Writing Discussion II

[USS Monitor]

Don't worry. You can just claim you're following this advice instead:

"If you are going to write, say, fantasy - stop reading fantasy. You've already read too much. Read other things; read westerns, read history, read anything that seems interesting, because if you only read fantasy and then you start to write fantasy, all you're going to do is recycle the same old stuff and move it around a bit. The next thing you know you've got a dark lord and there is no help for you."

-Terry Pratchett

I don't think he was necessarily right that you shouldn't read in your genre, but it's not like other things you read aren't transferable. Apart from obvious stuff like dialogue/description/pacing etc, reading romance will help you write a romance sub-plot in any other genre, reading history will help with world-building in sci-fi and fantasy, reading War and Peace will help you write battle scenes, stuff with dancing, and long rants about foreigners that you hate.

Thanks! I want to write Bangsian fantasy, though it probably wouldn't be truly Bangsian since I don't plan to have historical figures occur in my story.

I have considered reading romance novels to get a feel for how to write a romantic subplot, but I feel like there is a stigma attached to males who read romance novels. I've only read one as a class assignment. I did see the movies for Pride and Prejudice and Gone With the Wind, but movies aren't the same thing as books.

If you want to read them and it's only social stigma stopping you, just read them in the privacy of your home. It's what I did with Mein Kampf until I got bored with it and stopped reading.

[Zeinbrad]

Wrote a short story after watching some clips of No Country for Old Men.

Silent Night (title pending)

His pen flowed freely on a stark white paper, a furnished lamp giving his room a dark orange hue. Leaning back to his oak chair, the name Charles Marson, stenciled into its dark brown arms he took a sip of coffee. The light vanilla taste enlightening his tongue and he let a short satisfied sigh exiting his lips. A soft yet loud thump followed by a short cry caused him to pause mid-sip. Eying the door, he placed his cup down softly.

Another thump and cry followed soon after, causing his hand too subconsciously run through his short brown hair. The air began to feel cold and a feeling of great dread washed through him. He stared at the door, every second feeling like minutes, before he heard a something cutting through the air. Another cry came, this time drawn out and slowly fading away.

He practically jumped out of his chair, hastily locking his door. Sweat running down his pores; he made his way to a phone frantically dialing the numbers.

A metallic hiss caused to pause, his head turning to the door. After what seemed like an hour, it began to slowly open. At first all he could see was a black silencer-short and stubby-followed by the side of a carbine. But as the door opened further, the weapons user appeared from the darkness.

It was a woman, there seemed to have blood on her face but her light red skin made it difficult to tell. She had a wide smile on her face, with bright teeth that almost overpowered her black shoulder-length hair.

“Good day” She said, her voice was pleasing on the ears, yet felt cold. Slowly nodding, Charles slowly moved his hands from his phone, keeping them up.

The woman chuckled, grabbing a chair from the corner, through keeping her weapon pointed at him. She dragged it to the center of the five by five rooms and sat down, crossing her legs.

“Do you mind being a dear and handing me that coffee?” She asked her smile widening. Hesitant, Charles slowly reached for the cup that still sat on his nightstand.

“Quickly now”

Swallowing, he handed the cap to her. Grabbing it a gloved hand, she nodded “Thank you” and then took a sip. She let out a surprised hum, apparently enjoying it.

“Are…are you….” Charles began to mumble before the phone rang, causing him to jump. The woman stared at the phone with an annoyed looking. Before looking at Charles with a warm smile her blues eye almost innocent.

“Answer the phone, tell them that you can’t come tomorrow-that your cancer has relapsed and that the doctor recommends you stay home until further notice”

Raising an eyebrow at her, Charles stared at her. The ring of the phone vibrated through the room, as her smile slowly faded.

“I wasn’t asking”

His soared to the phone, answering it just before the ringing died down. He took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off his assassin.

“Hello? Karen….oh….I uh….can’t” He looked towards her for either guidance or out of fear She simply nodded, smiling all the while and taking sips from her coffee.

“Yeah uh…the doctor said that the cancer….it came back….no I’ll be fine just have to stay a home a few days…..love you” He put the phone back into its receiver with a click, a nervous laughter escaping.

“Good job” The woman smiled, a smug aura emitting off her.

“You’re not….you’re not going to kill me…..right?” Charles said in an almost unintelligible mummer. The women took a long sip, going “ah” as she let the flavor set in. She then reached into her pocket with one hand, giving Charles a thing grey slip, before going back to drinking her coffee.

“By Imperial Decree Charles Marson, Director of Security for the Republic Research Bureau is to be….to be….”


“Killed” She finished, examine her cup. “This coffee isn’t half bad. What brand is it?” She asked, chuckling as Charles shifted his weight, took a moment to eye the clock.
11:30 PM

“It’s….it’s my mother’s secret receipt. She has a farm on….on Alldra” He finally responded. The women nodded, throwing the cup behind her.

“Hmm….perhaps I’ll visit her after our little chat. Share receipts, talk about our husbands-Women talk” She mused, staring back at Charles.

“Of course I’m not here for that.” She licked her black lips, reaching into her pocket again, this time procuring a sleek, streamlined datapad. She handed it to Charles, who reluctantly too it.

“Type the codes, security procedures, everything into that-and I will let you live”

Charles shot the women a look, a mixture of shock and confusion in his expression.

“What? It won’t the first nor the last time I circumvent orders. I like you Charles, you have a…. strength to you.” Her smile began less sinister and more….caring. It seemed as if she was now concerned.

Saying nothing, Charles began typing away, causing the women to nod and mouth thank you. He seemed less nervous, confident now. It took him only moments to finish.

“Here’s everything. I….I know a person that can get me off world, change my face and my name I…how do you plan on explaining my disappearance. I mean a body double is”

The women shushed him; a finger placed her mouth before returning to her weapon. She smiled last time.

“Simple”. Three thumps cracked through the air as Charles jerked, blood beginning to cover his white shirt. He was dead in an instant. Letting out a chuckle, the women stood up, pacing over to the man, letting two more shots sail into his chest. Checking his pulse, she then reached her pocket one last time and brought a metallic object, similar to epipen.

Placing it on his neck, she pressed button. A red line began to fill a white space in the middle of the tube, before filling up and turning into a bright green. She put away, looking around something.

She smiled as spotted an unlit candle. Apparently the late Charles was a romantic. Lighting it, she let it burn for a moment, admiring the flame before pushing the candle of its table. As the room began to burn around her, she paced out, humming a jaunty tune.

