God

[Advanged] In search of a partner for a 'Walking Dead' style zombie apocalypse role-play!

Ack so sorry for the double post! I can't delete it. :/

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

Avan - Hey, sorry, not sure what you're talking about ...? Didn't mean to ignore you, though.

[Advanced] Downton Abbey Era

Here is my searching thread, for more info about me and sample(s): Searching Thread
Definitely need to check that out if the following looks interesting... .

I am very inspired by the world on the TV show Downton Abbey. (Upstairs/Downstairs is another, less good, TV show about that time period.) I do not want this to be a fandom, however. We will use entirely new characters.

I want to respect the genre, using a storytelling style similar to the show. It's almost a Jane Austen approach. Basically: not action-packed, quite slow, seething with internal motives and attention to detail. You will need to be a very specific type of writer to pull this off. I will NEED samples from you.

Plot ideas are entirely flexible and subject to change. I would prefer to start by focusing on two main characters, and slowly flesh out the rest of the house as we go or later on.

The current idea that I had was for a man to come to town that had [recently] been widowed. Being a distant connection of the family, the friend or son of a a trusted family friend, they intend to meet him. The mysterious, romantic stranger is the talk of the town. They meet him at church one sunday. The patriarch introduces himself and his family to the man, and in the course of the conversation, invites him to dinner. The man ends up renting a small cottage on the family's estate. He grows closer to the family, interacting more and more in their affairs. He has become very good friends with one of the older daughters. Their relationship does not progress into romance either due to his recent wife's passing, and/or his possible lack of fortune. (He could be poor, or wealthy, and simply traveling in order to avoid memories of his late wife.) Perhaps she even becomes engaged to someone else, if we want more conflict.
As all of that is happening, we can slowly flesh out the NPCs that fill the rest of the house, both upstairs and down. Plenty of room for intertwining drama, but as I say, I would prefer to focus on mainly two characters at the get-go, unless you are very confident at juggling a lot of characters immediately.

I am 100% open to an entirely different idea, though. :)


Please read my searching thread (linked at the top) and hopefully provide me with a sample. Then we can talk ideas for this!

[Advanced] Apocalyptic RP: zombies and/or sickness

Here is my searching thread, for more info about me and sample(s): Searching Thread
Definitely need to check that out if the following looks interesting... .

Zombie disclaimer

Please note that while this plot may include zombies if you wish it to, I will only go so far with zombie gore/horror. I am not a brain-matter-flinging-everywhere kinda' girl. I can do dark and gritty action, but I can't stomach Walking Dead or write about it. So it would be "soft Zombie action" if any. xD

The plot is basically about a man-made contagious sickness which has covered the globe. The epidemic has killed so many people, so quickly, that from the perspectives of the characters, it is the end of the world. The idea could be added on to in order to include zombies; some of the sick people could have become akin to the "living dead." That part is optional.

I have written a prologue or intro of sorts. I will put it in a hider, but recap it here:
A woman and her friend go to the mall, where they find everyone huddling, talking quietly or praying. They ask what is wrong, they are told that people have chosen to get sick to get money from the government, and now that sickness is spreading. The friend with the "main character" starts arguing politics with her, when the shop lady begins to show signs of the illness. The main character runs, leaving her friend. The mall is chaos. Some are sick, most are panicking. She makes it out, running for the car. She stops to pick up her husband. They leave, trying to get as far away from people, and the sickness, as they can.

Prologue Intro

An excerpt from the diary of Kathryn Brown

Entry dated 10 March 2015

If you're reading this, you're probably wondering: "What were you doing when it happened?"

I was abandoning someone.

I didn't know her that well. She was an acquaintance; I sometimes ran errands with her. That's what we were doing when it happened: running to the mall. The mall wasn't crowded. Some people talked in the hallways. Everyone looked very somber. When we entered the shop we wanted, the workers were gathered in clumps. In hindsight, they looked as if someone important had died, like maybe the president. Or they looked the way people had looked when 9/11 happened. Except less panicked, more resigned. I didn't make the connection. I remember wondering if there was a shooter in the mall.

We went up to one lady. My friend, the spokesperson, said, “All right, what is going on? Tell us.”

I seconded her by saying: “What’s happened,” I think.

The woman gave us a look, like “They don’t know yet.” I think she milked it a little bit, sniffling into her wad of tissues, saying things like “Oh, it’s bad.”

Finally, when the truth came, it didn’t make sense at first.

