I’ve been writing for 11 years, and I’m still in this process.
This month, I want to complete the outline for the update of The Nascent Necromancer.
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The best of luck to you all!
I’ve written almost 20 000 words in a week. Before that, I hadn’t been writing in months, so I guess it’s only fair that I’m making up for it at the moment.
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So it’s the 16th now, but yesterday was very busy for me. Still, I want to try this. My excerpt is very small, but this is the opening of my next chapter. It’s still in rough draft phase and unedited.
Excerpt
My dreams are full of darkness. I don’t know where I am, but I’m surrounded by trees looming over me. Trees that are on fire. I think it’s night, but there’s so much smoke that I can’t really tell. I look around frantically, but can’t see anything. I start to cough as the smoke fills my lungs and panic starts to set in.
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I know nothing about your project, but even from this excerpt I got a sense for the characters and found that picturing them came easily. I could hear their voices, if that makes sense. I immediately wanted to know more. Even the baker was portrayed with deft touch and keen word. I hope to see them on Broadway one day.
@Leinco My favorite scene was the Anime club interruption, but the entirety of it was written with an excellent tone. I wish to unravel the mystery of Sumira. And maybe figure out how I can add some nukes to the Waifu Wars.
@Cat-Toes Despite the length, your shared passage says a lot. I was immediately drawn to the evocative imagery. I like the contrast of the dreams being filled with darkness, yet the trees set the night aflame.
I don’t interact with these threads much, because other people scare me, but its always nice to see the positivity. I suppose I’ll share a passage as well, even though I missed the day. Its a bit word vomity, but it sort of fits. Warning: graphic imagery, lost loved ones.
When I lay in Wonderland, I only dream of you,
The door leading to Room 142 looks the same as all the others. Chipped wood, weeping lead-paint tears. Inelegant lock easily jimmied. You open the door, slowly. A Cathedral awaits.
High ceilings to catch the clouds, the sun beaming joyously through an opening. Windows to span the sides of mountains. Needless white pillars. Murals of forests with nondescript wildlife and singing trees. The painted leaves ripple with life, despite being crafted from oils and colors they are not/we only imagine them to be.
In the center, a massive table with dozens of guests. A white tablecloth, placemats, and silverware promises a great feast, but the reflective plates carry nothing. The head of the table is empty, the large chair in front of it ajar. In the center of the table is a lovely cake, with a smiling man and woman atop it. It looks delicious.
The guests speak of nothing but their hunger, knuckles going white as they tightly grip knives and forks. They eye the cake hungrily, but cannot eat. the bride and groom aren’t here, yet. She has to sit down. They turn to you expectantly, and you see their masks. Malformed and flesh-colored. Crude lumps at irregular intervals. You cannot see their mouths, but saliva leaks from the bottom of the mask.
This is a special day. They will finally be together. She can show him just how much she loves him. She doesn’t have to hide it anymore, or be worried about if he loves her back. They’ll be married, right? Don’t marriages last forever? Aren’t they supposed to reaffirm your love, for all to see?
Here Comes the Bride plays triumphantly on a loop too short, and all the guests rotate their gaze between you and a floating, empty dress.
Your stomach starts to tremble. You’re at the table. The cake looks so delicious. The dress floats, empty, pure. Beautiful within a memory that isn’t. Untainted by reality. Watery vision.
One of the guests tentatively edges close to the cake.
*comment maybe add a choice here
And they begin to feast. The groom arrives. He’s the cake, or maybe the cake is him. He lays upon the operating table. A chocolate tuxedo. Icing eyes staring emptily at the surgery lamp above. Raspberry filling with chunks of marrow. The guests eat and eat. Their masks like tumors. Cancerous cancerous cancerous. They drop their forks and scalpels and shove their skulls into him.
Each song on the tin radio is so similar as to give the sensation of endless looping. The wedding dress is stained nurse blue.