[Trotskylvania]

I started writing a sci-fi erotica story on a dare. It has been fun so far.

[Nordengrund]

I am taking English in college and we are studying Edgar Allan Poe.

I find him to be very interesting. We write what we know, and Poe was certainly no stranger to death, alcoholism, or the dark side of humanity. We can see these traits recur in various stories like the Cask of Amontillado or the Mask of the Red Death.

What got me curious is that he is an American author, but many of his stories seem to be set in Europe. While the continent is appropriate for the Gothic atmosphere, I don't think Poe had ever been to Europe. Did he research his settings? How accurate would you say are his portrayals of Europe?

[Respubliko de Libereco]

I am taking English in college and we are studying Edgar Allan Poe.

I find him to be very interesting. We write what we know, and Poe was certainly no stranger to death, alcoholism, or the dark side of humanity. We can see these traits recur in various stories like the Cask of Amontillado or the Mask of the Red Death.

What got me curious is that he is an American author, but many of his stories seem to be set in Europe. While the continent is appropriate for the Gothic atmosphere, I don't think Poe had ever been to Europe. Did he research his settings? How accurate would you say are his portrayals of Europe?

Your comment about the Gothic atmosphere is really what's important. Poe mainly cared about producing a particular emotional effect, and the content of his works was chosen in order to aid in this effect (or, at least, that's what he claims). Consider this excerpt from The Philosophy of Composition (emphasis mine):

I say to myself, in the first place, “Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?” Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can best be wrought by incident or tone — whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone — afterward looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect.

If Poe is writing about something taking place in Europe, he's not doing it because he cares about "accurate portrayals" of Europe. Rather, he's doing it because something about the setting will lend itself to the effect that he hopes to produce. Similarly, any details that he mentions will be chosen for atmospheric reasons, and not out of a desire for accuracy.

Take, for example, The Pit and the Pendulum. It takes place in Spain, not because Poe wants to describe the Spanish Inquisition, but rather because he wants to take advantage of the inquisition's infamous reputation. The story starts with the narrator's sentencing, and leverages the feelings of helplessness and apprehension that people already associate with being tried by the inquisition.

The story then goes on to describe execution/torture devices that are so strange and impractical that it would be very hard to believe that Poe considered them to be an accurate portrayal of the inquisition. That's not a problem, because the story isn't about the inquisition, but rather merely uses it.

More generally, why Europe? Well, the majority of the western literary canon (especially in Poe's time) is European, so it's not surprising that European settings tend to offer better opportunities in terms of capitalizing on connotations and symbolism that readers will already be familiar with.

[Lady Scylla]

I'm trying to write a story, but I tend to rush things along in my story. Any pointers?

Also, is it alright if I do stuff like this: She reaches for the book, "-diologue-"

Nothing wrong with faster paced stories. If you feel it's moving too fast, have a look at your tone and the scene itself. Depicting scenes can be difficult, but the best away to approach them is to point out the oddities within them. Everyone knows and understands that waves lap against a shore; but few may know that this particular beach in your scene is covered by reddish stones that look like the tops of polished heads buried in the white sand. Doing this will help draw out some of your scenes, and give them a bit more depth to slow the reader down a bit more. As far as dialogue, that is perfectly acceptable.

She reaches for the book, "I've never seen a Goldrock Atlas in such good condition."

"They're quite the rarity," he said.

"I thought most of them were destroyed during the war," she reflected, gingerly placing the book on the table again.

"Then again, I thought many things were destroyed during the war."

It isn't uncommon for dialogue not to follow each other, or finish -- such as characters ignoring questions, or the subject changing abruptly. Also, it can be frustrating to say 'she said/he said' constantly, while understandable, most people glaze over this without a second thought. Optionally, you can use a thesaurus -- think about the scene, and the character's mood, and find a synonym or word that helps strengthen this mood in their voice when they speak. You can use words such as 'frown' in dialogue, but I'd do so sparingly.

"I thought I could rely on you, James," she frowned.

OPTIONALLY

"I thought I could rely on you, James," she muttered.

OR

"I thought I could rely on you, James," she muttered, her face drooping into a frown.

There's nothing wrong with bending the rules a bit to express emotion in dialogue, as long as it makes sense. Doing such can give your writing a bit more flavour, and also help you in producing your own writing style.

"I've never seen a Goldrock Atlas in such good condition," she said, "I thought most of them were destroyed during the war."

Instead of doing the expected syntax of placing the speaker all the way at the end of the dialogue, you can break up two related thoughts she is having by placing the designator in between them, and thus it can be read as if she briefly paused before speaking again. It's a good way of getting around ellipses (...) or avoiding filling up a page with short sentences of dialogue. And on that note, sentence length itself can help both the tone and mood of your writing -- and their rules can be bent as well.

This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important.

Of course, if school has taught us anything 'Music.' isn't a sentence but such restriction is a bane to conveying meaning well in a story. I'd toss out most of the grammar lessons you've learnt and instead pick up a few books and study them incessantly. Well, really, you shouldn't toss those lessons out, but I would study other authors' writing styles. Observe their wordplay and how they form sentences, what they use to get your attention.

So when is it okay to bend such a rule? If it adds meaning to the scene. You don't want anything that detracts from your scene, and weak sentences are an awful plague to afflict your writing with. Strong, bold sentences reach out at a reader and grab them by the collar.

Which brings us back to dialogue. Break rules here, and forget about your grammar lessons since we, as everyday speakers, do not speak proper English and bastardise the language on a daily basis. So get ready to bludgeon the poor bugger even more (within reason).

If you're struggling with writing dialogue, read it aloud to yourself, or have someone read it to you. (Read the scene around it too) This is where paying attention to how people hold conversations will help you greatly. I'd recommend talking with friends, and paying close attention to how you all speak, carry thoughts, and convey meaning. Pay attention, especially, to hand gestures, facial expressions, and body language. Dialogue, I can say for a fact, can be written extremely well, but fall flat on its face because the character talking comes off as shallow or robotic. It needs personality, just like your characters, and the two help each other a lot.

And, perhaps, one of the biggest helpers to your writing is going to be yourself. Observe yourself when you speak, but also observe yourself doing other things. Writing a story is always very personal, and this is the secret to writing well. If you're not invested in it, it will most likely be bad. Characters are a part of you, even if they're a small sliver of your personality, or even based off of someone you know (Because the person you've based said character off from is one derived from your perceptions over said person). Due to this, it's difficult to write characters with any believable depth or human qualities if you, yourself, do not put depth or investment into your writing.

So, even though it's still the character speaking, it is your voice.

