Questions & Answers | Videos | Photos | Auctions | Store

Creative Writing - short story writers Questions

Question #1:

Career advice and emigrating questions....?

I'm using Y/A a lot these days because I'm so at loss to know what to do! Ok so my situation: I have social anxiety disorder, not many skills/qualifications, I have been out of work for over a year and before that I just had dead end jobs, and I'm in my early 20's, I have had some story published in a magazine but that's all. I want to be a writer but also interested in photography (though i know nothing about it). I'm quite depressed right now because I haven't even managed to get any voluntary jobs, I'm finding even volunteering is competetive. Before the recession, I still found it so difficult to get a job. I just feel that with the population in Britain being so high, I have almost no chance.

My question is how hard is it to emigrate to somewhere like Australia for someone without many skills/money etc? Is it easier to get a job there? I thought maybe I should get training and skills in Britain so I would have something to put on my CV for when I emigrate. Any tips on courses and stuff would be good but I don't want to do a three year uni course or anything! Just short and simple way of getting basic training in something.....

Thanks - not exactly expecting many answers on this one since its a bit messy. But thanks in advance guys....
Thanks so much Steven - great answer, so helpful! Thank you noggin its good to know it worked for your friend. Graham - I don't know what you expect me to do with "reality" because in "reality" I cannot for the life of me get a job in England. I think its more realistic to go to a place with a smaller population and assume I'll get a job where there's less people to compete with! I know I don't have any skills but that's what I'm trying to change before I emigrate. Jan -social anxiety dominates me whether I stay here or move to the other side of the planet. Whether I order a cheese sandwich in the UK or whether I order it in Australia, it makes no difference I still have to live with it.

Question #2:

Is this a good intro to an essay about what makes good literature?

John Fowles, an English novelists, once said, "There are many reasons why novelists write- but they all have one thing in common: a need to create an alternative world." An important aspect of good literature is a detailed setting. A well described setting takes the reader into another world and helps you understand and get to know the characters and their lives better. If there was no setting and just a bunch of characters, they would be like nobodies living in a white space.In order to catch the readers eye, the writer must make them feel as if they were inside the character looking at the same view. There are many books and stories out there that take the reader away into another world. Three examples of stories with detailed settings are "The Most Dangerous Game," "The Interlopers," and "Cask of Amontillado," which are all short stories.

Question #3:

Writers/Authors help answer me this question? (Short chapter included; 10 Points best answer!)?

Hi guys,

I was curious for random people to see what they think about my first chapter in my short story. Please leave me brutally honest responses, and opinions on how I can spice it up.

Thank you!

P.S. HONEST OPINION GETS 10 POINTS!