They’ve ruined the wedding. She could’ve been so happy with him, but the tumors stole him away. They ate and ate until there was nothing left. She was too scared to tell him she loved him. The dress will always be empty. He’s wasting away. Pieces of him are strewn about the table.
WHY DID HE HAVE TO DIE WHY COULDNT I TELL HIM
The wedding dress jolts around, spasming and writhing.
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Here’s a scene from the Mandatory Childhood Flashback Scene in my Shadowrun wip, which I wrote on the 15th, even if I’m a day late posting it!
Summary
Thirteen Years Earlier
It’s not easy being twelve.
This school has always had high expectations. It’s the Mitsuhama Excelsior Academy, one of the most prestigious corp schools in all Seattle, so naturally they demand a lot. But they really seem to be piling on the pressure now that you’ve made eighth grade. The school day is longer, the competition is fiercer, and the teachers are more demanding and joyless than ever.
You’re sitting in your Beginners’ Marketing classroom, watching Ms. Jackson pace about and pontificate, all prim and strict, her graying auburn hair pinned up high and her AR-enabled spectacles blinking in the light. Her fashionable golden jacket gleams with illuminated monofilament threads, and her pale Black skin gleams with reflected light. Mellow Seattle sunshine floods in through the big windows, and the air all around your study console teems with digital displays from the AR Learning Environment, repeating important phrases from Ms. Jackson’s lecture and flashing up trid illustrations of her key points. A long, tedious afternoon stretches ahead of you. After this, you have your twenty-minute efficiency lunch break, followed by thirty minutes of mandatory team-building with your classmates. Then it’s Fundamentals of Hypercapitalism, with that intense new teacher from Amazonia, rounded off with double Corporate History. Two hours of Mr. Beeching, with his weird hair and bad breath, rambling on about all the times that Mitsuhama saved the world from its villainous and oppressive rivals.
Mom and dad had to work extra hard to get you a place here. Excelsior placements are like gold dust in Seattle.
*fake_choice
#I’m grateful. Coming here is a great opportunity, and will surely advance my career in the future.
*set Professional %+ 5
#I wish they hadn’t bothered. This place blows.
*set Professional %- 5
#It is what it is.
You fade back into reality out of your daydreams, to find Ms. Jackson staring at you intently. Uh oh. She must have just asked you a question.
“Um, repeat the question, please?” you say.
She purses her lips. “Well really, $!{firstname}. How do you ever expect to get ahead if you don’t pay attention?”
*fake_choice
#“I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson.”
None of your classmates share your knowledge of early 21st century hip hop. Nobody gets the reference.
“Well, at least you’re contrite,” she says, softening slightly. “But the corporate world is a cut-throat place. When you’re out in the workplace, apologies won’t be good enough.”
“I know,” you say.
#“I was paying attention.”
“Were you now?” she folds her arms. “Then I guess you don’t need me to repeat the question after all, do you?”
She stares back at you. When no reply is forthcoming, she simply nods, satisfied that she’s made her point.
#Just stare at her.
She stares back at you. Silence stretches out. There’s a very real danger that she might win this stare-off.
“As you would know, if you had been listening, we have just been discussing the art of the slogan. The simple, punchy, one-sentence promotional pitch to a busy general public. And the task that I set is for you to suggest an effective company slogan. So let’s hear your suggestion, $!{firstname}. A single, attention-grabbing sentence that sums up the ethos and values of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies, and our aspirations for the future.”
*fake_choice
#“How about ‘Mitsuhama rules, Renraku drools’?”
*label rival
There’s a ripple of nervous laughter from the other kids in the room.
“No, no, no! That’s all wrong. Research has repeatedly shown that the general public doesn’t like targeted attacks on other corporations. It makes us look desperate and needy and weak, worried about what other companies are doing. Not to mention the fact that you’ve just given our rival free advertising by mentioning their name. That won’t do at all!”
#“‘MCT: Building a Better Future.’”
