Out of the Comfort Zone
The world outside Eli's window had woken hungry—the city rattling with bus brakes and bicycle bells, the air already thickening with mid-spring promise. But inside, his apartment was a cocoon of nerves and espresso, the only movement the swirl of steam above his mug and the flickering reflection of his laptop screen.
He checked the guild chat. Everyone was already hyped about the GoldNovel "Open Worlds" contest. Dozens had posted screenshots of the rules, tips, screenshots of their outlines or half-finished first paragraphs. Eli's own entry, the cursor still floating beside a blinking title field, felt less like a work-in-progress and more like the inside of a locked box.
[System Quest: Enter a contest beyond your community. Reward: Mass Communication Skill, External Recognition XP, chance for Large-Scale Feedback.]
He hadn't entered a true contest since childhood. Back then, nervousness had made him fidget; as an adult, it made his jaw clench, his dreams feel brittle. It wasn't just about impressing the guild now. It was the entire GoldNovel platform—a tidal wave of potential readers, rivals, and judges. All anonymous, all hungry. All, perhaps, like him.
His phone chimed. Mara.
Mara: "You entering, right? I want to have bragging rights later."
Eli: "I'm trying. I just keep rewriting the first line."
Mara: "You know, it's not the line, it's the leap. Just type whatever, fix it after. Also, I snooped—I love the fantasy siblings idea."
Ben messaged too:
Ben: "Do something weird. Like, have the main character turn into a bus. Or do the fantasy one. You know, let the freak flag fly."
Eli snorted. He wanted to crawl back into the safety of his guild forum, but the system gamified his anxiety into a nudge:
[Bonus Tip: The contest is already happening. Deciding to try is the first win.]
He opened a new document and typed a title: "The House That Gathers Rain."
He remembered the attic library from his last fantasy piece—the smell of dust and cocoa, the siblings' mismatched laughter in the starlit hush. This time, though, he placed them in a small house on the city's ragged edge. The house collected not only rain in buckets but also every story told beneath its leaky roof. A magical place, where the siblings—Aidan, ever-practical, and Celia, wild with imagination—could listen to walls that whispered old secrets.
He outlined scenes in fits and starts. The house gathered rain and memory, Aidan wishing for escape, Celia clinging to each forgotten moment with frantic hope. The rain became a language between them—a way of bridging the gap that grew wider each year.
He struggled through the first paragraph. Wrote it, deleted it. Wrote it again. Each word felt weighted, every sentence a tug-of-war between what he wanted to say and what he could dare to write. Mara's words echoed: "It's not the line, it's the leap."
He took the leap, pushing past the critical voice, letting the story spool out unevenly, like the first drops from a leaky tap. He poured himself into it—memories of childhood storms with his own brother, of listening to rain in the dark, of carrying secrets unshared.
[Tip: Let the rough draft be rough. The rain will clean it up later.]
Hours passed, measured by the slow drain of his coffee and the brightening sun outside. Eli's world shrank until only the page and the patter of imagined rain remained. The story grew—Celia hiding a note in the rafters of the house, Aidan discovering it during a midnight storm, the siblings reconciling over a shared memory trapped in a broken umbrella. He wrote until the taste of the words was more real than the lull of traffic outside.
When he hit save, he realized he'd reached nearly 4,000 words—double the contest limit. Panic. He messaged the guild.
NightScript: "How do you cut 2k words without hating yourself?"
InkFox: "Do it like a gardener—prune, but don't uproot. Save the clippings for another story."
QuillQuest: "First time's easiest. It gets harder when you know what you love."
Mara: "Send me the rough cut. I'll highlight my favorite parts and where you meander. You can always add, but shrinking is braver."
With a deep breath, Eli copied his draft into a new doc labeled 'scissors.' He slashed a scene where Celia talked to a neighbor's cat in the rain, trimmed dialogue, honed images to their essentials. He left blank lines where he couldn't bring himself to delete—temporarily calling them 'rain puddles'—and tackled the next messy section. Mara, as promised, sent back encouragement and the sharpest, most honest edits he'd seen yet.
