#scrawlsbysparrow

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Idk if your still taking writing prompts so have this maybe hero x villain prompt that won't leave my mind

"The flowers bloomed from your corpse will be far more beautiful than you ever could"

"And that's okay"

The detective stared at her from across the table, eyes dragging across her face so slowly time might as well have stopped.

He was incredibly good at his job, she could give him that.

Every movement he made was calculated. Hands clasped neatly on the table. Posture straight. Head tilted just slightly, to make him seem trustworthy. His burgundy hair fell over his shoulder in a mess of waves and tangles.

Perhaps, if she wasn't so familiar with him, she could've had the luxury of falling for the facade.

Perhaps he would've believed it would work on her. He was playing the part for the cameras, for the officials watching behind a screen. It wasn't him. He would have threatened her, blackmailed her, pulled ice out of nothing and dropped the temperature by 60 degrees.

The only sign he had skills at all was the frost beneath his hands swirling intricate patterns on the metal. Practically invisible to the cameras, but a sharp reminder for her.

He was well aware of how weakened they'd left her. Stripped her of her skills, left her with nothing. He would win a battle with barely a flick of the wrist.

"You are aware of your rights, and of what consequences come with pleading innocent."

Not a question.

"Yes."

"You are accused of violating new nation law, acting without the supervision of a nation official, using skills without registering in the national database, evading arrest, and breach of the peace during arrest, in which it was witnessed that you argued with an official."

Her lips thinned. She'd evaded arrest from him, argued with him. He'd switched so fast, she'd hardly had time to react. He was the villain for a moment, and then the officials arrived, and he was the government worker. Speaking like he'd simply 'stumbled upon her', and 'how did this one get past the database?'

"Because of your status as a former-skilled, you are not granted rights to an attorney," he continued. "Two officials witnessed your actions. How do you plead?"

The frost was creeping up the wall now, beneath the camera. Out of sight of the officials.

"Innocent." She kept his gaze, almost a dare. If he started a fight here, he would go down with her.

He raised his eyebrows, a quick thing. Nice try. Then the look was gone, and he was the detective once more. "A pity."

Frost climbed higher.

"You will be sentenced to death, and your fate will not be publicized. Your existence will be wiped from all databases, your home burned. You are a felon."

Something crackled. Her gaze snapped up.

The frost was choking the camera, pulling it from the wall and severing the live picture.

It dropped, still smoking.

"What--"

"You are stupid." He flicked his wrist, and the frost dissolved to steam. "You did all this, and for what? An adrenaline rush?'

"It's my job."

He scoffed. "Perhaps fifteen years ago, it was. It's no longer legal, nor mandated. You did it because you're egotistical. You're so incredibly full of yourself."

"What a hypocritical statement," she snapped. "You're living two lives! Killing people who don't agree with the laws that you actively break! How do you rationalize that?"

"I don't," he said impassively.

"I will laugh when they find out who you are." She could barely breathe, the words coming so quickly, so angrily. "The flowers will weep tears of joy so potent even the hemlock will turn sweet."

He leveled her with a look. "The flowers bloomed from your corpse will be far more beautiful than you ever were."

"Good."

The door slid open and half a dozen officials poured in. Demanding answers, helping him from the chair, checking to make sure he wasn't injured.

He adjusted his face, his posture. "I don't know what happened. She was so angry when I told her the sentencing. Perhaps her skills weren't taken correctly. Yes, I'm fine. Rattled a bit, but fine nonetheless."

He shot her a sardonic look over a shoulder as he continued to answer their questions. "It was so hypocritical, using her skills to try to hurt me. Certainly deserving of the sentence."

Cuffs around her wrists.

"Careful, she's dangerous!"

They pulled her from the room.

His laugh echoed.

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The bartender tossed the towel back over his shoulder and leaned forward so his elbows were on the bar and his hands were steeped. "I will not serve a love potion, no matter the proof."

"But a 1%--"

"No."

The dirt of a man across from him narrowed his eyes, greased hair falling in his face. "You're a bartender. You're supposed to serve me."

"And I will." The bartender didn't move. He caught the gaze of the girl who'd come in with the dirt, flowered skirts and hair braided intricately atop her head in blonde knots. He shot her a warning look. "But I will not serve that."

Tension grew sharper than the pure alcohol in bottles on the wall. A muscle rippled in the dirt's jaw.

Behind him, the girl slipped out the door.

"Now, what can I get you?”

“You know what I want,” the man growled, leaning closer He reached for something at his side.

