#this has been sitting in my drafts since november. i think im ready to let this one into the world

[adulthooliganism]

yea i gotta go undercovers . for this mission. *gets just so so cozy in bed*

[the-barn-rat]

IB 1. Dianora Brixie, Sk.

SUP FOLKS i’ve decided im literally going to just post monster hunters (working title Iron Bound) as i fucking write it?? because 1. i really like hearing what people think about what’s happening/what’s going to happen as i go, which ties into 2. I Want The Validation

this is literally a fresh completely unedited draft, so there will be a lot of changes & additions, especially to descriptive setting prose. that being said, if there’s specific shit you want to hear more about immediately, lemme know and i’ll make sure it goes in draft 2

These posts will all be tagged “monster hunters draft” in case you want to track them or don’t want to see them!

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO: that monster hunters shit i’ve been planning since like november

.....

Sigi is the only one who can tell that she is distracted. They are twins, and so they know each other’s tics and tells, but it still feels like a weakness. He eyes her across the table, squints and tilts his head—dark and owlish like hers, with sharper angles—and she lets out a long breath through her nose, ignoring him. A folded-up letter sits heavy in the pocket of her waistcoat. Dia can’t think about it now.

At the centre of the cabin, the hunter kneels for preparation. She could be made of lifeless bronze but for the steady rise and fall of her breastplate. The mentor, whose virtue-name is Eager, clasps golden ornaments into her hair and onto her black horns.

There’s a murmur outside, beyond the stone walls and locked shutters. Townspeople have gathered, doubtless fascinated by the spectacle of a hunting crew. Dia ignores them in favour of the crossbow resting in front of her: she fidgets with it, checks the springs and sights and checks them again. There is nothing wrong with the crossbow, but she needs to occupy her hands.

Eager steps back, and the hunter stands. Dia never feels right sitting down when the hunter stands. The hunter is too tall, too broad, and it makes her nervous. She feels as though she must be ready to flee or hide at any moment, however futile an exercise that would be.

At least this one is Cornuta, and not one of the stranger breeds. Not Seguna with their twisted animal faces, or fish-like Pescqui with their gills. Hollow comforts. This hunter could still slaughter all of them if she chose to. If the rumours are true, she might yet choose to.

Eager produces an elegantly carved mahogany box, about the size of his own palm. He presses his thumb to the rune on its front, and it opens for its keeper. The single vial inside glows a soft, sickly yellow-green.

“In defense of the common folk, your masters,” Eager intones, “sharpen your senses and steel your mind.”

Wordlessly, the hunter takes the vial, uncaps it, and swallows its contents. If Dia were closer, she might see the hunter’s pupils shrink down to dots for a breath and then dilate until her irises are slender lilac rings. Dia prefers not to be closer until absolutely necessary.

Sigi fits a belt of flasks and tiny grenades around the hunter’s hips. Dia slides the crossbow into the hunter’s hands, checks the straps on her quivers, and backs away.

The pathfinder speaks: “It was last sighted eight miles north of town, in a valley bog between two nameless peaks. We have no expert testimony, but eyewitness accounts continue to support our initial conclusion that the creature is a green hag.”

“You hear that, Ferro?” Eager says, addressing the hunter directly. “This is a fawn’s assignment.”

The hunter nods once, terse. In theory, her kind can speak. Dia has never heard this one’s voice.

“Medic, is she sound?” Eager says.

The medic, Antare, has not risen from his seat at the table. “Do you reckon she injured herself kneeling on the floor?” he asks.

Eager reddens. His mouth twists underneath his full silver-specked beard. “The rituals are not for nothing,” he starts.

Antare sighs, but he stands. He’s the tallest and broadest of them, the only one who can look the hunter right in the eye. Dia has wondered privately if that’s why they sent him to replace the last medic. If she snaps again, he’s the only one with half a chance.

The medic stands square before the hunter. “The body is sound,” he says.

