This is one of the central contradictions of horror…an emotion designed to make us recoil becomes, within fiction, something we deliberately approach.

Literature has produced thousands of different monsters, but most of them are forgotten. Only a handful have survived for centuries: Dracula, Frankenstein’s creature, Medusa, Mr. Hyde, The Sandman. So, as writers, we have to look at them and ask ourselves, why?

I don’t believe we remember them because they were the most frightening. If we look closely, we might realize that they share a set of common characteristics. Human beings have not merely imagined frightening things. Rather, through literature, we have given our fears bodies.

So, what can we learn from history’s most famous monsters?

1. A good monster is a fear made solid

We make the dead walk and create zombies, we do not simply write about death. We imagine contamination that transforms one body into another and creates the vampire, we do not simply write about disease. We do not write about the fear of losing control of ourselves, instead we invent possessions, transformations, and the double. Again and again, fear, once it enters fiction, acquires a shape.

A monster’s first job, culturally speaking, is translation. It takes anxieties that have no edges and gives them a shape, making them visible and narratable. Once fear has a shape, we can face it, describe it, follow it, flee from it, and, sometimes, we can even kill it. I believe there is a certain comfort in that.

To create a truly memorable monster, then, start from the fear it is representing, not the creature itself. If you can’t say what your monster is the embodiment of, then you have written a creature, not a monster.

2. Monsters break categories

Noël Carroll argues that horror’s creatures violate the conceptual categories we use to make sense of the world. A vampire is living and dead, a werewolf human and animal, a zombie a person and a corpse, possession places self and other inside one body.

The interesting thing is that, even though these combinations provoke disgust, they also provoke curiosity. Precisely because the monster should not exist, we want to know what it is, what it can do, and where it came from.

These three questions are what keeps readers engaged and the reason they keep reading. You, as the writer, should always know the answer to these questions, but whether you tell the reader or not (and how you tell the reader) is up to you and your pen.

3. It cannot be completely alien

Let’s think about it this way: the ghost was once a person, the vampire still has a human face, Frankenstein’s creature is made from the human body itself, and the automaton is frightening precisely because it looks uncannily similar to us humans. Horror monsters are not entirely foreign. They occupy an uncomfortable space between what we recognize and what we do not. This is why there is often a moment in horror when recognition precedes revulsion: that feeling of “I know what that is, or, at least, I thought I did”.

In his 1919 essay “Das Unheimliche,” Freud described the uncanny as the unease we feel when something is both familiar and strange. He called it something that should have stayed hidden but has come to light. His central example is Hoffmann’s The Sandman, where Nathanael falls for Olimpia without realizing she’s an automaton. Around her, the distinction between person and object grows uncertain, because she looks like what a human should look like and, at the same time, there is something unfamiliar about her. The unsettling question is not merely whether Olimpia is alive, but how confidently Nathanael (or the reader) can actually tell the difference.

Sometimes, when writing this kind of monster, less is more. The most effective details are often small, like a smile held a second too long or a reflection that moves a beat late. Keep something recognizable, make the readers think they know the game they’re playing, then subtly alter the rules and defy their expectations.

4. The distance between it and us should shrink

While we often see something monstrous in them, like Olimpia, it works in reverse too: sometimes the unsettling thing is not the human turned monstrous, but the monster in which, for a moment, we glimpse something human.

Some monsters, the forgettable ones, seem to offer a comforting division. Here is the human, and that other thing over there is the monster. But the truly enduring monsters rarely let that distinction survive, because they invite us to look at something grotesque, unnatural or impossible and then, once we are looking, they also invite us to question the real distance between it and us.

Julia Kristeva called it the abject, what we cast away to keep the self intact (blood, waste, the corpse) even though it is still part of us. Frankenstein’s creature is monstrous in appearance, made of what should have been rotting corpses, but it also thinks, suffers, and asks to be loved.

Stevenson goes even further in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Jekyll makes Hyde out of himself. In this story, there is no need to stitch a creature together or invite something supernatural inside. The monster is no longer something threatening to become human; instead, he is something a human being is capable of becoming.

So is this monster frightening because he’s unlike us, or because he’s too much like us? This question follows horror everywhere. By the last page of your story, the reader should be less sure where the line between humane and monstrous sits.

5. It should tempt

Many of the best monsters do not only repel us, but they also attract us. The vampire is perhaps literature’s most successful case of making repulsion desirable. Bram Stoker’s Dracula is born out of anxieties that belonged to the end of the nineteenth century, things like disease, sexuality, foreignness, invasion, and death. But, the vampire is also tempting because it offers immortality alongside death, freedom alongside monstrosity, appetite without restraint. What should repel becomes seductive.

We spoke of monsters as embodiments of cultural fears, and they are. The monsters a culture produces tell us what it considers dangerous, foreign, or forbidden. But a monster can also hold what a culture desires and does not quite know how to admit it desires.

This complicates the familiar idea that monsters simply represent things we fear and want to destroy. Instead, we could argue that sometimes they contain things we fear because some part of us wants them, and it is this doubleness, far more than any single terror, that keeps us returning to this kind of literature.

At some point in the narration, the monster should become tempting. Ask yourself what it offers, what could be tempting enough for your characters (or your readers) to want, for at least one single moment, to stretch out a hand and meet the monster halfway.

And, lastly, remember that we don’t simply write monsters to frighten ourselves.

Perseus could not look at Medusa directly; instead, he defeated her by watching her reflection in his shield. Fiction is that shield. We invent monsters because there are things we cannot look at until we’ve made them bearable to see. That’s the real work of writing a monster: giving fear a body, so the reader can finally look it in the eye.

Written by TYWI Staff Writer, Chiara Wilson

Alongside sharing standalone articles, we also have a newsletter filled with TYWI updates, starting up again soon.

TYWI was founded with the mission to fix that by providing opportunities and community for young writers all over the world, for free. For the past 6 years, TYWI has been running a summer-long program. For 2026, we’ve opened round II of applications for participants, and encourage you to apply by May 22nd (but earlier is better before we fill up!)

Learn more about Summer Programs

Summer camp and workshop are running from June 14 - July 24th. Summer programs are a lightweight opportunity that takes 3-5 hours a week (though you can certainly put in more!), so it’s perfect if you’re looking for a flexible opportunity to integrate writing and community more into your summer!

Goals of Summer Programs

Summer programs are grounded in the following goals:

1. Develop consistency and a habit of writing amongst young writers

2. Grow community and support systems for teen and young adult writers globally

3. Teach young writers the foundations of writing craft

4. Expose writers to publishing opportunities and writing professionals

Summer Camp vs. Workshop

The key difference between summer camp and workshop are the age ranges and styles. Camp is broken into two cabins: 13-15 y.o. and 16-19 y.o. There are daily camp writing challenges that campers share and receive feedback on, developing a habit of writing daily and receiving feedback in a safe space. Weekly, a seminar speaker that’s a professional writer runs a workshop. Some we have include how to break into publishing, a literary magazine panel, and poetry deep-dive, all with amazing external speakers! There are also daily writing sprints with fellow writers, open mics, games, publishing opportunities, and more!