The bartender poured the contents of his shaker into a glass and tipped it back before the man could react. He coughed a moment, letting the taste of the drink linger.

“What was that?” the man asked.

“A potion of strength. Or fire. Or perhaps shadow? I’m not exactly sure. Hints of extreme power, to be sure.” He set the shaker down, hands shaking as the drink took hold.

The man’s eyes widened just a bit. “I—” He glanced at the table his ‘date’ had escaped. “I need to find her. Uh—”

The door slammed shut behind the dirt, bringing with it a brush of cool evening air.

The bar now empty, the bartender poured the rest of the shaker into his glass. He took a sip and let cool water clear his throat. No alcohol. No hint of magic. Just clear river water.

He didn’t drink. He preferred to make the drinks, not take them. Besides, the magic didn’t even work on him. He’d found that out long ago.

But, for times like these, it was useful to pretend he was. To scare off the dirt and all.

You were just a bartender—until a portal dropped you into a world of magic. Now, your cocktail skills blend potions like no one’s ever seen. Healing with a twist of lime. Fireballs with a salted rim. You don’t cast spells. You serve them.

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In honor of my starting Spy x Family, here are some

Fake Dating Spies Prompts!

(in which they don’t realize the other is a spy)

1.) A won’t stop talking to B on their date. B is desperately trying to keep track of their target, who’s across the room, but it’s getting hard.

2.) B, quiet and rather emotionless, taps out their thoughts in Morse Code. A knows Morse Code but doesn’t let on.

3.) Similary, A knows floriography (flower symbolism/coded communication through flowers), and leaves messages in their weekly arrangements.

4.) A laid out their findings in front of their boss, all maps, diary entries, favorite foods, and whatever else they’d gathered from B. “They haven’t caught on. I believe—”

The window shattered before A could continue, and B leapt to the basement floor. “Do not lay a hand on them.”

A froze for a moment, then realized—B, a simple civilian, thought A had been captured by the enemy.

B had come to rescue A from A’s own boss.

Hm. An awkward position.

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Writing Prompt #2

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but I—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say you love me.”

“Um, okay, I was going to say I think a hotdog should be considered a sandwich and here’s why—”

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Finding Real Life in Characters

something I’ve found compelling is the beauty of life in characters.

I recently finished a story about a deeply hurt character, one who’d been betrayed and shattered, one who very well could have been written as a dark, unkind, and brooding man.

The author could have brushed past his trauma, as so many artists and writers do, watering down the sharp gravity of pain into nothing but a ‘sad backstory, but he’s attractive so it doesn’t matter much’ beat. It’s certainly worked for sales in the past.

That sounds a bit harsh, I suppose, but I’d forgotten how it felt to see such understanding kindness displayed in media. I specifically remember a line that (paraphrased) said, “I want to tell you ‘I’m sorry’ again, but this isn’t about me. You don’t need to be reassuring me right now. This is about taking care of you. You’re allowed to cry. There is so much strength in allowing yourself to feel those things.”

And I can’t stop thinking about it. Despite everything this character had gone through—from being taken advantage of to losing everything he knew—he loved people. He found broken pieces of his own grief in others and helped them find their way to continue, showing that it’s okay to cry, it’s not weak to ask for help and healing, it’s necessary to feel.

He said, “I don’t know what you’re going through. These [circumstances] are felt and perceived differently by everyone. But I have been to dark places before, too, and you’re not going to heal by shutting yourself off.”

So often we write, draw, imagine characters as better versions of people. They’re more good, more attractive, more angsty—they let us forget the bad parts of ourselves. But characters are also meant to show us how to live through our mistakes and/or pain.

Yes, he had a tragic backstory, and it affected his choices, his words, his personality. Of course it did, it’s realistic. But the ‘tragic backstory’ gave him character motivation and realism, not something to make him appear attractive or mysterious to other characters.

He respected others’ boundaries because his had been ignored. He was scared of change and opening up because it had cost him. He was gentle when others were in emotional pain because he knew how it could damage. And we saw this in the everyday, not just the plot points and angsty scenes.

There is something so true and real about seeing how life affects everyone differently. Seeing how it’s possible to change and possible to live past hurt.

He was an absolutely incredible character. I wish I could explain this better, maybe one day I’ll be able to, but life in writing—life with a past of pain, life that changes to keep that pain from happening again, life that heals and helps, despite what happened, is absolutely unforgettable.

Realness in characters is what makes art and story so addicting.

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I’m baaaaaack!

I’ve been writing some heavier things lately, so here’s a cute little love story.

