#writing a story in which things go wrong

[writersbeware]

Release the Monster!

            Imagine a scene in which a frightening monster arises, eating, mauling, destroying, everything and everyone in sight. Who comes to the rescue? Does it depend upon what kind of beast? For example, if it crawls up from underground, are there special forces that arrive? But what if it’s from outer space? Who then?             Perhaps it’s not a fantastical monster but rather a…

[serpentface]

Do you conlang? I was wondering if you had naming languages (or possibly even more developed ones) for pulling the words you use. I tried to search your blog but didn't find anything, wouldn't be surprised if the feature is just busted tho. Your worldbuilding is wonderful and I particularly enjoy the anthropological and linguistic elements.

Ok the thing is I had kind of decided I was not going to do any conlanging because I don't feel like I'm equipped to do a good job of it, like was fully like "I'm just going to do JUST enough that it doesn't fail an immediate sniff test and is more thoughtful than just keysmashing and putting in vowels". And then have kinda been conlanging anyway (though not to a very deep and serious extent. I maybe have like....an above average comprehension of how language construction works via willingness to research, but that's not saying much, also I can never remember the meanings of most linguistic terms like 'frictives' or etc off the top of my head. I'm just kinda raw dogging it with a vague conceptualization of what these things mean)

I do at least have a naming language for Wardi (and more basic rules for other established languages) but the rudimentary forms of it were devised with methods much shakier and less linguistically viable than even the most basic naming language schemes, and I only went back over it LONG after I had already made a bunch of words so there's some inconsistencies with consonant presence and usage. (This can at least be justified because it IS a language that would have a lot of loanwords and would be heavily influenced by other language groups- Burri being by far the most significant, Highland-Finnic and Yuroma-Lowlands also being large contributors)

The 'method' I used was:

-Skip basic construction elements and fully move into devising necessary name words, with at least a Vibe of what consonants are going to be common and how pronunciation works -Identify some roots out of the established words and their meanings. Establish an ongoing glossary of known roots/words. -Construct new words based in root words, or as obvious extensions/variants of established words. -Get really involved in how the literal meanings of some words might not translate properly to english, mostly use this to produce a glossary of in-universe slang. -Realize that I probably should have at least some very basic internal consistency at this point. -Google search tutorials on writing a naming language. -Reverse engineer a naming language out of established words, and ascribe all remaining inconsistencies to being loanwords or just the mysteries of life or whatever.

I do at least have some strongly established pronunciation rules and a sense of broad regional dialect/accents.

-'ai' words are almost always pronounced with a long 'aye' sound.

-There is no 'Z' or 'X' sound, a Wardi speaker pronouncing 'zebra' would go for 'tsee-brah', and would attempt 'xylophone' as 'ssye-lohp-hon'

-'V' sounds are nearly absent and occur only in loanwords, and tend to be pronounced with a 'W' sound. 'Virsum' is a Highland word (pronounced 'veer-soom') denoting ancestry, a Wardi speaker would go 'weer-sum'.

-'Ch' spellings almost always imply a soft 'chuh' sound when appearing after an E, I, or O (pelatoche= pel-ah-toh-chey), but a hard 'kh' sound after an A or U (odomache= oh-doh-mah-khe). When at the start of a word, it's usually a soft 'ch' unless followed by an 'i' sound (chin (dog) is pronounced with a hard K 'khiin', cholem (salt) is pronounced with a soft Ch 'cho-lehm')

-Western Wardin has strong Burri cultural and linguistic influence, and a distinct accent- one of the most pronounced differences is use of the ñ sound in 'nn' words. The western city of Ephennos is pronounced 'ey-fey-nyos' by most residents, the southeastern city of Erubinnos is pronounced 'eh-roo-been-nos' by most residents. Palo's surname 'Apolynnon' is pronounced 'A-puh-lee-nyon' in the Burri and western Wardi dialects (which is the 'proper' pronunciation, given that it's a Kos name), but will generally be spoken as 'Ah-poh-leen-non' in the south and east.