She weighs it up. “It’s fine,” she says. “A little generic. In fact, I’m pretty sure that NeoNET used that exact same slogan for one of their campaigns a few years back. But points for effort, $!{firstname}. And for taking the task seriously.”
#“I got one! It’s ‘Mitushama: We Own You, Peasants!’”
Her brows knit together in displeasure. “Oh dear. That sounds alarmingly like dissidence, $!{firstname}. I may have to give you a demerit for that. And you know what happens if you get too many demerits?”
“I’ll lose my corporate citizenship and have to go live in the Barrens,” you say wearily.
“That’s right. And believe me, you wouldn’t last two minutes out there in the shadows.”
She talks like she knows, but you doubt that she’s ever set an expensively-pedicured foot outside of a protected corporate enclave in her life.
#“‘Mitsuahama: At Least We’re Not The Azzies.’”
*goto rival
Suddenly, an aggressive and obnoxious buzz rings out from the speakers in the corner of the classroom, and you’re catapulted right into the Uncanny Valley as Mitzi, the school’s AI secretary, speaks. As always, her warm, deep voice sounds almost human. But not quite.
“Students Kai and $!{firstname} $!{surname}, please report to the principal’s office right away.”
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I’m one day late, but here goes.
Excerpt
You might ask yourself, ‘Why is there a skeleton in the Underworld? I was under the impression that this was an immaterial plain where unworthy souls get punished for their transgressions.’ And technically, you would be correct. The Great Barrier between the Underworld and the ‘Real’ World is impassable, but every fifty years, during the Great Regulation, ${kDragonName} creates a gaping hole between the worlds that last for about one work week. During the Great Regulation, the legendary dragon swoops across the ‘Real’ World and brings a percentage of the world’s gold back with him into the Underworld. It’s a celestial mechanism that keeps the Economy’s inflation in check.
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Lol (were knowledge skills only for specific background choices? I never got to pick any)
I know what I’m picking! 
The Azzies set such a low bar that pretty much everyone clears it.
(you got a typo in Mitsuhama in the last option, and I think “black skin” shouldn’t be capitalised, but I’m not sure).
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No, I’m not using knowledge skills. I’m rolling that into background choice and Etiquettes.
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I’ve just now realised how weird this sounds out of context lol 
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I’ll do it, too, albeit one day later. I need to practice on my courage, after all. This is from my vampire game Fervency, a continuation of a path where one’s main character refuses to feed on people.
Summary
“Perhaps something did hear my prayers, after all.” He sighs. “To think; I used to be such a good person. I lost something last night. But enough about me, my ailments, and my miracles. Tell me, why did you leave so early?”
*fake_choice
#“Because I didn’t want to see, hear, or partake in any evil.”
“So you covered your eyes, ears, and mouth, pretending like nothing.” Aubrey grins. If one was to compare Aubrey’s appearance to an animal, one’s thoughts might have wandered to an ermine; now he reminds you of a snow wolf. “How callous.”
#“Because I was a coward.”
“Did you like it?” Aubrey says.
“Like what?”
“Being a coward. Did it feel good, or do you regret it?”
“Nobody likes being a coward, no?”
“I can’t say I don’t understand you in a sense. Not regarding this situation, but sometimes being a coward is the easier choice.”
#“Because I had integrity still.”
“If your view of integrity is starving yourself half to death… Or to death, if you continue this nonsense. Noble as it may be, nonsense is still nonsense.”
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It’s great to see these little excerpts of other people’s work in progress, so I’ll jump in to join the day late gang with an excerpt of my own. In fact, this could well be the first time I’ve actually shown some of my writing to another human being, so that’s a fun little sidebar.
Excerpt - Meeting one of the team (And a potential RO)
Prompted by the name, your mind finally makes the connections it was struggling with. Memories rush to the surface, of powder smoke and ragged volleys, clashing steel and thundering guns, and the overwhelming stench of blood and death.