They’re on a date when their coworkers SUDDENLY SHOW UP and they have to IMPROVISE why they’re together when EVERYONE THINKS they’re still ENEMIES.

Also they’re editors at a publishing company. On a date at a bookstore.

—————

His eyes left the cafe menu, landing on her with eyebrows raised and a smile curving the edges of his lips. “Are you going to order?”

“I’m good!”

“You have to get a coffee every time you come in here. It’s bookstore rules.” He took his wallet from his trench coat.

She loved the way he looked in that coat. On any other person it would have looked rather corny, but with his dark hair falling out of its style, brown eyes matching the stitching, that look—

“Could we also get a venti mocha with soy milk to go with the misto?” He nudged her once the barista was back to making drinks, eyes full of mischief. “Is there a stain?”

She swallowed. Coughed. How did he know her coffee order? “I’m admiring it, that’s all. The stitching is just… very nice. Very straight.”

She was horrible at lying.

He laughed, softly enough not to be heard. “Mm. You want to try it on?”

He shrugged out of the coat and draped it over her shoulders before she could say that no, she was fine, and—

Oh.

It was soft. And warm. It smelled of old books and tea, of the outdoors and spilt ink.

She tried very hard not to show her reaction on her face. Because of course his coat would be the thing that made her blush.

Without the coat, she realized just how much he’d dressed up for their date. Their date. It was strange, calling it that, but that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

He’d chosen a forest green button-up tucked into a pair of tan trousers and oh, he knew how to dress. It made her feel rather underdressed in her dress and tights. Should she have chosen something more formal? Something dressy?

“Is the stitching nice on the shirt, too?”

“You look very nice.”

“‘Very nice’,” he repeated, meeting her gaze and grinning that smile he often shot her across the conference table when their boss liked his ideas. “That’s the second time in five minutes. Aren’t you a book editor?”

She was definitely blushing now. She was usually good at returning his remarks, but this… this was catching her off guard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had such an ego. Let me try again. ‘The shirt’s stitching pulled the outfit together in a way that showed he had picked the shirt with care. It brought out the soft brown of his eyes and the light streaks of blond in his hair, but did nothing to help his own pride, which the girl was far too aware of.’”

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

“You like the color of my eyes, then.”

Of course, out of that whole paragraph, that’s what he was choosing to focus on. Of course she liked the color of his eyes, who wouldn’t? But that wasn’t the point—

“Order for Cyrus?”

The barista held the cups over the counter, glancing between them as if wondering how long she’d have to wait for them to just take their order.

She grabbed the cups and offered an apologetic smile before trying to hand the misto over. He didn’t take it. Instead, he was staring out over the tables, watching something at the front of the store...

Crap.

Their coworkers had just walked in. The whole lot of them, all eight people from the editing floor of Snow & Spring Publishing. If the two of them didn’t move, it would be painfully awkward trying to explain why they, the two most competitive editors on the floor, were together. Alone.

He finally grabbed the coffee, taking her free hand with his and moving towards the back of the store. “Come on, come on. We have to go.”

“We can’t exactly leave!”

“I know!” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “You know which area they’d avoid.”

“Children’s?”

He let out a strangled laugh. “We’re not hiding in the children’s section, somewhere else. Nonfiction?”

Hiding?!

The only genre their coworkers would avoid would be— “Young adult. Go to young adult!”

He made a sharp turn, practically yanking her behind him into the stacks of young adult books. She stumbled.

Somehow ended up on the floor in a pile of books, a too-big coat, and him only inches away.

Her coffee half-spilled all over the floor and the books and the both of them.

They were quiet for several moments.

“Hm.” He nodded.

He said it so matter-of-factly, so seriously that she couldn’t very well not laugh. It was all so horribly awkward and strange, sitting in a heap of coffee and stained books while he just stared between her and the mess, his own lip quivering as he suppressed his laughter.

“Be—” his words came out cracked as he bit back a laugh. “Be quiet, they’ll hear!”

His hair was a mess now, his outfit rumpled. She was sure she looked very similar, except covered in chocolate soy milk coffee. And his coat! She began untangling herself from it, but he shook his head, eyes dancing.

“Keep it. I can get another. One that’s not coffee scented.”

He began gathering the fallen books, stacking them in a wrinkled mess.

“Are you just going to put them back on the shelf?” she asked.

He shot her an incredulous look. “No, I’m not going to leave ruined books on the shelf. I’ll buy them and… give them away. I have connections and a lot of younger cousins.”