Eager says, “You haven’t…”

Antare cuts him short. “I checked her over at dawn,” he says. “She’s in excellent health. The body is sound.”

“The path is clear,” says the pathfinder, effectively delaying the inevitable argument.

“The steel will bite,” says Dia.

“The fire will burn,” says Sigi.

Eager collects himself. “Murat’s light guide you to your quarry,” he says. “In his name, Valiera’s Nezetta Six Ferro, strike true.”

The hunter gives a shallow, wordless bow from the hips, and otherwise does not respond to any of the proceedings. Eager unlatched and opens the door, and the smell of pig shit and springtime mud billow in before the hunter steps out.

The small gathered crowd flows away from her like water. They fall silent, staring up at this tamed creature of legend. She may well be the first and last they ever see; Apla is a small, unimportant farming village well-protected from most fronts of the First War. This hag is an irregularity at best.

She stands there, not looking at the people, until Antare brings the horse they bought from one of the farmers for well above its value. It looks small and scruffy beside the hunter. When she sits astride, it drops its parrot-mouthed muzzle and arches its ewe neck as though it knows that this is the most important thing it will do in its life.

A murmur starts to rise again from the farmers. Dirty-faced and small-minded, they cast wide-eyed glances at each other, up at the hunter, at the crew standing behind her. Dia knows what they will say, to each other and to Eager and to whomever else is stupid enough to stay outside the tower for longer than necessary. They will continue to say it until the hunter returns with the head of a hag.

Eager senses the shift. “My friends,” he booms, opening his arms wide. “The hunter is strong and true. She will bring your tormentor’s end.”

“We sure that ain’t a demon also?” someone says.

“Go, hunter,” Eager intones. “Win their hearts and minds with the highest gift.”

The hunter swings the horse about and kicks it into a trot, and then a gallop. None stand in her way. Dia watches horse and rider disappear up the dirt road, between the pig farms and into the encroaching woods.

Dia tunes out the villagers’ concerns as well as Eager’s responses to them. As soon as the hunter is out of sight, she turns back into the tower, giving Sigi a look on her way past. He understands and follows her up to the third level, to the bed chamber she claimed as hers.

Sigi goes to open the shutters on the single window.

“Don’t,” Dia says. “I can’t stand the fucking smell.”

Her twin shrugs. “City smells worse.”

“That’s why we don’t live in the city, either.”

Sigi smirks. “That and no other reason, right?” he says.

Normally, she would laugh. This time, she half-turns away from him and rubs at her eyes. His face falls; she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the folded-up letter.

“Courier caught me right before we boarded the Olunaria,” she says. “I forgot about it until this morning.”

When she holds it out to him, he approaches it like a skittish deer. He reads it in silence, a small frown wrinkling his brow. He does not shed a tear; neither had she. They were never close to their lord father.

“What does it mean for us?” he says carefully, once he’s through.

Dia sighs. “Hopefully, very little. We weren’t expecting an inheritance, were we?”

“No, I meant…” Sigi says. “Should we go to Brixi? Cecilia may need us.”

“Cecilia needs us as far away as possible,” Dia snorts. “If we go now, the nobility will decide that Signore Fiadri’s bastard twins have come to mine the estate.”

“Or perhaps that Signore Fiadri’s bastard twins have come to their sister’s aid in her time of mourning,” Sigi says. He is charmingly naïve, sometimes.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We can’t leave the crew now.”

He doesn’t argue. He folds the letter up and slips it back into her pocket. “I’ll be in the cellar,” he says. “Knock before you come in.”

And that’s the end of that, she supposes. They ought to write to Cecilia, eventually, but that will fall to Dia. Sigi is better at expressing emotions, but Dia knows how to avoid political misunderstandings.

There is no one here to call for wine. This little tower is barely maintained and has not hosted a hunting crew in years.

Dia goes to the pantry on the main floor, freshly stocked with bread, cheese, eggs, cured pork, and root vegetables from the local baron’s kitchen. The carrots and turnips are firm and fresh, but they’re not what she wants.

