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Tips for Aspiring Authors

So, I was asked to write something to help people become better writers of creepypasta, and I am willing to help out a little. let me first tell you a little about myself, I've been writing since I was twelve and had been published on other websites with stricter standards. Currently, I am writing a story for a contest, which would be great if I could place in another contest. I am not the best writer on Wikia, and hopefully many of you will become a better writer than I am.
So, you want to write something that is worthy of being on this site? Let's ask ourselves some questions first, have you ever written anything before? If the answer is no, that is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, there are some wonderful authors who had come out swinging. But, those cases are few and far between, so the first bit of advise I can offer you is to have really thick skin.
If your story is deleted, take it in strides. Sure you will get rejections, every writer does, if you can't take rejection well, maybe writing isn't suited to you. Stephen King had written so many stories and been rejected so many times, the spike he had nailed to the wall was ripped down from the weight of rejection slips. That is a crazy amount of rejections. But he didn't stop, and he learned from his mistakes. That is what you need to do if you want to become a writer, learn from your mistakes.
Writing, as a job or a hobby, isn't like grammar school where everyone gets a medal for trying. If you are good enough, you will shine through. It will take a long time to get there, and once you do make it to being published you still have to learn more. Strive to be the best you can be while you are writing. Write what interests you, not what you think people will want to read. Because in the end people write because they enjoy it, not for money. There really isn't that much to be made writing short stories anyway. If you are good enough you can get into Clearksworld or Nightmare and get paid rather well for your stories. But those are top of the line magazines. And I believe they pay up to ten cents a word.
If you submit a story here you may get it published, if you do kudos. But, if you don't it's not the end of the world, try again. However, if you are just going to cry about not being published, go somewhere else. There is no need to get upset because your story was rejected. There are other places that will be really rude, I've seen one rejection marked with red pen like it was a school report, and you will just have to brush it off. Keep working towards your goal of being published and you will make it farther than you realized.
So that is my tidbit for this week, have thick skin. Work hard and keep in mind that if your story was rejected it doesn't mean that the next one will be. Just keep writing and try to get an idea of what it is that got your story rejected. Here you have the ability to ask, use that as a tool to help you grow. Asking questions is the best way to get better at something.
JohnathanNash (talk) 02:43, March 5, 2016 (UTC)
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Fish-Hook Freddy