Georgia - Chapter I

"Georgia, you’ll be late for school,” was all I kept hearing for about ten minutes before the voice got louder. I knew that voice, I knew exactly whose voice that was, but my brain wasn’t giving me the clear message. I don’t know why I overslept; usually, I get up before my brother, Jack, gets up to have some time alone to myself before going to the devils house, or should I call it school. “Georgia! Get up!” My eyes immediately opened, and I actually was startled. As soon as my vision appeared clear I could have seen my brothers disturbing face. “Dude, seriously you should invest in some acne cream or something,” I said in a low scratchy voice. “Hey, at least I can fix my acne problem, but you can’t fix being mentally retarded,” he said laughing approaching the mirror to stare at his hideous face “yep, you’re going to be a mentally retarded freak forever.” He continued as he walked out of my room. I used to get peeved whenever he used to call me a mentally retarded freak. It wasn’t my fault that I was exposed to toxic chemicals at a young age that must have messed up my brain or something. I didn’t grow up with a mother; she died after giving birth to me, so it wasn’t like someone was looking after me the whole time… I mean not as much as a mother would look after her young. You can’t compare a mother’s love to anybody else’s… well; at least that’s how they describe it in the books I’ve read. Every time I would hear the word “mother” I would literally get this stabbing pain in my chest, and I wouldn’t know why. I still get this throbbing uncontrollable pain whenever I hear that word… I can’t say the word out loud. Anytime a person would ask me what had happened to my mother, I’d just avoid the question because I actually don’t know how she died. All I know is that she died after giving birth to me, but the reason is still unknown… to me at least. My brother knew my mother for five years before she died, but neither he nor my dad likes to talk about her or her about death. My father on the other hand wasn’t always there for me. It’s not that he didn’t want to be, but he worked 12-hour shifts each day and sometimes even overtime if he could just to provide us food and shelter. This routine continued on even during Holidays - like Christmas, and Thanksgiving. There was even sometimes where I didn’t even eat dinner. Me and Jack would eat the candy we used to save from past Halloween festivities – even if they were years old. That’s probably another reason why I may have problems in my brain – because of the lack of nutrients I was supposed to consume as a child. Luckily, now I take those one-a-day vitamin things. It was 6:40AM as soon as I finished brushing my teeth. I rushed down stairs wanting to confront my brother why he woke me up so early, but he had already left for school. For some reason the kitchen window was left open, and it made the room feel quite cool – about ten degrees cooler than what it’s supposed to feel like. My dad is quite overweighed; usually, he feels warmer than normal, even when the house is cool. So every morning he’d open up the window until he leaves for work, but would always forget to close it afterwards. It was a crisp November Fall day in Lead, South Dakota; sunny with calm winds, I could have felt as it were maybe 50F. As soon as I finished eating my cereal I washed, and dried the bowl and spoon. Then, I went to change my clothes and get ready for school. It was much cooler than I’d predicted as I waited for the bus to come pick me up. I then decided to go back to the house real quick to pick up my heavier sweater. I could have sworn that I took less than two minutes to go, and come back but as I was walking down my long drive way I could have seen the bus pass my house. “Shoot!” I said loudly, almost as I was shouting. Now I had no choice but to walk to school. As I walked to school I kept asking myself,”Why am I even going to school?” It’s not like it’s really putting any sense into my brain. I seem to study so hard, but still struggle to maintain that C average. Maybe if I found a cute guy to tutor me, then maybe that’d be a whole different story, and I could get better grades. All my teachers seem to not have the time or day for me. Whenever they call my name to answer a question my knees start to shake, I start to bite my lip, my heart starts racing and then I fail at answering the question. I’m not used to living in the north, so maybe that’s why it’s hard for me to adjust to their way of speaking, and learning. I was born and raised in Berryville, Arkansas. I was forced to move when I turned 16, because of my fathers job. Berryville, just like Lead was a small town, but to me it had a huge place in my h
Berryville, just like Lead was a small town, but to me it had a huge place in my heart. It was much warmer, and wetter than in Lead. In Lead we get to literally feel the four different seasons in a year, which is a great benefit. As I kept walking, a random reflection of my brother hit my head with the words of, “You’re a mentally retarded freak with an IQ of 40. You’ll never become a vet. Never!” That word “never” repeated itself in my head for about ten times before I realized I almost bumped into a stop sign. I’ve always loved animals; even at a young age. I love them so much that it actually does hurt me. It hurts because I’m an Omnivore; I’m guilty to say that I eat organic foods, and I eat meat products. I may sound hypocritical, but I’m working on avoiding eating meat at all cost. As I thought of what I just said, an image appeared in my head of a man slaughtering a cow. I felt dizzy. I felt my body feeling lighter, and my stomach moving in a circular motion. I was afraid to gra
I was afraid to grab my pocket mirror to see if my lips turned pale. I decided to sit down for awhile on the sidewalk until that destructive image escaped my head. As I sat I kept thinking of what my brother had said. I may have an IQ of 62, but at times I still feel smarter than my brother with an IQ of 120. I may not be the brightest light bulb in a basement, but I am brighter than my brother. I pulled up my pocket mirror and checked my lips - my lips were red, and normal. As I got up from the side walk I continued on walking to school. My brain was still repeating the word “never” and then it was merged with “failure” and then it was merged with a man slaughtering a cow. It was almost as I could hear screaming, and yelling in my own head. The words were getting louder and the image was getting clearer, and the cow was starting to yelp for help. I couldn’t do anything to save the cow. The slaughterer was now looking at me; he was looking at me right into my eyes. I was trying to fi
I was trying to find a soul through that man’s eyes, but all I could see was darkness. All I could see was hate. All I could see was… a man killing this animal. I was lost in this persons eyes, and I wanted to get out from this image. That image, and those words “never” and “failure” kept repeating in my head over, and over, and over again. The next thing I know, my brain was shutting down….

