I am currently in the midst of writing 4 books right now (the ideas just keep coming!) and I am facing difficulty finding the motivation to keep continuing. For example sometimes I feel like giving up because writing a book is a tedious process and i'm not very patient! Do any of you have tips to overcome this problem? Also, I am looking for some tips to guide me in my writing. Thanks in advance :)

P.S. I am actually very inexperienced (I'm only 12, turning 13 next year) and I also need to juggle between all my activities. Hope you all can help! :)

Blue. Blue all around.

I am floating in water.

Animals and plants of different sizes, shapes and colours swim past.

Am I in a dream?

Is this real?

Am I dead?

I suck in air through my nostrils, but instead water fills me.

This is no dream.

This is happening.

For real.

I push my arms and legs downwards, trying to reach the water's surface.

It's too far.

I'm too weak.

I cannot die, I think. Not today.

I try to swim up, but to no avail.

Everything is blurry now. Pain, excruciating pain, suffocates me as I sink.

Not today, I tell myself.

The last thing I see is blue.

Then the world turns black.

It was another morning. The sun shone in the canvas of blue and soon, people began to fill the streets. Luna yawned in her makeshift bed and swung her legs towards the ground.

“Mother?” she called out.

Luna ran towards the doors of the abandoned warehouse that she had called home for ten years. Being homeless, Luna lived an adventurous life with her foster mother, searching the streets for money that people might have dropped (which rarely happened) and occasionally visiting the other homeless people who did not have a proper home like Luna (proper by their standards) and instead roamed the streets, lugging their belongings along.

If she was lucky, Luna would sneak into the library nearby and ‘steal’ a book or two. She just borrowed them without a library card and returned them when she was done. Luna loved opening a book and learning new things or stepping into another world. She didn’t need a notebook to write anything she read or saw. Each detail would be etched in her mind.

Luna squealed in delight as she saw her mother, who was carrying a piece of cheesecake that she had probably nicked from a bakery. Wondering why her mother had stolen the cake, Luna bombarded her mother with questions.

“Happy birthday, Luna!” Luna’s mother suddenly turned and thrust the cake, which was on a paper plate, into Luna’s hands. Luna had completely forgotten it was her birthday! (or, at least the day her mother found her). Luna carefully set the cake on a nearby ‘table’ and hugged her mother tightly.

“I’m off to see my friend nearby. She claims to have acquired meat somehow. Probably grabbed it from a butcher. I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Bye!” Luna’s mother kissed her on the cheek and scurried out of the warehouse.

Little did Luna know that that would be the last time she saw her mother again.

The residents of Oak Street were, somehow, oblivious to the cries of a small infant wrapped in a threadbare blanket who was cast on the sidewalks. Its ear-piercing shrieks soon were reduced to silent sobs as it tired out. The cold wintry air whipped around and caused shivers to run up and down the spine of the little girl. Finally, as the deafening silence of the night set in, the baby stopped crying. It knew that it could do nothing yet it refused to succumb for it was curious. How did you walk, talk, sing? How did you run, play, learn? How did you teach, guide, work? It wanted to know, so it endured the pain and lived.

A dark silhouette neared it suddenly, wrapped in a pitch-black cloth. The light of a nearby lamppost lit her face, a quiet, somehow beautiful one. She cautiously picked up the baby, rocking it in her hands. Despite being a homeless woman, she could sense, something only mothers can sense, that that child was an extraordinary one. She looked up at the moon and as a lunar eclipse blocked out the moonlight, she whispered very softly:

“I shall name you Luna.”

When I was 7, my school hosted a poem-reciting competition in which a representative from each class would recite a poem in front of a lot of parents, the principal and vice-principal, and more. Being an introvert, I chose to keep quiet during the selection for the class representative even though I knew deep down that I could do well.

Unfortunately, all my classmates voted for a CERTAIN SOMEONE who was VERY RELUCTANT to participate.

That person was yours truly.

Initially, I rejected the offer because I knew I could not overcome my stage fright and shyness. However, upon seeing the hopeful faces my classmates and class teacher wore, I gave in and agreed.

Weeks flew by as my spare time was converted to choosing a poem, memorising it and learning simple actions to make it ‘more lively and entertaining ’ as my class teacher said. A costume was chosen, my parents were delighted and my elder brother pestered me when I was trying to memorise the poem.

