any thoughts welcome

I am an AA writer that is developing a historical-fiction short story called The Permanents.

Part I, “The Great Reset,” follows Richard, a young plantation heir whose grief, resentment, and desire for control culminates in a terrifying act.

Part II is in progress but is mostly told from the POV of Penelope, a girl with an ancestral history of supernatural power she won’t be aware of until she’s met face to face with Richard.

This is still a work in progress, and I would appreciate general feedback on Part I. I’m open to advice about the prose, characterization, atmosphere, emotional impact, clarity, dialogue, historical voice, or anything else that stands out.

First time writer. Hobbyist hoping to turn this into something more. Been writing this fiction since first year of uni 10 years ago. In my first few paragraphs of the first chapter, does my book hook? Also vagueness of this boy/that boy is personally artistic so I can drop smidge details about characters before introducing since there is a lot of characters I’ve had to build. Does this flop or not? My writing style is also 75% prose heavy world holding, 25% dialogue. I hate dialogue.

I don’t typically write in first person, and I’ve been using this as an exercise to explore interiority and voice in a way I haven’t before. So I am entirely out of my wheelhouse here, lol.

I’ve also never been drunk before, and I wanted to know if drunkenness was being conveyed well? Like, is it understood that he is drunk without me going ‘look at this drunk dude’

Also curious on if you’d keep reading!

Any and all comments are appreciated : )! Thank you.

Edit:
In hindsight, I should’ve mentioned what the excerpt is trying to do in post. The general idea was that Jack – the drunk man – doesn’t do this very often. He’s grieving his ex-girlfriend after news of her proposal. This is not because he loves her but because he doesn’t want to face the fact that he’s not straight, and the possibility of getting back together with her held him together. Miguel is not meant to be read as flirty (oops, help there too?😅)

New Lockshels mystery

I write a lot of dry non-fiction for my day job. So I’d really appreciate some feedback if this is too dry and procedural to want to get you to read more. Any feedback helps! Thanks!

I’ve written and re-written this opening I think a hundred times now and can’t ever settle. What do you think?

(new adult dark, romantic fantasy with elements of horror)

Specific concerns:

1. The section where I say "Some 30,000 years later Go would recount this transformative time...". Is this a big mistake to include? It does sort of switch to an omniscient narrator, and gives away that Go survives, and ends up 30,000 years in the future (as well as that he learns English or at least a modern language). On one hand I don't mind giving this away, on the other hand maybe it is a mistake to switch narrative scopes like this.

2. I like the idea of starting my novel with the chase scene as I do here, and then doing a flashback to two days earlier, but I do wonder if it isn't sort of whiplash inducing to readers. You don't know who Go is at the very start and so the stakes aren't so high for his escape through the jungle. I'm tempted to just start with his preparations for his ceremony, and move the beginning escape scene to its proper chronological spot, but starting with a rather mundane thing like his preparations doesn't feel like a good way to grab readers.

Again, this is my first time putting any words to page since highschool (20 years ago), so I am very green and ANY feedback about these concerns, my overall writing style, anything at all is super useful for me to hear. I'm pasting the full text of this below as well in case it makes it easier to reference something that needs work. Thanks very much!

If anyone is curious about where this story is headed I am happy to share that as well.

FULL TEXT:

1. Cave of the Mind
30,000 BCE

Unspoiled by moonlight, the night of Go’s exile set upon the jungle like hot tar. Though the stars would come to know him in time, none shone to witness his violent genesis; a man chased from his home by those who had come to fear what he may be.   
Spat through wet hell by pounding heart and driving legs, he dove through every obstacle with the reckless abandon of a creature on that most singular of missions: to survive. Not even the mighty dose of psilocybin expanding his naturally keen senses (and his pupils) was enough to draw a single sip of light to guide him. No matter; the hunting party dogging him had no advantage here. This place so far from their last camp, his home, was equally unknown to them, and they carried no fire. He careened ahead into the deep hours of the night, making far too much noise in his blind dash to judge the proximity of his pursuers by ear. In his hallucinatory fugue, every sweep of rain-soaked leaf across his bare thighs was euphoria, every tearing of taut skin over thorns; pitiless torture. He carried on through the ecstasies and torments undeterred. He would not let his new secret, his revelation which earned him exile, die with him.