-R's are rolled in Highland-Finnic words. Rolling R's is common in far northern rural Wardi dialects but no others. Most urban Wardi speakers consider rolling R's sort of a hick thing, and often think it sounds stupid or at least uneducated. (Brakul's name should be pronounced with a brief rolled 'r', short 'ah' and long 'uul', but is generally being pronounced by his south-southeastern compatriots with a long unrolled 'Brah' sound).

Anyway not really a sturdy construction that will hold up to the scrutiny of someone well equipped for linguistics but not pure bullshit either.

[gifti3]

ngl its kinda confusing to me that so many ppl dont understand why seven acts the way he does

[mirrortouchedsea]

dark. that was all he had ever known. cold, dark, damp. the boy shivers in the small room, painfully alone, only a book and his magic to keep him company. he tries not to use his magic very often, though. it seemed that the people above knew when he used it and they always always always refused to give him food until he “woke up” next, if they bothered to keep track of that. maybe this time he’ll learn their lesson. the boy whispers his spell, cur memini, and creates a small light in his fingers. this is the only spell he can cast safely, too small to be noticeable by the people above. he holds his hand over the fading book on the floor. the boy can’t read the letters on the page, but this book has pictures. he flips through it again, careful of the pages that were falling apart, admiring the figure in armor who always comes to rescue the figure in the tower, cut off from the world, just like him. the boy frequently dreams of a figure in armor coming to save him, despite the years he has spent alone. dark and cold and damp. 

the room the boy lives in, the only room he has memories of, is empty besides himself and the book. sometimes the people above would give him water and stale bread to eat, and then there was a cup and a dirty plate, but otherwise it was just the boy and the book. the boy knows why the people above have locked him away, they told him that he was a freak of nature, unnatural, dangerous. but the boy could only make lights in his palm, and that wasn’t very dangerous at all. he thinks to himself that the people above are the dangerous ones, locking away a child for something like this, but he can’t say that out loud. he doesn’t want to die again. 

the boy’s stomach grumbles and he curls in on himself, the light in his palm fades out. he longs to see the sun again, to play with the other children he can hear through the ceiling, to be normal. the people above must have decided to punish him again, though, as he doesn’t remember the last time he had anything to drink, to eat. his stomach would eat through his skin and he would still wake up the next day. why can’t he just die once and for all and be rid of the pain? why is the world keeping him here? why was he even born?

the boy closes his eyes, and falls asleep. maybe this time it won’t hurt so much. 

--- 

how long has he been here? the boy doesn’t keep track of time. he knows he’s died at least a dozen times, but how long does it take for a dozen lifetimes to pass? 

--- 

a clattering on the floor wakes the boy up. the people above decided he can eat today. stale bread and water again, but better than nothing to the boy. he crawls closer to it, listening to the door. it closes and the voices disappear. where was the sound of the lock? did they forget? 

the boy scarfs down his food and water before tiptoeing up the stairs. he doesn’t hear any voices, but he needs to be careful. he doesn’t remember what the above looks like, but he needs to leave. he needs to be free. 

slowly, quietly, he opens the door. it’s dark on the other side of it, but still much, much brighter than his room ever was. he closes his eyes but keeps the door open. breathe in, and out. opens his eyes again, blinking the brightness away. pushes the door further open. steps on the hard ground outside the door. he’s so close. closes the door quietly. turns around and holds his breath. where was outside? pick a direction and go. his legs hurt. turn the corner, listen for voices. voices are dangerous, get away from the voices. whisper his spell, create a small light. keep moving keep moving keep moving. window ahead. break it? open it? is he strong enough? lift the window up. too weak. voices coming. hurry hurry hurry must get out now. whisper spell again, hand on window. break the glass and jump through it. cuts on feet cuts on legs deal with that later. voices getting louder voices shouting. run run RUN. 

the boy runs away from the building, away from his room. freedom is so close. first get to the trees, then… he hasn’t thought that far, but he will find a way. gunshots from the house. he runs faster, must get to the trees, must hide, must be free. cur memini, he whispers again, crossing into the forest. his spell can make lights and now break windows, but he needs it to protect him at this moment. run run run until the voices are quiet again. his legs are giving out, but he needs to run. he can’t die now or they’ll find him. keep running. bare feet on sticks and stones and sharp things, everything hurts but he can’t stop. he keeps running until the sun comes up. his heart beats out of his chest. 

