Writeblogging - Blog Posts

The setting and style of Forest Fire has been fighting me a little, and I think I might be able to fix that if I lean more into the style of gothic fiction. I don’t know if the whole genre of my piece will shift as I write it out more, but it’s certainly a fun place to take inspiration from!

I set out to write at least a little bit every day in December and I managed to complete 27/31 days! I think this challenge really helped me identify some of my weaknesses and strengths as a writer and I’m proud of the work I put in

Hopefully I’ll be able to share a lot more of my writing with you all in 2025! Happy new year everyone <3

for the last prompt:

“Don’t touch those books, sweetie. They have souls.”

Miranda hesitated with her fingers poised over a golden spine. 

“Excuse me?” she asked, wide-eyed and more than a little fearful. 

The librarian simply rolled her eyes, adjusting the hem of her coffee-colored sweater. “Did you not read the danger signs we passed?” 

Slowly, Miranda lowered her hands and laced them behind her back. “Thought that was another of Dougie’s pranks,” she murmured quietly. 

The librarian sighed.

“Miss Pickery-"

“I still don’t know why you hired my brother,” Miranda interrupted, eyes slipping back to the shiny, golden book she had been tempted to pull off the shelf. “He’s not exactly…bookish. Or terribly employable.”

“Well, he doesn’t attempt to touch the books with souls, for one,” the librarian replied. 

Miranda pressed her lips together firmly, attention slipping guiltily to the carpeted floor and catching on an oblong stain that the librarian gestured to with the toe of her heeled boot.

“And he doesn’t suffer the consequences of such misbehavior like my previous apprentice, Ronald.”

Miranda couldn’t help the startled gasp that left her as she drew her arms closer to the center of her body, head whipping back and forth in the narrow aisle to ensure no part of her was near any part of these…these murdering, soul-having books.  

Seriously, if Miranda had known about Ronald the Oblong Stain when she’d received her brother’s stupid email about checking out his “cool new job”, Miranda would have deleted it without a second thought. Unread, unreplied to, and un…un-in danger, Miranda thought sternly. 

The librarian frowned back at her, all sharp featured and unimpressed, like she was privy to Miranda’s imaginary word making.  

“U-um, so where is Dougie, anyway, Miss?”

“Late,” the librarian replied. She raised her right wrist to peer at a square watch wrapped over her sweater sleeve, the arms curved like octopus tentacles and spinning far faster than the plain, round one on Miranda’s own wrist. “Or perhaps early, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be conversing with Ronald, instead,” the librarian murmured to herself, causing a deep frown to appear over Miranda’s face. 

Oblong Stain-Man, one. Miranda, zero. 

“Well, he invited me here,” Miranda petulantly reminded the woman. “I’m still not sure why, but I doubt it was to kill me so is it possible for us to wait for him in a different section of the library? Maybe one without, you know, danger signs?”

The librarian gave Miranda a swift once-over, then peered up at the ceiling, expression unchanging. 

“No. Here will do.”

“Oh, okay,” Miranda whispered shakily. “I’ll just stay here and try not to turn into goo, then.”

“Oh, pish posh,” the librarian dismissed, waving her hand in the air. “That Evelyn has much more flare than that. She would have ignited you, most definitely.”

“E-Evelyn?” Miranda repeated, peering behind herself for other, potentially-murderous library patrons. Perhaps one carrying a blowtorch.

“The book you were going to touch,” the librarian explained. “She has quite a flair for the dramatic, that girl. Your death would have been very phoenix-like.”

Miranda eyed the golden-spined book with far more wariness than before. 

“Phoenix-like…” she echoed. “Like…as in I’d come back to life?”

The librarian’s nose scrunched. “As in you’d go up in a spark of flames and crumble to ash before you could say-”

“Mimi!” Dougie called out happily, appearing in a cart-like contraption over their heads. Dougie tugged gently on a hanging rope within his cart and the whole thing slowed to a squeaky stop.

Miranda eyed the small cylinder of metal attaching the cart to the track embedded in the ceiling with open skepticism. 

“Took ya long enough,” he said, smiling. 

“Took me-?!” Miranda began to sputter, only to be silenced by a hand from the librarian. 

“Douglas,” she greeted calmly. “Anything to report?”

