#writing feedback

[longlivefeedback]

If you comment on some fanfics and not others, pick an answer that applies most commonly to when you don't comment.

#longlivefeedback #llf polls #ao3 #commenting #fanfiction research #fanfiction survey #commenting and culture #comment culture #fandom #kudos #writing #writing feedback #commenting and community

[writingwithfolklore]

When to Reject Feedback

              Last post I talked about taking suggestions from editors, so today I'm talking about when not to take their (or other readers') suggestions. While your readers may have a lot of experience and wisdom, ultimately you know your story best and you know what you want it to be.

This is also the first step, know your work, know exactly what you want it to be before you reach out for feedback. This way, you know what suggestions are helpful, and which are leading your story to a place you don't like.

                I’ll start with a story. I wrote a short creative non-fiction in one of my creative writing classes about grappling with my family dynamic before and after my Grandma (and our matriarch) was hospitalized. I intentionally left parts of it vague—how was I supposed to distill all my thoughts and feelings and the history of my family in a simple enough way for others outside of my family to understand, when I was in my family and hardly understood it? I thought the vagueness gave room for a conflict of love and rejection. Alienation and belonging. I didn’t want to force the reader to feel anything concrete or specific about my grandma, I hardly knew how I felt about her.

                I took this piece to my prof, and she advised me that it would benefit from more specific details. Some things she suggested adding were histories I wasn’t privy to—either I hadn’t been born yet, or I hinted to knowing but only really from context; I wasn’t in the room.

                I took her advice and rewrote it with these more specific details. I had to make up some stuff, which I didn’t really like, but she loved it.

                Next semester, I took the same (edited) piece to a different creative writing prof in a different class. She read it, told me she liked it, but that it could benefit from a bit more room for interpretation—from some vagueness.

                I laughed and told her that I agreed, and pulled up my original draft. She was in far favour of the original.

                TL;DR, this is all to say that I don’t believe in taking all advice as gospel. Some people will absolutely love the way you’ve written it, others will think it needs changing. These two profs were both incredibly experienced, published authors who had won awards, gone through masters degrees, etc. etc. They were both very credible people to go to for advice.

                But they had slightly different sensibilities when it came to writing, and while I didn’t agree with everything my second prof said, I did err more towards her way of writing than the first. Emphasis on the ‘not agreeing on everything’, that little part of me that disagreed is my unique writing sensibility.

                So seriously, reach out to people for feedback and advice, but that by no stretch means you have to take all of it. If there’s a part of your writing that you really love, that you did intentionally, and that you feel is integral to your work you’re allowed to keep it. There will be readers who like it as it is.

#writing #creative writing #writers #screenwriting #writing community #writing inspiration #filmmaking #books #film #writing advice #taking writing advice #writing feedback #taking writing feedback

[t-lostinworlds]

"And you're really going to leave me alone to watch our kids?"

AND WHAT IF I SIMPLY PASSED AWAY. WHAT THE FUCK IM IN PAINNNNNN

LKASLKASLK but honestly, it just makes so much sense. they're like two sides of the same coin. If a whole high school can dub them "the king and queen" with no hesitation, you best believe those mischievous lil shits would call them "mom and dad" without missing a beat. only thing was, it alternates most of the time. sometimes it was steve who gets called the mom, and she gets called the dad, and vice versa. either way, they're both "the parents" of the group and it's been like that ever since.

Robin always jokingly called them an "old married couple" because of how much they argued with each other and that the youngsters were "their kids" with how much the group was always seen together in such a family dynamic.

It always annoyed the two of them so much because the thought of being together was repulsive since "who would want to be married to someone who only complains about everything" and "why would i want to put up with someone who thinks his way is the only way" and so on. Robin could only laugh at the way they can never look each other in the eye every time they're called a "couple" and the way Steve never fails to turn red every time. Idiots, amirite?

But it wasn't until they somehow ended up the only two people dropping the kids off at summer camp that Steve saw how fitting it was.

He was giving Dustin a rundown of any and all advice he could think of, from "make sure to follow the rules and keep safe", and "try and win as many games as you can but don't forget to have fun", and reminding him not to forget sunscreen and to keep an eye over the others, etc. Steve ended it with a good ol ruffling of Dustin's hair which the young boy groaned in annoyance,

"Thanks for driving us here, Dad."