Finally, one of the best ways to writing third-person dialogue is to imagine it in first-person. Think of it as if you were experiencing these things, and change the first-person to third in your writing. This can help with those who struggle with inflection in their writing, and will also help give depth to your character (And more to slow the reader down).

On a closing thought, as a general address to everyone else, the biggest mistake an aspiring novelist can make is to try and write for someone. Stop. If you do this, it will most likely be bad. If you're thinking 'nobody is going to read this' -- Stop -- there are going to be people who hate what you write, or are apathetic to it. Don't worry about these people.

Write stories about subjects, concepts, and ideas that interest you. Overall, your entire story is going to be a general reflection of your voice, and if you're not invested in it, it will lack depth and fall flat. So, my advice, write for yourself. It is as much your story as it is anyone else's, and there will be people who share the same interests, and will, in fact, read your book(s).

So don't make it someone else's adventure, go on the adventure yourself.

[Lady Scylla]

I'm struggling with a work that I'm 100,000+ words and two years into that I have the overwhelming urge to scrap and start over, but I'm feeling the sunk cost fallacy hard.

I wouldn't advise scrapping it. Keep in mind, you are going to write tons -- and I mean TONS -- of rough drafts. You're also going to rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite some more. And when you think you're finished, and the writing is all nice and dandy, you're going to rewrite even more. I have rewritten the first chapter (and half of my second chapter), at the least, fifteen times now. Read it aloud and see if something's off, or rewrite the portion you got stuck on a few different ways. Finally, there's nothing wrong with excising apart of the book and building it from there -- my book is a melting-pot of the remains of several other books (ideas, really) I started writing on, one of which had nearly ten chapters. It is, quite literally, a Frankenovel.

As an additional tip. People address their books, and how to write them, in different ways. There is no right way to write a book. Some are better at free-writing, others, carefully and meticulously crafting a story, with every plot twist, every theme and character, and every nook and cranny of each and every scene as if their very lives depend on it. (JK Rowling supposedly planned out all of her books before she even started on the first one) And then there are those that like to amble their way along the line of the two.

[Conserative Morality]

I'm struggling with a work that I'm 100,000+ words and two years into that I have the overwhelming urge to scrap and start over, but I'm feeling the sunk cost fallacy hard.

I wouldn't advise scrapping it. Keep in mind, you are going to write tons -- and I mean TONS -- of rough drafts. You're also going to rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite some more. And when you think you're finished, and the writing is all nice and dandy, you're going to rewrite even more. I have rewritten the first chapter (and half of my second chapter), at the least, fifteen times now. Read it aloud and see if something's off, or rewrite the portion you got stuck on a few different ways. Finally, there's nothing wrong with excising apart of the book and building it from there -- my book is a melting-pot of the remains of several other books (ideas, really) I started writing on, one of which had nearly ten chapters. It is, quite literally, a Frankenovel.

I've already tried surgery, but I think the cancer's metastasized.

[Lady Scylla]

I wouldn't advise scrapping it. Keep in mind, you are going to write tons -- and I mean TONS -- of rough drafts. You're also going to rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite some more. And when you think you're finished, and the writing is all nice and dandy, you're going to rewrite even more. I have rewritten the first chapter (and half of my second chapter), at the least, fifteen times now. Read it aloud and see if something's off, or rewrite the portion you got stuck on a few different ways. Finally, there's nothing wrong with excising apart of the book and building it from there -- my book is a melting-pot of the remains of several other books (ideas, really) I started writing on, one of which had nearly ten chapters. It is, quite literally, a Frankenovel.

I've already tried surgery, but I think the cancer's metastasized.

Edited my post, take a look.

[Lady Scylla]

I wouldn't advise scrapping it. Keep in mind, you are going to write tons -- and I mean TONS -- of rough drafts. You're also going to rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite some more. And when you think you're finished, and the writing is all nice and dandy, you're going to rewrite even more. I have rewritten the first chapter (and half of my second chapter), at the least, fifteen times now. Read it aloud and see if something's off, or rewrite the portion you got stuck on a few different ways. Finally, there's nothing wrong with excising apart of the book and building it from there -- my book is a melting-pot of the remains of several other books (ideas, really) I started writing on, one of which had nearly ten chapters. It is, quite literally, a Frankenovel.

I've already tried surgery, but I think the cancer's metastasized.

Also, do you have an excerpt? I'd love to read a bit of it, if that's okay.

And what do you think is wrong with it?

[USS Monitor]

I'm trying to write a story, but I tend to rush things along in my story. Any pointers?

Also, is it alright if I do stuff like this: She reaches for the book, "-diologue-"

<snip>

There's nothing wrong with bending the rules a bit to express emotion in dialogue, as long as it makes sense. Doing such can give your writing a bit more flavour, and also help you in producing your own writing style.

Ebnious was asking what the rules are. If you have to ask what the rules are, you're probably not ready to get away with bending them, at least not very much.

"I've never seen a Goldrock Atlas in such good condition," she said, "I thought most of them were destroyed during the war."

Instead of doing the expected syntax of placing the speaker all the way at the end of the dialogue, you can break up two related thoughts she is having by placing the designator in between them, and thus it can be read as if she briefly paused before speaking again. It's a good way of getting around ellipses (...) or avoiding filling up a page with short sentences of dialogue.

You might already be aware of this, but just in case: That's not bending any rules.

[Lady Scylla]

<snip>

There's nothing wrong with bending the rules a bit to express emotion in dialogue, as long as it makes sense. Doing such can give your writing a bit more flavour, and also help you in producing your own writing style.

Ebnious was asking what the rules are. If you have to ask what the rules are, you're probably not ready to get away with bending them, at least not very much.

"I've never seen a Goldrock Atlas in such good condition," she said, "I thought most of them were destroyed during the war."

Instead of doing the expected syntax of placing the speaker all the way at the end of the dialogue, you can break up two related thoughts she is having by placing the designator in between them, and thus it can be read as if she briefly paused before speaking again. It's a good way of getting around ellipses (...) or avoiding filling up a page with short sentences of dialogue.

You might already be aware of this, but just in case: That's not bending any rules.

Didn't say it was. They asked for pointers, and if messing with the syntax like that was alright, and I answered.

[Conserative Morality]

Also, do you have an excerpt? I'd love to read a bit of it, if that's okay.

The way I write in snippets and pieces lends itself to incoherency. I don't know that I have anything both relevant and readable.

And what do you think is wrong with it?

