I'm an aspiring author (actually, my biggest dream is to become a games writer (my idol at this point is Sam Lake (Remedy))). One of the reasons why I love Poets of the Fall so much at this also is because they work together with Remedy and have exclusive songs in their games.

Anyways, aiming to become a game writer is a long shot, but that's my biggest dream. Meanwhile, I have "lesser dreams" like writing books. I am currently most into fantasy writing (long novels) and I am aiming to finally complete something I am hoping to have published.

If I however write some short novels I'll be sure to post 'em here. I have nothing of the sort really at this point. Most of my work turns out to be big projects.

It's awesome to see so many people writing though.

I recently wrote a cheezy short story as part of a gothic writing assignment for english class. It's so-so in my opinion. I'm only 16, so my writing isn't that great, but hey, it's the best I can do. It's loosely based on episodes of A Haunting on Discovery Channel and Paranormal Activity.

The Death House

The Callahans’ once-recognizable farmhouse sat in charred ruins on the front page of the Savannah Morning News. Scorched white ceramic tiles and glass window shards poked out through blackened remnants of what was once finished drywall. Hundreds of glowing embers appeared to pulse in and out of intensity as they consumed whatever remnants of the home’s wood framing and furniture had not yet been converted into ash. Jenny sat staring at the paper with an ineffable look of sadness on her face. She fell limply into her husband’s arms, gazing fixedly at her feet as to avoid looking at the dreaded publicized photo. Peter was amenable, offering a word of consolation to his wife, but she disregarded the gesture with disdain. He decided it was his prerogative to make sure his wife knew he’d take care of everything and that she ought to be grateful he was trying to work something out, but he knew her temper and decided not to push it.
By lunchtime, Jenny and Peter had made a good twenty to thirty miles from their last rest stop, and decided that the Holiday Inn in North Carolina was nothing compared to the cockroach-infested motel in Philly. Within eight to ten hours, they’d be arriving at their new house in Millbrook. Jenny stared out the window, giving the white road lines her full attention. Her eyes were glossy with tears, yet she held her composure so Peter wouldn’t suspect how devastated she was about the move. He glanced over at her as they drove silently, scrutinizing her every subtle gesticulation. Jenny tensed, sensing Peter’s eyes grazing her back.
At that moment, a chilling jolt surged through Peter’s skin. He shivered uncomfortably and turned his attention back to the highway. Had he known what the chill was, Peter would have told his wife about it, but this was a feeling unlike one he had ever experienced. It was depressing. Looking at Jenny suddenly made him confused, angry even, and for a split second he felt like hurting her. Jenny sensed her husband fuming behind her, and when she turned to see what was up, Peter had his fingers clenched in a fist, as though he had been completely demoralized by some unseen force. Before Jenny could grab his hand to stop him, Peter’s anger faded and he pulled his hand away. The next few hours of the car ride were spent in silence except for the occasional remark about the GPS and NPR’s monotonous radio broadcasters.
“I want friendly neighbors. Peter, what if our neighbors aren’t nice? We won’t have the Wilsons to feed our cats anymore,” Jenny finally broke the silence, trying to catch Peter’s attention. Peter sighed heavily, shaking his head and shrugging. He gazed out in front of him with rapt attention to his driving.
“How do you know the new neighbors won’t be better?” Peter replied, attempting to drive off Jenny’s questions. “Hey look, a ‘welcome to New York’ sign. We’re almost there.”

