#how to write stories

[dhruvkumaar]

Your story is an argument.

I’ve been thinking a lot about theme these days. I’ve recently completed the first draft of my novel Myth, and when I look back, it always felt like I was missing something. And that was this: even though I sorta-kinda knew about my theme, I… really didn’t.

That was such a confusing sentence, lol. Anyway, what I mean is: I’ve simply had an illusion about the theme of Myth. I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but in reality, I didn't. When I began thinking about what message this story gives, what everything represents, my mind went blank. I understood that there’s the protagonist, and then there’s this antagonist: what does it signify that this protagonist beats this antagonist? What message am I trying to give here with this?

I asked such questions to myself, and that’s when the clouds cleared up. I now understand what theme is. A theme—or a story, for that matter—is, broken down to its bare bones, an argument.

Alright, now I think I lost you. I’m yapping about random stuff way too much, without telling you how I connected all these ideas. Gimme some time.

***

#01. Story and Plotline

I think that the first thing I gotta clear up before I head forward is this: a plotline is not a story. Now, you might know this a little bit, somewhere in your head. You’d have a little idea that they’re different. But, do you know how exactly they are different?

Head back to the basics, students. What are the foundational elements of storytelling? Plotline, characters, theme, setting, and style.

Now, look at this formation. Plotline is a part of story. They don’t stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the hierarchy.

But see: plotline and theme do stand on the same level. What does this mean?

A happens, then B happens, and then as a result, C happens—that’s plotline. Add characters in, and plotline becomes: X does A, Y does B, and as a result, Z does C. This is character and story together.

The background of this mix of plotline and character is called setting—where A, B, C are happening. In short, setting is the context in which the plotline takes place.

This is your WIP right now: it has plotline, character, and setting. And style obviously refers to your writing style. But there’s still something missing: theme.

Thus, your story isn’t a story until it has a theme. By definition itself, a story needs to have something to say. Because theme forms an important aspect of a story. So, if there’s no theme, it’s not a story—it’s simply a mix of plotline and characters, probably with setting and style.

This is the difference between a plot and a story: a theme. A plot is what happens; a story is a plot that wanna tell you something.

***

#02. Theme and Argument

So, we now understand why your story isn’t a story yet without a theme. But what is a theme?

Well, to say it as simply as possible: a theme is a message. And yeah, it can be a moral value, but your message can be a lot more than just that. Your message can be anything.

Now, there are two sides to any message: a side that’s correct—the side that you, the author, takes—and an opposite side. And that’s how a message becomes an argument.

There are two sides to an argument, like I mentioned before. Your hero—not the protagonist—represents the side that you wanna show is correct. Because your hero always defeats your villain. The hero always wins—that's why you represent the side you wanna show win with the character that’s gonna win in the end. And so, your villain is the side that loses—the side of the argument that you stand against.

Let me take the example of Drowning Deep Down the Ocean. It’s still in its outlining stage, by the way, and it might take a couple of years before I begin writing it. But I do have an idea about the story.

Pro tip: think about your own story right now, if you’re struggling with its theme. This little exercise is gonna help you a lot.

The main theme is DDDTO is simple: that loneliness can be overcome. Or, that depressing days are always followed by sunshine. Something like that.

In the story, my protagonist has changed cities, and he’s having some struggles settling in his new school. He’s being shunned and bullied. The story tackles the topics of loneliness, a little failed romance, bullying, and all that.

In my story, my hero is my protagonist itself. And the villain? Well, it’s the situation with his crush, his bully, but most of all: setting. The whole environment where the story takes place.

In the end, obviously the hero wins. How? He doesn’t just punch the bully off—even though that’s the climax of the story. In the end of DDDTO, the hero has some friends and a life. And good mental health. He’s comfortable with his situation. He’s better than he was in the beginning—he knows how to confront his loneliness and his problems now. He knows how to act in this new environment. Thus, he’s defeated this new environment—his story’s main villain—metaphorically. So, my hero won.

That symbolizes my theme that depressed days are always followed by sunshine. My hero wins against those days, and now sees the sunshine.

Everything comes full circle. That’s how you turn a plotline into a story. When you argue your points with your story. When things tell something to your audience. When everything means something.

***

#03. How?

Now, you do have a plotline, but how do you turn it into a story? How do you figure out a theme for your story?