This ${cantrellMan} fought in the Rothenburg Expedition, the same as you. The disastrous campaign on the continent that cost hundreds of lives and ended hundreds more careers, including your own. When French regulars stormed over the River Tauber, it was a Captain Cantrell that rallied the line at the Battle of the Bridge, buying enough time for the evacuation to be properly organised.
You only saw ${cantrellHim} in the brief moments between volleys, but you know without a shadow of a doubt that neither you nor the soldiers under your command would have survived without ${cantrellHis} intervention.
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I’m late as well, but here it goes. I’ve been suffering from perfectionism lately so this is a good way to just get something out of there instead of just rewriting over and over. I have to remember that I’m inexperienced and, for me to get good, quantity thrives over quality. 
Summary
You make your way over to where he’s standing and see that he’s holding a small, rectangular box. It’s about the size of a shoebox, and it’s painted bright orange. The words ‘FLIGHT DATA RECORDER DO NOT OPEN’ are clearly printed on its surface.
“It’s the black box,” he says, a note of excitement in his voice. Lucas pulls a pocket knife out from one of the pockets of his jeans.
“Where did you get a knife?”
“Found it in the cargo hold. I don’t think this is something you’re allowed to bring unless you pack it in your checked baggage.” He shrugs, eyeing the small blade.
*fake_choice
#“Are you serious?” You point to the ‘DO NOT OPEN’ writing.
#“Unless you have some real tech equipment laying around, this is useless.”
#“You’re telling me the black box isn’t black?”
#“Do it. What can go wrong?”
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And if you pick this option then everybody dies, I expect. 
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hahah i haven’t posted the follow up dialogue cause it isn’t finished yet. but let it be known that he can’t pry the seal of a black box with a pocket knife 
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Day late but here’s a bit of a chunky excerpt, not quite in a rough draft form but more like a second draft form?
Some Girlbossery
Her practiced expression sours.
"I suppose you wouldn't be so cooperative… "
She turns from you for a moment, nose crinkled and lips pursed. It's a familiar expression that makes your throat clamp in on itself.
With just that look, you know exactly what you are to her now.
You're a setback.
Numbed as you are, it takes you a moment to notice something running down your cheeks. When you manage a glance down, you see the cause. Tears. Hot, angry tears.
You glance up only to see shock on your betrayer's face. You can't imagine why she'd be so perturbed.
After all, Rhona was…
*choice
#The first friend you let yourself have in half a millennia.
And yet, like an idiot, you let your guard down. You should've expected this. You're smarter than this, dammit! But still, you…
You….
"Are you… Crying?"
In an instance, Rhona's face is inches from your own. You want to pull yourself away, but you can't manage anything more than a weak shift.
She frowns and reaches towards your face.
Her fingers are warm and gentle against your cheek. She hesitates for a moment, then brushes the tears away with her thumb.
*set rhonarelationship "hesitantfriendship"
*goto friendship
#A precious friend, someone you thought would always have your back no matter what.
Love and grief go hand in hand for you, but you haven't let that stop you from fostering connections with others. It wasn't easy, but you
accepted that one day, you'd have to say goodbye to the friends you've made. Even Rhona.
However… This type of betrayal? [i]This[/i] you could not have prepared for.
Tears stream freely down your face. You hear a sigh and feel warmth cradling your cheek. When you look up, you can see
Rhona leaning down towards you, the slightest frown gracing her features.
"You always were such a soft- Well… You are not a person, are you?"
The words are devoid of malice.
Her expression is unreadable as she holds your cheek in her hand. Her thumb brushes away traces of tears as
she examines you.
*set rhonarelationship "readyfriendship"
*goto friendship
#Your heart. The first person you had allowed yourself to love.
There weren't many people you let get close. No matter how much you cared about someone, it would always end. You would be alone.
And yet…
You let her in.
Your eyes sting with tears you try desperately to keep from being shed. You can feel Rhona's stare drilling into you.
