#I could have her be a poet of a writer of some kind to explain the name

[tragedykery]

I love going completely overboard with worldbuilding as soon as I get an idea for an au. will this be mentioned in the fic? probably not. am I doing it anyway? of course

#elli rambles #I blame theo for giving me the idea (it’s a pj.o lot.r au) #anyway. who wants to hear how I’ve constructed annabeth & rachel’s names in elvish so I can reasonably explain why I ‘translated’ their #names like that? #that’s too bad I’m telling you anyway #annabeth’s name can be constructed completely. quenya ‘anna’ meaning ‘gift’ + sindarin ‘peth’ (+ lenition -> ‘beth’) meaning ‘word’ #I could have her be a poet of a writer of some kind to explain the name #I could also go with Q ‘enne’ instead of ‘anna’ meaning ‘thought/purpose’ which rather fits her I think #for rachel it’s harder bc the /tʃ/ doesn’t exist in either quenya or sindarin #but the sequence ‘ty’ (/tj/) does (in quenya) which is similar enough #so I went with Q ‘ré’ meaning ‘day’ + Q ‘tyel’ meaning ‘end’ #it could be an epessë (elvish given (nick)name) given to her by annabeth referencing dusk/sunset #technically I /could/ just make her have an undisclosed westron or adûnaic name but where’s the fun in that #also the reason between the changing of vowels is that the e & é are pronounced /ɛ/ & /ɛː/ and /ɛ/ & /eː/ in sindarin & quenya respectively #which is closer to the ‘a’ in their english names than /ɑ/ or /a/ #I am aware I’m being a massive nerd about this. in my defence I Am in fact a massive nerd

[bookofmac]

okay okay okay, thinking thoughts

So I find the concept of Names really interesting in Camlann, reading into the extracanonical stuff put on the tumblr is giving me food for theory crafting. The Catacylsm seems to be some kind of return of magic to the world (possibly heralded by the return of The King of the Britons in their hour of need?) and thus people with significant Names have access to something because of it. they fall into the stories of their namesakes; Perry, Gwaine, and Kay are Knights, Morgan is Morgana Le Fay, and we now have a Gwen in Shújūn.

Based on Kay's dicussion with Perry if more people can fill in the roles of their stories to more 'to plan' the stories will go, Of course this is not good news if you know the general end point of Arthurian legend (Betrayal, muderer, war, most everyone dead, the 'Glory' of camelot gone). It's inherently kind of a doomsday cult if you stay in those stories, you know where parts of this are going (i'll get back to this)

it also seems like there may be some, for lack of a better term, kin drama going on. There are 900 members of the court and Kay mentions that Peredur is a really uncommon name outside of Wales, meaning there are certain knights who are more common, i assume Lancelot's, Kay's, maybe a few Talisin's, a bunch of Gareth's, and like 50 Elaines like in the legends lol

We also dont have the context for how Names work full yet and neither do our characters. I think theres a lot of answers to be had with Shújūn/Gwen with how it works, how you know other than the buzzing in you're head and desire go through the motions and Follow the Story

Now, where does Dai fit in all this?

Dai doesn't have a Name, and I think theres going to be a point where he changes his name in a major way, but not to a Name, but a Bardic name. In welsh poetic and story telling tradtions Welsh poets, THE OG Bards, will take on pseudonyms tell their stories. This practice stems from the medievil era, but goes forth to today, and many modern Welsh and welsh heritage poets have connections to this tradition (Dylan Thomas' middle name was his great uncles bardic name, Sarah Williams published her work under the name Sadie), I believe it's also a requirement to have one if you intend to perform in the major Eisteddfod, (I am Australian so my experiance of Eisteddfods here is very different so if i'm wrong on that let me know)

Why would he do this? I think Dai is going to, at least try, to write him and his friends a way out.

Much ink is spilt over how Arthurian legend doesnt have an 'orginal text', and as such there are lots of stories that are inherently contradictory; Bedwyr is the best knight, but so are Gwaine, Lancelot, and Galahad. Mordred is some random king until his Arthur's son. Arthur has a sister, no he has two, actually he has three and one of them is an Elaine. This could be used to explain any doubles (are you my Gwaine), as well as why we see a few different spelling varients which are, the very welsh Peredur as opposed to Percival or Parzifal, the anglisised and more boarish Kay as opposed to Cei or Caius (this last one might just to keep Dai and Kay distinct tho). These variations are no more or less 'canon' than any other telling of the story, and so often the writer of a given telling of Arthurian legend is going to have their own bias. But things dont HAVE to end the way they always do, and sometime you need to have someone outside the story you're caught in to tell you a new one.

You are not locked into that ever looming cloud of Thomas Mallory and Le Morte d'Arthur.

Other evidence I have for this is that Dai sings at the begining of each episode, and sings in welsh at that. He also is, to a point our narrator, existing both in and out of the current narative. Also his name is an a lyric of Sosban Fach (a song i would be surprised if it wasn't in the show at some point) 'Dai bach y sowldiwr' which is also not from the text the song was based on. Tangential yes, but i think it's worth thinking about.