Dougie’s smile turned slightly bashful, and he scratched the back of his head. “Not yes, Miss. But with Mimi here, things should be fixed in a snap!” 

“I fucking hate that name,” Miranda muttered darkly beneath her breath.

“Quit whining, girl,” the librarian said, not unkindly. “It’s time to go.” 

“Please,” Miranda agreed, quickly ascending the thin, metal stairs that had stretched out from Dougie’s cart like a particularly slow accordion. She would happily go anywhere to get away from Evelyn and Ronald and who knows who else. 

The librarian followed quickly after. 

“Where are we going?” Miranda asked, cringing at the grating noise emanating from the ceiling as the cart rocked jerkily back into motion. “To lunch?”

Dougie’s email had promised lunch. 

“Uhhh, not to lunch,” Dougie admitted, ignoring Miranda’s heavily disappointed sigh. “We need you to fix something, actually.”

“And it’s not a sandwich?” Miranda pressed hopefully. 

“Sorry, sis,” Dougie laughed. “It’s…uh, well it’s a little bit bigger than that.”

“These swinging death cages, then?” she tried next. Because they could use some serious oiling, but otherwise seemed mostly stable. Even if the eccentric design didn’t invite anything but distrust. 

Dougie pulled on the rope again as they entered a new room and Miranda brought her hands up to cover her ears while she peered curiously over the edge of the cart, still hoping in vain for a cafe or a bistro. 

What she saw instead was a massive, boiler-looking thing, with moving arms on just about every square inch of its rusting, bronze surface, rounded caps lifting periodically to release hissing trails of white steam. 

What really caught her attention, though, was the small door built into its base, boasting a massive dent and an odd array of talon-like scratches along its surface. And one scrawled out word. 

Miranda Pickery. 

“...well,” Miranda said slowly, hands falling to her hips as she quietly examined the structure. “Surely I’m not the only Miranda Pickery in the area. Total coincidence, really.”

The librarian’s wrinkly hand landed on Miranda’s shoulder, her other pointing towards the far end of the boiler room. 

Miranda followed her gaze to a large, hand-painted mural spanning the entire length of the flaking wall. The figures were all done in black, or perhaps a very deep blue, and nearly impossible to make out in the dim space. The orange light from the boiler only illuminated the lowest section, where there were rows and rows of what looked like people, carrying stacks of what looked like books, and a few, hanging, claw-like feet that suggested an array of birds above their heads. 

The librarian clapped and the space flooded with blue light. Hovering orbs lined the room like street lamps- above the boiler but below the cart- revealing a concerning amount of bookshelves lining this room, too. 

A concerning amount of bookshelves and Miranda’s likeness, that is, painted in the very center of the mural with such detail that any hopes of pawning off this mystery onto some other hapless sod immediately wilted and died within her heart. 

“Oh,” Miranda said dumbly. 

“Oh,” the librarian agreed. 

“So…” Dougie started, awkwardly clapping his hands together. “Lunch, anyone?”

WRITING PROMPTS - Library

A 24/7 library has no staff, but those who enter never think to steal.

"We can't make out! This is a library!"

A magical university has a library that changes its contents entirely whenever it hits midnight.

"Shh! Reading time."

A library is the only building unaffected by a massive earthquake.

"Where did you get that book?"

A group of academics decide they want to be buried alive in the cursed library that the government are burying.

"Don't touch those books, sweetie. They have souls."

Mood tbh

"I should write" *looks at memes about writers procrastinating writing instead*

Hey y'all 💜. I was wondering if this is legit? Cause it seems interesting, but kinda to good to be true, when I was looking at it.

Hello, hello

Welcome to our fanfiction blog. We write high quality, wholesome, canon compliant (or canon objectively improved) fanfiction with as few OCs or annoying tropes as possible.

We also like to do interesting writing experiments and make quality novelizations of things. We aim to make everything like a professional book with a lot of depth, no cringe, and an actual full completed story. (Since that can be very rare).

PARADOX

It is as right and as wrong as hurting someone who hurt you.

It is as beautiful and as hideous as a face created to hide your own.

It is as simple and as complex as admitting you were wrong.

That maybe you don't need to hold it in.

That maybe you can tell someone.

That maybe pain is something people do understand the way they understand hunger, thirst and desperation.

That what people don't understand is that other people understand pain, too.

