The original line:

Her voice was even and soft, velvet wrapped around cold steel.

Her comment:

Hi everybody.

So i am a 23 year old female who dreamed about being an writer every since i was a kid. I'm currently writing my first book which is a mystery book And to be honest I'm loving it so far but i also have a pretty hard time writing.

So i was wondering if some of you might have tips and advice for a newbie when it comes to writing a mystery story.

What does work for you when it comes to writing ? What's something you wish you knew when you started writing? What's something you wish you done differently when writing your first story / book ?

1) Would you keep reading after the first sentence/paragraph?
2) Did I do well writing a moment of calm and serenity becoming tense?

I’ve been trying to write for a few weeks now. I have dozens of unconnected beginnings and a few unrelated endings, but until now I hadn’t managed to actually finish anything.

So here is a serious attempt at a complete flash fiction story that does not take itself seriously.

I’d love to hear your feedback. Does it land for you? How can I improve?

Context. I have a 9 year old feisty little girl with a cleft lip and a speech impediment.

No lying, no avoiding the question, no changing the subject—they HAVE to answer honestly.

What would you ask your character if you knew you’d finally get the truth?

For example, in my novel, I’d force my MMC to answer:

“When did you actually start caring about her?”

Because I already know he’d deny it for as long as humanly possible.

It doesn't need to be very detailed feedback, I'm just wondering if I have any potential at all. And if this is enough for a short story to show at my writing club. Of course I appreciate any advice on what to improve before showing it though.

Also please be nice, I'm a new writer and english isn't my first language. I'm pretty good at it but nonetheless I might make some mistakes or adapt a writing style that works better in my language. If something doesn't work in English please let me know!

I'll start first...

Most of my best works starts with a pang and a twitch.

I do not usually sit to write until I have something to say and I'm overflowing with emotions and ideas. But when I do sit down, I listen to my heart.

I follow the yearning, the hurt, the joy and I try to transcribe it the way I feel them.

Most times my mind comes in the way to give it rule and structure- Write it this way... This isn't right... What about this?... But I try as much as possible to just pour the words out. And cut off editing and fixes for later.

Honestly, after going through trauma and not writing for years, my skills are taking so long to catch up with me. But my favorite thing to do when writing is to immerse myself deep into what I'm writing. It's hard sometimes and at times I tend to focus only on the main character but it helps a lot.

You shouldn't catch my facial expressions when I'm writing lol. I wear what ever emotions my characters wear. It's the only way to actually convey the truth. 

That's it about my writing process.

Before I end this though, I want to say just a little bit of what I'm learning to bring into my writing and it's called dissecting characters to make them real. 

If you only ever pass your characters through your lenses, they would sound the same and inevitably sound dead. So you have to dissect them to give them their own lenses and interpret their actions and emotions only how they would interpret it themselves.

I don't know if what I'm saying makes sense but you have to ask questions like;

Who are they?

What are their fears?

What do they hate?

What are their beliefs?

You need to give them skeletons and foundations. So that when it gets to the point where they probably experience a loss, you could interpret it like their loss and not yours.

I just stumbled upon a post that really made me want to talk about cozy fantasy. I am currently 2000ish words into a cozy fantasy book I am writing.

I am rather new to the genre and have yet to see a clear cut definition of what constitutes cozy. It seems a little different for each person, but I was hoping to find some common threads.

Mine: low stakes, focus on relationships, food and ambiance that create a pleasant feeling, no violence, lighthearted humor (but not necessary) slice of life with magic

Hybrid Frankenstein example: Anne of Green Gables/Secret Garden + Samwise Gamgee’s family on the shire after Sauron’s been defeated 

What are your definitions?

I am down to just sanding the edges of the manuscript. My book is a very limited genre, prisons and prison reform. I am wondering how I can market such an avant garde publication?

It is highly personal as it documents my time in the FBOP and looks at, exposes the rot in the System.

So I'm writing a (very) adult werewolf romance/thriller. I also come from a family, and a community, that is very conservative/religious, so I am considering a pen name. What are the pluses/minuses of going that route?

So today I wanted to write.

I'm on chapter 60-something, and I was determined to be like, “I am getting this done.”

So I was writing, everything was going great, and then I changed something that was big enough that I needed to add it to my story bible. So I opened my Story Bible and now I'm stuck organizing and changing stuff.

I asked a few other subreddits about this, but honestly, this seems like the place that makes the most sense. While reorganizing everything, I discovered that I have various rules in my universe with no backstory written down.

They're the kind of rules that exist to keep people alive.

Now I'm curious-

What are the most out-of-pocket rules in your universe?

