The fun part (almost)

The beginning of writing a new story is always exciting. The middle part is ugly. The ending is exciting again. But the fun part? Going through the story again with fresh new eyes to fine tune every corner—to perfectly hone the characters, polish the plot and smoothen the rough edges. I’m “almost” reaching to that part. Almost.

Now, for the details. This book will be a bit thicker than Nostalgic Rain (And Worlds in Decay). In the upcoming few days, i’m going to decide on the final name and i’m likely releasing chapter 2 (thanks for loving and reading chapter 1!).

One last thing: if you’re writing your novel, remember to love it first. It gets ugly, fun, hard, easy, smooth, rough—but it’s your baby at the end of the day. One more thing (sorry): if you need any help with your book, i’m more than happy to help whenever i have some free time.

Thanks all! Can’t wait to share the book with ya’ll

REVEALING CHAPTER 1

Hey there! Thanks for waiting. The story is coming to an end. To celebrate that, here’s chapter 1. Will go over it again for sure after I’m done. Comment, and tell me what you think about it. (Also, any Nostalgic Rain elements you can feel?)

enjoy!

Chapter 1

Something terrible had happened. Something terrible will happen.

The thought woke Liam from his sleep with tears in his eyes. He couldn’t tell how long he’d slept, but it felt endless, as if every time he closed his eyes, days slipped by before he opened them again.

Wind howled in the dark room, its cold currents slapping his body from all sides. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He wasn’t home. His room—he hardly recalled it now—was nothing like this. It had been lined with bookshelves, a desk cluttered with notes, a coffee machine, a thick carpet, and a bathroom with a tub. The window there had been wider, looking out over the calm—often dead—streets of Grenim. Also, it was never this cold where he lived. He never liked his home, but he loved his room. This was neither his home nor his room.

A sense of urgency filled him. He wanted to do something. He wanted to reach out to someone. What was it? And why couldn’t he remember where he was before waking up? His head hurt every time he tried to think too hard. The cold wasn’t helping. He shivered, tugging the blanket over his face, only to feel the chill creep up his bare legs where the fabric fell short.

He stretched his stiff arms and looked around. A long time had passed while he was in this place, he believed, but couldn’t confirm. It was only an assumption. His body resisted waking, every muscle aching as if it had forgotten how to move. Pinned to a mattress on the floor, he felt heavy. If there was a feeling close to waking from a coma, this must be it. But how could he have slept for so long? He had things to take care of. Bernadette needed him. Bernadette. He remembered. The thought of his little sister sent his heart racing.

The room was bare—nothing but the hard mattress, the miserable short blanket, and a narrow window that barely let in any light. It was snowing outside. This can’t be true. It never snowed in Grenim. Not there. Not anywhere near it.

A purple book lay beside his pillow. Next to it sat a digital clock. Four in the morning. And three months after the last time he had been awake. Three months. This can’t be true. The clock must be wrong. Clocks failed all the time—dead batteries, cheap parts, someone tampering with them. But what if it wasn’t wrong? Three months was a very long time to leave Bernadette alone. If three months had really passed, what happened to everyone during that time? Who took care of her?

The purple book, perfectly placed beside his pillow—as if meant for him to see—was titled Alethea. He opened the first page. One word. “Alethea.” He stared at it longer than he meant to. The word felt heavy, like it carried something he had forgotten. The second page showed him and Bernadette hugging in a hospital room. The third page showed a girl he didn’t recognize. It was a strange book—but not as strange as it should have been. Something was familiar about it. The fourth page was filled with text. Its title read: Rain of the World.

Alethea. The word sent a shiver down his spine, even without meaning. It pressed against something inside him. Alethea.

He checked his pockets for his phone. Nothing. Strange. He had never stayed away from his phone, especially these past months—waiting for a call from the hospital. Rituals Coffee came back to him slowly. The last place he remembered being. Submitting applications to at least ten colleges, secretly wishing none of them would reply. What happened after that? He couldn’t tell. It felt like most of his memories were gone—but not all of them.