“No drink allowed in a sentinel tower,” says a voice at the door. The pathfinder leans against the frame, a performative boredom etched across his face. Every member of the crew is well-dressed and groomed, but the pathfinder’s class is still obvious to a trained eye. He wears silks, embroidery, and ennui like the wearing is sport.

He pats the limestone wall. ��These are sacred stones.”

Dia stands up straight and gives a short curtsy. It feels ridiculous when she’s wearing breeches and a waistcoat. It must look ridiculous, too, because the pathfinder gives a snort of mocking laughter.

“My lord,” Dia starts.

“We could see if Apla has a tavern,” he says. “Though they’re as like to brew pig piss into ale as grain.”

She says nothing. He looks her up and down.

“I’ve heard the Fiadri is short a patriarch,” he says. Dia feels a misplaced flare of anger at his flippancy, but then she notes the wine skin dangling from his hand. He holds it out toward her. “Lesson one of crewing: bring your own.”

Dia takes the wine skin. “Thank you, my Lord,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The pathfinder’s brow knits. He tips his head back to squint at her down his aristocratic nose. He always manages to look tired, but now the circles under his eyes are especially pronounced.  “Aren’t you highborn? You’ll take my wine, but you can’t say my name?”

Dia carefully keeps her expression neutral. “Forgive me. It’s safer to stand on ceremony.”

“Fair enough. Drink, it’s Luquian.”

She does. The wine is good: robust and sweet, blooming on her tongue for a long breath after she swallows. She tries to hand the skin back, only to have the pathfinder push it away.

“I have more,” he says. “A Kyriak dry white and a Sahnish spiced red. Both excellent.”

“Each more expensive than that farmer’s horse, I’ll wager,” Dia said, but she took another drink of the Luquian.

“A discerning Brixian palate,” says the pathfinder.

“My lord is too generous,” Dia says, to see if he insists.

“Corso,” says the pathfinder. “Valiera, if you must, though I’m about as near the Valiera seat as you are the Fiadri. If you really think about it, we’re equals.”

“You’re no bastard.”

“Neither do I hope for my brothers to die,” he said, somehow blunt and nonchalant at once. It occurs to Dia that this might be Corso Valiera’s way of offering his condolences. She won’t ask how he knew; information is a pathfinder’s currency. She takes another drink.

“Corso,” she says.

“Dianora,” he says. “There, now we can be colleagues.”

Below their feet, something rumbles like distant thunder. The pathfinder’s thick black brows climb, and Dia sighs and hands him the wineskin. “He’s the more emotional between us,” she offers, by way of explanation.

“And yet you’re the one hiding in the pantry, sharing illicit drinks with your patron’s fifth-born,” says Corso. “At least that sounded productive.”

Dia’s scalp tingles with embarrassment. “I had neither the time nor the space to bring my prototypes,” she snaps.

“Easy, there,” he says and, maintaining eye contact, takes a drink.

She realises, suddenly, that he’s still standing in the doorway, effectively blocking her path. Eager is outside with the masses. Sigi is in the cellar with his concoctions. Antare’s movements are nigh impossible to track. Corso Valiera outranks them all by far.

Dia’s heart beats rabbit-quick. Idiot. “I should go,” she says, controlling her tone. “My sister will expect a reply.”

The pathfinder hums. “Right, yes,” he says. “The worst part, this. The performance. The determination of what parts and pieces of your grief to display, to hide, to inflate for others to notice.”

He seems to turn inward, eyes distant and faded. Dia makes for the door, and the pathfinder stands up straight, blocking her path. He’s not much taller or older than her, but he’s broader and stronger. She doesn’t look him in the eye.

“Take this,” he says.

Dia blinks. The wineskin hangs between them, still mostly full. She reaches out and carefully takes it by the neck, and the pathfinder looks down at her.

“My advice, for what it’s worth, is to write at least four letters and burn the first three.”