For that matter, I’d like to tell you something: it took me around eight months and a whole draft to understand the theme of Myth. I’ve been brainstorming about this story for more than four years on top of that, by the way. It took me this much time to figure out what I wanna say to my audience through this story.

So stop thinking about the themes of your story. Figure out your story first—know your start, your end, and everything in between. And then start making connections: what does this plot mean? What is it trying to say? What does the start and the end signify, symbolize?

 At least, that’s what worked for me. DDDTO is a story I’d written around an year ago, and it’s only now that I understand its theme. Myth took me a whole first draft, like I mentioned before.

But, you can start your story with a theme. A lot of authors do that. And that’s the magic of storytelling—the process of writing a story changes from one person to the other. So, take a deep breath. And have fun writing. You’re gonna figure your way out. It’s gonna be fine if, in the end, you have all of your foundations figured out. Doesn’t matter how you do that, y’know.

Subscribe to my Substack and follow me on Tumblr. And check out my blog Heroes and Villains if you wanna know more about the topic of theme and how you represent that in your story. I’ll see you in the next one. Sayonara!

[rozmorris]

Transitioning from non-fiction to fiction? Enjoy uncertainty and trouble

In many kinds of non-fiction, we tend to seek certainty. Answers. Solutions. But those qualities are not so desirable in stories. Most stories are about trouble in some way. But this is often uncomfortable for authors who are used to writing factual books. They don’t like trouble, ambiguities, uncertainties and muddy waters.     Here are a few examples I’ve recently seen from my work with…

[inbabylontheywept]

bad dating stories time: the shoe incident

so in highschool, my best friend wasnt allowed to go on dates unless there was another couple there to keep an eye on him. part of this was his parents being insane, but also, part of it was him being insane. in a problem with no reasonable parties, there are no reasonable solutions.

at some point in my junior year, my sorta-gf broke up with me, and i just wasnt feeling dating, which was bad for my friend, because he had a good thing going with a girl he met in court.

he kind of hounded me about it. kept pushing me to just put me feet back in the dating pool and i wasnt real thrilled about it, because i knew he was pushing me for his own benefit, not mine, so i kept telling him to fuck off, and after a few weeks of being told that i would date when i was damn well ready, he eventually said: okay. what if i paid for the date AND found you a blind date AND all you had to do was show up?

and i shouldve said no, i know, but i let him wear me down, and i will own my fault in that. a date starting on such a stupid premise could never have gone well.

but he still managed to find a way to make it worse.

i dont know how long he tried to set a blind date up. it couldve been multiple attempts. he couldve stooped to this immediately. but what happened in the end was that he called a girl from the ward he attended - a girl that he knew had a giant, mushy crush on him - and he said: hey! how would you feel about going on a date this weekend?

(you know, implying it was with him, but never actually saying it.)

and she said YES WOW I WOULD LOVE TO and he said great! and then he called me up and said he found me a date.

i did not learn about his crimes until several weeks later. i will die swearing before god almighty that i would never have allowed this travesty to happen if i had known.

that was on a monday. the date of the date rolled around that friday evening, and im sorry to confess, i really phoned the whole thing in. i showed up in my favorite comfy outfit, which was also a fashion crime: basketball shorts and flipflops and a baja hoodie. it was super comfy but it made me look kind of crazy. i picked him up first, and then i picked up his date next, and then we went to pick up my date, and thats where you're gonna get the play by play.

i arrived, walked across the yard, and knocked on the front door. she opened it almost immediately, like shed been waiting right by it, and i could see her expression go from OMG IM SO EXCITED to super disappointed, then disgusted and finally pissed. and because i didn't know about my friends sins, i thought it was from my outfit. which seemed... harsh. like, hey, im allowed to be quirky, fuck you. also its a blind date, i thought the deal was that we were both going to be sad broken sacks of mortality.

anyway, we looked at each other for several seconds before she slammed the door in my face.

i looked back at my friend. he was sweating bullets. i dont know what he expected from this, but there was this big long pause where we both tried to figure out what to do, and then the door opened up, and her dad invited me in, and he said she was gonna need a few minutes to finish getting ready, and that in the meantime we could sit and talk.

we did not talk. we did sit. i sat down on the couch, and he sat down in a chair across the couch, and then instead of talking he cleaned his pistol on the coffee table. i wasnt actually sure if it was a threat, or if it was just a fidget thing for 40+ year old republican men, but when i tried to help he got snappy so i just watched him put a pistol back together.