“People were choosing to get sick in order to receive money from the government. They thought that they would rather live only one year more, and have everything they ever wanted in that one year, rather than live one normal lifetime. There was an expensive cure they could maybe get at the end, if they really weren’t ready to die.”

I didn’t really understand. How could people choose to get sick? I couldn’t ask, because my friend had started to get into a political argument with the shop lady. I tuned them out. The shop lady’s huffiness was overcoming her grief. My friend didn’t seem to believe her story.

“Well, that’s just the way things are,” the shop lady was saying. “We would rather let the government make all the decisions rather than taking care of the sick ourselves. People aren’t charitable any more.”

“Hold on now,” my friend was saying. “Lots of people give to charities.”

“--And that’s not the worst of it,” the shop lady continued, as if my friend hadn’t said anything. “This sickness that they gave themselves, they didn’t realize it was contagious. It’s mutated, and it’s spreading around the globe.”

You could tell just by looking at the lady that nothing this exciting had ever happened to her before.

My friend scoffed, not buying into the anti-government tripe, which is what she thought it all was. “Oh yeah? And how were they supposed to have gotten sick in the first place?”

“That’s the strange thing,” the shop lady said, with the air of someone getting to the best part of the story, “nobody knows.”

My friend rolled her eyes as if to say “Convenient.”

The shop lady continued, splitting her attention between the two of us. “It’s rumored that people got desperate, wanting a piece of the government payoffs for the ill and dying. Some say that the government was experimenting with disease as a weapon, and testing it on well-paid subjects. Though that will never be confirmed, of course. Others say it was black market stuff. In either case, it was supposed to maybe have a cure, so that people could take the money and then get better after all. The sickness got out of control. It’s a contagion, and it kills quick. They haven’t found out a way to contain it, yet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” my friend retorted, though even she was starting to sound a little worried. “I don’t know how this became mainstream, but clearly, it’s a hoax - it’s not even on the news or anything, and --”

Then she stopped, noticing what I had already begun to. The shop lady’s pale skin had been taking on a pink flush. I had attributed it to her getting angry, though I felt dread coursing through me. It grew to an angry red in the central part of her face, down her arms, rising in her throat. She was sweating, and no longer keeping up the pretense of listening to my friend. She clutched the counter with her manicured hands, panting hard. Blisters roiled beneath the surface of her skin, rising hot and clear on the red parts of her face.

She was sick, and I ran.

I didn’t say a word to my friend, I just took off at a sprint, leaving her there. I just thought “I have to get back to my husband.” We had already talked about this, in the joking-serious way that young couples do. “If I die, I want this kind of funeral.” “If someone’s ever in danger, don’t risk your life for them.” “If there’s ever a catastrophe, we get back to each other. We don’t stop for anyone. We have to be together.”

As I ran, a small part of me wondered if it was the right thing to do, although questions about right and wrong had were already becoming irrelevant.

The halls had become more crowded and chaotic since we went into the store. No one seemed to be actually sick that I saw, but they were pawing at each other and running around aimlessly nonetheless. For some reason, they were surprised to see someone making a beeline anywhere. I guess you lose a sense of purpose in an instance like that. If I didn’t have someone to get back to, I don’t know what I would have done.

I think people thought I was sick, and that was all right with me. I didn’t want anyone getting in my way to slow me down, or perhaps give me the sickness themselves.

“Move!” I screamed, as I ran for the glass doors. People looked at me with panicked faces and parted.

Though it was the middle of December, I didn’t feel cold once I made it outside. There was gray slush in the parking lot which sucked at my feet, making me have to work hard not to slip. It felt like it took forever to get to the car. You know that terrible feeling when you’re moving slowly, trying to run, in a dream? That’s exactly what that was, except real.

When I slammed into our minivan, the sides dusty with road salt, I couldn’t believe I had made it. The inside of the car felt comforting; the speed of driving a relief. I didn’t have time to check myself for signs of sickness. I had to get to my husband. I parked outside of the gym - I don’t know why I parked so far away, my brain wasn’t working very well, I guess. I ran toward the glass windows, kicking myself when I saw empty spots near the front.

He saw me - he had been looking for me, waiting. Hoping, because I had the car. Once he saw me, I waved to him, and turned around and ran back. I wanted to get the car and pick him up, but he was a faster runner than me. He caught up to me, passed me, and went to the car himself. I was winded when he picked me up, so winded that I could hardly feel any relief.

“Tell me what’s happening,” he told me. He had seen people freaking out, but didn’t know why.