I think there is also something to be said about choice in what your name is and how it feeds into the overall theme of identiy, and how that plays into other themes at play in the story, like Transness, Imperialism, and Predestination

TL:DR; While he doesnt have a Name, Dai's gonna give himself an epic bard name and save them all by writing a killer hook to get them out of the story

#if i've gotten details wrong wrt welsh culture im sorry i am australian and a lot of my engagement in my welsh heritage is me doing research #theres only 3 eps out i listend to them an hour ago and im writing this kind of tinfoil i'm so proud of myself lol #this is so rambly im sorry but if people want to use any of this to build ideas off of pls go ahead #camlann #camlann pod #camlann podcast #camlannpodcast #many thoughts; so big so made of foil #if i am right about the kin drama idea i'll be so happy #all the garaths fighting over kitchen duty is very funny to me in specific

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

You know what I want to see a lot more of? Cultural meshing or whatever the hell you call it. I want to see how human and na'vi culture (among other things) could be learned and respected by both sides. For so long, all the Na'vi have really experienced is the war side of humans, and though I agree that we as a species can be pieces of shit (especially to our planet, etc) I also want to see the highlighting of all of the culture and stuff we've created over the thousands of years we've existed. I want someone to continue what Grace started and could have continued to grow until it flourished if it weren't for that fateful day.

I want to see two friends, one human and one na'vi, speaking to eachother. Only the human is a language nerd/polyglot and is enthusiastically trying to find out everything they can about the Na'vi language and its various dialects while at the same time excitedly introducing their na'vi friend to words in not just English but Spanish, Greek, etc. They're so excited to be teaching their Na'vi friend English while at the same time learning Na'vi and showing them all the cool language families back on Earth. I want them to explain the concept of a dead language, how things can fade with time, how without our ancestors voices there is a constant shift generation after generation, slow but sure. ("Oh, so you guys say herwìva! That's so cool, we call them snowflakes in English. Oh, and look: in French they're called flocon de neige.")

I want to see a bright-eyed young religion/other enthusiast chatting away about Eywa and all of the Na'vi stories all the while having no problem showing their na'vi friend the absolutely ridiculous amount of books on mythology, demonology, christianity, and all that other stuff. Folklore, fairytales, you name it! ("Yeah, and then Zues banged another lady! I know, he never learns!")

I want some random tree-lover fighting for what little trees are still left on Earth to get so excited that he makes entire slideshows about all of the trees they had back on Earth and are fighting to bring back and what so many of them symbolize, etc. ("What's that? Oh, no, you can't really build a home inside a redwood tree. Uh. . . maybe a treehouse? Wait, you guys don't have treehouses? Omg we have to build one! We'll only use fallen branches, I promise! Pretty please!")

I want to see a poet or writer roll up onto Pandora with their ungodly amount of literature who loves reading to the na'vi children and teaching them how to write fun little poems, etc, all while at the same time paying close attention to the na'vi stories and writing them down, compiling them and even memorizing some of them to connect more with her students. ("I am sam, am I am, do you like green eggs and ham?" "And then the brave Entu snook up behind the might Toruk. . ."

I want games of London bridge and ring-around-the-rosie played right alongside traditional na'vi child games, young children connecting with young na'vi. ("And then you bring your arms down around him and boom! He's out!" "Ooh, what's that you're doing? I wanna try! Do all na'vi play this game?")

I want fun cooking/food classes where they alternate between learning about na'vi food culture and human food culture and they get to truly see how rich the na'vi food culture is while at the same time seeing the same thing about people on Earth. ("I promise you, ice cream is man's best fucking invention ever! And there's so many different kinds and so many different ways of making it, too! Hey, what do you guys do for dessert? Are they fruit based?")

I want trips to places like the beach where a sweet instructor brings pictures of beaches on Earth in the past and shows the others where crabs would have been or some other oceanic shit all while the na'vi instructor teaches them about Pandora's beaches. (no reason in particular for this one, I've just been wanting to go to the beach recently 🤷)

I want people who rode horses (both for equestrian sports and pleasure) to be in awe of the pa'li and to show the na'vi various different moves, games, etc, that they did on their horses via pa'li through things such as videos, pictures, all that fun stuff. ("And this right here is called puissance. You have no idea how long me and my horse had to train to make it safely over that jump!")

I want humans explaining the sheer amount of effort it takes in bonding with an animal. Months, years. And even then you can never be too sure. There is no tsaheylu, no "becoming one". We have to work hard, so hard, for every skill. Every trick. Everything. And even when all is done, there is always the chance of miscommunication. Of you making one wrong move and a horse you've known since you were four bucking you off, or your dog biting you if not trained properly. We are never one, always separate, no matter how close we get. Understanding only goes so deep, and yet we take risks day in and day out because we love our dogs and horses and any other animal we may have conflicts with.

I want humans explaining the fear. And yes, everyone feels fear (especially when colonial idiots pull up *cough* Quaritch *cough*), but for humans? It has always been a constant. There is no Eywa. Our perception of everything is completely different from a na'vi, who spends their whole life connected to their planet. We are alone in our minds, in our perception. When we die, there is only death. Our ancestors are lost in the wind. We are each left to interpret everything in the ways we know how, and we are so weak. Killed so easily. Everything is a threat. The ocean, a tree, animals, mountains, nature. Everything that gives us life takes it away, only there is no Eywa telling us that it is alright. That there is balance. For us, there is just panic and pain and fear, as we are attacked from all sides, begging for answers we'll never get. So we protect ourselves in the only ways we know how. Houses. Machines. And the fear, over time, our justification. (Not sure if what I'm trying to say made any sense at all lol.)

And I want na'vi taking this in, not forgiving us for our wrongdoings (because we have no right to ask that of them) but for them to just see us the way they claim to see so much. For them to see us and us to see them and for there to be understanding. No "demons". No "savages". Because that's not how it is. It's just two different mindsets brought on by two very different planets.

But what I want most of all?

A slushy tbh. Gonna go drive to my local 7/11 now. That's enough depression for one day.