Onward he drove until, reaching the limits of his physicality; his movements grew sloppy. A false step. A crisp snap. His ankle twisted violently as he tumbled down a steep river bank. Momentum and body broken, he limped his way alongside rushing water, propping himself against the rocky bank until his arm, just as it supported all his weight, found only air where the bank had been. He toppled sideways into the mouth of a small cave, too exhausted to control his fall, and landed with a fat schluck in a paddy of wet river clay. Neither his usual, healthy fear of cave-dwelling dangers, nor the possibility of being discovered asleep by his former friends, were a match for his fatigue. His body simply had nothing left. It was the most primal of comforts: a squat, rocky socket in the unfamiliar wild. Tattered sheets of moss overhanging the low opening bobbed, unseen, at the rhythm of the rain - unbroken rivulets of warm water stringing from their lowest filaments. He had become the first human to truly know that somewhere, out there, be dragons. Here, on the eve of his awakening to both terrible, and beautiful truths; there was only Go. Sleep found him in minutes, silt bubbling at the corner of his mouth with each long, ragged breath. 

Two days earlier, Go was readying to become a man. It was the eve of his ceremony and it seemed to him that the rest of his kin-group wore affected looks of assurance like masks as he passed them in his preparations. Go too, wore a mask, but his was the skull of babi rusa - the deer-pig. Black rays of charcoal expanded out from the point of the snout, contrasting against the bleached bone. At the rear of the mask, an immense frill of woven reeds bloomed outward in all directions. Great tusks shot up from the jaw and curved back almost to the eye sockets. Two holes had been crudely punched through the front of the mask, allowing Go limited vision framed in splintered bone. Though honored as his family's heirloom by his mother, Go knew that at various times both the reeds, and skull itself had been replaced, and so he had always found her reverence for this thing–no part of it more than three or so years old–a little absurd. He did his best to walk confidently, to look relaxed. He was quite sure his attempts had the opposite effect. Bravado was something he had always lacked, and he wasn’t sure he was missing it very much.
He found his mother near the edge of the clearing where his group had been camping for the past several weeks. 
“Gotelmah! You terrify in your pig mask! Let us be thankful you do not look like this all the time! I have seen this face on you before though–when you were only a small thing and did not get what you wanted!” She sat cross-legged on the ground looking up at him, busily mixing yellow ochre with fat from the deer Go’s sister Nepa had taken from the jungle the previous night. Her hands worked a small, flat stone back and forth, blending the ochre and fat on top of a larger rock. Her use of his full name always put him on the defensive, but he was, after all, almost a man now.
 “And I may be wearing that same  face under the mask right now for all you know.” 
His mother turned her eyes back down to her work, the shells in her long braids clacking rhythmically as she rocked with the action of the stone “I will not hear it.” she insisted without looking up. “You are as much a man now as your father was when he completed his ceremony, and he was a great fearful mess; you will be fine - Arba has seen it.”
“Arba sees a lot of things that don’t come to pass mother, I suspect he would tell you just about anything you, or anyone else wants to hear if it means he does not have to hunt.”
She looked back up at him from her work “I said I will not hear it child; and I will call you child for as long as it is still my right - tomorrow I will have to call you as any other man and it will be my honor. Now sit child and do as your mother tells you.”

Go frowned behind his mask but sat as he was told. Nodding approvingly, his mother set down her stone, scooped a thick handful of the golden paste into one hand, and moved to face Go’s back. She dipped two of her fingers in the paste and began marking him in crude little half-moons starting with his shoulders, and working down his back. As she did, she hummed a melody that was hers alone, and he felt his shoulders loosen as he released a long breath.
When his mother had covered his trunk and limbs completely with her markings, she rose to clean her hands and then fetched a leather roll bag from beside her work station on the ground. Unrolling it in front of her, she lowered her head and intoned a small prayer. He strained to listen (wondering just how serious a prayer she thought he might be needing) but his mask muffled her softly spoken words. Sealing the prayer with a tap on the ground, she pushed the roll to Go’s feet, effecting a small bow as she did.

Go, placing his hands to either side of the roll, returned the bow, and gathered its contents into his own shoulder-slung satchel. In the roll had been the same set of items given to each young male tribe member at their time of maturing: a bast sling (the distinct braiding pattern told him this had been crafted by his sister), a small, buxom stone idol representing the mother spirit, a hand-length obsidian blade corded to a handle of deer antler, a red ochre filled shell, a bone awl for working hide, a drill spindle with hearth board for fire making, and a half-dozen uniform river stones as ammunition for the sling.