he was okay at it.

eventually my date came downstairs, still mad as hell for reasons beyond my ken, and i felt pretty guilty for being such a mess because i thought that was why she was so angry. i tried to make up for by walking her to the car and getting the door for her, just generally trying to be extra polite, but before i could make it back to the drivers side, her dad called me back to the door. so i flipped around, went to the door, and immediately regreted my decision.

soon as i was within range, her dad got waaaay too close to me, leaned in, and said "whatever you do to her, i will do to you," and my brain went into overdrive making three consecutive realizations.

realization one was, damn, the pistol thing was a threat. that sucks. what an asshole. realization two was, wait, im autistic and even i know theres a 0% chance me and my date even hold hands, least of all boink. does this guy actually think there's even a 1% chance of anyone in that car getting laid tonight? is he an idiot? and then realization three went through, which was wait, is this guy threatening to fuck me? and unfortunately, with my brain doing so much processing, my mouth was left to run amok, so somewhere between realization 2 and 3, i said:

"i can't get pregnant"

which, i swear, wasn't actually me trying to be a smartass, it was just me pointing out that he couldn't actually follow up on that threat. it just wasn't possible. we do not live in the omegaverse and im not scared of you.

still, it was an insanely catastrophic thing to say, and the moment we both heard it, we bluescreened. that single sentence obliterated both of our momentary streams of consciousness like a saltine in front of a sand blaster. problem was, he'd probably gone his whole life not even realizing someone could say something that stupid, and making that realization was going to cost him a lot of thinking time. me though? i had been saying shit like that for 17 years, i didnt have to rewrite my expectations of human nature, i just had to plan an exit and start striding. so i was already halfway back to the car before i heard "hey. hey come back. Hey. Hey. HEY. HEY WAIT. HEY GET BACK HERE. HEY-"

and then i was in my car, and i drove away.

if this happened today, he'd have called her, and the whole thing wouldve imploded then and there, but back then, there were still a decent number of teenagers without cell phones. especially the teenagers of insane, gun toting parents. so she just said: whoa what was that all about? and i said: dont worry about it, he'll tell you about it when you get home.

and she said: ok and went back to staring daggers at me and my friend.

WHICH SURPRISINGLY isnt even how the story ends.

we went to an improv comedy show, and it was a disaster. it shouldve been like, 7/10 tops, but between my date being mad, and my friend having a good time, and me having the existential terror of knowing that a guy with a pistol was probably waiting outside his house for me to come back, it was easily 11/10. i laughed way too hard at everything. especially the jokes that flopped. id sit there in this mostly silent room and laugh until i dry heaved a little, and my date was absolutely disgusted, and even my friend was a little embarrassed, which would just make me laugh harder. i laughed so hard that night i could barely talk the next day. and then the show ended, and my friend said, you know, that was a good time, but i think we should maybe do something a little chiller? who wants to walk around the park? and his date said yeah, and my date said no, and i finally had mercy on the poor woman so i said, look, im gonna drop you off. and i am so, so sorry about this, but im dropping you off like a block away. super duper sorry.

do talk to your dad about the pistols thing if you dont want this happening more in the future tho.

and she said: okay. so i dropped her off, and she walked a block down, and that was that.

then i drove my friend and his date to a park that was good for wandering. i figured they wanted something more private, so instead of following them around point blank, i chose a park with this 30 foot rope tower, and i climbed to the top and i said: hey i can see you anywhere from up here, you are officially chaperoned from a distance. get panopticoned idiot. except my friend really is an idiot, and he didnt really get the whole 'now i dont have to third wheel so insanely hard with you guys' thing so he climbed up the tower too, and then his date followed behind him, so there are three people basically sitting together on top of a telephone pole.

and then they started making out.

i was close enough to hear it.

i didnt really know what to do so i was just kind of sitting there, dissociating, when some college kids came around and started shaking the tower. my friend's date went aaaaaaaaaa im afraid of heights :( and my friend went oh, dont worry, ill hold you tight ;) and i went hey, im gonna climb down and ask them to stop.