Wow what a very emotional ask! I really love this! My favorite human things that fics tend to have Jake bring to the Omaticaya are small but meaningful I think. Curse words, photos and videos, children's games (the marking their height on the wood!!), high fives and pinky swears, flipping people off, books, and slang for sure.

In regards to most of this I think Norm is your GUY. I refuse to believe he doesn't teach his 50 million adopted children to read and write along with history and culture and biology, Earth and Pandora. The rest of the village kids TOTALLY get in on these lessons they all want to learn, they get jealous of their friends. Norm taking over and restructuring Grace's school is my FAVORITE headcanon, I love the idea that Spider joins him in lessons after he gets older if he never gets an avatar or gets Eywa blessed.

#anyways what an absolutly lovely ask anon #looove this idea #obsessed #i love specifically the omaticaya and the scientists relationship as their lives go on #miles spider socorro #spider socorro #norm spellman #avatar #avatar the way of water #james cameron avatar #melissa's asks #melissa on avatar (cameron) #the people need this fic we are begging for it

[ladyhindsight]

Okay. So.

I started this book going chapter by chapter, but the flame was lost for a long time and I couldn’t pick it up anymore. As a result I just powered through and read it all the way to the end to be rid of it. Otherwise, as my shitty personality and brain dictate, it would’ve just nagged on me forever as an unfinished project.

I have so many thoughts about this book and none at the same time. It brings no joy, no laughter—it’s as atrocious as a book can be. Chain of Gold is such a disaster of a book, such a Mess, such unholy, godawful piece of writing that I have lost most of the words to even describe it.

I will now, consequently, complain discuss my grievances.

It’s hard to even begin from the beginning. The whole character ensemble is brought to you almost all at once, but the plot takes forever to properly start. No wonder, it is almost nonexistent. The story then progresses in extremely lazy waves, and whenever there is any momentum, it falls flat because the ball is only tomorrow so we have to wait to make room for relationship troubles or a thing is finally happening but let’s cut to this other, not so action-heavy scene right in the middle of it. Even at the end, it never really rises to a proper crescendo. The climactic battle is fought 100 or so pages before the book honestly even ends. After Belial’s momentarily defeat, the story structure really loses every little bit of coherency that remained up to that point. It’s a mess, and the book just refuses to finish itself before the set up for Chain of Iron.

The further the story progresses, the more evident it becomes how the writing alludes to all the companion stories that exist elsewhere. And at the same time they exist in this book as these huge secrets though all of it is already been revealed in previous writing—reason for Matthew’s agony, Tessa’s parentage, Alastair’s bullying days in the Academy, etc.

There are so many secrets that even the writing says there are so many secrets. That is fine. What is not fine is the flimsy reasoning for keeping things secret. Don’t tell anyone because otherwise they will die. Instead of writing compelling and complex reasons, everyone is hushed to silence by the fear of death of their loved ones because that is the greatest and unarguable reason. Many misunderstandings and a lot of the pain could be spared if the characters just talked to each other. Many of them could be solved if the characters were at all prone to actual intelligence instead of just praising each other and telling each other how clever they are.

The writing has a lot of exposition and info-dumping, a fact that repeats itself in every first installment of Clare’s trilogies. I’ve said and I will say it again, The Wicked Powers is going to be magnificent considering how much clumsy recapping of previous series like in this book has to be shoved into it. In addition to all that, the writing constantly explains itself—not only the concepts, but also characters themselves, their actions, personalities, any and every single thing. Clare throws around titles of classic works, of writers, of poets—uses poems as intros to the chapters but they add no substance to any of the writing. Again, just atrocious. A ton of words saying absolutely nothing. This book was a chore to read.

THOUGHTS ON SOME CHARACTERS:

CORDELIA. Cordelia was a nice main character. She is kind and brave and compassionate, which is nice. Cordelia is nice. It’s just that she is used, like any female lead in Clare’s writing, to narrate the other characters, especially the main male characters like James and Matthew. She’s also incredibly and unbelievably sheltered. Unbelievably. She recognized Matthew’s problem with alcohol, but does not connect that to her father being “ill”. She’s constantly surprised that Alastair is considerate of her when most things Alastair does is her in his mind. Alastair lost his childhood and his father because he (and Sona) tried for years to protect their family from society that does not understand addiction. And to give Cordelia a happy childhood and a father to love, all while Cordelia did not know any better. It just doesn’t fly by me when she is written so “perceptive” of everyone else around her. And by perceptive I mean leaps in her intuition to narrate other characters for the readers. At times she only becomes a cog in the machine that does its damnest to convince you how great the Herondales are. Just telling this and telling that to hammer it in. And if it wasn’t enough, Clare throws yet another voyeurism scene at the readers AGAIN, in the same vein as with Magnus and Alec or Mark and Kieran, this time Cordelia bearing witness to her brother and Charles.

JAMES. He has a lovely melancholy face. Crow-black hair. Amber eyes. Big golden eyes. Pale gold tea eyes. Pale gold eyes. Golden syrup eyes. Eyes color of fire and gold. Again pale gold. The burning gold of lion’s eyes. Dark gold eyes. Eyes the color of sunlight through pale yellow leaves. Eyes of the tigers in Rajasthan, golden and watchful. Tiger eyes that glitter in the dark. Tiger’s eyes that darkened into something richer and deeper, like gold of Cortana when it flashed in the air. Lacquered gold eyes. Eyes deeper gold than usual. Wild and hot and golden eyes. Deep gold eyes.

And for Alastair or Cordelia Clare could only conjure up black and dark.