“We need to get as far away from town - from other people - as we can.”

That was how it all started, for us. We ran out of inhabited gas stations before too long, and had to walk, but that was all right. At least that kept us off the roads. It was full on apocalypse by that point. Technology didn’t work, news was almost impossible to come by, we stocked up on supplies from abandoned homes and convenience stores. We met two others on our journey - another couple. They weren’t sick and they hadn’t seen people in awhile, like us.

I was amazed that I hadn’t gotten sick from the shop lady. Maybe I got out in time. Maybe it was just a fluke.

We don’t know what has happened to the rest of the world. It’s just the four of us for now. The four of us the only thing that is safe. We can’t risk anything. We have to move on, in order to keep finding food. If we come across an inhabited dwelling, they try to kill us. Humans are the enemy now. We can’t help each other. I wonder how many died in the beginning, from riots and shootings and suicides, from selfishness: and I realize, I am no better. My friend is probably dead, because she was transfixed by shock. The sickness, after all, is our own fault. Our own greed, our own hatred. It should never have been created, and we should have never have used it.

If anyone ever finds this journal, if humanity ever has a chance to start over: do not repeat our mistakes.

This could simply be a prologue to set the stage, or we could utilize any of the four characters mentioned in the end. It's all pretty flexible, but hopefully that gives you an idea of what I am thinking.

Please read my searching thread (linked at the top) and hopefully provide me with a sample. Then we can talk ideas for this!

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

.

[Advanged] In search of a partner for a 'Walking Dead' style zombie apocalypse role-play!

Sounds awesome! Do you have any samples of your writing?
Here is my thread: http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/3022/posts/ooc
Also, a plot idea for this genre: http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/3310/posts/ooc

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

Pangus, White - no thank you, but good luck!

Glaw - loved your posts; let's talk further!

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

Yoshi - thanks for the PM!

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

Avan - No thanks, but good luck!

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

Hi all! I used to be known as OhGodOfWriting around here.

I would love to find some good writers via sample exchange. I'll include some of mine here. I need to see a non-intro sample of your writing as well, please!

I like one-on-ones, usually mxf, with romance as at least a possibility. If you're only willing to play a female role or have any other restrictions, please let me know.

I love ALL plots and genres, except gruesome horror. I will put some plots/areas of interest below my samples, but keep in mind that I am super open to any of your ideas!

My favorite conduits of RP are as follows, in order of preference: Google Docs, some type of private pad (like PiratePad or others) email, thread, or PM. (A more collaborative setting, like gdocs or a private pad, give us way more options and flexibility. I'm even open to trying to write it "book style" or something like that.)

My Samples:

Mid-rp post in a dystopian roleplay

That night, the Low Risers saw stars for the first time.

Amber sucked in a soft gasp as they came into view, between the swaying and spindly branches of the trees. Her fingertips found Leo’s wrist, begging for understanding. It was beautiful, the way they twinkled, even more beautiful than the blue sky, and scrolling clouds ... and she had come so close to never seeing this at all. How could the world contain such unornamented beauty? How much more was there yet to discover? Tears rolled down her temples and melted into her burnished bronze hair.

Clem was by himself, as usual. His bedroll was far away from the rest of them, nearest the outside of the trees. He had announced that he would stand watch, and that appeared to be what he was doing, sitting there in silence, back to them all, staring out into the darkness. As the hours rolled by, and everyone fell quiet, save for their deep breathing and Brom’s thunderous snores, Clem felt chills wash over him. Sweat coursed down his body, and he shivered, and closed his eyes upon sweet hallucinations of times he had never had with Cass, without the relief of sleep.

Some time later, he had no idea when, he rose to his feet and slipped from the camp, and their lives, with the stealth of a wraith.

In the morning, when they woke to find him gone, Amber panicked. That feeling of dreadful certainty closed around her heart, with all of its horror, and with all of its peace. She refused it, trying to buck it off like an unbroken horse does a saddle. In the end it was Flint, with his tracking skills, whom she’d had to follow in order to find Clemence. He lay in a gulley, his body just barely cold. Besides his sweat, nothing seemed wrong with him, until they lifted his black sweater to find the infected knife wound in his gut.

There had been ample time for Clem to get this treated; he had chosen not to. He had not committed suicide by traditional means, instead letting the nature of violence take its natural course, but it was difficult to view the situation as anything other than a wasteful choice.

Brom had known what they would find, he could see it in the terror on Amber’s face. When it was confirmed, however, all he said was: “He’ll be with Cass now. He’d have wanted that.”

