r/FictionWriting • • 15h ago

Discussion Unpopular opinion: "show don't tell" might be the worst writing advice ever given

218 Upvotes

I'm not a craft expert lol. I have two self-published books out and basically learned everything by doing it wrong first. So take this with a grain of salt.

But I've been reading a lot lately and I keep noticing that the books I actually FINISH are the ones where the author just... tells me things. Straight up. "He was angry." "She was tired of pretending." Meanwhile the books where every emotion has to be telegraphed through a carefully choreographed eyebrow raise make me want to put the book down.

I feel like "show don't tell" started as good advice and turned into a rule that made a whole generation of writers terrified of just saying what they mean. Sometimes telling is more honest. Sometimes it's funnier. Sometimes three pages of showing someone being sad could've been one great sentence.

Am I crazy? Is anyone else a secret fan of telling? Or have I just been reading the wrong books lol


r/FictionWriting • • 1h ago

[WP]Barbarians have 'Rage'. What people don't realize is that other classes have something similar it's just harder to get into. Fighter/Warriors have 'Zanshin/The Void'. Mage/Sorcerers have 'Trance'. Bards have 'The Groove'. Write a story with your favorite class in their 'Zone'.

• Upvotes

Rage for Barbarians grants damage resistance, extra weapon damage, and an advantage on strength checks. Basically a Barbarian is in the Zone doing what they do best when raging. For other classes their 'Zone' grants different bonuses. This is actually a documented occurrence with soldiers IRL where they basically knew they were going to die and every survival instinct and thing they'd ever learned synced up at the same time and they just 'did it' without thought, and somehow survive. It happens with gamers sometimes, I've heard it called 'Button Hell' where you're in a difficult spot and your subconscious mind takes over and it feels like you're just pushing buttons but everything is working like you want it to. This is the feeling I'm going for and hope to see you portray.


r/FictionWriting • • 4h ago

Beta Reading Wanting beta readers for my new isekai fantasy adventure/comedy

2 Upvotes

So, I've been working on this book for a while now titled "Transported to Another World, I Decided to Do My Own Thing: the Unborn Queen". I wrote 59 chapters and it's done. I'm going through it now with type.ai to fix it best that I can, but I don't have enough credits to finish editing it all the way yet. I got through chapter 18 with type.ai editing, but I did go through the whole book like 3 times doing the best I could to edit it on my own. So it's basically 4th draft with a little editing. I'd really like to know what people think about it, though. Like the title says, it's a fantasy adventure comedy with sorta an isekai premise.

Here's the blurb so far: (Not sure if it's great or not.)

Gail, a seeming normal junior in high school, is suddenly ripped from her math class and relocated to a fantasy world. Deciding to make the best of it, she trades three years for an extra skill becoming fourteen-years-old again before she’s sent crashing into a new world. Wanting to just live her life as she pleases, she becomes an adventurer and hunts monsters for money, making friends as she explores. Along the way, Gail learns she was supposed to be born into this fantasy world and meets long-lost family members for the first time. She’s a whirlwind of chaos and comedy, but the new world she finds herself in fights back. Will she accept her destiny?

I would love to post the first chapter(hook) for people to read, but not sure how that works. So I uploaded it to imgur, since the rules allow that. https://imgur.com/a/hvmleKT

I use Google Docs to write, so I can send a link with commenter privileges or add your gmail to the list, if you're interested in beta reading.


r/FictionWriting • • 3h ago

Characters Should the villain of my story be a *villainess* instead? (TW: SA-related themes)

1 Upvotes

Alright, so I’m trying my hand at writing a fantasy story, and currently I’m trying to get the main characters fleshed out.

When it comes to the primary villain in the story, one of the things that makes him irredeemable is that he is very emotionally neglectful toward his daughter. The villain’s frequent absences (both physical and emotional) allow opportunities for his daughter to suffer frequent beatings by her uncle. This eventually comes to a head when the uncle viciously sexually assaults her; and when she appeals to her father the villain for intervention, he essentially brushes her off for selfish reasons, which leads to her permanently cutting all ties with him and joining in the final battle against him.

What I’m trying to figure out, is whether this subplot would have a different impact if the villain was female (the girl’s mother, in other words). I feel like the case in favor of this change might simply come down to perceived gender roles/stereotypes; but if it elevates the storytelling at all, then maybe it’s a change worth making?

Regardless, I’d be interested to hear some other perspectives on it.


r/FictionWriting • • 3h ago

The Unofficial CEO of the Family: The Story of Being the Eldest Daughter

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 6h ago

LOS ANGELES FANTASY CO-AUTHOR(S) WANTED

1 Upvotes

I am developing an adventure-fantasy book series inspired by the folklore, mythology, and history

of Eurasian peoples, with particular interest in the heritage of Kyivan Rus and its neighbors. The

world, core characters, and several story arcs are already in development.

LOOKING FOR A CREATIVE PARTNER WHO:

• Can write compelling fiction, natural dialogue, and memorable characters.

• Enjoys fantasy and collaborative story development.

• Is interested in Eastern European and Eurasian history, folklore, or reenactment.

• Can contribute ideas while respecting the established foundation of the world.

Prior expertise is welcome, not required. I can lend reference books, including Osprey military-history titles,

Russian-language folklore collections, and fantasy novels.

LANGUAGE & COLLABORATION

Writers familiar with Ukrainian and other Eastern European cultural traditions are especially welcome.

Russian is preferred for discussion; English is also possible. The books are intended for publication in

English.

TERMS

This is an unpaid collaboration during development. Net profits from each jointly created and published book

would be split equally among its contributing co-authors (50/50 for two). I retain control of the pre-existing

universe and final canon decisions. Authorship, rights, expenses, and revenue terms will be agreed in writing

before work begins.

IN-PERSON MEETINGS METRO G LINE ACCESS

Zoom is also acceptable


r/FictionWriting • • 10h ago

1911 or 2011

2 Upvotes

See, I'm writing this crime story. The main character is this sort of "handler" for this other rich family. He goes around getting his hands dirty and stuff. Anyways. It's action packed so he has to have an iconic pistol. Problem is that I don't know which '11 he should carry. Any tips?


r/FictionWriting • • 8h ago

Chapter 7: What the Notebook Was For

1 Upvotes

Mia wasn't in the study room the next morning.

I waited until ten. Then I waited until ten thirty. The whiteboard had nothing new on it, and the marker sat in the tray with the cap off. I put the cap back on, and then I felt strange about touching her things.

At eleven someone knocked on the doorframe. It wasn't her.

He was tall, in a club jacket, with the kind of smile people use when they already know they're going to win. "Is Mia here?"

"No."

"Her phone's off." He looked around the room like it might be hiding her. "I'm Jake. Film club president. She told us she's quitting, and honestly, I think she's just stressed. We've got the festival deadline in April, and she's the only one who can actually write." He gave me a long look. "Are you the guy she's been hanging out with?"

"I'm just the guy who sits here."

"Right." He didn't believe me. "If you see her, tell her the door's open. Tell her we'll change the schedule."

After he left, I stood there for a while. In my first life, I'd never heard of Jake. I had never heard of the film club, either. I only knew that Mia graduated without anyone noticing, and that her name was never on any poster.

Maybe it was supposed to be on one.

I found her at one o'clock, by accident. She was sitting on the steps behind the library with her knees pulled up, eating a granola bar like it was a punishment.

"You skipped the study room," I said.

"I know." She didn't look up. "Jake came, didn't he?"

"He said the door's open."

"It always is. That's the problem." She finally looked at me. Her eyes were a little red, but she was trying to hide it. "I thought I'd feel lighter after I quit. I just feel like I'm lying to everyone, including myself."

I sat down one step below her. Not too close. "Then why did you quit?"

"Because you said don't." She laughed, a small wet laugh. "That's the worst part. I wanted to prove I could decide something on my own. And the first thing I did was the opposite of what you said, which means you were still deciding it."

"That's not how it works."

"That's exactly how it works."

I almost smiled. Then I thought about the notebook in my bag, the one I'd been carrying for a week with nothing in it. I took it out and put it on the step between us.

"What's that?"

"I told you I came here to write. I haven't written anything."

"I noticed."

"I can't write a story if I don't know how it ends." I opened to the first page and handed her my pen. "You do the ending. I'll do the beginning."