--- 

when he wakes up he doesn’t know how much time has passed. his heart beats fast and he sits up. did they find him? he looks around. trees, rocks, a gurgling stream. he’s free. he’s free. he sighs and lays back down. how far did he run? he needs to go further. away from other people, away from anyone who might lock him up again. he sits up again and forces himself to stand and walk towards the sound of the stream. he can start there. water is important, and he might be able to get food from the little stream too. 

his first drink of the stream water is icy cold, quenching his lifelong thirst in just a few swallows. he washes his face with it, removing years of sweat and grime. he wants to sit by the stream forever if only he could, but the people will find him eventually if he doesn’t keep moving. but he allows himself a few minutes to bathe in the water, savoring the feeling of water on his skin. his stomach still growls, wanting something more filling than the freezing water of the stream, but that would have to wait. he needs to get his bearings. 

the light of the outside world is almost blinding, he realizes. the sun and the snow made it almost impossible to see anything. he should get up above the trees. can he even do that? cur memini, he says, trying to get his voice to be louder than a whisper. his feet float a few inches above the ground. he closes his eyes and says his spell again with more conviction. Cur Memini. he feels himself shooting into the air before he opens his eyes. he can see the forest stretch out for miles around him. trees covered in snow in every direction. if the old house is behind him, he should fly straight ahead, towards the forests on the mountains. tentatively, he leans forward and focuses his magic on keeping himself afloat. 

it doesn’t take much to exhaust what little magic he has, but he’s put more distance between himself and the old house and the people above now. he should be safe to rest, truly rest. but first he should find something to eat. is there anything to eat out here? something in his head tells him to look a little closer to the ground. to his left. there’s a bush full of berries. he’s never had anything but stale bread, and doesn’t know what to expect as he crushes one with his teeth. 

the sensation overtakes him for a brief moment. the berry is sweet, yet tart, and delicious. it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten and he thanks the little voice in his head for the information as he picks several more berries from the bush. the juice runs down his chin and makes him sticky, but it feels good. he feels truly alive for the first time. 

once he’s finished picking the bush clean of its fruits, he needs to find a place to rest, to stay warm. he’s shivering in the intense cold of the north, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. the room was never very warm after all. he listens to the little voices calling out to him, guiding him towards a small cave, instructing him on how to make a small fire to warm himself up. a small rabbit brushes against his leg and he swears one of the voices is coming from it. and with the fire going, he thanks the rabbit before it hops away back into the snow. he would be roasting that same rabbit over the fire a few months later. 

the boy can’t stay in the cave forever though. as days turn to weeks turn to months, he worries that the people above are getting closer to him. they’ll put him back in that cold, dark, damp room again. he needs to keep moving. he has been practicing his magic, casting stronger spells, and he needs to be ready to fly. it's been long enough. cur memini he says holding his hand out. a rough stick with twigs tied to the end flies into his hand. it’s a poor excuse for what he understands is a broom, but it will work. he climbs onto it and focuses. cur memini cur memini cur memini. he lifts off the ground and watches as the branches of the trees get shorter and eventually he passes above the treetops. 

he takes a moment to gather his bearings. he no longer remembers the direction the house was in, but going up is his best bet of staying away from the people above. he laughs, realizing that he is the one above them now. after a moment, he flies into the mountains. the small voices change into bigger, unfamiliar ones as he gets further into the mountain range. they tell him to hide, to stay away. he doesn’t listen. they cannot be more dangerous than the humans he is running from. 

the boy lands, still exhausted from using so much magic, but he was able to travel further this time. that has to count for something, surely. he gathers some sticks and looks for another cave to make his home in. the caves remind him too much of the room he left, so he chooses to stay close to the entrance, close to the light that reminds him he is free. the fire keeps the animals away, but the voices are curious about the new presence in their woods. they make him curious too. he should stay in the cave tonight though and regain his energy. maybe he can get some small game to fill his stomach before settling in for the night. he listens for a rabbit’s voice, or maybe a squirrel, anything that would be small enough to kill with his hands. 

