#freewriting

[nanowrimo]

Smash Your Word Count Goals in 3 Easy Steps

from our sponsors at Freewrite

Here at Freewrite, we help writers reach peak productivity in order to meet word count goals and create their best work yet. That’s our reason for being.

Today, we’re going to share the three easy steps proven by science to help you reach your writing goals!

1) Set A Goal & Write It Down

The psychology of goal setting is pretty clear. It’s what NaNoWriMo is all about, right? Research has proven that people who set goals experience higher motivation and are more likely to feel accomplished.

However, the type of goal you set makes a big difference to your efforts. Make sure that your goals are (a) clear and specific, (b) realistic, and (c) measurable.

Being clear about your goal will help you hone in on what you’re trying to achieve and ignore distractions. Make sure to write it down, as well. Research by psychologist Gail Matthews has revealed that people who write down goals are 33% more successful than those who simply set a goal in their head.

Next, be realistic. This means being honest with yourself about what you can and can’t achieve based on your other life obligations. Setting goals that you can’t achieve will only lead to frustration and, ultimately, a lack of motivation.

And last, make sure each goal is measurable. “Write 1,000 words each day” is much easier to measure than “Finish this book.” Because we all know it’s difficult to measure a book being “done”!

Breaking these goals down into smaller, simpler steps will help, too. If your goal is to write 20,000 words during Camp NaNo, break that down into 5,000 words a week, and then figure out how many words you’ll have to write each day to reach those smaller goals.

2) Practice Freewriting

Freewriting is thinking. It’s as simple — and as difficult — as that.

While every writer is unique, and there is no one way to be a writer, there are similarities we all share as humans — especially humans in the modern world — that create common obstacles to doing the things we love — like reading, writing, and yes, thinking. There are the obvious external obstacles: social media, email, the internet. But there are sneaky internal obstacles, too — the main culprit being the inner critic.

As humans, we are judgmental. It’s in our DNA. Our brains are constantly assessing situations, imagining outcomes, and making decisions. It’s part of survival at a very basic level. However, that means that when we do anything, including writing, we tend to automatically assess our actions — judging our own words, tweaking and editing them as we go along. That constant evaluation not only hinders progress, it can also stop us from ever getting started. And if we do manage to sit down to write, that inner critic creates an unconscious anxiety that prevents us from experimenting and writing down our most innovative and creative — and weird! — ideas.

We’ve all heard the advice to “write now, edit later.” Or perhaps you’ve heard writers reference “the sloppy/crappy/messy first draft.” Those are just fun ways of referencing the writing method in which you separate the drafting process from the editing process. Or, what we call freewriting.

Many people haven’t written this freely since childhood, but there’s a reason this method is taught in MFA programs. Getting your thoughts down first and revising later increases productivity and yields better, more creative work because it allows you to give your brain fully to each task. It means that when you’re drafting, you’re drafting, and when you’re editing, you’re editing. There’s no context-switching or multitasking.

So, what if you gave yourself permission to write badly at first? And we don’t just mean cheesy or with glaring plot holes — we mean typos, missing words, character names replaced by big Xs because you couldn’t remember them in the moment.

The next time you draft, we challenge you to give it a try. Just let yourself go and give your thoughts and feelings over to the act of creating. Because that’s when the magic happens. 

3) Track Your Stats

OK, you’ve set measurable goals, and you’ve started drafting. What’s next?

Track your efforts!

Here at Freewrite, we’ve created a tool to automatically track important writing stats, like word count, writing days, writing streak, and more! It’s called a Postbox Profile, and it gives you a unique URL that allows you to share your stats with writing friends.

Anyone with a Postbox account — that’s anyone who writes on a Freewrite OR uses our free in-browser drafting tool, Sprinter — can create a Postbox Profile and track their stats.

👉Don’t have a Freewrite yet? No problem! We have a FREE in-browser drafting experience called Sprinter that helps you shut down distractions and make progress — and gives you access to Postbox. Start writing today absolutely FREE at sprinter.getfreewrite.com.

👉Ready to grab your own Freewrite? Our entry-level device, Alpha, is $50 off this June only! Just use code STARTWITHALPHA at checkout.

[marshdiver]

"Are you there?" "I'm here. I really am."