- Elf Monarch

(Hi, I'm Indian, so I'm trilingual. I've added two soundtracks to go with the piece. One is in Hindi, and I love this song. The other is English, since I'm guessing most of the people on tumblr speak English.)

((I love both the tracks.))

5 frustrating workshop rules that made me a better writer

Throughout the 15 workshops I joined in college and grad school, I encountered two types of writing rules.

First, there were the best-practice guidelines we’ve all heard, like “show don’t tell.” And then there were workshop rules, which the professor put in place not because they’re universal, but because they help you grow within the context of the workshop.

My college’s intro writing course had 5 such rules:

No fantasy, supernatural, or sci-fi elements.

No guns.

No characters crying.

No conflict resolution through deus ex machina.

No deaths.

When I first saw the rules, I was baffled. They felt weirdly specific, and a bit unfair. But when our professor, Vinny, explained their purpose (and assured us he only wanted us to follow the rules during this intro workshop, not the others to come), I realized what I could learn from them.

1. No fantasy, supernatural, or sci-fi elements.

Writers need to be able to craft round characters, with clear arcs. While you can hone those skills writing any type of story, it can be more difficult when juggling fantastical elements, because it’s easy to get caught up in the world, or the magic, or the technology, and to make that the focus instead of the characters. So Vinny encouraged us to exclude such elements for the time being, to keep us fully focused on developing strong, dynamic characters.

2. No guns.

Weapons have a place in many stories, but when writers include a gun, they often use it to escalate the plot outside of the realm of personal experience and into what Vinny called “Hollywood experience.” He wanted us to learn how to draw from our own observations and perceptions of life, rather than the unrealistic action, violence, and drama we’d seen in movies, so he made this rule to keep us better grounded in our own experiences.

3. No characters crying.

When trying to depict sadness, writers often default to making characters cry. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, tears are just one way to show grief, and they aren’t always the most subtle or emotionally compelling. That’s why Vinny challenged us to find other ways to convey sadness — through little gestures, strained words, fragile interactions, and more. It was difficult, but opened us up to depicting whole new gradients of grief and pain.

4. No conflict resolution through deus ex machina.

This is the only one of the rules I’d say is generally universal. Meaning “God from the machine,” deus ex machina is a plot device where a character’s seemingly insurmountable problem is abruptly resolved by an outside force, rather than their own efforts. These endings are bad for various reasons, but Vinny discouraged them because he wanted us to understand how important it was for our characters to confront their struggle and its consequences.

5. No deaths.

Death is inherently dramatic and can be used to good effect, but many writers use death as a crutch to create drama and impact. Writers should be able to craft engaging, meaningful stories, even without killing off their characters, so this rule challenged us to find other methods of giving weight to our stories (such as through internal conflict).

How these rules helped me grow as a writer

First things first, I’ll say it again: apart from #4 (deus ex machina), these rules were never meant to be universally applied. Instead, their purpose was to create temporary barriers and challenges to help us develop key skills and write in new, unfamiliar ways.

For me, the experience was invaluable. I liked the way the rules challenged and stretched my abilities, driving me to write stories I’d have never otherwise attempted. They made me more flexible as a writer, and while I don’t follow the rules anymore (I LOVE me some fantasy), I’ll always be thankful for how they shaped my writing.

My recommendation to you?

Give some of these rules a shot! Follow them temporarily while writing 2-4 short stories — but remember to always keep their purpose in mind, because the rules themselves will only help if you understand what they’re trying to achieve.

Write with purpose, and you’ll always be growing.

— — —

For more tips on how to craft meaning, build character-driven plots, and grow as a writer, follow my blog.

Affirmation: 

i will make the time

to add joy 

into my day.

.

.

.

Image Source: @ceruleansoleil  Words: anvi doshi

You accidentally cross a witch, and she curses you, saying “You can only speak lies”. Unfortunately, this makes it so you can only say the word “lies”, and the witch admits she’s an apprentice that screwed up the spell. Now you’ve teamed up with her to figure out how to undo it.

The extra cones and rods in your eyes make it easy to identify fake photos and videos. One day when you’re testifying in court, you notice one of the jurors is “fake”

Keyboard go BRRRRRRRRRR

Character Spotlight

Agent Vivien. Twenty-eight. For her, home is a place you cannot escape like the smoke in your lungs from a housefire your father started. You still cough up dollhouse plastic and holy basil from time to time and it smells like your mother's grave. She picks up after her baby brother's messes who is twenty-five. Her mother dies, but it's the aftermath that sets the implosion. A shark at her job, she keeps moving, she's got to, or she'll drown. She craves the distance and the compartmentalization her job gives, the quick escape from knowing the aftermath of her jobs. Never stick around for the aftermath.