so i did climb down, and i did ask them to stop, and they flipped me off, which i wasnt even mad about. at that point i was i was like yeah, it would be weirder if this wasnt a mess. gods plan has been to fly this day like a 747 into my metaphorical twin towers and brother he is close enough for me to see him grinning through the cockpit window. still, eventually the college students got bored, so they climbed up the tower, which gave my friend and his date a window to climb down, and together we walked back to my car.

now, i cant explain why this is, but sitting back in the drivers seat was my carriage-back-into-a-pumpkin moment. i'd been chill about all the chaos, just rolling with the punches, but sitting down made me realize how much of a shitshow the day had been, and while i couldnt go back and fix all of it, i could go back and fix one thing.

so i told my friend and his date, hey, you two, stay here and don't do anything weird. don't. then i walked back to the rope tower, and i started picking up the shoes the college students had left at the base in order to climb.

about halfway through this, i realized that if i took all their shoes, they might think i was in it for the money, and i actually wanted them to know i was in it specifically to spite them. fuck those guys. so i put all the right shoes back, gave myself a 100 foot headstart, yelled "nice shoes, assholes", did a little jig, and started running.

my advice to everyone is that college students are faster than you think. even with the headstart, and the whole climb down the tower thing, i was still only fivish seconds ahead of them by the time i got to my car. i flung the door open, looked in the backseat, didnt see anyone, flung the stolen shoes in the backseat, heard two "ow"s, took that as proof of presence, jumped in and pealed out of the lot.

my friend and his date popped up a few seconds later. they were, uh, doing something weird in the back seat. my one request - obliterated.

they climbed up to ask where the hell all the shoes had come from, and i was like yeah i stole them from the college students, and they were like oh. cool. hope you had fun. and i was like, i did. i did. but speaking of fun, what were you doing back there?

and for the first time in my buddies life, i think he was actually embarassed.

[bookishdiplodocus]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[unboundprompts]

body language descriptions please?

(eg: she cocked her head)

thank you 💗💗💗

Body Language Descriptions

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Anxiety/Nervousness

She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, her fingers tugging nervously at the fabric as she struggled to find the right words.

They bit their lower lip.

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze, a clear indication of his guilt.

She absentmindedly rubbed her neck.

He chewed his nails, a nervous habit that he couldn't seem to quit.

They rubbed their hands together nervously.

He tightened his jaw.

She felt beads of sweat forming on her brow, betraying her calm facade as her heart raced.

Frustration/Impatience

Their fists clenched at their sides.

He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table, a clear sign of impatience as he waited for her to finish.

He rolled his eyes, the gesture full of exasperation as he dismissed her words.

She let out a heavy sigh, the sound heavy with resignation as she faced the inevitable.

He threw his hands up in defeat.

Curiosity

He leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear more, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical as she questioned his intentions.

She tilted her head slightly.

He watched intently, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in every detail of her story.

Confidence/Assertiveness

He stood tall with his shoulders back, projecting confidence even in the face of uncertainty.

They sat on the edge of their seat.

She gestured wildly, her hands moving animatedly as she tried to express her excitement.

He stood with his hands on his hips, exuding an air of authority and control over the situation.

They held their chin up high, projecting self-assurance even in the face of adversity.

Defensiveness/Resignation

He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive posture that spoke volumes about his discomfort.

He braced himself against the wall, a protective stance.

She folded her hands in her lap, a sign of restraint as she fought the urge to speak.

They shrank back slightly, their shoulders hunching as if trying to make themselves smaller in the face of criticism.

He held his breath momentarily, steeling himself for the inevitable conflict he sensed was coming.

She covered her face with her hands, overwhelmed by the situation as she tried to block out the world.

Thoughtfulness/Concentration

She furrowed her brow in concentration, her mind clearly racing as she tried to solve the problem at hand.

She nodded slowly, processing the information, her expression thoughtful and contemplative.

He stared blankly into space, lost in thought as he processed what had just been revealed.

He drummed his fingers on the table, the rhythmic sound a sign of his deep contemplation.

She tapped her foot lightly, her mind racing.

Eagerness/Excitement

He paced back and forth, his restless energy manifesting in the constant movement as he considered his options.

She bent forward, her elbows resting on her knees, a sign of intimacy and engagement in the conversation.

She swayed slightly from side to side, a subconscious display of her nervous energy as she waited for the verdict.

He bounced on his toes, his excitement palpable.