Absolutely no feelings about James. He was there. He did things. Somehow he is more important progeny to Belial than Lucie. He explained Belial’s Master Plan in excruciating detail while being paraded as clever like it wasn’t obvious from the get-go. He’s amazing. He’s the leader. Leave it to Cordelia to narrate James and his awesome qualities.

“It’s about me. It’s always been about me.”

Says James before he hops off to see Grandpa. Pretty much sums up every Herondale character ever.

LUCIE. Lucie is fun. Somewhat naïve but fun. The writing also wants you to think that there ever was some kind of tension between her and Matthew once Cordelia detects it has lifted. But alas, there was none. Ever.

GRACE.  This girl, so boring. I get it, she is only looking out for herself with some wicked-ass ways to go about it and at the cost of other peoples’ relationships, but still. Her mother has left her completely defenseless against harm and danger, there is absolutely no one (alive) in her corner, so girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do to get that sense of safety.

I just really, really despise that bracelet and wish the story was already done with it. Cordelia notices it multiple times as a wink, wink, nudge, nudge to the readers but is totally incapable of drawing the line between it and James’ behavior.

ANNA. She is glamorous. She smiles like the sphinx. She can seduce multiple people in one evening. She is elegant, composed. Her bedchamber is infamous. She had the Herondale blue eyes. Her hair was the same black as James’s. Herondale black, the color of the wings of a crow. Her blue eyes were the exact color of Will’s (despite that Cecily is her mother and has the same eye color as her brother, violet-blue or not quite blue, not quite violet). She and James share the same crow-black hair, like Will’s and Cecily’s, and the same chiseled, angular faces. Her blue eyes sparkle. Her blue eyes narrow. Her blue eyes darken. She rolls her blue eyes. She has a considering look in her blue eyes.

Did you know Anna has dark hair and blue eyes? Of the Herondales?

She also doesn’t seem to remember her cousin Eugenia.

“Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.

“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia—a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James —Mariane, Virna, Eugenia—”

“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.

“Oh, probably not,” Anna said.”

What. The. Heck. Man.

TATIANA. She has just become a laughable villain. Though the writing offers her some empathy for her grief, the epilogue makes her even more cartoonish than the Enclave meeting after the mansion in Idris burnt down. Also, as the laws of wanking for Herondales dictate:

Herondales, Tatiana thought as she made her way to the Italian gardens. Tainted blood ran in their veins. In her opinion, their name dominated the history books more than it should. There should be far more instances of the name “Lightwood” and less of the name “Herondale.”

C’mon. Seriously. You thought you were sly, didn’t you?

ALASTAIR. The only emotionally charged scenes were between Alastair and Cordelia. I enjoyed Alastair and Cordelia’s scenes together, though I don’t think Clare understands a thing about siblings. Similarly how Isabelle never stands up for Alec, Cordelia never stands up for Alastair.

Grace has no one in her corner, Alastair only has Cordelia. And I so hate that Matthew, James, and Thomas are protecting her affection by not telling Cordelia what Alastair has done and said. There were beautiful moments between Cordelia and her brother that actually showed the depth and strength of their siblinghood, so imagining that Cordelia would completely turn against her brother if she knew is bewildering to me. Especially since, like Thomas knows little, Cordelia knows Alastair’s true nature, and it is not all angry and bitter. So this scene:

“There are some people who do not deserve one.” Matthew’s voice was fierce. “If I ever catch you considering befriending Alastair, James—”

“Then what?” James said, arching an eyebrow.

“Then I will have to tell you what Alastair said to me the day we left the Academy,” said Matthew. “And I would rather not. Cordelia should never know it, if nothing else. She loves him and she should be allowed that.”

Cordelia. There was something about the way Matthew said her name. James turned to him, puzzled. He wanted to say that if Alastair had truly said something so awful it would threaten Cordelia’s affection for him, Matthew should not suffer it in silence, but there was no chance. Christopher had burst out the front door, pulling on gloves.”

Really gives me no hope that Cordelia would remain loving her brother and knowing the truth despite everything because this is Clare. There is no gray, no in-between when someone in the Clique is slighted—you choose your side. Alastair is already singled out, just so a groups of rich boys can be the victims (though I recognize Matthew, for instance, has a big personal demon to tackle too). But it’s the singling out that always provokes my ire. Alastair who is already been subjected to racism, discrimination, and bullying. But guys, James has incredibly beautiful demon eyes and was bullied for them. And someone talked shit about Matthew and his family.

Once again, herein lies the problem I have with this setting with these kind of characters. As always, there are the characters that are central to the story, and they can do no wrong in ways that are actually wrong and recognized as that. James gets expelled from the Academy because of false accusations and, by extension, discrimination against the demon blood in him. It was really Alastair’s fault. All of it really is. None of them can do (though don’t I think Thomas or Christopher would because they are pretty much sweethearts) reprehensible things that would make them actually flawed (like characters like Alastair and Jessamine). Actually making mistakes and doing bad things, having misjudgments and misbehavior, and above all, overcoming all that and growing and trying to do better and be better.

MATTHEW. Matthew has green eyes. They also sparkle and glitter and shine a lot. Or something.

I don’t think there were many scenes where Matthew wasn’t drinking. Obviously his alcoholism is the central battle he faces in his journey through the book. But only handful of the scenes ever really had characters addressing it—or really at all. Lucie was the only one to speak frankly, but she brought it up from the perspective of James’ safety.

When Elias Carstairs was reveal to have been drunk (at least at this time, I don’t know if Chain of Iron somehow again will change the story as I know it) and that had cost many lives because of an error he made while drunk, it did mirror how Matthew hadn’t done the same yet but could very well be walking towards the same future where his drunkenness could cost other people their safety or lives in battle.

