#this is so rough and unpolished but i just wanna get it posted honestly

[signoraviolettavalery]

Finally posting what is (sort of?) the next part of vampire!Bojan and hunter Jan - I'm skipping over the bits where they're brooding and missing each other after the Big Reveal. I'll post those later but for now I just want to get this posted. It rewrites a scene from an earlier part because of the way it resonates with a later scene (this is what happens when you serialize your work and post in installments as you're writing!)

this part is dark, with trigger warnings for blood and torture, so, ya know, proceed at your own risk

[Kris has noticed the bite mark on Jan’s neck and realized that Bojan fed from his neck]

“It’s fine, I can wear a sexy little scarf,” Jan says.

“that’s not the point and you know it,” Kris snaps. “We have rules for a reason.”

Bojan starts agreeing with him, he got carried away, it was irresponsible and dangerous, he shouldn’t have – but Jan won’t hear it.

“Don’t even start,” he snaps back. “I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions. I chose to trust him, and I was right.”

Kris opens his mouth to argue but Jan plows on. “And I don’t understand why you think Bojan is a ticking time bomb in the first place! He’s never lost control, never hurt anyone, never fed on anyone without permission. Ever. He’s the most disciplined person I’ve ever met, and acting like he’s a second away from killing us all the time isn’t doing anything for his self-worth!”

A heavy silence follows this.

“Jan has a point,” Nace ventures. “I know I’m the newest to all this, but I’ve never been afraid around Bojan.”

“We’re all new to this,” Kris insists. “We don’t know everything about vampires, and we’re under so much more scrutiny now with all our success. If we make a mistake it could end very badly. I just don’t want us to lose what we’ve worked for so hard, or for anything bad to happen. I’m just trying to take precautions.”

“There’s taking precautions and then there’s treating him like he’s radioactive. Maybe let’s act like we’re all adults with self-control and the ability to make our own decisions?”

“Okay. What would you suggest?”

[following this, Bojan discovers Jan is a hunter who originally came undercover to kill him, but then came to care for him. He feels betrayed, asks for space, they're both sad and brood and miss each other].

Jure gets kidnapped, and Bojan gets a very direct message: they’re hunters, and they’ll let Jure go if he surrenders himself.

Bojan doesn’t even give it a second thought. He writes a note to the group, telling them not to come looking for him but to call Jan if Jure doesn’t return safely, and he goes where he’s told.

“Do you think your friend will come? I’d wager 50-50,” one of the hunters ask Jure.

And, as if on cue. Bojan appears. “I’m here,” he says. “Let him go.”

“Guess you lost your bet,” Jure mouths off, despite the knife that’s appeared at his neck. They’re clearly not taking any chances.

“You first. You surrender peacefully and don’t try any funny business, and then we let him go.” The hunter directs this at Bojan, pressing the knife more firmly to Jure’s throat. A bead of blood appears.

“If you kill him, you lose your leverage, and I’ll tear you two to pieces,” Bojan points out. “Let him go.”

“You’re right,” one of the hunters says. “He’s no good to us dead.” He takes the knife away from Jure’s throat – Bojan breathes a sign of relief – and plunges it into his stomach instead.

Jure screams. (It’s a sound Bojan’s never heard before and never wants to again). Bojan screams too. Wants to tear them to pieces, but knows he won’t even get close. There’s two of them, and even with his superhuman abilities, he has no chance of subduing them before the knife does something a little more permanent to Jure.

“This won’t kill him immediately. He’ll bleed out slowly, but your blood can save him. You surrender peacefully and we’ll give it to him. It’s you or him. Choose.”

“I already did!” he practically shouts. “I’m here. What else do you want from me??”

The other hunter – the one who didn’t do the stabbing – throws a pair of silver handcuffs at him. “Put them on,” he says. “Behind your back.”

He knew it was too much to hope for that they’d merely kill him and get it done with. Still, he winces as he picks up the shackles. Silver burns, and though he’s wearing long sleeves, they don’t fully protect him. It’s bearable for now, like a low-level current on his skin, but it’ll get worse with time.

It’s funny how he doesn’t feel different as he manacles click shut. Yet the silver also tempers his abilities, rendering speed and strength like those of a normal human. Practically harmless, with men as trained as these.

He turns around, showing them that he hasn’t cheated, turns back.

