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bookpublisher1 · 3 months

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How a Writing Community Transforms an Author's Journey

In the solitary expanse of a writer's world, the presence of a writing community becomes a beacon of connection, support, and inspiration. In this exploration, we delve into the unspoken power of a writing community, considering essential factors and highlighting reasons for authors to join such nurturing circles. As we navigate through the importance of these communities, we'll indirectly spotlight a remarkable example – the Brave Healer's Writing Community.

The Unseen Tapestry: Factors to Consider in a Writing Community

Choosing the right writing community is a decision that can significantly impact an author's journey. Several factors should be considered when seeking a community that aligns with individual goals and aspirations.

1. Diversity of Perspectives: Enriching Creativity

A thriving writing community is one that embraces diversity. Different perspectives, backgrounds, and writing styles within the community contribute to a rich tapestry of ideas. Consider a community where varied voices inspire creativity and challenge preconceived notions, fostering a dynamic environment for growth.

2. Supportive Environment: Nurturing Growth

An effective writing community serves as a support system for authors, offering encouragement during both triumphs and challenges. Look for a space where constructive feedback is shared, resources are exchanged, and members uplift one another. A supportive environment becomes a catalyst for personal and professional growth.

3. Engagement Opportunities: Fueling Inspiration

Engagement is the lifeblood of any community. Seek a writing community that provides ample opportunities for interaction, whether through forums, events, or collaborative projects. Active engagement not only fuels inspiration but also builds lasting connections with fellow authors.

The Heart of Connection: Reasons to Join a Writing Community

The decision to join a writing community is a transformative step in an author's journey. Several compelling reasons make these communities an invaluable asset.

1. Overcoming Isolation: Breaking the Solitude

Writing can be a solitary pursuit, and authors often face isolation. Joining a writing community alleviates this solitude, offering a virtual haven where authors connect, share experiences, and combat the loneliness that can accompany the creative process.

2. Feedback and Improvement: Honing Craft Together

Constructive feedback is a cornerstone of growth for any writer. In a writing community, authors can receive diverse perspectives on their work, identify areas for improvement, and refine their craft collectively. The shared journey of improvement becomes a shared victory.

3. Motivation and Accountability: Sustaining Momentum

Writing communities provide a constant wellspring of motivation. Whether through shared writing challenges, progress updates, or words of encouragement, members motivate each other to stay committed to their goals. The sense of accountability within the community sustains momentum during both productive and challenging times.

4. Networking and Opportunities: Opening Doors

Networking within a writing community opens doors to opportunities. Whether it's collaborating on projects, sharing publication insights, or connecting with industry professionals, a well-connected writing community expands an author's horizons and contributes to their overall success.

The Unveiling: Brave Healer's Writing Community

In the realm of writing communities that embody these essential qualities, the Brave Healer's Writing Community stands out as a beacon of inspiration. With its commitment to diversity, support, and engagement, this community provides authors with a nurturing space to thrive. Members share their unique healing stories, provide constructive feedback, and actively engage in collaborative initiatives that amplify the collective voice.

By fostering an environment where authors connect not only through their shared love for writing but also through their healing narratives, the Brave Healer's Writing Community goes beyond the conventional writing circles. It becomes a sanctuary where authors can explore the intersection of creativity and healing, forging connections that transcend the boundaries of the written word.

Conclusion: The Ongoing Journey of Connection and Creativity

In the vast landscape of an author's life, a writing community is the compass that guides, the wind that lifts, and the stars that illuminate the way. As authors embark on the ongoing journey of connection and creativity, the choice of a writing community becomes a pivotal decision that shapes their narrative. In the heart of a supportive community, writers find not only inspiration but also a profound sense of belonging – a testament to the transformative power of shared stories and shared dreams.

#writers circle #writers #writer #writers tips #writer community #author groups

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scribblesonbrokenglass · 1 year

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Urbane

I grew with the concrete towers.

I grew with the new mothers

and the kids around the corner,

getting older all the time.

I grew with the grey in the beard

of the driver of the #52 bus

and the trees and the Brutalism

that line these quiet roads.

I grew with the discount stores

and the empty shop-fronts

and all the for-sale signs,

now occupied with new faces.

I grew as a town only can —

on promise and pragmatism,

on opportunity and time taken

to dig for our foundations.