It was joking yet loving all the same. Steve rolled his eyes but he couldn't wipe the smile off his face or the warm feeling he got in his chest.

And when he went looking for you so he could annoy you and say that it was time to go and to hurry your slow ass up, he caught you in the middle of saying goodbye with El.

"Bye, mom, drive back home safe," the young girl had giggled. You laughed with her, but he had never seen you smile so bright and so proud as you gave her one last hug.

Steve couldn't explain why his heart felt funny and warm and fuzzy all of a sudden.

Then the two of you were arguing over who gets control of the radio the minute he pulled back onto the road, from the whole "my car my rules" to "shotgun privileges" and kept arguing the whole way back to Hawkins over the smallest things you both could think of.

But you and him being mom and dad to the kids? The thought never left Steve since.

🏆 Competitively Stupid

#cs: comments & feedback #writing feedback #steve harrington x reader #when u sent the ask this idea came to me #and i can't help but expand on it a lil alskalsk #thank you for reading love! #answered: anon #answered asks

[the-feedback-guild]

Alright guys. Digging this idea out of the back of the closet. Writing feedback community. Gonna toss out some brainstorms soon, stand by, and don’t be afraid to reblog this if you’re interested or know someone who might be.

#writing #writing feedback #feedback community

[oleander-nin]

Just for engagement reasons(and my own curiosity)

I'm scared I'm not writing anything y'all want, so I'm trying to gauge how to make my fics more interesting for y'all. This is more me finding y'alls preferred genre. If you want anything specific or have advice/notes on how to improve what I'm doing to fit y'alls taste better, just tell me. I want to make you guys happy. As long as it doesn't break one of my rules ofc-

(this will not effect Horrortober)

#poll #writing poll #just curious #writing feedback #writing advice

[frenchiefitzhere]

How to Give Feedback (On Creative Work) That People Will Actually Take

Provide objective observations of patterns and traits.

-It looks like you...

-I'm seeing that you tend to... For example...

2. Ask clarifying questions.

-What is your goal?

-Were you intending to...?

-Was there anything you were specifically looking for feedback on?

3. Ask thought-provoking questions. -Have you ever tried...?

-What if you...?

-Is that the only way to...?

-How do you want this to be different from/similar to what you've done before? 4. If you have a specific suggestion, elicit it from the creator rather than just giving it to them. In other words, if possible, use the tips above to guide them to what you're thinking. If they own the idea, they're much more likely to implement it and you will have invested your time helping them more fruitfully.

#writing feedback #creative feedback #fanfic writing #script writing #I know I'm just a woman /s #but I'm literally an expert at this

[apollogies-p]

Pt. 1

(I felt like making it one part would be too long 😭😭)

Apollon came out singing. Right from birth, all he ever did was make the people around him smile; it was all he ever wanted to do. It was the reason why he rushed out below Olympus and into mankind the moment he gained the domain of healing. Most of the times he'd disguise himself as a wise old man who was simply spending his time lecturing the newly made latros but occasionally he'd take his usual form of a young fourteen year old boy over excited to help in a major surgery.

But one day, in the middle of a procedure, he was summoned. Father had summoned him, and he seemed... agitated.

"Apollon," Zeus, his father, loomed over him. His eyes were as cold as the marble underneath his knees and held none of the warmth and pride that he had come to associate with his father.

"Yes, patér why-"

"You are to address me as your rightful king and lord of Olympus, impertinent boy!" Patér- Lord Zeus, spat at him, his words stung like as if each word had its own electric current.

"Yes, of course. Of course, Lord Zeus," Apollo stammered and licked his lips, a habit embarrassingly human, "I merely want to know why I was summoned, my Lord."

Zeus scoffed, "Don't act so coy, Apollon." Apollo fought to hide his wince when his father, no- his Lord, the king of the gods- called him by his name. Lord Zeus spat his name out like it was venom.

The king must've seen the confusion in his eyes because he rolled his eyes and looked at Apollo like he was as stupid as the sheep he tended to- and maybe he was.

"You are very close to invoking the wrath of my lighting bolts, boy."

"But- but why my lord?! I have done nothing wrong, yes? I was," His chest hurt, "I took the title of the Sun better than Helios had expected, did I not?"

His father bristled at the mention of the recently deceased Titan, and Apollo looked into his eyes expecting a mirror of the same grief he was experiencing, but instead, he found pure fury.