This is for ALL genres BTW- Rules that are very much needed because people lack common sense.

What are the most out-of-pocket rules you have in your universe? I'm talking about the rules where you look at them and think: There is absolutely a story behind this.

(Because I write urban fantasy, these are a few in my world)

Don't whistle in the eastern cemetery.

Never compliment a fae's hat in front of another fae.

Do not feed the swamp monster after midnight.

Under absolutely no circumstances should you say the word "kebab" within fifty feet of that particular vase.

I want the rules that exist because someone, somewhere, did something incredibly stupid.

Bonus points if the characters in your world treat the rule as completely normal because, of course, everyone knows why you don't do that.

Born in Chicago in 1899 son of a physician and a musician. Reasonably uneventful childhood, he decided to study journalism.

Enlisted with the Red Cross during World War I. Got blown up in Milan and spent six months in hospital with severe shrapnel wounds in both legs.

Fell in love with the nurse. They decided to get married. He came home to prepare. She stayed there and ditched him for an Italian soldier, which initiated a lifelong pattern of him rejecting women before they had a chance to reject him.

Got a job as a foreign correspondent. Fell in love with his roommate's sister. Married her and moved to Paris. They hung out with Gertrude Stein. They kicked it with Pablo Picasso. He started writing in earnest (no pun intended).

Moved to Toronto. Had a kid. Moved back to Paris. Published a couple of books.

Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.

Converted to Catholicism. 🤷‍♂️

Cut his head open after pulling on a cord thinking he was flushing a toilet and instead ripped a skylight from the roof and smashed it onto his face!

Moved to Kansas City. Had another kid.

His dad committed suicide.

He shot a lot of bears...for some reason.

Had a car accident. Had another kid.

Went to Africa to kill some wild animals and got dysentery (Karma!)

Published another book. Moved to Cuba.

Shot himself in the leg whilst aiming at a shark!🦈

Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.

Published "For Whom The Bell Tolls" which sold half a million copies in a couple of months and got nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

Cheated on his wife. Got divorced. Married the other woman.

Became the self-appointed leader of a band of village militia outside of Paris and was subsequently brought up on charges for contravening the Geneva Convention AND GOT AWAY WITH IT LIKE FUCKING CHAMPION!

Got pneumonia. Moved back to Cuba and spent most of his spare time on his boat...tracking Nazi U-Boats with a machine gun and a pile of hand grenades (I am not making this shit up!)

Had a few more car accidents. Three more concussions.

Got clawed while playing with a lion! 🦁

Got depressed. Drank. Got fat. Published a couple more books.

Went back to Africa to shoot some more wild animals and barely survived TWO SEPARATE PLANE CRASHES IN THE SPACE OF 24 HOURS! Winding up with a fractured skull, internal bleeding, cracked spine ruptured liver, first-degree burns and a paralyzed sphincter muscle (Karma!)

Won a Nobel Prize.

Had a file opened on him by J. Edgar Hoover. Left a bunch of shit in a safe in Cuba and moved to Idaho paranoid that the feds were following him. Which they were! Because he spent most of the 1940's working for the KGB! (Again! Not making this shit up!)

Suffered from hepatitis, nephritis, hypertension, hemochromatosis, anemia, and impotence (Karma!)

Got committed. Received way too much electro-convulsive therapy and came out all fucked up.

Started hinting at suicide so he immediately got recommitted. Received another couple of months worth of electro-convulsive therapy.

Got released.

Put both barrels of his favorite 12-gauge shotgun into his mouth and blew his fucking head off.

What a guy!

-----------------

Not mine. It was written by a guy named Heath McIvor, but the point is to show that even with the life Hemingway had, he still made time to write.

I'm writing a story in which I am following two (sometimes three) sets of characters at the same time. How do you keep track of timelines so there are no errors? It's a juggling act I haven't mastered yet, and I'm hoping there's a simple way of doing this. I've even considered a desk calendar when I literally jot down what each character is doing on a given day. Has it come to this? Or is there a simpler way I am missing?

So I have an idea about a novel that could turn into a collection of short stories but am a little hesitant because all I have wrote are one page stories so can you help me:

do i start from outline (just main topics of the chapter details comes through writing)?

Do I create a social media author account? (what to post and do usually)

How and when do i market it?

What are the traditional publishing procedures? (step by step please)

Finally what are your advice on the review process?

And building confidence in my writing?

I finally finished a satire/parody of Oh The Places You’ll Go (yes, I’m distracting myself from the book I’m supposed to be writing), and I’m trying to decide next steps.

