A/n: Ever since I rejoined this site in 2019, writing fanfics has been a nightmare. My quest to write a good story has been a spectacular failure, and the quality of my writing has plummeted.

But I don't just want to give up and dismiss myself as a talentless hack. If I did that, it would mean the last five years have been for nothing. Besides, competent writing isn't reserved for the gifted, and it's not an accident or a feat of magic. It's something anyone can do, and you do it taking basic mechanics (spelling, grammar, punctuation), basic tools (plot, structure, characters), and a pinch of magic (read: things you care about), and mixing it all together with thoughtful and diligent work.

Anyone can learn how to communicate clearly and purposefully; even if they may not have a gift (I certainly don't have a gift) or sound like the writers they admire (I certainly don't), they can at least be competent.

I can, too.

So for the last several months, I've been reading my fanfics and asking myself some questions, including the biggest and most nagging one of all: "Why does my writing feel so broken?"

A few months later, I've finally figured it out. My writing is broken, not because I'm doing one thing wrong, but because I'm doing many things wrong.

(1) I'm not doing enough groundwork.

When I rejoined this site, I wrote almost completely spontaneously. Instead of developing my plots, characters, and story arcs, I just wrote whatever came to me. Even though it was like solving a math problem and going where the calculations led me, I can't take a mathematical approach to writing. I need to know what I'm doing; otherwise, I'm dooming my story to literary disaster.

And take a look at a few things I've written, and tell me what you see. Details disrupting the flow of the narration? Check. Things happen for seemingly no reason? Check. Characters being silly and irrational? Check. Lines of prose and dialogue that come out of left field with no context to give them any significance? Check.

What you're seeing is the result of my not knowing what I'm doing or what I want to say. My body of work is overwhelming proof that I need to think things through and decide what to write before I actually write it. Otherwise, I'm trying to plot, develop characters, and wordsmith all at once, and the end result is a heap of verbal rubble.

("Verbal rubble." Quite an apt way to describe my fanfics, don't you think?)

Without developing my plot and deciding my themes ahead of time, I'm subsequently committing another huge error:

(2) I've had no focus.

In almost everything I've written, I've played the role of the journalist: reporting what I'm seeing, and letting the reader make sense out of it. This is another a fatal mistake. I know my story better than anyone else does, which means I need to guide them into it and enchant them so that they care enough to keep reading.

The clearest and most compelling writing has a goal: to make the reader listen, care, and feel. In other words, it makes them active, not passive. All the best writers on here have substantial critical acclaim because they know how to make passive readers active, and they seem to do that by (1) knowing what they want to say, (2) how they want the audience to react, (3) writing what will get that reaction, and (4) getting rid of anything, even a single word, that weakens or prevents that reaction.

To put it much more succinctly: They're in complete control. They have authority, they have power, and they're not afraid to get people to react. They rule their words and everything they write, and they hold their audiences spellbound. I have that power, authority, and some of that ability, and dammit, I'm going to use it.

Alas, there's another reason I've had no focus, and it's this:

(3) I'm detached.

Except for a handful of characters and a smattering of story arcs, I have no passion for the fandoms I write in. Part of me hates getting emotionally connected with fictional characters, because it's always felt empty and pointless, and the rest of me is afraid to get attached to a story, spend months working on it, and watch it turn out to be an unreadable mess.

This is yet another fatal mistake, because a lack of passion and attachment kills a story. But it's not a mistake I need to keep making.

First, I can find things I care about. I'm not a Christian anymore, and I have enormous issues with the theology of Narnia, but I can still write fanfics about things I'm strongly attached to: overcoming fears, fighting for justice, taking responsibility for one's actions, and plot twists out the wazoo.

Second, I need to get inside my characters' heads. I need to feel what they feel, experience what they experience, and write about those. Characters, like real people, have wants and needs and goals and obstacles; that's what makes them fun to read about, and that's what makes them fun to relate with.

But there's another problem, and it goes to the very basics of writing:

(4) My stories have no basic structure.

Most stories go like this: Hero wants something, Hero can't get it, Hero strives for it and gets it.