#poem #poetry #spilled ink #writing #poets on tumblr #scribblesonbrokenglass #spilled thoughts #writer #writers #poet #spilled words #writerscreed #twcpoem #writerscommunity #writers circle #poemsociety #sasspoems #sassreblogs

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caveatscriptor · 7 months

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Prompt: Write a piece based on a photograph. (Thank you @inkspellangel for the photo inspo ;) )

Time brainstorming: 10 minutes

Time writing: 30 minutes

This is a piece in response to one of the prompts in our book club, Little Red Writing Hoods (@joinourbookclub).

tl;dr: Do I beta read my stuff? Is the earth flat?

I have always loved the sea, there has always been a call of the water to my very essence, that is how I had become a professional diver. I lie. I have become a diver to fulfill the stupid caprice of getting my late father’s approval. He is dead, has been so since I was seventeen, didn’t even send me to college. He couldn’t.

I swam nimbly under the old wreckage of an old ship. That wasn’t what I was here for; here, the same place where I had had an accident four months ago. There it was, my car, the lights… still on? It didn’t matter.

My flashlight caught an old familiar face. The lone wooden statue of a cellist, perpetually playing even after it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Somehow it was terribly beautiful, between the wooden crevices and the slats created by its inexorable erosion there was new life, corals of every and each color, made for a beautiful net up to the musician’s knee, over the green algae that painted most of his suit and half of his face, and finding purchase on the cello’s base it confidently extended the colorful network up to the pegbox of the instrument. This very same statue had somehow been a personal god for me. Stupid, but so is most of hope, just a stupid little thought.

That fateful night the rain was unforgivable and unavoidable, such inclement weather had been my demise, that and sending the car over the guard rails and straight into the ocean. I couldn’t even process the moment, it just happened, one moment I was driving slowly through the road, the next I was underwater, no air inside the car, just water everywhere. Trying to remain calm and rational is a perfectly sound saying, but no one is either under the loom of death itself. I tried to take my seatbelt off, I couldn’t. I tried to break any of the windows next to me, I also couldn’t. I stupidly cried, or tried to, underwater. I remember looking at the only surviving photo of me and my dad together, it hung under the rearview mirror inside a keychain. We were smiling for the camera, ugly Christmas sweaters could be seen, we looked genuinely happy. The rest of the photos I had destroyed, childishly. Off in the distance, that was when I first made out another face, but as my brain was quickly being deprived of oxygen, I had actually thought it was a person, I had thought that I was dying and my dad was coming to get me.

A shimmer caught my eye, the keychain. Instead of going to my poor old car, I neared the statue. Hope was stupid, and yet… My hand hovered over the uncovered side of it. A gentle expression could be seen, where the algae hadn’t reached yet. Playing until the end, and even beyond, how fitting. I pulled my hand down. No need to touch it, wouldn’t feel a thing with all the gear that weighed me down as it was, at most I would disturb the little animals that hid in the coral, and even the ones that had managed to sneak inside of it and create a new home.

I finally approached the car and took the keychain out. That had been the sole reason to comeback here, even so, somehow, this had been far more than that. That statue was more than a hallucination now. It felt like a sign. Just like hope is idiotic, signs are the most illogical of nonfactual data. In my brain all of this felt like a reaffirmation, it felt like…

“All storms will pass, and there is beauty to be had everywhere.”

I tried to hold back the tears. Had my father ever said something like that? Yes, I believe so. He loved self help mottos, this sounded just like it. It was stupidly perfect.

#writeblr #book club #story prompt #writing prompt #little red writing hoods #writing #writing exercise #writing club #creative writing #write with me #aspiring writer #wannabe writer #writers on tumblr #writing tag #write #writerscorner #writers community #writers circle #writerscribbles

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putah-creek · 11 months

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Doing laundry and thinking

I wash the clothes so they will be clean

when I dirty them again

around I go in circles

a silly old man

washing laughing

james lee jobe

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deepjams4 · 1 year

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He is just moving away!

It’s five long years, when he left for his journey, but where to, he didn’t tell and none of us knows about it. Who knows by now how many galaxies he would have already crossed traversing through the vacuum, where they say, except for ether nothing is there. None knows and none can tell for sure, if it’s pitch dark black or golden glittering bright, across that ever pervading nothingness. We call him every moment, he might be listening too, but we get no answers, or may be the signal frequencies are different that his voice isn’t reaching us. We feel worried about him and remain always perturbed and concerned, but we also know that wherever he is, he would surely be spreading happiness and bringing smiles on the dull drawn long sad faces around him! Wherever he is, may he be bestowed with eternal peace, that’s our daily prayer!