at last, a small fox’s voice is heard nearby. he wonders if fox will taste different from the other game he’s eaten thus far. he lifts a hand-sized rock and slinks out of the cave towards the voice. it takes a few minutes to find the source, but the fox is curled under a tree, shivering, hungry, just like him. the boy hesitates before bludgeoning it and slinging the corpse over his shoulders. there are more foxes. he is much more important. 

the fox is only the first animal he hunts in those mountainous woods. he spends several years in that forest and eventually humans settle up there as well. the boy, or rather, the man now, has made a name for himself amongst the human populations of the north. he is no longer afraid of humans capturing him and locking him up. they are still terrified of him, but now he is in control of that terror. the hunters that left his territory alive whispered tales of the great wizard owen who inhabited the mountains and terrorized anyone who had the bad luck of running into him. 

all of this is perfectly fine with owen. eventually his reputation will grow beyond himself, encapsulating atrocities that were impossible for even someone as strong as oz to commit, but that would be a problem for future owen. for now, he is still young and living in his cave on the outskirts of a small village and scaring hunters who stray too far from their boundaries. the wolves don’t like these visitors either and gladly listen to owen’s lamentations. it keeps his hands clean of the bloodshed if he isn’t casting the spell himself. the wolves don’t care for owen either, but they respect him. and that is enough for owen. 

the first of the unwanted visitors was a young man, someone who wanted to provide for his family. he pleaded with owen and the wolves to let him go and he wouldn’t cause any problems. those pleas fell on deaf ears though as owen looked the man in the eyes. won’t your family be disappointed, he asked almost innocently, you don’t have anything to show for your efforts. the man stammered a response, they’d rather i come back alive with nothing than die trying to find food. is that so, owen reached out for the man’s chin, the distance between their faces was almost nothing. y-yes, sir, please just let me go and i won’t bother you anymore. owen grinned. oh i’m sure you won’t be causing us any trouble again. the wolves stalked out of the woods, drooling at the prospect of tearing a piece of that man for themselves. owen snapped his fingers, and they came running forward, only to stop mere inches from the now trembling man. there was a suspicious yellow stain in the snow beneath him. p-p-please sir, anything you ask, it’s yours! then make sure you tell the rest of your little village that this forest belongs to the great wizard owen. the man ran off, leaving behind a hunting rifle and a ratty sack. the rifle would be of use, but the sack became tinder for his fires. 

despite the warning from that first man, hunters continued to enter into owen’s territory. and one after the other, they ran off screaming with their tails between their legs. this should have annoyed owen, that people would ignore all of the warnings and stories that had started popping up about him, but it doesn’t. their fear feeds into his magic power, only making him stronger, and that is all fine with owen. he is no longer a weak child locked in the damp, dark basement, and he never will be again. 

[crossbackpoke-check]

philadelphia where love goes to…..be reborn?? crazy stuff happening here!!

i-

yeah you know what, that narrative makes sense, continue 🤝 philly

[writersbeware]

Pursing One’s Dreams

            When you ask a little kid what they want to be when they grow up, they might say fireman, policeman or teacher. Those are the most visible careers in a child’s eyes. As their world view expands, they will dream of being a professional athlete, actor, singer, musician, and in some cases, scientist.             Many times something happens that interferes with those dreams and the…

[lord-squiggletits]

"Rodimus is a better Prime because it didn't hurt for him to bond with the Matrix while for Optimus it did" headcanon/theory my beloathed.

One day I'm literally gonna snap and make a whole post addressing why what's wrong bc I'm tired of the inaccuracy and tired of ppl not understanding the Point TM of IDW and its version of the Matrix/Primacy and even more tired of people putting down Optimus in favor of Rodimus by essentially arguing that being unworthy means you deserve to be punished/put in pain bc you just weren't good enough to hold the Symbol of Ultimate Authority

[headfullof-ideas]

You know what I realized about writing a fic that’s in the style of ‘characters watch their own show’? Character development happening off screen. Because what the characters are watching, in my fic anyways, has already happened. They’ve been through it all already, it’s not linear to their current characterization. Which means that the characterization they may be starting to achieve while watching the show might not be the same characterization they have while in the show.