The center of town was nice; quaint. There were stores, offices, company buildings. It was a typical upstate New York town. Condominiums, townhouses, and cul-de-sacs sat atop hills and hid in valleys as far as the eye could see. Jenny didn’t mind the main streets in the center of town, but the new house was in a nice, secluded area of Millbrook – a perk Jenny did not complain about. She and Peter couldn’t agree on much of anything, so at the very least, it was a plus that they both wanted the house to be in a rural location.
By the time the Callahans reached their destination, the sun had long disappeared beyond the horizon and dusk was making itself known. The car’s tires rolled and bumped over old a long, winding cobblestone driveway. The house was just barely visible from the road as trees cast dark, grainy shadows onto the front yard. The entire property was covered in silvery-blue darkness, and from the moment Jenny stepped out of the car, she could hear the wind whistle ominous, gloomy tones – a harbinger, Jenny presumed, for what her new life would be like.
“Help me unpack the van, Jen,” Peter called, rousing Jenny from her reverie. Jenny walked around to the back of the van and started pulling boxes from the trunk. There were only four boxes, which contained temporary necessities and the dearth of precious items that had been resuscitated from the fire.
“Well, looks like this is pretty much it,” Jenny sighed. “I guess this makes us neophytes at home-owning. We’re going to have to start from scratch all over again.”
“Hey, look on the bright side. It’s a nice house. Quiet, secluded, and I bet good neighbors too,” Peter replied, already making his way to the front door with one of the boxes. Jenny stared at her husband’s receding back, a million thoughts running through her head. It wasn’t long before Jenny was able to hear that same sound again. It was like the wind was breathing on her skin, and she could feel it – hot, loud and clear, saying her name with heavy, guttural gushes of air as though it were being streamed through broad metal pipes. Jenny’s heart began to race, and she dropped her box out of sudden fear.
“Jen! Come on, we don’t have all night!” Peter called from the front door. Jenny picked up the box she had dropped and hauled it to the front door as Peter waited to open it.
“Sorry, I…Pete, I feel like I heard something, like a breathing sound, back there by the van. And I’m fairly certain it wasn’t the wind,” Jenny quibbled nervously as she looked around the front yard to make sure there weren’t any burglars or animals in their vicinity.
“Oh, Jen. Stop your caviling. You’re just tired. We’ve been stuck in a hot car for three days straight. That last motel probably had bed bugs. There’s no need to be so fatuous about everything. Breathing? Come on, Jenny.”
“Bed bugs? First of all, how do bed bugs have anything to do with me hearing strange noises? And secondly, how could you be so sure if you didn’t hear them yourself?” Jenny retorted, jamming the new house key into the doorknob. She jiggled it a few times, finally pushing the door open. It creaked sharply on its hinges, announcing their arrival with vim and vigor. The house was pitch black inside except for the soft moonlight streaming in through the foyer and living room windows.
“Wow, this place is cavernous!” Jenny exclaimed with sudden ebullience. Her voice bounced off the home’s lofty interior, echoing with metallic acoustics, like the garbled breathing sound Jenny had sworn she’d heard in the yard. Peter found the light switch by the front door, and flicked it on. When he did, the new homeowners dropped their boxes in sheer surprise.
Pieces of furniture were turned over on their sides, spoiled food littered the kitchen counters, and the whole house appeared to be in shambles. Jenny gasped, and Peter noticed her shocked mien as they looked on at the mess. It was as if the old owners made a mess in the house, got up, left, and never returned to clean it up before giving away the key. Jenny walked into the main room first, running her hands over the staircase railing as she stepped over shattered glass. It was a vintage spiral staircase and, through layers of dust, had a beautiful iron patina. Turning the corner to the dining room, Jenny shrieked at the top of her lungs.
“Jen, what’s the matter? What happened?” Peter called worriedly, rushing over to his wife’s side. An assemblage of kitchen knives lined the dining room and kitchen floors, and Jenny looked around at the horrendous sight. “What in God’s name is this mess? Who in their right minds would leave a home for sale in this condition?” Peter exclaimed in exasperation, picking up one of the knives.
“Looks like we’ve got a lot of cleaning to do. But for now, let’s just get some rest. We’ll take care of this in the morning.”
“You read my mind,” Peter replied. “I’m absolutely exhausted. Come on and help me get the suitcases upstairs.”

