I recently participated in a short fiction contest (not the big one with my Romance story), and I was hoping somebody could read it and give me some feedback. The contest is kind of fun, and they do several throughout the year. The next one starts February 3rd. The link will also give you access to more information in case you want to try it out. The day the contest opens, they give you a genre or trope, a character, and an object. Then you have 5 days to write the story and submit it. So, if you have a chance, look my story over, please. I'd love feedback. https://www.writingbattle.com/story/debrief/a258670e-63bc-48ab-a5d5-ef93d1e72d2c?uploadedStory

Had a small writing realization yesterday morning (yes, this took me a whole day to squeeze enough time to write out) that felt worth sharing. I’ve been circling a sci-fi project (tentatively calling it The Somniarch Spaces) for a while, trying to build it the same way I build big fantasy worlds - lore first, structure first, everything mapped out. Then, driving to work, I passed through a low bank of fog and had a simple thought: What if that fog were alive? No symbolism or metaphor, just a fundamentally alien premise. Felt more weighty, almost ominous to drive through it. Haven’t had that feeling in a while, it was nice. That flipped something for me. I realized Somniarchs doesn’t want empires or timelines yet. It wants moments. Little, strange instances where something impossible is briefly true. A fog that experiences itself, a fire that reacts to hunger, a building that develops a dim sense of self. Those small, unconnected pieces will gradually build up into a bigger answer to its central question. It was a good reminder that different projects want different entry points. Sometimes forcing the “right” method is what stalls you. Or heck, just not yet knowing the one you need exists! Curious if anyone else here has had that moment where you realized you were trying to write the right thing in the wrong way.

One small writing tip that helped me: Before I start a story, I always ask, "What problem will my characters have to solve?" It keeps the story moving. What question do you ask yourself before you write?

Today I wrote up a formal-ish, reader-facing explainer for one of the magic systems in my fantasy setting, The Patchwork Places. To sum it up, it's basically sorcery as done through magical contracts, which at higher levels of mastery you can strike with anything, even the air around you, or more abstract concepts if you're really talented. It's not necessarily creating anything new, as I've had all these magics written down in my notes for some time, but it is my first time presenting them to a wider audience, and the process of cleaning/polishing always does good things for the narrative clutter that otherwise builds up. Plus, it's a little more mental energy-friendly, which is nice to have right now.

(I missed last week, and I think I'm late to this week, but here goes...) Dear Pam, I know you would like me to call you Mom or Mother, but in the time we’ve gotten to know each other, I still am not comfortable with that. Maybe if we had met sooner, or if our ideologies better aligned, I could find that spark of connection they say mothers have with their children from the nine months in the womb. Or eight, in my case. As it stands, the only thing you and I have in common is one half of a DNA strand, and while I cannot deny the test results, when I look at you, I see none of myself there. Maybe, when I look at pictures of you at my age, maybe there is a hint of the eyebrow, and I cannot deny that I have your sister’s nose, which must have come from an ancestor because you do not have it. Possibly the darkness of my eyes, one of the many things about me that proves I do not match the family I was raised with. Everything else must have come from the other half of the DNA strand. Just some man, not the one you named, for DNA doesn’t lie, and though I spent my whole life believing the lie you told the people who arranged my adoption, and learned a heritage I thought was my birthright, I now know that the one part of myself I was sure of was nothing more than a lie. A lie I have believed so long, it makes me feel lost to admit it isn’t true. A lie that I have told so long that it shaped who I am even though it wasn’t true. And while you have fought with your own mother for over 40 years over her part in your giving me up, the truth is, you wouldn’t have recognized me had we met on the street. For that matter, I am sad to say, we wouldn’t have anything to say to each other if we had met randomly on the street as strangers. You cling to your faith with anger and vengeance. Yours is a vengeful hateful God who judges instead of loves, and only punishes, while mine exists in the light between heartbeats and is felt most in the kindness given willingly to those in need.