“Come here,” they order, and he obeys. Lets himself be shoved unceremoniously to the floor and chained to a pole. Lets them rip open his button-down – the buttons go flying, and a hysterical part of him remembers ripped sleeves and delighted screams – and a knife slices open his chest. He bites back a hiss. The hunter is holding a vial, but the wound heals itself before he gets more than two drops into it. Not nearly enough.

“Hmm. I don’t think the silver tempers healing ability. Let’s try this.”

The next knife is a silver one, and Bojan grits his teeth as it slices him open and burns. This one takes longer to heal – long enough to fill the vial with precious liquid. Which they make no move to give to Jure.

“You have me, just give it to him.” He tries to sound less pleading and more forceful.

One of the hunters shrugs. “He has a few hours left. He’s here to ensure your continued cooperation. But don’t worry, we’ll give it to him before we finish you off.”

“You fuckers. He’s human. Do you get off on this or something?”

They don’t answer, just proceed to what they probably think of as their experiments, which start with a knife in his shoulder, over and over again. It heals every time, but as soon as it does, they plunge it again into the tender, perfectly healed skin until he’s screaming.

And Jure’s still here, across the room, bleeding. Bojan can hear him trying to bite back his whimpers. Wishes he could comfort him.

“He’s dying,” he tries to reason with them. “Please. Just give him my blood.”

“Cooperate, and we will.”

“I am, what else do you want – “

He’s silenced as a silver knife replaces the regular one in his shoulder and he screams again. Soon enough, he’s going to completely lose his voice from the screaming, and the part of him that’s a singer can’t help lamenting it, while the other part of him reminds him that it doesn’t matter anyway, because soon he’ll be dead.

“How’s that feel?”

He just groans.

“You agreed to cooperate. Tell me how that feels.” And he did, and Jure is behind them, lying on the ground now, curled up and whimpering and -

“Like you’re stabbing me with a poker, how do you think it feels?” he spits out. It’s too many words, what with a knife in his chest, and he groans, the room swimming. Blissfully, it’s over for now. He leans his head back and wishes desperately for it to be over. He can feel the wounds healing, slowly, but the memory of the pain stays vivid.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Begging already?” One of them sneers.

“Please. Let him go.” If only Jure is safe, this won’t have been for nothing.

They probably exchange glances – he can’t spare the effort to open his eyes and look – but he can hear footsteps, and a body being unceremoniously shoved.

“Brought you a little treat,” the hunter tells Jure. “Drink up.” The sounds of Jure drinking, presumably healing, and of course, a knife undoing Jure’s bonds.

“Go. Walk a mile west, you’ll find a road and a rest stop. And don’t you even think about playing hero. You’ve seen what we can do. You try to get back in here, we should you in the head.”

Bojan forces his eyes open and his head up.

“Go,” he tells a wide-eyed but definitely no-longer-bleeding Jure. “Leave me. Tell the others I love them, and not to play hero, okay?”

“You fucking monsters,” Jure snarls instead. “Does that look like a monster to you?”

They only shrug. “Go. Or stay, and join him where he’s going. Your choice.”

Bojan’s relieved when Jure chooses the former option. Sinks back, both relieved and resigned. There’s nothing to fight for anymore. If only they’d end it.

“Just finish it already,” he says as they pick up another knife.

“You want a quick ending? All the people you killed didn’t get one, did they? They got to die slowly, while you drained their blood. This is justice for them.”

“I’ve never killed anyone!” he protests uselessly, because clearly his stubbornness will die along with him.

It gets him a knife in the ribs. It’s silver, like a poker inside him, sheer agony, and they leave it there. The room swims again, and he wishes he’d just pass out. He hates his fucking pain tolerance.

“I think you have. Tell me how many.”

“I haven’t – I – fuck – I haven’t.”

He twists the knife and Bojan doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed of how pathetic his scream must sound, ending in a whimper.

“How many?”

“Zero, I swear, zero, I feed but I’ve never killed anybody!”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” the other one pipes up. The one with the knife doesn’t seem to agree, but he at least takes it out. His body doesn’t heal, can’t heal anymore, but at least he’s no longer on fire from the inside.

He slumps sideways and wishes he were dead.

Somewhere, an alarm blares, which doesn’t make sense.

“Someone found the perimeter,” the first hunter says, before there’s footsteps and then –

“Don’t shoot. I’m one of yours.”

Jan’s voice.

Jan. Is he, finally, fully delirious? Has the pain driven him mad? And if he’s imagining Jan, why has his mind conjured up a Jan that’s on their side? Is that what his subconscious really thinks?