It stung. Then it helped.
He read each comment, each crossed-out sentence, feeling gutted and grateful at once. With every cut—scenes, paragraphs, favorite lines—his story became sharper, clearer. The house lost some of its clutter, but gained resonance; every room felt purposeful, every sentence part of the architecture. By the end, he was sweating, heart beating like he'd run a mile.
NightScript: "Final draft is 998 words. Is that cheating?"
InkFox: "Nope—deadline's tonight. Upload, then sleep."
PageTurner22: "I want to live in that house. Post ASAP and send the link!"
He reviewed it once more, resisting the urge for just one more edit. When he was ready, he uploaded the file into the contest folder. The system fired a cheerful message:
[Contest Submission Complete. Mass Communication Skill +2, External Recognition XP +5.]
He sat back, exhausted, as the adrenaline washed out. New notifications rolled in: readers from outside his guild, strangers with usernames he didn't recognize, began to post brief, telling comments.
RainFable: "The attic scene broke me in the best way." DocksideDreamer: "Sibling stories always get me. My brother used to hide notes for me, too."
Others were more critical: BlueJacket: "Ending's abrupt—does Celia ever come back? Felt unresolved." StorySinclair: "Loved the imagery, but the dialogue at the end was stiff."
Eli replied to every message, grateful for the blend of praise and constructive honesty. None of it felt like an attack. Every point opened a window for him, letting in unfamiliar air.
The guild, naturally, celebrated loudly.
PageTurner22: "NightScript, you're famous. You got ten comments in an hour."
InkFox: "It's cool, right? A wave of new eyes. Don't drown in it."
Ben called—not texted, but actually called.
Ben: "I just read your story. Dude, I loved it. Made me want to call my brother. Isn't that weird?"
Eli laughed, the tension leaking from his shoulders. He thanked Ben, thanked Mara, even thanked the critical comments for making him sharper, braver. Winning wasn't the point, he realized. Entering, editing, connecting—those were their own rewards.
[System Notification: Story chosen for GoldNovel's community spotlight.]
A second ping arrived soon after:
[Incoming Message: Not all rewards are from within the system. Check your inbox.]
Eli opened his email, hands shaking, and saw something that nearly sent his coffee flying:
An email from an editor—someone at a small, real-world literary magazine. They'd seen his contest piece on GoldNovel and wanted to feature it. His heart hammered. He read the message twice, then a third time, not sure whether to believe it.
He messaged Mara:
Eli: "You're not going to believe this. A magazine just reached out about 'The House That Gathers Rain.' They want to publish me."
Mara: "I TOLD YOU. Bragging rights secured. Now stop screaming and write another story."
He pinged the guild:
NightScript: "Hey—small lit mag wants my piece from the contest. Wouldn't have gotten here without your feedback and butt-kicking. Thanks for all the rainy-day edits."
The thread exploded with congratulations and emojis. InkFox suggested a celebratory microfiction contest, PageTurner22 asked to see his rough drafts, QuillQuest posted a link to the magazine, and even lurkers chimed in.
But when the system pinged his side monitor, its new quest made him pause:
[Major Quest: Mentor a new guild member while continuing your personal writing journey. Learn to lead and let go.]
He stared at the prompt, remembering how terrified he'd been just weeks ago—how he'd needed someone else's courage to find his own. It felt fitting, now, that he could offer that to someone new. He was no longer just an anxious writer in a dark room, or a single story in a crowded contest. He was part of something bigger—a community of voices and a line of hands, each reaching backward, offering a helping grip for the next set of trembling fingers.
He closed his laptop, let the city sound rush in through his window, and smiled. The house that gathered rain did more than collect stories. It built bridges. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Eli was ready to step outside himself—for real.