Webnovel Feedback Roasts For the Fearless

[TheIcMan]

tutel and evil jumpscare

 

[StoneInky]

Not offering my work, (don't read it yet, lol), I just wanna say your reviews are sooo fun. I'm reading through them while gasping at the metaphors and the drama and the kinda sing-songy prose? I'm unsure how to describe it, but it is awesome.

And I can also apply your criticism to look back on my own work, and get a feel for the novels here, to choose one that sounds interesting despite the flaws. Three birds with one stone!

 

[OscarTlau]

Are you one of those brave souls who believe your manuscript is teetering on perfection but still wake up at 3 a.m. knowing deep down it’s a disaster? Good. You’re my favorite kind of writer. I’m here to roast your work—scorch it until the ashes look usable. Think of me as the Gordon Ramsay of prose, minus the condescension and fake praise. If your story’s dialogue sounds like two malfunctioning robots reciting a phrasebook, or your pacing moves like a snail overdosed on melatonin, I’ll say so. And you’ll thank me. (Eventually.)

I won’t pat your ego or whisper empty affirmations about how your “raw passion” is shining through. I’ll wield my critiques like a rusty spork and perform open-heart surgery on your prose—messy, necessary, and unforgettable. Don’t worry; you’ll survive. Growth always hurts. But so does realizing your novel reads like someone fell asleep on a keyboard.

If you think your manuscript is ready for tough love, I’ll give it to you straight—no sugar, no spoon. You’ll cry, sure, but you’ll also crawl out of the wreckage stronger. Because what doesn’t kill your manuscript will absolutely make it publishable.

Think you can handle it? Drop your link below. Let’s fix your words before they become tomorrow’s filler on this website.

Any critique is a good critique... Go bash me into a wall and drag me across the halls of my self conciousness...

 

[PandaKen07]

The Ascendants: Early Years

In the peaceful town of Ozamian, young Artreus dreams of becoming the strongest knight, inspired by his older brother, Arthur Reigns. But his life is shattered when the Demon King Abaddon attacks their town, killing his mother and leaving a trail of devastation. Determined to seek justice and...

www.scribblehub.com

Please check out mine, please leave a review or comment.

 

[Tempokai]

I'm maybe overly proud of my work, i think i could deal with a little bit of puncturing. i think that my story is Well Disguised as another kind of story. This story came to me because I've read so many stories where some loser summons a succubus who immediately fucks them, and I wanted to write about what it feels like to be that demon.

im a SH noob, if there are extra tags i should include let me know :)

HELLF*CKED – or: devil on her shoulder

A demon girl is bound by her Summoner. The deal they make, and what comes after. Psychedelic autistic demonic dickgirl dubcon. IT'S not SMUT. They fuck on page one. It's also a slowburn. this is not a contradiction if you're a lesbian. Cross uploading with ao3. if you need to...

www.scribblehub.com

Oh, you poor sweet literary exhibitionist. You cracked your knuckles, lit a couple of candles, stared into the abyss of your keyboard and said, “Yes. I will write horny art.” And then, somehow, what came out was therapy in a drag. You attempted seduction with the earnest flailing of a high school slam poet trying to arouse someone using only scented candle descriptions and metaphors stolen from a discontinued Bath & Body Works product line.

Let’s not sugarcoat this—because your writing certainly doesn’t. It’s coated in something, sure, but it’s not sugar. It’s a fine slime of faux-depth, stretched over the barest scaffolding of storytelling.

Lust Rule #4, quoted directly from the Book of Common Fucking Sense: “Unpersuasive lust isn’t lust. It’s masturbation.” And my god, you’ve written the literary equivalent of someone sobbing while edging to a motivational podcast. You’ve confused vulnerability with seduction, and in doing so, created something that’s neither arousing nor interesting. It’s just... moist with feelings.

I don't care what you pair. Futa demon with anxiety witch? Monster x sad girl? Fine. You could’ve paired a washing machine with a raincloud and still made it hot if you understood the basic principle of arousal—conviction. The kink doesn’t matter, the delivery does. Smut works when it compels. When it persuades. Yours stood in the middle of a foggy room, whimpering about being misunderstood while gently humping the plot like it needed permission first. That’s not lust. That’s a trust-building exercise gone horribly wrong.

But let’s rewind. Your synopsis? A war crime against rhetoric. It violated all four Gricean maxims so hard Paul Grice himself just rolled over in his grave, lit a cigarette, and said, “Not even I can fix that one.”

You told the reader nothing. Except, and I quote, “It’s smut.” Yes. Thanks. The tag already did that job. But no, you chose to spend your only chance at first impression by screaming what the audience already knew. That’s like yelling “WATER IS WET” while someone’s already drowning. You had a chance to hook a reader. To create mystique, tension, intrigue. Instead, you came out pants-down, swinging a glitter-dildo labeled “PSYCHEDELIC AUTISTIC DEMONIC DICKGIRL DUBCON” like that’s supposed to be self-explanatory. It isn’t. It sounds like the worst Magic: The Gathering card ever designed.

Even if I try to forgive the synopsis—and I tried, I really did—Chapter One doesn’t save you. It starts like it’s going to pounce. There’s the posturing, the setup, the freckled demon nipples and the power games. But then it just... squats there. Sultry, and silent, and slowly decaying. It's not even that the scene is badly written on a sentence level (though you do deserve jail for that tectonic plates metaphor); it’s that it’s theatrics without grounding. You tell me the demon wants to bite, rip, maul, devour. But I don’t feel it. The scene is masturbatory—not in the literal way, but in the literary sense. It’s just the demon, flexing in the mirror, whispering “God I’m so edgy” while pretending not to cry about being lonely.

The problem is that you thought you could coast on pathos. That sheer emotion, unearned and unmoored, could carry the weight of your plot. Except, as anyone with more than five functioning neurons knows: emotion without structure is just noise. In a visual medium, sure, you can get away with this. You show a sad anime girl crying in the rain over a broken toaster, set it to soft piano music, and boom—some nerd somewhere gets misty-eyed. But in prose? Readers need stakes. We need why. You can't just dunk us in demonic cunnilingus and expect us to invest in Dow Jones as if it is 2007.

Chapter Two. What the hell, Chapter Two. That wasn’t a tonal shift. That was a full-on identity crisis. You go from “I want to bite her throat while she rides me to magical ruin” to “She asked me what I want and now I am a sad flame with abandonment issues.” What happened? Did a therapist walk into the room halfway through your draft? Was this edited by your ex-girlfriend during a Mercury retrograde?