There is probably clarity in death, he thinks.

“What are you doing here?” one of the hunters demands.

“Heard you were having some fun with a vampire I’d been tracking. You’re having the party without me?”

“You should’ve gotten to him first,” hunter two sneers.

“Or maybe you could let me join for the last bit of fun? This one and me have a bit of a personal history.”

Bojan doesn’t even open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see him, that beloved face looking back at him with empty eyes and a look of hatred.

Why is he surprised? Jan was a hunter above all. And yet Bojan feels his heart break a second time.

It’s a shock when he feels arms shove him upright; his eyes flutter open. And there’s Jan’s face, so dear to him, those deep, dark eyes, but they aren’t dead and full of hatred like he’d feared. They’re not full of – anything.

“You’re late to the party,” he says, bitterness coloring his voice. After everything they’d shared, he wants to throw it back in Jan’s face. “Couldn’t stomach it? Or did you just come to do the honors?” It would be poetic, after all, if Jan was the one to kill him. It’s what he’d intended to from the beginning, wasn’t it?

Jan doesn’t respond. One of his hands is on Bojan’s shoulder, holding him upright as he appears to examine his injuries, but the other is slipping something cold and metallic into his hands.

The key to his handcuffs.

Bojan’s eyes widen in surprise. Surprise that seems to make Jan’s eyes cloud with pain and confusion. Because Jan – Jan thought he’d just been playing along?

He stands, turns to the hunters. “So, what’s next on the menu?”

Bojan desperately undoes the handcuffs while Jan keeps them talking. It’s blissful relief to have the silver off. It doesn’t heal all his wounds, but it gives his body the strength to heal some. Gives his body back strength.

Jan’s eyes meet his. There’s a moment of acknowledgement.

Jan takes one hunter while Bojan lunges desperately at the other with the last of his strength. Grappling with each other, they roll to the ground and stumble back to their feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Bojan sees that Jan has dispatched his opponent quickly.

Bojan’s opponent, however, has a gun that he’s pulled out.

Beyond that, it’s a blur. He registers movement out of the corner of his eye before the gun goes off, the bang too loud in the silence. Then Jan’s body is in front of him, and he’s falling, and Bojan smells blood, and –

With his last ounce of strength, he uses the seconds Jan has bought him to tackle his opponent again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to snap his neck. Not when Jan’s life is on the line, Jan is bleeding out next to him, and Bojan has spent the last of his strength. He has this one last chance, and beyond it, neither of them will be in any state to fight back.

So, now he’s killed. Ironic, he supposes.

He makes a beeline for Jan, who is on the ground and very much bleeding from a shoulder wound. Cradles his head and mumbles nonsense, Jan’s name and “you’ll be alright, you will, why did you do that?”

“Had to – keep you safe,” Jan mumbles, head lolling.

“No no no, don’t you dare pass out on me, you’re going to be fine, you’re going to take my blood, here – “

“Can’t – need to get the bullet out first – “

“Okay, how do I – “ he looks around. This place is hardly sanitary. There’s certainly no anesthetic, no tools. If there’s an infection, can his blood heal that?

“Get me home,” Jan mumbles. “Nace – getaway car – call him.”

It turns out Jan has a phone on him, and Jan – who’s parked a mile away – is there in minutes. Bojan collapses into the backseat, holding Jan, while Nace disregards all speed limits.  

“Why did you do that?” he asks hysterically, though Jan is hardly lucid enough to give him proper answers. “I can heal. You can’t.”

“Not from a silver bullet, and he’d have aimed for the heart.”

Which means – Jan saved his life. Jan threw himself in front of a bullet without thinking, and it saved his life, and now Jan might not – might not –

“You’re going to make it,” he says firmly. “You’ll be fine, we’re almost there.”

“I know,” Jan agrees. “’s just a flesh wound.”

Nace joins in with the hysterical chuckling at that.

When they arrive, it’s Nace who picks Bojan up, carrying his injured body – so small by comparison to the bassist’s tall frame – bridal style. Jan insists he can walk, stumbles out of the car, and promptly faceplants. It’s Martin who runs forward to support him.

Martin. The last thing he’d said to Jan had been “I don’t care what you do, but bring him back.”

“He’s safe,” is all Jan says to him.