So, there’s a certain sense of whiplash for me as the writer when a character is starting to have character development via gentle parenting by Bryce or straight up getting smacked with it through being forced to acknowledge something was wrong via the ‘images’, and they start to grow as a person and start viewing things differently…and then i have to write them the way they were about a year prior, not-character developed and not starting to change their mind and starting to become almost not the same person at all

[victorluvsalice]

For those who were asking if I was ever going to do a multi-chapter Valicer fanfic -- look what lives~ Granted, only the very short prologue of the very first story is up now, but I hope to rectify that very soon. XD Hope you enjoy!

[writersbeware]

Halloween Prank

            Many comedy shows have kids running up to houses, ringing the bell, then when no one answers, throwing eggs at the door or tossing rolls of toiler paper over tree limbs.             Or there’s a home invasion, where a scary somebody, like an evil clown or a deranged murdered, sneaks up on a group watching a scary movie on television.             Some pranks are downright funny,…

[racke7]

So, I started thinking about Oripathy today. Specifically, what it might do in a crossover-setting.

Unfortunately, I feel like a lot of it is either incredibly dark and bleak, or kind of boring. With very little in the middle.

Examples:

Log Horizon

Adventurers canonically (lore) have Oripathy, and the symptoms of this actually matter for character-creation (stat-spreads, perception-checks, etc). So when the players become Adventurers, they're also stuck experiencing the body-horrors of "being blind/deaf".

Interesting? I guess? But mostly just in a horrific "wouldn't this be fucked up?"-way.

Worm:

Capes are Infected, and are needed to fight the Endbringers. So (this being Worm), they're rounded up and press-ganged into the military (where they're treated like cannon-fodder, since they're less-than-human now). The gangs are basically Reunion (recklessly lashing out with no plans), and that's the best the Infected can hope for.

Incredibly bleak. Even if the Infected are cured, the Endbringers will just murder everyone. The world is dying, try to not get fucked over early. Oof.

Zero no Tsukaima:

Oripathy being a thing in Halkeginia, would just be another aspect of culture-shock for Saito, and I don't care that much.

Saito having Oripathy and nobody in Halkegenia knowing what that means? Would likely amount to Saito hiding it away and then belatedly realizing that he doesn't have any medicine to keep the disease from advancing.

Possibly an interesting story, and Saito's personality would likely have taken a massive hit from "being an Infected", so it could be interesting to explore. But it's also not really my genre?

Naruto:

Chakra and Oripathy are linked. All ninja are treated like ticking time-bombs by civilians ("don't touch me"), but they're too powerful to stop from ruling themselves (good odds of civilian-leaders going out of their way to try and kick-start new ninja-wars to cull the ninja-population).

So... everyone gets Naruto's sad back-story of being shunned. Yay. Cool world, incredibly boring story.

Negima:

Negi's village is hit with Oripathy? It's also a plague in Mundus Magicus, and he goes off to try and find a cure? Despite not knowing any healing-magic (because he sucks at it)?

This feels like it could maybe be a cool story, but it would be so far removed from the setting that you might as well just file-off the details and publish it.

Fate Stay Night:

Oripathy being some kind of magi-curse that can infect Crests? Maybe? But with Dead Apostles around every corner, a bit of zombie-apocalypse feels kind of lame (even if magi specifically are a lot more horrified about this one, the reader has no reason to care).

Danny Phantom:

A ghost-disease that gives the GIW a "legitimate" reason to want to quarantine everyone? More likely to have atrocities get support from the government ("it's research to cure it"), but otherwise no real impact to the "common (fanfic) narrative".

One Piece:

This is basically just Law's origin-story.

Youjo Senki:

Mages are Infected, and they're forced into military-service and treated more like attack-dogs than people (possibly with actual bomb-collars included, should they try to turn on their masters). As such, Tanya is unable to preemptively volunteer, and is just "one amongst many" of the Infected child-soldiers.

Horrific, but definitely interesting. Would probably be focused more on Tanya trying to covertly unionize with her fellow Infected, even on the enemy-side ("we're the same"), against their oppressive overlords (the non-infected).