I feel like I'm trying to use old scaffolding for a new blueprint. I feel like because of how many changes the story's gone through and how long I've been working on it the tone's become inconsistent and contradictory. Certain aspects of the story grew out of control early on and now it feels like I'm fighting ivy with a flamethrower and trying not to burn the house down. There's a lot I want to keep, but I think that I'm really just going to have to start from scratch to fix the myriad problems with the piece.

[Vanquaria]

Tag, a thread for discussing writing? Must be a dream lol

[Lady Scylla]

Also, do you have an excerpt? I'd love to read a bit of it, if that's okay.

The way I write in snippets and pieces lends itself to incoherency. I don't know that I have anything both relevant and readable.

And what do you think is wrong with it?

I feel like I'm trying to use old scaffolding for a new blueprint. I feel like because of how many changes the story's gone through and how long I've been working on it the tone's become inconsistent and contradictory. Certain aspects of the story grew out of control early on and now it feels like I'm fighting ivy with a flamethrower and trying not to burn the house down. There's a lot I want to keep, but I think that I'm really just going to have to start from scratch to fix the myriad problems with the piece.

You could write out the general theme you desired, something like a summary of what you want to happen. Plotting out points does well, as an example:

[SUMMARY]

• List
• major
• plot points
• here

If you view them as goals to reach, then you can write towards them and flesh them out so that the story stays on the path you want.

[The first Galactic Republic]

So I've started working on a story, my first fairly long story. It originally was going to be a superhero story, but now it's a lot more. There are apocalyptic elements, sci-fi elements, western elements, and dystopian elements.

The very basic premise is that superhumans used to fight for the US government until a number of them turned on the US and ultimately took over. Modern society is bordering on post-apocalyptic. The superhumans rule from a few surviving cities, and outside the cities life is pretty rough.

Anyways here's the first chapter. I can also give a much more detailed version of the premise if anyone is interested.

Once there were lots of us. Not just towns and villages, but cities that dominated the skylines.

But then the superhumans took over. They herded us like animals, calling us baselines.

They took us to their cities. To live beyond their walls and towers.

They said it was to help us. Really it was to increase their power.

They hunted and hunted. Soon our numbers were turning up thin.

They wanted to control us. They considered it a win.

Things became bad. Soon few people remained free. The survivors started to lose hope. They thought if they gave up they would be saved.

They didn't care that no one taken to the superhuman cities ever returned. They didn't care they were really going to be enslaved.

By the time I was an adult it seemed everyone was gone. I was truly alone.

Was anyone left? Would I ever see another human again? My fate was unknown.

One day it all changed. I could hear someone. Calling! Could it be someone? Was it dangerous? I thought there was no way things could worsen.

I went over. What could it be? Was my loneliness finally over? Had I finally found another...

Then it happened...

"Hold still damnit!" The man took a large bone saw and hacked it into the restrained patient's head. A spray of blood came out. The man reached into the wound with a robotic limb, picking out bits of flesh and haphazardly tossing them into a medical waste bin.

"I'm working on the central nervous system. Things will only get harder if you keep-" the man ripped out a rather large piece of flesh "-squirming."

The barely audible mumblings of the patient were drowned out by the sound of an automatic door opening. A woman walked down the hallway leading to the surgical table.

"Rodger!" The woman waited for a response. When nothing came she walked further down the hallway. "Rodger!"

The woman walked right behind the man. "RODGER! What are you doing!"

The man snapped back. "Shh! Be nice. I'm working here." The man quickly turned back to his patient.

"You're not working on the cybernetic augmentation rejection drugs!"

"Of course not. I'm busy with this."

"The deadline is next week!"

The man adjusted his surgical glasses. "You know you really need to start thinking big."

"Big?"

"I'm working on something important right now. Those drugs can wait."

"Ugh you always do this! You always start working on some other project while we have products to develop? Remember our shampoo?"

"Hey that one tested just fine on the captives! Besides no progress without risks."

"It burned holes in our customer's heads! Risks! Risks!?! Our funding depends entirely on these drugs and you're busy messing with captured baselines! The whole point of capturing them is to test the products on them, and you're working on them instead of developing the products at all!"

"Okay look." The man turned to face the woman, the robotic limb attached to his shoulder continuing to pick at the surgical cuts of the patient behind him.

"You and I spend what, forty hours a week catching baselines? They're so rare anymore and they're slippery bastards when you do locate one. That's forty hours a week we could be spending developing more neural enhancement matrices, cybernetic augmentations, dental products, fabric softeners, laxatives. Think of all those long hard hours-"

"What has that got to do with anything-"

"WOULD YOU JUST, SHUT! UP! ...jeez."

The man left to press a button on the wall, exposing the patient to the woman for the first time. The patient wearily looked up to the woman, straining to move her bloodied head. The woman paid her no notice. The man pressed a button on the wall and a holographic projection came up.

"Look when one of the traps detects that a baseline has been caught, we have to go drop whatever we're doing, go over there, pick them up, bring them back."

The hologram showed a rough cartoon depiction of this.

"But now we can fit this captured baseline with cybernetic augmentations that allow her to control the nervous systems of other baselines."

The patient's eyes widened.

"Now she can go to wherever the trap is. The other baselines will trust her because she's one of them, but she can control their nervous system and force them to come back to us. No more baselines wiggling out of the traps. No more having to go pick them up. This way we'll get more baselines to test products on. More baselines, more research, more products, more funding."

"Rodger that plan, is amazing!"

The man went over to the operating table and took out what looked like a small capsule.

"Thank you, and it's almost done."

The man walked over to the patient and dropped the capsule, but it didn't fall. It just hovered there.

"Now hold still damnit!"

The man turned the chair the patient was restrained to around exposing her spinal column, the skin having been violently removed. Suddenly the capsule transformed into a large wormlike machine with various spikes protruding from it. The machine flew at the patient lodging itself into her spine. The patient screamed as loud as she could through the gag and struggled as the machine attached itself to her spine at various points. When it was attached to her entire spine it began trying to dig into her flesh, tearing and ripping at her.

"Huh. That's not right." The man walked up and inspected the machine for a second. He struck it. Suddenly the machine conformed perfectly to her spine and wedged itself into her body, until it was perfectly attached.

"There we go. Easy."

The patient fell still.

"Oh my! I almost forgot! I left a baseline on the burner!"

"That's disgusting! They make such a mess and cleaning the charred flesh is ridiculous. We have to go take care of that but, well now we need to move the patient into bio-storage."

"I'm not touching it!"

"None of us are going to touch it. We'll get an intern to do it."