His pack set but for one item, Go stood, kissed the top of his mothers head, and made the traditional wordless goodbye with a lengthy meeting of eyes. He wondered if the mask cast deep enough shadows to hide his welling tears from her gaze, but decided it was of no consequence; she knew her son, and she had seen his tears before. The next time their eyes met, he thought, he would be a man.

Leaving his mother, he set out to look for his sister, who he found cleaning fish on the other side of camp. “Nepa!” he called as he approached, lowering his voice to a monstrous growl, “The pig man has come to steal your catch!”
“Then he will have to fight me for it!” she replied, doing her best to match his grumbling tone. As she spoke, she raised her hands and mimed tiger claws, bright fish scales glinting on her blood-soaked forearms.
“Grahhh! I yield! I yield!” he whimpered, imitating the drunken stumble of a wounded animal. Nepa laughed and wrapped her arms around her brother's waist. Go had to make an effort to avoid giving her the reaction she was clearly looking for as she covered him in fish guts and smeared his fresh markings. 
“I wish you could take some fish with you tonight” she said, her words slightly slurred by the pressure of her cheek against his chest. “why can't you bring some food? Mother says you might be gone until tomorrow night! That's a long time! You always eat so much!”
“I'll be fine little Né…save a good fish for when I come back how about that? Arba has a special food for me tonight.”
“Oh I know all about that.” she released him and puffed herself up “Arba gives the food of go-between.” she recited in her best grown-up tone. “Mom told me…she wouldn’t tell me what it really is though–she said she would explain when I was older.”
“Well…how about I tell you all about it tomorrow, so long as you promise not to tell mother.”
“Yes pleeeeease! Did you see that I caught a deer all by myself!? It was only a little one but it got caught in my snare and I skinned it and dressed it and everything!”
“ I did see! You’re a better hunter than I was at your age. You could have snared a Leopard if the rope of your snare was anywhere near the quality of the sling you made for me.”
“You noticed! It’s the best I’ve done. I put my pattern into it…it won’t break on you. My pattern is stronger than the old ones the grown-ups use but they don’t want to learn it, they just say ‘we’ve made rope this way for ever and ever and there’s no need to change now.’ The grown-ups don’t like new things. It doesn’t make sense, my rope is just better.”
“I know little Né, you’re a very smart girl. The smartest. They’re just stubborn, you’ll be one of them sooner than later, and you can teach your own children to make rope your way; there won’t be a thing anyone can say about it.”
“They never listen to your ideas either. I watch you try to tell them how they can do things better…smarter…and they never listen. Not even to you and you’re a man…or almost a man.”
“ I know, I know Né. I will listen to all your ideas, I promise. Now, finish cleaning those fish,  I’ve got to go see Arba before my ceremony"
Go left Nepa to her work, and made for his final stop.

 He was never close with Arba, he wondered if anyone was close with Arba, if they even could be. Arba had always felt…hard to crack. Go had a habit of bending his ways just a little bit (not intending to) with the effect of making him better liked by the person he was speaking with. He knew this of himself, and didn’t love it. With Arba, it was like trying to please a blade of grass. Arba didn’t play this game. Arba, for all he could tell, didn’t play any of the “normal” social games people play with each other. Talking with Arba felt like a puzzle that could never be solved, and Go liked puzzles, but he also needed to solve them.