So this would basically be "how to create Reunion, in the middle of an active war-zone, with bomb-collars strapped to your neck". Which sounds... cool, but incredibly intense.

Sword Art Online:

Either making it a consequence of the NerveGear. Which would be an extra-layer of body-horror on top of everything else ("why am I blind now?") once they get out.

Or an inherent thing in the setting, with the Infected being mistreated and pushed into slums. But would probably see a lot of non-slum Infected being incredibly shut-in (can't be immediately clocked as an Infected online).

The latter would probably mean that SAO becomes a kind of haven (especially since the NerveGear interfacing directly with the brain might let them not be blind/deaf for however long they play). And then Kayaba does his thing.

(I'm guessing that there'd be a lot of push to pull the plug on the Infected, since they're occupying hospital-beds that "real people" could use.)

So this would probably be a story about players learning to see Infected as real people (for the non-Infected), and Infected bonding together (being able to meet in the open, without people realizing that they're Infected).

Again, interesting, but it feels like this is like... something someone a lot more well-versed in disabilities and discrimination than me should be writing. I wouldn't mind reading it, but I'd rather chew glass than try to write it.

[wreckedhoney]

it might be the hormones talking but i am like in some throes of discouragement

[good-wine-and-cheese]

I think I just need to accept that when I write a story it is, at minimum, going to be like 40 or 50k

[passthroughtime]

i’m starting to suspect that i just fucking suck 🤔 unsure yet though, but there are lots of signs already pointing to this... gotta mean something 🧐

[you-will-return]

---

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

ok so i was just reminded by a post by the lovely and talented @jamiesfootball that i'm technically the originator of the idea for their jamie murders zava fic, and also that in a wild case of divergent evolution, i technically *also* wrote something very very loosely based on that idea back in like september 2023. except the idea of murdering your doppelganger (figurative) got extruded through the original fic-inator and turned into murdering your doppelganger (literal), and the thing i wrote was um. this.

You wake in the morning to find a man in the corner wearing your face. He is a tall, spindling man; a man with arms that stretch the width of the room and legs that fold him against the ceiling, a man of all sinew and bone. He leers down at you with your own mouth, pokes his tongue through the gap in your teeth. You (he) fell, once, long ago when you were a child tottering on a bicycle, swerved to avoid a stone and there you went tumbling grass-stained down the hill and into the street, lay bleeding from the mouth before swerving cars. You tell him get out and your voice comes smooth from his throat, reverberates in your ears through bone instead of air. You eat and it fills his stomach. You sleep and it rests his mind.

In the evening, you tell the man who wears your face a story. He is in the chair across from you, a plaid monstrosity from the roadside. You hauled it home, twenty and sweating and broke, left scratches up the stairwell and for months your apartment crawled with bedbugs, with cockroaches, with spiders, your body freckled with bites and sores. The scars gleam silver on the man who wears your face. This is not the story you tell.

The story you tell is this: you had a job once, some years ago — five, ten, fifty, you (he) know(s) there is no use accounting for such things — out in the desert, alone with no one around for miles and for weeks you stayed there sleepless, sweating under the spotlights as the creak of industrial fans wormed down, down into your mind so that you hear it now, still, even in silence; and you tell him of heat like the open door of an oven and of calluses down to bone. You tell him of clay taking form under your hands, and the whole time you tell it he draws in on himself, great sprawling limbs retreating towards the centre mass as your voice speaks from his mouth and yours from his.

You kill him, this man who wears your face, or perhaps he kills you. You reach out and touch him and he feels real, a prickle of goosebumps beneath your palm, the scratch of scars, the smooth prickle of hair. He is not so tall, now: his eyes meet your own. You feel over the surface of him in the stark white of your kitchen and he trembles under your touch. His (your) vocal chords stretch under his pleas, his (your) tongue flexes. A step backwards; the knife rests heavy in your (his) hand. Tears pool in your eyes, carve trails over your cheeks; your voice shreds raw 'til you taste iron on your tongue. A slash of the blade, a burst of red across your front. Your voice quiets to a gurgle; your mouth falls slack, your eyes stare up sightless from the floor.

You wake in the morning to find a man in the corner wearing your face.

(it's also on ao3)