Question #4:

What career should I pursue? English or Engineering?

Pros for English: I want to be a writer, and I believe that I would be perfectly happy as an English teacher. Furthermore, I am really interested in English literature, which will make college much easier.

Cons: Money? My parents have PhD and Masters, and its obvious that many expect me to do the same. Which is a good reason why I don't want to. Also, is education a good field to go into fresh out of college? How hard is it going to be for an Asian-American short girl to teach English? I keep hearing horror stories of teachers getting pushed around because they're small and stuff.

Pros for Engineering: I have some interest in Engineering, although not exactly a whole lot. My main interests stems from hands-on engineering/technician things and Mythbusters. And I'll make more money.

Cons: My interest in Engineering definitely is smaller than my interest in English. I'm not that great at math, physics, and I will have to work really hard for those subjects and their related subjects too. Plus, I might not actually like the job if I end up in a cubicle or something.

Help me choose!

Question #5:

Writers/Authors help answer me this question? (Short chapter included)?

Hi guys,

I was curious for random people to see what they think about my first chapter in my short story. Please leave me brutally honest responses, and opinions on how I can spice it up.

Thank you!

GEORGIA - CHAPTER I

“Georgia, you’ll be late for school,” was all I kept hearing for about ten minutes before the voice got louder. I knew that voice, I knew exactly whose voice that was, but my brain wasn’t giving me the clear message. I don’t know why I overslept; usually, I get up before my brother, Jack, gets up to have some time alone to myself before going to the devils house, or should I call it school. “Georgia! Get up!” My eyes immediately opened, and I actually was startled. As soon as my vision appeared clear I could have seen my brothers disturbing face. “Dude, seriously you should invest in some acne cream or something,” I said in a low scratchy voice. “Hey, at least I can fix my acne problem, but you can’t fix being mentally retarded,” he said laughing approaching the mirror to stare at his hideous face “yep, you’re going to be a mentally retarded freak forever.” He continued as he walked out of my room. I used to get peeved whenever he used to call me a mentally retarded freak. It wasn’t my fault that I was exposed to toxic chemicals at a young age that must have messed up my brain or something. I didn’t grow up with a mother; she died after giving birth to me, so it wasn’t like someone was looking after me the whole time… I mean not as much as a mother would look after her young. You can’t compare a mother’s love to anybody else’s… well; at least that’s how they describe it in the books I’ve read. Every time I would hear the word “mother” I would literally get this stabbing pain in my chest, and I wouldn’t know why. I still get this throbbing uncontrollable pain whenever I hear that word… I can’t say the word out loud. Anytime a person would ask me what had happened to my mother, I’d just avoid the question because I actually don’t know how she died. All I know is that she died after giving birth to me, but the reason is still unknown… to me at least. My brother knew my mother for five years before she died, but neither he nor my dad likes to talk about her or her about death. My father on the other hand wasn’t always there for me. It’s not that he didn’t want to be, but he worked 12-hour shifts each day and sometimes even overtime if he could just to provide us food and shelter. This routine continued on even during Holidays - like Christmas, and Thanksgiving. There was even sometimes where I didn’t even eat dinner. Me and Jack would eat the candy we used to save from past Halloween festivities – even if they were years old. That’s probably another reason why I may have problems in my brain – because of the lack of nutrients I was supposed to consume as a child. Luckily, now I take those one-a-day vitamin things. It was 6:40AM as soon as I finished brushing my teeth. I rushed down stairs wanting to confront my brother why he woke me up so early, but he had already left for school. For some reason the kitchen window was left open, and it made the room feel quite cool – about ten degrees cooler than what it’s supposed to feel like. My dad is quite overweighed; usually, he feels warmer than normal, even when the house is cool. So every morning he’d open up the window until he leaves for work, but would always forget to close it afterwards. It was a crisp November Fall day in ______, _________ (help me find an extremely small town where in November is cold, and where people have a country accent); sunny with calm winds, I could have felt as it were maybe 50F. As soon as I finished eating my cereal I washed, and dried the bowl and spoon. Then, I went to change my clothes and get ready for school. It was much cooler than I’d predicted as I waited for the bus to come pick me up. I then decided to go back to the house real quick to pick up my heavier sweater. I could have sworn that I took less than two minutes to go, and come back but as I was walking down my long drive way I could have seen the bus pass my house. “Shoot!” I said loudly, almost as I was shouting. Now I had no choice but to walk to school. As I walked to school I kept asking myself,”Why am I even going to school?” It’s not like it’s really putting any sense into my brain. I seem to study so hard, but still struggle to maintain that C average. Maybe if I found a cute guy to tutor me, then maybe that’d be a whole different story, and I could get better grades. All my teachers speak with this weird accent that makes it harder for me to understand what they’re talking about. They speak real fast, and whenever they call my name to answer a question my knees start to shake, I start to bite my lip and then I fail at answering the question. It's weird because where I live everybody has that accent except for me. As I was thinking about my teachers, a random reflection of my brother hit my head with the words of, “You’re a mentally r
“You’re a mentally retarded freak with an IQ of 40. You’ll never become a vet. Never!” That word “never” repeated itself in my head for about ten times before I realized I almost bumped into a stop sign. I’ve always loved animals; even at a young age. I love them so much that it actually does hurt. It hurts because I’m an Omnivore; I’m guilty to say that I eat organic foods, and I eat meat products. I may sound hypocritical, but I’m working on avoiding eating meat at all cost. As I thought of what I just said, an image appeared in my head of a man slaughtering a cow. I felt dizzy, so I decided to sit down for awhile on the sidewalk until that destructive image escaped my head. As I sat I kept thinking of what my brother said. I may have an IQ of 62, but at times I still feel smarter than my brother with an IQ of 120. I may not be the brightest light bulb in a basement, but I am brighter than my brother. As I got up from the side walk I continued on walking to school. My brain was stil
My brain was still repeating the word “never” and then it was merged with “failure” and then it was merged with a man slaughtering a cow. It was almost as I could hear screaming, and yelling in my own head. The words were getting louder and the image was getting clearer, and the cow was starting to yelp for help. I couldn’t do anything to save the cow. The slaughterer was now looking at me; he was looking at me right into my eyes. I was trying to find a soul through that man’s eyes, but all I could see was darkness. All I could see was hate. All I could see was… a man killing this animal. That image, and those words “never” and “failure” kept repeating in my head over, and over, and over again. The next thing I know, my brain was shutting down…