Your drunk father burnt down your house when you were a little girl. You cough up dollhouse plastic from time to time. It smells like your mother's garden where she is buried. When you chase down a bottle of Jack, smoke roils in your lungs. It still smells like your mother's garden.

Dreamlike Laughter

Reality kisses his sleepless nights, until he dreams of her again.

“Really wish you weren’t here anymore, love,” Milas tells Zimi, sitting by the window of his apartment. When he squints outside, the moonlight gleams too sharply off of the blades of grass. 

He needs to tell her tonight. Right here in the dreamscape she made for them to meet across the mountains and rivers between. 

She barks out a short laugh, but her shoulders hunch. She begins, “I don’t know who I can trust enough to practice this type of spell. I truly didn’t know I was bothering, hones—”

‘I miss sneaking mom’s pastries to you and spending all night awake because you got a new board game and you’re a horrible, horrible cheater and.’ Words. Words tangle in his mouth, so he blurts out, ‘And, I miss all the ands.’

Quick as a wildfire, she grasps his face with both her hands. He never feels them, but he can see her dark eyes looking into his sandy ones. In these moments, he thinks her a phantom. That the sentinels who swore their loyalty to her killed her before she could cross the city’s borders. With their history, the years stretching like scars on knobby knees and dolls, he could create something real enough to fool him. 

Something creaks, like twigs snapping under a wheel. It takes Milas back to the evening before, his hand digging into Elijah’s wheelchair, light stubble not smooth skin, and soft hair brown not black under his hands. When he pulls away abruptly, she puts her hands up in surrender. 

The view outside the window fades into fog, but so do the corners of his room. He needs to tell her. 

‘I’m sorry, Kazimiera’ he chokes out. ‘I don’t deserve you.’ He slips onto his knees. Promises broken in a heartbeat, heartbeats jackrabbitting with Elijah’s laugh and the way he calls him endearments in something called French, and Milas was such a fool for the litany of mon chou, trésor, amour. 

After a pause she says, ‘You kissed someone? ’

He shakes his head vehemently, ‘I didn’t, but I wanted to. I almost did.’

The world stills, or maybe it’s too loud in his head: exile, treason, Elijah. The fog obscures his vision until he can’t see anything past the table. 

She grins up at him as if he’s the stupidest person on the planet, and asks, ‘And selfishly hoard your heart all to myself? I couldn’t fit it in the biggest rooms of the palace.’

All air rushes out of his lungs in a sharp exhale, dizzy with relief until he is gasping in short breaths—her forgiveness cooling the splinters under his skin. 

When she leans forward to speak in his ear to tell her about him, he is back at the couch with a flickering lamp’s terrible wiring. 

He is still talking about him when the fogs submerges him fully.

When he opens his eyes, Elijah’s laughter down the hallway is made of dreams. 

Only in dreams could I cross the walls of time and space to feel the curve of her body next to mine.

And it will have to be enough

Writing Update:

Words Written: 1537

Excerpt:

Esther mused as the insomniac nyctophiles ambled underneath the moon, swooning by the promises of halcyon days framed by the stars and meteors and heartbreak. Days that stretched too long in its burning intensity and nights where rain draped lovers in midst of sweet kisses. 

The warmth of Ivory's breath lingered down from ear to her collarbone, pressing a ghost of a kiss as she commented offhandedly about her day. Esther wondered if she hadn't spent days underneath the earth in its caves and stations, if she'd still have the sun-kissed skin of her mother when she looked in the mirror, missing her in the curve of her lip, the shape of her jaw, and the dip in her brows.  

She missed her terribly, the lilt in her lullabies, the firm frown laced with mirth when Milas burnt his mouth for the fourth time in the same meal.

She remembered the familiar weight of her hand that had now been replaced in her chest, uncomfortably tight around her throat and ribs. 

Her father would keep them safe, with his calloused hands that could lift her up and twirl her in a dance, with the rage and ferocity that rivaled her mother. 

