₦airaland Forum

kayo80:
Yeah

God help us all.

kayo80:
Exactly. All creative people... Singers, song writers, actors, painters, writers, etc.

And it's killing.

Divepen1:
Oh... I think you're missing my point. I don't mean I want to claim ownership of ghostwritten books.
I'm saying once the book is gone, you don't have anything to do with it.

So, the big joy is to write for yourself and get the fame or whatever satisfaction worth deriving.
That's why I didn't talk about the money because I agree there are people making cool cash from freelancing.

He is wide off the mark. But I get what he is trying to paint here.

kayo80:
"But soon they realise that the views, comments, and likes don't convert to money. The confidence just keeps crashing down.... Writing is hard especially when you need money and fame to survive... I know friends that haven't touched a story to write in a long time because of the trouble at ever turn."

Divepen1, it's like you took these words out of my mouth. I feel like every true creative writer in Nigeria feels this way. It is not easy to make money solely from your stories/novels in Naija, and it can be frustrating. Because every true creative writer's dream is to become successful with his/her novel, and not freelance for other people.

My mental state? It was horrible towards the end of last year... I found myself lashing out at fans. I have decided to take a hiatus for some months. The thing is, the next words I say might be controversial, but the thing is... as a creative person, your life is always in shambles when you're creating/writing (unless what you're writing is no good). Great art comes from great pain. But what makes it worse as a Nigerian fiction writer is, you don't even make any money from your pain. So, is it really worth it?

I still get continuous streams of thoughts about story plots every day, but I shut down the thoughts for my own sanity.

This here explains everything. I will like to add that this is not only happening to writers but all talented persons, who found themselves in the creative sphere.

Divepen1:
Writing for clients is like serving as a surrogate mother. You can't claim the ownership of the child.
Getting the money for articles can never beat getting money for your novels.

I second this. I'm really glad to find someone with the same view as myself.

Godmother:
Why would you want to claim ownership yo the articles or books? It's a business service you'd be providing.

The idea is to offer your services and in turn, get paid (well) for it.

I know guys making 200k monthly from their writing and they think nothing of the ownership.

However, if you want the ownership that badly, you might want to look into publishing books on Amazon KDP.

This way you retain the rights to your books and still earn passively from their sales.

I don't think you understand what divepen1 is driving at. You see as a writer, all you ever wish is to someday be under the spotlight with one of your books. And the denial of this in the real world, is what makes writers turn to freelancing.

Tell you what, ghostwriting to me is an advanced form of slavery. Imagine writing a bestseller for a client and earning peanuts. Consider what that would do to the supposed writer

Here's the latest episode of the hit back series:
https://m.dreame.com/novel/wO8XqBr9SII+9kC7qZ1iKw==.html

Anike

All her life, Anike had never felt an explosion of pain like this one. Nor had she been in a nightmare so real and vivid. And all she could do as the hand around her neck tightened, squeezing almost to the point of constricting the airflow in her windpipe, and as the other hand which was over her mouth flew to her cheek, leaving at its wake a stinging pain and a weal was succumbed to the strength of her assaulter and wished this was over soon.

As she laid there helpless and powerless, against the behemoth weight of the assaulter, she felt the knees pinning her legs in place shove even deeper against her laps, sending a ripple of pain through the whole of her lower body, and the violent ripping of her panties as the free hand that had slapped her face earlier slipped between her thighs.

While still in a half-daze, she felt the same hand yank her legs and thighs apart roughly, and hovered slightly above the juncture between her thighs for the briefest of seconds, before returning to its place over her mouth.

There seemed to exist a span of eternity between that moment and the next. And oddly enough in those dragging moments, Anike felt some sort of relief, that she appeared to have forgotten her plight and the gravity of her situation, and relaxed almost visibly at once.

But this illusion of relief never lasted any more than it began. And soon as she noticed the hand around her neck detached so swiftly from the spot around her throat, and find its way to her assaulter’s midsection, dragging down both pants and briefs in a haste, the implications of what to come afterward sank in.

And with this awful realization came the fortification of her will, the outright doggedness to make a final stance against her assaulter, and likewise, the prickly sensation in the corners of her eyes as the tears she had tried so much to keep at bay threatened to burst out.