A flickering bulb strains against the dark. We sit beneath it, across from each other. Wall to wall, eye to eye. The light is dying, but we are alive.

I reach for your hand — there’s your warmth, knuckles pressing close. My eyes learn the dark, shape you out of absence, trace you from memory. We doze off. Here, here, here. And I breathe easy, because you are.

Then time forgets itself. The bulb flickers one last time, and I stop seeing at all. But still, I call. "Here."

I stop. Then — an answer, distant. Hollow. A shape without a body. A sound without weight.

I reach again, fingertips searching every inch — but instead of you, only the smooth wall. Was it always that cold?

"Here," I call once more. "Here," I hear, my own voice falling back onto me.

Not you. Not even the shadow of you. Just me.

I let the quiet settle. It has been here far longer than I knew. Maybe I only just noticed the empty space where you used to be. When did you leave? Why didn't you nudge me back awake?

It's time to go home, the hallway's empty. I won't shut the door. The wind will. You know where to find me.

I hope you remember the way.

[writelikethrollope]

watched a skillshare course about freewriting last Saturday and I think I will try to make this a daily routine just for funsies, just to see how it goes. I'm already writing more in my journal that I used to, which is good, but I'd also like to get back into fiction and this seems like a way to ease back into it. I'm starting with 6 minutes a day because making it doable is better than making it grandiose (and once I start I don't wanna stop anyway)

[twcfaces]

He comes home. He goes to work. He kisses his wife. He goes to work. He stares up at a poster that reads RO-DENT. He goes to work. His wife is getting worried. You used to come home earlier. If you can't talk to me about it, talk to your doctor, please.

She knows she doesn't know what happened.

I barely see you. This isn't good for you. I know you're hurting, but I can't help you if you don't tell me how.

He kisses his wife. He has a headache. He goes to work. He calls his doctor mother. He needs help.

He looks up how to get gasoline out of his clothes. He watches a man set himself on fire. He watches it again and again. It's someone from the Youth Center. He looks up how to get gasoline off of his skin. He still smells it for days. Everyone does.

A man on trial tells him he deserved it. No, not the gasoline. No, his son is the one who deserved it. He's saying he deserved it. He deserved it. The bailiff pulls him away and he rages against it. No, let me kill that fucker I'll beat his goddamn brains out I'll let him rot in the dark fighting the rats for scraps fighting the rats for scraps.

Sick all the way to his heart.

His wife holds him. He's ruined everything. She doesn't know what happened in there. Down there. If he was good, his father wouldn't have done it.

What kind of monster would tell their child that they deserved it?

My monster. My father.

He goes to work. He goes to work.

[that-expat-girl]

In the moment before you begin, there is only emptiness -- and fear: the fear that you have spent what magic you once had, that the words will not come.

In the silence of the empty page, abandonment calls. Would it not be easier to turn away, to put down the pen, to do anything else but write?

Perhaps. But that is not why you have come to the table, that is not why you are here.

So you take a deep breath...

And you begin.

[valkyrjuk]

When I entered His hall, I had lots of hopes.

I hoped He would be terrifying.

I hoped He would be wrathful.

I hoped He would be pathetic.

I hoped He would be omnipotent.

I hoped He would be weak.

I hoped He would be omniscient.

I hoped He would be a fool.

I hoped He would be omnipresent.

I hoped His throne would be cold and empty. A layer of dust upon its seat. The candles ensconced adjacent snuffed out for some time, or the wax having pooled on the floor and dripped in cataracts as the wicks came to their eventual end. As I dismantled His heavenly host with a silvered sword, as I cut through His chosen and the eternal, ethereal engines that were His servants and the frontline in His defense until that silvered sword was dulled to nothing more than a blunt rod that I used to flog the masses of sinners and saints until I was through, as I slaughtered angels and tore apart the Seraphim with my hands and my teeth until gilded golden metals and the gore of eyes and the fur of feathers was spread across the glittering white landscape, illuminated beneath the manifestation of His smiling face, and my hands and my face were burned, and my naked body slathered in the secondary destruction of billions, I found that my hopes and my fears were so entangled I could not distinguish one from another – not until after. Not until a long, long time after.