All these chaotic preparations did not equip me with the right steps to take to overcome my fear of BEING STARED AT BY A BUNCH OF STRANGERS and sometimes I regretted accepting to take part in it. My nerves grew as my classmates swarmed me with questions. Questions, questions, questions. 

Before I knew it, the night before the competition had arrived.

I stared at the ceiling and cuddled my favourite soft toy, too nervous and scared to sleep. All my thoughts were about the competition.

About the people looking at me. Expecting an excellent performance.

About the microphone that I would hold. That would amplify every sound I made.

About EVERYTHING.

I felt shivers running up and down my spine. I could not think, could not breathe. Yet I didn’t want to tell anyone, fearing I would disappoint them. 

I stared at my soft toy, trying to make it speak and help me through those dark times.

Then I pictured my soft toy standing up in my mind and speaking to me.

“Come on, you can’t be scared of a bunch of people! Just imagine they’re all dabbing or doing something funny. That’ll look so hilarious! Remember, book characters always have it worse, so just go out there and get it over and done with. I’ll be waiting,” its imaginary voice squeaked.

I thought about those words for a minute. My seven-year-old self realised that my doll was right! I could just follow her advice and it would be awesome! I lulled myself to sleep comforted by those words.

The next day, there was a flurry of activities taking place. Last minute adjustments were made to my costume, my classmates were wishing me good luck and telling me they would cheer for me, my class teacher ran through the script and actions. My nerves had disappeared, however, for I was as cool as a cucumber. Up until the competition began and I was called to the stage.

Heaving a big big big big big breath, I strutted towards the microphone as confidently as I could but my heart thumped wildly. Blood pounded in my ears and I could hear my ragged breath. As I faced the large crowds packed into the hall, my fear grew. I cleared my mind and tried to focus on the first lines of the rhyme:

Little drops of water,

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean,

And the pleasant land.

No, no, you’re supposed to greet everyone and introduce yourself! I thought. 

I quickly greeted everyone in the hall and introduced myself.

“ Today, I will be reciting a poem entitled ‘Little things’ by Julia Fletcher Carney,” I continued.

Now, you do what I told you to do and recite the poem, Lily’s voice echoed in my head.

I imagined the crowd dabbing and a smile played across my lips.

Little drops of water

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean,

And the pleasant land.

So the little moments, 

Humble though they be,

Make the mighty ages

Of eternity.

So our little errors

Lead the soul away

From the path of virtue,

Far in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness,

Little words of love,

Make our earth happy,

Like the Heaven above.

I finished with a bow and a thank you. A thunderous applause shook the hall that drowned my last words. I smiled as I saw my classmates whooping and cheering and my mother proudly filming my every word. As I walked off the stage, I thanked my soft toy silently for those useful words of advice.

Ever since then, my confidence has grown and I have overcome my fear of stage fright.

Moral of the story? To be honest, I have no idea. Write in the comments what you think the moral was!

There is a power cut in your city and you are kidnapped and put in a cave. There are three doors in the cave. The first one has hungry lions ready to gobble you up as soon as you take one step. The second one has electric saws ready to chop you up into kebabs. The third one has poisonous that will kill you with just a whiff.

Which door do you exit through?

A side note: There may be loopholes in this riddles, but please ignore them!

The answer

Is

The second one. There is a power cut so the electric saws would not work.

*I know, I know, they can run on batteries. I told you there would be loopholes!

She looked out towards the snowy caps of mountains that rose ahead of her. Her blonde hair whipped behind her, blown by the freezing wind. Gashes had cut through her pale skin. Her threadbare clothes were torn and bloody, turning a deeper shade of crimson as blood seeped out of the deep gash that ran along her waist. She fell to her knees as she glimpsed a cloaked figure speeding towards her.

“Mark?”

Her dry, cracked lips moved as she made an inaudible sound.

Then she fell to the ground, her body careening as her heart thumped one last time.

“NO!” a thunderous yell shook the icy tundra.

All was quiet.

Nothing could be done.

To save her.

“NO!” she shrieked an ear-piercing shriek that echoed throughout the field. All around her, blood was being spilt as a war waged but all her attention was directed towards the limp figure lying on the ground. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she cradled the dead body of her lover. She kissed his forehead with cracked, dry lips and suddenly gave a gasp. A sword’s tip was poking out of her ribcage. She could feel the rusty metal in her body. She fell, positioning herself so she lay next to him. 

“I love you,” she whispered with her final breath as she held his hand.

As the sun began to sink, the two lovers lay dead side by side, victims of the treacherous war.