She would gather their numbers, keep them safe- find them again.'

Writing Snippet #4

He’d recognized her. Of course, he had, the fool. When her shadows and reflections had changed, he had simply clasped her hands in his, more scarred than when they had parted. With shadows lingering in his eyes that pumped vengeance in her blood, he had gestured her over to the back, welcoming her home. Home, Home.

Writing Snippet #3

Her brother remained dutiful. Oh so dutiful, never keeping his attention off of Donna, locked in a strange orbit as she did the same. Esther didn’t miss the quick slide of Donna’s hands underneath the expensive tablecloth, chocolate and sweets passed to him as their fingers brushed, a rehearsed game. She knew the way Milas’s apartment smelled like irises and malvas and how his sweatshirt hung from Donna’s shoulders as she sat on the blue divan that had Donna’s flair written all over it.

Writing Snippet #2

Ivory kept silent, a hair’s breadth away, but for Esther it must have been miles. Miles of restraints and secrets and those insufferable loyalties, the roles Ivory upheld, honor bound. She had seen her unleashed, the wild, selfish recklessness, trembling hands, and quiet, sweet whispers in the late hours all wound up tight now.

Writing Snippet #1

Esther mused as the insomniac nyctophiles ambled underneath the moon, swooning by the promises of halcyon days framed by the stars and meteors and heartbreak. Days that stretched too long in its burning intensity and nights where rain draped lovers in midst of sweet kisses.

The warmth of Ivory's breath lingered down from ear to her collarbone, pressing a ghost of a kiss as she commented offhandedly about her day. Esther wondered if she hadn't spent days underneath the earth in its caves and stations, if she'd still have the sun-kissed skin of her mother when she looked in the mirror, missing her in the curve of her lip, the shape of her jaw, and the dip in her brows.  

She missed her terribly, the lilt in her lullabies, the firm frown laced with mirth when Milas burnt his mouth for the fourth time in the same meal.

She remembered the familiar weight of her hand that had now been replaced in her chest, uncomfortably tight around her throat and ribs. 

Her father would keep them safe, with his calloused hands that could lift her up and twirl her in a dance, with the rage and ferocity that rivaled her mother. 

She would gather their numbers, keep them safe- find them again. She dared to hope again.

First Draft Excerpt

I have finally moved from the plotting to writing stage for my novel!! I would love to know if there any improvements or if it sounds interesting enough.

Esther

Fire warmed the last of the halcyon days, its lilting rhythm crashing into the cold whipping winds of Praelia. Freezing. Esther grumbled. The chill of early dawn seeped bone deep into her bare fingers as she plucked her identification card out of her wallet. She flashed it to the security guards and stepped into the dormitory. 

The freezing white puff of air melted as she breathed in the scent of ground coffee and ruby hawthorns scattered along the hallways. Warm. While Esther’s university expected perfect command over the tangible natural elements – wood, metal, water, and earth– it seemed they had a pixie in the basement controlling the fire to leave it toasty but never stifling inside. 

The ground floor hosted multiple mahogany doors dotted along the corridors like an inn. In the corner, A student who looked to be in the same year as her squinted against his heavy lids at a little reception area-and-kitchenette. The square clock above an empty coffee pot struck ten past five. At quarter past five, the boy had slumped face first onto his desk. 

Stifling a yawn, she walked past him. She could practically feel her blanket and the warmth of her bed, and she scurried down the hallway. 

The hallway split into two, and two automatic elevators opposing each other sat between the intersecting corridor and the reception in front of her. If she took the stairs smelling like burnt curry next to the entrance, she’d have to climb 8 floors to reach hers. No thank you very much. 

If she didn’t get enough sleep to wake up in time for Professor [___]’s class, she’d be kicked out for snoring half-way through the test.

When she turned around to push the elevator button to avoid the climb, alternating her weight on each foot, a bright turbaned man entered through the door inconspicuously. As inconspicuous as anything the campus had seen. In a school selecting the students with egos that rivaled their intelligence, a dozen peacocks preening their feathers in the monsoons would be far more subtle. So, Esther didn’t really have much to stand on.

The man nodded once to the guard, flashing a rich black envelope. The brief glint of gold gleamed under the buzzing electric bulbs. 