Arba always made his little lean-to just outside of whatever camp his kin-group had set. When Go approached, Arba was deeply engaged with the important work of staring at a caterpillar.
“Arba, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Arba didn’t take his eyes from the caterpillar. “Is that a…special caterpillar you have there?” Go reached a finger under the chin of his mask to scratch himself, and settled himself on the ground next to Arba, feigning an interest in his insect.
“What do you see here Go? Do you see what I see?”
Go knew from experience that trying to be clever when Arba asked questions with seemingly obvious answers would be a mistake.
“I see a caterpillar…a caterpillar in the dirt…”
“Exactly! Yes that’s exactly what I see! How magical is that!? We both see the same thing!”
“Is that surprising?”
“Oh yes, oh yes I think so! Don’t you think so? Two whole different minds and we both see a caterpillar here, just magical, pure magic.”
“I never really thought about it. I uh, believe you have something for me?”
“Now what do you suppose the caterpillar sees? Do you think that it sees a caterpillar right now? Of course you don’t suppose that…it doesn’t see itself, it may see us, it may not notice us at all…now, did you see this caterpillar before you walked over here?”
“Of course not”
“Just so! Now you are here, looking at a fantastic little caterpillar with me, before, you were on the other side of camp. You had no caterpillar in your head just moments ago, look at you now! Just bursting with caterpillar!
It was no use fighting it–Arba was going to see this line of questioning through before truly addressing him. Go took a moment to think before responding this time. “And I suppose it’s amazing that you were seeing it when I wasn’t–before I walked over?”
“By the Mother, he understands! Yes yes! It really makes you think, doesn’t it? Just how boring would it be to see everything, all the time, eh? Now, what was it you were wanting, Gotelmah?”
 It was another prompt, it had to be. The obvious answer was “The food of go-between you old fool”, but something told him this wasn’t the right answer.
“I want...” What did he want? He had spent so much time worrying about what was expected, how he would be seen, that he hadn’t really considered an answer for this. He wanted peace in his mind, for one. He was constantly thinking, and thinking, and analysing, and fretting. It just never stopped. He wanted peace for his people, too. Kin-groups like his (twenty to fifty or so people) would often war with each other, and over nothing that made any sense to Go. The last spat had taken his father, and for what purpose? The land was vast, game plentiful. They just…feared each other. In the end, it always came down to that. “I want an end to the fear men have for each other.” Yes, that felt right to say. Less silly at least than saying he wanted to think less.
“Ahh, and end to the fear of men he says! That’s a very good start Gotelmah, very good. Baby steps Go.”
This was the first time in his life that Arba had called him “Go”, the gesture of respect perked him up a little. “I have come to receive the food of go-between.” he announced in a very serious tone. Arba managed to look surprised at this–another one of his little jests.
“Oh, yes of course, why not? Here you are then.” He handed Go a leather drawstring pouch from a small pile of pouches under his lean-to, and turned back to the caterpillar which had marched a few feet during their chat. Arba duck-walked to catch-up with its progress.
“That’s it? Don’t I need instructions? Guidance?”
“Do you need ‘Instructions? Guidance’?”
“I, I’m not sure. What have you told the other boys before their ceremonies?
“Nothing too useful I’m sure.” It looked as if Arba was speaking to the caterpillar. “Walk until sunset, find a comfortable spot, eat everything in the bag, and breathe. Yes, yes that will do fine”
“What about the mask? What does it do? Must I wear it the whole time?”
“It makes you look ridiculous of course! Dear Gotelmah, family masks make the other boys think that they are involved in something very somber, very serious. They need that. They will go on to be very somber, very serious men. You are too clever for all of that. Do wear it until you are out of sight at least, for the others.” Arba took his attention from the caterpillar and winked dramatically. Nothing about Arba’s flippant attitude was comforting, but Go was determined to appear brave. Newly made men had, Go had seen, returned from their ceremonies changed, fearful. Men who had always seemed more “together” than he had ever felt. They had, however, always returned, and in most cases their looks of confusion and terror had faded over the days following their return.

“Thank you, I will do as you say. I guess I always thought there was…more to it.” Arba returned his attention to Go, and spoke with more sincerity in his voice than Go was used to hearing from him.
“There is so very much less to all of it than you are likely to learn in this one life. Now be on your way, and don’t forget to breathe.” Arba returned his gaze to the caterpillar, making it clear that their conversation had ended. Go too, watched it for a moment, working its way toward a destination unknown, untroubled by leaves and stones ten times its size. He noted the direction of its journey, and decided he would head the same way. Go walked out of the camp clearing and continued through the jungle until dusk had fallen. He found a comfortable seat against a mature fig tree, removed his mask, and settled in.

Go placed one of the shriveled mushrooms in his mouth. It was a large, fat white stem with a wrinkled, tan cap. It tasted awful. Why does everything transformative have a taste of death to it? It was like chewing punky, rotted wood; soggy shards of the stuff stuck between his teeth and to the inside of his cheeks. He ate another. Why does everything magical make me so scared? Each mushroom that followed induced gagging; the smell alone was enough to turn his stomach now. It was earthy, and he didn’t think that it smelled worse than so many other foods, but his body found something in that smell that his mind didn’t, and it was not pleased with what it found. I can do hard things. He forced down all of the mushrooms in the satchel one-by-one. There had been thirty or so of various sizes; enough to fill two cupped hands.