He moved toward the window. Snow clung to the glass, but the visibility was clear enough. Beyond it stretched endless white fields and acres of trees. Is this… a mountain? There were no mountains near Grenim. Some woods, yes—but no mountains. He would have known. As far as he remembered—though he couldn’t rely much on memory now—he had never been to a mountain in his life. Is this a dream?

He stepped out of the room and into what looked like a cabin’s living area. A hearth burned in one corner, opposite a wooden door that seemed to lead outside. Three brown leather sofas sat around a table draped in beige shawls. On the table rested three books and a basket of oranges and bananas. Two rocking chairs faced the fire. The crackle of burning wood filled the space, casting shifting light and fragile warmth. Animal furs lined the walls, giving the room a quiet, primitive weight. It was warmer than the room he’d woken in—but the cold still lingered.

“Liam?”

He jumped out of his skin. He’d assumed he was alone. So naïve. A girl stood by one of the doors. She had an oval face, short brown hair, and eyes he had seen before. Right. She was the girl from the purple book.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She flinched. “Tilly,” she said, watching him closely—waiting to see if the name meant anything to him. It didn’t.

“Do I know you?”

“Maybe,” she said, lowering her gaze.

So she must have known him well. Good. Then she must know Bernadette too.

“Maybe?”

“Do you remember the last thing that happened to you?”

“That’s a strange question,” Liam said. “Maybe I should be asking. Who brought me here? Where am I?”

“Do you remember where you were before you opened your eyes?”

He didn’t have to answer. For all he knew, she was his captor. But something heavier hung in the air—something far worse than a simple kidnapping.

“I was in a coffee shop,” he said.

“Rituals Coffee,” she replied, hugging her elbow closer to her body.

“How do you know that?”

Rituals was his place—where he read, wrote, and disappeared. Early mornings when the town slept. Midnight, when insomnia haunted him.

“Do you remember what happened after that?” she asked “Do you remember going somewhere?”

“No," He said. "What happened?"

“You don’t remember anything at all?”

“No.”

The short answer was no. The long answer was that his brain was somehow selective about what it could and could not remember. Tilly’s shoulders relaxed. Relief washed over her face.

The scent of melting snow and aged timber filled the air. Damp wood, raw and earthy. It stirred something deep—something quiet. This place felt untouched. Detached. He could stay here. Forever.

“I’ve answered enough,” Liam said. “Now it’s my turn. Who brought me here?”

“I did.” For the first time, she met his eyes. “I brought you here.”

“Why?”

She hesitated, studying his face. “The Mountain is dark,” she said. “The world outside the Mountain is darker.”

He didn’t understand her words—but something in him did. As if this cabin was where he belonged. As if leaving would be wrong. But he had a sister he must get back to.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I need to go home.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you be?” he snapped. “Wouldn’t you want to go back if you were me?”

Her eyes told him something he couldn’t place. She knew his life better than he did. At least for now.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The Mountain,” she said. “Mount Alethea.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t move away. Her shoulders softened. Her expression eased. A memory surfaced, one of him and her in Rituals Coffee. What was it about? How much did he know her?

“I know you,” Liam said.

A flicker of a smile crossed her face—gone in an instant, as if she both loved and feared the fact that he remembered her. Fragments of older memories followed. Liam was with Tilly at Rituals Coffee, late at night. Rain hit hard against the glass. It rarely rained in Grenim, but it did that night. You could lose her’, she had told him, a threat more than a warning. The memory cut sharp.

“Do you see the green light?” Tilly said, pointing toward the summit through the window beside the door. “If it dies, it begins. And nothing can stop it.”

He wasn’t listening.

“What happened to Bernadette?” he demanded. “Is she fine?”

“No.”

The word shattered him. Rage surged, fast and blind.

“Tell me where she is.”

She didn’t answer.

His hands moved before he realized it. He slammed her against the wall, fingers tightening around her throat. She gasped, her face flushing, then darkening.

“You promised her,” Tilly said—calm, strained. “Remember?”

A voice spoke behind him. Someone else was in the room.

“It’s happening.” The voice said. Liam didn’t turn. Through the window, the green light was gone. Rain began to fall.

Why Writing Needs Courage

Quote of the week:

“Wisdom is not in knowing all the answers, but in recognising which questions are worth carrying with you.”