Camp is run by counselors, who set up prompts, organize activities, and provide feedback to our participants.

Apply for Summer Camp

Workshop is for young adult writers aged 20-30. Many advanced writing classes focus on refining craft through peer-feedback. Workshop does that by putting writers in groups of 4-6 with a designated workshop coordinator. Writers come in with pieces to submit for review, and take turns reading and providing feedback on each other’s writing. Alongside that, workshoppers also can participate in their own sprints and writing activities, and also have weekly seminars and similar opportunities.

Apply for Workshop

Summer camp and workshop are genuinely wonderful and transformative experiences where you refine your craft, make progress on your writing, and get a writing family alongside it. Hear a little from our Summer Programs Director, Ruby Versele:

As another summer dawns upon us, so does another summer of TYWI’s virtual writing summer programs, and we are so excited for what this year has in store for us.

Last year was our first year back after a season of hiatus, and it was more than I as a director could have ever imagined. We built community, wrote endlessly, and learned from one another and our amazing speakers. But, this year we are back and better than ever, and I want to invite you to come join our writing family.

One of the most special things about TYWI is the friendships you get to create. Our Summer Camp Director this year, Sara Ray, has been a friend of mine since I was 16 years old and we hosted a podcast together. One of our workshop coordinators also may or may not be a fellow Moving Write Along pal….

If you had told 16 year old me that Sara and I would be directing the summer programs together almost six years later, I would have absolutely believed you. Because the friendships we get to form and create, sustained by our mutual love of writing and craft, are ones that can last much longer than six years. Ask anyone who has been with TYWI for more than a few years; this is a ragtag, creative, and wonderful family we have. And we want you to know that there is an open invitation for you to come on in as well.

Applications are now open for our Summer Camp (Ages 13-19) and Summer Workshop (Ages 20-30) programs. It’s going to be a summer full of growth, community, fun, and words.

I hope to see you there,

Ruby Versele

Summer Programs Director

Apply!

What makes New York different isn’t just its skyline or its noise — it’s the density of human experience. Over 800 languages are spoken here, making it the most linguistically diverse city on the planet Wikipedia. For a writer, that means one thing: endless voices, endless stories, endless ways to see the world. You can sit on a subway and hear five different cultures in one car. You can walk one block and feel like you’ve crossed continents. New York doesn’t just inspire creativity — it demands it.

And historically, writers have always answered that call. The city has been home to some of the most influential literary movements in American history. The Harlem Renaissance turned Harlem into a powerhouse of Black literature and art, shaping voices like Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston. New York didn’t just host these movements; it shaped them.

That’s the thing about this city: it doesn’t let you stay small. It doesn’t let you write safely. It pushes you into discomfort, into ambition, into honesty. It forces you to confront what you want — and whether you want it badly enough. Writers come here because they’re chasing something, but they stay because the city makes them braver.

New York is also the literary capital of the world, home to countless bookstores, libraries, and most of the country’s major publishing houses Wikipedia. That’s how seriously New York takes storytelling.

But beyond the facts, there’s something harder to measure: the feeling. The way the city makes you walk faster. The way it makes you dream louder. The way it makes you believe that your voice — your messy, imperfect, still‑growing voice — deserves to take up space.

So is New York the key to your writer dreams?

Maybe not in the sense that moving here guarantees success. But it is the kind of place that unlocks something in you — ambition, courage, hunger, honesty. It’s a city that has shaped writers for over a century, not because it’s easy, but because it isn’t.

Some cities give you comfort.

New York gives you permission to want more.

Forgetting how to speak your own mind is like losing touch with a tongue you used to know without trying. Once, ideas flowed without asking permission, emotions moved in patterns that made sense, dreams took forms you could almost hold. Tone never crossed your mind, nor did order, nor if things seemed too childish. Words came because stopping would’ve meant holding your breath. Because sorting through who you were happened best on paper.

Life turned up its volume. Older now, you pause before speaking, even when alone. Worry creeps in - what if it sounds too intense? Childish? Overdone? Comparisons follow: voices on screens, peers nearby, younger ones who speak with strange weight. That old way of saying things slips away, fading into someone else’s memory - a quieter self, shaped by gentler days.

Perhaps you’ve noticed it - the soft sadness when you catch your voice sounding unfamiliar. Reading old words, a strange pull in the chest: “This version of me is gone.” Not weaker, just changed. Life piled up since then. Wisdom arrived she hadn’t met. Moments bent you into someone else entirely.

It lingers like an ache, soft and quiet. That person you were feels far now. Not worried about clean lines or raw edges. Never pausing to wonder who might read it. Or judge it. Or measure her worth by how she spoke on paper. Just words flowing out. Believing every spark inside her mind mattered. Letting wild thoughts run free. Knowing instinctively where truth lived.

Here it is, though - the piece people rarely mention:

It was never meant to last, copying her voice that way.

Grow happens crooked, not straight. Every friendship that fades reshapes how you speak. Heartbreak slips into your tone without asking. Boundaries form cracks where old sounds fall through. Pretending used to fit everything - now it doesn’t. Understanding arrives quiet, mid-sentence. The person speaking today isn’t who started.

Perhaps that’s exactly what matters.

Outgrowing your voice might not mean shedding what was. It could simply be room-making - clearing the way for someone newer to step forward and talk. This one knows survival; their edges worn down here, built up there. Not innocent like before, instead shaped by what they’ve learned through looking closely. A person who writes not to hide, yet to figure things out. Someone whose words aren’t shouts into noise, rather quiet moments of listening inward.

Strange, maybe. A bit unsteady, sure. Like losing the map of who you were before. Yet here - movement happens. Not frozen in place anymore. Old loops break open on their own. Sound shifts without asking, sticks close even while changing shape. Growth hides in what feels like loss.

Perhaps the truest move is just stepping aside. Letting go might be the bravest act. What if staying still says more than pushing? Sometimes release speaks louder. The clearest choice could simply be allowing. Could acceptance be the real strength? Giving space might show deeper honesty.

Becoming louder than before isn’t losing sound - it’s shifting shape. A different pitch can still carry the same truth.

Now comes the moment you’ve been waiting for - stepping into what’s next. A fresh start shows up when least expected. This time feels different somehow. The path ahead opens without warning. Meeting someone new was bound to happen eventually. Here it is.

Perhaps, just perhaps, her wait was always meant for you.