You stopped writing smut and started writing a sad lesbian indie game about trauma bonding with your summoner. Suddenly those two are navigating complex feelings about belonging, and identity, and what it means to be seen. That's fine—would've been beautiful even—in another goddamn story not about hardcore smut. But you pitched me infernal lust and magical dominance, and instead gave me cuddlecore with grief demons. You blue-balled me on plot and sex, which is basically the worst crime a smut writer can commit. Sure, you're saying that here, that it is "disguised as another kind of a story", but what about the reader who will see it in the wild, not knowing that it is "that" type of story? I didn’t consent to being emotionally baited by a sheet-draped demon with the personality of a Netflix docuseries protagonist.

You said “succubus smut” and gave me “Sad Monster Queer Woman Learns to Feel Again.” And the worst part is, you’re not even bad at writing. That’s what makes this so insulting. The prose could work, the characters could be interesting, but you’re too wrapped up in your own aesthetic of "depressive lesbian sex with progressive flavor" to actually tell a story. You're inserting West Coast type of narrative that I facepalmed so hard when Chapter 2 arrived. You’re so obsessed with making your readers feel that you forgot to make them care. You made the one mistake smut writers can’t afford: you didn’t anyone outside of that bubble want.

You failed Lust Rule #4. Not because you're incapable of writing desire. But because you substituted that desire with performative melancholy, and expected that to get readers off. You performed lust like a sad magician at a suburban birthday party—clumsy, hesitant, and increasingly sweaty.

And when I wasn’t seduced, I wasn’t persuaded. Which means, that you lost a reader.

And you lost easy.

 

[CharlesEBrown]

It sounds like the worst Magic: The Gathering card ever designed.

OK, that is an epic line

You made the one mistake smut writers can’t afford: you didn’t anyone outside of that bubble want.

I think there's a word or two missing in the bolded part?

 

[JayMark]

The problem is that you thought you could coast on pathos. That sheer emotion, unearned and unmoored, could carry the weight of your plot. Except, as anyone with more than five functioning neurons knows: emotion without structure is just noise. In a visual medium, sure, you can get away with this. You show a sad anime girl crying in the rain over a broken toaster, set it to soft piano music, and boom—some nerd somewhere gets misty-eyed. But in prose? Readers need stakes. We need why. You can't just dunk us in demonic cunnilingus and expect us to invest in Dow Jones as if it is 2007.

On the distinction between visual mediums and prose.

 

[Anonjohn20]

Oh, you poor sweet literary exhibitionist. You cracked your knuckles, lit a couple of candles, stared into the abyss of your keyboard and said, “Yes. I will write horny art.” And then, somehow, what came out was therapy in a drag. You attempted seduction with the earnest flailing of a high school slam poet trying to arouse someone using only scented candle descriptions and metaphors stolen from a discontinued Bath & Body Works product line.

Let’s not sugarcoat this—because your writing certainly doesn’t. It’s coated in something, sure, but it’s not sugar. It’s a fine slime of faux-depth, stretched over the barest scaffolding of storytelling.

Lust Rule #4, quoted directly from the Book of Common Fucking Sense: “Unpersuasive lust isn’t lust. It’s masturbation.” And my god, you’ve written the literary equivalent of someone sobbing while edging to a motivational podcast. You’ve confused vulnerability with seduction, and in doing so, created something that’s neither arousing nor interesting. It’s just... moist with feelings.

I don't care what you pair. Futa demon with anxiety witch? Monster x sad girl? Fine. You could’ve paired a washing machine with a raincloud and still made it hot if you understood the basic principle of arousal—conviction. The kink doesn’t matter, the delivery does. Smut works when it compels. When it persuades. Yours stood in the middle of a foggy room, whimpering about being misunderstood while gently humping the plot like it needed permission first. That’s not lust. That’s a trust-building exercise gone horribly wrong.

But let’s rewind. Your synopsis? A war crime against rhetoric. It violated all four Gricean maxims so hard Paul Grice himself just rolled over in his grave, lit a cigarette, and said, “Not even I can fix that one.”

You told the reader nothing. Except, and I quote, “It’s smut.” Yes. Thanks. The tag already did that job. But no, you chose to spend your only chance at first impression by screaming what the audience already knew. That’s like yelling “WATER IS WET” while someone’s already drowning. You had a chance to hook a reader. To create mystique, tension, intrigue. Instead, you came out pants-down, swinging a glitter-dildo labeled “PSYCHEDELIC AUTISTIC DEMONIC DICKGIRL DUBCON” like that’s supposed to be self-explanatory. It isn’t. It sounds like the worst Magic: The Gathering card ever designed.

Even if I try to forgive the synopsis—and I tried, I really did—Chapter One doesn’t save you. It starts like it’s going to pounce. There’s the posturing, the setup, the freckled demon nipples and the power games. But then it just... squats there. Sultry, and silent, and slowly decaying. It's not even that the scene is badly written on a sentence level (though you do deserve jail for that tectonic plates metaphor); it’s that it’s theatrics without grounding. You tell me the demon wants to bite, rip, maul, devour. But I don’t feel it. The scene is masturbatory—not in the literal way, but in the literary sense. It’s just the demon, flexing in the mirror, whispering “God I’m so edgy” while pretending not to cry about being lonely.

The problem is that you thought you could coast on pathos. That sheer emotion, unearned and unmoored, could carry the weight of your plot. Except, as anyone with more than five functioning neurons knows: emotion without structure is just noise. In a visual medium, sure, you can get away with this. You show a sad anime girl crying in the rain over a broken toaster, set it to soft piano music, and boom—some nerd somewhere gets misty-eyed. But in prose? Readers need stakes. We need why. You can't just dunk us in demonic cunnilingus and expect us to invest in Dow Jones as if it is 2007.

Chapter Two. What the hell, Chapter Two. That wasn’t a tonal shift. That was a full-on identity crisis. You go from “I want to bite her throat while she rides me to magical ruin” to “She asked me what I want and now I am a sad flame with abandonment issues.” What happened? Did a therapist walk into the room halfway through your draft? Was this edited by your ex-girlfriend during a Mercury retrograde?

You stopped writing smut and started writing a sad lesbian indie game about trauma bonding with your summoner. Suddenly those two are navigating complex feelings about belonging, and identity, and what it means to be seen. That's fine—would've been beautiful even—in another goddamn story not about hardcore smut. But you pitched me infernal lust and magical dominance, and instead gave me cuddlecore with grief demons. You blue-balled me on plot and sex, which is basically the worst crime a smut writer can commit. Sure, you're saying that here, that it is "disguised as another kind of a story", but what about the reader who will see it in the wild, not knowing that it is "that" type of story? I didn’t consent to being emotionally baited by a sheet-draped demon with the personality of a Netflix docuseries protagonist.