Unfortunately, my stories have had none of this. They've been a collection of events without much of a plot tying them together. The end result is a bunch of events happening for no reason, characters acting and speaking strangely, and a narrative that dryly comments on what's going on. But with a structure, I'll know what I'm writing about, when I want it to happen, and how I'll make it happen.

But the last four things aren't enough to make a good story. I need to do one more thing, and I haven't done it.

(5) I haven't been respecting my audience, and I haven't been respecting myself.

Ever since I rejoined this site, I've dreaded the idea of losing a single reader, so I've tried everything I can think of to keep their attention. Shorter sentences, longer sentences, mainstream ideas, new ideas, elaborate vocabulary, simple vocabulary, word play, no-nonsense writing—whatever I can do in my desperate attempt to make them care.

If I care about what I'm saying, and I present it to you in a clear, compelling, smooth narrative, I stand a higher chance of keeping your eyes on the screen, even if my writing style and plot lines may not be your cup of tea. Great writers can make you care about pretty much anything, no matter what it is. That's sort of what I do as a math professor (hundreds of teaching evaluations attest to that), but I want to write that way, too.

With all that said, here's how I'll start fixing my writing philosophy:

(1) Plan the story so you know what it's about. Start simple; add on as needed.
(2) Give your story a structure (and simpler is better).
(3) Care about what you're saying.
(4) Write a smooth, clear, compelling narrative. This is where you tell your audience what your story's about.
(5) Be the boss. Use each word, idea, paragraph, character, and plot for a reason.

Whether or not I'm succeeding, I'll let you be the judge. Any suggestions for improvement and observations of what I'm doing right and what could be further improved will be highly appreciated; after all, inasmuch as I'm doing this for myself, I'm doing it for you, too.

No matter what becomes of this piece, I'm not giving up. I still want to write a good story, one that an audience enjoys and one that I'll proud of. This won't be the fanfic where I finally kick ass, but it represents my most intelligent, thoughtful effort yet. That alone may be a win.

Thanks for reading,
John

Chapter 1: King of Pride Rock

It was the day he couldn't wait for. It was the dawn that couldn't arrive too soon. The moment when the sun would rise on his time and greet him as the new King. At long last, the world had awoken, the sun had risen, the rocks of the throne were bathed in golden light, and all were beckoning him to go out there.

But he didn't want to go out there.

He knew what was out there: a dusty land with a lot of bones. There was nothing to rule over, nothing to protect. When he went to sleep last night, he hoped everything would grow back in time for breakfast, but he knew it wouldn't, and when he awoke, the land was still quiet and dull, still smelling as dead and dry as when he came back.

But he knew he had to go out there. He was the king, after all. His pride hadn't eaten in a week, and if they waited any longer, they would be too sick to move. If there was any sign of life, he had to go there, and he had to arrive as swiftly as he could run. And so the lion rose up on all fours and drew in a trembly breath, and he started to pad out of the cavern, bracing himself for the sight that awaited him.

"Look, Simba," said Mufasa as he and Simba sat atop the pinnacle of Pride Rock. "Everything the light touches is our kingdom."

The little lion gazed at the golden land unrolled before him, and all he could breathe was, "Wow..."

"A king's time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, Simba, the sun will set on my time here and will rise with you as the new king."

"And this will all be mine?"

"Everything," Mufasa said thunderously.

"Everything the light touches..."

The memory faded into the distance and a shaft of warm morning light greeted him as he stopped at the top of Pride Rock, but as he gazed out, everything went cold and numb, and his throat twisted up and his eyes went blurry with tears.

Everything the light touched was dusty and dead. The hills and mounds were nude with dust, no water nor grass to be seen. Bones and skeletons haunted the land, their curving shadows sprawling across the mounds. The trees lifted their naked arms to the sky, joining the earth in a prayer for rain. All around him, the air was thick and still; no bird calls, no cicada songs, no signs or hints of life anywhere. The Pride Lands were a cemetery, and Pride Rock was a massive tombstone standing over a thousand graves.

