may I join?

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I revisited AU on Jan 14th after an almost 10-year break! The nostalgia..!

Ah, yes. The music I listen to dictates what I write, basically. Once, while listening to my Dead Man's Chest soundtrack, I wrote a story about a boy being executed (Hello Beastie was going at the time) and when the next song stated playing (The Remix of He's a Pirate) I wrote a little something aout a boy going to the moon in a washing machine.

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<center> .nph ftw.
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hahaha that's funny. so you get your inspiration from songs?

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I revisited AU on Jan 14th after an almost 10-year break! The nostalgia..!

Oh I want to join!!!!!

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Thanks Josh!

Thanks Meganelf *hugs*

im writing again! yay, its about a 25 year old guy and his little sister and they live in Toronto and they see this Dragon and the Dragon helps them to fight this nightmare that his little sister has been having, its kind of cutsey and cheesy but i really like it so far...buh bye writers block.

It's good your got outof writers block. Sometimes an idea you think is dumb turns out to be really great.
I've been writing a romance story that I don't like, but my friend does. I like the idea I came up with for the plot I just don't like the way I wrote it. I don't even dare type some of it here either

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Made by Meganelf



Made 1000 posts on 7/22/06!!!!!!!!!

can i join? i love to write, and i'm working on my first novel right now.

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Name Change: i decided to anglicize my name, it used to be Caoilfhionn

^banner by me

Hi everyone

My novel is now...wait for it...eleven pages! At this rate I might actually get it published by the time I'm sixteen. (Life goal )

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Heh. I actually changed my sig. Wow.

"I'll tell you truly: I value my thought and work terribly, but in essence - think about it - this whole world of ours is just a bit of mildew that grew over a tiny planet. And we think we can have something great - thoughts, deeds! They're all grains of sand." - Levin

I've started a novel for two times, and both of them have gone amiss. I'm having trouble with it, so maybe I could ask you guys?

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I revisited AU on Jan 14th after an almost 10-year break! The nostalgia..!

Ergh, writers block. It soo sucks and is exetremely frustrating. I am on page 5 of my first book of my series. Hope it can keep going because this is the farthest i have gotten on a book! Urgh, hope it goes well!
I am usually a good brainstormer if anyone needs help!

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Hello, I'm Amoniel
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I can post the main plot on this thread tomorrow, hope someone'll be able to help. It's like I have this wonderfuuuul idea, but when I put it on paper it goes all wrong

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I revisited AU on Jan 14th after an almost 10-year break! The nostalgia..!

that happened to me the first time i tried to write my book, but everything was wrong, so i did a bunch of changes, i changed the plot, the characters, the place, the names adn how many books i wanted to write in the series. I went through another huge re doing this summer, and im still working on it to date. The story that i restarted several times is over a hundred pages now...its been a lot of hard work and its still not done...

Ah yes. My longest story is 6,000 and sumthin words long.


W00T! We're at page 50!

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<center> .nph ftw.
[!~^$=+?]</center>

This is a story my teacher is going to help me publish somewhere. Enjoy.

----
Skeletons in the Closet

A shaft of silver moonlight fell through the slight part in the curtains onto Sam’s pale face, casting monstrous shadows across his bedroom walls. Outside a storm raged, the wind screaming like a banshee and rattling the window panes. The old oak, gnarled and knotty like a weathered old man scraped its bony fingers against the glass, as though trying to reach through and rend at Sam’s face.

Sam was afraid.

And it was dark.

The dark was bad. In the dark there were evil things, things that creep and crawl and lurk, waiting for a tasty morsel like Sam. The dark took away all good and happy. It laid bare your sins and left you to dwell on the evils of your past. You couldn’t escape your demons or your fears. You could only lament fell deeds and evil moments, and ponder the skeletons you keep in the locked closet of your mind.

And Sam had more skeletons than most people.

No matter what dear older brother Gabe said, Sam wasn’t a bloody stupid wimp. He was, truly, braver than most. He would brave the highest roller coaster, the deepest swimming pool, the most vicious junkyard dog.

Then night would fall.

As far as Sam knew, he had always feared it, hated it, cursed it in his dreaming and waking hours. He slept with a night light till age ten, and with the hall light till twelve. He had demanded his mother and father check for monsters till (mortifyingly) nine.

He told Gabe he made them stop because there was no such things as monsters. But that wasn’t true. He did believe in monsters, and he was deathly afraid.

Sam was now reaching 15. How embarrassing could it be for a 15 year old to fear the dark? Around twelve he had metamorphosed, his room was now covered in swimsuit models and pretty actresses he liked to look at, but had never seen in anything (“You take that smut off your walls boy! What d‘you think this is, some sort of peep-show?” exclaimed Red Morgan, his step dad, when he saw the picture of Lara Croft, in her tight t-shirt and short-shorts hanging on his son’s wall). His upper lip began an almost non-existent growth of pale yellow peach fuzz of which he was exceedingly proud, and of which his friends were exceedingly covetous of (“For Gawd’s sake boy, shave it off! It don’t make you look rugged, whatever you think!” Lilly Fredrik had said one night at dinner, rousing snickers and chuckles from Gabe’s end of the table).

But for all his look of normality, for all his outgoing happiness and the foolish pride of youth, Sam held secrets deep inside him.

It was understandable that Sam feared the dark, when taking into account what he had seen. It was something that he would never tell his mother or his brother or any friend, not ever. He didn’t care what they said or did to him, he’d never tell. He’d never relive that. Not ever. He’d carry it to his very grave. He’d put what his mother told him had happened in his memoirs. He’d lie to the whole world before he had to go through it again.

