Wrote my first two chapters, ever. Some critique would be nice before I dump more time into this, but I'm probably going to do that anyways, so I might as well get some feebvback, if you are willing :)
Facing an endless horde of invading demons, the Imperial Academy of Magic chose heresy - From the endless demonic dead, rose The Demonforged - dead souls, trapped in dead demons, rose to face the invasion. The crisis is averted, and The Empire is once again at peace. Mark awoke from...
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From the get-go, this webnovel was waving more red flags than a typical NTR smut webnovel, practically
begging for someone to call it out. I read two chapters—or rather, one chapter and its barely-functioning sequel—and I can confidently say this: you’ve managed to transform the act of reading into an exercise in frustration. Amateur mistakes are not just in this story, they occupied it, made revolution and created a commune that is destined to crumble by chapter 2.
Imagine you’re building a house. You’ve got all the blueprints, tools, and techniques to make anything you want. A cozy cottage, a sleek modern home, heck, even a cozy treehouse that every teenager wanted in 2000s. And instead of at least aiming for something functional, you slap together a
2x4 dirt house from Minecraft. That’s exactly how it feels reading this webnovel. Not just a dirt house, mind you—one with the entrance blocked off so nobody can even
try to enjoy it. Bold strategy Cotton, but it didn’t pay off.
I'll start with
that synopsis, oh, what a disasterpiece. First, no tags. Zero, null, nada. It’s like you actively
hate the idea of anyone knowing what your story is about or being able to find it through a search. Then, we have the cherry on this unsavory sundae: you ended the synopsis with a rhetorical question. A
rhetorical question. Why? Did you genuinely think this was clever? Did you think readers would slap the table and say, “Oh, I simply
must find out why Mark is here!” No. You’re the storyteller, a worldmaker and a persuader,—it’s your job to
clarify, not leave readers guessing. And as for persuasion—the trifecta of ethos, logos, and pathos—none of it made the cut. The synopsis is a bland, flavorless appetizer that somehow manages to prepare you perfectly for the equally bland main course.
Then comes Chapter 1 (and 2 afterwards that I didn't want to finish), a modest 1.5k words long, and yet it somehow manages to transform those red flags from the synopsis into a full-blown bonfire. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and oh boy, was this first chapter ablaze with problems. Sure, Chapter 1 is functional, but the time skip invalidates all of that. Did you genuinely think skipping a year of character development was a compelling move? That you could just throw Mark into a new world, give us a taste of panic, and then jump straight to him being a complacent wood-chopping NPC with zero emotional growth? Time skips are meant to
enhance a story, not bypass all the parts where the actual story should have happened. If you have started the story with MC saying that he's been already a year here, and adventure (or something like that) happened at this time, I would've not pointed this thing out. Too bad chapter 2 is exhausting even if I take it as "real opening" of your webnovel.
One flaw that irritated me afterwards is a narrator head-hopping from perspective to perspective like it’s auditioning for particularly forgettable circus. Were you trying to create a unique narrative style? If so, congratulations—you’ve successfully created
confusion. One moment, we’re inside Mark’s head; the next, we’re being fed information by some vague, omniscient entity that can’t decide if it wants to narrate or editorialize. I guess you don't have storytelling experience, and it shows through those unwitting cracks in the story.
Now, the main character. Mark. Oh, Mark. You’ve somehow made a protagonist so boring, so lifeless, that I actively swapped his name with "Puppet". He has no agency, no personality, no drive. He’s a mannequin that is inanimate in the world of animated mannequin, drifting through a world you’ve barely bothered to flesh out. Did you think this would make him relatable? That readers would project their own feelings onto this blank slate? Sorry, but no one wants to project themselves onto a soggy piece of cardboard.
And the writing itself? A clunky mess of telling over showing, riddled with awkward sentences and pacing that drags like mopping a floor that I did before writing this roast. You know what’s worse than filler? Filler that pretends it’s meaningful. Mark eats bread, chops wood, walks to the library, pays a fee—and somehow, it’s all written like these are monumental, story-defining moments. They’re not. They’re tedious chores that actively repel the reader and me who just did that.
What’s most baffling, though, is that despite all of this, you had the audacity to block off the one entrance that could’ve made your dirt house bearable. Instead of building a gateway for readers—an engaging opening, an interesting protagonist, a clear sense of stakes—you’ve shoved dirt into that entrance and hidden inside. Why? To protect your ego? To avoid the monsters—sorry,
readers—who might’ve dared to critique you? Well, guess what? I only found you because you posted your link in this thread. And this story, much like your dirt house, isn’t keeping anyone out. It’s just keeping the light from getting in.
Take this as your wake-up call: if you’re going to build something, don’t half-ass it. Commit to the craft, put in the effort, and for the love of all things literary, stop making dirt houses.