The man pushed a button on his gauntlet. An armored figure materialized out of thin air behind him.

"Take the patient to bio-storage 05-05A."

The armored figure walked over to the patient. He pressed a button on the wall and the chair was suddenly surrounded by an energy field. As the patient began to lose consciousness from the anesthetic and the pain, she looked up. At first the figure seemed like a normal man, but then she noticed that his mouth had been sewn shut. She couldn't tell where the armor ended and his skin began. He did odd things and movements with his body, as if he was doing a little dance in place. His horrifying face was the last thing she saw before blacking out.

----

"Get in the basement! Now!"

"How long will it be this time daddy?"

"I don't know sweetie just follow your mother. Everything will be okay I promise."

The girl nodded and followed her mother into the basement. The man closed the door behind her and approached a heavy bookshelf and a knife. The old man stabbed himself forcefully in the stomach, then again. Then again. He winced and fell to the floor, but then got up and effortlessly moved the bookshelf as if it were a small chair. He covered the entrance to the door with it. He looked down at his shirt. The stab wounds had already healed. He carefully checked for blood. None, the shirt was clean. He took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The tattered farmhouse shook as a massive all terrain vehicle lumbered to a stop beside it. The old man could remember a time where one might joke about the driver of such a vehicle compensating for something. The driver of this vehicle however barely fit in the thing. The door opened and a massive hulking figure squeezed out of it. He stretched as he did, showing his three and a half meter height. The lumbering man walked over to the old man, stopping right next to him. Way to close for comfort.

"Peterson. Long time no see. I trust you know why I's here?"

"Yes."

"Then pay up old man."

Peterson handed the figure a wad of bills. Nine hundred American dollars. The figure studied it carefully.

"What the hell is this."

"American currency. It's all I have."

"Do I look I like a historian to you Peterson. What the hell I want money from a dead government for? You know we prefer units."

"I know. That's worth something to the Patriots though Shattershock."

"I know. That's why I ain't smashing you into the ground. Still though there's going to be a conversion rate. Shit I ain't no good with numbers. Let me give my brother a call."

Shattershock took the money and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, almost comically small in his massive hands, and awkwardly dialed a number.

"Yeah this is Shattershock. Peterson's paying rent, cept he's trying to give us American bills. Nine hundred. Yeah. Okay. Thanks bro. Yeah I'll tell him."

Shattershock put the phone back in his pocket and got even closer to Peterson. "Nine hundred American dollars translates to six hundred units. The rent is seven hundred. You gotta give something else up."

"Anything."

"You know what I want from you boy."

"Fine." Peterson hung his head and spoke in a low tone. "Do it."

Shattershock winded up and struck the old man with such force that the ground beneath him cracked. Peterson crumpled up, the sound of his bones snapping louder than his scream. Shattershock didn't relent stomping and punching at him, until he was a mangled pile of blood and bones.

"Today's your lucky day though Peterson. You know I love using you as a punching bag. The baselines just go down so easily. But my brother needs something from you, so I'm quitting early. Soon as your bones knit back together you get your pasty old ass to the headquarters."

Shattershock walked back to his vehicle. "And for god's sake if we entertaining some ladies this time, knock first."

Peterson was still. As his bones audibly came back together and he started to resemble a person again, he simply focused on the one thing that brought him some semblance of peace. That his daughter couldn't see him like this.

----

"What if they come here boss! What if they don't like that message we sent them! What if they come here to make us pay!"

"Quit your worrying boy. We got enough guns here to take over half of California."

"But I heard terrible things about them boss! They say Shattershock can throw a man so far you can't see him land! They say Thunderstrike can fry your skin off! They say the boss can shoot energy blasts out of his hands!"

"Shut up boy! I don't give a shit. We got guns, and guns can kill superhumans. That's why they call them the equalizers. That's why they was invented in the 1950's, to kill all them superhumans running around."

The gang member thought for a second. "But boss, didn't superhumans take over?"

"Yeah but that's cause they didn't use em right. Also the superhumans used them brains, but no one's got more brains then I does. Ain't that right boy?"

"You're the smartest person I know boss."

"Damn right boy!"

"Uh boss we have a situation." A voice came out of the nearby intercom. The gang leader reached for it.

"What?"

"There's a man here. Says he wants to see you."

"It's them! They here to kill us!"

"Shut up boy! Who is it?"

"Some old white man. Says his name is Lawrence Peterson."

"No idea who that is. How'd he get past the minefield?"

"No idea boss."

"Hmm. Maybe he's one of them scouts for the Patriots. Maybe he wants to buy something from us. Alright I'll see him. Get the artillery guns ready in case something goes wrong though."

In front of the gate to the gang's base stood Peterson. A number of gang members had automatic rifles trained on him. He wasn't the least bit afraid. Suddenly the gang leader appeared on the top of the gate. He wore an elaborate blue uniform, while the other gang members seemed to be wearing whatever.

"What do you want old man?"

"I just want to talk."

"We don't let people in here just to talk. How the fuck did you get past the minefield?"

Peterson looked down to his bare feet. That was what cost him his shoes. No point in hiding it any longer.

"Uhh, I'm uh. I'm not a baseline."

The gang members were visibly worried.

"You're one of them!"

"No! No. I'm not one of them. I'm just doing some work. I couldn't pay my rent so I'm doing this for the boss. Look I don't want to make this difficult."

"No old man it won't be difficult. Shooting the shit out of you wouldn't be difficult at all."

"Hey I just want to talk about this! I'm here to collect the rent you're not paying for the boss yes but there doesn't have to be any violence! We can just talk about this. We can work something out."

"I can't believe I came out here to deal with this. Shoot this idiot."

As the gang leader walked away the gang members opened up with automatic fire. Hundreds of bullets struck Peterson. The first few tore through his skin, spouts of blood flying out, but the next few only struck him like a punch, denting on his skin. After a while they started deflecting off his skin. Eventually he didn't even flinch anymore.

The gang members finally stopped. Peterson was almost naked at this point, his clothes being torn to shreds. Only a little bit of blood was on him, and a whole lot of bullets that bounced off him were at his feet. His skin was vibrating, so rapidly he was hard to look at. The few tatters of clothing on him fell off even as he vibrated so rapidly. He gave a glare to the gang members who stood there stunned.

"I'm giving you every opportunity for mercy. You're going to wish you hadn't done that. Now I'm going to give you one last chance-"

It was then that he was struck by an artillery round. Meanwhile the gang leader walked back to his room. He shut the door and sat in his chair putting his feet up on the desk. He took a key and opened up a locked drawer, taking out an old Walkman. Vintage technology from when the old United States was around. He put in his headphones and relaxed. A few Bon Jovi sounds later he noticed the intercom was on. He took off his headphones and reached for it. "What did you idiots do wrong!"