She jumped up and down, a spontaneous display of her joy that couldn’t be contained.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💀 Making Your Villain Make Sense (Without Making Them Right™)

("because if I see one more war criminal with a sad diary entry get a redemption arc, I’m gonna throw my laptop.")

Here’s the thing: your villain doesn’t need to be redeemable. But they do need to make sense.

And I mean sense beyond "they’re evil and they monologue about it." Or “they have a tragic past, so now they do murder <3.” Or “they were right all along, the hero just couldn’t see it 🥺.”

Let’s fix that.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP ONE: BUILD A LOGIC SYSTEM THAT ISN’T OURS Your villain shouldn’t just be wrong, they should have their own internal system that works for them. Morally flawed? Absolutely. But coherent.

Ask yourself:

What do they value more than anything? (Power? Order? Loyalty? Vengeance?)

What do they believe about the world, and how did they get there?

What fear drives them? What future do they think they’re trying to prevent?

The villain doesn’t need to know they’re wrong. But you should.

Make their logic airtight. even if it’s awful. Give them cause and effect.

─────── ✦ ───────

👿 STEP TWO: STOP GIVING THEM THE BETTER IDEOLOGY Listen. I love a “morally gray” moment as much as anyone. But if your villain is making all the good points and the hero’s just like “no because that’s mean,” your arc is upside down.

If your villain is critiquing injustice, oppression, or inequality, make sure their methods are the problem, not their entire worldview.

✖︎ WRONG: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt.” Hero: “That’s not nice.”

✔︎ RIGHT: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt, so I’m burning the city and everyone in it.” Hero: “So you’re just… committing genocide now?”

Your villain can touch a real issue. Just don’t let them be the only one talking about it, or solving it with horror movie logic.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔪 STEP THREE: GIVE THEM POWER THAT COSTS THEM The best villains lose things too. They’re not just untouchable horror dolls in sexy coats. They make bad choices and pay for them. That’s where the drama lives.

Examples:

They isolate themselves.

They sacrifice people they love.

They get what they want, and it destroys them.

They know they’re the monster, and choose it anyway.

If your villain can kill a dozen people and feel nothing, that’s not scary. That’s boring. Let them bleed. Let them regret it. Let them double down anyway.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧱 STEP FOUR: MAKE THEM PART OF THE WORLD, NOT OUTSIDE IT Villains shouldn’t feel like they were patched in from another genre. They should be part of the world’s logic, culture, class system, history. They should reflect something about the setting.

Villains that slap:

The advisor who upheld the regime until they decided they deserved to rule.

The noble who’s using war to reclaim stolen legacy.

The ex-hero who thinks the system can’t be saved, only reset.

The priest who truly believes the gods demand blood.

They’re not just evil, they’re a product of the same world the hero is trying to save.

─────── ✦ ───────

👁 STEP FIVE: SHOW US THEIR SELF-JUSTIFICATION You don’t need a tragic backstory™. But you do need to show us why they think they’re right. Not just with exposition, through action.

Let us watch them:

Protect someone.

Choose their goal over safety.

Justify the unjustifiable to a character who loves them.

Refuse to change, even when given a chance.

A villain who looks into the mirror and goes “Yes. I’m correct.” is 1000x scarier than one who sobs into a journal and says “I’m so broken 🥺.”

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 BONUS ROUND: DON’T MAKE THEM A HATRED MEGAPHONE Especially if you’re writing marginalized characters: don’t let your villain become a mouthpiece for slurs, abuse, or extremism just to make them “evil enough.” That’s lazy. And harmful.

You don’t need real-world hate speech to build a dark character. You need power, consequence, and intent.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: Good villains don’t need to be right. They need to be real. Not a vibe. Not a sad boy in a trench coat. Not a trauma monologue and then a sword fight. They need logic. They need cost. They need to scare you because you get them, and still want them to lose.

Make them dangerous. Not relatable. Make them whole. Not wholesome. Make them make sense.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // villain critic. final boss consultant. licensed chaos goblin

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[professorsparklepants]

Sorry I'm not over the framing of Hadestown as a cyclical story. This is an old, old song, but we're gonna sing it again. We've been singing it for hundreds, probably thousands of years. It is the oldest surviving opera, the second ever written. It is, I cannot express this enough, the most common opera adaptation of all time. As soon as this story existed we were putting it to music and on a stage. This is an old, old song. And we're gonna sing it again. Because we love to sing. And because we love.