That was rather sweet, actually. Not something she’d assume he’d do. She grabbed a handful of books and went to add them to the stack, but a specific title and cover gave her pause.

“A Throne of Love and Lies.” She held it up so he could see the illustrated couple on the front, their outfits rather strange for what seemed to be a historical fantasy novel.

He snatched it from her and added it to the pile without sparing even a glance. “Mm. Interesting.”

He didn’t say it impolitely, exactly, but he didn’t look at her either. Was he annoyed? She hadn’t ever seen him so cagey.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your coat. Let me buy you another one.”

He looked up at that. “No, no. That’s not… it’s nothing. Truly.”

Unless…

She grabbed another copy from the ground and flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. Exactly where she knew it would be.

Thompson Hill Publishers

“You helped publish this when you were an intern, didn’t you? Thompson Hill Publishers, 2019. A book about princesses and elves and romance—”

He tried to grab the book from her again, but she held it out of reach. “Give me—how do you even know where I interned? Did you go through my LinkedIn?”

“I… like to know about my coworkers.”

“Ah, so you stalked me. Actually, that does sound in-character for you.”

“You’re changing the subject. You interned on this book, didn’t you? And here I was, thinking you only enjoyed nonfiction and Edgar Allan Poe. But no, you worked on a book about fantasy romance.” She was laughing again. His entire reaction made sense now. He was trying to hide the fact he’d worked on such a novel.

“It was my sophomore year of college!” He reached for it again, this time grabbing her arm and reeling it towards him like a fishing line. “I needed to network. But if you tell anyone about this, I will never speak to you again.”

She feigned an apologetic look. “Oh, was I not supposed to? I already ordered copies for the entire staff. We’re having a reading party next week in your honor.”

“That’s hilarious.” He pulled the book from her grasp. “Now if you don’t keep it down—”

“Their eyes locked from across the ballroom. What was the villain doing here? He was supposed to be far away, doing something illegal, but instead he was only a ballroom away. And he looked—”

“How do you keep finding more copies?” But he was smiling, even trying to hide it. His brown eyes sparkling, his jaw quivering with a suppressed laugh.

She didn’t know the last time she’d felt this gleeful. Being here, with him, made everything comfortable and bright and, for some reason, easier.

He stood suddenly, the books dropping from his lap with a thump, and cleared his throat. “Hello. I didn’t know you guys were here.”

Their coworkers peered over them, their expressions ranging from surprise to confusion.

He nudged her with his foot and she stood, too. Waved. “Hi.”

“You’re wearing his coat…?” one of their coworkers said, her eyes flicking between them.

Oh.

Oh.

She yanked it off and practically threw the coffee-stained thing back into his arms. He caught it easily. Cleared his throat again.

This looked far too much like a date.

Which it was. But that was exactly why it was horrible timing that their coworkers had found them. Together. On the floor. Surrounded by romance books.

“Well,” she nodded seriously, “I really have to get a better understanding of the young adult genre, so I came here. Obviously. But apparently he decided to steal my idea, nothing new, and—”

“Actually, she stole my idea,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp and his eyes narrowed. “So desperate for a leg up, per usual. Rather pitiful.”

Ooh. That was a nice touch.

Their coworkers didn’t say anything.

It was too quiet.

“It was nice seeing you!” she said, gathering the rumpled books in her arms. She pushed through them and practically ran to checkout. She dumped the books on the counter. Her heart was pounding. She could barely grab her wallet from her purse without shaking.

“I believe I’m buying.” He was at her side then, sliding his card to the employee.

“Why, of all places, did we think a bookstore was a good idea?” She was out of breath. They wouldn’t see them, so far away, but she still made it a point not to stand too close.

“You chose the place, if I remember correctly.”

“I definitely did not.”

“Whatever you say.” He took the bags of books from the employee and began to leave, glancing back at her. “Meet you in the car in ten?”

“I’ll see you there.”

She would most definitely be sneaking out the employee exit.

hi! do you have some ideas for secret dating in friend group? 💟

Hi :)

Secret dating in friend group

Their friends decided that they want to get them together, not knowing they've already done it themselves.

Lying to your best friends is hard. Especially when they know you so well.

They both had different reasons for why they didn't want their friends to find out about them.

Being on a secret date when suddenly all their friends show up. They have to act fast to not get busted.

When asked by their friends, they straight up denied any romance between them.

To counteract their friends' suspicions they now act like they don't even like each other one bit. Not even as friends.

They have quite elaborate plans to keep their relationship a secret in their friend group, not knowing that everyone is well aware of it.