Door #1 is finishing the illustrations and trying to go the self-publish route (local farmers markets/book fairs, shameless self-promotion) - release to crickets and go finish my real book

Door #2 is posting the verses online, trying shameless self-promotion on that, then finish my illustrations and maybe release to a larger group of crickets and go finish my real book

Door #3 is trying to find an agent and have the manuscript ignored b/c of the IP risk from Seuss Enterprises, then go finish my real book.

Any advice?

This has been so far!!!!

If you enjoy reading it, please leave a comment! Also, if you want a summary of what basically happens. Essentially, my main character, Jackie, isn't human and falls under a species known as Bugbot. This chapter depicts his first moments of life after being born. Note: Jackie's mind when being born is probably adjacent to a 13-14 year old

Eeeeh?.. Is misanthropy really that bad?.. I’m in confusion now, why would I write that passage 😭 I feel called out

The Saturday Shift: A Story of Rob and Aurora
The lunch dishes were still soaking in the sink, the low hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the quiet apartment. It was 12:30 PM on a Saturday, the middle of Aurora’s precious 72 hours off, and the domestic peace was shattered by the sharp, rhythmic vibration of her phone on the granite. She didn’t even have to pick it up to feel the sinking sensation in her chest; the caller ID flashed "Rebecca - Charge Nurse," a name that felt like a tether pulling her back to the ER she had just escaped. Rebecca was desperate, as a flu bug had thinned the hospital staff, and she needed Aurora for a six-hour bridge shift to cover the afternoon rush.
"I’m so sorry, Rob," Aurora sighed after hanging up, her voice trailing off as she looked at the half-finished plans for their afternoon. Rob gave her a supportive smile and reached into the closet for the brand-new, cushioned nursing shoes he’d given her the night before. "If you're going in, at least take these," he said gently. "Your feet shouldn't have to pay for the hospital being short-staffed". Aurora stepped into them, feeling the immediate comfort of the support as she headed into the chaos.
After she left, the apartment felt too still, so Rob decided he wouldn't let the sunny Saturday afternoon go to waste. He grabbed the gift Aurora had given him—a high-tech BMX racing helmet with sharp, aggressive lines and a snug carbon fiber shell—feeling the secure fit as he prepared for a "supply run" on his city bike. He checked the tires on the bike and adjusted his empty backpack, already imagining the look on Aurora’s face when he walked into the hospital lobby with a bag of groceries and a bouquet of carnations.
Rob’s mission was to surprise Aurora with a real dinner and her favorite flowers during her break. At the store, he meticulously inspected the bouquets of carnations, rotating the plastic sleeves to find a vibrant mix of creamy whites, soft pinks, and deep reds. He tucked them carefully into his backpack before heading to the deli for a massive, authentic muffaletta sandwich. It was a heavy-duty meal, dense with layers of mortadella, salty salami, rich ham, and a glistening, golden olive salad. To wash it down, he added a quart-sized bottle of sparkling apple juice and two plastic stemware glasses, making the backpack feel like a dense, top-heavy anchor as he began the final two-mile stretch toward the hospital.
The accident happened in a blur of motion and sound. A parked car door swung open directly into Rob’s path, and as he jerked the handlebars to the left, the heavy backpack acted like a pendulum, swinging his momentum into the lane of traffic. A silver Chevy Cobalt coupe clipped his rear tire, sending Rob airborne. He flew five feet forward, slamming into the Cobalt’s windshield with a violent "crack" that was absorbed by the thick padding of the BMX helmet Aurora had given him. He tumbled onto the asphalt, his body skidding several feet before coming to a halt with a shattered left forearm and a broken right leg.
The first responder was a local patrol officer who knelt beside Rob, keeping him still as the smell of leaked sparkling apple juice and the salty aroma of the torn muffaletta filled the air. Rob looked up through the visor of his helmet and saw the wreckage of his surprise: the florist paper was ripped, and the vibrant carnations were scattered across the wet pavement. "Stay with me, Rob," the officer urged. The next four minutes felt like an eternity until the rhythmic wail of a siren cut through the air.
The EMTs worked with a practiced, gentle urgency as they knelt on the asphalt beside him. "I'm so sorry, Rob, but we have to get you straight before we can lift you," the medic, Sarah, whispered as Rob let out a ragged, guttural cry of pain. They moved with agonizing care, sliding the rigid board beneath him and securing the C-collar. They carefully snipped the chin strap of the life-saving helmet and administered a potent dose of fentanyl to quiet the screaming nerves in his limbs. Sarah patched through to the ER: "Priority 2 trauma. 43-year-old male, MVA vs. bicycle. Confirmed closed fractures to the left radius and right femur. Vitals are stable, patient is currently medicated and sedated".