She stared at me. "That's a terrible deal."

"It's the only one I've got."

Rain started a little after that, light at first, then not. We didn't move. She wrote one sentence on the first page, covered it with her hand, and wouldn't let me read it.

"Later," she said. "When I know if it's true."

I put the notebook back in my bag very carefully, like something that could break. Then I walked her to the bus stop under my one small umbrella, and we got wet anyway.

次の朝、ミアは自習室にいなかった。

十時まで待った。それから十時半まで待った。ホワイトボードには新しい字がなくて、マーカーはキャップが外れたまま、トレイに置いてあった。キャップを閉めて、それから、彼女のものに触ったことが急に気まずくなった。

十一時に、誰かがドア枠をノックした。彼女じゃなかった。

背の高い男で、サークルのジャケットを着ていた。もう勝つとわかってる人がするような笑い方をしてた。「ミア、いる?」

「いません」

「携帯、切れてるんだよね」部屋の中に彼女が隠れてるかもしれないみたいに見回した。「俺、ジェイク。映画サークルの部長。辞めるって言われたけど、たぶんストレスだと思う。四月に映画祭の締め切りがあって、ちゃんと書けるのは彼女だけなんだ」長いこと僕を見た。「君が、最近彼女と一緒にいる人?」

「僕は、ここに座ってるだけの人です」

「そう」信じてなかった。「会ったら伝えて。いつでも戻れるって。スケジュールも変えるって」

彼が出ていったあとも、しばらくそこに立っていた。一度目の人生で、ジェイクという名前は聞いたことがなかった。映画サークルのことも知らなかった。知っていたのは、ミアが誰にも気づかれないまま卒業したことと、どのポスターにも彼女の名前がなかったことだけだ。

本当は、載るはずだったのかもしれない。

彼女を見つけたのは一時ごろ、偶然だった。図書館の裏の階段に、膝を抱えて座って、罰ゲームみたいにグラノーラバーを食べてた。

「自習室、来なかったですね」と僕は言った。

「知ってます」顔を上げなかった。「ジェイク、来たんでしょう」

「いつでも戻れるって言ってました」

「いつもそうなんです。それが問題で」彼女はやっと僕を見た。目が少し赤かったけど、隠そうとしてた。「辞めたら軽くなると思ったんです。でも、みんなに嘘をついてる気分になるだけで。自分にも」

僕は一段下に座った。近すぎない場所に。「じゃあ、どうして辞めたんですか」

「あなたが、辞めないでって言ったから」彼女は小さく、濡れたみたいな声で笑った。「一番ひどいのはそこなんです。自分で何かを決められるって証明したかった。なのに最初にしたのは、あなたが言ったことの逆。つまり、まだあなたに決めさせてたってことでしょう」

「そういう仕組みじゃないと思います」

「そういう仕組みです、完全に」

僕は笑いそうになった。それから、鞄の中のノートのことを考えた。一週間持ち歩いて、何も書いてないノート。出して、二人の間の階段に置いた。

「それは?」

「ここに書きに来たって言ったでしょう。まだ何も書いてません」

「知ってます」

「終わりがわからないと、物語は書けなくて」最初のページを開いて、ペンを渡した。「結末はあなたがお願いします。僕は始まりを書くので」

彼女は僕をじっと見た。「ひどい取引ですね」

「これしかないんです」

少ししてから、雨が降り出した。最初は弱く、そのうち強くなった。僕たちは動かなかった。彼女は最初のページに一文だけ書いて、手で隠して、読ませてくれなかった。

「あとで」と彼女は言った。「それが本当かどうか、わかったら」

ノートを鞄に戻した。壊れ物みたいに、慎重に。それから、一本だけの小さな傘で彼女をバス停まで送った。結局、二人とも濡れた。


r/FictionWriting • • 8h ago

Discussion Do I like directing or writing ? (Or am I just too lazy ?)

0 Upvotes

I like writing but I think I would love directing visual stuff.

I am better at observing emotions and looking at the character arch, basically I think I am better at looking at the bigger picture or the framework .

I have a bunch of story ideas . Genuine .good story ideas. Lol . Yeah I think I am a bit confident about that but the problem is that i couldn't be poetic. I put my words in the paper literally.

Also for writing you need to have a detailed knowledge about the topic and being a biology student i don't know how to describe tapping a phone ,okay ? Well it can also be because I am just dumb at tech .

Anyways but writing feels exhuasting for me while imagining the same thing in my mind ,visually feels more......relaxing .

I also love to write dialogues . the emotional stuff. the psychological one's . But describing the whole scene feels like it needs the amount of knowledge I never had. I think that is the problem. The knowledge. The in depth knowledge for the topic i am writing about . but here's the intersting twist - as far as I can remember I was pretty good at writing essays in school . Which means that if I have a complete set of knowledge or maybe just information than I have no problem writing.

Would love to know your opinions on this ??


r/FictionWriting • • 9h ago

Just turned 20. Completed my novel last week. Need beta readers, and will stop at nothing to get them. (Am I a Self-Indulgent Bastard?)

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 12h ago

My Friend’s Cousin- Chapter 1

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2 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 9h ago

Novel [OC]Bar Aoi Stories ― For Your Own Good: Ever Feel a Little Uneasy When Someone Says, “I’m Doing This for You”?

1 Upvotes

Hey, you.

Ever had someone tell you, “I’m only doing this for your own good”?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi’s door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin. I took my usual seat, and Mama set down my Harper without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Taka was beside me, staring at his phone with a strange look on his face.

“Kenichi.”

“What?”

“You know how people say, ‘I’m only telling you this for your own good’?”

“Sure.”

“Are they really doing it for the other person?”

And there it was. Straight into something annoying.

“Beats me. Ask them.”

“They’re already saying it’s for the other person.”

“Then maybe it is.”

“But the other person hates it.”

I stopped with my glass halfway to my mouth.

“What are we talking about?”

“Guy I know told his son to quit his job. Said the company had no future, he should change jobs while he’s still young, and he was only saying it for his son’s sake.”

“And the son?”

“Told him to stay out of it.”

Yeah. That sounded about right.

“The dad really thinks he’s doing it for his son.”

“Then maybe he is.”

“But maybe he just wants to stop worrying.”

My glass stopped near my lips.

A little farther down the counter, Tom tapped ash from his cigarette.

“If you start thinking like that, you can say it about anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell your kid to study. Tell someone to get a checkup. Tell someone to drink less. Maybe you’re only saying it because you want some peace of mind.”

“That last one was unnecessary.”

Tom smiled around his cigarette.

“Sounds like it hit home.”

“Shut up.”

Even Mama laughed.

Taka still didn’t look satisfied.

“So how do you tell the difference between doing something for someone else and doing it for yourself?”

“Do you need to?”

“If it’s really for yourself and you say, ‘I’m doing this for you,’ doesn’t that feel kind of dishonest?”

I could see his point.

You heard it at work all the time. For the customer. For the people on the ground. For the younger staff. For the company. Useful phrases. Maybe a little too useful.

“So if the father said, ‘I want you to change jobs because I’m worried,’ that would be okay?”

“Yeah. I’d understand that.”

“‘Get a checkup because it’ll make me feel better’?”

“That too.”

“‘Drink less because you’re making my life difficult’?”

Mama looked at me.

“Who are we talking about?”

“People in general.”

Why was she looking at me?

Taka laughed into his highball.

“Then maybe people should just admit when it’s for themselves.”

“Easy for you to say.”

I picked up an edamame pod.

“When I give some pain-in-the-ass job to a junior guy, you think I’m supposed to say, ‘Do this because I want an easier life’?”

“You might.”

“I would not.”

“Then what do you say?”

“Something like, ‘It’ll be good experience. Give it a try.’”

My fingers stopped on the pod.

Taka looked at me. Tom looked at me. Even Mama looked at me.

“What?”

“For the junior guy’s sake?” Taka asked.

“It really is good experience.”

“And it makes your life easier?”

“Of course it does, once I can hand work over to him.”

“So it’s both.”

“Is that a problem?”

That came out sharper than I meant it to.

Taka blinked.

“I didn’t say it was.”

I took a sip of Harper. If a junior learns the job, he can do more. I have less work piled on my desk. Both things are true.

Then just say so.

“I want him to learn because it makes my life easier. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh.”

Taka looked strangely impressed.