And it was wrong. It was all wrong. The story was sordid enough, with Scar taking the throne from Mufasa and letting the hyenas run loose, but the Pridelanders had lost all hope and gorged themselves on grass and water, and some of them found the sense to flee, but Scar wouldn't let them leave without a fight. Their bones littered the border of the Pride Lands, a ghastly monument to the wrongful king.

Simba wanted to bawl on the promontory, and no matter if the world heard his sobs. But he didn't dare let anything out. How could he do something so unbecoming and common? Besides, he should have been ready for this moment, and how could he not be, when this was what he came home to?

But he wept. He wept aloud and with abandon. He howled and sobbed, tears raining onto the rock between his paws. And how he wished he could sob long enough to water the ground and make it grow again, but he was one lion, one single beast helpless to the world, and the helplessness and terror made him cry even harder. The kingdom was dead and gone, and seeing it in unfettered daylight was even worse.

The King's eyes had gone bleary, making the world look like a blurry nightmare. He tried to blink them away and give himself a measure of strength, but they didn't go away; the blears puddled together, and tears rolled down his face.

"What am I gonna do, Dad?" he wept, wagging his head at the sky. "What am I gonna do?"

"Everything you see exists in a delicate balance," Mufasa said as he and Simba meandered through the bounding herds. "As king, you are to understand that balance and respect all creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope."

Simba went confused. "But Dad, don't we eat the antelope?"

"Yes, son, but let me explain. When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. And so we are all connected in the great Circle of Life…"

He heard paws padding on the rock and felt his ears swivel around. With a sigh, he lifted a paw up to his face and brushed the tears away, but eyes began to go all blurry again. The lioness was looking as weary and downcast as he was, and her face was too sad for even a hint of a smile. She sat beside him, she gulped as if she were choking on her words, and then she said in a frigid voice:

"Simba, I warned you."

He wished she hadn't said that. He'd just started to pull himself back to equanimity, but now the hiccups of a sob began to roll in his throat. He choked on his words, too, and he let out a creaky rasp as he said, "I had to do it, Nala. I had to..."

"Here's my idea," Simba said over the pattering rain. "We've gotta look for the herds, and I don't want to go the wrong way, so I'm gonna send Zazu out tomorrow morning. He'll find them in no time."

"Simba, we can't send him," Nala said. "It's too dangerous out there."

"Madam, I'm a hornbill," Zazu said with a confident smile. "There's no lion that can jump that high."

"It's not the lions I'm worried about, Zazu; it's the people who work for them."

"Nala's right," Sarabi said. "Simba, the people around us are in a war. Neighbors are fighting against neighbors; friends are fighting against friends. They don't care about the Circle of Life or the laws of the Pride Lands; they care about themselves, and they'll use whatever they can to get what they want."

"Mom, that's why Zazu has to go out there. If we go the wrong way, we could die."

"My thoughts exactly," Zazu said. "Madam, I would love nothing more than to wake up to a perfect world, but if we don't, someone has to look for the herds, and it has to be me."

"What if you don't come back?"

"I will come back, Madam!"

"But what if you don't?"

"Then you'll leave without me. But I can't let you go off on your own without knowing what the dangers are."

"No, Zazu. You're not risking your life."

"With all due respect, Ma'am," said the hornbill solemnly—"that's not up to you."

And a tense silence hung over the pride as they aimed their glares at him. He stared at them for a minute, wishing they would stop giving him those looks. He knew he had a good idea, and they didn't want to admit it. And when he opened his mouth and told Zazu to fly out at dawn, their glares went even colder.

"I know you didn't want him to go out there," Simba said with a quaky tone. "But we didn't have a better choice. The herds could be a hundred miles away...and we don't even know where to start looking."

"But he's not back," Nala said calmly. "What if these people have him? Who knows what they're doing to him?"

Another wave of sobs and tears began to break, and his breath started to go shallow. He knew he had a good idea, and maybe Zazu was just a little late, that's all.

And without warning, Timon's voice pierced the quiet. "KID, WE'VE GOT COMPANY!"