But there was one fear I had, one fear I had the whole time I was doing it. Betrayed by that mad thing, that eternal thing, my life, my love, my everything stolen from me either by chance or fate or His grand design I knew not, but my fear was that no matter what He had done or did not do I would look upon him and instead of resolve and supremacy and pure, blinding hatred, the hatred that carried me through so far and against so much, I feared I would see His face and His loving embrace and I would in turn love Him.

When I pushed open the gates to His hall and smeared them with ichor and soot I did not waver upon seeing him there, so far off at its gleaming conclusion yet so close at hand. I stalked His hall, dragging that silvered rod along the floor for so long it took on itself another point and became a spear not unlike the one that finally killed His own son seemingly exactly at the moment I was before Him and I was faced with my decision. I looked on Him and my fear was gone for He was a man just as I, for I was made in His image, so he is made in Mine. He opened His arms wide, and with a smile on His face he did embrace me, and as our nakedness touched I felt the warmth of His skin I also felt how hot was His blood, what ran scarlet down the length of my wand and poured from His back as He lay down on the white floor of His hall. Awkwardly did he lay, for the point was pushed through Him, and in pulses that grew weak he whispered only: “I am sorry,” and I seethed, my teeth were clenched, and I pushed it through harder so I might drive His heart through His chest, and He gasped.

And I took my hands from the handle, coated now in His blood, and I smeared it across His face as I took it in my hands and my worst fear came to life for I did love Him, yet His eyes were dim, His skin was pallid, His head was limp, and as I saw Him gaze into the middledistance at nothing, and no one, and no where, and at no future I knew I could ask no forgiveness because there was nobody now who could administer it.

Now heaven is mine.

Full of corpses that will never rot. Unaccompanied even by the ghosts of this dead, heavenly empire. Alone forever and for all time. Stuck here with no one to ever again enter these pearlescent gates. Trapped beneath a vision of eternal grace. His smiling face, never to dim, never to fade, a haunting that never ends.

And heaven, my heaven,

Has become hell.

inspired by this clip (and my subsequent reply...): https://www.reddit.com/r/Eldenring/s/0ebVaryUb5

[fr-lostspace]

Arrow

She’s one of the fiercest warriors. She’s seen every war.

While others her age are still figuring life out, She’s out there— Working her ass off, Swallowing the bitterness life keeps pouring in.

She moves without pause, Dreaming of a life without pain, Wishing, just once, For everything to stop.

She’s been stabbed, Left to bleed, And now— She’s just looking for a place to rest. To finally lay it all down.

From all the pain, The scars she never asked for— She wants only one thing now, Peace.

[lovingthebadguys]

04.08.25

I want to start a war

And show my rage.

I want to shout in the rain

‘Cause there’s a storm in my heart.

Instead I swallowed the thunder

So the lightning made no sound.

-d.m.

[thedoorhandler]

The Telepathic District

"See you in the dream"

The "Telepathic District" was a classified mind experiment of secondary, yet significant nature that sought to explore the collective unconscious and the potential of shared telepathic communication within a constructed mental environment which was drawn, designed and memorized beforehand - an all-natural metaverse, so to speak.

The experiment took place within a cleanly mapped-out fictional district - a psychic playground of sorts - where our psychics and other employees within 5SD would try to interact beyond the confines of physical space, and later confirm to each other their activities they both executed or encountered in this mental space in an organized fashion.

The district featured easily recognizable and straightforward infrastructural components such as:

A pub

An avenue with benches to take walks, relax and meet

A public park with a water fountain

A small tram that would drive back and forth from both ends of the district.

The participants were tasked with memorizing the layout and frequently visiting this mental landscape in their subconscious while being physically distant from each other. The initial phase involved simple activities like testing the presence and recognition of each other, leaving messages for one another, telekinetic interactions with objects, recognizing gestures or postures, and silent observations of each other's mental avatars including the surroundings.

A consistent component, such as the small tram going back and forth in certain intervals, was integrated into the experimental map to test if its position can be recognized and matched by the participants. One of the goals was to recognize whether the movement and stopping of the tram on both ends gains an autonomous activity based on the shared subconscious "imagination" or expectation of the participants.

The duration of this experiment lasted 5 weeks. Sessions would be compartmented in days and shaped into a clear structure to note all occurrences effectively and distraction-free. In terms of the water fountain, the experiment was to gather recognition whether the fountain would shoot water on certain days, which was meant to be confirmed and denoted by all participants.