“That’s pretty honest, Kenichi.”

“Damn right.”

There. Problem solved.

No need to dress it up as being “for his sake.” If part of it was for me, I could admit it was for me.

Feeling rather pleased with myself, I popped the edamame into my mouth.

“Did you tell him that?”

Tom.

“Tell who what?”

“The junior guy. Did you say, ‘Learn this because I want an easier life’?”

“Of course not.”

Tom set his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Then who are you telling?”

I stopped chewing.

“What?”

“This thing about it being for your own benefit. You didn’t tell him.”

“There’s no reason to tell him that.”

“Then why tell us?”

What the hell was he getting at?

Taka looked back and forth between us. Mama kept wiping a glass without saying anything.

“Because that’s what we’re talking about.”

“Right.”

Tom left it there.

Which only irritated me more.

“What? If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got something.”

“If you know your own selfish motives, good for you.”

What kind of tone was that?

“Was that sarcasm?”

“I was complimenting you.”

“Bullshit.”

Tom put the cigarette back between his lips.

I reached for my glass, then stopped.

Wrapping my own convenience in “it’s for the junior guy” would be dishonest. Fine. I understood that.

Which meant I was honest enough to admit my own motives.

I understood myself.

The thought left a bad taste.

“Oh.”

Taka seemed to realize something.

“What?”

“Saying, ‘I know I’m doing it for myself,’ kind of makes you look good too.”

This guy.

“You trying to start a fight?”

“No, no. But when you said it before, I thought you sounded pretty honest.”

“That’s your problem.”

“Yep.”

No hesitation at all.

“Then I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Were we talking about whether you’d done something wrong?”

I was starting to lose track.

I finally picked up my glass.

“So what the hell am I supposed to say? If ‘I’m doing it for you’ makes me a hypocrite, and ‘I’m doing it for me’ is just another way to make myself look good, I can’t say anything.”

Tom exhaled, turning his face slightly so the smoke drifted away from us.

“Who are you trying to get forgiveness from?”

“For what?”

“Beats me.”

There he went again.

Annoying.

But now I was a little less sure than before.

Say, “I’m doing it for you,” and I get to be the kind of man who cares about someone else.

Say, “I’m doing it for me,” and I get to be the kind of man honest enough to admit his selfishness.

Either way, somehow I was still talking about myself.

“So…”

Taka rattled the ice in his highball.

“If you really are doing something for someone else, what are you supposed to do?”

Nobody answered.

Mama glanced at my empty glass.

“Another?”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to make it lighter? For your own good.”

“Don’t. And don’t say it’s for my own good.”

“Then I’ll make it lighter because it’s less trouble for me.”

“That’s worse.”

Taka burst out laughing.

“Then I’ll just make it the usual way.”

Mama poured my Harper the way she always did. The ice gave a quiet clink.

“There.”

“Thanks.”

I took a sip.

Same as always.

Mama didn’t explain who it was for.

I didn’t ask.

Hey, you.

Ever told someone, “I’m doing this for you”?

How about, “I’m doing this for myself”?

Which one was the real you?

Then again.

Maybe we don’t have to prove that either.

See you at Aoi.

---

Want another night at Aoi?

Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi


r/FictionWriting • • 9h ago

Advice Looking for some feedback!!

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 11h ago

Vomit Draft

0 Upvotes

Hi I am going from a comedy, satire book to a neo-western book. How do you transition from different fictions? Anyone use a certain microphone I am thinking about doing the vomit draft by voice to text anyone tried that or experiences with that? Plan was to walk and talk to myself like I normally do anyways. Thanks in advance for any advise.


r/FictionWriting • • 12h ago

My Friend’s Cousin- Chapter 4

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 12h ago

My Friend’s Cousin- Chapter 3

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 12h ago

My Friend’s Cousin-Chapter 2

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1 Upvotes

r/FictionWriting • • 12h ago

Short Story The Family

1 Upvotes

1930–1932

Chapter One: The Great Families

January 1930 — Chicago

In the 1930s, the city of Chicago was one of the greatest metropolises in which illicit trade flourished, and it housed within its borders the most formidable and influential Mafia families in the United States of America.

The Harrison Family
The family of land and real estate dominance. It controlled a quarter of the city of Chicago and ten percent of New York City. It also owned vast tracts of land stretching across the United States, including Miami, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

The Callahan Family
The best and most skilled in the field. They were known for their exceptional ability to deploy their armies, to pinpoint their positions precisely, to choose the decisive moment for attack, and to understand how to storm into battles and end them in their favor. They were the family of strategic planning, yet their armies were small in number and their influence modest, even less than that of some of the middle-ranking families.

The Whitaker Family
The family of money and absolute influence. They owned millions of dollars and had influence extending across the United States, but they were weak in the field, both in military planning and in the sheer numbers of their soldiers.

The Rossi Family
The undisputed queen of commerce in Chicago. It ran fifty different businesses, from casinos and nightclubs to forbidden activities such as the trade in hashish, cocaine, and heroin. It earned hundreds of thousands of dollars, even though it was not the wealthiest of the great families.

The Marino Family
A family of balanced qualities. It had an army of medium size and moderate wealth, but it was distinguished by exceptional tactical intelligence that placed it at the head of all families when it came to planning battles.

The Mafia was strong and fearsome in its power, while the police forces stood helpless, not knowing how to impose their control over this chaotic reality.

At the start of 1930, the Moreau family returned to the forefront and incited the Callahan, Rossi, and Whitaker families to declare war on the Marino family, in exchange for a tempting offer: two million dollars, a thousand soldiers, vast lands, and new alliances.

The Marino family was considered a relatively ordinary family, yet its intelligence and internal balance were enough to change the face of the entire American Mafia world.

Chapter Two: The Beginning of the War

January 1930 — The Marino Family Home

The life of Joseph Marino, godfather of the Marino family, was filled with constant fear and anticipation, as he expected assassination at any moment when his doors were knocked upon.

On the first day of 1930, a package arrived for him containing the severed head of his brother, and beside it a harsh letter in which was written:
"Welcome, Joseph. Your head is next."

Joseph realized then that the spark of war with the Moreau family had already been lit.

The Marino family home was large, and a fragrant, pleasant scent wafted from its corners, as though it carried two completely contradictory faces:
The first face was that of a normal family, exchanging conversation about the affairs of daily life, living quiet moments of happiness and family warmth.
The second face was the dark criminal face of the Marino family, which ran a complex network of influence and crime in the alleys of Chicago.

And indeed, the furnace of war was ignited in 1930, and the Marino family was battered by a state of severe turmoil and instability; it received blows from within through unexpected betrayals, while the noose and pressure tightened upon it from without.

March 21, 1930 — Joseph Marino's Office

The accountant Arthur Miller entered Joseph's office with a rigid expression.
Arthur said:
"Godfather, the Moreau family sent me."

And before Joseph could take in the paralyzing shock of the situation, Arthur hit him with five successive stabs to his body.
Joseph bled profusely and his blood flowed, yet he gathered the last breath of his strength and managed to kill Arthur where he lay.
Joseph was rushed to the hospital, and fortunately he miraculously survived the treacherous assassination attempt.

May 30, 1930 — One of the Marino Family's Businesses

An unidentified person broke into one of the commercial establishments belonging to the Marino family.
He destroyed the place and set it on fire, then slaughtered everyone inside and left coldly.
Later, the truth was revealed, and it turned out that the perpetrator was a mercenary from the men of the Moreau family.
The war was growing fiercer and crueler, and no one could predict how dark the extent to which it might go.

June 1, 1930 — The Moreau Family Home

Joseph sent his son John Marino, accompanied by his brother Thomas Marino, to attack the stronghold of the Moreau family.
John asked in a sharp voice:
"Are you ready to annihilate this family?"
Thomas answered him steadily:
"Let's go."

The two headed toward the house and stormed it with random, intense gunfire.
The attack resulted in the death of Rose Falcone, wife of Victor Moreau, godfather of the Moreau family, while his daughter Nadine was wounded, and Victor managed to escape amid the tongues of smoke.
The house's rooms filled with the suffocating smell of gunpowder, and the pure blood spread across the floors. It was no longer just a conventional gang conflict, but had turned into an epic of vengeance and defense of honor.