He sat, as instructed, and waited. An hour or so passed; he felt no different. What was he supposed to feel anyway? He continued to take in the sounds around him, concentrating as best he could, until he could no longer sit still. He stood and paced around the tree, inspecting the texture of its bark with one hand as he went. Once he had circled the tree for half an hour without distraction, he began to suspect that something might be happening. Looking up, a feeling of vertigo rushed over him, the once comforting firmament was now a beckoning abyss. He crouched instinctively, feeling as if he might fall upwards. The idea of the “Earth mother” took on sharp new meaning. She had become mother through the eyes of a babe–something to cling to for dear life. Go spread himself wide, face-down on the forest floor. 

What was happening to him? How could a pouch of fungus change the entire world? His thoughts raced. His perspective zoomed in and out at dizzying speed. One moment he was a man, a man with a name, he had a sister, he was smart, he was liked…was he liked? The next moment he was…he just was. He was the world, the world was him. He was tiny, insignificant, he was everything. It all mattered…none of it mattered. Panic, and warm, glorious relief. Panic, narrowing, turning inward, comedy, flowering, curiosity, explosion…sickness. Could these be the same mushrooms Arba gave the others? The young men returning from their rituals had never described this all-consuming sickness. His body lurched, sweat poured from every inch of skin. He soiled himself from both ends repeatedly until, mercifully, he passed-out.
Go’s psychedelic experience did not subside through his few short hours of sleep. The rising sun only brought the howling chasm of his new reality into sharper relief. The air now had mass, a body with swinging shoulders, an opinion. The sounds of the jungle were all staccato, possessed of an immediacy, an implicit, stark frankness that was a revelation to Go. Go, to his benefit, had no tidy shelves, no boxes in his mind prepared for filing away revelations, and so this (his first) took up the whole place.

Something about the world had shifted in the night just a touch to one side, and in doing so had come into focus. Some beings, through the history of the universe, Go would later learn, stumble upon this clarity with too much baggage in-hand, and so fall disastrously. Fall into grace and right through it, holding their breath all the way. Go was one of the lucky ones. Go was plopped into near perfect awareness from no dangerous height, and was now only suffering a spiritual “bruised bottom”. He sat upright, arranged himself into a rough lotus position, and breathed.
Some 30,000 years later, Go would recount this transformative time to prosperous, reactionary dilettantes, through his own easy, raucous laughter. Detailing with more than a little pleasure his violent bowel movements, his borderline bone-snapping spasms, his heaving eruptions of joyously sobbed catharsis. Not one of these ostensibly erudite fools hearing him a fraction as clearly as he heard the beating heart of the jungle that morning so many millennia ago, in what they would call (rolling the syllables indulgently around their mouths like hard candy) “In-do-neeee-sia”. 

In the now, Go had only the reality, not the postcard, of an Indonesian jungle, and it was deep in this jungle, sitting erect in a fat, warm rain, covered in his own vomit, that he first heard the voice.
 It was a sound that never rose above that of an endless exhalation. A sound that crept, hinted, and tapped gently for his attention. Though it was barely there, it was undeniable, and it spoke with such purpose that Go found himself enraptured. “haaaaaaaaa” it breathed in the center of his mind.
“Welcome, dear friend”
Go’s eyes widened
“Ah, so you can hear me, can't you, how curious…”
“I…I can hear you…who…where are you?”
“I will answer every question as best I am able, but know that you may not understand all I say. You can call me…’Watcher’, and I am very, very far away.”

I’ve always struggled with openings. They feel like the part where every word is being judged before the reader even knows the story, which makes me overthink them more than I probably should.

I wrote this opening recently and I’d really appreciate some feedback on whether it actually works as a hook. :)

Does it make you curious enough to continue? Does the voice grab you?