I hope you like them!

- Jana

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Writing Prompt #4

The lighthouse keeper realized the ocean was wearing away stone and mountain, set on pulling his lighthouse into the waves. The townspeople had long ago fled this place, realizing their doom was imminent when the ocean stole the first home.

With a weary sigh, the keeper piled rusty screws and old hammers into his rotting toolbox. He pulled on his cracking rubber boots. Slipped into a too-big jacket. Stacked a wagon high with foraged wood planks.

Then, he set off for the cliffside to begin building supports for the crumbling lighthouse.

Perhaps it was a useless task. But so was sitting and watching.

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The Novelty of Creativity

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we didn’t live in a world driven by packed schedules and ‘the grind’. To grind is to ‘reduce (something) to small particles or powder by crushing it’. When did this become a synonym for work? When did we, as a society, decide that reducing ourselves to nothing but punch cards and routing numbers was something to celebrate?

Our hands ache from typing, stained with ink. We draw up bland repetitions of the same information when we used to draw fresh pictures in sidewalk chalk.

Our creativity diminishes as we get lost inside the internet. The people who used to create skits for the neighbors now code algorithms that steal time and reality. It’s as if we’re a black hole in and of itself.

We order a robot to create art by typing a couple sentences into a machine, then get upset when someone steals ‘our prompt’. Perhaps we have nothing but the prompts left, but we used to have pages of stories.

Because, truly, as we grind ourselves further into nothingness, what will there be except the keyboards, the algorithms, and the artificial intelligence?

We cannot keep doing this. Creativity is becoming a novelty against the ease of technology. Why do we continue to let our ideas fall further into neglect?

Creativity should not be a novelty.

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Is the internet modern humanity’s own Tower of Babel?

Trying so hard to reach a divine level

of knowing,

and yet

continuing to lose ourselves in miscommunication.

Foolishness.

Building higher

faster

more.

Only, human minds aren’t meant

to comprehend

so much.

Human minds aren’t meant

to replicate

all-knowing.

Humans can’t

create worlds

in six days.

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Writing Prompt #3

(kind of)

“I am not.” The hero scowled, but she didn’t meet the villain’s eyes.

“You can’t even look at me. You know I’m right.”

“I—”

“I saved you from the main hero because he was going to destroy you. Anyone would’ve done what I did.”

“You’re mistaking the absolute bare minimum of human decency for romance."

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Things for Your Characters to Do

(Unhinged Fall Edition)

- Ask for the craziest, most abhorrent fall drink at the local Starbucks (“Can I get a pumpkin spice latte with almond milk, two pumps of strawberry, three shots of espresso, and the cup lined with mocha?”)

- Paint pumpkins with the other character’s face, but they’re not artists and they’re using finger paint (“Look, it’s you!/“I look like a Picasso painting that’s been rotting in a field for thirty years.”)

- Sneak into a corn maze at night and try to scare each other, but one keeps playing creepy sounds on their phone to scare the other(s) (“WAS THAT A SCREAM?/“It was actually Thriller by Michael Jackson, but close guess.”/“WHERE DID YOU COME FROM.”

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Writing Prompt #1

“You have the special ability/power/gift, don’t you?”

“Yes, and it pains me more each day.”

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TW: Animal abuse, animal death

A white kitten was brought into the veterinary hospital where I work. She was barely three weeks old, arranged in a towel-lined box by gentle hands and sweet words.

The one holding her said they’d found her by their trash can. Dumped, most likely. Thrown away to join rotting fruit and unyielding insects.

She slumped at a strange angle over the towel, her soft eyes watery. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out. As if she were barely inside anymore.

I noticed, then, why the one holding her had come.

Her hind legs were bent. Broken. She couldn’t walk.

They said they didn’t think she’d make it through the night. She’d barely been alive, and yet she was already dying.

The one who’d brought her took her away, then, to find someplace that could keep her for what short time she had.

I think of her now, as I stare into the dark.

I think of cold fingers yanking her from her mother’s side. Starting a too-loud truck. Pulling her from the passenger floorboard after traveling far away from familiarity and life.

I hear the sharp cracks of bone. See her flinch and begin to shiver.

The truck leaves her behind in the countryside. Hidden in cracked grass by a plastic trash can. Fleas find her soon, burrowing under soft fur.

I hope she wasn’t there long.

Perhaps the one who brought her to the hospital picks her from the concrete, gently holds her in warm water. Cleans the fleas and the dirt and the urine from her skin. Wraps her in a warm towel. Takes her to a good place after leaving the hospital.