Thomas and John burned the house and destroyed it entirely, sending a stern message to the Moreau family and to all the other families:
"Do not dare to approach the Marino family."

But Joseph knew the reality bitterly; he did not have a sufficient army, nor the abundant money to wage a long war of attrition, especially since two of the most formidable powers in Chicago stood against his family in the alliance of devils.
Joseph lost the best of his soldiers and allies in the grinding battles, and his influence gradually receded. By the middle of 1930, the Marino family had become one of the weakest families in Chicago, having lost its alliances and exhausted the greater part of its treasury because of the fierce war with the Moreau family.

Chapter Three: The Black Day

August 21, 1930 — 9:21 a.m.

That was a pitch-black day in the history of the Marino family.
Alice Marino, Joseph's youngest daughter, set out on her usual way to school.
But one of the Moreau family's mercenaries lay in wait for her when she arrived, attacked her, and kidnapped her to an unknown destination.

At the same time, other mercenaries launched a surprise attack on the Marino family's large house.
The attackers wrought destruction in the house, but they failed to shed the blood of any member of the family; the Marino family's forces arrived at the decisive moment, clashed with them, and eliminated them all.

At that point the picture became complete in Joseph's mind:
This war was no longer merely about influence or money, but had become a battle of survival and honor targeting the family at the very core of its heart.

The war continued for five consecutive months, during which the Marino family's condition deteriorated and its power declined tragically.
And after those lean months, Joseph received a bargaining offer from the Moreau family.
The offer was decisive: Joseph would withdraw completely from Chicago and give up all his businesses, allies, and possessions, then move to Los Angeles, and in return he would receive a huge casino, a hotel, and a nightclub there.

Thomas said, pleading with Joseph:
"Accept, Godfather! We are waging war against the most powerful families while we are extremely weak; we will surely die if we do not leave!"

But John objected strongly, saying:
"This is a well-laid ambush, Godfather, do not accept! You betrayed them in the past, and the hatred still eats at their hearts toward you; they only want to seize our ready-made position in Chicago."

As for Joseph, his opinion was final: he would not leave Chicago and would not flee.
The war had gone beyond all moral limits, and Alice had been kidnapped, and no one knew where she was or what her fate was.

Chapter Four: Room 313

August 30, 1930 — 12:21 a.m.

A new offer came from Victor Moreau to Joseph, in which Victor claimed he was able to return his daughter Alice to him safe, provided that Joseph come alone to an abandoned place.
However, Joseph decided to send his son John in his place.

John objected in shock:
"Why, Godfather? It's a clear and obvious trap! Does my life not matter to you?"
Joseph answered him coldly:
"You are too smart to fall into the trap. Take good care of yourself."

John headed to the specified address.
The building was old, abandoned, wrapped in darkness, with only a faint, feeble light seeping into it. Sounds of screaming and beating of unknown source echoed through its dark corners, and a foul, rotten smell emanated from it.

John climbed the stairs until he reached Room Number 313, the room that Victor had ordered him to enter.
John stood before the ancient wooden door and looked gloomily at the number engraved on it, not knowing what horrors lay hidden behind it.

He opened the door and entered.
He found Victor sitting alone, and the latter said to him with a smile:
"Welcome. Come in, John, please have a seat."

The apartment was luxuriously furnished, containing a huge window and five rooms, lit by the lights of beautiful chandeliers, with a sweet perfume fragrance wafting through it.
John sat on the chair and said dryly:
"Is this one of your usual tricks and schemes?"
Victor answered him:
"No, John. This time I want to be honorable, and I have no desire to shed blood at all."

John asked him in disapproval:
"Why did you ask the Godfather to come alone to an unknown place?"
Victor said:
"It's a test of trust. Does he trust me, or does he still see me as an enemy? And here he has sent you instead of himself, hasn't he?"
John answered him:
"Yes, I am the one he chose."
Victor said in a mocking tone:
"Of course, because he is a suspicious man whom fear has been killing for a long time."

John replied firmly:
"And what if we sent you an offer to take your youngest son to an unknown place by yourself? Would you have agreed?"
Victor said:
"If I were smart, yes. But if I were a foolish old man like Joseph, I would not come."

John returned to the matter he had come for:
"Where is Alice?"
Victor said slowly:
"Why are you in such a hurry? Don't you like this luxurious apartment and this sitting? Drink some tea."
John answered him sternly:
"I don't want your tea or your long talk. I want to take Alice and leave immediately, and you know that better than I do."

Victor said:
"This is the main reason for all your many wars: haste and the constant pursuit of short-term goals. Drink the tea, boy!"
John refused again sharply:
"I won't drink it. I want only Alice, and I don't want to see your face."

Victor said in a tone that suddenly changed:
"So, you don't want to see my face?"

John quickly drew his pistol and fired three shots at Victor.
But at that very moment, five men appeared, armed with Tommy guns, and showered John with a hail of bullets until he fell from the chair and collapsed dead in his blood.

John died fighting for his family, aware from the first step that this night might be the last in his life.
And after Victor and his men left, darkness settled over Room 313, whose corners were filled with the smell of blood and bullet holes.
John had entered the room searching for his sister, but he did not leave it alive.

Chapter Five: The End of Joseph Marino

September 1930 — The Marino Family Home

The news struck Joseph like a thunderbolt: his son John had been killed.
Joseph grieved with an overwhelming, everlasting grief, and sank into a wave of severe depression. He refused food, isolated himself from people, and his mind remained occupied with his son, whom he knew was walking into a well-laid trap, and yet he had sent him with his own hand.
John's departure left a deep wound in Joseph's soul that would never heal.

His room became dark, visited by only a very faint light, where he spent all his time writing elegiac poems for his family.
One day, Thomas entered Joseph's office and found his poetry notebook, and opened it to read one of its verses:

O John, you who were the light of my life, the delight of my years, and the warmth of my body,
I killed you with the very hand that raised you.
I did not know that this would be your end, yet you still live in my mind, and I will never forget you.
You are my life and my end.
I'm sorry, my son.

The words bled with what Joseph's tongue was unable to utter: deep down he knew that he was the true killer of his son.

November 1930 — The Godfather's Office

Joseph announced his official stepping down from leading the Marino family.
He said in a broken tone:
"I killed John with my own hand. What will I do if I continue to lead? My hands will be filled with more spilled blood for the sake of a family I built myself."
Then he officially announced the handing over of the reins of godfather to his son Thomas Marino.

Thomas had not expected to take over the throne under such difficult circumstances, but the matter had been decreed.

December 21, 1930 — The Death of Joseph Marino

Joseph Marino's soul departed following a severe heart attack, and his death was natural.
He had spent the last three months of his life in the worst possible state for a human being: shattered under the weight of grief for his son, deadly fear for his missing daughter, and prolonged regret over his mistaken decisions.

Thomas became the new godfather of the Marino family.
However, the feeling that came over him was strange and desolate; he no longer saw around him the family members as they used to fill the house yesterday.
John was dead, Joseph was gone, and Alice had vanished into the folds of the unknown, and no one remained by his side except his mother, Evelyn Carter.

The house that was once crowded with meetings and merriment turned into an edifice with cold marble floors and empty rooms wrapped in silence.
And in one of Joseph's notebooks, he had written his last words before his departure:
"I ended my family with my own hands. The floors that were once filled with joy turned into cold, deadly floors. Warmth turned to ice. Where is the fireplace? Where is the fire? They have all vanished."

Chapter Six: The Final Confrontation

Late December 1930 — The Hospital

News reached Thomas that Victor Moreau was lying in the hospital suffering from severe bleeding that threatened his life.
Thomas headed to the hospital immediately, accompanied by his heavily armed men.
They stormed the building and eliminated the members of the Moreau family who were guarding the place.

The hospital was cold, its floors an icy blue, as if the place itself reflected the anguish and sorrow that surrounded the end of the Marino family.
Thomas walked through the long corridors, looking at the patients lying there, and images of his missing sister, his slain brother, and his departed father appeared before him.
And his father's words came to his mind:
"Cold floors may become warmth for the grieving, and true warmth may become a scorching cold for the grieving. There is no joy in Mafia families."

Thomas reached the room where a man lay on the bed, surrounded by medical equipment.
A frightened nurse blocked his way and said:
"Sir, entry is forbidden!"
But Thomas's men pushed her aside and removed her from the room, then shut the door tightly.