You said “succubus smut” and gave me “Sad Monster Queer Woman Learns to Feel Again.” And the worst part is, you’re not even bad at writing. That’s what makes this so insulting. The prose could work, the characters could be interesting, but you’re too wrapped up in your own aesthetic of "depressive lesbian sex with progressive flavor" to actually tell a story. You're inserting West Coast type of narrative that I facepalmed so hard when Chapter 2 arrived. You’re so obsessed with making your readers feel that you forgot to make them care. You made the one mistake smut writers can’t afford: you didn’t anyone outside of that bubble want.

You failed Lust Rule #4. Not because you're incapable of writing desire. But because you substituted that desire with performative melancholy, and expected that to get readers off. You performed lust like a sad magician at a suburban birthday party—clumsy, hesitant, and increasingly sweaty.

And when I wasn’t seduced, I wasn’t persuaded. Which means, that you lost a reader.

And you lost easy.

According to the author, all lesbians have no idea what a slow burn is: "They fuck on page one. It's also a slowburn. this is not a contradiction if you're a lesbian."

Chapter 1 does look like it would do well in AO3, so the author crossposting there might lead to some success. This is, of course, assuming they donate to her Ko-fi before looking at chapter 2.

 

[Danielbanda]

Are you one of those brave souls who believe your manuscript is teetering on perfection but still wake up at 3 a.m. knowing deep down it’s a disaster? Good. You’re my favorite kind of writer. I’m here to roast your work—scorch it until the ashes look usable. Think of me as the Gordon Ramsay of prose, minus the condescension and fake praise. If your story’s dialogue sounds like two malfunctioning robots reciting a phrasebook, or your pacing moves like a snail overdosed on melatonin, I’ll say so. And you’ll thank me. (Eventually.)

I won’t pat your ego or whisper empty affirmations about how your “raw passion” is shining through. I’ll wield my critiques like a rusty spork and perform open-heart surgery on your prose—messy, necessary, and unforgettable. Don’t worry; you’ll survive. Growth always hurts. But so does realizing your novel reads like someone fell asleep on a keyboard.

If you think your manuscript is ready for tough love, I’ll give it to you straight—no sugar, no spoon. You’ll cry, sure, but you’ll also crawl out of the wreckage stronger. Because what doesn’t kill your manuscript will absolutely make it publishable.

Think you can handle it? Drop your link below. Let’s fix your words before they become tomorrow’s filler on this website.

Here is mine

RYOJIN KUROHANE; THE ABYSSAL MONARCH

Ryojin Kurohane was once a powerful warrior, drawing strength from the mysterious Nexus Abyss—the place where the realms of mortals, demons, spirits, and gods collide. But betrayal came from the one he trusted most. Branded a threat, the Celestial Order cast him into the Abyss—a void so...

www.scribblehub.com

 

[StoneInky]

Oh, you poor sweet literary exhibitionist. You cracked your knuckles, lit a couple of candles, stared into the abyss of your keyboard and said, “Yes. I will write horny art.” And then, somehow, what came out was therapy in a drag. You attempted seduction with the earnest flailing of a high school slam poet trying to arouse someone using only scented candle descriptions and metaphors stolen from a discontinued Bath & Body Works product line.

Let’s not sugarcoat this—because your writing certainly doesn’t. It’s coated in something, sure, but it’s not sugar. It’s a fine slime of faux-depth, stretched over the barest scaffolding of storytelling.

Lust Rule #4, quoted directly from the Book of Common Fucking Sense: “Unpersuasive lust isn’t lust. It’s masturbation.” And my god, you’ve written the literary equivalent of someone sobbing while edging to a motivational podcast. You’ve confused vulnerability with seduction, and in doing so, created something that’s neither arousing nor interesting. It’s just... moist with feelings.

I don't care what you pair. Futa demon with anxiety witch? Monster x sad girl? Fine. You could’ve paired a washing machine with a raincloud and still made it hot if you understood the basic principle of arousal—conviction. The kink doesn’t matter, the delivery does. Smut works when it compels. When it persuades. Yours stood in the middle of a foggy room, whimpering about being misunderstood while gently humping the plot like it needed permission first. That’s not lust. That’s a trust-building exercise gone horribly wrong.

But let’s rewind. Your synopsis? A war crime against rhetoric. It violated all four Gricean maxims so hard Paul Grice himself just rolled over in his grave, lit a cigarette, and said, “Not even I can fix that one.”

You told the reader nothing. Except, and I quote, “It’s smut.” Yes. Thanks. The tag already did that job. But no, you chose to spend your only chance at first impression by screaming what the audience already knew. That’s like yelling “WATER IS WET” while someone’s already drowning. You had a chance to hook a reader. To create mystique, tension, intrigue. Instead, you came out pants-down, swinging a glitter-dildo labeled “PSYCHEDELIC AUTISTIC DEMONIC DICKGIRL DUBCON” like that’s supposed to be self-explanatory. It isn’t. It sounds like the worst Magic: The Gathering card ever designed.

Even if I try to forgive the synopsis—and I tried, I really did—Chapter One doesn’t save you. It starts like it’s going to pounce. There’s the posturing, the setup, the freckled demon nipples and the power games. But then it just... squats there. Sultry, and silent, and slowly decaying. It's not even that the scene is badly written on a sentence level (though you do deserve jail for that tectonic plates metaphor); it’s that it’s theatrics without grounding. You tell me the demon wants to bite, rip, maul, devour. But I don’t feel it. The scene is masturbatory—not in the literal way, but in the literary sense. It’s just the demon, flexing in the mirror, whispering “God I’m so edgy” while pretending not to cry about being lonely.

The problem is that you thought you could coast on pathos. That sheer emotion, unearned and unmoored, could carry the weight of your plot. Except, as anyone with more than five functioning neurons knows: emotion without structure is just noise. In a visual medium, sure, you can get away with this. You show a sad anime girl crying in the rain over a broken toaster, set it to soft piano music, and boom—some nerd somewhere gets misty-eyed. But in prose? Readers need stakes. We need why. You can't just dunk us in demonic cunnilingus and expect us to invest in Dow Jones as if it is 2007.

Chapter Two. What the hell, Chapter Two. That wasn’t a tonal shift. That was a full-on identity crisis. You go from “I want to bite her throat while she rides me to magical ruin” to “She asked me what I want and now I am a sad flame with abandonment issues.” What happened? Did a therapist walk into the room halfway through your draft? Was this edited by your ex-girlfriend during a Mercury retrograde?

You stopped writing smut and started writing a sad lesbian indie game about trauma bonding with your summoner. Suddenly those two are navigating complex feelings about belonging, and identity, and what it means to be seen. That's fine—would've been beautiful even—in another goddamn story not about hardcore smut. But you pitched me infernal lust and magical dominance, and instead gave me cuddlecore with grief demons. You blue-balled me on plot and sex, which is basically the worst crime a smut writer can commit. Sure, you're saying that here, that it is "disguised as another kind of a story", but what about the reader who will see it in the wild, not knowing that it is "that" type of story? I didn’t consent to being emotionally baited by a sheet-draped demon with the personality of a Netflix docuseries protagonist.