Question #6:

How can I properly prepare and submit my writing to a publisher?

I'm an aspiring writer who writes poetry and currently short stories. After time I plan to write full novels. I would like to know the smartest and safest way to prepare and submit my writing to a publisher without having to worry about my ideas being stolen.
Key Answers I'm Looking For:
- How do I know my work is properly prepared?
- How do I submit my work to a publisher?
- What precautions do I take to ensure my work is safe?

All relevant responses are welcome. Thank you to all who offer your input.

Question #7:

How do you self publish a short story or a novel online?

I am a writer and trying to get my work published in magazines and through publishers etc. But one option I have been thinking of is publishing my work as an Ebook. Are there any publishing tools you can buy in the shops to create your own Ebooks. Has anyone done this ? Any help would be appreciated.

Paul

Question #8:

I'm looking for a writing buddy, to share our writing back and forth, five advice, tip, ideas, ect...?

I'm looking for a writing buddy, some who I can share my writing work with, and have you share yours with with me, to give advice to each other about the writing. Also for things such as tips, and sites that we've found, contests we've stumbled across, help with writer's block and ideas, basically anything and everything about writing! -^^- I'm playing around with some novel ideas currently, but I also occasionally write poetry, or short stories.
It'd be awesome if you were beginning a novel as well, but as long as you write, I'm happy. I'm 15, so I'd like someone around the same age as me, it make the most sense.
Please email me at nwolanski@live.com, or give me a way to contact you if you answer this question, thank-you! <33
If several people want to do this, it'd be even better in a little group! I just want to have a more personalized relationship, (I know it sounds creepy, lol, i don't mean it to be!) aka: email each other more frequently then the huge online writing site members message each other, and have a broader range to talk about, like tips and contests, ect.. :]

Question #9:

The order of Sharon Shinn's books?