#addy walker #writersoftumblr #writerscorner #writerscribbles #writers community #writersontumblr #writers circle #writerscreed #writers society #remember #spilled feelings #spilled ink #spiled thoughts

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velcroheartstrings · 2 years

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I stand here barefoot looking out to sea, praying the clouds do not aspire to be as heavy as my heart as I fear I will not survive such a tsunami despite how strong a swimmer I may be. I ponder how life would be as a wave whereby the only responsibility falling upon it is to repetitively run away from the shore only to lap back to kiss it like first loves in a playground. How seemingly menial such an existence would be yet if every wave possessed this very mindset, floods of existential depression would drive the entire sea to come to a standstill. The true magic of this life- contrary to what capitalism tricks us into believing- is to merely enjoy the beauty of human existence. The next time you find yourself in knots of stress regarding the pressure to conjure up this grand contribution to the world to prove your worthiness, remind yourself that a sunset merely exists with no particular purpose yet its impact is so profound it may be the only thing inspiring many people, much like I, sometimes- to live another day.

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meredithall · 1 year

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I write fantasy and urban fantasy the most. What is your preferred genre?

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing community #aspiring author #fiction writing #writers #writers corner #writers circle #writers community #writersnetwork

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atropos-musing · 2 years

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I miss my creative writing class mostly bc I miss getting to read and discuss pieces with people.

Let me beta read again pls I miss it. I miss inspiring people with my writing and being inspired back. Let me read your fanfic even if I don’t know what your source material is. Let me see the original story you’re so proud of. Hand over your hard work.

Crack? Angst? Give it to me now. Let me tell you what works and what’s confusing. Tell me where you’re stuck and let me help clear your path. Ignore me or take my advice, I don’t care. Just let me create with you.

My prof was right when he said I’d miss that class. I miss those people. My people.

#I also miss my eccentric professor #ask me about my prof pls #college writing #writing #writer #writeblr #creative writing #lgbtwriter #writing community #writers circle #fanfic

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lnk-and-lnspiration · 2 months

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The Value of Beta Readers: How to Find Them and Incorporate Their Feedback

Beta readers play a vital role in the writing process, offering valuable feedback and insights that can significantly enhance the quality of your work. These trusted individuals provide a fresh perspective, catching errors, identifying areas of improvement, and helping you polish your manuscript before it reaches a wider audience. In this article, we will explore the value of beta readers,…

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gabrielwritesstuff · 10 months

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#life #thoughts #reality #writer things #writer problems #writerslife #writer stuff #writers circle #writerscreed #writerscorner #moments #words

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bookpublisher1 · 3 months

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Embracing Winter: Nurturing Your Writing Discipline as an Author

As winter blankets the world in a serene hush, authors find themselves in a unique season that holds both challenges and opportunities for their creative endeavors. In this blog, we'll explore the importance of maintaining writing discipline during the holidays, staying committed to your writing goals in the new year, and the role of a writer's circle in fostering a sense of community and support.

Writing Discipline During the Holidays: Navigating Festivities with Finesse

Winter holidays bring a whirlwind of festivities, family gatherings, and a seemingly endless array of delectable treats. Amidst the cheer and celebration, authors may find it challenging to uphold their writing discipline. However, the winter season can also provide pockets of tranquility for reflective writing. Use the cozy ambiance and quiet moments to your advantage. Incorporate winter themes into your work, capturing the enchantment of snowfall or the warmth of holiday traditions. By maintaining Writing Discipline During the Holidays, you not only progress in your projects but also infuse your writing with the magic of the season.

Stay Committed to Your Writing Goals In The New Year: A Literary Resurgence

As the new year unfolds, authors often set ambitious resolutions to propel their writing journeys to new heights. However, sustaining this commitment requires careful planning and steadfast dedication. Begin by reflecting on the accomplishments and lessons of the past year, allowing them to shape your aspirations for the future. Set realistic and specific writing goals that align with your overarching vision. Whether it's completing a manuscript, exploring a new genre, or establishing a regular writing routine, a well-defined roadmap can guide your literary endeavors. Embrace the winter season as a time of literary resurgence, where the cold outside becomes a catalyst for the warmth of your creative spirit. Stay Committed to Your Writing Goals in the New Year

The Writer's Circle: A Haven of Support and Inspiration

In the midst of winter's embrace, a writer's circle emerges as a haven of support and inspiration. Building and nurturing connections with fellow authors provides a sense of community that transcends the solitary nature of writing. Share your winter-themed work, seek feedback, and engage in discussions that spark creativity. A writer's circle becomes a source of motivation during the colder months, offering encouragement when the writing journey feels challenging. In the spirit of winter camaraderie, collaborate on projects, share resources, an9d celebrate each other's successes. As the snow falls outside, the bonds within the writer's circle provide a comforting warmth, fostering a collective commitment to literary pursuits.