Jenny brushed her teeth and lay on the bed, watching the ceiling fan spin above her and listening to the mellifluous buzzing sound created by the spinning blades. Around and around and around, like her life, being tossed into chaos over the past few weeks. She let herself be mesmerized by the fan’s tranquil motions until, after a few minutes, she could see the individual blades as if moving in slow motion, catching her eye so she could follow and count the rotations, one by one. She could feel herself relaxing completely until she was on the brink of falling asleep. She could suddenly feel her eyes getting heavier until, gradually, she felt as though something was holding her shoulders and head down onto the bed. Her breathing increased rapidly and she tried to sit up but was forced down onto the bed as soon as she started struggling. Whatever was holding Jenny onto the bed was also sucking the breath out of her lungs. Before losing all memory of what had happened, Jenny watched the fan slow down until a gray apparition of a face appeared to emerge from the spinning mass of gray and white. It stirred curiously, spotting Jenny and knocking her into unconsciousness. Jenny’s breathing relaxed until she fainted where she lay, unable to wake up until the next morning.
“Jenny, sweetie, wake up. I have something to show you,” Jenny stirred in her bed at the familiar sound of her husband’s voice, and sat up quickly, her heart racing.
“Oh my God, Peter, I just had a dream about the fire, and you were killed trying to wake me up and get my out of the house before the flames could reach my bed. Why did I dream of that? It’s not even like we were in the house when the fire started,” Jenny questioned, confused and exhausted from what had happened that night.
“I don’t know, Jen, but I have something I need you to see. Actually, two things.”
“Peter, if you’re gonna tell me you found more knives, I don’t want to hear it. We’ll get rid of them later. It’s only seven in the morning, for goodness sake. Come on, show me quickly so I can get some more rest.”
Peter helped his wife out of bed and led her downstairs into the dining room, where not only was the mess completely gone, but the knives had been taken off the floor and were nowhere to be found. Jenny looked at her husband, puzzled.
“Pete, did you clean this up yourself?” She inquired, running her hand across the table and feeling the lack of dust on its surface.
“No, Jen, that’s what I can’t get over. I came downstairs this morning and the mess had magically cleaned itself up. I don’t know what to make of this at all,” he began, shaking his head in disbelief. “But Jenny, there’s something else I found that I swear we didn’t have when we got here.”
“What’s that? Oh my goodness, Peter! Where did this come from?” Jenny exclaimed, rushing over to the other side of the room, where an unfamiliar box lay on the floor. She opened the flap and sitting inside was the gamut of china that was somehow extant after surviving the house fire. “How in the world did this get here? I thought we lost all my precious china in the fire?” Jenny asked, utterly confused by what she was looking at.
“I don’t know how it survived the fire, much less how it got here. But it’s here.” Peter replied, just as confused.

Jenny spent the rest of the day decorating and unpacking, and when she got to put away her china, she could feel someone’s presence. Peter had left the house earlier to buy some landscaping supplies, and Jenny was home alone to take care of the house. When she reached into the box to retrieve a china plate, a little girl’s cry could be heard from behind her, and she dropped the plate in sheer terror. When she looked up to see what had made the noise, a familiar chill surged through her body and Jenny could smell perfume. It was rose-scented and had an old-fashioned edge to it. When she looked up, she saw the face of a little girl, smiling devilishly at her reflection in the window of the china case. Jenny screamed, her heart pounding faster and faster. She felt the poltergeist stream its intentions into her, and suddenly Jenny went mad. She ran into the kitchen, slid open a drawer, and grabbed a knife. Her husband’s voice called from the door.
“Jen? Is that you? It sounds like things are breaking? Is that – “. But Peter was unable to finish his sentence. Jenny had stabbed him with the knife and proceeded to kill herself. The apparition of the little girl laughed manically, and, taking the knife and dropping it onto the floor, she returned peacefully to the attic, where dozens of dead bodies lay, killed at the hands of their loved ones.
The phone rang, neighbors knocked at the door to welcome the Callahans with a homemade pie, and, seeing the freshly killed couple, returned only to call the police. Within twenty-four hours, the bodies of Jen and Peter were removed for investigation and the house was permanently locked down. Nothing would ever enter its trap again, and nothing would leave. The house sat in stagnant darkness. Heavy silence permeated the house, brewing fear even in the minds of the spirits that roamed the house. Most, if not all of these spirits possessed knowledge of a dark, unchangeable past. Nothing would give them freedom, and nobody would know their stories. Forever they would be trapped, forced to watch their own decaying bodies.

________

Lame, isn't it? I need someone to tell me this is awful, just so I know I need to work on my writing style.