Martin hums in acknowledgement, clearly distracted. He gets Jan inside, but his first priority is Bojan, who’s been deposited on the couch and is attempting to sit up while wincing. And Martin takes it all in - the unbuttoned, bloodstained shirt, and all the still-bleeding wounds scattered around his torso, the angry burns from holy water.

“Mother of god,” he breathes. He’s on his knees, Bojan’s face cradled in his hands. “What did they do to you?”

“Don’t worry, chicks dig guys with scars.” Bojan tries to give a cheeky grin that makes Martin bite back a sob.

“Here.” He offers a wrist. “You need to heal.”

Bojan shakes his head stubbornly. “Is Jan okay? I have to make sure he’s okay.” He looks over to where Jan is being held upright by Nace, while Kris collects what they’ll need to remove the bullet. “Don’t we need anesthetic?” he asks.

Jan shakes his head. “Just give me the whiskey.”

Bojan wants to cry. “You can’t be serious, that’s not – you don’t have to be the tough guy and prove anything!”

“For fuck’s sake, can we stop talking and just get this over with,” Jan growls.

Kris – of steady guitarist fingers – does it. Jan, being a fucking hunter, makes no other sound than a valiant groan, and then passes out. Bojan tries to get up and run over to catch him, but only gets as far as attempting to stand up before he falls back down. It’s Nace who catches him instead.

“He’ll be fine,” Martin insists. “Now drink, because he won’t appreciate it if all his efforts have been for nothing.” He offers a wrist again. “Take as much as you need.”

Bojan takes it, clearly too worn out for protest, though he does add “I need more than one person can give.”

“Good think you’re surrounded by snacks,” Nace grins.

“Did you just call me a snack?” Kris demands.

“In more ways than one,” Nace replies, wiggling his eyebrows.

It’s the lighthearted banter, more than anything else, that soothes Bojan enough that he allows himself to drink.

It’s been a long time since he drank from Martin – now that he’s no longer part of the band – but the taste is familiar and soothing. It’s warmth, home, safety. He wants to drink and drink, and he’s in no state to stop himself, but thankfully Martin is, with that ever-gentle voice saying his name. It takes gargantuan effort, with his body craving the sustenance, but he drags himself away from that sweetness and warmth, only to see Martin looking shaky. It hadn’t seemed like he took that much, but in his state, his ability to judge that is off. And clearly he’s been drinking for long enough that Jan has regained consciousness in that time.

“Here,” Nace is quick to offer. “One gluten free dinner, coming right up.”

Bojan laughs weakly, but isn’t that something? He’s laughing. His friends are here, around him. He’s safe. Jan is safe. They’ll be okay. He feels that hope for the first time, as he takes the proffered wrist and feasts on gluten-free blood. He doesn’t even need Nace’s gentle encouragement to pull away. His injuries have knitted together, but his body is full of the memory of pain, and he doesn’t think that’ll go away for a while. But for now, he’s at least strong enough to walk, to take care of the biggest priority: Jan. Jan, who is still bleeding, teeth gritted, watching him feed attentively.

“Here.” He offers Jan a wrist, even though they still feel raw and he wants to wince as he bites it open, and watches as the healing blood does its work. Jan’s skin knits together perfectly.

“No sexy scar for you,” he says, and Jan chuckles.

Behind them, the others have silently and tactfully made their retreat, leaving the two of them alone for a much needed talk.

“You really thought I was with them? That I’d do that to you?” Jan asks.

“I  - “ Had he really? “I was a bit delirious by that point. Thought you were a hallucination at first, and when you played along – “ he shakes his head. “After what they did to Jure, I didn’t have a lot of trust or hope left over.”

Jan takes his hands. “I’ll never hurt you. I swear. I will always protect you.”

Bojan laughs weakly. "Taking a bullet is an overdramatic way to earn back my trust. Maybe let's not do that again?"

Jan smiles cheekily. “No promises.”

And Bojan cries. The weeks of missing Jan, Jure’s kidnapping, what the hunters did to Jure, what they did to him, almost losing Jan – it’s too much. He buries his head in Jan’s neck and sobs, and Jan holds him while he gets it all out. He soaks Jan’s bloodstained shirt with tears, but what does that matter? “I missed you so much,” he confesses between sobs.

“I missed you too,” Jan admits. “But I’m here, and you’re safe, you’re always safe with me, and I’ll never give you a reason to doubt me again.”