The meerkat's holler electrified Simba's nerves and tauted his muscles as he swung his head over the edge of the promontory.

A line of lionesses were marching up to Pride Rock, slinking along in perfect unison like an army going to war. All were muscular and well-fed, and the look in their eyes was murderous. The alpha of the pride lifted her head up to the promontory and gave him a crooked smile, and in a lyrical tone she said, "Why, Simba…"

With a snarl, he narrowed his eyes and charged down the promontory, and he swerved off the slab and leapt down the big rocks, his mane whipping in the cool air. With every mighty leap, he kept his head high, keeping the strangers in his eyeline as the land bobbed up and down out of sight. As he jumped off the last rock, he landed in front of the alpha, his paws squishing in the dirt and mud, and his pride and his friends sloshed behind him, flanking him like the mighty wings of a bird, and a hint of a growl thundered in his chest.

"Who are you?" Simba said to the stranger. "What are you doing here?"

The alpha feigned a look of hurt and held a paw to her breast. "My dear Simba, how can you speak that way? Why must you be so cold to your Auntie Zira?"

Pangs of shock went up and down his spine as his mouth fell open in bewilderment. "...You knew my uncle?"

"Oh, better than that, dearie," the lioness said. "He was going to make me his queen."

Murmurs of shock and disgust filled the air, and Simba's face flashed with fury. "You were going to marry my uncle? He was a murderer."

"Oh, Simba, how long will you suffer through their lies? He slaved over this land day and night, with precious little thanks from your subjects."

"That was not what happened."

"My dear nephew, I know exactly what happened. He tried to make the Pride Lands a place to be proud of, but you had to come back and take your precious crown. He begged you for mercy and he tried to run away, but you threw him into a fire and you watched him die."

There's no getting through to this lady, he thought. "Zira, we don't want any trouble, but I'll make it if you force me to. My father died because he let a murderer stay in his kingdom, and I'm not making that mistake again. So I'll give you the same order I gave my uncle: Run away, and never return."

"Oh, dearie, you're one to talk about running away," she crooned. "You were the one who killed your father and ran away to feign your own death. You don't care about anyone but yourself; you never have, and you never will. And now, what are you doing here? There's nothing for you here. Your father is dead, the Pride Lands are destroyed, and your own subjects have been eaten or driven away. And look at yourself, Simba. Look at how miserable you are. You may be big and strong, and you may call yourself a king, but deep inside you're just a cub crying for his father, just a child who wants to be happy again. Isn't that what you want, Simba: to be happy again? Please, Simba, just give up. There's nothing left for you here. Forget about this place; give it to someone who can do something about it. Take your pride away from here, and be happy. Let us do the hard work of rebuilding this place. I beg you, Simba…give up, and go home."

"No, Zira," he said as a smile started to lift up his face. "I am home."

The curls in her frown smoothed out, and another crooked smile wound its way up her face as she crouched down to the dirt. "Don't worry, my dear nephew. We will leave. There is nothing for us here, just as there is nothing here for you. But you should know: Scar left the Pride Lands to me in his will, to continue his glorious legacy. My pride and I will be painting a great and glorious picture...as soon as we get rid of you."

And without warning, she bolted at him with a roar.

Simba charged through the dirt and slammed into her, and the prides collided in a tawny wave. Pumbaa swung his head and dug his tusks into the belly of a lioness, with Timon tugging on the warthog's ears like a pair of reins. Rafiki vaulted into the fray and swung his staff through the air; the tip whistled and gourds rattled, and a lioness crumpled to the ground. Zira rose up and aimed her claws at Timon and Pumbaa; the two screamed and started to run, and Rafiki hurtled his staff through the air with a savage cry.

A loud SMACK filled the air, and Zira hit the dirt with a thump. Simba swung around and saw her going limp and still, and he saw Zira's pride backing away. When their eyes met his, they scrambled toward the charred trees, and he threw back his head and roared, and he and his pride charged. Timon and Pumbaa galloped beside him with Rafiki standing on the warthog's back. Sun-baked bones and crumbling grass scrolled past them as Simba's muscles burned and his chest swelled to take in breath. The border of the Pride Lands scrolled beneath him, and he and the pride gave a mighty roar, sending Zira's pride down the ravine.