I don't think it is cheesy. I like your story idea and how it unfolds, there is a lot of potential. I do think, however, that you should watch your adverbs and adjectives. You use way too many and especially the more uncommon ones distract from the story rather than supporting its flow. You sure have creativity and imagination there, work with that. Don't give up

Just my .02

I agree with you redbossfan. I'll work on that. Thanks for the 2 cents!

Now if you get some more input you might actually be able to buy something =P

I started a new short story series yesterday and here's the intro chapter.

But I gotta warn about one thing. That story will contain mpreg. *whistles*

I LOVE to write. It's my outlet to get out of my insane world. I love the ability to have my characters so whatever they want. It also helps me deal with some of my inner issues.

I've been writing this story, but i'm not quite sure as to what to title it quite yet...it seems to actually be turning into more of a novel so I can't quite post the whole thing here a its turne into almost 8 pages worth lol! But here's a little bit of it. Maybe you guys can help me come up with a title.

_____________________________

“Alright...” My father said. “Alright.” He moved aside and allowed the nobles to move in. The students were arranged in a line and spaced out accordingly. A noble was to move down the line holding the Diamond, and whoever reacted to the gemstone's presence would be questioned as to how or what they felt. Or, if my father was correct, what they heard. The head noble beckoned another in his party and he entered carrying a modest wooden chest. I stared at the box, transfixed. The Diamond of the God's Desire lay within the chest. I knew it. As the noble entered the room, a buzzing sound began to fill my ears. Hushed and incoherant, it grew louder the closer the noble came and quieter as he passed me by. How strange that such a sound would come from such a person as a noble.
As the buzzing continued, I came to realize that it was not buzzing at all. It was whispers. Hushed whispers. Was the noble praying? I could understand if he was. If the Host wasn't found tonight our village would be in danger. But still...something didn't seem right. I got to my feet and tried to get closer to see what he was saying. A hand clamped down hard on my arm sending daggers of pain right through me. I gasped and tried to pull away.
“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded.
I looked to my father for help.
He continued, “what is a girl doing attending your class?”
“That 'girl' is my daughter. She merely came to see me.” My father explained.
“Even so, these matters do not concern her.” He released my arm and shoved me hard toward the door. The whispering buzzed louder and was becoming less incoherant. I turned my head toward the voices. There was more than one voice. It was not the nobleman praying.
My father watched uneasy. He knew how my mother would react to my coming home so late. How she would react upon discovering that I had sit in on one of my father's lessons. He knew that she would not react well to it at all. It would be the same as that time he presented me with my beautiful dagger. I would be locked up in my room for a long time, not allowed to see the daylight, until my mother was satisfied that I wouldn't run away like that ever again. She would try to make me fear her. My father had been tring to prevent such a thing from happening ever since she discovered that I wanted to be a guard.“My lord, please. Her presence here has done no harm nor has it been bothersome. You yourself didn't even realize she was here until she crossed your path.”
The nobleman glared in my direction. “Very well. But she will not speak out of turn, nor interfere with this coronation. If she violates these rules, she will be punished accordingly.”
I lowered my head, “yes my lord.” I said quietly.
The noble turned away.
“...my lady...” Hissed one of the voices.
A shiver ran down my spine and I raised my head and stared in the direction of the nobleman with the Diamond. I could not tear my gaze away. Could I have imagined it?
“...I pledge...servitude...my lady...Hostess...” The voice whispered.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and for a moment I couldn't breathe. Hostess? Thats impossible! I thought to myself. No woman has ever recieved the title of “Hostess”
“My lady...” A voice whispered in my ear, stopping me in my tracks and causing my breathing to become erratic. A warm breeze tickled the back of my neck and swirled around my body. It was as if the nobleman was releasing the voices from the chest. As he opened it, the warm breeze whirled around me, this time as a gale. The voices encircled my head in a roar. Each one of them pledging servitude and addressing the “Hostess.” I looked all around me in confusion. My heart was beating so hard it was slamming into my ribcage. What was going on?
I felt a gentle hand take my wrist, and my father's worried face came into view. “Mi hija, what's wrong? You look shaken.”
I stared wide eyed at my father. “Can't you hear them?” I whispered harshly.
“Hear who?” He looked at me. His own confusion was clear on his face.
“The voices! The whispers! You can't hear them?” I almost shrieked, but fought to control the volume of my own voice.
My father's face paled. “You hear voices?” He asked, keeping his voice low.
I nodded fervently and he took both of my hands. It was only then that I realized how hard I was trembling.
“What are they saying?” He asked me.
I stared at my shaking hands. “T-they're pledging their servitude to someone called...” I stopped and stared into his eyes as realization hit me. I thought I was going to throw up.
“Mi hija, tell me!” He commanded.
“Someone called...” I paused again and swallowed. “The Hostess.”
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Now I can't title it The Hostess, becaus then I would feel like I was copying Stephanie Meyer's The Host ...so what do you guys think?

