jasminewalkerauthor]

Tag game: The one word test

Rules: Chose one word, and only one word, that spoils your entire wip but the audience will have to read the book to find out why

my word for memoriam:

Dragon

gently tagging: @seastarblue @theunboundwriter @writingamongther0ses @psycheandthistle @blurred-honey

[theletterboxstuff]

Cafe dates where we just sit lazily and eat some delicious food while having a detailed yapping session about any and every topic there is?!??!!?! yes, A hundred times yes!!!!

[rentedvsl]

one of my biggest writing icks is when the writer spends so much time trying to communicate the plot that they forget to develop meaningful relationships between their characters. theres no improbably tender moments, no redemption for the damned, no metaphors, no laughs shared between enemies. after consuming the media you leave with a ton of information but with no affection or ability to relate. some of the moments that we feel most deeply don't affect the plot & may appear pointless. but somewhere in that seemingly familiar scene theres a piece of you - or someone that you love - being unburied for a moment to be healed.

[whumblr]

Home alone

Prev chapter: Taken- pt 1 here

-

“I know you’re awake,” Roman’s voice sounded, too close. “Why don’t you open your eyes.”

Dani shifted under the covers, nestled further in and mumbled: “Because I’d have to see things I don’t like.” It was too early to see Roman’s fucking face first thing in the morning.

Roman hummed in understanding. “Like this knife,” he said after a beat.

She didn’t move yet but her eyes shot open.

A chuckle followed. His hands were empty. Fingers laced, resting on his stomach, legs crossed, sitting in her chair at the end of her bed, crumpling up her jeans. He opened his hands, fingers still laced turning his palms up, showing he wasn’t hiding anything.

Dani groaned and rolled onto her back. Yeah, she sure was awake now.

“I brought you breakfast,” he said, noticing her side-eye towards the plate spying what he’d brought her. “I’m going to leave in a bit. Out for some business. I’ll get some groceries on the way back, anything you want?”

Yeah, a gun, but she didn’t say as much. “Chocolate,” she said instead, voice still hoarse with sleep, just to say anything really though she did crave it. And to her surprise he nodded when he got up from the chair. She’d figured she’d have to earn such things.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said in a playful tone and closed the door behind him. The key rattled against the lock, the doorknob twisted as he tested to make sure she was locked in, and his footsteps retreated down the stairs.

Dani waited under the covers until she heard the front door slam shut in a somewhat more distant part of the house, then she threw the covers aside and sat up.

She shot into her jeans, pulled on a t-shirt over her tank top and put her hair up into a neater, less bed-heady high pony tail.

And as she did, she pulled a bobby pin from her hair.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she repeated sarcastically and sat cross-legged in front of the door.

The bobby pin alone had been useless for lockpicking, she’d already found out. Days of prodding and tickling the lock with nothing to show for it. But with the combined forces of the large paperclip she had stolen from Roman’s desk – she pulled it free from the loop of the bobby pin, both hiding in her thick hair –  now there was a winning combo.

It had surprised her, actually, the first time she tried it and the lock sprang open. She’d done a small victory lap around the house, but hadn’t dared to try his office yet. She needed a plan first.

She had been waiting for Roman to leave her alone for a day and now she finally had her chance.

As she worked she nibbled on the toast he’d brought her. With the literal electric device around her ankle, she didn’t really have any hopes of getting out of the house yet, but still... If there was going to be an opportunity, say, she found the remote for the blasted thing, she’d be out of here in no time. And judging by the view from the library, she would have a long forest trek ahead of her, civilization miles away.

The lock clicked and she almost literally inhaled the last piece of bread dangling between her teeth, sucking it into her mouth, chewing vigorously as she pushed the door open in triumph.

She sprang to her feet, out the door, leaned over the banister to look down into the main hall to make sure Roman wasn’t glaring up at her, silently ordering her to go back into her room. But the house was silent. And she had it all to herself. She dipped back into the room for a minute, munching down the rest of her breakfast, quickly washing it down with the orange juice he brought.

Back on the landing she had a range of options.

Oh, how she wanted to comb through the file cabinet in the library. Or see if his computer was protected as well as this house.

But first things first. An opportunity like this may not come again and getting out had more priority than sketchy information. If Roman kept the stupid remote in his pocket at all times, she was pretty screwed. Maybe she could cut the ankle band with a bolt cutter or look for a saw somewhere if push came to shove, but looking for the remote came with the option of rummaging through his office. Who knew what else she could find. Or maybe call for help. If there was nothing, she could always go for the library again.

The door to Roman’s office clicked open just as easily as her own door.