It is such a serious matter, but it was treated as an open secret the whole book, rather on the nose too which made it irritating seeing all the characters gloss over it most of the time. Teenagers can’t help teenagers, it’s understandable, but Will, for one, seemed acutely aware of Matthew before they got interrupted in that one scene. No one brings up their worries to the adults either��well, they tell the adults absolutely nothing and then try to trap a major demon in a Pyxis.

The problem of having all previous characters from TID be present in the story is also making them seem rather absent parents at times, unaware how their children fare in the world.

RANDOM THOUGHTS IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

i. Tessa is luminous. Tessa is wonderful. Can someone go take the keyboard away from Clare.

ii. “Your mother had brutal teachers. They held her against her will and forced her to Change. It must have been terrifying, and painful. James was silent. You know that your mother has not used her power since the end of the Clockwork War. Since then the act of shape-shifting has been… difficult for her. Painful. She has chosen not to do it.” Must have been? Wouldn’t Jem know that it was? The point: Tessa has suffered paaaaain, you see.

iii. “James had gone to Shadowhunter Academy for only a few months; he’d met Thomas, Matthew, and Christopher there, and they’d promptly blown up a wing of the school.” This is so strange to me that they only met when they were a lot older even though they are relatives and children of people that are incredibly close? Because when James is thinking about Barbara: “He had not been extremely close with his cousin—the difference in age between them meant she regarded him indulgently as a child, as she did Thomas— but she had been there all his life, kind and cheerful, without her sister’s sharp tongue, always expecting the ready best of everyone. He had never lived in a world without Barbara in it.” Which would suggest otherwise???

iv. Can the plot not always feature the Big Dumb Clave with their heads up in their own assess? Also, it is important for the book to remind that even though the Clave is being Big Dumb, Tessa and Will are doing all they can to make things better at least!

v. “The four of you are tightly knit,” said Cordelia. “Anyone could see that. And none of you is so simple. Thomas is more than just kind, and Christopher more than beakers and test tubes, Matthew more than wit and waistcoats. Each of you follows his own star—but you are the thread that binds all four together. You are the one who sees what everyone needs, if anyone requires extra care from their friends, or even to be left alone. Some groups of friends drift apart, but you would never let that happen.” Are you trying to tell me how to read these characters? No, they really are that simple.

vi. Charles, I don’t even know. Seems to really want to be a Consul, I guess.

vii. Note to self: Lucie cannot be trusted to keep watch.

viii. Merry Thieves is a dumb name.

ix. With James, Cordelia, and Matthew, it’s the same love triangle all over again.

x. Same immortal characters circle the series. This time also featuring Lily. Once they were all in England. Nowadays in America.

xi. I’m honestly not rooting for any romance. Just rooting for Cordelia and Alastair getting their shit together as siblings and family.

xii. Belial outright refuses to be an interesting villain.

xiii. Elias’ trial was wayyy easily solved. Pretty fucked up for their justice system that continues being fucked up anyway.

xiv. The Clave never evolves because the Clave needs to be the scapegoat for every minute thing that could go wrong and hinder the protagonists’ love lives/zero-to-hero journey.

xv. Only quote I really liked: “Sona smiled at her—a weary, worried smile, the smile of so many Shadowhunter parents down through the ages who had watched their children march into the night, carrying blades blessed by angels, knowing they might never return.” Highlights the Shadowhunter aspect of being a parent in their odd, odd world.

xvi. A lot of the characters in the different series are really interchangeable. Slap Jace somewhere here and I probably wouldn’t question him talking. These kids are once again another renditions of their parents.

xvii. Belial says he wanted James to be a bit older as his vessel, so why the hell he started implementing his plan before James got to grow up and mature more?? The whole plan was only to make them soft against the demons he sent. Surely even more time could do that.

xviii. This book was flat as hell. My brain is fried. This was a mess.

#James Herondale #Cordelia Carstairs #Matthew Fairchild #Alastair Carstairs #Lucie Herondale #Anna Lightwood #Thomas Lightwood #Christopher Lightwood #Grace Blackthorn #Chain of Gold #The Last Hours #Anti CC #Anti Cassandra Clare

[mediawhorefics]

hií 💗 for the ask game, what's your favourite fanfic of all time?

oh god i read in so many fandoms this feels like an impossible question dhjfjfdg i'm gonna cheat. is that okay? can i cheat? there's no way you're getting just one. sorry not sorry djbkndkjgbd

i guess if i'm answering 100% honestly, it would prob. be not easily conquered which, for those who don't know is a stucky fic and one of the most beautiful pieces of writing i've ever read. some of the quotes from this fic are seared into my brain and i fear will never leave me.

in the 1d fandom tbh it's still tif. i think to me tif is a perfect romcom. i've never read a better one. it's funny, its heartwarming, it's genuine, the miscommunication is handled very well and that quote that describes trying to explain something traumatic that happened to you young as 'like a fish trying to explain what water is' stayed with me for over a decade. it's exactly that. that's exactly what it feels like... i love this fic sm. it's just as good as everyone says and i think its criminal that some newer fandom peeps haven't read it. i can only aspire to be that kind of writer.

i recently went on a spuffy binge read ad discovered summerfrost's works and i have been in absolute awe of their characterization ever since. their writing knocked me the fuck out. nothing safe is worth the drive (follow you home) is prob. my fav but everything i've read from them has been a masterclass in character study.

the poet dean fic is another work that i think is a game changer. if you're remotely interested in deancas/spn this fic is stunning and it features original poetry by the writer that is just.... gorgeous. it makes me want to write poetry and god knows i am not good at that rip.