"You dare mention that- that fool's name in front of me?!" Zeus nostrils flared, and Apollo held back a whimper, "That Titan was given a fate that was more that deserved. He was a fool who let his pride be his main motivator." And with that, the king of the gods rose from his throne. "Like mentor, like pupil, I suppose."

"Paté- my Lord, I don't- I'm not sure what you mean."

"Tsk. You've become too friendly with those humans Apollon. You're disrupting the natural order; you're healing too much."

Apollo couldn't stop the nervous laugh that bubbled out of his throat, "Patér, I'm healing too much? In what world does that make sense?" The laughter got stronger, "Do you, do you rule too much? Do you serve justice and order throughout out pantheon too much? Patér this makes no sense." He continued to laugh in disbelief; this had to be a joke, right? Maybe Artemis was playing a joke on him or something like that.

Apollo swallowed his laughter and looked up into his father's eyes, only to be met with a sharp stinging sensation on the right side of his face.

"How dare you speak to me that way. How dare you laugh at your king's concerns, you insolent boy."

His mind was reeling. Did his father just- Lord Zeus hit him. He slapped him. Why? He was a healer. Was he not good enough?

"Look at me Apollon." Apollo flinched as Lord Zeus yanked him by his hair.

"You will learn respect."

Apollo saw the blue lighting too little, too late.

#apollo #trials of apollo #zeus pjo #tw abuse #we hate zeus #writing feedback #writers on tumblr #is this too early for ToApril lmao #percy jackson

[phoenixradiant]

The person who reblogs this post (& me b/c OP) is letting you know that they're always looking to improve and will accept constructive criticism on the writing they post here on Tumblr.

#writeblr #writing #writing questions #writers #writing discussion #writers on tumblr #writing feedback #accepting criticism #phoenixradiant

[hey-august]

Throwing it out there, I'm always open to receiving feedback about what I write!

Give me the good, the bad, and the ugly - I want it all. Feedback helps me to know what works well, anything that could be better, and where I can improve.

And don't feel bad about sharing constructive feedback! Throw in a silly emoji to say it's nothing personal, if that helps.

Big things, little things, grammar, pacing, any of it. Leave comments, inbox me, whatever - I promise I'll appreciate it so much!

( •ᴗ•)ノ♡ ✧*。

#I'm not begging for compliments - I really do want feedback #fanfic writer #buggy x reader #x reader fanfiction #x read writer #buggy the clown #writing feedback #feedback request

[aheavenlycreature]

Things you love or hate about fictional Vampires?

So I’m writing something that involves vampires and I’m just curious— what do y’all love/hate about them when you read them? Can be anything from cliches you hate, storylines that you think should be explored, etc. I’m just curious 🖤

#vampire #vampires #vamp #vampire writing #worldbuilding #writing feedback #writing questions #vampire mythology

[writingwithfolklore]

Giving and Receiving Great Feedback

                A part of every writing process is receiving feedback from others, and likely reading someone else’s work and giving it yourself. First, we do this because there’s no such thing as a perfect writer, and what happens in our heads when we read our own work may not necessarily be what the reader is getting. As well, reading others’ work helps you with your literacy skills, and what’s important to you as a reader (plus, it’s just nice to return the favour).

                So here’s some tips to giving good feedback:

Your should never tear apart the work. Your feedback should inspire the writer to keep going and make their piece better—not quit or give up. Balance suggestions and compliments.

Try to refrain from suggesting your own ideas unless specifically asked for. What I mean by that is avoiding statements such as, “maybe instead of (this), the characters do (this)” your job is not to write the story for them, and often, you might not be making the work better, just different.

Ask pointed questions instead, but ultimately leave the work up to the writer. Something like, “I wonder what (character) was thinking during this moment?” Or “from what I know so far, here’s my prediction for what’s going to happen.” It’s up to the writer to decide whether your questions/predictions need to be answered in the work, and how.

Always start and end with some specific positive feedback. There is always something good about every piece of work—it can be a great detail, some interesting dialogue, a concept you really like, the tone, a character.

In general, it’s most helpful to include specifics or details about what’s working and not working in the piece. Take quotes, write down page numbers and paragraphs, lines. That’s infinitely more helpful than just saying “your descriptions are well written.” If you catch yourself saying that, try adding, “such as in line (really good line) or (another good line).”