Flower burst into blubbering tears against Flint’s side. Joe suggested they bury him, that’s what the Unbroken did, he had heard, and they were in Unbroken territory, now. To Amber it felt wrong, to put his body into the earth to decompose slowly and painfully. It was not a final enough ending. It was not swift, and shouldn’t he be, if he was to catch Cassandra? He had been Amber’s trainer, but she didn’t cry. She didn’t even harden over. She merely felt the pain, like a meat grinder to her internal organs, and did nothing about it, as Leo would have done.

It was a waste of a half day, scooping out ground and laying Clem in it, as the pallor increased in his bronze skin. Leo was now the only High Riser left on their expedition. Once the dirt was over him, Flower placed something pretty she had woven from blades of grass on top of it, with a feather stuck through the center of it. It was the blue-black feather of a raven she had found on the ground.

Amber began to speak awkwardly, her words long and drawn out, until it became apparent that she was singing, or trying to, for the first time. Her voice was rough and off-tune, not at all lovely, but it grated with emotion, very Amber-like:

“Gut them, for freedom an’ for feather
Cut their Unseen throats…”

Here Flower joined in, her voice a whispery warble, high-pitched and sweet, and Brom soon followed her, his voice deep and pleasant. Joe contributed a word here or there, but he didn’t seem to really grasp the concept of singing.

“...an’ spit their blood ‘cross both tiers
Meet us in the middle and we’ll strike together
Lay their corpses out and scream redemption in their ears.”

They all ended the song at different times, so it seemed that “scream redemption in their ears” echoed many times. It was sung far more quietly and sadly that it had been sung in the arena and elsewhere afterwards, as a victory song.

“Let’s move on, we’ve lost enough time,” Amber said, quietly and brusquely. Clem the peacemaker would not have wanted to delay them on their way to war.

Mid-rp post for a modern (mermaid) fantasy

Unaware of everything save for the dreamy memories flitting briefly through his mind, even that soon began to fade, and though life returned to him, the vignettes of his life did not. Consciousness was still a long ways off, but for now, everything was black to him. When memory did return to him, it was different than when his life had 'flashed before his eyes.' Though he gave no external sign of it, consciousness was beginning to creep over him, like the fingers of dawn.

It started with the sacred remembrance of a mermaid's song. It was an eery sound, but so beautiful, one would go towards it willingly, even if it were death. He did not know how long he drifted, cradled in the bosom of those sonar notes, but it was without beginning and without end. It connected with his soul, touched him in a timeless way. It was the nurturing murmur of his mother's voice when he was still in the womb. It was the lifegiving blood of amniotic fluid. It was the earth that would take him when he died, and return his mortal form to dust. It was the closest he had ever come to hearing god speak to him. It was an alien language, one which made no logical sense to his mind, but it felt to him like the native tongue of his spirit.

His memory warped the sound, gave it more vowels, carried it in undulating patterns which rose and fell, cacooned him and then drifted back. As he listened, his awareness very slowly widened until he could feel sand beneath his fingers, and a sore ache all over his body. There was a sharper throb on his frontal lobe, and a sticky wetness there that was different than the chill damp on the rest of him. And a weight ... a painful pressure, so unpleasant after that surreal drifting, as reality returned to him. He could also hear the sounds of birds, of wind rustling palm leaves. Further away, the whisper of waves lapping a shore, and startlingly close, the occasional scratch of microscopic rocks scraping together as something on top of them moved. These sounds were different than the song he heard in his head. He heard these noises with his ears, which forced him to differentiate, and begin to realize that this incredible music was a figment of his imagination, a memory he had never had.

Breaths came stronger through his lungs, raising and lowering his chest. They now made an audible, steady sound. As the sun reached his face, he felt the warmth, but did not stir. The light shone richly on his tanned skin, making it look deeper, and more alive. Before he had resembled a waxy corpse. The nymph had kissed life back into him, but now, the sun reanimated him with a caress. Where his skin was thinner, the light reacted differently. Through his exposed earlobes, it shone red, casting tiny pink reflections on the sand beneath him. It highlighted the pulse which jerked through an artery in his neck. It formed narrow shadows behind each vein on the back of his hand, a valley behind each mountain, as though every inch of his skin was a miniature landscape. His eyelids looked nearly white underneath the already-strong sunlight, and his eyes beneath them showed faintly through like dark, circular shadows.

