How many characters have killed? And have you brought some back to life in another story just to be eventually killed again?
I.... Don't actually really want to know, to be honest XD
And no :p
Woogwoo Wren wrote:Let's just say I've killed lots. And have at least one more death planned for the book I am currently writing *grins evilly at Ranger*
Donchu dare bruh
Simonpet wrote:Hello! I'd like to join this club. I'm Simonpet, a person who is currently writing several fanfictions which will probably be in progress forever, as well as writing a book.
Kia ora, welcome along! Join the club and watch out for carrots XP
tuttifrutti000 wrote:Arggghhh... stress! Stress! Stress! What are your best tips on writing fast?!
Sit yo butt down ASAP and DO IT!
I feel you though; I NEED TO GET MY STORY EDITED AND SENT IN BY FRIDAY AAAAH
Are you doing Nano? What'll your story be about?
Nope, probably not tbh :p
The Worst Username wrote:Also
hey who wants to read me trying to get out of writer's block by writing some one-shot about a fox/it's actually not so bad for writer's block? just kinda rambly:
why don't I ever post my stuff wrote:The barren trees flash past her, the trail between them opening wide like a great cougar’s maw. She kicks up dust as flecks of snow start to fall from the clouds; perhaps they’ll thicken into a blanket that’ll cover her tracks come morning.
She so badly wants the snow to cover her pawsteps, her little stamps in the dirt. Then, she would be like a shadow, a phantom, gone without a trace, so her captors wouldn’t know whether she ran, whether she sprouted wings and flew, whether the ground split and ate her up. They would simply know that she had gone.
They’re her captors no more. She, little red fox, grandmaster of trickery, bearer of deceit traveling on small black paws, has run. Never again will she be with a roof of concrete over her head. Never again will she be trapped in darkness during daytime. Never again will she cower before one of those disgusting, furless, pink-flesh creatures. Never again.
She races away, the trees thickening around her, the path dwindling into dark shadows and low branches and stabbing underbrush. It’s all for the better; she, little red fox, grandmaster of trickery, can doge such branches and leap over such underbrush. She wears the darkness as a cloak, letting it envelope her, guide her, to freedom.
She’s never been in this place before. Some of the scents are familiar, almost: the smell of rabbits thinned by wintertime, the smell of voles and birds and trees and dirt, but many are new. None of it matters. She is off. She is running. She, little red fox, is free.
*jumps into shame corner*
Hey, that's not too bad! Sometimes it feels like the flow/rhythm could be adjusted slightly, but other than that it's actually pretty good! I love your use of wording; makes it obvious that she's not human, she doesn't think like us and doesn't react like us. She's wild. Little red fox is free c;