Each place within the mental realm was visited, observed and occupied in a sequence: Meeting at the avenue, visiting the water fountain, visiting the pub, and watching the position of the tram. The participants would write their encounters and experiences down so that the collected material would be compared with the experiences of all the participants at the end of the experiment. During the experiment, no information was divulged between each other as to not create and distraction or "pollution" of the experience.

As the project evolved, so did the unforeseen complexities of the human psyche. Some members reported experiencing matching vivid emotional exchanges and even the occasional clash of wills, while others claimed to have stumbled upon hidden, introspective truths about themselves and their colleagues. For example, if two individuals would wave at each other at the avenue, the chance of matching recognitions would be measured at 25.1% to 55%. Yet, it was often reported that many interactions would be either too fast-paced, unsteady, or vague.

In those follow-up reports to match and confirm occurrences, some participants would indeed write down the name of who they saw sitting on the bench, for example, and describe specific details of the observation, focusing only on the necessities. Specifics such as clothing worn were included at times, but not overly emphasized - both in the experiences and the reports.

Notes were recorded, for example, as follows:

DEAN "Jack waved at me from the bench. The tram was at stop A." JACK "I waved at Dean from the bench. The tram was at stop A."

Or:

MARY "I saw Dean near the water fountain. There was no water. He recognized me." DEAN "I was at the water fountain. I saw no water. I did not see anyone else."

The conclusion of this project remained inconclusive, despite certain interlocking situations of various participants would recognize a match in examples like the position of the tram, or meeting at the pub, or which drink they chose at the pub.

While some participants reported successful telepathic interactions, others found themselves lost in a labyrinth of their own thoughts. The fact that another party would appear in either of those places was largely dependent on each participant's ability to "tap" into this uncertain, unpredictable territory. Although everyone was well aware of the layout and design of the district, both mismatches and matches occured relatively equally. The performance and efforts of all individuals involved could not have been more ambitious. Yet, the idea to further refine those skills prevailed.

We decided to treat the endeavor as an ongoing process of discovery rather than a definitive "victory" or "failure". What once was a lightly classified and unconventional project, it took the shape of a shareable "fun game" for anyone who has the time, patience, and individuals to to execute such undertaking wilfully and organizedly.

One thing can be stated: It is a long and sometimes tiring process, and it occasionally raised the question among ourselves: "What the hell are we doing?". After all, such experiment was both valuable and worth trying. It would take only the natural person, without any immersive technology or tricks, to engage in this activity of "imaginative telepathy".

Some of the main questions, before this experiment, were: - Can intelligence be exchanged telepathically? - Can a safe space be created within the mental space? - Can lucid dreaming be used to make conscious contact between the minds of two physically separate individuals? - Can multiple individuals appear at those places simultaneously?

The Telepathic District is technically still up and running, and hypothetically just an empty district. That being said, we can only say: "See you in the dream!". The pub is always open.

[azus-reyan]

Entry 11: Yesterday, I posted my freewriting. Not a great plan.

Normally, one doesn’t post their freewriting. It’s, well, weird. But I did.

Guess what that means?

The thing about freewriting is that it’s not really about thinking.

Well, you do think, but that shackle is loosened. I call thinking a shackle because, for the most part, it holds writers back. And by writers, I mean anyone who creates stories or creative work.

See, people connect with stories from the heart. Stories that touch the soul and speak to something within.

But then comes thinking.

Most authors pour their ideas when they’re still pure, and use thinking afterwards to polish the piece.

But if you’re not careful, thinking can also muddle that rawness. Kind of like adding water to wine—diluting the essence of the ingredients.

With freewriting, you turn down that thinking mechanism. You’re writing in a way that feels almost like learning to write all over again.

It’s personal, messy, and filled with raw ideas (for the most part)…

And you’re not supposed to post it.

Writer’s block. It’s one of the most common problems that plague writers.

If you ask an author why he has this ailment, he’ll passive-aggressively answer with, “If I knew the why, would I be in this predicament?”

After a brief reconsideration that makes you realize how stupid that question was, you try a more sensible approach.

“What I meant was, how do you feel when you’re experiencing writer’s block?”

The author could answer in many ways, but the most common response is, “I’m stuck.”