cinderwings is another spn fic that's ..... incredible. it's such a creative au that perfectly mixes elements from canon and from fairy tales to create something totally new that feels fresh and different. not to mention i've never read a character pov of a quote unquote creature that actually felt like i wasnt reading a human character. it's done so well.

four letter word for intercourse . its the best smut heavy fic i've ever it. its deancas. end of.

i recently started reading good omens fics and Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach ??? w o w. just.... w ow. if you've read the book/watched the show and loved crowley just a little bit... read this. it's an outsider pov and it is so compelling, it's almost impossible to put down. which is a pretty herculean feat imo considering it's all through the eyes of a stranger. its basically crowley in therapy through the eyes of his therapist. incredible.

back in the old days i read a lot of merlin fics and the student prince still has SUCH a special place in my heart as a comfort fav... it's so funny and heartwarming. the perfect magical uni au. it also has an amazing podfic read by the author.

wastelands is probably my favourite star wars fic i've ever read. it's only 9k and ft just before the sequel trilogy leia crash landing on some abandoned world and getting help from a force ghost to repair her ship only to realise it's anakin. it's just.... a beautiful beautiful character study and a look into their relationship and it ties in with some kylo stuff.

you could dress this wound is a tsn fic where mark starts seeing pain as light on people and develops some empathy/starts seeing the world (and his relationship to eduardo) differently as a result.

best practices in workplace relationships is nothing special. except its heartfelt and funny and i've read it countless times over the past ten years. so many times. it's the assistant wardo fic. it's fun. i love her.

also anything that @helloamhere writes but ESP the anakin/padme/obi fic she wrote partly because of me.

i think thats it... like... off the top of my head today right now.

oh and i guess.... if it's not arrogant to say it ? maybe tts ? just... i'm very very proud of it and it's very special to me. i dont think its better than any fic ive listed here but it is one of my all time favs because it was a big labour of love from me.

#about me #fic recs #hope that answers that ??? #id k #its so hard kjkgnjkd #fic rec

[grandhotelabyss]

Could you discuss some of your major disagreements, if any, with Harold Bloom?

With the stipulation that great critics prove their integrity by being wrong, and that we should thus welcome their wrongness, I have many disagreements. I often find him an inspiring rhapsode more than a persuasive critic or theorist. Or maybe they're differences of sensibility more than disagreements. We could talk about local differences of opinion about this or that writer, but sensibility is probably the larger question.

He was endlessly fascinated by the poet's solitary quest, modeled ultimately on the Biblical prophets, for priority and absoluteness of vision in a degraded cosmos: Alastor on his solitary quest. It's not that he never question or even censured, in the course of his analyses, the solipsism to which this quest gives rise; he wasn't stupid; but it was still the most interesting thing to him, even later, when he disciplined this aspect of himself to arrive at his reverence for Shakespeare, a figure who contains this quest—especially in Hamlet—but contains much more besides. Whereas I can only handle so much Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, Stevens, etc., before I want to pick up a novel again, a novel or a Shakespeare play.

Though he came to be the public scourge of Theory, Bloom was a theorist himself originally. He was right to challenge both New Critical and then deconstructionist prejudices, with their French formalist paradigms, right to insist that Wordsworth and Tennyson shared the eminence of Baudelaire and Eliot. But he appreciated a very high degree of abstraction, abstraction of rhetoric and abstraction of vision—much more than I can tolerate, much less admire, except in small doses. Like Stevens, he saw the theory of poetry as the life of poetry.

I prefer in contrast a peopled canvas, a richer tapestry. As ideal images of the artist, I like Joyce or Woolf perambulating the city rather than Wordsworth or Shelley alone on their promontories: the novelists are also alone, perhaps, but alone in the crowd, and teaching the crowd how better to be alone, in a communion of our common exile.

He always slights literary form—what other major critic is so little interested in language?—and possibly in consequence misses some dimensions of irony. He saw only the sermon in Dostoevsky, not the disputation. He scanted what was inventive in Poe. He condescended to Keats. He claimed that Beckett, not Joyce, wrote the best English prose of the 20th century. But even when confronted with a solitary different from his preferred solitaries, he missed what was formally at issue: thus he saw Thoreau as only a lesser Emerson rather than as a very different kind of writer than Emerson, one much more attuned to language as material.

His "anxiety of influence" theory is relevant to the strain of visionary, prophetic poetry he prefers, but is it a generally applicable theory of (or standard of value for) poetry, literature, or the arts in general? As Joyce Carol Oates remarked somewhere in her published journal of Bloom, writers are influenced by what they ate for breakfast and read in the news, too. (Novelists more than poets, perhaps.)

This is more minor, but he was also hypocritical on the identity politics question, demoting Dostoevsky and Eliot for their anti-Semitism while wondering why anyone would want to demote, say, Milton for his misogyny or Stevens for his anti-blackness.

The best way to sum it up: this year I finally read David Lindsay's A Voyage to Arcturus, the fantasy novel Bloom loved so much that he wrote (as his only published work of fiction) a sequel or fan fiction. I found Arcturus hideous, quasi-unreadable, a nasty and punitive fable; I found it as unwholesome as Bloom finds Dostoevsky and Eliot. In this post, I try to explain this whole divide between Bloom and myself with reference to Lindsay's book, while also praising his Nietzschean-Kafkan vitalist-ironic reading of the Bible, a book I (how can I say this without sounding "Reddit"?) have trouble with, trouble Bloom explains and helps to allay. I may agree with Bloom about the Bible more than I agree with him about anything else.