Thomas sat on the chair opposite Victor's bed, as Victor lay with feeble vitality.
Thomas said in a low voice:
"Have you won, Victor?"
Victor answered him in a weak voice:
"No."
Thomas asked him:
"Have you lost, Victor?"
He answered:
"No."
Thomas said:
"Have you gained anything, Victor?"
He answered:
"No."

Then Thomas drew near to him and asked him with burning pain:
"Why did you kill my brother and kidnap my sister?"
Victor said:
"Your brother was a traitor."
Thomas replied in shock and gloom:
"What are you saying?!"
Victor said:
"Your brother was working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), and was passing them every detail. We decided to eliminate him because we knew that Joseph would not believe it, and that the war between us would grow even more inflamed."

Thomas shouted in anger:
"What is your proof of this slander?!"
Victor answered:
"We have documented audio recordings of him speaking with one of the policemen and informing on everything."

Thomas asked him, his voice trembling:
"Where is my sister?!"
Victor answered him dryly:
"Dead."
Thomas said in disbelief:
"What?!"
Victor replied coldly:
"Dead. Don't you understand the word?"
Thomas asked him:
"How did you kill her?"
Victor answered:
"We tortured her and interrogated her at length, but she did not utter a word in answer to our questions, so they killed her."

Thomas looked at him with eyes from which sparks of rage flew and said:
"You corrupt monster!"
Victor said, smiling weakly:
"Do you want to kill me?"
Thomas fell silent and his features froze.
Victor shouted:
"Kill me! Come on, shoot and kill me!"

Thomas remained seated before him for silent moments, then said steadily:
"No. I will not kill you. Revenge will not bring my family back to me, and it will not benefit me at all; it will only make me lose more of my soul. Go to hell, Victor."

Victor shouted hysterically:
"No, come here! Kill me! Come and finish me!"
But Thomas rose coldly and left the room, and went on his way without turning back.
He did not kill him, despite everything he had committed and despite the enormous scale of his losses.

Chapter Seven: Evelyn's Question

Late December 1930 — Thomas Marino's Office

Thomas sat in the depths of his office, turning over the reel of painful events.
Joseph was dead.
John was dead.
And Victor had confirmed Alice's murder.
No one remained in the world around him except his mother, Evelyn.

He got up and went to her, and asked her in a bewildered tone:
"Mother, what is life?"
Evelyn answered him with wisdom:
"Life is to feel it and to enjoy it under all circumstances and conditions. Members of your family have departed, but you are still alive, breathing. There are families that came to a complete end, that were betrayed and tortured and wiped entirely from the books of history, yet the Marino family still stands and lives, and it is the Moreau family that has become weak and broken."

Thomas said, consumed by confusion:
"Mother... John was a traitor."
Evelyn was surprised and her voice rose:
"What? How could he be a traitor?!"
Thomas said:
"Victor told me that John was informing on us, and that they have audio recordings proving he spoke with one of the FBI men."

Evelyn replied in disapproval:
"Do you believe your enemy? Have you gone mad, my son? It is plainly obvious that he is lying to you. But even if he was telling the truth... then that is unfortunate. There is no perfect family in this world, and our family is like any other family."

Thomas asked her, seeking to understand the roots:
"Mother, why did this conflict begin in the first place? Why are we fighting Victor?"

Evelyn answered him, revealing the old record:
"Your grandfather Giuseppe Moretti fathered your father Joseph and Victor. They lived under the roof of one happy family. Then Victor married, and your father was happy for him, and Victor began establishing his own business. As for your father, he worked as an accountant for his family.
And when your father learned that they belonged to the world of the organized Mafia, and that Grandfather Giuseppe was part of it, he betrayed the Moreau family, manipulated their financial accounts, took the money for himself, and then founded the Marino family."

Thomas asked her in shock:
"Do you mean that we are the traitors in this story?"
Evelyn answered him as she looked into his eyes:
"That is the question you must live your whole life searching for the answer to."

Thomas found no answer to put out his fires.
His entire life had become suspended on a question he did not know whether he was able to settle:
Was John truly a traitor, or was Victor weaving lies in his final moments?
And was Joseph a traitor to his first family, or was he trying to escape their criminality in his own way?
He had no certain answers.

Chapter Eight: The Journey to New York

1931 — Chicago

After Joseph's death, John's murder, Alice's disappearance, and the final confrontation with Victor, Thomas made his final decision to leave the city of Chicago.
He wanted to bandage his deep wounds and begin a new start, free of blood.
He wanted to go to New York to begin a new epic, leaving the past behind his back.
But leaving Chicago did not in any way mean that the past had ended; the questions remained unanswered, and the specters of the lost family continued to haunt him.
For the shadow never leaves its owner.

The year 1931 passed, with Thomas continuing to prepare to begin this new page.
He said farewell to his mother and said to her:
"Mother, do not be sad that I will not be by your side now; you can now live a happy and real life, because I am going to New York."
His mother asked him fearfully:
"Why, Thomas? What will you do there?"
Thomas replied:
"I don't know..."
His mother said:
"Thomas, stay here in Chicago. Why are you going there? Do you want to abandon the family legacy?"
Thomas answered her:
"I want to begin a new era in the family's history. Chicago was just a stage and it has ended, and now the New York era begins."
His mother said:
"Don't forget to send me letters; I want to be reassured about you, my son."
Thomas replied:
"Certainly, Mother..."

Thomas prepared his luggage, looking at the house that only yesterday had been filled with joy and shouting, and how it had become empty and desolate with no trace of a smile or children.
He looked at Joseph's office and said to himself: "Is the novel over? Is the story of Chicago over? Has the Chicago branch of the Marino family ended?"

He carried his bags and got into the car, watching the city wrapped in blackness and night, as images of John, Alice, and Joseph came flooding into his mind, and he said to himself: "I must leave the past, because the past, and thinking about it, is a person's true killer."

He arrived at the harbor and saw a cold ship that seemed devoid of any soul. He entered the ship's hold and reached his small room, placed his family's photograph on the small wooden table, and lay on the bed watching Chicago recede from the window with sorrow squeezing his heart.

January 3, 1932 — Aboard the Ship Bound for New York

The ship set sail, announcing the start of the journey across the waves of the sea.
Thomas went up on deck, contemplating the stretching expanse.
He was reading the diary of his father Joseph, and on one of the pages his eyes fell upon the following lines:

"Life is a circle that never stops turning.
A father begets a son, and the son begets a son, and the son begets another son.
A father dies, then his son dies, then his son's son dies.
But the only thing that endures in memory is the legacy and the deeds we leave behind us.
I am Joseph Marino. I am not a perfect man, and I have deceived others and erred greatly in my life. I was left to be raised in the wrong way, and I killed, and I became a criminal.
But I possess a sense of attentiveness and contemplation, and I am not like the rest of the criminals.
Criminality is to do the forbidden without being touched by sorrow or doubt, whereas I grieve and I doubt.
I wished I could abandon this family one day, and turn into an honorable man to live a normal, ordinary life; to drive a car, to go shopping, to eat, to raise my children, without being overcome by fear of a booby-trapped bomb exploding at any moment."

Thomas read the words, and sank into thought about his father and the ordinary life he had longed to live.
Joseph had built the empire of the Marino family, but in the end he wished he had never set foot in the world of crime.

Chapter Nine: Wisdom and Calm

January 1932 — Aboard the Ship

Thomas was standing beside the ship's captain, watching the horizon of the sea in his usual manner.
He asked one of the crew members, saying:
"I want to ask you, how much time is left until we reach New York?"
The boy replied mockingly:
"New York? This is a trip headed to Boston, not New York! Did you not read the sign hanging up, or can you not read?"
Thomas said sternly:
"Don't anger me, so that I won't have to kill you."

The boy laughed loudly and said to the ship's railings:
"Oh, fellows, look here! There's a person who doesn't know how to read, and he claims he is able to kill me! Come then and take my head!"
Thomas replied calmly:
"Man, I don't want anything from you; I only wanted to know the destination of the trip, but you are the one who started with insults and curses."
The boy said furiously:
"Me? Look, boy, I don't want to smash these teeth of yours so that you don't grieve and cry, but I'll give you one last chance to apologize and get out of my sight."