Even though it is hard to admit, every writer wants and secretly expects their first draft to be Shakespeare-level perfect, their first pieces of writing to be magnificent and their openings to be so incredibly original that the editors or readers will be awed at its glory. But facing the hard truth, this case is nearly impossible to happen, and counting on yourself being an exception is just a fantasy, a dream you hide behind. Of course, the draft, the lead character and almost every other aspect of the first abstract are going to be filled with flaws, but this is what actually improves your story. As you continue writing and identifying flaws, you develop even better ideas than your original ones. Getting criticism of your first works is absolutely normal and even critical, I might add in order to improve as a writer. Waiting to magically be good at writing without picking up a pen is just a coping mechanism to protect yourself from shattering this ideal of achieving perfection at the start.

Plus, this expectation causes an unbearable weight and actually leads the writers to be scared of writing. Let me put it this way: if you want to lose weight its not going to happen overnight by fasting for a day and working out for 2 hours. This will not give you any real results but rather demoralize you because of your unrealistic expectations. You have to work out regularly, get in your 10k steps, eat healthy, avoid junk food, maintain a realistic calorie deficit, and get 8 hours of sleep. And even if you follow this routine for a day, you will once again not see any results. Because the aim shouldn’t be urgency but it should be consistency. You have to show up and work for months to be successful. In this process, you will realize your mistakes; you have been doing that exercise wrong, or diet soda is not actually helping you, etc. You learn and then evolve your routine according to this newfound knowledge. This is the same for writing. If you start with unrealistic expectations and when you do not meet them, this will stop you from continuing. You have to accept that you will perfect your work over time and it is totally normal and even healthy to start flawed.

So get up and sit in front of your computer, close all those character maps and research docs, get in your cozy pajamas with a side of a thick glass of hot chocolate and let yourself flow in your writing. You may not be perfect or even good at first, but it’s important for you to realize the aim is not being perfect but rather starting. It can be scary to see all the mistakes, so you rather hide behind the illusion of this awaited perfection. But how can you know before you start? You have nothing to lose if you write something full of flaws, but you risk every dream and possibility of becoming a writer if you don’t.

For years, that vision had no limits. Not merely putting words on paper, fanfiction meant crafting entire worlds fueled by passion, raw inventiveness, one intense bond at a time - no machine could mimic such depth. Authors didn’t simply drop famous faces into invented stories; instead, they reshaped them entirely. New traits emerged, fresh weaknesses appeared, different paths unfolded - and oddly, these forms seemed truer than anything shown under interview lights. Funny how words on a screen turned five singers into something elseentirely. Not music, but myth - Harry draggedonto a throne he never wanted. Zayn slipped from grace with wings half-burnt. Meanwhile, Niall kneading dough like every loaf carried secrets too heavy for silence. Realer than facts, somehow.

Stories stuck around not because of familiar turns or surprise endings. What mattered? The raw energy pulsing under each line. Every page carried a pulse - fingers flying at midnight, moments that left everyone breathless, painpoured into words like ink. These creators didn’t chase attention or profit. They built worlds simply because loving them felt natural . Fueled by affection, those tales pulsed like living things. Down below, replies piled up - wild, untamed, buzzing with guesses. When an author finally posted again, long overdue, everything erupted at once. That messy rush of voices turned strangers into something louder than friends.

Something changed. At first it crept along, barely noticeable - then rushed in like a wave knocking everything sideways.

Suddenly, AI writing tools showed up everywhere. Online storytelling began losing its spark soon after. That’s where a strange thing popped up on TikTok - users prompting bots to generate fanstories. Instant replies arrived every time. Yet each one carried an emptiness. Like a tale dressed in borrowed clothes, almost robotic . The shape remained. But missing was the heartbeat, the fixations, the tangled feelings that once gave fanfic life.

Next arrived c.ai or character ai - the app folks couldn’t stop using since it allows chatting with made-up figures from harry styles to Jacob elordi to your high crush all could be created . Yet here’s the catch: what happens there isn’t crafting tales. Quick, smooth, full of quick rewards, sure they are fun and feel entertaining . But , no universe grows from it. Nothing layered takes root. None of that deep, drawn-out ache a proper Y/N story once left behind. Somehow, a story shaped by hands carries weight. A chat with software? More like grabbing something fast - satisfies right then, vanishes just as quick.

What drives a person to write for hours without stopping? Machines miss that fire completely. A real heartbeat lives behind every line some authors craft. That electric moment when a new chapter drops - no algorithm gets close. Imagine fans twisting fame into something intimate, shaping stars into people you’d root for at midnight. Wild comment threads once parked joy, confusion, connection. Real messiness built those worlds. The soul in imperfect words - that stays beyond reach.

Perhaps that’s slipping away. The tales stay, yet something deeper fades. Power never came from flawlessness in fanfiction. It rose through intimacy. A writer poured effort into every line. A story took shape when one person trusted their vision. Emotion found its way in because a creator hoped you’d sense it too.

AI can write fanfic.

Yet still leaves a void inside

Personalized Writing

For certain people, writing is personalized and goes into specifics of your unique experiences. When reading it, you feel like it is an adventure and your writing was an important part of your journey. However, when shared with an audience it’s not structured or refined. Yes, it could be raw storytelling, but does it resonate with the audience? Personalized writing almost never will.

Writers need to zoom out from the story and write the bigger picture. For example, everyone has different types of addictions, so when writing something on your addiction you might personalize and write about the experiences you went through. To generalize it though for an audience, try writing it based on pure feelings. Most of the audience will connect with you.

Assuming

When people write, the common mistake is writing like the audience knows more about the subject than they actually do. Imagine that, you are writing a piece on a sports team that has a new rising star and overcame his struggles from earlier on in his career. What struggles? Why did he struggle? How did he become a star?

These are questions that need to be answered. If not, the story has no substance, no meaning and it is just a report on someone who is a star.

Being Scared

Some writers will be scared to share feelings, experiences, and most importantly their voice. The audience won’t be engaged if the writing isn’t authentic. Usually if the writing isn’t authentic, it feels forced.

This might be the biggest fear for any writer, sharing struggles through writing while others feel with you, but you don’t know who they are. That is scary. However, think of it like this. You are the leader of the pack when writing to many people who feel the same way. It’s not easy to be a leader and being a writer can help you do so.

Writing and speaking to an audience have the same effects on people. It’s scary to go up there and share about yourself. My heart beats through my chest and I feel like everyone is watching me. I do it anyway, knowing that things will actually be better doing so. It is important to do things you struggle with now, so you can be prepared in the future.

The section above generalizes and relates to a majority of the audience. If it can be done in one section, it can be done in any writing that is shared to an audience.

In modern-day society, everyone is suppressed by their economic goals. We need money to survive to the point that things that don’t earn any economic benefits have lost their value. Even art and literature have transformed from a form of expression to a tool made for the satisfaction of the mass market. We have implemented these ideals under the concept of “niche”.

Niche is the symbol of pressure placed on writers to confine themselves to a narrow, marketable identity. A niche demands predictability, similarity, market clarity and temporary desires. Same themes, same characters build-ups, same backgrounds, same moral lessons disguised as something authentic, but in the end isn’t any different from the piece before them and won’t be any different from the piece after them either.