[drgnflyteabox]

Fem!reader x 141

Honestly might be able to to something with the gross stuff I saw at the hardware store I used to work at (except make it hot and 141)

Imagine you're a cashier, the only one with early morning availability so you're there at 5:45am for the 6am start. It's always the worst kinds of contractors there: rude, tired, dirty, leering gazes and sexist comments

You're pretty sick of it, but you get paid a bit more than minimum wage and you're done by 11am so, you take it with a cheery smile and fast service

The 141 contracting company starts spending at your store. So much, in fact, that your manager personally takes you aside to mention just how much they do - nearly a million a year - and how no matter what, your job is to be nice and please them

Well, you can do that. You've dealt with crazy, awful old contractors screaming in your face about lumber prices at 6:30am more than once, heard them talking about your tit's or your ass right in front of you - you can handle it

Until the masked one comes in first and hes huge, dark hoodie and cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He hands you 3k in bills only there are bloodstains on them and he watches you closely the whole time you count them out

It's... not a first, but the look he gives you makes you shiver. Pale eyelashes, tall, intimidating

The second is nicer. Too nice, in fact. He charms you before you're even fully awake, and your shift goes by quickly thinking about that winning smile and the way he'd touched your fingers while he handed you a stack of bills... not to mention those soft brown eyes

The third is... intense, for 8am. He rolls on the balls of his feet, stares at you harder than the masked one. He offers to buy you a hot chocolate at the coffee shop next door and grins like you made a joke when you decline

Their boss is fucking dreamy. Even you have to admit it, trying not to look up at his mustached, frankly porno-esque face. He's huge, as tall as the others but thick, with a little pudge around his belly. He trudges in with thick workboots and a stained t shirt, pays for 24k worth of material with a lazy smile on his face like it's nothing

You might ask head cash to move you to the garden center after all...

[magicicephoenix]

i finally finished reading I see you, Sundrop! by @shirajellyfish and IT'S SO GOOD I CAN'T BELIEVE IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO FINISH IT RAAAAAAA

i will be gushing about it in the tags but here's a lil animation i made based on the below paragraph in chapter 6 that gave me such a strong mental image that i had to make it real :)

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Is it still you?

[GRAPHIC GORE⚠️]

His scars are jagged and awful, cutting deep into places of his body he wouldn't be able to recover from, or even live. So how did he?

[sleepgarden]

Pupa ✢ The writing reads:

Time envelops and keeps me Not awake / Not asleep In this chrysalis / In this shroud I am stillborn / I am buried alive Yet I change / I am changing / And I ache Held still

I started this over a year ago and came back to it periodically, but I decided to just finally finish it. It’s morphed, undone itself, and transformed many times in the process of illustrating it. Sincerely, I considered giving up on the piece. I am glad I didn’t despite its awkwardness; I admit that it doesn’t sit in the eye well. But somehow I feel that it suits the piece and what it means.

I am, if anything, relieved to have finished an illustration finally. It’s been nearly eight months since my last. Prints are available in my shop. (I also have mini prints for $5cad/$3.40usd!)

[ontherunnt]

Price with a sleeptalking partner

pairing: John Price x reader

wc: 903

warnings: none

John Price had never been a heavy sleeper. 

While it was a part of himself that had been apparent to him since before his time in the military, it would be foolish to say it didn’t play an important role in it. He rarely got more than a couple of hours of sleep, which his body had adapted to over the years—not without putting up a fight, that is. 

He’d always struggled with the civvie life. Before you came into his life—a whirlwind of colour and a warmth he did not believe himself capable of deserving—he’d hated sleeping outside of the comfort of his quarters. His house was suffocating in its quiet loudness.

He had become acquaintances with the cat who rummaged through his trash at three in the morning, on the dot. He still woke up whenever the fridge clicked without explanation in the middle of the night—that sharp, sudden noise that had him shoving a hand under his pillow before he could even process the fact that he didn’t need to aim his gun at an electrical appliance. The electrical line that had been busted for almost three months, constantly emitting a loud but sharp buzzing noise, had pushed him to the edge. 

Then you’d come along. Quietly, sneakily—like mould. And, God help him, he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life. A toothbrush here, spare socks there, your things all over his house. What could only be described as a parasitic infestation had never felt better. 