Bojan refuses to let Jan out of his sight that night. They’re all exhausted, worn out, and nothing seems more tempting than collapsing into bed. Bojan refuses to sleep without Jan next to him, curling around him and passing out into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Jan wakes up first. Bojan is still wrapped around him, tight as a barnacle, nose buried in his neck. A year ago, he’d have been terrified by the thought of a vampire’s fangs so close to his jugular while he was unconscious, but now, all he feels is warmth and familiarity and relief. Bojan is here, safe. He hadn’t failed.

He shifts slightly, and Bojan mumbles something in his sleep and clutches him tighter. Jan smiles.

“You’re not a monster,” he tells a sleeping Bojan. “You couldn’t be if you tried. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, and I love you.”

Bojan’s lips curve in a smile. “You love me?” he repeats.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Jan admits.

Bojan blinks his eyes open. “You don’t want me to know you love me?” he asks. He’s sleep-ruffled and gorgeous and how could Jan ever deny him anything?

“No, I do,” he admits.

It’s strange, to wake up here like this. As if they were simply lovers, nothing chasm between them. Like they did this every morning. The moment hangs heavy between them, and to lighten it, Jan asks “how do you feel?”

Bojan groans, stretching and wincing slightly. “Like I got to be a hunter pincushion a few hours ago,” he admits. Now that Bojan’s not curled around him, Jan can see what look like scars from where he’d been injured, over and over. Perhaps they’ll fade with time – or maybe there’s a limit to even vampire healing.

“In that case, can I offer you breakfast in bed?” Jan suggests, extending a wrist.

Bojan frowns. “You got shot yesterday.”

“And you fed me your blood, so I feel literally better than ever. But you could clearly use some help in that department.”

And for once, Bojan gives in without protest. Leans forward to bite, but by then Jan’s made his decision. He pulls his wrist away, and Bojan pauses, frowns in momentary confusion before he sees Jan tilt his head back, offering his neck.

The moment hangs heavy between them. The last time they’d done this, there were secrets between them. Now, Jan knows Bojan is a vampire, Bojan knows Jan a hunter who’d come here intending to kill him, and they both know Jan offers freely.

Jan can read his face like a book: the hope that this time, this is real. How badly he wants it to be real. He can see the moment when Bojan lets himself have what he wants for once.

He feels the fangs sink into his neck and closes his eyes, relaxing. The bite hurts – nothing a hunter can’t handle, of course, and certainly nothing compared to a bullet through the shoulder – but beyond that, he feels blissfully calm and safe. He likes this, trusting Bojan with his life. Being at his mercy. Bojan will know when to stop. He doesn’t have to worry about it, can just lie here, in the warmest bed he’s ever known, and let the vampire take.

People always think that when a vampire feeds, they’re unaware of how much they’re taking, consumed by the bloodlust until their victim is beyond saving. That’s not true. The blood in Jan’s body sings to him, and as he drinks, there is that savage bloodlust, yes, but he knows how much is still there, calling to him. Can feel the blood pumping through veins, the pulse growing sluggish, unconsciousness coming.

It’s an intimate thing, to feed on someone. The hunters never realize that.

Bojan takes Jan to the edge of consciousness. He can sense it, the lethargy of the limbs, the feeble protests of a human body trying to protect itself. Jan’s eyes are still closed, the hand in his hair making no move to pull him away.

If he kept going, Jan would let him. Would trust him with the point of no return.

That is a moment of revelation. That this is real.

He pulls away and Jan makes a sound of protest. His eyelids are sluggish, slow to open, as Bojan licks the last drops of blood from Jan’s neck– the wound closes neatly, leaving a day-old bite mark – and licks his lips. Jan just smiles dumbly at him.

“I’ve missed this,” he admits.

Bojan frowns.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Jan gives a small shrug. “Little bit. Worth it, though. I’ve missed being someone you trust enough to show that part of yourself to. Missed trusting you with myself in return.”

And that – that is another revelation. He’d always hated feeding on his friends, felt so guilty about it that he went too long without feeding. The fact that Jan seems to like it is almost incomprehensible to him in this moment. He’s not a burden. He’s loved, trusted – accepted for everything that he is.

“I think it’s your turn for breakfast. Get some vitamins in you after that.”

Jan makes a half-hearted protest, but Bojan’s already out of bed. “I’ll be right back,” he says, making his way to the kitchen with vampire speed.

Where he happens upon Martin, Kris, Jure, and Nace. He’s already opened the fridge and pulled out half a breakfast by the time he registers their presence.

“How are you?” Kris asks.