You said “succubus smut” and gave me “Sad Monster Queer Woman Learns to Feel Again.” And the worst part is, you’re not even bad at writing. That’s what makes this so insulting. The prose could work, the characters could be interesting, but you’re too wrapped up in your own aesthetic of "depressive lesbian sex with progressive flavor" to actually tell a story. You're inserting West Coast type of narrative that I facepalmed so hard when Chapter 2 arrived. You’re so obsessed with making your readers feel that you forgot to make them care. You made the one mistake smut writers can’t afford: you didn’t anyone outside of that bubble want.

You failed Lust Rule #4. Not because you're incapable of writing desire. But because you substituted that desire with performative melancholy, and expected that to get readers off. You performed lust like a sad magician at a suburban birthday party—clumsy, hesitant, and increasingly sweaty.

And when I wasn’t seduced, I wasn’t persuaded. Which means, that you lost a reader.

And you lost easy.

I've tried to review that novel before. It felt... off, somehow, but I didn't know why, and I couldn't explain.

This is perfect. It puts everything I felt into words.

Yeah, I quit at Chapter 2, too. I couldn't understand what the hell was going on. I expected fricking, but then I saw something that was definitely not fricking, and I saw lots of complex backstory, settings, and got bored.

I thought it was a 'me' problem. I just wasn't used to lesbian smutt, and the writing was perfect. Beccause the writing certainly looked perfect.

Well, GUESS WHAT!

All hail the great Tempokai.

 

[7ydy]

Oh, you poor sweet literary exhibitionist. You cracked your knuckles, lit a couple of candles, stared into the abyss of your keyboard and said, “Yes. I will write horny art.” And then, somehow, what came out was therapy in a drag. You attempted seduction with the earnest flailing of a high school slam poet trying to arouse someone using only scented candle descriptions and metaphors stolen from a discontinued Bath & Body Works product line.

Let’s not sugarcoat this—because your writing certainly doesn’t. It’s coated in something, sure, but it’s not sugar. It’s a fine slime of faux-depth, stretched over the barest scaffolding of storytelling.

Lust Rule #4, quoted directly from the Book of Common Fucking Sense: “Unpersuasive lust isn’t lust. It’s masturbation.” And my god, you’ve written the literary equivalent of someone sobbing while edging to a motivational podcast. You’ve confused vulnerability with seduction, and in doing so, created something that’s neither arousing nor interesting. It’s just... moist with feelings.

I don't care what you pair. Futa demon with anxiety witch? Monster x sad girl? Fine. You could’ve paired a washing machine with a raincloud and still made it hot if you understood the basic principle of arousal—conviction. The kink doesn’t matter, the delivery does. Smut works when it compels. When it persuades. Yours stood in the middle of a foggy room, whimpering about being misunderstood while gently humping the plot like it needed permission first. That’s not lust. That’s a trust-building exercise gone horribly wrong.

But let’s rewind. Your synopsis? A war crime against rhetoric. It violated all four Gricean maxims so hard Paul Grice himself just rolled over in his grave, lit a cigarette, and said, “Not even I can fix that one.”

You told the reader nothing. Except, and I quote, “It’s smut.” Yes. Thanks. The tag already did that job. But no, you chose to spend your only chance at first impression by screaming what the audience already knew. That’s like yelling “WATER IS WET” while someone’s already drowning. You had a chance to hook a reader. To create mystique, tension, intrigue. Instead, you came out pants-down, swinging a glitter-dildo labeled “PSYCHEDELIC AUTISTIC DEMONIC DICKGIRL DUBCON” like that’s supposed to be self-explanatory. It isn’t. It sounds like the worst Magic: The Gathering card ever designed.

Even if I try to forgive the synopsis—and I tried, I really did—Chapter One doesn’t save you. It starts like it’s going to pounce. There’s the posturing, the setup, the freckled demon nipples and the power games. But then it just... squats there. Sultry, and silent, and slowly decaying. It's not even that the scene is badly written on a sentence level (though you do deserve jail for that tectonic plates metaphor); it’s that it’s theatrics without grounding. You tell me the demon wants to bite, rip, maul, devour. But I don’t feel it. The scene is masturbatory—not in the literal way, but in the literary sense. It’s just the demon, flexing in the mirror, whispering “God I’m so edgy” while pretending not to cry about being lonely.

The problem is that you thought you could coast on pathos. That sheer emotion, unearned and unmoored, could carry the weight of your plot. Except, as anyone with more than five functioning neurons knows: emotion without structure is just noise. In a visual medium, sure, you can get away with this. You show a sad anime girl crying in the rain over a broken toaster, set it to soft piano music, and boom—some nerd somewhere gets misty-eyed. But in prose? Readers need stakes. We need why. You can't just dunk us in demonic cunnilingus and expect us to invest in Dow Jones as if it is 2007.

Chapter Two. What the hell, Chapter Two. That wasn’t a tonal shift. That was a full-on identity crisis. You go from “I want to bite her throat while she rides me to magical ruin” to “She asked me what I want and now I am a sad flame with abandonment issues.” What happened? Did a therapist walk into the room halfway through your draft? Was this edited by your ex-girlfriend during a Mercury retrograde?

You stopped writing smut and started writing a sad lesbian indie game about trauma bonding with your summoner. Suddenly those two are navigating complex feelings about belonging, and identity, and what it means to be seen. That's fine—would've been beautiful even—in another goddamn story not about hardcore smut. But you pitched me infernal lust and magical dominance, and instead gave me cuddlecore with grief demons. You blue-balled me on plot and sex, which is basically the worst crime a smut writer can commit. Sure, you're saying that here, that it is "disguised as another kind of a story", but what about the reader who will see it in the wild, not knowing that it is "that" type of story? I didn’t consent to being emotionally baited by a sheet-draped demon with the personality of a Netflix docuseries protagonist.

You said “succubus smut” and gave me “Sad Monster Queer Woman Learns to Feel Again.” And the worst part is, you’re not even bad at writing. That’s what makes this so insulting. The prose could work, the characters could be interesting, but you’re too wrapped up in your own aesthetic of "depressive lesbian sex with progressive flavor" to actually tell a story. You're inserting West Coast type of narrative that I facepalmed so hard when Chapter 2 arrived. You’re so obsessed with making your readers feel that you forgot to make them care. You made the one mistake smut writers can’t afford: you didn’t anyone outside of that bubble want.