Alright, November is getting closer and closer, and I can't choose what to write about:

1. A sea saga with pirates and monsters

2. An epic fantasy of dragons

3. A horrible story of vampires and angels.

The sea saga is the one I was supposed to write about, but then the very old dragon-epic came back to my mind... And I do love my horrible vampire tale

well, if so, we have somethings in common, i have a lot of ideas, and planning to write a simple book . i can do this quite fast if were not because of schoolworks, but to achieve something we really have to learn and learn a lot. and what i loved from writing is you can turn raw knowledge, and imagination into something worthy, i'll post my latest short story later, it's in the middle of the night now and i'm only half opened.

This is one of my favorite works where I have paid tribute to the art community


The Loving Art Community


I'm tired of hubris... I'm tired of hypocrisy...I'm tired of this masquerade that people have built up over the years... perpetually changing masks... taking off one and putting on another... so quickly...it's a blur...
What about the ones... the ones who want to hold true to themselves... the one who are true... why are they always broken.... In this I believe... The Art Community Stands Out... I believe we're probably the thought of as the most brazen...most earthy community... And that we can't keep our opinion to ourselves however horrible they might be... But if only the earthly mortals were to look a little closer... they would find the most genuine, open and loving community there is... For they always express what they're genuine feeling are... for instance if you like their work... an immediate response of gratitude is received... if you don't like it... they don't go around on a self pity rampage...instead they ask you where they went wrong... The next thing... whatever your craft is or you're just a lover of fine art... you're accepted and no one makes you feel out of place... Unlike the laymen... I guess laymen should probably learn a thing or two from the community they generally like to outcast... Mind you we're all social outcasts most of the time...We're respected and loved here... And wouldn't leave it for the world... this community... no matter what happens...

Well, this is my favourite piece of work so far. However, it is only the prologue.

Hope you enjoy!

A World divided

The year is 2028 ten years ago an alien craft landed on our planet, of course being human our curiosity got the better of us, we tampered, we pressed, and we scavenged. On July 21st 2018 we tampered too much, we pressed the right sequence of buttons to cause a cataclysmic explosion that shattered the very fabric that held our planet together.
Five years on and three factions emerged from the ruins of Earth each faction controlled a part of Earth that had broken off after the explosion.
The weakest of all three The Aquila controlled the smallest part of Earth, even though they are weak their leader, General Manson is a great leader.
The second call themselves ‘The Collective’ they are intelligent and resourceful, they erect powerful robots to do their dirty work.
The final and most powerful of all three are Aiden’s Army they control the largest part of Earth and have the mightiest army, but controlling such a large force is not so easy, when the Earth is crumbling beneath them.
This is not the world you know, this is a world divided.

Being a bad person and bumping this up

Any Nano-writers this year? I'm going to try and drive myself crazy with 50,000 words of mostly descriptive writing (I'm a dialogue-person myself)

I'm gonna try doing NaNo this year too. No idea if I will have the time and energy for it, but it has been fun the years before, so I can't skip it.

I haven't have the time (definitely no time ) or the energy for it the last 2 years, and still somehow I manage to find time for it

In November I will
- spend 5 days at the Nordic Film festival in Lübeck
- be in Finland for one long weekend to see POTF (twice)
- attend three other concerts
- probably take a ton of pictures that need to be edited after

And I'm really thinking about trying NaNo?
Did I mention I also have a full time job?

Whatever, I just might sign up anyway. 50 000 words in 20 days sounds perfect for someone who usually writes one or two short stories in and entire year

Well, for me NaNo is the only time I write at the moment, so I owe my stories at least that one time a year.