“Good,” he says, and feels it. Yesterday’s memories are like a fever dream, and he has no doubt they’ll come back to haunt them, but for now he’s clearly repressing them. He probably looks better, too, less pale and half-dead (ha); he can see the others take in his obviously improved appearance, the makings of breakfast he’s holding, and put two and two together.

“Ah,” Kris says. Martin just smiles.

“Yeah, I’ll just – “ Bojan gestures, then speeds out of the kitchen, blushing. Why does it feel like he’s brought a girl home without asking his roommates?

Later that day, he makes his way into the kitchen again, climbs gingerly onto a stool. It’s obvious there’s a lot to discuss, but they wait for him to broach the silence.

“I forgive him,” he says tentatively.

Predictably, Kris frowns. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re not thinking clearly – “

Bojan shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. I stopped being mad at him a long time ago. Mostly I was just grieving, because I missed him and I didn’t know if any of it had been real for him like it was for me. But now I know it was, and I don’t want to waste any more time not having him in my life.”

“Okay,” Nace agrees. “If you can trust him again, I can too.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of trusting anyone after what I’ve been through,” Jure admits softly. “But I missed him too. And I do want him back.”

“I told him to bring you home no matter what he had to do, and he did,” Martin says. “I’ve seen how happy he makes you, how it broke you when he was gone, and what he’s willing to do for you. I think you deserve someone like that in your life.”

“I know he took a bullet for you,” Kris says. “I don’t think he’d hurt you. But that’s not the same as not lying to you. In that department, as far as I’m concerned, he’s on thin ice for now.”

“That’s fair.” Jan’s voice comes from behind them. He’s appeared with catlike silence, but stands in the doorway, hunched and small. He’d clearly showered, hair damp, and is now wearing one of Bojan’s white t-shirts, which leaves the bite mark on his neck starkly visible.

Bojan can see Kris’ eyes find it, his inaudible “oh,” the shift in his expression.

“Welcome back,” Jure offers.

“It’s good to be back,” Jan says. “I missed all of you. I know I didn’t show it the right way, but you’re like family to me. And I’ll earn back your trust.”

[morgana-ren]

Do you have any tips for writing better? I’m trying to improve my fan fic I’m writing and my writing skills overall!

There’s a couple of tips I can give you! I’m not the best author or writer but there’s a couple of things I’ve noticed that help me to feel like I’m improving a little! 

The first one? Simple. Just write. Write your little fuckin’ heart out. You don’t have to post everything you work on, sometimes just small little ficlets for yourself are great. Try to write whenever you get inspiration. Just... fuckin write. Slowly, over time, you can compare your work and you’ll notice yourself getting better. Honestly 90 percent of getting good at something is just doing it. So practice. Get comfortable in your language and expand your vocabulary. Write details you hadn’t thought of before. Use new and funky words. Write bleak. Write happy. Write making love or disgusting smut. Just fuckin’ do it. 

Secondly, take a page from the greats. By the greats, no, I do not mean Shakespeare or Dostoevsky or Tolstoy. You know that fan fic author who’s shit you dig SO HARD and can’t get enough of? Well, there’s something in that writing that speaks to you, so work with it. Now don’t flat out copy them and their style, you wanna keep your creative voice. But you can learn a lot from reading fellow authors and finding something in their work that resonates with you and helps you find your own inner creativity. 

Thirdly, write what you want to write. Look, there’s nothing wrong with going outside your comfort zone and writing things that are new to you, but at the end of the day, one of the biggest ways I try to avoid burnout is by just writing things I actually wanna write. I find I rush pieces that aren’t a great muse for me, and they come out rough and unpolished and usually unpleasant to read. When you’re passionate about something, you’ll take your time and put more dedication into it. It’s always better to read something when the author went buck wild ham writing it over just trudging through it like it was a punishment. When a story gets hard to write and you sit there and blankly stare at the screen, that usually means the story isn’t hitting you anymore or it’s not what you really wanted to write or wanted it to be. When you’re writing shit you don’t care about, it’s not always going to be great. So when you can, work on things you love! 

Also don’t be afraid to seek out some of them writing blogs that give all those tips and shit. You can find legit gems in those things that give you an instaboost. That being said, some ‘popular’ advice doesn’t work well all the time. Like ‘show don’t tell’, for example. Showing implies some form of familiarity, and that’s just not always possible or the case. At the end of the day, do what feels right to you. Find the advice you wanna follow.