When receiving feedback, remember it’s ultimately your work and you get the final say, but remain open to the suggestions and comments you’re receiving. Try them out, but don’t be afraid to end up not including them if they aren’t working for you. Never argue, even if you think your feedback giver is wrong—they took time out of their day to read your work, you should thank them for their thoughts. Even something simple like, “Thank you very much for your feedback, I appreciate the time you took to read my work” is great.

                If you’re looking for a feedback buddy, maybe try pairing up in the comments or reblogging this post! There’s a great community of writers here, don’t be afraid to reach out.

                Good luck!

#writing #writers #writing tips #writing advice #writing inspiration #creative writing #writing community #books #film #filmmaking #screenwriting #novel writing #fanfiction #writeblr #giving and receiving feedback #feedback #writing feedback

[t-lostinworlds]

oh I LOVE LOVE Competitively Stupid! I’m addict to enemy/lover stories specially with Steve kinda on his king-era, cocky but I’m-actually-head-over-heels-for-your aghhh it melts my heart… Steve’s concern, the hurt and comfort that came right after he thought he lost her 😭 please more stories like this, if you can of course lol 🤍🤍

aww thank you lovely!!! i'm so glad you enjoyed it!! 🥺❤️ i have such a huge soft spot with that trope too like, there's just something about them being kinda mean to each other all the while protecting each other behind the scenes and having a hard time admitting their true feelings bc, u know, emotionally constipated idiots and all that alskalskalsk but if the inspo strikes i'll for sure be writing more about it!! <33

🏆 Competitively Stupid

#again thank u for taking the time to read it hun! <3 #cs: comments & feedback #writing feedback #steve harrington x reader

[gods-graveyard]

Readers and Writers alike, does this sound weird??

I will specify im only adding it as a reaction, not some weird flirting since its something I do at times when thinking and thought it could apply to this character.

BUT when reading it over the first time it just felt w e i r d and im trying to gauge if its just me or if its just not a good writing action description.

#tumblr polls #writing poll #writing advice #im also not sure if its a dilect term #like do non americans/people not in my region know wtf this means?? #hp fanfic #hp fic #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 feedback #writing feedback

[floatingaroundinmymind]

Prologue for a fantasy story; feedback appreciated!

The world's savior was found on a Tuesday. 

On a single patch of green grass amid frost tipped weeds and crystalline ants lay a single man-sized egg in the village square. The children found it first and then the fishermen and farmer's wives. The elders spoke in hushed whispers, spun silvery tales of prophets and heralds to man, saviors in times of need. And so a gilded shrine was built to honor the Prince of Men, a nest with the good down, adorned with the finest silks and purest gold. 

And into the walls men carved such intricate patterns, eyes of the village to watch and protect the young prince--the grandest being an ornate carving of the imagined prince among his people. The women produced their fineries, dresses and robes, stockings and cloaks with which their skilled fingers distilled every ounce of hope. There was deliberation, talk of how to mold the new angelic host, of how he should come to know man and the world of men in the days since prosperity. 

Oh, but it was folly. 

Seed of discontent, sown by human or heavenly hands? Flower of malevolence in full bloom on crimson earth, beneath smoky skies; new ashen snow in frozen summer. And the egg, in a golden cage. 

No one was there when the egg hatched. The scant sunlight filtered in through the rocks above, seeping into cracks between yellowed blades of grass and craggy holes in weak, sputtering spurts of life. And as it hit the large, pale slabs of raw stone and shone on the streams of water which trickled off their crumbling steps, Aurea found they were alone. 

They crawled out of the egg, amniotic fluid spilling onto the previously untainted floor. The bare ground was cold and stark against the warmth of the egg and Aurea felt its solid, stony weight beneath her feet. 

The gilded cage sat upon a raised pedestal and through the golden slats, Aurea caught glimpses of greenery, the trickling of water dropping off into some dark abyss beyond the reach of both the sun's rays and their eyes. Aurea shrugged off the cracked bits of shell that clung to her body, the sticky residue from the egg clinging to each piece. 

Against the bars closest to the stairs were a wooden bowl, cloths of some sort, thick boots, and a folded set of garments upon which a crown of branches sat waiting, watching as if it too awaited their arrival. The bowl was large and filled with water for washing, the fabric beside it needlessly ornate for what amounted to washcloths.