Then, they began to move. These veiled circles roved from side to side in twitchy patterns, and his dark, thick eyebrows furrowed as if loathe to be woken by the unrelenting light. The mystical sound of that voice had faded away to nothingness, the siren song had left him bereft. When he began to let go of it, he suddenly heard one last note, one resounding chime of that unearthly knell, which ended the memory for good, but stayed with him for a long time, resounding through his soul long after he had forgotten it.

With it, his nostrils flared as he suddenly drew in a breath through his nose instead of his parted lips, and then he coughed. Eyes still shut, body still limp against the ground, a couple of small coughs wracked him, making his torso jerk slightly. He turned his head, grimacing harder, and then slitted his eyes open. There was so much pain in his throat, from all the leftover salt, but the sunlight lancing into his head hurt him too. His head wound throbbed so much, it seemed like an atmospheric pressure which actually pulsated against him from above. His eyesight was blurry at first, offering him only a sense of light, and of cheerful colors of blue and green.

Needing to breathe more than he needed to see, Sterling lifted his head and tried to roll to the side, but did not make it very far before he swayed. He had never felt so nauseous, nor more in pain. It was incredibly disorienting. Nearly panting from the exertion of the motion, he winced against the light and slowly looked up, forcing his eyes to adjust to things that were less close than the grains of sand coating his wet sleeve.

That was when he finally glimpsed her. A woman so beautiful, his first response was to believe that he was dreaming. That notion only lasted a moment, as the pain was far too realistic and specific to be of the stuff of dreams. Yet she looked like a mirage, a figment of his imagination, transposed over this dreadfully real environment, the product of a nasty head injury. Her hair was white, with iridescent lights in it, almost as though each individual strand were see-through and refracted the sunlight into rainbows. They did not make hair that color. And what girl would actually wear her hair that long?

Her skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the sun, but here she was, sitting buck naked under the full blaze of it. Skin that white belonged to a redhead, and would have picked up UV rays faster than a pretty hitchhiker. Her skin almost hurt to look at, though his eyes were still overly sensitive to the light. Why, he wondered, was he hallucinating nude women? More importantly, why was he here? When he wondered this, his mind conjured up a brief, confusing image of a storm at night, black waters, and a rush of sound, but he had to grimace and shut his eyes to it. The memory was too chaotic and overwhelming right now.

All he could concern himself with was that very moment. It was already too much for him. Thankfully he also did not remain fixated on the woman, and missed her scales, and better still, her gills. Even what he could glimpse of her nakedness could not hold him now. Laying on his right side, leaning on that same forearm, he brought his free arm around slowly to press the heel of that hand - covered with sand and dirt - to his face, wiping it over his left eye and leaving a smear of sludge there. As he flexed that shoulder, he felt stabbing pains shooting down his spine. Dear lord, what had happened to him?

Shipwreck.

The word came to him and reverberated through his mind. Shipwrecked how and with whom, he had no immediate recollection. Sitting up slowly and with a groan, he began to feel out his legs and arms, realizing with relief that nothing was broken. The vegetation wrapped and tangled around him was a hindrance, which he began to pull off with an irritation which gave him strength. His muscles protested against this use, and his head pounded with a vengeance, but he ignored it until he was mostly free, and then gingerly touched his head injury. Pulling his fingertips away, he saw sticky, fresh blood, and he frowned.

This human flesh wound reminded him of his mysterious companion (who, if still there, was likely not an imaginary person) and he looked over at her, choking out a raspy, "Are you alright?" His voice was not the velvety, deep concoction that it usually was. It sounded rusty with disuse and possibly too much nicotine (though that was not the case). His vocal chords felt like beef jerky: dried, salty, and inflexible.

He realized that the rest of him was in fine working order, however, as he looked at the woman. Half-dead and mostly drowned, he could still appreciate her exposed femininity. Apparently all that was necessary for him to be able to think sexually was a pulse. She appeared unhurt, in fact, she appeared downright perfect. Except for a bloodless cut on her ribcage, which did not look so good. His brows furrowed again in concern, but supposing her to be very self-conscious of her naked state (or if she was too disoriented to be, then he should be on her behalf) he said, "here," and began unbuttoning his flannel shirt. His fingers were stiff and clumsy, and it took him awhile to get all the buttons undone, and even longer to then peel it off of his torso (to which his body protested most adamantly). The black v-neck tee shirt he wore beneath it was mostly unscathed, but wet and clung to him as his flannel shirt had done. He held out the article of clothing, and did his best not to look upon her points of interest, being more of a gentleman than was usual for boys his age.