You failed Lust Rule #4. Not because you're incapable of writing desire. But because you substituted that desire with performative melancholy, and expected that to get readers off. You performed lust like a sad magician at a suburban birthday party—clumsy, hesitant, and increasingly sweaty.

And when I wasn’t seduced, I wasn’t persuaded. Which means, that you lost a reader.

And you lost easy.

thanks for this!?? i really find the feedback very valuable. i'm gonna take a look at what i've written and find it's core and reshape it based on what you've written here. i don't appreciate the "faux" progressive, gag, but i think that i should rewrite the first few chapters from scratch. i wrote this story over the course of a year, and i think you're very right. i did just write it as a little therapy when i was down and out after surgery (read: on painkillers)

also, i'll change the descriptor to "it's not smut"

also also, you didnt make fun of the feet based magic system

edit: updated chapter 2 based on the feedbaxk

 

[Tempokai]

Here's mine!

The Lost Princess’ Descendant: The First Bloom

Book 1: The First Bloom *** This is a raw release of a completed book. It's part of a fast-evolving series that I'm writing with momentum and passion. While the final polished version will come after the series is complete, the full story is here and ready for you to dive into....

www.scribblehub.com

"Persuasion is survival when creation is dirt cheap."

When the internet was not a thing, writing a story was a sacred act—a stitched-together soul poured onto parchment, a prayer carved in ink and blood. But now? Now, everyone with an internet connection and a half-charged phone is a god. A bored, petty, click-happy god of their own tiny universe, spitting out creation ex nihilo onto whatever platform will take it—be it RR, SH, or the nearest toilet-paper reincarnation of whatever niche story uploading database you can think of. You want isekai’d dudes with twelve wives and one emotionally unavailable slime familiar? Done. Shapeshifting demon smut about therapy and unresolved mother issues? Boom. Or, as in your case, you wanted Chinese historical tragedy cosplay, dipped in melancholia and tied together with silk and sorrow. So you did what so many do—you summoned your divine powers and spoke the sacred phrase:

“Generate chapter about sad girl running from assassins. 1000 words. Make it poetic. Part 1 from 3.”

But alas, you’re not a god, not anymore. You’re a dead god. A corpse on a throne. In your absence, you handed the divine spark of creation to your robot butler—an LLM. A Large Language Model. A digital service that disguises as an AI for marketing purposes, who’s very good at polishing apples, but doesn’t know a damn thing about trees.

Now, I don’t know what particular flavor of AI you fetched from the closet—whether it was the ChatGPT that has the tone of a particularly bored teacher, or some knockoff knockoff version (ahem, DeepSeek) with only three watts of personality. All that matters is that your butler’s greasy fingerprints are all over this manuscript. I can smell them. The moment I read it, I knew. The same way you can tell when a cake’s been baked by someone who’s never seen a stove, or when a love letter has clearly been drafted by Microsoft Word’s “romance template.”

Because your story, my friend, is what happens when you give a butler godhood, and tell him to dream.

This robot—you know the one—he’s capable. Terrifyingly capable. He can build a sentence with the ease of a surgeon assembling a corpse for reanimation. He can mimic the cadence of Chinese dramas so well you'd think he was ghostwriting for the Qing Dynasty. He can critique, analyze, simulate, and replicate. But what he can’t do—what he will never do—is create with context.

Context is human. Context is choice. Context is soul.

This story clearly had none.

Your robot cannot summon ethos. It doesn’t know what it’s like to breathe in the hot air of desperation while running barefoot across a mountain ridge with your last hope clenched in your fist. It doesn’t know heartbreak. It can copy heartbreak, sure—it has millions of examples in its blood-slicked archives. But it doesn’t know it.

It doesn’t even know you.

It doesn’t know the world you wanted to build. It doesn’t know the difference between a tragic queen with generational trauma and a soap opera extra with a nice hairpin and a death scene. It doesn’t care if your characters live or die. That assassin in the woods? That “king” reveal at the end? They're props, pretty glass marbles in a jar. Predictable tokens shuffled around by a machine trained to say, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

It can only do logos. It does probability, what word comes next, what probable combination sounds vaguely deep, vaguely “good”, following the Dao of those who developed the system of internal praise. That’s why you get line after line of purple prose propped up by single-word sentences like a seventh grader pretending to write for whatever melodramatic soap opera you can think of.

"Final.
Silence.
Broken.
Tears."

This is not style. This is autocomplete with dramatic lighting. It’s a robot hitting “enter” after every word it thinks sounds deep. You didn’t write this. You nudged a vending machine that spat out tragedy-flavored pudding and you slathered it onto the page hoping it’d pass for literature.

Then there are the metaphors. Sweet merciful hell, every page creaks under the weight of metaphors stolen from the lowest shelves of the literary supermarket. Whispering steel. The scent of iron. Blood on wind. Memories pressed into windchimes and silence that “listens.” My guy, this isn’t poetry—it’s the biggest Clicheception from the 90s I've ever saw in a SINGLE CHAPTER.

Why does this matter? Because people can tell. I can tell. Anyone who’s read more than five webnovels and still has brain cells to rub together can tell. This isn’t storytelling, this is pattern mimicry. This is the literary equivalent of a taxidermy cat—sure, it’s got fur, but no one’s petting that thing twice.

That’s the worst part. You thought maybe—just maybe—this would go unnoticed. That the average reader wouldn’t care. That if it looked just close enough to the real thing, they’d squint and accept it. Maybe even call it “immersive.”

But too bad: observant readers can smell fakeness. We know when something has a soul. We know when characters have heat behind their dialogue. We know when there’s intent—true, deliberate, painful, wonderful intent behind a scene. We know it because real stories risk something. This one didn’t. This story wasn’t born, it was assembled in the wrong place, in the wrong hands, and in the wrong intent.

That’s why it fails—not in its genre, not in its setup, but in its heart. I don’t care about your characters. I don’t even trust them, because I know they’re not real. I know they weren’t shaped by trial, or revision, or any emotional labor whatsoever. Sure, every character is fake, but that doesn't mean that you can not make them feel real. All I see is that they were whipped up by an algorithm and slapped on a platform like store-bought frosting on a cardboard cake.

And you, dear author, knew it. You knew you were handing over the steering wheel to something with no destination. You knew you weren’t writing—you were outsourcing your intent. You were pretending to create.

Don’t fucking do that.

Don’t wield a divine tool and use it like a lazy god. If you must use AI—and yes, you can, it’s not inherently evil—then use it with soul. Shape the words. Cut the clichés. Purge the cringe metaphors that reek of tryhard effort. Write the characters by your own hand, because LLM can only make probability of it, not the character itself.

Do not feed a prompt to a machine and pretend it’s art. Do not expect readers to be fooled by wax fruit when there are real fruits just in the corner. Do not abandon your brain and call it divine inspiration, or else you'll become yet another robot. What you made here is not writing, it’s a shadow of writing. A copy of a copy of a dream someone else once had.