Just like fast fashion, the pieces that are written around the idea of “niche” will be forgotten eventually; following these trends will only earn profit while failing to carve their importance into the history of literature with bold letters. Just like trendy tops that are unrecognisable after the third wash because it is 90% polyester for 30 dollars, these writings will quickly go out of style and lose their spark as fast as they gained it in the first place. It is profitable, it is easier to write, but it’s shallow and following this mindset, this search for the “niche” will flatten you into content machines instead of thinkers. Now your voice is just a brand, but was it worth it for the 15 minutes of fame?

This is where we turn back to the start: the spine. The spine is the essence of your writing, it is the part that gives your authorial voice structure, the part that protects your writing from temporary niches, the part that enables communication between your soul and writing. This is what you have to chase. When you build a strong base, everything else will eventually turn into functional body parts. Your spine can be an obsession, a source of motivation, an idol, a political stance, a moral position, unresolved trauma, the love of your life, your regrets, your dreams, your fears… basically, anything that feels true and personal.

This doesn’t mean you only have to write about that topic, not at all! We don’t see our spines now, do we? Of course not, because it is covered with layers of muscle, fat and skin. The same applies for our writing: you don’t have to say it out loud in every piece, you can explore writing fantasy, romance, non-fiction but your spine will always be the factor that keeps you straight and high. It will always be felt because that’s the base of who you are as a writer.

So stop chasing the “niche” and start understanding your spine because it is the most crucial element and I promise that as long as you correct your posture, lift your chest and straighten your spine, you will become the author you dreamed of becoming.

Writing today is wild. Truly. It’s like trying to build a sandcastle during a hurricane. You sit down to write one sentence, ONE, and suddenly your phone buzzes; your friend sends you a TikTok; your brain reminds you that you haven’t had water since 2019; and somehow you end up deep‑diving into a Wikipedia page about penguins. Welcome to the age of permanent distraction, where attention spans go to the same place missing socks do. But here’s the plot twist: people are still writing, people are still creating, and you can too, even if your brain feels like a browser with too many tabs open.

The truth is, the world is louder than ever, and everything around you is vying for your precious attention. Apps want you scrolling, notifications want you tapping, algorithms want you hypnotized. Your brain just wants a nap. Writing requires focus, deep, quiet focus--the very thing modern life is determined to steal from you. Every time you check your phone, your brain has to clamber back up the mountain of concentration a very steep mountain. Distraction doesn’t just interrupt you; it resets you. It steals your flow, your ideas, your momentum, your confidence. It’s not that you’re bad at writing; it’s that the world conspires to keep you from it.

Still, writing is possible, and you don’t need monk‑level discipline to make it happen. What you need are realistic habits that work in the world we actually live in. Sometimes, the simplest thing, like turning off notifications or putting your phone in another room, is enough to give your brain a fighting chance. Writing in small, snack‑sized chunks can be surprisingly effective; five or ten minutes of real focus often beats an hour of half‑attention. Creating a little writing ritual, whether it’s a playlist, a candle, or a specific spot, helps your brain shift into “we’re doing this now” mode. And letting your first draft be messy removes the pressure that often leads to procrastination. Perfectionism is just a distraction in a fancy outfit, and the sooner you ignore it, the sooner the words start flowing.

These books are short, punchy, and perfect for a distracted brain:

• Bird by Bird — Anne Lamott

Hilarious, sincere, and radiating pure “you got this” vibes.

• Steal Like an Artist — Austin Kleon

Visual, inspiring, and easy to read in small bursts.

• The War of Art — Steven Pressfield

A motivational slap in the face in a good way.
In a world that wants you scrolling, choosing to write is choosing to focus.
It’s choosing depth over noise. It’s the choice to create rather than consume.
Writing in the age of permanent distraction isn’t easy but every sentence you finish is proof that you’re stronger than the chaos.
And honestly? That’s kind of iconic.

In the digital world, multiple magazines have shifted or are created entirely for the web audience. While it can be a stepping stone for young writers and offer instant gratification, pursuing print magazines for your next piece of work might be the push you need to get into the writer world or gain more networking and professional opportunities.

The start of the new year has started a mindset shift of doing things physically and pursuing more hobbies and activities offline. This is definitely a positive push of rejuvenation for all the people stuck in the loop of doomscrolling and its draining influence. While being online is definitely resourceful, wanting to go beyond a bubble is something you should pursue and try yourself.

Following are details of Magazines that are specifically looking for Print-Only submissions for their 2026 issues;

HANAHAKI MAGAZINE

“For the ones who still write love letters”, Hanahaki is an multimedia magazine and is now accepting submissions for their 4th Issue:

• Bubblegum Skies ( Deadline: March 31, 2026 )

You can submit various forms of writing and photography. Click here to submit or get more information.

LITRO MAGAZINE

Litro is based in New York and London. It’s a high-profile cultural and literary magazine that works to bridge the gap between literature and lifestyle.

They are currently accepting submissions for their themed editions in 2026 including;

• Future Archives, Spring 2026

( Deadline: February 15, 2026 )

• After The Flood, Summer 2026

( Deadline: June 01, 2026 )

• Night City Stories, Autumn 2026

( Deadline: October 01, 2026 )

They clearly state that they welcome submissions from writers everywhere, so you don’t have to be a resident of New York or London to submit to them.

Guidelines: Upto 3000 words for flash fiction and creative non-fiction. They also publish audio stories through their “Litro Lab”.

NINTH LETTER

A semi-annually published print at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. Ninth Letter is interested in prose and poetry that experiments with both structure and content.

Students currently enrolled at the University of Illinois are not allowed to submit. Alumni can apply three years post graduation to submit to Ninth Letter.

Learn more about their ongoing submissions here.

GRIFFITH REVIEW

An Australian quarterly that focuses on topical essays and literature. It is widely considered as one of the most prestigious journals in the Southern Hemisphere region.

You can check their latest calls for submissions here.

• Emerging Voices Competition (Deadline: April 13, 2026).

The submission for the Emerging Voices Competition is restricted to Australian and New Zealand citizens/residents only. However, the regular themed editions do feature international writers too, so check out each specific call for submission criteria.

Guideline: Preference for long-form work (3,500 – 5,000 words) and have very high editorial standards.

THE LOUISVILLE REVIEW

​The Louisville Review is a non-profit literary magazine founded in 1976 that publishes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. It aims to bridge the gap between aspiring and established writers by publishing them side-by-side.

• ​Submissions Window: Currently open (February 1 – May 1).

​The submission for The Louisville Review is open to all writers. They accept simultaneous submissions, provided they are notified immediately if a piece is accepted elsewhere. Note that they only consider previously unpublished work.

​Guideline: You can submit up to five poems at a time and only one piece for the Fiction/Nonfiction category ( 8,000 words max ).