Besides, it's a good excuse for sitting at home and eating nothing but chocolate

That is the perfect argument for doing it. Can I watch Doctor who too while writing?

I'm starting to consider doing the NaNo too.
Even though I have barely written anything in years by now.
Even though I have barely time to breathe in this period.
And I'm sure I'll give up by Nov 4th.
But at least in those four days I might write something
Now I have a whole 38 hours left to figure out which of the stories in my mind I want to focus on...

I had a year when I started a week late, and this year I only decided last week what to write about -and still don't know how But it's very entertaining, pushing myself to see if I could ever really write anything for real.

Well, good luck to us all, I know I'm going to need it

Good luck everyone! I signed up yesterday, have not written one word yet. We'll see where it gets me

Yesterday I couldn't write a thing.. this afternoon I've had a peek of inspiration and already wrote about 1200 words. Whoa...
Maybe that's not much (not sure, I'd never tried counting words), but keeping in mind that the goal is to write a lot rather than refining every line puts you in a different perspective, it's interesting to feel how the story flows.
I will end up with nothing good, but at least I'm having some fun

I had already forgotten how damn difficult writing can be Especially when it's been a year since I last wrote anything proper. It was difficult to spew out the 1700 words per day even when I had a proper story, but now that I pretty much need to write 3-page epic battle every time it feels even more impossible. Well, I did start this "story" because I wanted a challenge, so I guess I shouldn't complain

To my relief I have noticed that when I truly start writing I end up with a 1700 words quite easily -before I even get to any actual fighting So if I do manage to write the whole "story" down I shouldn't have any trouble reaching the 50,000 mark. The only thing saving me though is the fact that it doesn't have to be good literature

I find it surprisingly easy to go with the flow and just write, but my story is all over the place, changes direction every day. I still have no clue where I'm going with this, but it's an interesting excercise in discipline.

Considering I didn't start until the evening of November first and then spent 5 days a the Nordic Film Days where I watched 19 movies, I am rather proud that I still managed to churn out over 6000 words already. And I didn't stay awake at night. It will be interesting to see how it goes during a regular working week. The time until I'll have a full weekend for writing is still quite long away. Oh well, I'm having fun with this.

What's a free weekend? Don't worry, you'll find time if you want to write. It's surprisingly easy to forget eating for example

My main problem is that I'm too slow, and there's quite a lot of things I should get done during the days besides writing. I can't say I enjoy the thought of writing before I start, even though it is quite fun once I get into it, mostly because I know it'll mess up my free time. I can't really relax with writing (with the inner critic and crazy goals and all) so I'd need some time for something else after that. Preferably enough time to enjoy something with a good plot so my brain could get a bit freedom from the holey thing I'm writing

A free weekend = a weekend where I'm actually at home, i.e. in my own city and not travelling.

I write abot 500 words an hour, sometimes more so that's OK, but I have other stuff to do as well and I need at least 6 hours of sleep. Doesn't matter though, for me the point is writing every day, not actually reaching 50k and I'm liking it so far (even though my story has lost its plot somewhere along the way...)

...What is this...'plot' you speak of? You use words my mind cannot comprehend

I find that the best stories are found when you think you've lost the way of the story -the one where it was lost might not be the one, but the one that you find in the process

I write. In French.
I am published. In France.
I do NaNoWriMo every year. Six tries, six wins. The whole challenge thing is what works for me.

My publisher recently said: "Isn't it time you dropped NaNo and really got to writing novels?"
So I told him it was the other way around, actually: I decided to stop writing novels outside NaNo. Right, some participants pour pretty much anything into their novels, from poor jokes to cheap word-tricks, but my approach is serious. My NaNovels are planned several months ahead (seat-of-my-pants doesn't work for me) and thoroughly revised afterwards. And apart from a couple of earlier ones, I hope to bring them all to life as real books.

I sent the finished short story today, so I began to translate it into English for the forum.
Let's just say I didn't think it would be so hard.

So here is the first part (the narration goes back and forth between present and past):

Really great start! I'm excited to read more. But, if you feel like translating takes up too much your time and is slow and difficult, you don't have to. I think you can post in original language as well if you want (but less people will understand it).