Outlining a story is very, very important. Without an outline and thorough planning, your story will veer off in wildly different directions and will cost you a ton of time editing later, like my book did.
1. Get the characters down first
Characters are like the chess pieces of the story. Their moves and strengths/weaknesses will decide what is going to happen and how it will happen. Sure, you can have a nice plot and setting, but without the characters, the story is meaningless.
Here is the character chart that I usually use:
Name (First/Middle/Last/Maiden name)
Aliases/Nicknames
Age
Race
Gender
Sexuality
Height
Weight
Eye color
Hair color
Clothing style
Religion
Political views
Personality Traits
Strengths and Weaknesses
Likes and Dislikes
Family
Friends
Enemies
Role in the story
Backstory/past
2. Choose a template
Just bulleting the events does not give the plot the dimension that it deserves and does not really accommodate side plots.
I personally use the zigzag method that I discovered fromthis post.I branch off of the zigzags for my side plots so it looks kind of like a graph.
You can also use the subway method, which I found on the nanowrimo website.
There are a whole other host of outlines to choose from if you search them up!
3. Know that you don’t have to stick to it
An outline is just that: an outline. It’s not the final decision for the plot, it’s the first draft for the plot. If you’re writing and one of the points just isn’t working anymore, you don’t have to keep it because it was a part of your outline.
There’s this,,, atmosphere that imagine dragons songs always have, and i can picture it clear as day. I can almost feel it.
Like
It’s dusk and you’re riding down a long road with your friends, the horizon stretches forever and the breeze kisses your cheeks. It’s night and you’re laying on your car, or your roof, in a tree, and someone you love is next to you, and the stars are almost as beautiful as them. It’s midnight and you’re at the beach, and the only light is the bonfire and the moon, and the sound of waves in the background makes the world fall away, and the sound of music makes your feet move through the sand in time with your friends. The sun is rising, or maybe it’s just begun to set, and you’re lying on a blanket in a field, meadow to your left and forest to your right. There are arms holding you and you never want them to let go.
writing has always been a passion of mine, and there’s nothing i love more than combining personal hobbies with witchcraft! there’s so many ways you can use writing to boost your craft, or use your craft to boost your writing; these are the ways i personally do!
honour what’s special in your craft. if you’re theistic, dedicate a piece of writing to them. if you’re not, but you want to honour something else, you could write about the earth, or the stars, or absolutely anything. this would make a great grimoire or b.o.s entry!
learn to use automatic writing. this is a cool kind of divination that allows your subconscious/higher self, or spirits around you to control what you write. i’ve tried this a few times and it’s quite fun, but i’ve always wanted to try using it as inspiration for creative writing!hereis a much better post on it by @satinsouled.
start journaling. journaling is a great way to clear your mind and encourage creativity, but it can be really useful in witchcraft too! write about your witchy experiences however you want to, so you have reference points to come back to later
draw inspiration from your craft. similar to the previous point, if you’ve had an interesting experience that you’d like to write about, why not turn it into a poem or short story? if you worship deities, write a story about them. create your own world of witchiness that stems from your personal experiences – your writing will always be unique and interesting because no one else will have had your experiences!
use tarot cards and readings as inspiration. instead of reading tarot like you normally would, write prose or poetry inspired by it to note down your reading. i think the best example by far is @tarotprose, one of my favourite blogs on tumblr and actually my inspiration to start combining witchcraft and poetry.
souped-up spellwork. its easy to work spells you find online, word-for-word, because you think that’s how it’s ‘meant’ to be done. there are some people who say their way is the ‘only’ way, but that’s a toxic way of thinking. use poetry and creative writing to create your own, personalised chants, invocations and spells! your words will have more power for you than anyone else’s, and you’ll probably find your spells will work much better if you put your own personal touch into them.
i’m really trying to get back into writing, so if anyone has any poetry prompts please send them to my writeblr @aghostwrites! if you have any more suggestions please reblog with them, i always want to hear your opinions on what topics mean to you in your craft. happy witching!
if you enjoy my content, and would like to support me, please click here to visit my store! i offer in depth tarot readings, tarot bags, custom sigils and patches all at very decent prices. this store is my only source of income and it’s currently paying for rent, food, bills, my dogs operation and a new car. if you can, please help! any amount of support means the world
A psychotic killer gets more than he bargained for when the kids he planned on terrorizing turn out to be far more bloodthirsty than him.