THE PARIS REVIEW

One of the most famous literary magazines in the world. The Paris Review is known for its “Writers at Work” interview series and for launching the careers of many famous people. Following are some of their submission updates for the year:

• ​Fiction: Open via Submittable during February, June, and October (or until they reach capacity).

• ​Poetry: Open during January, April, July, and October.

They also accept submissions from all over the world. But the work must be completely written in English or be translated.

Guidelines: They are extremely selective ( thorough selection process ). Unlike many others, they still accept hard-copy/postal submissions year-round

THE SOUTHERN QUILL

First printed in 1951 and published by Utah Tech University, The Southern Quill is a literary arts journal that has been in continuous circulation for over 70 years. It focuses on publishing polished works of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and visual arts.

​You can check their latest calls for submissions here.

• ​Submissions Deadline for Fiction Category: March 6, 2026 ( Currently Open )

THE MALAHAT REVIEW

Based at the University of Victoria, The Malahat Review is one of Canada’s leading literary journals. It is widely known for its beautiful production and high-quality work.

Canadian writers can submit year-round (Jan–June), but writers from other parts of the world have specific windows. So, keep an eye on their website to stay updated with the latest news.

Guidelines: They have a strict page limit for international prose (4,000 words), whereas Canadian submissions can be up to 8,000. They do accept international submissions for various prize contests too, but they may include submission fees.

THE HEMLOCK JOURNAL

An international Literary Arts Journal based in India, that publishes seasonal issues and anthologies. It focuses on providing a global platform for emerging and established writers to share imaginative work that explores new perspectives and emotions.

• ​Submission Deadline for Issue 10: March 15, 2026

​The submission for The Hemlock Journal is open to writers and artists worldwide. They do not charge any submission or publication fees. Submissions must be original and previously unpublished, sent via their website’s form.

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Imagine your work getting printed on the pages of a magazine and sitting on your shelf. Take this as a sign to go out of your comfort zone and apply to any of these magazines. Remember that all it takes is one yes!

Subscribe to Young Writers Weekly and our social media platforms to stay notified with latest opportunities and posts. And if you know of any magazine looking for international talent, drop the details down in the comments and we’ll add them in the post.

Keep Writing, And Don’t Forget To Enjoy The Process

Here are print magazines to consider:

The Atlantic: In 2024, The Atlantic expanded the number of print magazines from 10 to 12 per month. Why? In a world where everything is digital, the Atlantic showed us that print publications have timeless qualities. It is something that the digital world can’t offer. This would be the best mag to grab in 2026.

The New Yorker: Yes, when they joined Substack, most people did not have a great reaction, but this is still one of the most iconic print magazines of all time. The covers are iconic, and in-depth reporting on culture, politics, technology, etc., is some of the best you’ll read.

Delayed Gratification: Known for its “slow journalism” approach, this magazine revisits news stories after everything is settled. If you want to gain knowledge about what the problem was and how it was resolved, this magazine will not only do that, but also give you a reference if there is the same situation arises in the future.

TIME: The strengths lies on its reputation, well-researched content, and it usually brings clarity to complex issues. If you want moderate journalism that is in-depth, this is the perfect magazine for you.

Mushroom People and Mildew: These are magazines that explore the world of fungi through art, fantasy, etc. It is not your traditional news story magazine, but it is a blend of scientific facts and imagination.

Nylon: This magazine is awesome if you are into fashion and music. This is a magazine that went back to print in 2024 after going digital-only in 2017. These magazines explore the new while also blending in the old.

Boardroom: Usually a digital site, the Boardroom is set to release four print magazines in 2026, led by NBA superstar Kevin Durant and entrepreneur Rich Kleiman. “There’s starting to be more and more of a value put on something in the physical because of how saturated the digital landscape is and just how much time we all spend on it,” said Kleiman.

Dreamworldgirl Zine: This one is for the girls. This magazine is available in both digital and print, launched by Daphne Bryant. They publish work by women and non-binary writers and artists.

Hanahaki Magazine: Hanahaki is a fictional condition in which a person coughs up flowers due to unrequited love. This magazine is for the poets and writers who feel so deeply that it consumes them, the ones who die because of unspoken words, regrets, yearning or hanahaki itself.

There is a revival in print magazines because of their originality and timeless qualities that you simply can’t receive from a digital version. All of these magazines are worth buying and reading. In 2026, it is time to be excited for print magazines.

People like me have big dreams but little drive. But this isn’t even really about drive—it’s about being too young to understand that it gets better. That you don’t have to write with the same ferocity as Shakespeare or Aphra Behn; you need to write with the same synchronized ferocity of what your tethered brain really wants. But us writers don’t really know what the brain wants. It’s like viscosity vs. velocity from Susanna Kaysen’s memoir Girl, Interrupted: ideas come in two basic varieties—slow and fast.

Velocity comes as swoops by your foot. You know when someone says something slightly poetic, or something very terrible happens to you. You find any surface to write on, and you start writing. This feeling of epiphany is everything—if I could contain it in a jar, I would. But there’s no feeling you can trap. Life is abstract; nothing happens simultaneously—only vicariously.

The predominant quality of the slow form is viscosity. Experience is thick. Perceptions are thickened and dulled through the fortuitous walls of time—we, the brain forgets, the body doesn’t. And verily, you need your brain to write, and it just doesn’t show up for you at the time where everything is slow and you want to record something into words—or you want to remember but can’t.

We spend our time longing for brick walls when we have concrete—everything that anyone ever wants is within reach, but we make it seem like it’s so far away. We can feel pity all we want for ourselves when we don’t get what we want, probably because we just let the paint peel from the walls and see what we always did see—the same bricks that follow you through time.

But to build a strong foundation, you need cement—not just water. Concrete isn’t some grey concoction that’s ugly; it’s a slate, taking its perilous time to dry and making you feel grotesque. But when it is fully dried, you can create something beautiful—but again, that’s up to you.

Not everyone’s vision of beautiful matches your version of beautiful. The same people who enjoy Bowie can’t enjoy Queen, despite their similarities and depth—it’s more about colloquial rhythm, language, leisure, not who sings better.

Same goes for writing. I’ve been rejected by every single magazine that I’ve submitted to. But what I hold with my writing is my timid twelve-year-old self on a prayer mat. I had always wanted to be good at something, and knowing what comes from the heart and being able to convey it coherently is one of the best gifts ever—it’s something I don’t need to prove to a journal, because whoever will want my work will see it glistening and published.

And I know you hold that sort of formidability for your art as well—you just haven’t found it yet.

For instance we don’t consume paper as much as we used to which is of course a huge improvement on the world’s eco-protection journey. Also it is far easier to access knowledge because everything is under the click of our thumbs, information is easier to spread. Additionally it is proven to be more cost effective cause digital media costs only a fraction of the physical thing. All these benefits might convince us that this new era is amazing on multiple aspects which is true but we can not disregard the problems of it.