Ah, perfect, you think. Finally, you can help the guy who never asks for it.

“Why don’t you freewrite?” You ask, with a voice that doesn’t hide the muffled beating undertone of your heart.

“Freewrite? Well, I would if I could, but you see, I’m stuck. You know, U.N.A.B.L.E T.O W.R.I.T.E?!!!”

Sensing the definite irritability in his voice, you carefully suggest, “Why don’t you start with something simple? Like… Banana. And Just go from there.”

“I WOULD IF I COULD YOU F*CKING CUN… wait… Banana you say? Banana is a good word. But… um… Banana… Banana… Banana. Hey, wait, where did you go?”

Too late, you’re out.

Several hours later...

You meet the writer on better terms, casually chatting about life until he suddenly brings up the topic with surprising enthusiasm.

He goes on and on about how banana was the perfect word to write with—perfectly balanced between elegance and simplicity. How it showcases the flexibility of the English language, all while peppering in complex words only a writer would use.

You’re happy to have been of help, though you’re trying hard to forget that he screamed at you earlier.

“So, can I see it?” You ask, knowing very well what his answer will be.

“The book?”

“No, the banana piece.”

“Oh, that? I trashed it, of course.”

You know he didn’t trash it. You also know that he knows that you can just get it from the dustbin.

You also thrice know, that when he gets like this, you can’t snatch the piece from his cold, dead hands. So you sip your coffee and pass the day with a much more pleasant subject.

But I’m not much of a writer, so I posted it to the world!

My excuse? Being lazy, or rather, I was lazy yesterday Friday.

I like to chill on Fridays, and while writing could help with that, I consider it work. You’d have a better chance of seeing the sun rise in the west than me working on a Friday. Not my vibe.

So, I thought, why not write about something that doesn’t start with “banana”—like the light to the left of my keyboard? And wait, wouldn’t it be perfect to just post it for the whole world to see?

Normally, my freewriting feels better when I’m handwriting. But I typed this one out and had to wrestle with the idea of actually posting it.

A small confession: I have a serious case of perfectionism. Most writers do. And there’s no better cure for it than to put your very worst forward.

I had a rough night after that.

I might try again, but who knows when. Probably not anytime soon.

See ya.

[ramyeonpng]

It’s like when your computer somehow downloads a virus and it’s slowing processes in the background but you’re just trying to watch a Youtube video in the front and it’s not buffering because your computer is about to die.

#quotes

[leveysmusings]

After a long time, trying something new.

SS - @//casualblab on Instagram

[jpthreeper]

[that-expat-girl]

Nostalgia has a certain glow, a warmth that comes from remembering. As the day slips away beyond the windows and the bluebell sky gives way to pressing night, we revisit a place only half familiar. The details, once worn like grooves into the material of my mind are fuzzed by time and absence. Yet still, I know the end of the story, and it is that which makes the journey yet worthwhile.

[tapwrites]

Freewriting Exercise to Stretch the Writing Muscles

This exercise helps you get used to writing, and get used to not judging or editing yourself while writing, to let the words flow.

People can find it hard to get back into writing after a hiatus, or struggle to write more than a few words before they start nit-picking their work. This is even good for people who have never done creative writing before!

Start a 5 minute timer. (An easy way of doing that is searching Google for "5 minute timer" and it'll start one!)

Write. Start with a word. Then another. Keep writing, and don't stop! It doesn't have to make sense, it doesn't have to be good, no one has to see it. You can't stop writing for more than a second for any reason! No time to think! (Not sure what to write? Pick something you see and begin describing it. Or look up a short prompt and use it as the first words. Just continue the sentence!)

When the timer goes off, you're allowed to stop. But if the feeling takes you, just carry on as long as you feel like it.

If able, try handwriting instead of typing. Handwriting is slower, so your brain has more time to mull over what to write next.

When doing the exercise in a group, you could read what you've written out. As you listen to what others have written, look for good things to point out. (They'll probably only notice the bad.)

If you manage to do this once a day, you'll build up "muscle memory" of sitting down to write and actually writing for a good amount of time instead of your editor-brain interrupting.

Maybe you like what you wrote enough to edit it, or expand on it. Who knows? In one of these freewriting sessions, you may come up with some interesting ideas for your next story!