Which books are series and what order do they go in? Which books are stand-alone? If you could give me a one or two sentence overview of each it would be very appreciated. (Or which ones do you recommend the most?)

I've only read a short story and Summers At Castle Auburn as of yet, but she's such an exceptional writer that I want to read everything she has.

Question #10:

what does the Baileys magazine is about?

Title of this magazine is in a short story by Oscar Wilde "Model Millionaire". As a short story writer never bring something in his story thoughtlessly, I would like what does this magazine is about. It may helps to understand the short story easier. I am a nonnative English literature student.

Question #11:

Any Ideas For A Horror Story?

I am wanting to write a Short horror story but having writers block. I would prefer it not to be about werewolves, or vampires, or zombies.

Question #12:

Beginning of my short story?

The minute I saw her, I realized it wasn’t true. I had spent seventy days trying to convince myself that I would be alright without her guiding me gently through every day and listening as I poured out my secret fears and hopes. But when I saw her again, I couldn’t help but let myself fall into the familiar rhythm that we had gone through, day after day, all year. I let myself bask in the warmth of her genuine praise and comforts, the unconditional acceptance that I knew she had for me, now and always, even though I knew I was only making things harder for myself. But I had spent all summer missing my safe haven and the people who had come to be my heroes, and I couldn’t let them go that easily.

All summer long, I had lived a nightmare. Without the escape that school brought, the past seventy days had been filled with terror and unpredictability and the fear that came each night when the lights were out and it was just him and me, in the dark. And when I couldn’t take the pain, I numbed my soul and just disappeared. I had learned through the years that my mind would be my friend if I let it; even when my body betrayed me, which was every night for the last six years, when I couldn’t take it anymore, my mind would rescue me, and take me far away, somewhere where no one could touch me at all. There, I was just a normal eight-year-old, with no secrets at all. I wasn’t dirty or damaged or hurt, and instead of spending my days locked up in a dark closet, I danced through flowers and fields full of lollipops. I rode pink horses and wore long purple dresses and a tiara to remind the world that I was a true princess.

But in reality, I was anything but a princess. I was nothing, just a toy to be used and discarded to the satisfaction of those who were supposed to love, shelter, and take care of me, but instead beat me and demeaned me. Every day, I lived with the fear that today would be my last. And sometimes I even wished it would be, just so I would not have to live with this pain, the secret storm that burdened me every minute of my life.

When I was at school, though, things were different. I could throw myself into my studies and could forget the dark bruises that covered my arms and legs and the red, ugly welts on my back. There, at least, I was somebody, even if I was only known for my academic achievements. I tried hard at everything I did and excelled, getting not only straight A’s but also the highest marks in my entire grade. I found solace in this, and it felt good to have a goal to work towards.

But when I was in grade three, things changed. I had skipped a grade, so I was in the third grade even though I was only seven. My teacher was Ms. Denholm, and she took a special interest in me. I think that she could sense something was wrong from day one, but she never pushed me to talk about it, and she always let me know she was there for me whenever I needed her without making me feel uncomfortable. Most mornings, when I came to school early, she would invite me to come into the classroom and help her with something and we would chat for a bit. I understood this quid pro quo; I was helping her, but she was doing me more good than she would ever know. Ms. Denholm sometimes asked about my weekend or my mother, and sometimes asked me if my parents knew I was coming to school so early, and if they were okay with that. I always just shrugged, and she had the good sense to drop the topic.

Even though Ms. Denholm was always tactful and never put me in an awkward situation, I was still wary around her, as I was with everyone. I couldn’t afford to let her get too close, lest she discover my secret. My largest fear was that she would somehow discover how dirty and bad I was and then she wouldn’t like me anymore. But I was determined not to worry about that and instead enjoy the good times with her while they lasted.

How can I make my story better and is it good already (so far)? I'm 14 and want to be a writer :)

Question #13:

Beginning of short story?