As our dependency to technology escalates we pollute waters more than ever! As news platforms become more and more accessible it becomes impossible to stop the spread of false knowledge. And isn’t it scary that if one day “poof” internet gets erased from the face of the world we will have nothing to transfer to the next generations.

Did we all forget how our best memories were when our grandma read us some stories from an ancient looking book? Did we forget how life changing it felt reading the Harry Potter series for the first time? Did we forget the smell of books or how proud we felt after completing the puzzle at the back of the newspaper?

I wholeheartedly believe the thing that turns a house into a home is the presence of these physical media. These books and magazines are a reflection of our souls and personalities. Literature brings life to our homes.

Even though social media and the digital era is an immersive part of our lives we have to remember the value and indispensability of the physical world. The best way to profit from this amazing source of knowledge is building a balance between these two. So get a subscription to a magazine that you love even though it is cheaper online. For me, getting my edition of “New Yorker” is my highlight of the month. Building a collection of it so that one day my children can continue the tradition. Or get copies of your favourite books from kindle. I promise the smell and the feeling of owning a copy is truly worth it. Why not start building your future library from now?

Well to wrap it up, even though we live in an age of technology it is nice to return back to our roots and show appreciation to the beautiful physical media from time to time!

Every time you receive an idea, it feels like a unique story; they all seem thrilling or wonderful and are more interesting than what is currently being created. There is an element of surprise with regard to the amount of creativity, but I believe that most quality work comes from focusing on one idea, making a firm commitment to that, and discarding the others.

Rejecting other ideas can feel logical. But “better” does not always equate to solid, no matter how great an individual’s thought may appear. There are instances when an amazing idea will turn out to be totally incorrect in relation to the narrative you wish to communicate. When writers choose to have it all, every plot element, every surprise, every charming detail, etc., and cram everything into their final piece, it will become overly complicated because focus will dissipate, and the reader’s emotional element will ultimately become compromised.

In general, effective creative writing strives for coherence, vision, and ultimately adherence to limitations.

The process of denying proposals is not really about repressing creative thinking; instead, the process of saying no to proposals protects the integrity of the narrative. The author selects a path and removes any other possibilities that may occur along the way; the result is an enhanced quality of writing that creates depth of character and enhances the importance of the major themes. At this point, the narrative knows what kind of story it wants to convey.

There are numerous examples of this occurring throughout the literary world. Some of the finest works written have a strong theme with a single concept, and by avoiding other distractions, the author has been able to create a cohesive, well-crafted piece of literature.

• The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo
focuses only on the voice of one young woman, her poetry, her identity, and her struggle for visibility. This book succeeds by only focusing on the main character’s journey and not getting sidetracked with extra subplots or characters. It tells a single story with precision.

• The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
could have added countless other characters, plot twists, scenes, and events to enhance the story’s impact by having multiple characters’ stories intertwined with Hazel’s. However, John Green keeps this discordant pair of young adult lovers at the forefront; the power of the story lies in its simplicity: two separate teens on an emotional journey.l.

• We Were Liars by E. Lockhart
This novel is laser-focused on one mystery and one summer. The tight structure is exactly why the ending hits so hard; the story never wanders.

These books demonstrate that quality writing does not necessitate having a multitude of concepts to utilize. A quality writer identifies what concept to focus on and presents that concept as effectively as possible.

The idea that having no restrictions on creativity is the ultimate way to be creative is false. The true creative writer understands when to limit their creativity. This does not mean that the alternative options are subpar; rather, it means the focus of the story needs to maintain complete attention at all times.

Ultimately, quality writing is creating a compilation of ideas into one. This process allows for the assurance of direction and provides the writer with the ability to proceed down that chosen direction. The ability to bypass a brilliant concept and move forward in a different direction could be the most courageous choice a quality writer could potentially make.

Which is funny, because every time someone told me “don’t take it personally,” I had already taken it extremely personally, re-read it six times, and imagined three alternate lives where I chose a different hobby.

That’s probably why the whole idea of “growing thick skin” appealed to me so much. Criticism is always framed as something you survive by toughening up, and I bought into that completely. The phrase itself suggests that confidence is fragile—that it can be pierced by the wrong words at the wrong time. And if I’m being honest, it really did feel like that.

What I didn’t understand back then is that confidence isn’t supposed to be a shield. You’re not meant to block opinions from hitting you at all. Confidence is more like… the floor. Things can still fall on you, but at least you’re standing on something solid instead of free-falling every time a feedback appears and your brain immediately goes blank.

Looking back, I think I learned to fear criticism really early. I remember getting test papers back in school and immediately checking how much red pen there was before reading anything else. The red pen meant failure to me. That instinct never really left, it just evolved and social media amplified it. Feedback there is often unsolicited, blunt, and delivered with the confidence of someone who has never once questioned themselves.

Over time, criticism stops sounding like commentary on the work and starts sounding like a diagnosis of your own personality. This is usually when confidence begins to quietly fall apart—not because criticism exists, but because we start confusing what we made with who we are.

That confusion followed me for years. It took me an embarrassingly long time to separate the two. I used to read feedback and immediately start questioning everything: my ability, my voice, my future, and occasionally my entire personality. But one small mental shift slowly changed things—reminding myself that I am not my draft. I’m the person who made it. And people who make things are allowed to revise them, delete them, or pretend they were “just experimenting” the whole time.

Once I started thinking about it that way, my reaction to criticism began to change too. Now, when feedback comes in—especially the kind that makes my stomach drop for no clear reason—I try to pause. I don’t always succeed, but I try. I ask myself, Is this actually about me, or is this about the work? And most of the time ,it’s about the work. Treating feedback like information instead of an accusation gave me just enough distance to breathe again.

That pause also taught me something else: not all criticism deserves the same amount of energy. Some feedback is thoughtful, specific, and actually helpful. Some of it is vague, personal, or delivered with way too much confidence for someone who clearly skimmed. Learning to take criticism well doesn’t mean listening harder—it means learning when to stop listening. Confidence grew the moment I realized I was allowed to ignore feedback that was unhelpful, uninformed, or mostly coming from someone who just wanted to hear themselves talk.

Even then, timing still matters more than we think. Criticism received when you’re still emotionally attached to your work can feel catastrophic. I’ve learned that reacting immediately—especially internally—is almost never helpful. Now, I let myself feel annoyed, defensive, or mildly dramatic, and then I wait. I don’t rewrite everything at once. I don’t spiral at midnight. I let the emotion pass so I can actually evaluate the feedback with a functioning brain. More often than not, that’s where confidence quietly survives.

All of this eventually came down to self-trust. If every piece of feedback completely reroutes your direction, confidence collapses. If you ignore all feedback, growth stalls. The balance lies in trusting your vision while staying open to refinement. Confidence doesn’t mean believing you’re always right—it means believing you’re capable of learning without losing yourself. Once I trusted that, criticism stopped feeling like a threat and started feeling like guidance I could choose to use or not.