A light rune peeked from under his collar, contrasting with his skin, a little darker than hers which made Esther wonder if he was from Ignis as well. Stiffly, he took long strides straight over to the heavy door in the middle, knocked once, and entered, closing the door behind him.

Esther turned around, hopping on her foot, frowning when the dial stayed at the 6th floor. It would take ages and it would not do anyone good to leave her alone with a mystery. Deciding she had nothing better to do, she leaned back against the cool wall nearby, down on the vinyl seat, and looked at the door. 

While she wasn’t a warlock, she still squinted her eyes at it, hoping it would reveal the conversation with the interesting man and the dean herself. The golden seal embossed in the letter– the serpent on a bed of hyacinths – was the same one stamped on documents overflowing her mother’s desk.

Someone yanked the doorknob harshly. The door opened, and out stepped the man, pocketing a letter in his coat pocket, somber. The dean stepped into her view, her sepia colored hair pulled into a bun twisted as tight as her face when she noticed Esther. She looked paler than usual.

‘Mishra,’ the dean’s lips pressed into a thin line, ‘Inside. Come to my office, Ms. Mishra.’ Esther hadn’t even done anything yet. 

She jumped out of her seat, fumbling to put her ID card back in her wallet, and scuttled into the room promptly. Did her mother call or complain? Esther doubted she would. Advising her closest friend, Praelia’s own Queen, the upcoming coronation had swamped her mother. Esther swore she saw an entire strand of hair on her mother’s head out of place one time.

 ‘I have reviewed your proposal requesting for Opaca’s research,’ she stated, crossing her legs and looking Esther directly in the eye. Esther fixed hers on a little bundle of lint on her jeans.

That wasn’t a question but a verdict, and Esther was feeling oddly guilty. But for what?

The Dean – Esther never remembered her name – always regarded her coolly since her start in April. And while Esther never caught onto the minute twitching of muscles to decipher emotions, the woman before her bore a face frozen by the winds of Galacian mountains. 

Esther slunked back in her seat, levitating just enough to keep her toes from reaching the carpet. A question on the tip of her tongue, “It was approved already.’ She said hastily, ‘The advisor did– approve the research– I mean.’ 

The Dean’s desk shook, the sinewy branches that formed the top of an oak, clustered to resemble a desk. It twisted behind her, its rich yellow leaves stretching through the space behind. 

“I am aware.’ She motioned with a flick of her wrist over to the mischievous desk. A tiny tendril of a branch, as thin as a twig, reached up to deposit a stack of papers in front of the Dean. At the top lay Esther’s messy signature and a smudge of copper spilled in the lab.

‘However,' she continued, ‘in light of recent developments, I am sorry to inform you, but this project can no longer be pursued-’

‘The deadline was this week if first year students wanted to graduate with the research distinction. I cannot get the approval from an advisor so quickly for a new project.’ 

The Dean’s eyes sharpened, and the tip of the fountain pen clenched tightly in her fist began to bend. ‘Elixermerra Institute of Biotechnology prioritizes student safety. I am appalled you would like to begin a career in research with the Lower Isles.’

INTANGIBLES DYING OF INVISIBLE PLAGUE and OPACAN PORTS CLOSED FOR TRADE read newspaper headlines in the bookshop Esther had visited to pick up her textbooks. The owner had overcharged her after reading the title of the books, but she had left with a research idea and a lighter wallet.  

‘They’re dying. There are dozens of ships passing through to make it perfectly safe.’

‘Nonetheless,’ the Dean spit out, making Esther look up. Silver eyes, sharp as her father’s blade, shut all of Esther’s arguments, ‘Due to the lateness of the rejection, I will be expecting your proposal at the end of winter break, ready to be signed on my desk on the first day of the new semester. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Esther ducked her head meekly. 

The branches of the desk began rearranging themselves, her research flung into the farthest corner of a drawer, the fountain pen back to its normal shape, and Esther’s chair landed softly on the ground. 

‘The Institute will be closed for all students and faculty tomorrow. Please pack your bags with the addresses labeled for the cargo trucks and someone will arrange your departure in the evening. The announcement will be held shortly,’ she spoke after a while. The dean adjusted her blazer’s button and turned her gaze to the pile of paperwork helpfully provided by the tree. ‘You can shut the door on your way out.’ 

Finally finished creating my website to publish my writings. I would love to collaborate with fellow writers and look over samples of my upcoming works to get your feedback!