She’s quiet and still for long enough that he notices, sighs, takes several deliberate steps backward. It’s the sudden release of tension from a spring, knocking the fear out of her lungs.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Dianora,” he says. When she looks up, he winks. “I’m shocked that you haven’t heard the rumours.”

She has, actually. She assumed they were slander. “I apologize,” she says stiffly. “I’m sure you are an honourable man. I have wronged you with groundless conjecture…”

He waves her off. “Go write your sister,” he says.

A part of her still expects that he’ll stop her as she goes by, but he doesn’t, and she’s left to feel childish and strangely dirty as she half-jogs up to her chamber. She hates it. It’s not Corso Valiera’s fault, really. He gave up a dangerous truth to calm her. Dia wondered, once a heavy door was closed and locked behind her, if he somehow knew or sensed the truth about her.

She takes his advice about the letter, sort of. The first sheet of parchment is utterly wasted on failed greetings alone:

I am so sorry to have heard—

My deepest condolences, dear sister—

We have just received—

This awful spectre follows us to Apla, where—

Father’s timing is impeccable as always—

Dia takes a long pull from the wineskin, corks it, and buries her face in her hands. She might sit there for a minute or an hour, and then she burns the parchment over a candle.

Hoofbeats drum on the dirt road outside. Dia starts: that’s quick, much too quick, even for a hag. She cracks the shutters, holding her nose against the smell. The shaggy brown horse gallops home, riderless.

Dia rushes down the stairs, teetering only once with drink. Corso and Antare stand in the doorway; Eager is outside among the people, has been for hours. Dia stands between the two men, peering out, listening.

“Is it dead? Is the demon dead?”

“We’re doomed. It’ll come for us next.”

“You said the hunter would stop it!”

“It ate my goats.”

“Liar!”

Eager stands, stoic and still, with a hand on the horse’s bridle. The beast is unharmed, without a drop of blood on it that Dia can see. A man comes wading through the crowd, and Eager hands him the reins.

“She has sent the horse back,” Eager intones. “You see? She has returned him unharmed to his master. The hunter will follow in time.”

“He speaks with confidence,” Antare mutters.

“An impressive front,” Corso replies. “He’s about to piss himself, as he should be.” Both Dia and Antare shoot him a look. The pathfinder shrugs and meanders deeper into the tower, ignoring the throng outside and leaving Antare to shut the door.

“I wasn’t aware you were concerned,” says Antare.

“You didn’t see the body,” says Corso. “To be frank, we should already have a courier running back to my father.”

Dia understands, belatedly. “You think she’s gone feral. So suddenly?”

Corso levels her with a look. “You didn’t see the body,” he says again. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and leans against the table at the centre of the room. He looks exhausted. “Maybe, when this is over, we’ll all be reassigned to something normal. I’m fond of the Ottiudi strain, myself, which of course means that the Signore will give me a Seguna. What are the two of you being punished for, by the way? I never asked.”

Antare says nothing. Dia swallows. “We wanted to work a hunting crew,” she says to fill the silence. “Your brother…”

“Ah, yes, right,” says Corso. “The University man himself. I suppose it was the best he could do for a pair of bastards. Terribly sorry that you’ve stepped out into this mess, green as grass.”

Dia has read the last medic’s journals, of course. They all have, but the tension in the pathfinder’s voice is a stretched bowstring, ready to snap. Drinking wine in the pantry, Corso’s face had been a healthy, warm brown. Now, it’s gone grey.

Antare stares out the window like it holds a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Why would she run off now? She must know she’ll be hunted in turn.”

“You talk like she is a rational, thinking creature,” says Corso. “She was not thinking then, and she is not thinking now. I’ll draft a letter to my father.”

The door swings open. “You’ll do no such thing,” Eager says. “Have a little faith. She either fell off the horse or sent him back and out of danger.”

Corso presses his lips together. Dia thnks that gesture is all that keeps him from yelling at a Brother of Murat.

“You fear her,” Eager says.