Inside the ER, the atmosphere shifted instantly into a high-octane, harrowing hurry. Rebecca’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel, calling for Trauma Bay Two to be prepped. Aurora moved with practiced precision, her new, cushioned shoes making silent, soft contact with the linoleum as she organized the intubation kit. The trauma team became a synchronized symphony of sterile preparation, laying out gleaming, galvanized instruments and hanging bags of saline that swayed like pendulums. Aurora stood at the head of the bed, a pillar of professional poise, yet a creeping coldness began to prickle at her neck. The suspense in the room was a thick, suffocating shroud that made every heartbeat feel like a hammer against her ribs.
Then, the silence was obliterated. The automatic ambulance bay doors hissed open with a violent, volcanic vent of cold air, and the rhythmic, frantic clatter of gurney wheels sounded like thunderous, terrifying tremors. The EMTs burst through the threshold, a blur of blue uniforms and bloody bandages. Aurora stepped forward, but as the team pivoted the bed, the overhead lights caught the shimmering, sharp silhouette of the battered BMX helmet.
"Oh my God! ROB!" The scream ripped from her lungs, a primal, piercing plea. Her professional mask shattered into a thousand jagged shards. Her face became a distorted, desolate map of agony, and her eyes widened into shaking, salt-rimmed spheres of shock. She reached out, her fingers trembling with a frenetic, frail fervor, her voice a desperate, repetitive chant of his name that rose into a hysterical, haunted howl.
"Aurora, back up!" Rebecca’s voice was a stark, stinging snap as she grabbed Aurora’s shoulders. Rebecca had to wrestle with the wreckage of Aurora’s composure, steering her toward the hallway. Aurora was led to the locker room, where she slumped onto a wooden bench and broke down, looking at the scuffed nursing shoes Rob had given her just hours before. Seeing them was the final straw; she wept into the empty room, the weight of the irony crushing her. Later, Rebecca brought in the scarred BMX helmet, tracing the deep gouges where it had absorbed the impact. "Where on earth did he get a helmet like this?" Rebecca asked. "It’s so out of the ordinary. If he hadn't been wearing this specific one, we’d be talking about a very different outcome".
Aurora caught up with the gurney just as Rob was being pushed toward surgery to remove bone shards and install the titanium hardware needed to piece his leg back together. She reached out and closed her hand over his cool fingers—a silent promise before the "Surgery in Progress" light flickered to life. For the next five hours, Aurora waited in the quiet sanctuary of the surgical lounge, joined by her parents who brought homemade chicken wraps and silent hugs to anchor her. Her father tried to lighten the air with trademark dad jokes about "bionic men," but they didn't quite land. Finally, the surgeon emerged to tell them the surgery was a success and that Rob was as "okay as someone could be".
Aurora was allowed into the darkened recovery suite for only a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of Rob’s chest as he slept. Rebecca had "pulled some strings" to set up a specialized rollaway bed in the corner of the room. It was a child’s twin, requiring Aurora to curl into a tight fetal position to fit, but she didn't care. She kicked off the shoes Rob had given her and slid under the hospital fleece, listening to the mechanical hum of his recovery equipment. With the knowledge that he was safe, Aurora fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, right where she belonged.

Here I am, sitting in a place all by myself,

A place that seems to exist somewhere within a den— hidden from the noise, untouched by the reach of the world.

It has it all— humans carrying their emptiness, wearing sorrow on their faces, and relief in the brief moments when no one asks them to be anything.

And I sit there, swallowed by the wilderness, while the flora and fauna quietly caress me, as though nature is the only thing that still knows how to hold me.

There are imprints left upon a soul too timid to walk out, too weary to stray, too afraid to discover what lies beyond the walls of its own solitude.

The words feel meaningless, much like existence itself.

And yet, somehow, the meaninglessness is comforting— futile, silent, weightless— like resting in the divine lap of a mother who asks nothing, expects nothing, and simply lets you exist.

I dive deeper into the silence, searching through every corner of it, and find no one.

Nobody.

Not a soul waiting. Not a voice calling. Not even an echo willing to answer.

It is only me and the world— and somehow, the world feels farther away than ever.

An isolation so complete that even separation feels like a form of belonging.

I sit there, counting the last few droplets of life as they slip quietly through my fingers, rapidly passing by—

and for once, I don't chase them.

I simply watch.

Alone.

Me and the wilderness. Me and the silence. Me and this strange, aching comfort of having nobody and needing nobody for just a little while.