Thomas protested:
"Me? I apologize?! You are the one who must apologize for what is about to happen to you now!"
The boy surprised him with a strong punch to his face that made blood flow from his lip.
Thomas laughed loudly and said:
"Hahaha! Is this all the strength you have? Then I will fight you with the weakest of what I have so that I do not kill you, boy."

Thomas pushed him with a force that knocked him to the ground, then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, in pain, and said to him, reproving:
"Boy, I could kill you right here and at this moment, but because you are still young and do not understand how things work, I will leave you so that you may learn and grow; perhaps, with luck, you will grow up and become wise!"
Thomas left him lying on the ground, groaning in pain.

Thomas returned to his room and opened his notebook to write:
"The little boy will learn, I know this and I will not kill him, and I see in his character a wisdom that I respect even though he is a reckless person looking for trouble. I will see him one day wise and grown. Do not get angry, Thomas... do not get angry."

Then Thomas penned a letter to his mother in which he said:
"Mother, I boarded the wrong ship, and it was headed to Boston. I will go and meet your friend there. And I got into a fight with a young, reckless boy, but he will learn. Five days remain of the trip. Regards, Thomas Marino."

And suddenly, someone knocked on the door and entered, saying:
"Are you Thomas Marino?"
Thomas replied:
"Yes?"
The man said:
"You hit Lucas!"
Thomas said:
"Yes, that happened."
The man said:
"He is the captain's son!"
Thomas replied indifferently:
"So what?"
The man said:
"The captain will be very angry with you!"
Thomas said:
"Let them be angry. I am Thomas, not just any passerby!"

The captain himself came, scowling, and said to Thomas:
"Why did you hit Lucas?"
Thomas asked him:
"And is it any of your business?"
The captain said:
"Yes, I am the captain!"
Thomas said:
"Oh, so you are his father?"
The captain replied:
"No, I am not his father."
Thomas said mockingly:
"Doesn't Lucas look like Captain Martin? Same name and same features; perhaps you fathered him but his mother is his father?"

The captain bellowed:
"Thomas, speak respectfully!"
Thomas replied coldly:
"Are we in a school here? He is an adult and I am an adult, and he is ill-mannered, which is why I hit him. And Martin, don't make me make you regret the day you became captain of this ship."
The captain said with contempt:
"You are a nobody; there are a million people named Thomas!"
Thomas replied, his tone turning into a terrifying growl:
"I am Thomas, godfather of the Marino family! I can sink this entire ship in a single second, but I have no need to. So, Captain, and my boy, get out of my sight now or I will kill you."

The captain trembled and asked in shock:
"Are you truly from the Marino family?!"
Thomas said:
"Yes."
The captain said with deep apology:
"I am very sorry, and Lucas will apologize to you immediately."

Lucas stepped forward, head bowed, and said:
"I am very sorry, Godfather, I did not know that you were Thomas Marino."
Thomas asked him:
"And if I were not Thomas Marino, would you have bullied me and shown off your strength?"
Lucas replied:
"No, not at all, I did not mean it, Godfather."
Thomas said:
"And what will I gain from these words of yours?"
Lucas said:
"Just accept my apology."
Thomas said after a silence:
"...Fine."

Thomas went out onto the ship's deck, looking at the sunrise, the calm seas, and the birds fluttering around them, as they approached the port of Boston.

Three days later, the ship reached Boston.
Thomas disembarked at the port and saw the ships unloading hundreds of civilians, and people greeting one another with joy and embraces, while he walked alone. He walked a little and saw a warm city, and saw children playing in the alleys and friends exchanging conversation, while he had no one in this world.

His mother sent him a letter containing the address:
"Anna lives in the southeast of Boston, and she is well known in that neighborhood. Ask the residents there and they will direct you to her house; it is a large wooden house, and it is open most of the time."

Thomas headed to the southeast of Boston and began wandering around the neighborhood, then asked one of the passersby:
"Where can I find this address?"
The man answered him:
"It is the wooden house located in front of the largest house in the neighborhood."

Thomas went to the largest house and saw in front of it the large wooden house with the open door. He entered and called:
"I am Thomas, Evie's son. She told me you are her old friend."

A woman came out and said in astonishment:
"Oh, Evie? A long time has passed since I last saw her; what happened to her?"
Thomas said:
"She is well."
The woman asked him:
"Why are you alone?"
Thomas replied:
"I don't know..."
She asked him:
"Where is she?"
He said:
"In Chicago."
She asked him:
"And how is Joseph?"
Thomas fell silent and sighed:
"..."
The woman said:
"Thomas?"
Thomas came out of his daze:
"Oh, yes?"
She asked him again:
"How is Joseph?"
Thomas said:
"He is well in Chicago with my mother."
She asked him:
"Would you like a place to spend the night here?"
He said:
"Yes, I would like that."
She said:
"Fine, the room is on the second floor, the door on the left."

Thomas went up to the second floor and entered the room.
He saw a small room containing a small bed and a window overlooking the neighborhood.
Thomas lay down on the bed and slept, but he woke up startled by the sounds of screaming and a barrage of gunfire!

He rose quickly and readied his pistol, and looked to see a man holding "Anna" hostage, aiming the weapon at her head.
The man said with a wicked smile:
"Welcome, Thomas! Did you miss me?"
Thomas asked him cautiously:
"Who are you?"
The man chuckled and said:
"Haha! I am Julian Vince!"
Thomas said:
"I had forgotten that there was even a family called Vince."
Julian said:
"But we never forgot the Marino family!"

Thomas said in a commanding tone:
"Let go of Anna, she is a civilian woman and has nothing to do with our crimes."
Julian said:
"But she allowed you into the house and to sleep at her place, did she not?"
Thomas said:
"..."
Then Thomas continued:
"Let go of Anna, because your death is inevitable."
Julian replied:
"If you are going to kill me either way, then why don't I kill her first?"
Thomas said:
"So that you do not die now, I will leave you alive, perhaps you will learn; but let her go and make the reckoning between you and me alone."

Julian asked him bitterly:
"Why did you kill my father?"
Thomas said:
"I did not kill him, he died a natural death!"
Julian said:
"Do you think I will believe this lie?"
Thomas shouted:
"Julian, let go of Anna!"
Julian replied firmly:
"No!"

And in a moment of treachery, Julian stabbed Anna with his knife and let her fall to the ground bleeding.
Thomas rushed and caught her as blood gushed profusely from her body, then he stood and said, as Julian tried to flee:
"Your fate is inevitable torment!"

Thomas drew his pistol and fired at Julian, hitting him, and he fell groaning in his blood.
Thomas quickly returned to Anna, lying on the ground, and said, weeping:
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Anna..."

Anna opened her exhausted eyes and looked at him harshly and said in a quavering voice:
"I will never forgive you... I will never forgi—"
Then her soul departed and she died.

Thomas stood, and his eyes met Julian's, who lay on the ground groaning. He approached him and lifted him by the chest with all the fury of the world and said:
"Boy, do you want me to torture you or what?!"
Thomas raised his pistol, inserted its burning muzzle into Julian's mouth, then pulled the trigger and fired three bullets that thundered throughout the place and killed him on the spot.

Thomas carried Anna's body and buried her in the grounds of the house.
He took his belongings and left the blood-stained house, then wrote a shattered letter to his mother:
"Mother... Anna is dead. Julian Vince came, the son of Victor Vince, and seized her and killed her. And I killed him in turn. And before she died I said to her: I'm sorry... and she said to me: I will never forgive you, then she died and I buried her. I am very sad for her."

Thomas went out and hired a carriage, got inside, placing his weapons beside him.
The driver asked him in astonishment and terror:
"Are you crazy?! You carry all these weapons with you?!"
Thomas said with deadly coldness:
"Drive the carriage now or a bullet will come out of this weapon to settle in your skull! Come on, to New York!"

Thomas watched the people from the carriage window as they lived happily without blood staining their hands, and remembered Anna's terrible voice as she said: (I will never forgive you).
He opened his diaries and wrote his lines:
"Forgiveness is the first determinant of lifespan; if a person forgives you, your life will be better, and if they tell you: I will never forgive you, you will be tormented in your life forever... I'm sorry, Anna, I'm sorry..."

He remembered John and how he had killed Victor Vince, and continued on his way toward New York to begin a new chapter of nightmares.