Question #14:

What are some examples of life ruining rumors?

Im writing a short story from english, and i need an example of a life ruining rumor bc im having writers block.

Question #15:

What do you think of my story for school?

I AM SOO NOT A WRITER! But in school you just have to do it. So please don't be to mean, I have just been looking at it for so long I just need a fresh pair a eyes. Here it is:

Zoe was lounging in her favorite nook of the old oak tree in Starry Meadow. Some people say the tree has been there since the beginning of time. Zoe doesn’t believe them. She thinks its been here for hundreds of years. Anyways it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Zoe is in her favorite tree thinking about her most beloved thing- the heart shaped pendant she was wearing.
Six years ago, on her seventh birthday, Zoe was given a heart shaped pendant from her best friend Zac. They had met when they were just five years old in Starry Meadow.
Zoe climbed down from the tree. As she walked through the meadow, her thoughts bounced around from one thing to another. Suddenly, Zoe realized it was getting dark, so she ran home just before it was time for dinner. Later that night, as she was getting ready for bed, she felt something funny; she realized she wasn’t wearing her pendant. Panic hit she raced around, searching everywhere, but she couldn’t find it.
“Mom!” Zoe bellowed from her room.
Zoe’s mother came running into Zoe’s room. “What?!” replied her mom frantically.
“Mom, I can’t find my pendant from Zac!” Zoe wailed, almost in tears.
“We will look for it in the morning. Go to bed now Zoe. It’s getting late,” soothed her mom.
“Fine!” Zoe said with quite a bit of a sassy tone. Zoe could not sleep. All night she tossed and turned; she went over every step she took the day before to try and remember where she might have lost the pendant.
Zoe got up early the next morning, and ran to Greenwood Forest; the last place she knew she had her pendant. She came across the path of an old woman wearing a ragged brown and white dress. She had a crooked smile, small brown eyes, and messy white hair in a bun. Zoe went near the woman cautiously and asked her if she had seen the pendant. The old woman simply waived her hand as if to tell Zoe to follow her. Zoe knew better than to go with her, but the pendant was the only thing that mattered. They walked a short distance down a path Zoe had never seen before. A small weathered cottage in poor repair appeared. The old woman motioned Zoe to come inside. There it was, sitting on an old, rickety table- her pendant. Zoe darted over to get the pendant, but before she could get it the woman screamed, “NO!” Startled, Zoe jumped back.
“What?!” Zoe sounded very surprised and somewhat afraid.
“No! You can’t have it back!” Zoe didn’t know what to do. After a long pause, the old woman snarled, “You can however have it back, if you pay for it.”
“What?! Why must I pay for it?” Zoe asked incredulously. “It belongs to me! It was a gift.”
“I need the money; I sell things I find at the market. Do you want it back or not?!” The woman sounded angry and adamant.
“Yes! Yes, I want it back! Wait here, I’ll be back.”
Zoe raced back as fast as she could back to her house and snuck in. She stealthy crept up the five flights of stairs to her room and grabbed all $100 she had saved from random jobs around the house for the past three years. She was willing to give everything for the pendant. She snuck back down the stairs and ran out the door to the cottage.
“Here!! Now give me my necklace!” Zoe snapped to the old woman.
The woman ripped the money out of Zoe’s hand threw the pendant to Zoe. “Now get out of here!” barked the old woman.
Zoe ran back home. All the way back she could hear the old wretch’s cackle – glorifying in her newly found wealth. When Zoe reached her house, she told her mom that she had found the pendant from Zac under her bed.

Question #16:

So What's Keeping You?

Hey Inklings, It’s recently (not really) come to my attention that a lot of you are “writing” a book. Why did I quote the word writing. Oh. I think you know.
For many years now you’ve had a story brewing in your head. If it’s lucky, on occasion it might leak onto a pad of paper while your mind is racked with whatnot's at work (and/or school), or onto your soiled napkin at a restaurant, or heaven forbid, toilette paper! But only if it’s lucky because most of you will keep it locked up in that special dungeon created in your head. You know the one. It’s one floor above lies. But if you pass secrets you’ve gone too far? And there it will remain screaming, “Warden, let me out! It’s getting crowded in here!”
Then comes the near inevitable, on one bleary day Time comes and helps it escape! You’ll know something’s wrong when you revisit it’s cell on a day that suits you best and you find, to your dismay, only a miasma of lingering memories remain...
“AHHH!!!” You scream.