After all that, though, he was right about what matters most: our very sense of who we are and of what it is to be who we are has been shaped by a smaller number of writers than we may want to admit, and we will therefore not even know ourselves if we don't read them—read them critically, of course, but read them.

#harold bloom #literary criticism #literary theory

[totaleditorial]

https://www.wordstream.com/blog/ws/2022/01/20/copywriting-techniques

What is phonosemantics?

Phonosemantics (aka phonoaesthesia, aka sound symbolism) is a portmanteau word defining the theory that meanings come from sounds. Each sound, or phoneme, carries a specific psychological impression. Whereas onomatopoeias are a category of words that define themselves in the way they are pronounced, phonosemantics says that any word can make an impression based on the way it’s pronounced. It’s a form of copywriting psychology.

Which explains why you guessed Grataka as the land of mean-spirited hunters:

Hard /g/ and /k/, together with abrupt rhythm and short vowels, make this word sound rude. And the citizens of Lamoniana seem good fellows because of soft /l/, /m/, /n/, long vowels, and polysyllabic rhythm in their land’s name.

Phonosemantic associations

To illustrate phonosemantics, here are some phonemes and the associations they trigger:

/r/ – movement and activity

/p/ – precision and patience

/mp/, /str/ – force, efforts

/o/, /u/, /e/ – powerful, strong, authoritative

/b/ – round, big, and loud

/i/, /ee/ – small size, tenderness

/gl/ – shining, smooth, brightness

/l/, /n/ – soft, gentle

Phonosemantics is not new.

Sacred texts of Hindu philosophy (The Upanishads) describe mute consonants (b, c, d, f, g, p, t) as those representing the earth, fire, and eyes; sibilants (/s/) as representing the sky, air, and ear; and vowels representing heaven, the sun, and the mind.

Plato believed people could choose names for things depending on their features and the features of the sounds. In his book Cratylus, he suggested the letter and sound /r/ for the expression of motion and activity.

Russian scientist and poet Lomonosov suggested writers use the repetition of /i/, /e/, and /yu/ for creating the effect of something tender, pleasant, and soft, while repeated /o/, /u/, and /y/ would work to depict something terrifying, dark and cold.

Sound symbolism & the bouba-kiki effect

The mechanism of sound symbolism is yet unknown, but one suggestion is that it lies in verbal gesture—the way we use lips and tongue to pronounce the word. This concept, the bouba-kiki effect, was first introduced with an experiment in 1929 and has been confirmed by more recent studies.

In the experiment, participants were shown the below two shapes and asked which one is bouba and which one is kiki.

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copywriting-strategy-phonosemantics-bouba-kiki.jpeg

Ninety-five percent of people call the spiky one kiki and the rounded one bouba because those visual shapes align with what our lips do to say these words.

One of the most prominent researchers in sound symbolism, Margaret Magnus, nails it in her book Gods in the Word. She explains that:

Many words beginning with /b/ relate to so-called “barriers, bulges, and bursting” headings because our lips come together and form a barrier to the airflow when creating the /b/ sound. It results in a bulge and a burst of sound.

When pronouncing “kiki,” on the other hand, our lips narrow and our tongue makes a kind of sharp movement, therefore increasing Kiki’s chances to appear spiky.

Another idea around why this happens involves the connections between sensory and motor areas of the human brain. When hearing a sound, the brain doesn’t leap to a concept but associates it with a shape, a color, or an emotion—and responds accordingly.

Phonosemantics is an argument of little substance for most linguists denying such a relationship between sounds and meanings. And yet, conventional linguistic theories don’t have any alternative explanations for the bouba-kiki effect.

6 phonosemantic copywriting techniques to influence your readers

When it comes to copywriting (impressive copywriting examples here), it may seem super challenging to choose particular phonemes and combine them accordingly to influence readers’ perceptions and emotions.

But that’s not so.

Sound symbolism is not as hard as it sounds and may come in handy when coming up with business names, advertising slogans, or headlines for your content assets. Here are six ways to use them in your content to hook readers and generate sticky messages.

1. Use repetition & alliteration

Repetition and alliteration are two great techniques to practice here and make your written words memorable and more powerful.

It stands to reason that you won’t focus on just these sounds when crafting your ad copy, emails, or other marketing assets. Consider it an alternative copywriting technique to try in headings, intros, or conclusions whenever applicable.

Here’s how Aaron Orendorff applies it to his blog posts at iconiContent:

/b/ is everywhere—big, round, and loud

Repetition is used to pinpoint attention

Alliteration  encourages readers to speed up

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copywriting-technique-phonosemantics-writing-example.png

2. Insert sensory words

Phonosemantics refers also to choosing sensory words for your content.

These are words, mainly verbs and adjectives, that help readers see, hear, taste, and feel your content. Best described by Henneke Duistermaat, they are more potent than ordinary words thanks to their more descriptive phonic nature. (Emotional words and phrases are super-potent too!)

She highlights five types of sensory words, according to different senses they evoke from people reading them:

Sight, indicating colors, shape, or appearance.

Hearing, describing or mimicking sounds.

Taste/smell, relating to tastes or odors, respectively.

Tactile, expressing concepts, feelings, and textures.

Motion, aka active words describing movements.

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copywriting-techniquie-phonosemantics-sensory-words.png

While sensory words can make your copywriting more compelling and memorable, it doesn’t mean you should stuff your business or marketing content with them. One to two sensory words in a headline or an email subject line are already enough to hook the audience and add personality to your writing.