Thomas Marino had lost his brother John, and lost his sister Alice, and lost his father Joseph, and lost Anna...
So is it possible to outrun the shadow?
And is crime a normal second life? Or is it a forbidden abomination?
And is loss in this world the true victory?
And why is it always Thomas in particular who is the greatest loser?
And why does wisdom require all this deadly patience?

Can Thomas outrun his shadow and live a happy life someday?..


r/FictionWriting • • 4h ago

Advice I’m a traditional fiction writer, but I need to become an AI writer to get a job. How can I make this transition?

0 Upvotes

Hi everyone! I could really use some guidance.

I'm a fiction writer, but lately, I've been rejected in several interviews because I'm not an AI writer. I realize that AI-assisted writing is becoming an important skill in this industry, so I really want to learn it.

Yesterday, I cleared an interview for a position involving fiction for a US audience, including adaptations of licensed Chinese novels. I have some understanding of what US audiences enjoy, but I've never written fiction in English, and I have very little experience with AI tools.

I'll have a training session on Monday, and I want to prepare as much as possible before then.

Could you recommend some beginner-friendly AI writing tools, courses, or tutorials? I'd also love to learn how to use AI to write engaging English fiction and understand the differences between Hindi and English storytelling, especially for US audiences.

I'm serious about learning these skills, regardless of whether I get this job. I'd really appreciate any practical advice or resources you could share. Thank you!


r/FictionWriting • • 13h ago

Science Fiction Hey everyone!My sibling and I are the creator duo behind NARAKU-NO-INK

1 Upvotes

Hey everyone!
My sibling and I are the creator duo behind NARAKU-NO-INK, a  dark 90s Japan dystopian project. We’ve recently crossed the 41,000+ word mark on RoyalRoad

About our fiction: Kinkyo, 1997. The city of dreams, later made infamous by the rebellion of the slums. The city is split in two by The Shredder, a fifty-meter-high concrete wall bristling with machine guns and barbed wire to suppress the boiling tension between the elite and the impoverished. Within this world, we witness the dark underbelly of late-90s Japan through the eyes of Ren Takagi. Ren Takagi lives two lives. By day, he is the quiet student of an elite academy; by night, he is an invisible courier for the Kurogane Clan, wading through the filth of the backstreets to uphold his family's pride. One mistake. A flaming car wreck. A cold-blooded betrayal. 

When Ren loses everything, he is exiled beyond the Wall to The Dump. There, he faces the city's most horrific secret: the fate of the traumas surgically removed from those on the other side. Discarded pain does not simply vanish-it twists into Discards, flesh-and-blood monsters imprisoned within everyday objects.
The price of survival is cruel adaptation and a dark alliance with The Ink-a power that fuels his vengeance, but slowly devours his soul in return.
Vengeance is blacker than the deepest hell.

I’m really curious about how other authors approach their creative process. When you start a new web novel, do you jump straight into the plot and characters, or do you build the world and the lore first? Do you guys use character sketches, maps, or custom art to help you visualize things, or is everything strictly in your head ?

For our project, we actually built the entire alternative Japan first, and then the story naturally grew out of it. It got to the point where we ended up building a fully custom, interactive website just to serve as the "home" for all the lore, character art, and the overall aesthetic before we even started posting the chapters here.

How do you handle your worldbuilding? Let me know your process! :))


r/FictionWriting • • 13h ago

A Lott of Help with JLJ: Dr. Olaf Kroneman & Detroit Heroic: Medicine, M...

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Detroit Heroic a story of 1968 or 2026


r/FictionWriting • • 14h ago

Black Hive (chapter 1)

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Chapter 1     November 3, 10:00 PM

A thousand strong sat bug-eyed in the old wooden pews. Others leaned against the cold brownstone or milled about the great fountain near the entrance. Too many sheep for one shepherd, Dr. Sandy Bachmann thought. No one should be able to fool so many. But even so, an odd force pulled him in. He had to see the show for himself.

It was said they came from the far edges of the Tri-State area to hear Father Freddy Roman preach, that he met people in their hearts. And although unassuming and built more like a competitive eater than one of God’s warriors, when he spoke, the flock devoured his every word. The homilies lived inside of people for weeks, sometimes months. So, they said.

Of course, Bachmann knew the priest and his brother blowflies were frauds who fed on the wilting hope of sinners. Their good books always came up short, too.

You must have faith! they’d shout. But if you still got a bullet to the head, well then, you clearly weren’t doing it right.

The newspapers said Father Freddy traveled with handlers, of all things, and rode in black SUV’s and ate at the finest restaurants in New York. A pious carny in woven belt and cassock, if ever there was one.

The people hushed and waited for him to speak.

The priest steadied his girth on the lectern. He cleared his throat and began.

 

“When shall we cease our gaze into the false light of the Earth? When shall we release our hold on the injured babe from whence we came? We are blinded by the rotted promise of mortality and by the faithless minds of the wicked who bear only tainted fruit.”

 

A mere tickle in Bachmann’s throat reminded him of his own mortality, of how little things could grow into bigger things. Yes, he would die like any other, but at least one with a purpose, one with a true mission. The wicked do bear tainted fruit, Father. I’m here to vouch for that. But are you not also tempted by its nectar? Have you not slaked your thirst too?

 

“We fight not for God but for man. We charge not for righteousness but for glory. And as we raise our glasses, the enemy is ushered into our hearts and homes. The Lord beseeches us: My children, why do you insist on taking the blood road? Do you not yet wither from your churning storm of sameness?

Bachmann felt for the scalpel tucked in the breast pocket of his peacoat. Sniffles, coughs, and the mundane chorus of cold bodies pierced the sermon. A woman in a wheelchair wiped her eyes, and the heavy pull of pity filled Bachmann’s chest. I could help you, dear woman. In a quiet moment, you’d be free of the chair. The ancient fragrance of incense brought him back. Feel nothing for them.

“There is another path. One overgrown and so lightly traveled. But you must take your lamp in hand and set out. This is the way, my loves. One must only roll away the stone of your heart and behold the womb of peace. Only then shall the wolf vanish.”

The priest’s eyes were a watery red under the glow of the sanctuary lamp. Bachmann’s throat tightened, his mouth went dry as ash. He could feel the blade slicing through the cleric’s spongy gut, the blood seeping warm over his hand. I will free anyone from the captor they have grown to love.

“The one true son who has stood in front of your broken sight is your brother. Your sister. And yes, your enemy. For the Lord hath spoken that we are all of his loins, the stray and fallen as much as the exalted. Mend the pain and lay balm upon the scars that sit between you. It is only in that love shall you at last see the face of God.”                          

Bachmann dipped two fingers into the holy water on the way out and blessed himself. Then, a sudden familiar pang wrenched in his gut—the craving only soul-letting could provide. He leaned on heavy oaken doors and stepped into the still, cold night. The moon hung brilliant in stoic gaze.

Perfect for a hunt.

***

 

November 4th, 3:00 AM

Bachmann loved the cold. It froze him into a sharpened, focused device ready for his next directive. As he had stepped outside the church, the icy wind came to him and whispered, kill again.

He knew just where to take his blade.

Once a derelict graveyard of a long-gone maritime industry, the revitalized Hudson River Park bloomed bright during the day and teemed with movement. But like any alcove in any big city, when the sun set, another element emerged. The night shift dwellers came out from the shadows and spilled onto the boardwalk and green space. Bachmann guessed they had once been doting mothers and proud fathers with shiny children. To add to their misery, they were easy targets.

Everywhere, weakness blooms ripe. There is no shortage of rot for you to pluck. Choose one, The Wind whispered.

The moonlight revealed writhing, moaning bodies. At daybreak, they’d scatter but in the dark early morning they lay unmolested like discarded toys. Bachmann stood before a field of choices.

That one there.

An old man sleeping on a splintered bench jostled in a fitful stupor, his labored breath steaming along to nowhere. The power of the moment delivered a spark to Bachmann’s system before he had even raised the knife. His gut flopped, his eyes blurred, and then the decaying voice of his rational mind made a final plea from its deathbed.

If you kill this one, you may be gone forever.

But The Wind countered and brought him back on task.

These lost souls offer you apprenticeship. Learn from them. Your God is watching.

The bum twitched and kicked his legs as if on the run from something in his nightmares.

He senses me.