With time, repetition changes perspective. The more you create, share, get critiqued, and revise, the less permanent any single opinion feels. Experience teaches you that mistakes are survivable, rejection isn’t fatal, and feedback is temporary. Confidence grows not because criticism disappears, but because you’ve lived through it before and you’re still here. Still writing. Still fine.

That’s when I realized I’d been defining confidence wrong the entire time. It isn’t unshakable certainty or constant praise. It’s resilience. It’s knowing that your value stays stable even when your work is questioned. It’s understanding that growth requires friction and that being criticized does not mean being diminished.

In the end, criticism is inevitable for anyone who chooses visibility, ambition, or honesty. Confidence isn’t built by avoiding it, but by meeting it with clarity, boundaries, and self-respect. When you stop treating criticism as a threat and start treating it as a tool, confidence stops being something you protect.

It becomes something you carry.

But what is life when all you do is just repeat the cycle every other day, trying to hang on till the end of the week, and maybe, just maybe, you will have enough time to dive into your other world of writing and literature? The parallel universe that’s waiting for you to finish your assignments… you can see it, you can hear the buzzing of it, but it is just out of reach.

As this goes on, your routine turns into a hot mess. Instead of keeping a steady pace and sparing time for your dreams, you end up writing once a month. You try to force yourself to be creative just because you happen to be free right now. But in order to actually achieve something and fulfill your passion, you have to wake up from this fever dream. You have to let go of the “all or nothing” mentality and place your writing into a structured program: a priority of your daily life.

My first and foremost advice for you is to accept that writing is a process and you can not force your mind or hands to write on command. You need to dedicate time, effort and compassion in order to reach your full potential. And the way to do so is spending a little time every single day, creating consistency.

It is perfectly normal to feel drained and burnt out, but nevertheless you should, even if it’s only 15 minutes, reserve some time for it. If after 15 minutes you still don’t feel inspired, stop. But eventually you will see that sometimes those short sessions will turn into hours. You just need to give yourself more chances. Don’t burn yourself out trying to forcefully finish 2 more chapters before bed or quickly edit this paragraph before school. Create a balance between your writing and responsibilities. Experiment with different schedules, different work programs, and find out what’s best for you.

Determine the hours when you feel most motivated. Your writing schedule may not fit in with others; they might tell you that the time you picked is unproductive. But always listen to your mind and body over other people’s comments. For me, I am most motivated after midnight and I write my best work around 1 or 2 in the morning. It is okay to not fit into “standarts” after all who decides what is normal and what is best for you?

You have to, and I emphasize the word have to, realize that writing isn’t a chore, it isn’t an assignment, and it isn’t a burden on your back waiting to be checked off so that you can neatly put it into a file marked “finished”. In “The Alchemist,” there is an idea of a “Personal Legend,” which is essentially your ideal destiny that you can choose to pursue or not. If so, the universe will make sure you eventually reach it, and along the way, you will find yourself. Your writing is your Personal Legend. It is your hope, your dream, your passion, your light. Choose to pursue it despite the difficulties, and that choice alone is the strongest motivation you need to create a writing routine. Everything else will fall into place as long as you recognize your priorities and start treating your responsibilities as responsibilities and dreams as dreams. Work toward your goal, not because you have to, but because it is a blessing to have that opportunity.

Another important factor in being a good writer is being a good reader. You get exposed to unique language, different genres, narrative voices and examples of world-building and character development styles. This can help you understand what you want to reflect in your writing and what you don’t. So I recommend always adding at least 30 minutes of reading to your writing schedule so you can discover your voice as a writer on a deeper level.

So if I have to give you a key motto on creating a realistic writing routine, I would say: Don’t rely on other people’s opinions and standards set by social media, a bit classic, but always follow your soul and body, they will guide you to your Personal Legend.

You sit down, a cup of steaming hot coffee in your hand (the fancy kind), in your leather-bound chair with your cozy blanket gracefully hanging from the edge of your seat. The lights are dimmed and the weather is simply just exquisite, the kind of day that seems to be designed for inspiration. Everything is perfectly arranged and you look like a writer—an excellent one—from the outside. You slowly put your fingers to the keys on your laptop staring at the black page in front of you. It holds an infinite number of possibilities, endless worlds and limitless dimensions. And the only barrier—the only restriction—is yourself.

Every other thing is perfect: your battery is full, your calendar is clear, the hot coffee in your hand is soothing against your cold skin. But something, a leash, is pulling you; blurring your mind with concerns and prohibiting your hands from moving. Even though there is an illusion that you are alone, you soon realise that is completely incorrect. There is an entire audience: clapping, judging, whispering. You hear scatters of their conversations, every gossip is another whip to your back. So you listen, trying to escape their unforgiving criticism by creating something unjudgeable, something flawless, something perfect.

You go over every single sentence before even thinking about the next one, trying to find the absolute perfect recipe. Sooner or later you will realize that there is no satisfying your inner editor, there is no repressing that dictator that rules freely in your head, oppressing any and all ideas and caging every last bit of your creativity in dark dungeons because they lack perfection.

Now your writing has become a performance trying to entertain and satisfy your brutal audience. This flawed performance kills your vulnerability, suffocating your expression and assaulting every bit of authenticity and identity. So now you are left with a glazed glass vase, it's pretty, smooth and every curve is meticulously crafted but it’s empty.

This chase of aesthetic perfection shadows the literary elements and the raw value of your voice. Anne Lamott, in her book Bird by Bird says: “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.” I think this is the most immaculate way to put how turning writing into a performance art devalues your work, silencing your soul. Because regardless of the beauty of the vase, people will always choose the one filled with wild, colorful, extraordinary flowers. Prose can gleam like glass and still say nothing. A slightly clumsy truth is worth more than a perfectly phrased lie.

So how can you break from this shiny cage? How can you plant real, fragment, wild flowers into your vase? How can you escape from the spotlight? Here is the advice I return to whenever I feel that leash tighten again and when my inner editor screams too loud:

1. The Manuscript is Untouchable

When you sculpt as you write, you’re interrupting flow with fear. While writing a manuscript, do not go back to “fix a little mistake” or “this word sounds nicer here” these are little traps the inner editor is trying to pull you in. Terry Pratchett says “The first draft is just you telling yourself the story” So let yourself do exactly that. No judgment. No audience. Just raw honesty. Don't focus on tiny mistakes or polished sentences, chase the essence, the thing that's alive and burning in your soul but you can’t quite name it just yet. You must allow chaos on the page before it metamorphoses into something beautiful.