It was not his first kill. He was smart about it. Scoped out the place, waited for the parents to leave, cut the phone lines. They had cell phones, but they’d be dead before they even saw him coming.
That was what he thought, at least.
Waking up tied to a chair in a basement had not been part of the plan.
“He’s awake.” The killer heard from a giggling girl behind him.
“Great,” said another voice. “We can finally get started.”
The killer opened his mouth, perhaps to call for help or ask who had tied him up, but he found that his mouth had been gagged.
Dainty footsteps sounded until two children stepped out from behind him, smiling.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are.” The girl commented idly. She watched with vague interest as a boy – her brother, the killer realized – began putting tarps around the room. “You’re good, I’ll give you that, but you’re not good like we are.”
“You see,” the brother continued, unprompted. “We noticed you the first time you did some recon of our house. Don’t let that get your pride though, not everyone has the… skills we do.” He smirked at his sister.
“Right.” She went on, circling the killer as she talked. “And not everyone has a pet demon they’ve got to feed.” She leaned in to the killer’s ear, whispering. “We couldn’t get her some meat last month, so she’s extra hungry.”
The killer gulped, eyes wide and fearful. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe in demons, these kids were monsters all on their own.
The brother turned back around, now with goggles on, another pair in his hand, and a wand. He handed the remaing goggles to his sister, and waved the wand in a complicated motion.
There was a howling sound from somewhere outside. The boy smirked. “Here comes Cupcake.”
The girl put on her goggles, and looked at the killer. “Oh these?” She pointed to her goggles, despite the fact that he obviously hadn’t said anything.
There was now growling coming from right above the basement. The killer could here something coming down the stairs, and it was big.
Everyone is able to perfectly memorize one book. Some people choose classics, like The Odyssey, or favorites, like a Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, others memorize dictionaries or encyclopedias. You choose something unconventional.
No one is sure exactly how it works. We just know that if something fits the definition of a book by regular standards, and you want to memorize it, you can. But only once. And only if you’re sure.
Many people pick literary classics, some pick their favorite books, fewer still pick something practical, like gardening or car mechanics.
I picked all of it.
Everything.
I worked for years to make a book, one singular book, that had everything I could ever want to learn.
How to be a con artist, surviving alone in the woods, surviving alone on an island, how to fly a plane, engineering basics, quantum physics, how to fix a car, how to build a car, how to build a computer, how to code, herbology, politics, healthy living, gardening, farming, dancing, singing, foreign languages, everything.
Anything one person could possibly learn from any kind of book, pushed together, into a collection of over 800,000 words, just for me. It took me years.
As soon as I had memorized the book, which took several more years to read through, I burned it.
I took what I had learned and started over, leaving everything behind. Leaving no trace of the Book of Everything.
There was one very important thing I learned from reading everything I could ever need to know. No one else needs to know it.
You are a psychic medieval swordsmith, with the ability to see the future of every sword you make. This sword you just forged will kill the king.
You hide it. There is no time to destroy it, not when the woman who is to have it expects it very soon. You spend the followings days and nights slaving away over flames, working to create another sword. If this sword is also destined to kill the king, then it is the woman. You will not sell to her. If not… well, you will figure something out.
The king is… not a good king, but you have a roof for you and your daughter, and you put food on the table, and you are grateful. It’s all you can ask for.
So it is with relief that you hand the newly made sword to your commissioner. She will use it to fight a group of thieves near a town that is miles away. That’s as far from the king as one can get, and better yet, it’s far from your home as well. The king-killing sword is hidden under a floorboard upstairs.
Everything is fine.
The king imposes a new set of laws. Taxes are raised. Those who cannot pay them are taken off to jail, no warning. There are whispers going around, that the king is up to something, that he has lost trust in his own citizens, that he does not care if he hurts them.
You think guiltily to the sword upstairs, holding a prophesy you do not dare reveal. You say nothing.
People are starving in the streets. There are so many children without families. You can feel the kingdom crumpling.
You tell your daughter to come home earlier and earlier. Lately knights are roaming the towns, and they are brutal men. Your daughter has a strength of her own – and she in fact fights you on every curfew – but while she is only a snake, they are wolves. You cannot risk another loss.
More rumors spread. Talks of rebellion, which are squashed and otherwise dealt with. Then whispers of rebellion, so quiet they take weeks to travel. But travel they do, and they bring hope with them, a dangerous feeling.
Your daughter disappears for hours at a time, sometimes coming home after curfew. You yell and worry and look her in the eyes, trying to get her to see that the world isn’t safe anymore. But she only smiles. Promises you that she’s safe. That she loves you.