Instinctively, she cupped the water in her hands and rinsed her face, felt the sticky fluid run off it and reached for a washcloth, wiping the rest off. Aurea's face reflected back at them in the ripples—blonde hair curling around the edges of their face and ice blue eyes searching for some sense of self in the not quite child nor adult face that stared back. Tearing her eyes away from the false self, the process was repeated with the rest of their body until the water remaining in the bowl had turned a dingy yellow, the remnants of birth clinging to the bottom. 

Cleansed as they were, the slight chill in the air had now grown to a freezing magnitude, aided by the dampness of Aurea's hair and the absence of the egg's warmth. It was then that she turned her attention to the garments beside the now dirtied washcloths. Stacked neatly there were four pieces in the set, accented by golden threads and vibrant purple hues with an off-white serving as the base, earthen browns meant to balance the more striking elements.  

She held the garments in her hand, noted on one there were holes for arms, a head and more confusing ones on another piece. Aurea stared at the large carving on the wall furthest from them, a winged herald among ground people. The regal figure was clothed in strange robes, trousers and fine boots—the very same set neatly folded before her.   

Aurea turned away from the carving feeling the stone figures' eyes lingering long beyond their rocky casing and attempted to dress herself. 

As she slipped on the clothing still she felt eyes watching. It was a low hum in the background that made its presence known louder with each passing minute. Half-dressed, Aurea turned back to glance at the stony faces on the wall and noticed on the opposite wall a pattern. 

Eyes.

There were eyes carved into every wall surrounding the great gilded cage.

They didn't roam—there was no life behind them. They simply stared at her half-naked asking questions that only the ancient hands of men knew, answers that the wind pretended not to know as it blew through the cavern. Their silent, ever-present gaze never once left Aurea and she could feel each pupil on her body, covering her whole being like a million unwanted hands touching, poking, and prodding at her like she was an animal in a cage. 

There was nowhere to hide. 

She turned, suffocated by the prying eyes, feet slipping on the water from before and reached for the gilded bars as she fell. The bars gave way and Aurea hit the ground—the cage door was open.  

The large golden door now lay wide open, the mysteries of the world outside the cage waiting. Its hinges were old and worn but still functional—the same could not be said for the lock whose chain was rusted brittle and broken, the result of many years left unattended.  

Still feeling the burning gaze of the carvings, Aurea finished dressing, threw on the boots and wrapped herself in the massive cloak provided, the fur-lined hood tickling her cheeks. They stepped carefully over the cage threshold and took in the cavern with caution and awe.

From atop the pedestal holding the cage there were a set of stairs which led down to level ground. On either side of the steps were countless stalagmites guarding a large lake which seemed to circle around the base of the steps, back into some far corner beyond sight. Far above even the cage, there were cracks in the cave ceiling through which small rays of light penetrated and water from some unknown source seemed to endlessly trickle in, dripping off the stalactites and down onto the stalagmites and into the subterranean lake.       

As Aurea descended the stairs, small pillars of white came into view. Dozens of old candles were littered at the base of the steps and led outward into a narrow corridor, ancient wax drips dried on their bulky stalks. 

Alongside the candles were dried bundles of herbs, some ashen and all bound with thin string, the likes of which Aurea could faintly smell mingling with the earthen scent of the cave. 

They followed the trail of candles in darkness through a winding path. The only constants discernible were the drip of water, the occasional streak of light and the sense of a gradual ascent. When the path opened up once more, there was a great out pour of light and with it a scant few steps which led to somewhere outside the cave.

The outer world was immobile. Beyond the threshold was a vast expanse of white blanketing the ground as far as the eye could see and hazy in the distance, a faint plume of smoke against the slowly darkening blue sky. Aurea stepped forward as if on impulse, one foot in front of the other as she stared at the source of the smoke and felt snowflakes float onto her nose and ears, dampening both with their presence. 

The wind's chill penetrated even the thick coat and trousers that Aurea wore and they had grown hungry, an ache seating itself deep in the pit of their stomach. The smoke in the distance was far, but close enough to reach, Aurea thought. And off she went towards the source.

*

"Wren, come tend the fire." 