"Boss! Why weren't you answering! This man! He's *static* gaah! *static*"

"What the hell? What's going on!"

"Boss! Barricade your door! Barricade your door! *static*"

The gang leader tried but the intercom wouldn't respond anymore. Unnerved he pressed a button and a heavy metal door came down. He reached for a button and a compartment appeared from the wall. He took a portable machine gun from it. He walked over to the other side of the room and aimed the gun at the door. A few minutes passed. The gang leader went from nervous to bored. He wasn't that scared to begin with. Surely his men were panicking. How could one person be a threat to them? As he walked over to get his Walkman Peterson burst through the door. He walked through the heavy steel door like a runner crossing tape at the finish line. The gang leader stood there in front of the table pointing his gun at Peterson. The shaking barrel gave away his fear, but Peterson himself was shaking too. His skin now vibrated so rapidly that he looked like a blur and sounded like a large flying insect. He stepped forward and effortlessly threw the table bolted to the floor at the wall.

"Don't move old man! I'll do it!"

Peterson grabbed the gun and threw it against the wall so hard that it tore a hole in the wall and went flying out of the room. He grabbed the gang leader and shoved him so hard he made a dent in the wall behind him, though at this point Peterson had so much kinetic energy built up that he was being as gentle as possible.

It was then that Peterson noticed the gang leader's uniform more closely. It was blue padded armor with a silver star in the center that had stripes coming out of it. Like the symbol of the old United States Air Force. The outfit had red and white trimmings.

"That outfit! Why are you wearing it!" Peterson snarled with rage, glaring at the gang leader with blind fury.

"Wha-what?"

"That outfit! That's Eagle's outfit! Eagle? Founding member of the Watch Trust! Superhero from the old United States. WHY are you wearing it?"

The gang leader struggled to spit out his words. "I-I don't know man! Eagle? Who is that?"

"WHAT!? You, you don't even..."

"I don't know man! It looks cool! I found it!"

"You don't even know!? You don't even-you don't even know who that..."

"I thought it would be a cool gang outfit!"

Without another word Peterson put his foot on the man's chest and pushed him so hard that he too went through the wall.

"He didn't even, he didn't even know... GODDAMN KIDS!"

Peterson stopped to collect himself. Every step he took put a foot shaped dent in the floor. As he breathes heavily he looked up and noticed a tattered flag on the wall. It was badly damaged but he could still recognize it. The old flag of California. When it was a state in a federal government and not a feudal state controlled by superhuman landlords. He took in a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He calmed himself, though it would take a long time for the built up kinetic energy to dissipate.

"I won't let that happen to my daughter. I'll make sure she knows her history."

Peterson looked up and glanced at the tattered flag again. "I'll make sure she knows things weren't always so goddamn bad."

----

A clunky old tractor came to a stop outside a tattered farmhouse. Wearing the clothes of the most intact gang member he could find, Peterson stepped off of it holding a briefcase. He walked towards his house. In front of it stood Shattershock, but also his sister Thunderstrike and his older brother Focus. He preferred to be called the boss though.

"I went to your headquarters. I looked everywhere. Your... escorts said they hadn't seen you in a day. Why are you at my house?"

The boss stepped forward. "You're right Peterson. This shitty thing is your house, but this is my land. You live on my land, you live by my rules."

"I know. That's why I went on this mission." He put the briefcase down. "I looked everywhere but I could only find 3,000 units. You won't be hearing about those gang members again though."

"Good job Peterson. Normally I'd say you earned a month of peace from us, but those gang members died because they didn't follow my rules."

"Yeah?"

"You aren't following my rules either."

The boss turned around and pointed his arm at Peterson's house. Suddenly a massive blast of crimson energy materialized from his hand. When it struck Peteson's house it was obliterated.

"GAAAH! WA-WHY!?"

"Don't get your crusty old knickers in a bunch Peterson. No one was inside."

Peterson's expression went from shocked to horrified. "What do you mean?"

"We found out about your secret. What you've been hiding from us. You're not some pasty old man living by himself. You had a wife and a child. A baseline wife and a half-breed child."

The boss waited a few seconds for Peterson to respond, but he said nothing.

"You know my rules. Baselines and superhumans do not mix."

"Where are they."

"They deserve nothing less but to be put into the dirt. But it was your lucky day."

"Where... are... they."

"The Patriots came around for their protection money. Because of deadbeats like you and those gang members we didn't have enough so they demanded some other kind of payment. Luckily for us a pretty young woman and a little girl are valuable. Your preference for redheads was also lucky. Apparently they're worth more."

"You sold them!?"

"You should count your blessings that they're still alive."

"You... sold... them."

"People who don't follow my rules aren't welcome here Peterson. Turn around right now and don't come back. You should consider yourself lucky that your wife and child are still breathing somewhere.

"You SOLD THEM!"

The boss walked right up to Peterson. "Yeah and there's nothing you can do about it. Now turn around and walk away old man."

Peterson turned around. His expression mellowed. Only his death glare gave away his true feelings, but the boss couldn't see that.

"Yeah that's right. Now walk away."

Peterson stood there.

"You didn't hear me? Get out of here right now."

Peterson turned around and punched the boss in the abdomen. He still had a lot of kinetic energy built up from his fight with the gang members, so when his fist hit the boss' abdomen it hit with such force that it simply went though the flesh like a cannonball. The boss fell to the ground screaming with blood pouring out of an arm sized gash in his abdomen.

Before Peterson could react Shattershock ran up to him and hit him with such force that he went soaring into the sky.

"BRO! Are you okay!"

A few seconds later however Shattershock turned to see Peterson jumping back after him, jumping up with the same amount of force that Shattershock had hit him with. He landed on top of Shattershock and sent the hulking man flying. As the two recovered Shattershock tried to punch Peterson but he avoided his massive fist and grabbed his arm. With a downward pull Peterson removed the arm from the rest of Shattershock's body. Before he could even scream Peterson hit him with an uppercut. Shattershock's head came off his body like wet clay, and the massive superhuman's body simply crumpled to the ground.

Peterson turned around for Thunderstrike to blast him with a blast of electricity. "You killed my brother!"

Peterson made a mental note of the boss surviving and simply walked against the electric blast. Before he could run to Thunderstrike however he found himself paralyzed.