Everything on his desk was neatly tidied up. No files strewn around for him to get back to later, all papers and notebooks meticulously put away. He’d probably turned it into a habit now that she was often allowed to stroll around in the house, on the off chance the door was open and he wasn’t there. He just kept some books on the one corner, a desk lamp, and some office supplies, with of course a fucking hunting knife as a glorified paper knife. All electronics were turned off, laptop closed, no phone.

Maybe a burner in one of the drawers. And the remote could be hiding in there too. But as she rounded the desk, something moved.

“Well, well, w—”

“Jesus!” Dani all but screamed and literally jumped a few feet back.

The office chair on the other side of the desk slowly spun around. Roman beamed at her, legs crossed, hands in his lap, slowly twirling into view, looking like a fucking B-movie villain.

Dani huffed out an indignant scoff, her heart still in her throat from the unexpected twist.

“Figured you’d come here,” Roman said, pushing his fingertips together, leering at her like she was prey caught in a trap.

She fought the impulse to just bolt. She wouldn’t get far anyway. And the glint of the knife on the desk drew her attention.

“How did you know?” she said after a long exhale to steady her nerves, and she took a step towards the desk.

“Motion sensor camera’s. Your first escapade didn’t go unnoticed. Wanna see?” He opened his laptop, tapped it back to life and turned the monitor towards her, showing a notification of ‘motion detected’ and a still of her sneaking over the landing like a thief in the night. “I knew you’d take the first opportunity to try again. But you couldn’t just leave the house.” He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the little remote. “You’d need this.”

Her expression soured. Of course he kept it on him. Still, kind of him to show her that. And to her, his words couldn’t sound more like an unsaid ‘you’ll get that remote over my dead body’ and she’d gladly oblige.

“Yes, I do.”

She lunged forward. Her hand closed around the handle of the knife, but the brief sense of victory was squashed when his hand immediately clamped around her wrist and pressed it into the wood. She glared up. He smiled back. She pulled at the grip but he only replied by squeezing her wrist harder. And harder. Until she yelped in pain, but she didn’t let go yet. Only when he pulled her wrist up and slammed her fist into the desk, once, twice, the knife slipped from her hand.

“Thank you.” Roman casually took it from her. Twirled it in his hand into a backhanded grip.

The twirl had effect, it caught her full attention and she was sure he was about to drive the blade into her fist. But instead, a hand slithered to her neck, his grip turned bruising, and all of a sudden forced her forward and he slammed her face-down into the desk.

Her head exploded in pain. Her vision went white. And her body went limp.

Muscles turned to strings of goo and she slowly sank to her knees, sliding from the desk to the floor.

Roman let her. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a coil of thin silver wire.

As she was still trying to expel the tiny flashes in her vision, Roman took the opportunity, ripping her hand away from her brow, pressed her wrists together, and he looped the wire several times around her wrists.

She hissed when the razor sharp wire immediately snagged against her skin and her light struggle only made it dig in deeper. A drop of blood already welled up.

“Don’t fight it now, dear. You’d just cut off your own hands.” He tied the end on the whirl of silver in-between her wrists and lightly tugged at it, making sure it held and pulled at it to get her to get up. “Now come along.”

She had no choice but to let him drag her along to the basement.

He deposited her to the floor, right under a pair of chains dangling from the ceiling.

Her stomach churned when she looked up, a foreboding sensation tingling all over her body, freezing her muscles and she didn’t dare even get up.

Lighter metal jingled and Roman advanced on her, a pair of handcuffs in his hand. He cuffed it to the wire around her wrists, pulled her arms up and attached the other end to the chain dangling above her.

Again she hissed, the wire pulling at her skin, tightening around her wrists. She aimed a glare at Roman but he already walked away from her. He stopped near one of the support beams, slowly unrolled the rope looped around the hook there. Dani followed the rope with her eyes, over the ceiling beams, tied to a metal bolt, linking it with those chains right above her—

“No…”

She scrambled to get her feet under her. Just in time as Roman pulled hard at the rope. It yanked mercilessly against the chains, against the cuffs, against her skin and she couldn’t help a cry of pain as it pulled her faster to her feet.

He stopped when she was on tip-toes, struggling to keep balance. Then he firmly grasped the rope, braced himself, looked her straight in the eyes, and gave a final heave.

Her feet left the ground and she kicked out in panic, only making things worse. The wire dug into her skin and she cried out in surprise. “No. No! Let me down!”

“Very well.”

The tips of her toes brushed over the floor again and she breathed a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, he didn’t lower her any further.

She tapped a few tiny steps back and forth. With her arms in the air, though nowhere as graceful, she almost looked like a ballerina. She nearly twirled on the spot and only managed to prevent doing so by pulling hard against the rope. She grit her teeth, lost and let out a whine as her head fell back. It worked though. It hurt, but it worked. She managed to get back into position, maintaining her balance and lessening the strain against her wrists and she stood stock still on tip-toes.