I think of these things, and I think of her small paws and silent mews.

I hope she took her final breath in someone’s arms, loved and held closely. Able to shut her tired eyes without fear.

I hope she is someplace safe now, surrounded by wildflowers and memories of good things.

I wish she could’ve been loved longer.

———————

God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.” - Genesis 1:25

Deep in the Meadow sung by Maiah Wynne

I care deeply for animals and good animal care. This is something that happened, and it greatly impacted me. Animals are not toys or accessories. Please take care of your animals well.

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As a longtime writer, let me share a few things —

To answer your first question…

1.) The first time you put an idea on the page, it’s not going to live up to your expectations.

There’s an old post by @emeraldincandescent that says, “Sometimes writing is like having a giant lake in your head, and you want to get it out of your head and into a proper place for a lake so other people can come and go swimming and ride jet skis and stuff, except all you have to move the lake is a teaspoon…”

It’s longer than that, but that’s the part I want to share. Writers are never going to be able to instantly put this huge idea with amazing characters and a fleshed-out world right onto the page. Artists don’t think of a painting and have it appear. Architects don’t imagine a building and watch it go up before their eyes within seconds.

Writing takes time.

If you’re impatient, like me, then it feels like that time is taking too long. That lake or ocean you have in your head isn’t going to instantly materialize in the world. You’re going to have to use the tools you have—teaspoons, ladles, buckets—to make it happen.

This might sound discouraging, but it’s not. Because the longer you work on moving that lake and putting it into the world, the stronger you get at moving water and the more tools you have at your disposal. In other words, the longer you write, the better you’ll get at learning how your idea-making and creating processes work. You’ll figure out how to best write out your ideas.

99.9% of writers will tell you their ideas sucked when they started. I can’t find the post now, but Neal Shusterman (I believe) responded to an ask about drafting and outlining on Tumblr a few years ago. In essence, he said, “The first draft is where you write down every single thing that happens in your story. The drafts after that are for making it look like you knew what you were doing.”

Your first draft most likely won’t be the lake you imagined in your head. But with work, it can become the lake. It might even be better!

2.) If your first attempts don’t turn out the way you want them to, keep trying.

Keep writing anyway.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve given up on a story. You don’t want to see my Google Docs or my Notes app. There’s probably 75-100 half-baked stories.

Please, whatever you do, don’t delete your writing. Keep all your ideas, all your paragraphs, all your sentences. Go back to them when you’re bored or nostalgic. I’ve combined multiple ideas into one ‘ultra-story’.

Most writers are perfectionists—their ideas are never going to be exactly what they want on the page. However, that doesn’t mean they’re bad or not worth working on. It takes time to develop an idea into something you like.

If you lose that spark, go back to the source of your idea. Make playlists and Pinterest boards for your characters. You’re most likely going to get bored, but don’t give up. No writing process is linear.

Your ideas are worth writing.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was denied dozens of times before a publisher accepted it. Just because you don’t feel like your story is good doesn’t mean readers deserve to be deprived of it.

Readers want new content. Readers want a different voice. Readers want content.

Writers take ideas and form them for weeks, months, and years. They scrawl all aspects of their ideas in notebooks so they don’t forget. They share ideas with friends and brainstorm with writing groups. They make mood boards and playlists. They try, try again, and try again before their ideas become the lake on the page that they had in their head. It takes time, but it’s so worth it. Storytelling is fun and so satisfying.

Your ideas are worth writing.

I have a story idea that I am so excited about but I am too scared to start writing it because:

What if it sucks and doesn’t live up to the expectations in my head

What if that then tarnishes the idea and I fall out of love with it or forget where it was supposed to go

How on earth do people take a burning idea and then make it as good, if not better, on the page?!

[sparrow-and-seed-scrawls]

I go into work at 7 tomorrow and yet I am still awake, listening to a carefully crafted playlist and drafting a story.

There is something so solemnly satisfying about sitting on the floor in the dark, the computer on the softest brightness, dreamy, emotional music sweeping throughout, and creating entire lifespans and relationships on a page.

Perhaps this is what I stay awake for—the time between life and sleep and work when I am only meant to create.

[sparrow-and-seed-scrawls]

"Do you..." Dialogue Prompts

1.) "Do you think things would've been different if we'd tried harder?"

2.) "Do you believe in good and bad?"

3.) "Do you ever wonder how this is going to end?"

4.) "Do you want to watch the lobsters in the grocery store's seafood section with me?"

5.) "Do you regret it?"