There was once a time when many people fished in Lake Natron. I remember going there as a kid with my father. We caught many fish there. Maybe I should back up. My name was Fredrick Simmons, but I’m now known as Fish-hook Freddy. Wanna know how I got my nick-name? It’s a long story, so sit back and relax. It all started one sunny day when I was fishing in the middle of Lake Natron with my father. We were in a small, wooden boat that floated still, since there were no waves. When I flung my fishing rod out into the clear, sparkling lake, something horrible happened. The hook quickly shot back up and caught the corner of my mouth. I fell out of the boat due to the pain reaction in my mouth and as I sunk down, my father’s hook got caught on the other corner of my mouth. The line wrapped around my head and soon snapped after being tangled and strained. The excruciating pain caused me to wake up from my daze and start hallucinating. I started thinking that it was my dad’s fault. As I was swimming up to the surface, I thought, “How could my own dad do such a thing?” I was playing the blame game. My father saw me and gave a startled yell. I was dripping dark, crimson blood into the water and onto the boat as he helped me into it. He tried to take out the hooks but I decided that I should stop him. I had finally done it. I had gone completely insane. I quickly grabbed a 5 inch spare hook from the tackle box and swiftly cut his throat. “Sorry daddy, this is on you. He he,” I chuckled. His eyes widened as he gurgled one last thing. “Tha--t ca--n’t b--e yo--u.” I dumped him in the lake and rowed myself back to shore. When I arrived back on land, I looked at the bloody five inch hook and had an idea. I liked the idea of having the hook stick out of my hand for a sufficient weapon. I took that hook and wincing slightly, I jutted it in my wrist and pulling my hand off my own hand. I inserted the hook into my soft flesh so the blade would stick out. On that day, I realized what I had become. My sister and mother were next. I planned it out carefully. My family knew that my father and I would be camping overnight so they wouldn’t be expecting me late or early. I had to sneak in at night, making sure they were asleep so I could wake them up and show them my new self. The night came upon me and I started out to my house. I wasn’t going to be able to get home by foot so I took my dad’s car and drove. It was my first time because I was only 14 but I wasn’t too bad. Maybe it was just blind rage that made me crash once. I finally arrived at my house. The lights were off except for one kitchen light. We always leave that on in case some criminals are planning on a break in. It kind of makes it seem like people are still awake and doing their normal stuff. I slowly got out of the car, quietly closed the door, and carefully tiptoed to my house. Once I had carved a hole into the glass window with my dads fishing knife that I had taken, I dropped into my living room. My sister Mary was upstairs to the left, my mom to the right. I guess my sister would be first. She would be easy to kill. The old wooden door to her room creaked open and I winced at the thought of being caught. The plan was to cover her mouth with a blanket, give her time to see who it is, and slit her throat just like I had done to my wretched dad. It was go time. I swiftly ran up to her sleeping body and covered her mouth with the blanket that was covering her sleeping body. “MMMHMMHHMM!” Was the muffled sound that she made when I stood over her. Then, she silently stared at my face, confused. All of a sudden, she realized what I was going to do with the hook embedded in my right arm and started to cry. “Shhh” I said. It will be over soon. I slit her throat slowly, enjoying the beautiful blood flowing from the wound. She gagged on the blood and the blanket and went completely limp after about five seconds. To bad for her because I felt little stab of remorse deep inside. No. The new me didn’t feel remorse. I then went to my parent’s bedroom. I guess she heard me come in because she asked me “Sweetie, why are you home so early? Where is your father?” She didn’t see my face in the pitch black so she had nothing to worry about for now. “Hello mom, I am not the one who’s gonna leave early, you are.” I murmured. “Huh?” Came her last sane response. I ran over to her bed and rose my hook up. She screamed but I didn’t care, Mary was already gone. “I’m sorry mom, I killed Mary. Wait… actually I’m not sorry.” I dug my hook into her jugular and pulled something out. I don’t know what it was but it must have been her throat. It was done but for some reason I felt more remorse despite the new me. I remembered the times we had… the whole family times we had. We snuggled and hugged and ate dinner together. It was all over. No more troubles, parents, or annoying sisters. Nowadays, I will roam the streets as a serial killer. I will only kill people a mile from water. I don’t know why I do it, but something just pulls me toward the lake. To this day, I still think think about my family and how in ways…. they weren’t that bad.
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Mechanical Blur

I have posted a new story named Mechanical Blur. Please give me feedback and constructive criticism.
The story:
"Giant, steel gates cover the entrance of the lab."
That is what my friend told me. The lab had been operational for years, apparently owned by an evil genius. My friend gave me the task of breaking into the lab and stealing data.
"Simple as that", he said.
We got into our car and drove off to our destination. When we got there, he dropped me off and gave me technological equipment that he crafted by myself. He gave me a tracking device, a homemade USB drive and a hacking device.
The plan to "borrow" the data was:
First, climb over the steel gates and hide in the bushes. Second, set your tracking device to the right frequency and sneak into the vents. Once in the vents, find a computer room and copy the data over to the USB stick. Finally, find your way back and wait for a car to pull up.
When the car pulls up, climb inside and once inside, you would have completed your mission.
I climbed over the gates and hid in the bushes. When I had a quick look, I noticed two turrets aiming at the gates. Once I was there, I used my hacking device to break the turrets. After that, I set my tracking device to the right frequency and sneaked into the vents.
While crawling through the vents, I noticed what appeared to be the computer room so I broke into the room. After breaking into the room, I noticed an empty operating table with straps attached to it. When I noticed the operating table, I heard a deep, perverted voice that whispered, "Here's our patient. Restrain him so I can operate on him."
After the voice said that, scientists grabbed me, forcibly made me lay down on back and they strapped me down. During the whole ordeal, they injected me with sedatives so I could not see what was happening to my body.
After a few hours, I woke up and noticed something. I don't know how to describe this but I had this strong feeling of hatred and my body felt somewhat mechanical. My suspicions were confirmed when one of the scientists unstrapped me, making me able to see my hands.
As I saw my mechanical hands, my feeling of hatred started to grow stronger and stronger when I had visions of a blue blur dashing through plains. When the visions became clearer and clearer, I realised my mission:
I needed to kill this blue blur.
Then a chubby man with average height came into view and conversed with me. At the end of the conversation, that was when he named me Metal Sonic.
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