Along with your banter over lunch and your tea in his cupboard, came your…peculiar nightly habits. 

He’d heard of sleeptalkers, of course. He was guilty of his own nonsensical mumbling late at night after a string of stressful ops. But what you did wasn’t mumble or whisper softly—it was borderline paranormal. 

The first night he got to witness it, you were jolted awake by the sudden weight laid over your neck. His forearm pressed against your neck, gone as fast as it had appeared. You blinked once in shock, unsure as to what the hell had happened and if you had imagined it in the first place. It’d been John, the following morning, who recalled the events for you.

“Thought someone had broken in,” he mumbled, and if you hadn’t known any better you would’ve sworn he was mad at you. “Scared the shit outta me, love.”

He acclimated—unwillingly. While his military instincts were hard to quiet down, he become almost fond of the late-night conversations and complete lunacy that came out of your mouth whenever midnight rolled around. 

That night, he was woken up by the sound of you arguing with someone who had quickly become Price’s number one nemesis. 

“Colonel Duck,” you whispered with a frown on your face. “This was discussed in the briefing.”

John woke the way he usually did once his body had learned to recognize your nightly conversations as non-threatening—groggily, slow, exhausted. He lay on his side, propping himself up on his elbow while his other hand rested above your stomach. Your shirt, caught in sheets and whatever else you had done to it through the night, lifted to reveal your cold skin. He flattened his palm over your stomach as he stiffened a yawn. 

Outside, only the sound of a nearby creek and crickets were carried by the wind. Inside, Price watched as your nose scrunched at whatever this colonel had dared say to you—a civilian whose only contact with the army was through whatever the man shared with you.

He dragged his palm closer to your waist, twisting you effortlessly so that your chest would be pressed against his. He nuzzled your neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin in a way that earned a faint laugh from your otherwise serious façade. 

“John, do something,” you whined against his ear. “He won’t listen.”

Despite the exhaustion, he chuckled against your neck. He pressed a quick, albeit soft, kiss to your jaw before pulling away, feeling the tiredness that clung to his bones slowly bleed into his muscles. 

“M’afraid I can’t, love,” he whispered. “He’s a colonel.”

John’s smile widened at the sight of your pout—so genuine and upset he almost asked Laswell to dig through whatever archives needed to be dug to find this Colonel Duck who had plagued your dreams for the past two months. 

Your arm slid over his waist as you finally closed the distance between you. You muttered something he couldn’t hear, even in the silent room, before burying your nose in the crook of his neck. He chuckled—low and revibrating against your chest. 

“He’s drunk on power,” you mumbled with that voice he’d come to recognize as your finally going back to sleep voice. 

John laughed, then sighed at the feeling of your body going limp beneath him. He felt your hair against his chin and your breath against his skin. His fingers dug into your hip as his lips found your forehead. 

“We’ll report him,” he assured your sleeping form. 

He let his lips linger on your forehead for a beat longer before he let his head fall against the pillow again, arms safely wrapped around you. Your breathing evened, and he listened to it like a lull to fall asleep to. 

John Price had killed a general already. He’d take on a bloody colonel if needed. 

[egophiliac]

So,I read silver's relaxation vigente and now I'm sad for the poor boy. If lilia broke up silver's curse why is it acting so strongly on him?

to be fair, the chronological placement of his birthday story just doesn't make any sense in general. like, it can only really take place during his second year, since Ace and Malleus are both there...yet we have seen pretty definitively what Silver was doing on the evening before/morning of his 18th birthday, and it was very much NOT his history homework. this myth?

jk jk I think it's just one of those card stories that's meant to be more...perpendicular to canon, if that makes sense? 😅 like a lot of them aren't really supposed to fit into a specific point in the timeline; instead all the characters and relationships tend to be somewhere vaguely post-episode 1 (occasionally with a bonus post-6 Ortho) except Yuu is already friends with everyone and nobody is surprised to hear them call Malleus Tsunotarou.

mostly they can get away with it, but it starts getting a bit weird with the cards that are supposed to be set at specific times. :T for those I think you gotta just kind of suspend your disbelief and take 'em as, like...little what-if AUs, or something like that! it's not exactly not canon, but more like. this is Silver's birthday if none of the narrative development happened and so his curse is still in effect, or something. 🤷 uhhhh basically Twst's timeline is an eldritch thing that cannot be perceived by mortal eyes, to try will lead to nothing but suffering, down this path dwells only madness.

that said I do 100% accept the presented canon that Silver's roommate is in eternal torment. this is the real victim of Twst right here.