"I control electricity Peterson! I don't expect a crusty old man like you to know but electricity is how your nervous controls your limbs."

She waved her hand and Peterson started involuntarily walking forward. "You're going with me old man."

Thunderstrike made Peterson walk over to a nearby pond, and then made him wade in. As he grunted in protest she made him keep walking until his head was under the water. Then she blasted the pond with a massive electrical blast. The entire pond was electrified. Various dead creatures rose to the surface of the water but Peterson was nowhere to be found. Thunderstrike waded into the water. "Where are you?!"

She went in until the water was up to her waist. She blasted the water repeatedly with electricity. "Where are you?"

Meanwhile Peterson simply stood up behind her. When she realized he was behind her she turned and blasted him with electricity but Peterson tackled her into the water. She tried to struggle but Peterson pushed her down with as much energy as she had blasted him with and the two disappeared under the water. Eventually the water of the pond fell still. A bit of blood began to rise to the surface. Then a lot of blood. Thunderstrike's body was thrown out of the pond, and Peterson literally leaped out, landing several meters away.

Peterson was suddenly blasted with a blast of Crimson energy. "You killed my family you old bastard!" The boss stood clutching his abdomen blasting Peterson with energy from his hand. Peterson staggered for only a second and soon began walking against the blast as if he was simply fighting a gust of wind. The boss blasted him with even more energy but it was pointless. Every second Peterson was blasted with energy he grew stronger. The boss panicked and took a few steps back but Peterson started to run at him, completely ignoring the blast of energy. With one punch he brought the superhuman landlord to the ground.

[Soldati Senza Confini]

I wrote a short story yesterday night. It's the first story I've written in a while that I actually somewhat like, and I am revising it for style errors. It's a bit grim.

Here's what I got:

It had been several years since he remembered his real name. Was it Charles? Or was it John? Little did it matter at this point. His name now was one that kept up with the times: Cabe.

Cabe was one of the longest living humans. Although he was not exactly human anymore. All of his body parts except for his brain had been replaced by either microfiber, or steel, by this point. He was aware of this, but he didn’t mind. As long as his body functioned the way it should, this didn’t bother him.

He always had a monthly obituary book of Earth by his bed. It was a fascination of his, now that every possible venue of knowledge was explored by him, he only had to turn to this obituary book.

The obituary book was not what you would call a paper book, for volumes of these would have taken bookshelf after bookshelf. He actually had a new type of book, sleek and with a screen that he could read from, with a link to the global government servers, from which he gathered obituary data daily, consistently, throughout all his life since the invention of such database. He had supported it wholeheartedly, and in fact, he was a tad too enthusiastic about it.

He swiped the pages, one by one, as he looked for a particular name. He always did this, but he didn’t neglect the pages too much, for the others sometimes had amusing information. Like the time a man was crushed by his horse. Poor fella, he thought to himself, amused. If the man would have left horses alone – now a primitive technology for transportation – he wouldn’t have died so suddenly.

Other names – the ones who made him pick up an obituary book in the first place – were far more interesting to read, and it brought him a wicked sense of satisfaction to read those. The circumstances were quite normal. Natural death, each and every one of them said. They were simply not amusing circumstances, and not even his wife when she was alive could understand his look of satisfaction, but nevertheless, he was happy.

His wife, a woman he had fallen madly in love, married, and had several children with her, was a woman he had met when he was much younger. He had met her when his interests were history. With the knowledge he had about history, he developed a new way of studying history, and he was wildly acclaimed in his field for it. His wife and he lived comfortably within the decade of being married, and they could plan ahead for children then. His children, all of whom now are passed, grew up to be great people in their field. He remembered fondly those times, but also with a melancholic tone when he remembers the nights he and his wife fought over his implants.

“You cannot do this to us!” she used to scream, “I won’t let you!”
“But--”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, you know what I think about… About that!”
“You listen here sweetie, I am--”
“You’re doing this to prove something! And that something is leading you to become one of those… things! Don’t you see? You’re losing your humanity over a petty vendeta!” she was mad now, yelling at him “You just want to gain the satisfaction of seeing them die before you.”
“Yes, and if that is the case, so what? You’re going to tell me you wouldn’t wish to live longer, too?”
“No, and I don’t feel like you’re my husband, the man I fell in love with”


He remembered every night. They used to have the same argument. She was one of those people who valued their bodies more than cybernetics. “Humanists” they called themselves. He was a transhumanist. A man who didn’t mind embracing technology early on, and even put it on himself if it guaranteed a longer lifespan. A humanist as a wife, he chuckled. He regretted that he valued his goal over his wife during the rest of his life after she died of old age, just as they were placing on him a synthetic heart and circulatory system.

He was weeping on the day when he realized that his wife’s death became inevitable.

“Please take the cybernetics” said he “please, don’t leave me. I need you.”
“You never did” she said, planting a hand on his cheek “you never really cared about this moment. You were always about your goal. You became bitter and focused on it. Would you have known I wasn’t going to budge, would you have continued on your transformation to a machine? Would you be living right now with the promise of seeing your goal become a reality?”
“No, but that wouldn’t have mattered to me” he said, crying bitterly.
“Don’t be bitter about this. This is what all humans have to go through. You knew. Your father also left you.”
“But he was different! He was my father! You’re my wife” he said to her, on his knees “I didn’t want it to come to this”
“But it must,” she said, sadly “You were my life, and in order for you to not leave your goal, I had to sacrifice my hopes to see you die alongside me. You see, I loved you all my life, and I love you even now in my old age. I have always been a humanist, but I never raised my objections too much.”
“So you must punish me with your departure?”
“Don’t think of it like that. Think of it, as a gift. You learned a valuable lesson with living with me as long as you did. Never forget that lesson, love.”

In a few more days, she was dead.

The funeral was short. He didn’t want to weep for her. He could afford to, he had all the time in the world, but he didn’t want to. He became resentful that he lost someone he loved again. That only drove him to the only thing he hadn’t done.

He went to the hospital the next day, and told his doctor what he wanted.

“But you might die. We do not know how this will work on you.”
“Who cares? If I die, I will be put out of my misery. If I live, I will live on and see to it that your family is well off” he said, calmly. The doctor agreed to it and on the next morning, he was one of the few people who had their brain transplanted to a fully synthetic body. Stronger than his last one, and more resilient.

This was back then, and this is now.

200 years had passed since then, and development in cybernetics made it so that he could live on, and see the people who he wanted to see dying, die off. There was only one person remaining, and he would do anything within his power, and money, to actually see them off.