You feel her before you see her. Her body heat against you. Her face mere inches from your own. You bite the inside of your cheek
and force your drifting gaze downward.
"${name}…"
Her voice is soft. You feel her hand against your face. You lose your focus on your shifting sight and look at her. Her smile
is no longer cold, but it lacks the open warmth you had come to love.
"For what it is worth… it was fun. And, I-" her voice cracks ever so slightly before she continues.
"I'm truly sorry."
*set rhonarelationship "hesitantlove"
*goto love
#Special to you. You have loved and lost, but never like this.
You knew getting into things that, inevitably, it would have to end. You had accepted that. After all, for you, that was just an aspect
of love you couldn't ignore.
But even with all of your experiences and all of your preparation, you couldn't have anticipated this.
You can't help weeping. You try to cover yourself from her icy stare, but feel her hand on your chin. Instinctively, you brace
yourself. You can't look at her. Not right now. Seeing her look at you like that… It hurts too much.
The force you brace yourself for never comes. Just warm fingers cupping your face. She just… Holds you.
"${name}… I really am sorry."
A small crack to her steady tone catches you off-guard. You look up. She's… smiling? No, trying to smile.
It's a shoddy act.
You can feel the heat radiating from her as she shifts closer.
*set rhonarelationship "readylove"
*goto love
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Halfway through the month and I’m rewriting the prologue instead of focusing on the orcs.
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Maybe add some orcs to the prologue?
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Well, I guess I could post an excerpt too.
The start of Lost Secret from my superheroes project. If it seems hard like concrete to read I blame Microsoft Word translator and Italian syntax
Lost Secrets
She saw and yet she didn’t, she heard and yet she didn’t: her eyes had lowered their gaze, at first they saw her hands resting on her legs and, then they lost focus, her hearing after the last sentence had begun to hear sounds more and more muffled, now sounds were a low indistinguishable murmur. She had fallen into a kind of trance while remembering what had happened, the mind crowded in one place memories, thoughts and emotions, past, present and future were confused together. Suddenly two sounds will bring it backtothe present reality or not:
"Natasha. Natasha!” Hearing her name had the effect of resetting a computer, now Natasha was as if she had just entered the room without knowing why, or what had caused her discomfort, even the environment seemed new to her.
The room was in theory a simple office, quite large, furnished with only a desk and two transparent chairs, except for the metal legs; behind the desk there was a screen almost as large as the entire wall, which projected an image of the Earth from space as if it were a window. It was computer graphics, of course: they were still on the planet. Part of the floor and walls were transparent, and they could see the circuits and cables of the structure beneath, Natasha because of her powers was used to interacting with technology, their view combined with the environment, both austere and technological, and the fake view of the screen made her feel a sort of comfort.
It was no coincidence, considering who was facing: Solaris, the supreme leader of the superheroes along with Commander. She was not a woman who left things to the chance, she planned everything in detail thanks to her super intelligence, the superpower that had allowed her to create a movement, indeed almost a world, of superheroes that rivaled that of the first superhero of the USA and the world, until tragic events forced the two to reach a agreement that led them to collaborate, and although she was the youngest she had managed to remain in command as an equal leader. Some even believed that, secretly or in fact, she had much more authority than he did.
The very fact that Solaris herself had decided on the meeting and had also chosen to hold it in person suggested, without too many subtleties to be honest, how important it was. That actually made Natasha much more nervous than she would have been in other circumstances about that mission.
“Natasha, are you feeling good? You seem troubled.” It was rhetoric of course, but the tone he used conveyed genuine concern.
"Oh! Sorry, I was… lost in my memories for a while. – cleared her voice – Web Girl. Regular superheroine. Affiliated to the Elementalists team as technocinetic and informatics specialist. Serial number WBGRL75EIX3@{RQR0”
“I know, we’ve been there before, but thank you for formality,” Solaris replied calmly and patiently. She let a few moments of silence pass, then resumed:
“Listen… I understand that reliving certain memories can be painful, but this time it is necessary: we really need to know what really happened on the island of Hamohi.”