Grandma sat curled by the fireplace on a much loved rocking chair. The wrinkled face still held the woman's countenance well, playful nature coming through in her twinkling ancient eyes and calm voice. Oh, but she was always like this, lightly complaining about the ache winter brought to her brittle old bones—Wren never minded. 

"Just a moment."

Wren moved slow down the stairs, the outline of her lithe form barely visible in the faint firelight and short brown hair swaying with each step. 

There was something comforting about the way Grandma called her each winter night, the loose routine they had settled into as Wren talked about the stars and Grandma taught her about the past, the olden days most had forgotten. Grandma had always said winter was the season for dreams and so Wren thought it seemed fitting that each passing winter felt a little like a dream itself—lazy and uncertain but with a hopeful tone. The slow meandering pace of the nights overshadowed the brief periods of sunlight called day as the long arm of time stretched itself thin again. It would be a matter of time before spring came and brought with it all the beauty of nature.  

Until then on tonight, like most nights, Wren was relegated to retrieving firewood from the storehouse and preventing the small flame that gave life to all inhabitants from going out. 

"Be careful, the wolves have been restless lately—strange men in the area. Be on your guard." 

"I know, Grandma. I learned from the best after all." Wren winked, patted her hunting knife in its sheathe and lit the lantern like always, the wick seized up in dancing flame. 

Shrugging on a thick coat and slipping into equally warm boots, she turned the front door knob and stepped out into the cold, started down the steps and towards the direction of the storehouse.  

It was a short walk from the main house to the storehouse indicated by loosely staked poles with symbols carved on them so one could navigate nearly blind if they had to. The lantern lit up the path as Wren walked, snowflakes dappling the black wool coat she wore. Undoing the latch and pushing the door open, she grabbed a few hefty pieces of wood and made her way back out, nightly routine nearly over.

The pale moonlight was at its peak now, an imperfect crescent that cast a lonely gaze over a stark white land covered in coniferous trees of varying shades and exposed rock.   

And there face down in the snow, far from Wren but just close enough, was a girl with blonde hair. 

#writblr #writing feedback #my writing #prologue #fantasy #ice age fantasy #kind of #its complicated

[darkfloofwritez]

The octopus creature.

The man stared at the gaping black hole that looked like a giant's mouth, screaming in agony. The man couldn't move. He was hypnotized to watch the vile birth of the octopus creature.

A massive lurching tentical slammed down to smite the man. He barely dodged. He saw darkness slowly closing on him, accommodated with the odour of decaying fish.

Once he awoke the sun seemed... Brighter? In a daze, he looked around. And squealed. Every thing looked bright and colourful.

Like he was high. Euphoria pumped rapidly through his bloodstream, but the feeling was short lived.

I am looking for feedback.

#writing #writing feedback #fantasy

[apollogies-p]

The fire erupting from the kid's hands made Apollo very grateful for Sally's common sense to move her and Percy just moments before.

"Kid- Kid!" Apollo haphazardly lunged for his arms, and the resulting insults and swears coming from the child made Apollo very happy that Paul also had enough common sense to remove Estelle from the house.

After a very forceful struggle (well on the kid's part- Apollo didn't try much) the small boy (he was using small in a more figurative sense, in reality he'd tower over Sally and rival Percy in height) finally opened his eyes and to Apollo's surprise he recognized them.

Deep chocolate brown eyes, full of fear and- determination? A desperate look that Apollo only saw in the most scarred of demigods, in the ones that fought wars and lived to tell the tale.

Apollo gently removed his arms and instantly he lunged for the cane behind him, an item Apollo had paid no attention to although he wish he had.

"Who are you?" His voice coarse like he had been screaming prior to Sally finding him. The kid's eyes darted in between all of them. It reminded Apollo too much of those times Artemis and him had cornered countless men desperate to escape from their crimes.

The kid licked his lips and tried again, "Who ARE you?"

Before Apollo could do something unsavory, Sally stepped in.

"Why don't you tell us who you are sweetie?" Her voice soft and calming, it reminded Apollo of Leto's own voice and the way she'd coax him out of disorienting visions when he was a young god.

Sally continued to coax the young boy into at least unfurling and into a more comfortable position, although the grip on his fancy cane never wavered.

"My name is Zane. Zane Obispo."

#the storm runner #apollo #trials of apollo #sally jackson #percy jackson #zane obispo #drabble #writing feedback #writerscommunity #storm runner