When you let the butler drive the carriage, don’t be surprised when your carriage ends up in a ditch, with no one trying to help you because they know you're fake.

Wake up, dead god. The world doesn’t need more empty creation. It needs persuasion.

It needs you.

 

[LuoirM]

*slow typing out of fear*
C- Can I post WN link? I have this one that I'm planning to- *gulp* serialize on there

 

[Tempokai]

Hello, Tempokai, I’ve seen you around. Can you roast my work? Thank you in advance.

Heart Mirror

I read two chapters of your webnovel, and now I understand, with painful clarity, why its view count drops harder than my will to live during a group morning meeting about nothing in partucular. You had me with the synopsis. You teased a good thing—promised me dystopia, rebellion, two girls having scissoring in the future, and perhaps a beautiful narrative about "cool girl doing cool things while everything burns". It looked clean, sleek, almost elegant. I was ready for you. I lit the candle, poured the wine, clicked “Next Chapter,” and whispered, “Impress me.”

But what I got?

Was like going on a date with someone drop-dead gorgeous, eloquent, and brimming with potential. She sits across from you, radiant, magnetic, and for one glorious moment, you think you’ve met someone worth knowing. You start the conversation, heart open, curiosity piqued, and then—disaster. You ask about her past, she deflects. You ask about her present, she shrugs. You try to connect, and she spins the conversation back to you, like a glitchy NPC whose only dialogue tree is, “What about you?” And at the end of it, you're sitting in your car alone thinking, "Who the hell was she? And why was she even there?"

That is your webnovel in a nutshell.

You, the author, broke the fundamental contract between writer and reader. And you did it straight out of the gate. Chapter 1 isn’t just a narrative misfire—it’s a rhetorical betrayal. You had a mission: deliver context, character, and content in a way that compels the reader to keep going. Instead, you delivered ambiguity, abstraction, and a wet-paper protagonist whose emotional range runs from “mild discomfort” to “cake, please.”

Let’s talk context. You think you're being mysterious, coy, teasing us into reading more. Alas, what you’re being is evasive. You don’t explain what the world is. Is it VR? A simulation? A broken utopia built on code? Is it Earth? Mars? A sentient toaster’s dream? You don’t say. You leave it vague, wrapped in sterile poetry and “tick, tick, tick”s as if repeating a sound will summon tension from the void. It doesn’t, it just makes me want to reset the story like it’s a stuck Tamagotchi.

And the character—Izabel, your so-called heroine. What does she want? Why does she feel the way she does? What is the source of her simmering discontent? Her pain? Her past? We know she resents the system, but we don’t know why. Is she grieving something? Has she ever known anything else? Is there a human being under that measured apathy? You never let us in. You just hand her a weapon and a glitchy anime sidekick named Hunter like you’re booting up a Persona 4 but without the aesthetic of that game.

The story reads like you’ve skipped two or three crucial scenes. Emotional foundation? Not included. Worldbuilding setup? Lost in shipment. The moment everything collapses, the MC’s emotional reaction is less existential dread and more mild scheduling inconvenience. The dome shatters. People melt. A magical UI appears. Her response? Slight confusion and a very polite “Okay.”

No drama, no fear, and no goddamned raw emotion. Just the storytelling equivalent of pressing “skip” on an emotional cutscene because you were bored and wanted straight to the meh tutorial fight that everyone skips because it's just rehearsal of basic gameplay mechanics.

Kenneth Burke once said that rhetoric is symbolic action—a drama. Storytelling is no different. Stories are drama. Not just spectacle or exposition, but drama—someone wanting something and struggling against the thing that won’t let them have it. You have "Girl versus Society" staring you in the face and instead of fanning those flames, you buried it under sterile lore dumps and philosophical musings delivered in the tone of a semi-bored IKEA robot.

You tried to do high-concept rebellion, but forgot to make your main character rebel. You’ve got a mysterious gun, a metaphorical AI voice, and people literally being consumed by reality-tearing blobs—and yet the dramatic energy is on par with someone missing their morning train.

This is not nitpicking. This is exigence failure. You had no rhetorical call to action. You didn't persuade the reader that this story was worth investing in. And your stats back that up with brutal honesty. Chapter 1 had 150 views. Chapter 2? 50. That’s not random chance, that’s readers leaving like they smelled smoke and heard someone yell “Fire!”

Your story is a closed door that looks like it should lead to something amazing, but when the reader opens it, they find a single dim light and a sticky note that says, “Trust me, it gets better later.” Sorry. That’s not how this works. This is the internet. This is webfiction. You get one shot, and the first chapter is your prom night, job interview, and TED Talk all rolled into one. And you bombed it with elegance that even avid GL readers would turn their noses around.

You can’t just gesture vaguely at cool lore and hope your readers fill in the blanks. That’s not writing, that’s outsourcing your job to the audience. Don’t even start with the “I want readers to interpret it themselves” line. That’s the artistic equivalent of forgetting your lines on stage and pretending it was avant-garde performance art.

You lack ethos. The world doesn’t feel lived-in because you didn’t show anyone living in it. The rules, stakes, and reality of the world are inconsistently delivered and buried under Hunter’s sci-fi monologues and philosophical ramblings. You lack pathos. There’s no emotional hook, no sense of loss, desperation, or wonder from the protagonist—just internal commentary that sounds more like a tech support script for dishwashers. And the last, logos? Sweet merciful digital gods, the internal logic is a maze with no entrance. You throw in terms like “Mirror Avatar” and “Heart Mirror” and “beta tester” and then refuse to explain how any of it coherently connects. It's like watching a puzzle get dumped on the floor, then being handed a shovel and told to dig even though you don't know what is happening, so you just walk away, leaving the person who commanded you confused.

And above all: stop pretending you’re writing for anime, webtoon, or any visual media. You’re not. You don’t have music, lighting, or camera angles. You have words, so use them. Don’t rely on visual shorthand or anime pacing. Describe the world. Tell us what things feel like. What people sound like. What that glowing red glitch in the sky means to someone whose entire life has been blue and sterile.

Telling isn't bad. "Show, don't tell" is a guideline, not a holy commandment. Sometimes, you must tell—especially when the reader’s lost, the protagonist is unfeeling, and the only thing they know is that the story expects them to nod along like it's all self-explanatory.

You had the setup. You had the themes. You had the chance. But by forgoing context, you forgo clarity. By forgoing clarity, you forgo coherence.
And by forgoing coherence, you’ve shattered the illusion of your world before anyone could ever believe in it.