There is something she’s not telling you, and it dances in the shadows of your mind, always.
—
Suddenly, a secret comes to light. The king is looking for a girl. A girl who is prophesied to kill him. It sounds like the raging of a paranoid man, but you know better than most how true prophesies are.
He has begun rounding up the daughters of everyone, rich or poor, looking for the girl that fits the prophecy. When he finds her, she will die.
You pack. You gather your things and your daughter’s. People are getting angry, you’ve heard of a revolution that’s coming, and that’s the perfect cover to leave under. No one will notice you and your daughter in the chaos.
Night comes, and your daughter is not yet home. You can hear yelling in the streets, fighting, panic. You rush, grabbing anything you can hold on your back. The rebellion started sooner than you planned, and it’s the best you can do on such short notice.
After a moment of hesitation, you run upstairs to the floorboard that hides the fated sword. Prophecy or no, you won’t waste a weapon.
When you pry up the floor, it is gone.
—
You run to the castle. Around you, citizens fight with the might of a people angered. Bodies and blood litter the ground, but you hardly notice.
You have one goal in mind: find your daughter.
—
There is so much carnage. It does not hit you until you reach the castle steps, and find them drenched in blood. It pools, sticky and horrifying underneath your shoes.
You continue on.
The entrance gates are smashed open, and fallen trees rest nearby, indicating how it was done.
The giant hall before you reveals a massacre. It isn’t clear which side took the most losses.
You run, trying to block the carnage from your mind, and finally you reach the throne room.
There you find your daughter. There you find the king. There you find the sword.
She holds it loosely, confidently, but her eyes betray the waves of emotion she feels. She doesn’t notice your presence.
“A king doesn’t let his people starve! A king doesn’t cause poverty to sweep through his kingdom! A king doesn’t throw people in dungeons for the poverty he caused!”
With each sentence, she takes a step forward. With each of her steps forward, the king takes a step back. He is silent, face pale.
“You are no king.” She hisses. “Your people die around you and you do nothing. That prophecy was only an excuse to further your reign of terror. Look where your prophecy has led you now.”
She raises the sword.
You forgot, in all your worry, that yes, wolves can bite. But snakes can, too. And snakes have venom.
—
It takes months to find a new semblance of normality.
The king had no family but his son, who fled with the nobility to the four corners of the world at the first signs of trouble, dispersing like wind.
They don’t come back.
The people rally before your daughter. She is a killer of a king now. They call her a hero.
It is not a shock that the next person upon the throne is her. She’s always had oceans in her eyes that you knew could conquer any ship.
She helps, far more than any ruler before her. It takes time, but the kingdom is prosperous once again. You let go of your craft. You’ve had enough of prophecies to last a lifetime.
You create one last thing, however, before you are done for good.
The king’s old crown is destroyed, as soaked in crimson as it is. You make a new one.
It’s a work in progress, as you’ve only ever made weapons, but it comes out breathtaking.
You don’t know if you’ll get any visions of the future, as it’s not a sword, but that apparently doesn’t matter.
As you give the crown away, as you watch it placed on your daughter’s head, as you hear the cheers of the people, you get just a glimpse of something near.
It’s over in a flash, and you smile, watching as your daughter addresses the world as it’s queen.
You were once the most powerful villain. You retired early and are engaged to a minor super hero who isn’t aware of your past. They are about to be killed right before your eyes..but you step in.
She asks him why maybe a dozen times before they decide to get married. It’s not hard to figure out where he goes in the little hours of the morning, not hard to follow him to the edges of forests and abandoned towns and deserts, not hard to smell the spandex, blood and sweat that he wears home. He’s always got bags under his eyes and dirt under his nails and the blood that stains their welcome mat is more often his than not.
So she asks him why before they decide to get married because for all her mysteries, she can’t have him be one.
(Hypocrite isn’t the worst name she’s ever been called.)
He hardly looks surprised at the question, lips quirking as his fingers find the condensation on the glass in front of him. He runs his forefinger up the side, the move thoughtlessly seductive, before drawing it away. The water follows, a thin stream of twisting molecules for a long moment before the tension snaps and it forms a circle hovering above the pad of his finger.