Writing progress: 75% done.

Writing is like walking in the dark, trusting your steps not to fail you. You rarely know what’s coming next. Maybe you sense the general direction, or maybe you don’t—but the next line, the next paragraph, the next character you create is something you uncover along the way.

Writing is trusting yourself to build a brand-new world without ever having lived in it before. It’s one of the most courageous acts you can take. At times, you’ll hesitate—wondering whether to turn right or left, forward or back. But here’s the beautiful part: no matter what you choose, your first draft is just a rough canvas waiting to be refined. The trap? You don’t realize it while you’re writing. We all want to get it right the first time. That perfectionist voice in your head will push for flawlessness too soon.

Here’s a pro tip: whenever you find yourself obsessing over whether a small detail matters, remind yourself—you’ll always have the time to revisit, reshape, and polish later.

A little exciting update…

Another Friday blog. It’s exciting this time.

First off, this is my favorite quote from this week’s writing:

“When you’re at your lowest, ‘normal’ feels like a language you once knew but can’t remember how to speak.”

Do you think the main character said this? Anyways…I just hit 72% on A Ceremony of the Forgotten, and wow… things are getting intense.The final chapters are where everything I’ve been building toward starts to snap into place — secrets spilling, tensions boiling, and twists I’ve been dying to write finally coming to life.

There’s this strange mix of excitement and nerves at this stage. I know exactly where it’s all headed, but the characters keep surprising me, adding little moments I didn’t see coming. It feels less like I’m writing and more like I’m racing to keep up with them.

This is hands-down my favorite part of the process. The stakes are high, every scene matters, and the whole story feels alive. I can’t wait for you to see where it all lands.

Finally, thanks a lot for all your support. This book will blow your mind. I promise.

— A.S. ALTABTABAI

New Title/Cover?

New title down below only shared here in the blog. Thanks for reading in advance!

Update 3.0

I’m happy to share that the story is coming along really well. The latest details I’ve been adding are making it richer and more layered—complex, but in a way that still feels effortless. One thing I learned early on as a writer is that a first draft can completely miss the mark—and that’s perfectly fine. But this time, I feel like this draft is far more streamlined than anything I’ve written before, even compared to Nostalgic Rain or Worlds in Decay—and that’s exciting.

I’m now approaching the final arc, which is always thrilling but also demands an eagle eye for detail and a careful awareness of every plot thread. On top of that, I’ve started rethinking the book’s title and cover (yes… again). With the latest twists in the story, I feel both deserve a fresh round of brainstorming. I already have one name that I’m really drawn to.

For those following this blog, I’ll share it here for a few days before taking it down until the official reveal. If it speaks to you, let me know in the comments.

Proposed title: A Ceremony of the Forgotten (Share your thoughts down below!)

Also, I will share the new cover art and subsequent novel art (art describing the world) here first before any other platform.

Why I’m changing the title of my new novel?

From “Something We Had Wished For” to “Mountain Reverie”

When I first began writing this story, it was a quiet, heartwarming tale—something tender and almost dreamlike. The original title, Something We Had Wished For, reflected that. It carried the softness I thought the story would hold from beginning to end.

But then the story grew.

What started as a simple emotional journey turned into something far more layered. The characters took me places I didn’t expect. New plot threads formed, deeper themes emerged—grief, memory, isolation, and mystery. The setting itself became almost a character: the mountain, the observatory, the looming silence between two people who were never meant to meet.

This isn’t just a soft story anymore. It’s a reverie—a haunting one. Still emotional, still human, but now with a stronger spine and darker edges.

That’s why I’ve changed the title to Mountain Reverie.

It fits the world the story has become. It hints at solitude, at wonder, at something both beautiful and unsettling.

And I think you’ll feel that too when you see the cover.

I’ll be revealing it soon. Stay close.

The Domain is Back!

8 years ago, I had a website just like this. And it ran for the span of around 5 years. It was fun, because I used to update things there every now and then, and it was a platform for my books to be found by people. But then the domain was taken, and I didn’t want to build my new website with a domain that read like tabt24249.

If you’re here for the first time—welcome!