Alright, now before I get too ahead of myself (believe me there would be more...)
My question is simple. What’s keeping you? There are countless reasons people don’t write down their ideas. Whether it’s fear. Whether it’s procrastination. Whether it’s the weather. Everyone has their own reasons for not writing down or completing something they’ve been working on for several years. You know the cliché. I for one refuse to except it. I never tell anyone I’m writing for fear they may be thinking “oh, you’re one of ‘those’.” But I too have a dungeon. I try and clean it out as soon as I can because Time is a constant visitor up there. But alas, I’ve yet to complete something that wasn’t a required school assignment. I’m 25, been calling myself a writer for ten years now, yet I don’t have much to show for it. I’m resigned. If I’m to refuse the cliché, I too should defy it. Will you?
Tell me your story. I don’t care how long. (Clearly right?)
So, what’s keeping you?

1.Age when you got your idea?
2.Age now?
3.How often did you work on it? Then? Now?
4.How far did you get? Then? Now? (If you got anywhere.)
5.What’s kept you? (Be truthful. If you think you’re just lazy, say so.)
6.Experience an epiphany-like moment that re-fueled you’re writing?
7.Have you ‘officially’ started working on it again? (If it’s not ‘official’ than are you still adding tidbits here and there, every so often?)
8.Are you resolved? Have you given yourself a goal to finish? (e.g. entire book or a few chapters)
9.Does your story still incite the same excitement it did when it first came to mind?
10.Has your original idea changed? (An iota? Dramatically?)
11.How goes it?
12.‘Told’ your story to anyone?
13.If someone said, I’ll pay you to finish. You have 3 months starting Now, could you?
14.Do you long to finish it?
15.In the depths of your soul do you know you wont be able to rest easy if you never finish?
16.Why is it so important that you do finish?
17.So, what’s keeping you?
18.If someone said: “okay if you started [x] years ago maybe its time to move on and think of a different story and plot to write.” What would you say?

And my answers:
1.16.
2.25.
3.THEN, I worked on it constantly. NOW, still constant. This is recent. During the ages of 19-22 I hardly touched it. I wrote rarely then ignored it for months, sometimes a year.
4.THEN, I had two chapters. NOW, I’ve gotten pretty far.
5.Procrastination. Writer’s block. Difficult times equals moratorium. Coming to college, a massive bout of the ‘I’m not good enough!”s, which lasted an egregious amount of time.
6.Nearing 23, I realized, a rare day shall come when one writes something everyone loves! Why not write for me? The chances of getting published...that’s it! If I eliminated the “ifs, ands, and buts,” then perhaps I could get somewhere. So I began...
7.It’s official. Life is way too short.
8.Goal - finish book by the time I’m 26. Difficult but not impossible. I’m confident.
9.Much more.
10.Not dramatically, but a great deal. The original chapters are scrap. My idea has morphed into something quite different.
11.It goes well. My writing has improved a great deal since then. (Which says a lot, considering I’m lousy at it).
12.Never. Yet.
13.Probably. I don’t need to be paid but with an “official” deadline, I’m almost certain I could. It would have to be official though, like a class assignment with consequences should I fail.
14.The longing is deep.
15.Yes. It would be an unfinished task.
16.I need to finish for me.
17.Floating ideas, information that needs sorting.
18.“Shut your pie hole. If everyone was as cynical as you, we wouldn’t have The Lord of the Rings.” (And yes, we must have The Lord of the Rings)

Thanks in advance for all your responses! Hope you're getting some writing done and if not, I hope a speedy comeback. Remember, write for you, and someday, if you want, share it with the world.

Question #17:

I want to publish my short erotica stories... trouble is I don't know where to start?