“Bloody right I do,” says Corso.

“As you should,” the mentor says, nodding sagely. “As one fears the wolf, or the mountain-lion, or the summer storm. She is a force of nature. She has not lost her mind to a hag.”

Corso scoffs.

Eager presses on. “Do you remember what she was, before? The monsters she slew? She can be that again. It is our task to keep faith and to help her reclaim herself.”

The pathfinder complains, but the mentor helms the ship. They wait. Eager goes back out to the villagers after a time. Dia bangs on the cellar door and tells Sigi what’s happened now. Corso produces the Sahnish red and drinks most of it himself. Antare seems to vanish and reappear at will.

Near midnight, Corso balls up the fourth draft of his letter to the Valiera and tosses it into the hearth. Sigi reaches across the table for what’s left of the Kyriak white. Eager joins them, at last, and bolts the door behind him.

“Sleep soundly, my friends,” the mentor says. “Murat’s light will guide her home.” He flows up the stairs, calm as anything. Antare is the first to follow. Sigi goes next.

Dia meets Corso’s eye. “You saw the body,” she says.

The pathfinder’s face is lit with firelight behind and candlelight before. It flickers across his skin, casting a twisting grimace across his still features. “There was no head,” he says. Slurs, but only barely. “She had not cut it off, mind you. It was gone. It was paste on the stone. My nephew found a tooth in the garden, just last week.”

Dia nods. She sits in silence for a time, watching the fire burn. “If you’re right, then she’ll be gone soon.”

He doesn’t respond. She rises, at last, and puts herself to bed, where she stares at the ceiling until a dozen shouting voices stir her at dawn.

She staggers down the stairs just in time to see Antare shoving his way past Corso and Eager, rushing out the door with his equipment under his arm. Outside, another small throng has gathered, milling about with wordless shrieks and cries. Antare shouts, disperses them just enough for Dia to see the hunter’s body, face down in the mud.

The smell of pig shit hits her then, stained with something acrid and sharp that burns in Dia’s lungs. The hunter’s face is tipped just enough that her nose is not submerged in muck, but her eyes are shut, and they don’t flutter when Antare turns her over. The medic’s eyes bulge, and he swears.

“Clear the table,” he shouts over the din. “Clear it, there’s no time to move her!”

Antare lifts the hunter’s body, draping her across his arms like a gruesome bride, and marches through the villagers in a straight line. It’s only when he passes through the door that Dia sees the gore and sinew dropping from the empty socket of the hunter’s right shoulder.

“Alchemist!” the mentor shouts. Sigi has already recovered Antare’s equipment. He arranges knives and cloth and bottles of bubbling fluid on the table beside the filthy, prone body.

Corso mumbles. “Just let her die. Just let her die. It would be a mercy.”

Eager grips him by the shoulders and shakes, once, before turning to Dia. “Take him away, girl. You don’t need to see this.”

Dia wants to protest that she’s seen any number of surgeries and dissections. Instead, she grabs Corso by the arm, decorum be damned, and pulls him toward the stairs.

[writeinspiration]

suggestions for a young writer? im 15 and i just started seriously writing about a year ago~ since then I've written mostly poetry but I really write other stuff like short stories or plays too! but i always have trouble making my ideas ideas into something and just deciding how or what i want to write. and i get so worried that i lose motivation! i think that i first want to tackle trying to make characters/a simple short story. advice, tips, or tricks? thank youuu!

Hi! I’m glad you’re ready to get started! Beingeager about writing is the best. Writing a poem is a lot like writing a shortstory, so you’re on the right track. Good writing is precise and almost lyrical.

It can be really difficult to maintain motivation.Most people will advise you to write every day, which is good advice, but it’sjust not always feasible. The more you write, the better you will get!

Personally, titles and concepts and characters areall equally likely to get me started on a project. A cool title might pop up inmy head, and then I develop what story and characters go with it. Or I’ll havea concept that I’ll develop and label. Other times, I start with a characterand figure out who they are and what they do.