But there was a problem. He relived it almost every night. Those dreams had stopped after about six months, and for almost seven years, he had never had one. But then, one night, they started again. And he couldn’t do anything to push it away. Oh, yes, he’d carry it to his grave. And each night, he feared that the grave would come much sooner than he would hope.

He wasn’t a bad person, Sam’s father. Ed Fredrik was, by all accounts, a good man. He paid his alimony without complaint, he loved his new wife and his boys, he worked hard and hoped for a brighter and better tomorrow. He didn’t have the best car, the most money, the fanciest house, but he tried his best to keep his family happy. That, for a while, was enough.

But he was, in the end, no different than any of countless Americans. And though he was living his own (if a bit backwoods) version of the American dream, in the end he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He couldn’t hope anymore.

So he took the coward’s way out.

Ed Fredrik fed himself his .44 Magnum when Sam was all of 8 years old.

Sam, hiding in the closet during a game of ‘hide and seek’ (more like ‘hide’, ‘cause Gabe never started looking) with his brother, had seen the whole thing.

There was a crack in the door. The light had crossed Sam’s eye. His father, his face in his hands. He took off his coat. He took off his hat. That New York Yankees hat he had always worn. The house creaked. He turned the key in that box Sam wasn’t supposed to touch. That noise, that loud noise.

Daddy fell down.

But the one thing that could make it worse now, now seven years and one step dad later, he could still see it. He could see it with the vivid, picture perfect detail that some people are blessed with. But such photographic quality was more of a curse for Sam.

The storm outside raged harder, the wind wailing like someone in great pain, the rain squalling on the roof. The oak’s fingers scraped faster, moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across the glass with a horrible, human-like quality. Sam could just imagine some huge monster with teeth that tear and claws that rip, trying desperately to get in.

Sam had a vivid imagination. His mother had said so from the start. Gabe had never been good to him, the Cain to his Abel, so he had made his own friends. Stuffed toys, blankets, pieces of paper with faces, or just the very air, everything was Sam’s friend. In fact, Sam had the imagination of a writer. And going with that was his photographic memory. Because that’s what being a writer is. You don’t make anything up, not one thing. Everything you write is very, very real. Because it’s all you. Everything you write is you. It’s the scars and the bumps and the bruises you turn into stories, from the hurts, they don’t come from thin air. And Sam, he remembered the hurts most of all.

As the wind wailed and the oak branches scraped, he could imagine that monster talking to him. He could imagine it asking to come in.

Let me in Sammy. I want to come in and play. I want you to be my friend, Sammy. So let me in. I’ve been waiting since you were little.

Sam closed his eyes and scrunched himself into a ball, trying to push away the imaginings.

But they would not go.

Let’s play Sammy. Let’s play like your poppa did with that pretty toy of his. Do you remember that toy? All black and shiny? Let me in.

Stop that Sam. For Gawd’s sake, there ain’t nothing talking to you. It’s just your imagination. he told himself. That, at least, was true. He knew it was true.

But it was close enough to real to scare him.

Across the room, his door creaked open. Sam peeked over the edge of his sheets, his pupils contracting in sudden fear.

How did it open? The door stop was there! Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! How in Gawd’s name did it open? Sam thought to himself.

The door to his closet swung open easily on its loose hinges, so he put a half-brick in the way.

But it opened anyway.

His breath unfurled into the room like shreds of cloud. The branch stopped scraping on the frozen window. There was a sound like cracking ice and breaking glass.

The thing was inside. No more scraping at the window, oh no. It had found its way in, and that way in was through the closet.

He could hear it, stepping on pieces of paper, stumbling on piles of shoes and dirty clothes. He could hear it, he could see it’s hulking shape, a shadow on the shadows.

A different smell filled the room. It was one he had smelled before, though not altogether unpleasant. It was spicy, like the cabinet where his mother kept her herbs, something like cinnamon and nutmeg. It smelled like rain and grass and something musky, like men’s cologne.

A rush of memories came to Sam. His father’s face in the morning. The way his beard had scratched Sam’s cheek when he hugged him. Playing catch in the back yard. Washing the dog in a tub outside. Drinking beer in front of the TV. That day 7 years ago.

Sam sat still, hiding himself under the covers of his bed, not daring to look out again, not daring to breath. He could feel it, it’s nose poking at the lump that was him, placing a heavily clawed paw upon him. He could taste its breath.

And in his ear, he could hear a whisper.

I found a way in son. Do you want to play now?
----

I also started a new story today. I'm not going to call it a novel unless it gets that long, so for now it's just a story.

The main idea of it is that there's this murderer who marks his victims by sending them Polaroid of themselves with notes regarding very personal things.

I have two MCs -
Kate Lindon - a 20 year old girl who works at a bookshop. She gets very into stories, going so far as to read them out loud to herself. She finds the first Polaroid of herself in a copy of A Fine and Private Place by Peter S. Beagle.

Jack McHenry - the manager of the bookshop where Kate works. He's 28, and Scottish [because I have a thing for European accents, and Scotland is fun. XD]. He has a thing for Kate, but is the main suspect for the murders.

And the Antagonist -
Maxwell King - the murderer. He is targeting Kate, but when Jack is framed for the murders, he goes after him, jealous of the publicity that Jack is getting off of his dirty work.

The working title is: What a Picture is Worth

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^all banners by me - CJ's Request Thread

Skeletons in the Closet was good!! awesome! ^_^ and the new story sounds good too!

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I revisited AU on Jan 14th after an almost 10-year break! The nostalgia..!

*yawns* ok, i have another writers block, all i can seem to do is draw *stares a piece of lined paper* nah, nothings coming, and i cant seem to write any more on any of my existing stories...

A question for all you writers, do you guys like to plan out your stories before hand, or do you just freestyle it and go with whatever groove works for you?