Conclusion: Crafting Literary Magic in Winter's Embrace

As winter wraps its arms around the world, authors have a unique opportunity to weave literary magic inspired by the season. By maintaining writing discipline during the holidays, setting thoughtful resolutions for the new year, and embracing the supportive environment of a writer's circle, authors can navigate the winter months with creativity and determination. So, let the winter inspire your words, connect with your fellow wordsmiths, and embark on a literary journey that captures the essence of the season. In the dance between frosty landscapes and the warmth of storytelling, authors find a unique canvas to craft tales that resonate with the magic of winter's embrace.

#writing advice #writing tips #book coach #writers circle #author #book writer #author tips #book writing

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scribblesonbrokenglass · 1 year

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Clearing the Fog

Maybe that faraway look

has always been painted

across a Janus face —

two figures, their words rippling

and flowing through the breeze

jostling and jousting for space

when they seem so alike

and the loss feels double

in a foreign smile worn

so we debate the past

and the possibility of rebirth

and the something of the other

in a gale, where sound becomes lost

and in a mist, sight keeps counsel —

now, your distant gaze makes sense.

#poem #poetry #spilled ink #writing #spilled thoughts #poets on tumblr #writer #writers #poet #writers circle #writerscreed #twcpoem #writing the storm #writeblrcafe

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caveatscriptor · 9 months

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Prompt: "sleeping during danger" + "a place where it is comfortable to be alone."

Time brainstorming: Ten minutes

Time writing: 30 minutes

This is a piece in response to one of the prompts in our book club, Little Red Writing Hoods (@joinourbookclub), these in particular were provided by @chaoticstupidbird.

***

Believing in anything other than what you can perceive is for the people that can afford the luxury of an active imagination, or so Miriam thought.

Being born and raised in a small town had some perks, but they were very difficult to see, especially once you turned the age that people are meant to find themselves. Being a farmer, a shepherd, a priest, or a smith; that was it. A vast list, wasn’t it? Or better yet, the list of everything Miriam knew she did not want to be. Then again, anything that would take her away from the village sounded like a dream. Yes, there were perks to living on a village, and they all disappeared once you were old enough to start scorning them. Tight knit community? No, a gossip mafia ready to sink their teeth into the newest hit piece. And anything and everything will do. No qualms, no sympathy; no thoughts, head empty. And how much did Miriam hate that.

Everything was about to change though; Miriam was going to the city and she was going to be employed. More than that, Miriam was going to end the evil that threatened the villagers time and time again. She was going to become a ranger and she was going to make the city folk see that they were losing more by letting bandits run amuck in the forest that connected her village and the city.

One can hate where they live and still want to protect every single person in there. Someway, somehow, they were all they had, no one else really cared, no one else really saw what they went through. Yes, they were a poor village, but they still sold livestock and provisions to the city, which was the only way they weathered through the seasons. But that mattered little, as long as they were fed, it didn’t really matter the poor peasants that feared the crossing through the woods so much that a mass was done every and each time they had to go through such endeavor. Or the mass that had to be made when they would be found dead, their goods completely pillaged, whatever small gold jewelry they had on them taken.

Miriam snapped from her whirlwind of thoughts. She had to be alert. She was now one of the poor villagers crossing that forest. She had chosen the dead of night to leave her village. No mass, no witnesses, no one to send her off. She had lost her parents very early on and had been raised by a widowed farmer that had put her to work as soon as she could lift things. She was thankful and resentful all in equal amounts. Care and a rough education made it difficult for her to attach herself to anything, and yet she still did. She still cared for that god forsaken village. Those buildings, those people, they had fed her, and taught her, and loved her. Maybe not her caretaker, but plenty of others had gone out of their way for her to have bits and pieces of childhood. Toys, clothes, friends, food, kisses and hugs. Not all was bad bleary and baleful.

Walking through a thick wood, where the leaves aren’t green but pitch darkness, a blanket ready to envelop you, was a challenge. She had packed light, the crossing was three days, this was her second night, she had only packed enough food and drink and planned each of her stops. This was the dead last, and then the city.