Here’s my most popular post regarding charactercreation: https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/158687382194/how-do-you-create-characters-or-do-they-come-find

Keeping motivated can be really difficult whenyou’re unsure of your capabilities as a writer. But the more you wait to putyour ideas to the page, the harder it will be to pick things back up. Onceyou’ve gone a week without writing, one more day seems like nothing. One moreweek, one more month… where does it stop?

I’ve seen people suggest leaving off in the middleof a sentence. When you do that, you are setting up for success. You alreadyknow exactly how that sentence will end and where it will lead. So once you sitdown with it again, you can hit the middle of the sentence without staring at atotally blank page.

I have a lot of different posts and tags that mayhelp you out!

Writer’s block and depression (1), and again (2), and some pick-me-ups (3)

First drafts don’t have to be good. 

Write a whole bunch of crappy sentences if that’s what it takesto get a good one.

Don’t let it get you down. Just get it done.

Your big ideas are worth pursuing.

This post in particular will likely resonate with you and how you feel right now: https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately (full text included at the very, very bottom of this post)

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Useful tags:

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/search/young– stuff relating to young writers and characters

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/search/inspiration– inspiration

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– writing prompts

Specific posts that address some of your concerns:

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/144610505447/if-you-see-a-need-fill-it– If you see a need, fill it.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/152075979524/fuckyeahyoungadultlit-tachycardiia– diversity in YA lit

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately– starting to write

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/131428782622/cliches-in-ya-romance– clichés in YA romance

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/131034862609/lizardpeopledearreader-honestly-if-stephanie– There’s always someone worse.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/104205593649/jetpack-johnny-rose-for-a-tenner-actually– Curiosity is important.

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/23740953643/setting– starting with setting

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/151665809147/learning-the-essentials-of-plotting-your-novel– plotting

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/149405245039/i-have-an-insanely-bad-time-writing-dialogue-any– dialogue

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/169191903744/behind-me-is-infinite-power-before-me-is-endless– possibilities

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/167418537238/startledoctopus-ronibravo-i-started-writing– any reason to start writing is a good reason

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/96119396642/cranky-crustaceans-pupukachoo– Pixar’s rules for storytelling

30THNOVEMBER 2013

QUOTE REBLOGGEDFROM BLOTS& PLOTS WITH 105,191 NOTES

Young writers should read books past bedtime andwrite things down in notebooks when they are supposed to be doing somethingelse.

— Lemony Snicket  (via blotsandplots)

14THDECEMBER 2012

The question for each man to settle is not what hewould do if he had means, time, influence and educational advantages; thequestion is what he will do with the things he has. The moment a young manceases to dream or to bemoan his lack of opportunities and resolutely looks hisconditions in the face, and resolves to change them, he lays the corner-stoneof a solid and honorable success.

— Hamilton Wright Mabie

7THNOVEMBER 2017

PHOTO REBLOGGEDFROM FIXYOUR WRITING HABITS WITH 2,493 NOTES

[Image transcript:The Rules of Writing

1: Write crappy first drafts.2: Words don’t bleed. Cut them.3: Write now. Edit later.4: There are NO mistakes–only creative opportunities.5. Don’t think. Just write.6: Rules? There are rules?]

Starting to write:

https://writeinspiration.tumblr.com/post/132168477614/ive-been-trying-to-write-for-years-unfortunately

deathtotheselfie asked:I’ve been trying to write for years. Unfortunately I’m very young and theschooling I’ve received on writing is nothing like I what I write about. I’monly 14 now, but little phrases and ideas bounce around in my head. Howeverwhen I write I feel like it’s not good or mature enough because of my lack ofexperience. I can’t tend to think of original plots as I’m just surrounded inother people’s work. Do you have any advice on plot development? And do youthink I should continue trying to write?

Hi! Your question makes me quite sad. If you liketo write, then you should pursue it. It’s that simple.