What you wrote is not unreadable. It's not even bad. It’s just uninviting. And when a reader doesn’t feel invited, they leave. And when they do, you're just a god with no followers. Creation may be divine, but it always loses when it doesn't persuade. Learn to persuade reader, and not just write a world just because you liked it yourself.

 

[LibraArchives]

Evening, I am very new to writing, for 30 years i hated reading and writing, my typing was awfull. Now i am in love with it, shocking i know.

Have been writing for the two months nonstop. Rewrote like 5 times 20 chapters over and over again always being like "Thats not good enough".
After a while my friends told me after reading it, that i should put it out there.

So yeah i am ready for a roast.
I know I am gonna get cooked but you gotta take some.

The Sovereign Game Its a fanfiction and a heavy power house one about invading other worlds. Its overboard and absurd i know.

 

[Venkat]

These roasts are damn good!

Can you please roast my novel? I have seven chapters up so far.
Echoes of Power is a Progression fantasy loosely based on Indian Mythological elements with an underdog MC.

~ Venkat

 

[Tempokai]

finally. please check mine, any degree of roasting is tolerable

[Indefinite Hiatus]

.

www.scribblehub.com

I read four chapters of your webnovel with the kind of critical eye normally reserved for decoding ancient texts or finding meaning in a LLM made story that actually slaps hard that it makes your story look uninspired. I sat there, sincerely trying to understand what went so wrong that by Chapter 4, your own readers were rating it with the same enthusiasm one might rate a public restroom in a war zone. And the answer, the ugly truth that emerges from your pile of aesthetic cardboard and exhausted tropes, is this: it’s cliche. Painfully, death-rattle cliche. Your story died not because it was an isekai—we’ve all choked down our fair share of reincarnated potato-farming demigods—but because it failed to persuade anyone with a working frontal lobe that it was worth following. You can only trick the brain-dead for so long.

This, to break it down in preschool-tier terms, is what happens when your rhetorical form does not match your rhetorical function. In English: your story strutted into the room wearing the costume of a Great Epic—mysterious protagonist, otherworldly monsters, ancient dragons—and then procedurally faceplanted into a narrative gutter because the substance behind the flair was nonexistent. Your webnovel is a literary paper tiger: it roars like it matters, but when you poke it, it folds like cheap origami.

I’ll give you this—your synopsis? It slaps. A little pompous, a little genre-familiar, but tight. You make the case that something cool is going to happen. You dangle intrigue and power like bait, making the reader think, "oh, something familiar, but new". Chapter 1 arrives, and instead of payoff, we get… nothing. A boiling hot classroomm, a bird, a girl wondering about air conditioning. ML? A gray-eyed vacuum cleaner in human form who does absolutely nothing but accidentally catch a piece of chalk with his skull. That’s it. Your opening salvo, the first real impression you give a reader, is as limp and awkward as a first date where someone brings their mom that berates you for inviting her into the date afterwards. And it only gets worse. Instead of capitalizing on the opportunity to flesh out your leads—to show their desires, flaws, ticks, dreams—you let them float in generic high school soup like undercooked ramen. You hint at personalities but never commit. Reika is kind, I guess? Soru is mysterious, kind of? The dialogue never crackles, never cuts, never builds anything. There’s no tension. No flavor. Just white noise with anime eyes.

But hey, fine, maybe the story starts slow. Maybe once the isekai part kicks in, it’ll redeem itself. Right? Right?

Wrong.

The transition to the new world is fast, confusing, and immediately falls victim to a terminal condition: you’re capitalizing on Reika’s confusion instead of delivering actual context to the reader. What is this world? Why are they here? What are the rules? We get birds, wolves, wyverns, forests—and nothing to connect them. Soru says almost nothing. Reika flails emotionally. Meanwhile, the world is literally catching fire and your prose acts like we’re watching paint dry at a fireworks factory. You set up tension like it’s a joke you don’t know how to finish. And you refuse, refuse, to give your characters dramatic agency. They exist, they react, but they do not drive the story. They are being dragged through it like teenagers forced on a family vacation.

If your male lead had said—just once—“Here’s what I think is going on,” or “Let me explain,” or even, “I don’t know, but here’s a guess,” I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve given you a smidge of trust. But no. You stretch the mystery until it tears, and you don’t even patch it up—you just shove more cardboard over it. Your audience isn’t stupid. When you start repeating the same pattern—monster appears, Soru stands there, monster dies instantly, no one reacts like a real person would—that’s when the veterans, the people who’ve read actual stories with pacing and arcs, drop you like a rock.

Because when you lose drama, you lose pathos. And when you lose pathos, you lose trust.

Kenneth Burke—who could write circles around your plot in his sleep—said storytelling is symbolic action, a drama. You don’t get to call your story a drama if your characters are emotionally neutered and your stakes are imaginary. And yet, here we are, watching you break every rule of narrative tension because you think a stoic guy standing in a field doing magical nothing is somehow engaging. You’re not writing mystery, you’re writing avoidance so hard I'm impressed that you've wanted to make your MC so mysterious in expense of EVERYTHING FUCKING ELSE.

Worse yet, you forgot exigence. Bitzer and Vatz would’ve smacked this out of your hands like an overripe tomato. Exigence is what gives your story need—the reason it exists, the urgency that drives it. Your story has none. There’s no purpose, no force behind the events. It’s just stuff happening in succession. You don’t even try to convince us that these two awkward, mismatched teens are worth following. You assume we’ll just do it. You assume we’ll forgive the repetition, the vagueness, the hollow spectacle, because "something cool might happen later." That’s not storytelling, that’s a scam with extra steps.

Yes, battles happen. Monsters get obliterated. Cool. But how many times can you pull that exact move before it becomes expected? And how long can your reader tolerate a main character who never explains anything, never grows, and never changes? You made the mistake so many amateur writers make: you thought an overpowered MC was enough. You thought mysterious silence was the same as intrigue. You forgot that storytelling is a contract, and you broke it within the first chapter.

You want to be My Instant Death Ability Is So Overpowered? In form, sure—you copied the vibe. But in function, your story is just another mushy isekai microwave dinner: half-cooked, overly familiar, and completely lacking the seasoning of competent rhetoric. There’s no transformation. No fire under the characters’ feet. No catharsis. Just the long, slow drift into mediocrity.

And don’t you dare blame it on “real life” or say “the good stuff’s coming later.” Storytelling doesn’t care about your personal baggage. It doesn’t grade on a curve. This is a craft. And when you fail at the craft, your readers leave. And when you argue with criticism, when you deflect and lash out instead of looking inward, you reveal yourself as the worst kind of author: not just bad, but dishonest. You don’t respect the reader’s time. You don’t respect the form.

You’re not writing with sincerity. You’re writing with delusion.