Anike fought one last time with all her strength and resolve, clawing, biting, thrashing at her assaulter. She really tried and gave her all. But all these prove futile, and more or less, ineffective for the assaulter who was twice stronger and powerful. And could do little to stop him from parting her thighs even wider to the invasion of his bared manhood.

She resisted her assaulter for even much longer. But her resistance and strength melted as snow in sun the closer her assaulter’s manhood inched closer to the wall of her sex.

Anike flinched back on the tiny bed in repulsion as she first felt the head of her assaulter’s organ on the threshold of her sex. And by some luck, the doorway to her sex did its best to hold its own. But, its resistance was not quite enough and lasted no more than her very own. That it eventually caves in under the incursion of the thick, ramrod that was the fellow’s organ.

When the head finally found a way through, ramming and tearing violently through the protective membrane of her sex, Anike shook with tremors, and at the same time, let out a shrill cry, which was muffled by the hand over her mouth.

The pain became blinding and unbearable for her then. And a lightning shaft of pain shot through her midriff and spiraled in all directions through her body.

She hadn’t a breather from this, before her assaulter in a cruel, savage way continued with his mean torture at her middle, shoving his member deep down the narrow shaft of her sex.

And with every vicious thrust and shove, the pain she felt inside of her only multiplied and mushroomed. And as the intensity builds and the tempo increases, a white-hot pain scattered throughout her body, and with it the warm rush of blood down her thighs.

Through the excruciating pain and ghosting experience, all she could do was close her eyes, an instinctive act borne of defense mechanism as much as a sign of her irritation toward her assaulter and the ongoing act.

No! she can’t stand the sight of the horror of the moment!

Teary-eyed and weak already, she felt rather than watched as each massive pound and jab cut through her like a hot knife through butter, bruising and scraping the delicate inside of her sex.

Eyes still closed and already resigned to her sad fate, she took on the rough battering of her assaulter’s member with gritted teeth, shutting her mind against the spasm of pain and agony inflicted by the monster on top of her. And chosed instead to focus her attention on contemplating where things went wrong.

She thought back on when she had first known this monster of a man. He had been such a nice and decent man at first. And was regarded with so much respect by everyone in their house and yard, and even by next-door neighbors.

Uncle Gbade as he was called was a respectable young man worthy of the respect accorded him by both old and young on their street. And with a ready smile and genteel manners to go with it, he had been able to disarm almost everyone on their street, to the extent that he had been dubbed, ‘Gentle soul’ by everyone on their street.

But, as she thought back on all of it now, all she felt was deep remorse at the realization that all of it was nothing but a hoax, a perfect mask for the evil that lies underneath. So much for being a gentle soul!

And I was a fool myself to not have seen past the mask, she could not but agree sadly to herself, as she thought back on the events that had led to this one.
The signs and clues had been there all along. But she had been too blind to see them. And so are the red flags. That too was plain and manifest. But she had been too young to notice, too naïve to care.

The subtle side glances thrown her way when she goes to church on Sundays. The preferential treatment she got from him amongst other kids of the house. The tips and changes he had often told her to keep. All that she had missed, taking them for what she thought they were—mere gestures of appreciation. After all, such gestures from adults of the other sex had been no new thing to her. She had gotten them from everyone. Perhaps, because she was a respectful and diligent young girl. Or, because of the obvious fact that she was a teenage sexpot.

The slight touches, the frequent shoulder rubs, and advances passed at her when she entered his one-bedroom apartment after running his errands. She had even missed that, too!

Realization never comes early, nor regret any sooner!

Anike’s time in her own head was brought to a sudden end the instant the man on top of her shuddered violently as if suffering from an epileptic seizure. And being just a girl of thirteen, it took the feeling of liquid stickiness on her thighs for her to know that the spastic jerk from the man meant he had come and was done.

At the realization of this, she looked up at him from under hooded eyes and saw a satisfactory glint in his brown eyes and a mischievous smirk on his face. His work was finally done!

Anike was unprepared for what comes next. And felt his hand on her lap, even before watching it slip further down her thighs, skimming over the delicate region closest to her sex, and wiping off a tiny glob of his semen from its surface. Neither was she ready for the asp-like movement of that same hand, as it jerked away from under her thighs and found its way into her mouth.

Her first instinct as the fingers dipped into her mouth was to bite down hard on it till she drew blood. But having little strength left in her, she decided against such judgment, and choose instead to flow with the rhythm. Fighting was no use, anymore.