“I may not be a Superhero,” he says, “or even a hero. But when I needed someone, when I really needed someone, a superhero was there. It’s an amazing thing to experience. The rescue. The salvation. It’s…indescribable. It makes you thankful in way you didn’t know you could be.” He allows the water to drop to the diner table and gives her a warm, nostalgic smile. “I want everyone to have that, even if it’s just some guy in a mask with a spray of water at his command. I became Zone for that and I’ve never regretted it. Not once. ”
She’s surprised by the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes. She hasn’t cried in public for years, normally doesn’t even have to worry about the possibility after years of being on guard. That’s what’s special about Gannon; he makes her feel vulnerable and safe all at once. Comforted. Able to exist within herself, at peace.
She reaches past her empty breakfast plate to cover his hand with her hot palm. The smile she returns is new, her most precious treasure and something she’d never think twice about giving him.
and it’s… fine. The prince is great! They’re in love, he’s very sweet and passionate, writing her poems and songs, giving her anything she wants. The time she spends with her husband is great.
but cinderella is not royalty, her family was noble but she never spent time in those circles. She’s used to being busy, she’s used to cooking and cleaning and mending. There are hours, days, where she has nothing to do.
time passes. cinderella learns the fancy lady type of needlework. Learns to ride horses. Reads a lot.
as is normal for royalty at the time, they travel and are hosted by nobles or stay at castles owned by the king. But even that variety begins to become routine. The prince is distracted, there’s a lot of young women living and working on their route. Daughters of nobles. Younger and prettier with soft hands that have never done a day’s work.
cinderella needs something to spend her time on, and there’s a part of her thinking a couple-only trip might get her husband’s attention again, so she suggests making an old castle that’s fallen into disrepair their “project.” It was built in the time when castles were made to be defensible, so it’s quite sturdy, but it’s overgrown and secluded. The prince doesn’t know why his family stopped living there either. A hundred years ago it was their summer home.
so they go. And they work. And for a while it’s great! But when they leave for winter cinderella’s husband forgets her once again. cinderella resolves to make the best of her life and stop worrying about a man who has gotten what he wanted from her.
summer comes again and this time cinderella goes alone to the old castle (minus staff, of course, but cinderella manages to narrow it down to only repair workers and one maid). She can cook and clean and mend again, but this time it’s her own choice. She is happy.
this summer they make more progress on repairs. The workers say that most of it can be salvaged, except one tower that’s been completely overgrown with vines and briars. It will have to come down, eventually, but for now it can be safely ignored.
cinderella has more free time now. The old castle has a surprisingly untouched library, though time and moisture have damaged many of the books. Behind a collection of greek poetry cinderella finds an old diary. Very old, in fact, at least a hundred years. It’s rude to read a diary, of course, but whoever wrote this is long dead, and cinderella is bored, so…
from the description of activities the author looks to have been nobility. Maybe even a princess. She’s sensitive and sweet and smarter than she seems to realize. If circumstances had been different cinderella wishes they could have been friends…
after the summer ends cinderella returns to her husband. He’s spending a lot of time with a young musician and cinderella can’t even work up the energy to care. She does some research about the castle and the family she’s married into, finds out the name of the princess who wrote the diary.
aurora. Cursed and forgotten. She died young, they say, in a plague that also took out the castle staff and her own parents. Luckily they avoided a succession crisis, but not so lucky for the dead.
time passes. cinderella goes to the old castle again and again, even out of season. Soon enough all that remains to be done is the old tower, and the builders say they should tear it down and fill the gaps before it gets cold.
one night cinderella is restless. The princess from the diary had been fond of that tower, and cinderella is far more attached to a dead woman than she ought to be. She gets out of bed, reads by candlelight, and finally goes to walk the empty halls.
she finds herself going to the tower. Pushing past the vines that don’t seem so troublesome really. They almost part before her. The stairs are perfectly intact, the door at the top is already cracked open. As if she should have done this years ago, cinderella steps into aurora’s bedroom.
she’s as beautiful as the stories say. And sitting under her hands, crossed across her stomach as it rises and falls, is a book of greek poetry.
years later, people will tell the story of cinderella as a cautionary one. Don’t seek above your station. Don’t marry for prestige. After all, a girl who grew up as a servant once married the crown prince, and disappeared after only three years. She ran away, they say, she couldn’t handle the lifestyle.
two old women who run a bookshop together agree with the lesson. Marrying for the wrong reasons never ends well. It’s best to wait for someone you have things in common with, shared interests.
or, failing that, the more linguistic of the two says, wait a decade or ten for someone to fall in love with you from your diary.
her partner laughs and hits her with the socks she is mending.
Candlelight-magick 