Roman simply watched her strain, nodded in approval and looped the rope back against the hook. It mercilessly kept her up. He walked back towards her, stopped right in front of her.

Helpless, she had to allow him into her bubble. Couldn’t fight or flinch back, couldn’t buck against him to get him to back the fuck off. The only thing she could do was glare at him, but with her trembling like a leaf – and she was sure he could fucking feel it so close as he was – and her face twisted in a grimace, the glare surely looked more like a plea of mercy.

Without a word he reached up, lightly closed his hands around her forearms and slowly stroked down the length of her arms, tenderly, his eyes not leaving hers. His hands came to a rest on her shoulders, gave a small reassuring squeeze, pressed down for a bit just to see her wince, and then he finally stepped back.

He looked at his fingers, hummed, and wiped the streak of blood off on her shirt. His hand dipped down, stroked her hip, and slipped into her pocket. He fished out the bobby pin and paper clip. “I knew I didn’t lose this,” he murmured and put it in his own pocket, backing away towards the stairs.

“Now, then. This time I am going for some groceries. It might take a while.” He stopped near the stairs, hand on the railing, turned towards her with a smile, and again said in an even more patronizing voice: “Don’t go anywhere.”

-

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpy-daydreams

@whumpyourdamnpears @auroragehenna @alsolucakairomi @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumppmuhw

@untethered-symphony @withdrawingramen @theforeverdyingperson @treasureguardingdragon @theorangestofjuices

[skijumpingf1]

I am obsessed with maxton hall. Like it was soooo good. My expectations were pretty low (since German book adaptation usually suck) but I am blown away

[sanelyinsanemiss]

When someone says:

"Jo maza talab mein hai woh haasil mein kaha"

And I wrote :

"Ye jo mujhe pane ki talab haina tumhari, mujhe pa kar tum badal jaoge"

[literatureaesthetic]

why is bookstagram the most uninspiring place on the internet

[sicksadlit]

Sometimes I think writers block isn’t real, and what we’re actually experiencing is a fear of inadequacy. What if we write and it’s bad? Or terrible? And no one reads it or cares? The reality of that is too awful to confront because the act of writing is like bleeding out onto the page so if we put ourselves through the pain of bloodletting and it’s all for nothing… what does that mean for us? What are we left with? So instead we’re are paralysed into inaction because not writing is safer than writing and risking our whole sense of self.

[writersushiii]

oh to be snug in the pages of a book, a cup of coffee brewing atop the wood of a sunlit table

[nerdy-cake]

JOMP October book photo challenge | Day 17 - favorite library

Austrian National Library in Vienna

[jasminewalkerauthor]

To be a writer is to randomly find quotes that hit hard in your notes app and be incredibly confused what the context was or if it was intended for a project because wtf is this

[troythecatfish]

[bibisbooktalk]

Being a writer and not knowing what to write or where to start sucks. I want to make a living out of writing. It's been my dream since I was a child to become a published author. My style and writing preferences have changed through the years. I used to write more than I do now. I barely even open a book to read anymore.

I'm never happy about any ideas I get, never satisfied with anything I come up with, and I always end up stuck somewhere in the plotting stage. I wrote fanfictions from 2020 to 2022. I stopped when I found out all of my stories had been re-published in different fanfiction websites without my consent.

That didn't stear my dream, though, didn't change what I wanted. It encouraged me to start working more on my original work rather than fanfiction. However, my writing hasn't come smoothly since my days as a fanfic writer. My ideas were more frequent then, and I would spend hours and sleepless nights writing. Now I'm stuck staring at a blank page, trying to figure out what I want to achieve as a writer. Do I want to write fantasy or romance, YA or adult fiction. Do I want to make vampire novels my trademark or do I want to write fae romance.

How do I write about what I don't know? I lack a community where I can talk about my work, yet I am also afraid to share my ideas and find myself betrayed. Writing is more than just words on paper, yet writing has become meaningless words to me.

I'm pointlessly attempting to string sentences together, to create something worth it, something good, something groundbreaking, yet the words don't come, and nothing seems special enough or interesting enough. First drafts aren't meant to be good, but I feel like I'm running out of time. I can't even write a prologue.

"Start in the middle.", "Start with the action." But nothing comes to me. It is frustrating to be a writer and have no creativity at all. I've been imprisoned in this "writer's block" since 2022. So, what do I do? How do I figure out my story? How do I take control of the narrative? How can I love writing the way I used to again?

Novel writing will never stop being my dream, and I refuse to give up even through this endless fog. However, it doesn't stop me from wondering if I'm wasting my time. If writing was just once a brief hyperfixation—a dream never meant to be.