School doesn’t help much in terms of creativewriting. Over the summer, when I was little, my mom would make my sister and mewrite short stories. It kept me in the habit of writing even when school wasn’tin session.

(Wanna know a secret? I often got stuck halfwaythrough my story, so I’d coerce my sister into showing me hers. Then I wouldwrite the same events but in my own words. I did this for quite a while onesummer. Maybe two.)

Not only does school keep you ridiculously busy,but it also doesn’t like teaching creative stuff much either, because math andscience are deemed as more important than anything related to the arts.

All those negative voices banging around in yourhead along with all the good ideas you have? You need to learn to silence them.Those things are what you are being trained to think.

Here’s what nobody seems to know about writing:you have to start  somewhere. No one starts off as an amazing writer.

People expect writers to have this magical well ofintuition, but honestly, it just comes from practice.

You know that thing about practicing 10,000 hoursin order to become a master at something? It applies to writing, too.

Writers write.

You need to watch and write things down–what youobserve can be the basis for characters or plot or whatever. Eavesdrop on astranger’s phone conversation to get a peek into other people’s lives. Sit on abench in the mall and watch people go by.

Do you know how babies learn? They observe otherpeople doing things and then try to mimic them.

I don’t mean that fledgling writers are babies, ofcourse, but I mean that you can get your best work by reading other people’swork.

Figure out what you like to read, what you don’t liketo read. And then ask yourself WHY.

What is it about that book you hated? Was it thecharacters? The plot? The slow story-telling?

What did you love about that one book? How did itmake you feel? What parts made you feel that way?

I was in middle school when I began reading a Series of Unfortunate Events  (I’m25, for comparison’s sake). Do you know what my writing sounded like while Iwas reading those? Lemony Snicket. It wasn’t on purpose, but that’s just whathappened. (Also for comparison’s sake, I now have had a short story publishedin an actual anthology and completed a 60-page poetry collection as my creativethesis, as well as a book that I’m trying to get published.)

The more you read, the more you gain. If you readenough books, then you’ll have influences from all over that create a uniquewriter: you.

You are the sum of everything you have ever reador seen or thought about.

Yes, you’re a teenager. But that doesn’t stop youfrom observing the world and teaching yourself to understand other writers’work.

If you want to write something but are worriedthat it sounds too much like somebody else, then figure out why it sounds thatway. Is it just you that thinks it sounds that way? Or do other people tell youthat as well? Find out what it is that makes it sound like that. Is it thenarration? The plot? The themes?

Regardless of your answers, you are able to makeit unique to you.

You are a writer, and whatever you write will beyours and yours alone.

As far as plot development goes, I find thatoutlining helps. I don’t always keep to the outline, but askingyourself “Then what happens?” after each event that you write down is thebest thing you can do for yourself.

A plot is a series of events. If you know whathappens naturally after something, then you write that down. It also helps ifyou understand WHY something happens.

She goes to the mall.

Then what happens?

She ends up going home and crying in her room.

Why? What caused this? What physical actionscaused her to want to leave the mall? What mental actions occurred because ofthe physical actions?

She runs into someone she used to be best friendswith, and they get into a fight. This makes her feel disappointed in her friendbut also unsure of herself because she doesn’t know what she has done to makeher friend act that way. She places the blame on herself instead of on herformer friend. This is because she has been told growing up that everything isher fault and that her younger brother can’t do anything wrong.

See what I mean? And it’s okay to ask yourselfwhat you would do in that situation. But your characters are not you. Theyprobably won’t react like you would. And that’s okay and important.

As I told my students last year, ask yourself WHYand HOW after each sentence, after each paragraph, after each plot point, aftereach whatever. It will keep your story going until it reaches its naturalconclusion.

Okay, this ended up being way, way longer than Iintended it to be, haha. But I’m completely serious and obviously verypassionate about this. And I can say way more on the subject at the drop of ahat, so if you have any more questions, then just give me a shout. :)

Best of luck. And don’t stop writing.

I mean it. :)