If there’s any hope for you, it’s this: realize that writing is not just putting ideas on a page. It’s transmitting them clearly, persuasively, with intentional symbolic action. When you write sincerely, it’s felt. And right now no one’s feeling anything but regret, even you.

 

[Boundless]

I read four chapters of your webnovel with the kind of critical eye normally reserved for decoding ancient texts or finding meaning in a LLM made story that actually slaps hard that it makes your story look uninspired. I sat there, sincerely trying to understand what went so wrong that by Chapter 4, your own readers were rating it with the same enthusiasm one might rate a public restroom in a war zone. And the answer, the ugly truth that emerges from your pile of aesthetic cardboard and exhausted tropes, is this: it’s cliche. Painfully, death-rattle cliche. Your story died not because it was an isekai—we’ve all choked down our fair share of reincarnated potato-farming demigods—but because it failed to persuade anyone with a working frontal lobe that it was worth following. You can only trick the brain-dead for so long.

This, to break it down in preschool-tier terms, is what happens when your rhetorical form does not match your rhetorical function. In English: your story strutted into the room wearing the costume of a Great Epic—mysterious protagonist, otherworldly monsters, ancient dragons—and then procedurally faceplanted into a narrative gutter because the substance behind the flair was nonexistent. Your webnovel is a literary paper tiger: it roars like it matters, but when you poke it, it folds like cheap origami.

I’ll give you this—your synopsis? It slaps. A little pompous, a little genre-familiar, but tight. You make the case that something cool is going to happen. You dangle intrigue and power like bait, making the reader think, "oh, something familiar, but new". Chapter 1 arrives, and instead of payoff, we get… nothing. A boiling hot classroomm, a bird, a girl wondering about air conditioning. ML? A gray-eyed vacuum cleaner in human form who does absolutely nothing but accidentally catch a piece of chalk with his skull. That’s it. Your opening salvo, the first real impression you give a reader, is as limp and awkward as a first date where someone brings their mom that berates you for inviting her into the date afterwards. And it only gets worse. Instead of capitalizing on the opportunity to flesh out your leads—to show their desires, flaws, ticks, dreams—you let them float in generic high school soup like undercooked ramen. You hint at personalities but never commit. Reika is kind, I guess? Soru is mysterious, kind of? The dialogue never crackles, never cuts, never builds anything. There’s no tension. No flavor. Just white noise with anime eyes.

But hey, fine, maybe the story starts slow. Maybe once the isekai part kicks in, it’ll redeem itself. Right? Right?

Wrong.

The transition to the new world is fast, confusing, and immediately falls victim to a terminal condition: you’re capitalizing on Reika’s confusion instead of delivering actual context to the reader. What is this world? Why are they here? What are the rules? We get birds, wolves, wyverns, forests—and nothing to connect them. Soru says almost nothing. Reika flails emotionally. Meanwhile, the world is literally catching fire and your prose acts like we’re watching paint dry at a fireworks factory. You set up tension like it’s a joke you don’t know how to finish. And you refuse, refuse, to give your characters dramatic agency. They exist, they react, but they do not drive the story. They are being dragged through it like teenagers forced on a family vacation.

If your male lead had said—just once—“Here’s what I think is going on,” or “Let me explain,” or even, “I don’t know, but here’s a guess,” I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve given you a smidge of trust. But no. You stretch the mystery until it tears, and you don’t even patch it up—you just shove more cardboard over it. Your audience isn’t stupid. When you start repeating the same pattern—monster appears, Soru stands there, monster dies instantly, no one reacts like a real person would—that’s when the veterans, the people who’ve read actual stories with pacing and arcs, drop you like a rock.

Because when you lose drama, you lose pathos. And when you lose pathos, you lose trust.

Kenneth Burke—who could write circles around your plot in his sleep—said storytelling is symbolic action, a drama. You don’t get to call your story a drama if your characters are emotionally neutered and your stakes are imaginary. And yet, here we are, watching you break every rule of narrative tension because you think a stoic guy standing in a field doing magical nothing is somehow engaging. You’re not writing mystery, you’re writing avoidance so hard I'm impressed that you've wanted to make your MC so mysterious in expense of EVERYTHING FUCKING ELSE.

Worse yet, you forgot exigence. Bitzer and Vatz would’ve smacked this out of your hands like an overripe tomato. Exigence is what gives your story need—the reason it exists, the urgency that drives it. Your story has none. There’s no purpose, no force behind the events. It’s just stuff happening in succession. You don’t even try to convince us that these two awkward, mismatched teens are worth following. You assume we’ll just do it. You assume we’ll forgive the repetition, the vagueness, the hollow spectacle, because "something cool might happen later." That’s not storytelling, that’s a scam with extra steps.

Yes, battles happen. Monsters get obliterated. Cool. But how many times can you pull that exact move before it becomes expected? And how long can your reader tolerate a main character who never explains anything, never grows, and never changes? You made the mistake so many amateur writers make: you thought an overpowered MC was enough. You thought mysterious silence was the same as intrigue. You forgot that storytelling is a contract, and you broke it within the first chapter.

You want to be My Instant Death Ability Is So Overpowered? In form, sure—you copied the vibe. But in function, your story is just another mushy isekai microwave dinner: half-cooked, overly familiar, and completely lacking the seasoning of competent rhetoric. There’s no transformation. No fire under the characters’ feet. No catharsis. Just the long, slow drift into mediocrity.

And don’t you dare blame it on “real life” or say “the good stuff’s coming later.” Storytelling doesn’t care about your personal baggage. It doesn’t grade on a curve. This is a craft. And when you fail at the craft, your readers leave. And when you argue with criticism, when you deflect and lash out instead of looking inward, you reveal yourself as the worst kind of author: not just bad, but dishonest. You don’t respect the reader’s time. You don’t respect the form.

You’re not writing with sincerity. You’re writing with delusion.

If there’s any hope for you, it’s this: realize that writing is not just putting ideas on a page. It’s transmitting them clearly, persuasively, with intentional symbolic action. When you write sincerely, it’s felt. And right now no one’s feeling anything but regret, even you.

if you guys consider it a roast, i consider it as a pure, constructive critcism!

damn well-said man! i will use this as a basis and do 5th iteration to my story. thank you! have a good day btw.

 

[LuoirM]

if you guys consider it a roast, i consider it as a pure, constructive critcism!

damn well-said man! i will use this as a basis and do 5th iteration to my story. thank you! have a good day btw.

If you dare ever come back on this forum without implementing the changes that everyone been trying to give you then I'll spank you personally

 

[Boundless]

If you dare ever come back on this forum without implementing the changes that everyone been trying to give you then I'll spank you personally

please no.

one question though, should i delete my story and make a new one? or i'll edit it instead?
in conclusion, my story was just a massive clickbait, with synopsis acts like a clickbait link lol ? ?