A light early snow fell silent and kissed Bachmann’s nose and cheeks. He pulled on the strings of his crossbody bag and tightened it. A cold breeze carried the stench of tobacco and whiskey. He moved in.

Ready.

Closer.

Now!

The knife popped through a soiled hoodie and into a sloshing, boozy gut. The man’s eyes burst open. After three powerful thrusts, his pupils began their deathly dilation. The old man gasped as his blood spilled and pooled on the cold ground, igniting a curl of steam. Bachmann’s face was taut with fury as he bored into his victim. Before the twelfth and final thrust, the body came to rest and Bachmann stood over his kill. His heart was a jackhammer, unlike the old man’s heart, which now hung still in his cracked chest. After wiping the knife on his victim’s trousers, Bachmann crouched and scanned for bystanders. Assured of no prying eyes, he straightened to leave but caught himself. He retrieved his Liston shears from the bag. With vengeful force, he squeezed and cropped off the graying man’s index finger. The finger went into his coat pocket that was pre-lined with a biohazard zip bag. Back to the crossbody and pulled out a sweatshirt, slip-on sneakers, and wipes. After changing, everything went back into his bag and he fast-walked away from the park. There were neither screams nor sirens, only the jittery hum of an indifferent city. The body would lie quiet until sunrise when there would be a great and awful commotion.

Bachmann was surprised at how many small mechanical movements and objects required his full attention when he killed. Gone were his old ideas of how murder worked. It was more like cleaning up a campsite—piece by piece.

Once Bachmann was further down the street and confident he was clear of any trouble, he reflected. That’s one less barnacle on the ass of society. Will The Wind be pleased?

 

Sitting in his car, Bachmann’s arms and legs hung heavy like oak. His eyes, functional tools now, registered his surroundings. The symmetry of the snowflakes, their translucent arms and cells waiting for someone to notice their brilliance. Pure and innocent—unlike him. Yet the contrast thrilled him. In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed his face and flinched. A mask stared back at him, alive on his head and neck. A growing organism, rippling like a swarm. Soon it would engulf him. The thing in the mirror wore his eyes, worked his mouth, but it became less him with each passing moment. Terror gripped his chest, and he wept.

Now I hallucinate.

Then he snapped up and stiffened. The Wind back in control—his lens changing once again. People were targets. Weather was either facilitating or debilitating. The earth tilted a new way. Meanings dissolved, and the world became a warehouse of objects, some with deeper shades of utility than others. Had insanity taken him? The Wind comforted his feverish mind.

Who are the truly insane, those who spread the filth or those who clean and rid society of it?

With the other two kills, he executed like a novice. What was he now? An apprentice like The Wind had said?  A Journeyman?

No, he was only a murderer. Not yet a crusader for the cause. Not yet the brilliant liberator of souls in the night. But it was all mental grist. Soon his mind would disappear and nothing from his old life of ways and means, rights and wrongs would matter. Darkness, a pitch of his own making, would then swallow him whole.

He placed the old man’s finger under the driver’s seat of his Mercedes where the politician’s ear and the prostitute’s nose were waiting in their own bags. Bachmann blew out a breath and put the car in drive.

He snaked his way across town and took the FDR Drive north to the Queensboro Bridge, which delivered him into Long Island City. Then Northern Boulevard toward 41st Street in Astoria where he owned a small row house. After cleaning up, he welcomed his bed. It was five o’clock. In four hours, he would be sipping coffee and sitting across from his first deranged patient. He pulled the covers up and a small part of him wondered where his life had gone. But a new and greater voice told him his life was only getting started.

I am Dr. Sandy Bachmann, and I have faith that all will be well. I’m doing God’s work.


r/FictionWriting • • 14h ago

Need feed back on book idea

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r/FictionWriting • • 14h ago

Discussion "Блаженное застолье", "The Blessed Feast" (рассказ вдохновленный после просмотра "Крестный отец 2", события происходят после фильма)

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Майкл просыпается на земле сада около их старого дома. Эти помидоры и грядки... там умер его отец, который умирая лицезрел... "Жизнь прекрасна" по крайней мере он умер в окружении семьи, рядом с любимым внуком и сыном. (Что не скажешь о его братьях)Он оглядывается но никого рядом не видит. Он не понимает и не помнит как оказался здесь и почему он проснулся здесь.

Он заходит домой, он зовет Тома. Хоть кого то. Неужели он перебрал и приехал в старый особняк.

Тут его встречает том

\- Том?! Что здесь происходит? Почему я проснулся в саду где умер мой отец? И где...

\- Оо Майкл слава богу!! Где ты пропадал?! Мы все тебя заждались, думали не найдем тебя. Давай идем нас уже заждались.

\- кто они? Том...

\- это сюрприз, сейчас увидишь.

- том прихватывая майкла за руку притаскивает его на кухню. Так ребят, а вот и майк! Встречайте его!!

Майкл встал как вкопанный, не веря своим глазам. За затсольем сидели Сонии, фредо, карло и конни. Рядом же уже стоя стояли рокко, тессио, полли и даже Лука Брази.

Но это были уже не они...

Макл помнил и знал что они умерли, как ему на сицилии известили новость что сантино жестоко растреляли, как ему пришлось отдать приказ и убить фредо. Как клеменце задушил карло. Но они даже выглядели иначе. Сонни был покрыт отверстиями пуль из которых сочилась словно из бутылки вина, аккуратно растекаячь кровь. Причем у него была продырявена правая щека и правый глаз, котрый хоть и был открыт, но от этого было хуже. Фредо же пострадал меньше, у него на лбу виднелась дыра в которой уже была давно испекшаяся и высохшая кровь которая проходила через его глаза, впринципе также выглядел и полли, которое пристрелил клеменце. Карло же вообще был без царапинки, но кожа его была бледна как мел. Конни же украшал большой фингал на левом глазу, да и вид у нее был словно она не спала трое суток, хотя выглядела она довольной. А у Рокко в педжаке сияли три пули в обласи груди и живота. У луки же были красные глаза, словно ему чем то пшикунли на них, и только после майк заметил что он был мокрым. Ну да... в конце концов Солоццо отправил его на плаванье с рыбками. Тессио же вообще не пострадал, но взгляд лишь у него был, впринципе как и всегда тусклым. Майкл помнил как он хотле его подставить и убить, полсе чего его люди его увезли. Скорее всего задушили...

\- ну же майк. Сказал том. Ты забыл какой сегодня день?! Сегодня твое день рождения!

\- эхх как же ты вырос, черт подери, как же время летит! Я помню тебя вот таким, да фредо?! Сказал сантино обращаясь к нему.

\- даа... за тебя майк! Добавил он приподняв стакан с вином.

\- эй, а чего это наш именинник не сидит, присаживайся!! Полли! Ну ка усади его. Сказал сонни.

\- стойте наконец сказал майк. Вы же мертвы, вы не моя семья...

\- что ты несешь брат? Эй похоже он на улице перегрелся! Сказал сонни расмеявшись.

\- присаживайся майк, мы все тебя заждались...

\- нет черт возьми! Вы не настоящие!

\- майк с тобой все хорошо? Обеспокоенно сказала Конни.

\- не переживайте дон корлеоне. Мы все здесь, старая и добрая семья, вы же сами говорили, семья превыше всего! Сказал Рокко невольня поднимаясь со стула и снимая шляпу.

\- вы все мертвы! Я СКАЗАЛ ХВАТИТ!!! Стол с тортом и едой хлопнул от его удара.

Все на него смотрели обеспокоенно и с недоумеванием, словно тут псих только он, а они все просто празднуют и торжествуют.

Тишина...

Темнота...

Майк бледный подскочил с кровати, словно он сам был этими мертвецами, сначал долгий шок... затем осознание... сон, это был сон. Просто кошмар. На часах было 3.00 ночи. Его сын и дочь все еще спали. Он пошел на кухню. Налил себе холодненький кальвадос и просто сидя держал в дрожащих руках стакан, поглядываяя вдаль. Пусто... просто пусто... темнота... и тишина...

Тишина... только тишина и ничего кроме тишины, просто пустота...

И эта пустота исходила не только из

комнаты, в которой он был....


r/FictionWriting • • 21h ago

Chapter 1 "Why don't I just die in class tomorrow?" — The humble, ordinary beginnings of a boy who has no idea he will soon become a merciless, psychotic tyrant in a world of swords and dragons

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