2. Write What You Need to Write

Writing is not a PR campaign. The version of you who writes for applause will never create anything worth clapping for. So stop trying to please the ear and start focusing on writing what matters. Because the best writing carries emotional weight, not decorative elegance. As long as you chase style at the cost of sincerity you can never achieve a lasting piece. The most unforgettable paragraphs don’t impress the mind; they disrupt the soul. They sting. They haunt. You cannot write well if you're trying to be liked. You cannot write honestly if you're trying to look smart. You cannot write anything real if you're constantly trimming the edges to make it prettier for public view. You have to remember your first reader is yourself. So say what you need to instead of what sounds lyrical.

3. Just Start

The blank page, the endless void isn't the enemy. Your hesitation is. You don't need the perfect environment, a full setup or a nice cozy day in order to write. These are just excuses and the only way to write something authentic, true and real is to simply just start. Maybe on a piece of napkin with the pen you found rolled over in the street, maybe back at the classroom or even while waiting for your mom to pick you up. These made up criteria about a perfect writing environment is nothing but an illusion. The only requirement is for you to start. It can be meaningless, silly or even cringe—but nevertheless, it is a start.

4. Miserable Food Critic from Ratatouille

Remember Ratatouille, an all-time classic movie, where basically a rat becomes a chef in the heart of Paris. Remember the miserable food critique Anton Ego: calcified by cynicism and devoured by his search for perfection. Once the man who loved food is now consumed by his critique and expectations. The joy rotted away and the passion faded into a bitter unpleasable appetite. Writers beware: polish can turn into poison. Rotting your passions from the inside. You may start out hungry for meaning and end up starved by performance. Don’t become Anton Ego-disillusioned by perfection and performance- remember why you first started writing, before everything felt so complicated and suffocating. Write for yourself, not for the non-existing molds you try to squish into. Your writing doesn’t need to be perfect or genius or a literary masterpiece, it only needs to be yours.

LITTLE TIPS WHEN YOU FEEL OVERWHELMED

• Use bullet points to jot down ideas, you can connect them later.

• Set a timer and write non-stop for 15 minutes, see where the flow takes you (you never know what's at the end of the river)

• Switch to pen and paper, there is something ancient and intimate about handwriting.

• Stop mid sentence. It is easier to start with a half-written idea; you don't have to face a blank page, you'll already have momentum.

Imagine your piece as an egg. You get so caught up in polishing the shell— making it smooth, symmetrical, admired from the outside — that you forget the valuable part is only accessible when the shell is cracked, the true treasure is hidden inside. It isn't smooth or buttery like the shell, it looks sticky and wonky but in the end the shell is worthless and the yolk is the valuable part of the egg—it’s where the nourishment lies. So what I am trying to say is you have to go beyond impression to reach expression. Drop the mask, let it shatter beneath your words; that's where freedom and clarity comes.

[Seen spotlight.] You walk onstage wearing fuzzy socks and emotional baggage.

Welcome, welcome, welcome to the only show where the plot twist is your personality and the commercial break is you crying in the bathroom. If I can be a part-time reader, full-time overthinker, I’m your host; I’m Rena, part-time reader, full-time overthinker tonight. I’ll share YA books that aren’t only about telling stories, but are also about diagnosing you.

Because let’s face it: teenhood in 2025 isn’t what the old-school YA novels promised. No slow-motion prom scene. No mysterious boy with a jawline and a tragic past. This is not a magic hammering explanation why you cry in math class.

What do we have? Group conversations are like therapy. Climate dread with memes. And constant pressure to be “fine” when everything is falling apart.

We are going to focus on two books that do not just reflect teenhood, they live within it. Go outta. It’s going to be emotionally loud.

📘 The Corruption of Hollis Brown by K. Ancrum

This book is not for you to comfort you. It’s here to eat into your ribcage and reorganize your feelings. Hollis is grieving, spiraling, trying to resuscitate it as the world quietly unravels around him. The writing. Imagine poetry lost in a thunderstorm and returning with secrets. It’s queer, it’s haunted, it doesn’t care about plot like it does about vibe.

What this reading is like is, I’m staring at a mirror and seeing the mirror crying. You don’t read Hollis. You become him. And then you text your best friend: “I think I just had a spiritual breakdown in chapter seven.”

👑 Queendom Come by Jordan H. Bartlett
Fantasy, but make it feminist. This book takes us into a realm of queendom where power is not just the crown – it’s all about voice, resistance, and reclaiming space. Are all characters? Sharp. Flaw. It was real. They make mistakes. They rise. They question everything. It’s like The Hunger Games, The Politician, The Policeman met the Hunger Games and raised a generation of sword-wielding softies who cry during strategy meetings.

The other is political intrigue, rebellion, and just enough magic to make you feel you could overthrow your school dress code.

Why not? Because they do not treat teenhood like a period. They treat it as a revolution. They know what they are doing as a teenager living in a world that is continually changing: emotionally, politically, digitally. They don’t make easy answers to this problem. They do offer mirrors. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

If you hate YA that is hard to understand, grab one of these if you’re tired of YA that’s written by someone who still says “YOLO.” They aren’t just good, they are real. They’ll rouse you, cry, spiral, and maybe even heal a little.

That’s our show tonight, folks. I’ll be back again, too, for “Books That Feel Like Breakups” and ‘Why Every YA Character Has Better Eyebrows Than Me’. Now you’re not the main character – you’re the whole plot.

Outro music. Fade to black. Roll credits

What people fail to understand is that trauma isn’t just a stunned reaction you have one day and the next day feel all better. It’s going through something one day and it still affects someone with different triggers such as bringing up something that relates to the trauma.

Keeping a secret has not only given me guilt and shame, but it has caused me to lie to people I love because the secret is something I cannot share. If I do, I’ll be exposed and that will just bring more trauma than I already have.

People aren’t educated when it comes to mental health. Even though it is preached around the world now more than ever, most people are educated on depression, anxiety, and trauma.

One way is that people will say people who have trauma are unfixable. This is simply not true as there have been many examples of people who have come back from their personal problems linked to trauma.

For me, I have been working to talk to people about my problems rather than hold it like I have been doing for many years. I have been masking everything and acting like everything is okay. That has made people assume that I am just this sweet, innocent boy when really I am a guilty mess.

This is what people seem to ignore. They think trauma is immediate and visible when really people who are going through problems are the best at acting. It is the only worry in their mind, so they have no choice to figure out ways to hide it.

Thinking trauma can be about anything is just false. It is a specific problem that hits you deeply that doesn’t change you for a day, but for years. It is something that just sticks with you like a band-aid and in this case it takes years to rip it off.

Now what does this all stem from? It is people watching movies, reading books, and other forms of fiction where they only see the drama and then the problem being resolved in a movie, especially when someone is overexposed.

When someone is overexposed, the sadness, depression you see in fiction all starts to blur together and become the same thing. Overexposure causes people to not recognize the twisted situations a character goes through or when it comes to real problems, not recognize what they’re going through.

People will see a character go through something for two hours in a movie, see them reveal a secret, and see them recover. It looks easy and then they see that many times, they start to believe that process. Well, there is a reason why it is called fiction.