Many more samples available upon request. If you want to see an example of something specific, just ask. I've done a very wide range of things.

Plots:

I'm open to pretty much any plot that isn't gruesome horror, vampires, or werewolves. But you never know, I may be amendable! Here are some of my specific ideas...

Mecha

Post-Apocalypse

Downton Abbey Era

Dimension-Traveling (All genres, total freedom,

This is a plot about two characters who can travel through time, space, and dimensions. They can literally show up in any plot or any genre that we, the two writers, want them to. They can visit our other characters, we could pop into other role-plays and include other people, this thing is...imagination-roving.

It can range between any setting: period drama, sci-fi, fantasy of any kind, anthropomorphous, apocalyptic, gladiators, modern, pirate...
And almost any genre (though it will probably always be action/adventure on some level): horror, comedy, drama, romance...

Literally ANYTHING you can think of. You don't have to want to do all of them, but you should want to do some of them, and some more ideas of your own.

Character A (can be you or me) has long-lived a lonely, but exciting (and oftentimes horrifying) life of traveling through time, space, and dimensions without warning and against their will. It seems that the universe takes this character places to accomplish certain things, i.e. helping people on their quests, keeping someone from dying, basically to make something happen or to keep something from happening. The character moves on to a different timeline approximately once they have succeeded or failed at this vague mission. It can be years or it can be hours, although it is probably most often days or weeks.

Our story begins when character A runs into character B. For whatever reason, they discover that they can travel together.

Character B should have some special skills that can help in some way, otherwise it would be a horrible damsel-in-distress situation, without relief. (No matter the gender.) Either way, it will take B time to adjust, and it will be traumatic, and they will need saving at first. But if they start out being a competent person, this phase will be shorter. Perhaps they are a cop, an assassin, a genius, a historian, a botanist, anything really that could lend skills, however small, to this lifestyle.

I may have an intro for this, whether or not we use it, if that helps you.

Extreme Fantasy (not elves)

I want an RP that puts no limits on my imagination and creativity. There are two options:

I envision something akin to a medieval setting, but with the ability to change anything we want. Giant, highly intelligent animals, incredibly gorgeous scenery, beautiful mood-music. Someone who loves art and using references, and who really enjoys detail, would be perfect for this. It would work with most any plot, but something simple would really let the setting shine.

The What-If Machine

What if there was a machine that let you see what your life would be like if you had made a different choice? It lets you see the past that you missed out on, and the future you can never have.
What if you married that old girlfriend?
What if you majored in something else?
What if you got cleaned up and never made those mistakes?
What if you had taken more risks?

This plot can work for literally anything. It can take you back into an old RP that you loved, give a well-loved character an alternate life, anything.[/hide]
I am open to any changes to these plots, as well as hearing any of your plots! I love brainstorming with others.

I really love hearing the plots of others, as well. I am very good at adding onto it and getting ideas as we brainstorm! Coming up with plots and characters is quite fun; if our writing styles are compatible, we should have no trouble figuring out what to write about!

Want to write a book with me?

I love the style of collaborative writing that can take place over Google Docs or a private pad. All those hours of writing can proudly see the light of day when written together, as if it is a book. Dialogue flows so much more smoothly, and it is actually a great deal easier to write. Redundancies are unnecessary, and it makes it far more enjoyable to read.

It works pretty much the same; you each have characters that you're responsible for controlling, or NPCs. If your character would react to something another character does or says, it could happen right away, rather than awkwardly, a post later. Dialogue, battle, and a slew of other things can be written with far greater ease. Long posts often still work, too!

References are important, since both writers are likely to play roles in describing things.

It requires a lot of collaboration, discussion, and flexibility, but it is well worth it! The level of integration and how exactly we do it varies from person to person. One person can act as "GM," creating an interactive story experience for the other writer, or both writers can have equal creative responsibility.

POV's: It can be written from third person omniscient (the way roleplaying is usually done) limited (where there is only one "main" character whose thoughts are shown) or even objective (no one's thoughts are seen).

However we want to do it is completely up to us. We could always just try it, and if you don't like it, we could go back to traditional RP.

This style improves the writer far more than anything else I have found in 15+ years of writing, and it is so fun!

I can provide an example of this type of RP.

Again if this style doesn't interest you, I can write in email, thread, etc.

I can't wait to hear from you guys! I would prefer for you to respond here. If you are only able to PM, though, that is fine.