“It’s all written in the report. I don’t understand what else there is to say,” Web Girl replied, getting defensive.
“I’ve read it, but some things go beyond mission reports. Spycom’s recent death could have… unpredictable consequences. Now the mission he had entrusted to you was quite … Unusual: he had chosen you, a heroine completely unrelated to the tasks, and parameters of validity, of espionage and infiltration, to carry out an undercover mission of maximum reserve level; and here comes the second irregularity: the maximum level of confidentiality implies that the only ones who were aware of themission would be, in addition to the agents involved, Spycom, Commander and myself; yet neither Commander nor myself knew of the existence of this mission until we dissected his archives after his death.”
“It still eludes me what my version could be used for. I just did my duty and I don’t think telling what happened there can shed light on what’s happening now.”
“Maybe it won’t, or maybe it will. I don’t demand answers, only your story.”
"Is it really that important?”
“Yes. Listen: I don’t need to be the smartest womanin the world to understand that the experience has traumatized you. Telling someone without being afraid of having to censor yourself could help you overcome the event and make you stronger. Maybe together we can also shed light on a new perspective for you and your role as a superhero.”
Web Girl inhaled deeply and remained silent for a while, contemplating whether it was a good idea to reveal what had really happened in that place… “Fine. I will,” she finally said in a choked voice.
“We are immensely grateful,” Solaris replied inhis typical tone both formal and thoughtful. “Now breathe deeply… relax… remember what happened and tell everything from the beginning.”
"Spycom had entrusted me with the mission personally stating that it needed someone not related to him or his network: he said he feared infiltration. He chose me because, according to him, I was the most suitable option: versatile powers capable of carrying out investigations, in-depthltractions and combat, not famous enough to be recognizable, alien to his network therefore unknown to counterintelligence and at the same time smart enough to plan and adapt to the situation.”
"What exactly were the details of the mission?”
“Spycom had received reliable information that attacks against the Enhanced by the terrorist group New Destiny were imminent; It was therefore necessary the immediate return of one of our agents infiltrated into the group. Problem: the agent in question had entered the code “black hole”, that is, absolutely zero contacts, so there was a need for an extraction mission. Spycom, however, knew for sure that the infiltrator was in federated territory on the island of Hamohi, a spit of land not far from the island of Guam, the island hosts … Uh… hosted a federal detention center for Enhanced terrorists, I was supposed to hide myself among the detainees with the false identity provided to me by Spycom.”
"Nothing else? Didn’t he give you any information about the agent in question? »
"Only the codes of identification: I should have met him/her in a safe place and said “this place is quiet”; If the place had not been safe, the agent, recognizing the code, would have contacted me later in really safe conditions, otherwise they would have replied “it is not quiet, it is silence” and at that point I could revealed to them the objective of the mission: their immediate return.”
"It never seemed strange to you that he kept vital details secrets to you: how would you recognize the agent? Saying the same phrase to many people hoping to be lucky to find him and that in the meantime no one would get suspicious?”
“It’s more or less the same reaction I had, Spycom looked at me intensely and in a very serious tone replied: ‘He’s my best agent: he’ll recognize you’.”
"And how did you perceive everything? How did you feel when you left for this mission?”
Web Girl was silent for a few moments, finally saying in a thin voice, “Duty is duty.”
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Yeah this is rough to read, as you’d expect for putting it through google translate. I’m sure it reads really lovely in Italian, but in English the grammar and punctuation mistakes (and the enormous run on sentences) make it pretty difficult. I would say that just using google translate is not sufficient for the purpose of translating a creative work into another language; you’ll need a human translator or you’ll need near-native written fluency in English yourself.
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I find it easier to just writing it directly in English if that’s what I’m going for - my translations always end up clunky. Of course, I also don’t write in Italian, but.
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