I know I'm not the best writer in the world, but I've finally found something that I'm good at and I'm into. Only trouble is, the only two I've completed have both been under 7,000 words, and are both girl on girl action. Well, one starts off with a male, but when the flat mate joins in, he gets kicked to the side by the two of them. They contain humor, and good characters I think, I've also written a gay male one, and I'm working on decent story lines for straight ones. So I was wanted to publish a book of shorts, for everyone no matter their sexuality, but I don't know where to start, I don't even know if I can until I've finished ALL of them, I just wanted to get my name out there a bit first ya know? =D
I'm a girl, and I'm 19 years old if this helps any haha, but I've been writing and reading them since I was 15. (I'm a curious girl =) )

heres a snippet to see if anyone thinks I'm good enough or need to improve;

'I closed my eyes lightly, and was caught off guard by what happened next. I felt a set of lips on my neck and two hands slide around my front. Sasha pressed herself up against my back. I felt my breathing speed up. She nipped at my flesh and sucked at my neck. I brought my hand around and locked it in her hair, pressing her head tighter to my neck. '

I took a semi - clean part, as Im not sure of the ages on this website =D Thanks guys!!!

Question #18:

Is this a Good Story???!??!?!??!?

I Stared at the door, I could hear Girls on the other side Gossiping and Giggling. I dropped My Suitcase onto the floor, The Sound of it dropping was covered by My Stomach's Rumbling, I fell onto My Bed and Sighed.
I took a Note out off my School Dress Pocket, "Sweetheart, If you are Reading this that means That your Father and I Have Passed Away, We Understand That you are Upset, But Honey, You have to Remember That We are always In your heart and Will Never, Ever Leave you Love Mum and Dad". I Couldn't Stop Staring at the Note, A Single, Lonely tear ran slowly down my Cold, Rasberry Cheek, I reached for a tissue on my nightstand to wipe it away, Then i heard a knock on the door. I quickly put the note back into my pocket, it was Ms. Bridges, The Head of the orphanage, and In Case you Haven't noticed i am an orphan. Ms.Bridges was the prettiest and kindest worker at the orphanage, most of the children felt safe around her, She always had her hair tied up in a small, neat bun and wore a short black dress, her white skin somehow made the room a bit colder everytime she walked in but she never seemed to notice. She peered her head in through the door to see if I was Packed up. I could feel the room getting colder even though all the windows were closed and it was the middle of summer but I didn't mind I liked the cold. " Daphne are you Ready?"She asked. "Yeah, I guess I am" I mumbled." Okay, We leave in 15 minutes" she reminded me as if I haven't heard all the other girls talking about it for the last I don't know, Week!

And guess how old the writer was

Question #19:

I'm a teenage writer, Looking to publish free?

Hi, I'm a teenage writer who has written quite a few short stories, poems, fiction & non fiction books, and am looking for a place to publish some of my works, at the publishers expense, as I'm only 17 and have no income.
Please leave some good answers, thank you.

Question #20:

Should I go ahead with my dreams or follow a safer route?

I've wanted to be a novelist ever since I was very little. Now, I'm in high school and I have perfect grades but I hate it all. I have no time to do anything except homework, studying, and more studying. I don't have time to write at all. I hate all this but my parents don't give me much of a choice. They want me to take the PSAT next year, get a National Merit awards or whatever it is, get at least above a 2,200 on my SATs, and eventually attend an Ivy League school. Though my parents have been pushy, they always put me first and have been sacrificing a great deal so I could go to a great high school, have tutoring, take violin lessons etc. etc. I don't want to go directly against their will and I know they won't understand because I've already tried to speak to them about this issue.

Another problem is that I'm afraid that I won't succeed if I become a novelist. I'm scared that I might someday realize that I don't really like writing at all or find out that I don't have any talent. I love to make up stories but now, I'm starting to realize that I'm only writing because I want recognition from my parents. Every time I write, all I think is: "I have to make this story perfect because if it gets published, maybe mom and dad will let me become a writer without disowning me." This is making writing a pain for me because if it's not perfect or up to the standards of my favorite authors, I tear it up and start over again.

I'm starting to realize how short life is. I want to make my life worth something and do something I love while I'm still alive. What should I do?

** Powered by Yahoo Answers
Click link above for correct copyright license.

Questions

This site requires JAVASCRIPT