There it was, an old friend. Grey stones gleamed silver under the moonlight, a restful benevolent face with closed eyes and clasped hands can be seen, carved out of those stones, as if it were the helm statue of a ship ready to fair against high tides. A cloak hides the figures’ hair and body, only their face and hands are visible, they look like they are either sleeping the sleep of the just or are deep in prayer; in such a state that one would not dare to break either their peace or their focus. This was her lighthouse in the middle of a dark ruthless ocean.

When Miriam was around nine years old and started to understand the feeling of being slighted, that was when she started escaping. She would escape her work, at first by hiding in places around the farm, small places that only she could fit in. Yet, still, she was found. When she got bolder, she started venturing into the woods, and one day, she found this place. An abandoned monument, a church perhaps, where a beautiful statue had been carved out. Nature had claimed most of the building, even when she was younger, it hadn’t been on a much better state. A tree had decided to destroy part of the eastern wall, growing through the stone and knocking out everything in its’ way, roots invading tiled floor, branches meandering through old rooms and breaking free through glass; it was so tall now that its’ top competed in height with the roof, a roof that was collapsing in on itself. None of the windows had survived, all were broken and shattered, stories in stained glass interrupted or completely missing entire scenes. Somehow, the broken windows by the sculpture, almost lent it an air of quiet suffering, a resigned patience, a calm dignified acceptance; nature was taking what man had abandoned, and that was the way things were.

Miriam shone her little lantern on the statue’s face. She had never been a believer, she believed in herself, what she could do, what she could change. Everything else was for the wishful thinkers, for the ones that carried a gleam in their eyes or a shortage of intelligence between their ears, or maybe just both. She had been abandoned too, nature hadn’t claimed her, but sometimes she thought that was exactly why her mind never tarried itself in delusions of hope. Hope was needed, she was crossing this forest in the hopes of changing her future, but too much of it was poison and downright foolhardy.

Only nature’s noises could be heard: crickets, cicadas, faraway rushing water, a gentle cacophony, all but interrupted as Miriam simmered down the flame inside her lantern. She adjusted her cape, letting her hood fall down. Hand pressing down on one of the enormous wooden doors, she gently pushed it avoiding the splinters jutting through most of its’ expanse. The metal hinges protested throughout the empty hall, the sound petering through the exposed eastern wall.

Everything was the same, pretty geometric tilling littered with leaves, and an altar at the end, stone slab table with visible deep cracks and crevices and the walls behind it with hollowed spaces meant to house statues that have been taken away and are now being inhabited by dust, animals or invading plants. Miriam walked to the altar and set up her bedroll behind the table, if anyone walked in they wouldn’t see her, it was also a vantage point for her as she could watch the whole room from there and the altar walls would protect her from the weather outside, as they formed a small half circle alcove. She hoped she would have a dreamless sleep and that she would wake up early in the morning.

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Miriam’s wish wasn’t granted. She dreamt, fitfully. In the limbo between sleep and wakefulness she heard noises. Metal groaning, slow steps, a mindless unintelligible faraway conversation. She could hear them approaching, they were now within earshot.

“You know what is better than stealing, Jamie?” a voice boomed off of… stone?

“Not getting caught.” Jamie, Miriam guessed, answered with an apathetic tone.

A few more steps echoed through the tiled floor. How strange, no images for her dream, only life like noises and voices.

“Better than stealing, my boy–” sounds of fabric friction could be faintly heard, and then patting “–is to plan to steal something and finding something else even more valuable.”

“Aye, boss.”

“Aye!”

Two other goons interjected.

Scraping. A heavy object being set down.

When was the last night Miriam truly slept through? Even the night before she left the village, she couldn’t truly rest making sure all preparations were correct, once, twice, thrice…

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The sun filtered in through the broken windows and the destroyed wall. A girl slept soundly, chest moving rhythmically, a serene expression of someone who had rested well. As the sun moved slowly through the morning sky, a glint of metal now reflected its’ light onto the spacious atrium.

Miriam’s story of the day she found the lost idol that the city mayor had so scrupulously sent to be made by one of the biggest minds of their generation, a true artiste, was a tale of draconian enemies and the highest cunning that could be employed. A tale that earned her employment as captain of the forest rangers and a squadron to train and upkeep the security of the trading routes that were finally seen as precious to the city.

Better than stealing, is to find the rightful owners and spinning a tale for anyone with half a mind to imagine silly things here and there. Better than imagining, is to sometimes one hope to be at the right place under the right circumstances and be given a little hand with their fate.

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