[unboundprompts]

Can you do some more body language descriptions? For different emotions like Worry, sadness, love, etc!! Ty🩷🩷

Body Language Descriptions

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Worry

She wrung her hands together, her fingers twisting nervously as she struggled to keep her thoughts in check.

He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze darting anxiously around the room.

She pulled at her sleeve, the movement repetitive and absentminded as her mind raced.

He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit that betrayed his inner turmoil.

They hugged their arms tightly across their chest, as if trying to hold themselves together.

She paced the room, her steps quick and uneven as she tried to shake off the nagging sense of dread.

Sadness

She wiped at her eyes, even though no tears had fallen yet.

He let his shoulders sag, his whole body slumping as if the weight of the world rested on him.

She clutched her scarf tightly, her fingers gripping the fabric like it was the only thing grounding her.

He kept his head low, staring at the ground as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

They let out a shaky exhale, the sound heavy with unspoken grief.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

Love

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile soft and shy as she met his gaze.

He brushed her hand lightly, the touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

They leaned closer, their knees nearly touching, as if drawn together by an invisible force.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression tender and full of quiet affection.

He laughed easily, the sound warm and unguarded, his gaze never leaving her face.

She reached out to fix his collar, her fingers lingering as she adjusted it carefully.

Guilt

He avoided her eyes, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

She rubbed her temples, her hands trembling.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still.

She clasped her hands tightly behind her back, her knuckles white as she fought to remain composed.

They bit their lower lip, their jaw tightening.

He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, his movements jerky and hesitant.

Fear

She took a step back, her breath quickening as her eyes darted to the nearest exit.

He clenched the fabric of his shirt over his chest, as if trying to steady his pounding heart.

She froze in place, her body stiff and her movements tentative, like a deer caught in headlights.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he fought to calm himself.

They pressed their back against the wall, their hands splayed out.

She whispered under her breath, her words shaky and barely audible.

Jealousy

He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening as his gaze followed her every move.

She tapped her foot impatiently, the rhythm sharp and irritated as she forced a smile.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the tension in his knuckles betraying his calm demeanor.

She cast a sideways glance, her lips pressed into a thin line.

They shifted in their seat, their shoulders stiff.

He ran his fingers through his hair, his movements brisk and frustrated as he fought to contain his thoughts.

Relief

She exhaled deeply, her shoulders dropping as the tension melted away.

He ran a hand down his face, his smile faint but unmistakably genuine.

She laughed shakily, her hand pressed to her chest as if trying to steady her racing heart.

He slumped against the nearest chair, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up.

They let their head fall back, their eyes closing as a soft, contented sigh escaped their lips.

She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the surface of the table as the weight lifted from her mind.

Embarrassment

She tugged at the collar of her shirt, her cheeks flushing as she avoided everyone’s gaze.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips twitching into an awkward, forced smile.

She bit her lip, her hands fluttering nervously.

He let out a strained laugh, scratching the side of his head.

They hid their face in their hands, peeking out between their fingers with a sheepish grin.

She stumbled over her words, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt as her cheeks burned bright red.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Alternatives for "She Smiled"

If you can't seem to find an alternative for this common phrase "she smiled". here's a list of different sentence variations.

She beamed brightly.

Her lips curled into a smile.

She flashed a radiant grin.

A smile lit up her face.

She offered a sheepish grin.

Her smile twinkled mischievously.

She gave a soft, serene smile.

A wry smile played on her lips.

She smirked subtly.

Her smile spread slowly across her face.

She smiled wistfully.

A gentle smile graced her features.

She smiled with her eyes.

Her smile was tinged with sadness.

She bestowed a gracious smile.

Her smile glimmered in the dim light.

She smiled coyly.

A giddy smile bubbled up.

She smiled, lips parting lightly.

Her smile was infectious.

She gave a knowing smile.

A tentative smile flickered across her face.

She smiled, eyes sparkling with delight.

Her smile warmed the room.

She smiled ruefully.

A conspiratorial smile crossed her face.

She smiled, a trace of irony evident.

Her smile was wide and welcoming.

She flashed a quick, evasive smile.

She smiled as if recalling a sweet memory.