And so the day came. Today, it was all over. Today, the last member of his family died.

He had laughed, and at the same time he cried bitterly at all that he had lost. He had lost his wife, he had lost his children, he had lost everything of human value to him. He was living comfortably. After all, after two centuries and a half, it was logical he had enough time to strike gold and become rich. However, he was still weeping. He was weeping for his humanity, his soul.

Now that he had nothing left to live for, what would he do? He was beginning to wonder if it was all worth it. If they dying off was absolutely worth the hell he had put everyone around him. What he did to his wife, and seeing her die. It was the most painful thing that he had to witness, and yet he clung on. He clung on a vengeance that he’d extract not through direct action, but by witnessing karma do its work. Now that even that’s gone, all he could do was cry.

After crying, he stood up. His life goal was over. The last thing he had to live for was already accomplished. He survived, he was the last of the family. He reached towards a drawer and brought the phaser to his forehead.

I am going to die in peace now, was his last thought. The last sound was of a woman crying.

[Nordengrund]

I gotta step outside my comfort zone when writing. That's my biggest stumbling block.

I take the advice "Write What You Know" really seriously. I don't write a story about the military or living in Sweden since I know nothing about those things. Then again, how many of us have been to space?

I worked on a story (still incomplete) that takes place in Mexico during the Day of the Dead and my Creative Writing teacher said it was impressive about how much I knew about the subject even though I never celebrate the Day of the Dead, and I'm not Mexican. I've been to Cozumel, but that isn't the mainland and I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface. Same with NYC. Been there, yet I feel that Idk enough about the city to write about it. The teacher said that my style and voice is based on verisimilitude, in that there is a lot of truth to what I write.

One project I've been kicking around is a thriller or noir even though I haven't seen enough movies or read any novels in those genres to really know the tropes.

[Nordengrund]

I gotta step outside my comfort zone when writing. That's my biggest stumbling block.

I take the advice "Write What You Know" really seriously. I don't write a story about the military or living in Sweden since I know nothing about those things. Then again, how many of us have been to space?

I worked on a story (still incomplete) that takes place in Mexico during the Day of the Dead and my Creative Writing teacher said it was impressive about how much I knew about the subject even though I never celebrate the Day of the Dead, and I'm not Mexican. I've been to Cozumel, but that isn't the mainland and I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface. Same with NYC. Been there, yet I feel that Idk enough about the city to write about it. The teacher said that my style and voice is based on verisimilitude, in that there is a lot of truth to what I write.

One project I've been kicking around is a thriller or noir even though I haven't seen enough movies or read any novels in those genres to really know the tropes.

Le bump

[Lady Scylla]

I gotta step outside my comfort zone when writing. That's my biggest stumbling block.

I take the advice "Write What You Know" really seriously. I don't write a story about the military or living in Sweden since I know nothing about those things. Then again, how many of us have been to space?

I worked on a story (still incomplete) that takes place in Mexico during the Day of the Dead and my Creative Writing teacher said it was impressive about how much I knew about the subject even though I never celebrate the Day of the Dead, and I'm not Mexican. I've been to Cozumel, but that isn't the mainland and I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface. Same with NYC. Been there, yet I feel that Idk enough about the city to write about it. The teacher said that my style and voice is based on verisimilitude, in that there is a lot of truth to what I write.

One project I've been kicking around is a thriller or noir even though I haven't seen enough movies or read any novels in those genres to really know the tropes.

Research. If you don't know about a place, grab books or other info, and try to talk to people from there. Talking with people from a certain region is a good way to avoid stereotypes, and will help you out greatly. Pictures are also a good way to help you write out scenes, look up where you want to write about, imagine being there, what you'd see or smell. For events, documentaries may help you out there.

[Thanatttynia]

I gotta step outside my comfort zone when writing. That's my biggest stumbling block.

I take the advice "Write What You Know" really seriously. I don't write a story about the military or living in Sweden since I know nothing about those things. Then again, how many of us have been to space?

I worked on a story (still incomplete) that takes place in Mexico during the Day of the Dead and my Creative Writing teacher said it was impressive about how much I knew about the subject even though I never celebrate the Day of the Dead, and I'm not Mexican. I've been to Cozumel, but that isn't the mainland and I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface. Same with NYC. Been there, yet I feel that Idk enough about the city to write about it. The teacher said that my style and voice is based on verisimilitude, in that there is a lot of truth to what I write.

One project I've been kicking around is a thriller or noir even though I haven't seen enough movies or read any novels in those genres to really know the tropes.

You should research whatever you're writing about, of course, but I don't think you should care as much as you do that you are writing about something you've never experienced, or a culture you've never been a part of. The best writing, I think, concerns the basic human experience, and you know the basic human experience as well as any other person living on Earth. Although they can play a massive part in who we are, cultural/social differences are extraneous details when it comes to writing, and really only relevant when it comes to writing realistic characters, for which you need a good grounding in the cultures they are surrounded by and how their personalities are affected by and fight against them (though enormous detail isn't really needed). If you do want to give the impression of knowing a culture more than you actually do, a few well placed facts that might seem unusual to your reader will do enough. As for genre writing, it's probably better for you not to know the tropes and cliches; it will be easier to write something original.

[Bilanda]

Been writing a story for the past 3 years. It's actually about this country and the ally Areyesia. But you won't find Areyesia on NS anymore; need to reactivate the account. Areyesia is meant to be post-apocalyptic, Bilanda is meant to be a false Utopia. A citizen from each country ends up in the other and they have to navigate life and truth in those countries.

[Rhodevus]

So, I just finished writing my first draft to a novel. Any tips on how to go about working on the second draft?

[Foledonia]

Is science fiction an over-saturated genre? Personally, I love sci-fi. I can't get enough of it. The problem is, there are so many books out there that I don't read because I physically can't. I dabble in writing from time to time, but I've never committed to a book, primarily because I'm just worried it'll be lost in the sea of similar titles.

Also, If someone could give this story I wrote a read, and then generate some feedback, I'd love it. It's not a serious tale, primarily because it's a parody of me and my friends. I wrote it as an experiment in descriptive writing.

The link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1x0bg-7yvgT2XafAazpuWL5Ye22exOrE6-oAH3vn53Lg/edit?usp=sharing

Edit: Actually, I'd rather you not read this. I forgot how stupid I was when I wrote it. Do so at your own risk, I guess.

[Nordengrund]

I've started keeping a journal, and I wish I had started when I was a little younger.

When I write in a journal, should I use the names of real people or do I change their names to respect their privacy?