They filed over a fallen tree that crossed the ravine, and as soon as they lighted on the other side, they gathered and turned to look at Simba.

Wait a minute, he thought. Where's Zira?

A creamy blur leapt upon him and shoved him into the dirt and the world spun all around. He and Zira tumbled down the slope, his head slamming against the dirt. As he rolled to a stop, he kicked her into into the dust, and they went up on their back paws, swiping and lunging for the other's neck. He batted at her and knocked her to the ground, but she scrambled onto all fours and lunged for him again. He lunged at her as her head twisted, and he closed his jaws with a clack.

Zira howled as she crumpled to the ground again, and he shoved a paw into her chest and pinned her into the dirt. She swung her ear into view and snarled at him in furious vengeance. Blood oozed out of a newly punctured hole in the edge, a hole gouged out by one of his fangs. She snarled and swiped at him, hoping to tear off his face, but her claws went through air. She realized it was no use, and she let out a sigh and let her head fall back into the dirt.

Simba turned his head and spat out a clump of hair and blood, then turned back and glared down at her. "Take your pride and get out," he snarled. "And if you ever come back here...I will kill you."

Everything went quiet around him. Zira's eyes widened in alarm, every hint of smugness gone. With a snarl, he lifted his paw and backed away, watching her as she rolled onto all fours. She scoffed at him and spat in the dirt, then turned around and slunk away. Simba watched her cross the river and lead her pride into the termite mounds, then turned around and started marching back to Pride Rock.

All around him, his entourage stared at him in silence. Timon had gone still, Pumbaa's eyes had gone wide, and whatever Rafiki was thinking had to be too bitter for words. And Sarabi was padding up to him, her dust-covered face wide with horror.

"Simba, you cannot threaten her like that," she said. "It's against the law."

At once, he knew what he had done, and a memory of his father's instructions came back to him.

"Do you remember what I told you?" Mufasa said with a chiding tone. "About everything existing in a delicate balance?"

Simba vaguely remembered something about that, but he didn't pay any attention. He was too busy stalking Zazu to think about it.

"Simba, there's a time for playing and a time for listening," Mufasa said, "and now is the time to listen."

"Aw, come on, Dad," Simba said as he gave Mufasa a pouty glare.

"This is something very important for you to learn, something that has kept the Pride Lands a happy and prosperous land: Do not take a life, except to survive. You must not eat more than you need, and you must not hunt for sport. And if someone is murdered, you can banish them from the Pride Lands, but you cannot kill them."

"But why not?"

"Because even murderers have a place in the Circle of Life. And a wrong cannot be made right by committing another wrong."

With confusion twisting his face, Simba turned to Zazu. "I don't get it."

"I must confess, Young Master, that it makes as much sense to me as it does to you. But the Great Kings of the Past know best, and I would be a fool to go against the ancient ways. Now make a promise to your father that you will not take a life except for food. Promise him."

"But Zazu—"

"Promise him, Young Master, or this will be the last time you pounce on me again."

"All right, all right, I promise. Dad, can I pounce on him now?"

"No," Mufasa said, and his stern tone lifted in merriment. "Because it's time for your bath."

"Aw, man!" Simba muttered, and he swung away and saw Sarabi waiting for him under the tree...

"Simba, you cannot take a life, not even hers," Sarabi said. "Now take back your words."

Simba gave her a glare and muttered, "Yeah, that's never gonna happen."

"Simba, don't you remember what you father said? Killing is against the law."

He stopped in his tracks and glared at her out of the corner of his eye. "Not anymore."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he padded away and cut her off mid-word.

"Simba, this is wrong," Nala said coldly. "You're breaking your promise to your father."

"Good," he said without breaking his pace. "At least one of us is."

And he slunk away from her and let out a scoff, leaving her open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He kept on padding down the dusty path, his pride trudging furiously beside him.