“Now, that’s a good girl.” He said with an even broader smirk, withdrawing his fingers from her mouth, and his body from atop her own slip figure moments later.

As the weight above her eases, Anike, drained and sore all over from the degrading act curled up dejectedly into a ball on the bed, sobbing quietly in a convulsive fit into her hands, now over her face.

It was over. But rather than feel relieved in the aftermath of the nightmarish experience, all she felt as she laid still on the bed was a throbbing pain in her heart at the thought of the damage done to her pride and the loss of her innocence, which had been stripped from her in the most unusual fashion.

Now, she will never be the same again!

Defeated, she heard the receding sound of feet as Uncle Gbade turned his back on her and walked straight into the adjoining bathroom, which was only around the corner in his room. And within a minute or so, she heard the soft pattering of shower water from inside the bathroom.

At the mere thought of him showering, and the realization that what was done can never be undone, silent lines of tears streamed down her cheeks.

It is done, she thought, sighing sadly to herself and admitting on the spot that she was now a part of the young girls, who have been made victims of rape by monsters like uncle Gbade.

Thanks for the love and understanding. Muchas Graciaas!

However, for anyone, who will like to keep following the story. You can do so via this link: https://m.dreame.com/novel/wO8XqBr9SII+9kC7qZ1iKw==.html

To every faithful follower of this work of art. I will first like to render an apology to you for my long hiatus here. And with that said, I'll like you to know that I discontinued this book here on NL simply because the work has been signed on a particular book platform—Dreame.

The angel of death


Danuta Wojcik had never for once imagined the end like this. Even though she had often seen the ugliest and most horrible of nightmares, she had never seen one real and frightful as the one she was currently in. And having defied and eluded death on several occasions, she hadn’t the slightest hunch death would catch up with her in the most unlikely way.

Guess, there’s a huge difference between seeing a nightmare and being in one.

She held onto the handrail desperately, watching as other passengers in the vehicle were tossed and flung obliquely through the bus, as it skidded wildly along the freeway that connects Mozdok, a town located on the left shore of Terek river with Vladikavkaz.

Heart thudding alarmingly fast in her chest, she tried not to look at the horror-stricken faces of the men and women assembled in the bus with her. Innocent souls who are condemned to share the same fate as her.

And no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to pray. Last time or not, she had decided a long time ago never to pray to a supposed Omnipresent Spirit, who has forsaken her in her darkest time. And watched her suffer at the hands of depraved men like Josef Mengele.

Earlier, when she had noticed the bus had lost its control, she had been thrown into a confluence of undesirable emotions and had gone through the different phases of what could be likened to the dying version of the five stages of grieving.

At first, she had been seized by fear. Her fears had lasted long enough until overshadowed by a sense of denial, so strong that she had tried in the early moment of the situation to deny the actuality of her plight. She had tried to believe everything will be alright, even when she knew otherwise.

Next, she had felt a strong feeling of anger. She felt angry at herself for leaving home. She felt angry at herself for leaving her twin sister behind at home to shop for groceries. She felt angry at herself that she hadn’t listened to her advice to delay her shopping until tomorrow.

The next phase saw her trying to bargain for her life. Then, she had been willing to do just anything to see the hour passes her. She had thought of every possible means to get a chance to see her children, and grandchildren, and most especially, her sister Leah once more. She had been willing then to reconcile with the God she had denied its existence for long.

After some time, she had been totally depressed. And along with her depression came her acceptance of the inevitable. At that point, she had grown too tired to try or fight for her life. And had made peace with herself, hoping and praying that her death would come fast.

While she waited for her death, she saw her own life flashed before her mind’s eye in a slide of vivid images. There, she saw every minute from her birth, to her deportation to Auschwitz in 1944, the horrors she suffered at the hands of the Third Reich experimentalists, the nightmares, her time in the Army, her wedding with the love of her life—Joseph Wojcik, up to the recent time. She saw herself shopping in the grocery store, and walking out to a fine, warm Mozdok evening.

The image of a blue, cloudless sky was what she last recalled before the bus rammed into an incoming car, and she was plunged into oblivion.

Mantee:
The writer has tried to abandon us. Please do not be discouraged , continue the story

I definitely will continue, brother.