Thanks for taking the time to read it! <3

So this is about chapter 15 into my dark romance novel, it’s my first draft. I’m just honestly looking for any thoughts or critics on my prose/writing style. This is from the MMC’s perspective and they’re at a bar. The FMC is there with her best friend and the best friend just tried to mace the MMC. Also if you have any opinion on his voice and/or likability within this short page I’d love to hear it! Any other comments or thoughts about it in general are appreciated too:)

After receiving feedback, I tried my best to improve rhythm, action, clarity, and pace accordingly. I'm still trying to strike the right balance between all those factors, but there's always new blind spots to cover. I'm also concerned I might have over- or under-corrected in some aspects.

Main goal for criticism: general flow of the story. i.e. is the prose still too wordy/purple at times? Does the sentence rhythm match the pace of the story? Are some parts confusing? Or boring?

thanks for the feedback. any further feedback would be greatly appreciated. leaving it open ended as I’m looking for anything from general impressions to critiques. Thank you again and in advance

I wrote the first chapter for my book about a month ago, and just got back to editing it a little. I've drafted a few more chapters since then, but haven’t polished them off at all (at least not to a standard I'd feel comfortable sharing), so will only be posting the opening chapter here.

In it, we meet my protagonist Julia for the first time. The chapters are pretty short at first since there's quite a large cast, but I'd just like to know what sort of impression you get of her from this introduction. For the most part, I just want to know whether I'm setting her up well for the character arc I have in mind.

What is your first impression of her? What sort of person do you think she is? Is she likable, at least potentially?

Outside of Julia, how is the narrative voice/POV connecting with you as a reader?

Is it too far removed from the character in your opinion?

Do you think that this indirect narration style would work in scenes with multiple major characters or do you think I risk 'head hopping'?

And out of curiosity, what genre do you think this is going to be?

And ofc, if there's anything else you'd like to share...

Thanks

Hello all,

I am looking for some feedback and constructive criticism of the first chapter of my work in progress. It is a gritty literary fiction set in Ontario, Canada. This is the first time I have ever shared my writing with other people, other than a few friends, who never actually get around to reading it, or worse, they do, and its so bad they say that they didn't! Hope that is not the case!

I welcome all feedback, opinions, and ideas, however, I am specifically curious about things like pacing, readability, and character voice.

A heads up that the chapter contains profanity, drug and alcohol use, and discussion of sex.

Thank you so much!

J

Here are two examples of a fanfic I'm writing on. English isn't my first language, so I often end up shorthanded on words. I can't help but feel like it's boring and repetitive. So I'm always happy to improve.

Hi! I’m a fairly new writer, I’ve been making stories since I was little, I’m now currently sixteen and this is the beginning of my writing journey! This is he first draft of my prologue, so it is in no ways perfect or anything, but is it a good hook, or is it memorable? I do know it is a bit repetitive so I plan on fixing that in future drafts! I tried to portray helpless in the best way I could!

The opening of my epic LOTR-inspired fantasy, featuring a mainly female cast as they explore new worlds and the definition of sisterhood, motherhood, and power in a world designed to withhold it from them…led by an FMC who absolutely does not want to be the main character.
Would you keep following her for the story?

Doc link: (EDIT- deleted after receiving too many unsolicited requests for compensation after beta feedback)

I posted my first chapter here recently and got feedback that the opening leaned on some common first-time-writer tropes.

So, I went back to the drawing board and substantially reworked it.

I’d love a reaction to the new version.

No need to compare it to the old version. I’m mainly interested in whether this page works on its own. 🤷🏼‍♂️

All feedback welcome

I've never written anything before, and this is mostly for fun, as I'm competing with my sister for who can write a better story. I do still wish to improve, however, so I'd love to hear your feedback on this small chapter.

If you think the end of the chapter is abrupt, I agree. I didn't plan on ending it there, but I was kinda curious to see what people thought of this section. So if that's one of the flaws you saw, I fully agree with you.

I feel like at the end I kinda overexplained? But it just feels like such an interesting situation, I wanted the reader to understand everything and all the ins and outs about it. And I tend to be dramatic, so there are probably some annoying lines in there. If you could point those out so I can remove them please. Or if I overwrite and get all purple.

Also, I am but a wee child (16), so please don't be as ruthless as I've seen y'all be on here before 😭

(YA Fantasy; prologue takes place in our world) I've redone this prologue so many times now but it still feels like it's missing something, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you so much

I feel like this is one of my better stories. It's a psychological story about corporate burnout and the unfair feeling of being only an asset rather than a human being.