3. Bust out the bucket brigades

According to research, bucket brigades (aka transition words and phrases) affect reader comprehension. These words improve coherence by conveying the structure and providing logical connections between arguments. Bucket brigades influence a text’s readability, which is especially critical for introducing new content topics. They show information flow, serving as hooks to encourage us to keep reading.

Here goes the example from your humble narrator’s oldy-moldy guest post for SEMrush. In it you’ll see the following bucket brigades:

It is true; but it is also true

More than that

To cut a long story short

Not very inspiring, huh?

Keep reading to find out

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copywriting-techniques-bucket-brigades-examples.png

Bucket brigades also make for great SEO copywriting because they get and keep readers hooked—which can increase CTR and dwell time.

4. Converse with your readers

Notice also that I used conversational language in the above example. A writer can evoke particular emotions from readers with different types of bucket brigades. They engage a reader’s brain and create an impression of dialogue (rather than a lecture), making texts sound more “alive.”

Here are some additional words and phrases to use for conversational bucket brigades:

Look:

Let me explain why

Here’s the deal

More than that

On top of that

In other words

Put another way

What does this mean?

So what

How so?

My point is

Plus, conversational writing is also in our list of landing page trends for this year.

5. Drop soundbites

Going on and on and tasking your reader with keeping track of everything? This is one copywriting mistake to avoid through the use of soundbites.

These are short yet powerful and poetic phrases that can better communicate the essence of a writer’s idea and make readers remember the core message.

Journalists and essayists know it as a thesis statement, screenwriters call it a logline, and speechwriters refer to it as a slogan (unforgettable advertising slogans here). The trick here is to choose lexical items and stylistic devices that would express your core message best, so the audience can’t help but remember it.

A classic example is John F. Kennedy’s “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”

Writing techniques like repetition and contrast make this soundbite so attractive. Playing metaphors, rhythm, and phonemes are also great to practice for soundbite creation.

Let’s take Henneke Duistermaat’s blog post at Copyblogger as an example:

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copwriting-strategy-soundbites-example.png

Write less. Read more. Talk listen more.

What do we have here?

The alliteration of /r/ expresses activity and motivates readers to act.

The repetition of less/more gives the soundbite rhythm.

The contrast of less – more / talk – listen / write – read) hooks attention and makes the conclusion memorable.

Here are some ways to use soundbites:

Put them in the last sentence of a paragraph or post for the audience to remember.

Include them at the top of a section as the “tl;dr”

Write them as one-sentence paragraphs (bolded or using the callout quote feature in your CMS if you have one)

Share tweetable quotes through a click-to-tweet tool

Visually appealing, they hook and share core messages of blog posts for readers to remember.

https://www.wordstream.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/copywriting-technqiues-soundbite-example-click-to-tweet.png

6. Use paragraph rhythm to make your content sing

For better engagement and desired perception, your content needs to sound smooth, with each line flowing. Besides the above-mentioned bucket brigades, paragraph length/rhythm is your instrument to use for that.

Consider the classic example from Gary Provost, the author of Make Every Word Count:

This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.

It’s all about the rhythm of your writings. So:

Use short paragraphs with spaces between them, like in the article you’re reading right now. A mere look at your content piece should create an impression that it’s easy to read. (The human brain is super lazy, remember?)

Switch between short and long sentences (like Provost’s example shows) to make your content sound smooth.

Blend your content with one-sentence paragraphs now and then to highlight ideas (soundbites, remember?), provide a smooth reader experience, and create a dramatic effect when needed.

Phonosemantics: complex word, simple and effective copywriting technique

Copywriting may have formulas, but it is very much an art and there are no limits to the creativity you can apply to your marketing assets.  It stands to reason that phonosemantics isn’t the silver bullet for content creators to drive engagement, win over readers’ love, or improve sales. And yet, it can become a powerful weapon in the arms of a writer who knows how (and when) to use it.

The basics of sound symbolism will help you analyze short- and long-form content, generate brand names and slogans, and influence the buyer decision process with psychology. 

Just rememeber, while phonemes can trigger feelings and help you create emotionally rich content, it’s context and content value that matters most. So, treat phonosemantics as a faithful assistant, not a devil helping you manipulate a reader’s mind. Here is a quick recap of the copywriting techniques we covered in this post

Alliteration and repetition

Sensory words

Bucket brigades

Conversational language

Soundbites

Paragraph rhythm

#phonosemantics #semantics #psychology #psychology of sound #linguistics #science #sounds #writing sounds #writing

[mystacoceti]

I do not believe that the simple psychological conflict between distress and pleasure explains the critical embarrassment at Russ’s work. That would be naïve.

I do believe that what in her works creates such intense pleasure, what creates such intense distress, most critics of science fiction are unprepared to deal with.

The critical embarrassment as I perceive it works like this. Critics of contemporary Anglo-American science fiction feel that an axiomatic value is present in their critical object (science fiction), a value the presence of which justifies their critical endeavor, a value the critical endeavor itself is organized to locate, reveal, explore, and analyze. These critics find themselves quickly drawn to two almost inarguable positions:

First, this value cannot be present in any literarily worthy style: most science fiction is appallingly written. Therefore, this value must be sought at a grosser, narrative resolution.

Second, this value cannot be present in any ethically rigorous presentation of social ideas; most science fiction—indeed, much of the most narratively energetic science fiction—is governed by a political/ethical system one hesitates to call fascist only because any functioning fascist group would have to be a great deal more in touch with the complexities of the world even to exist, much less to oppress. Therefore, science fiction’s value must be present elsewhere than in ideological systems reducible from it. Some kind of distorting squint that will provide a different resolution must be applied if we are truly to locate that value.

But if these two positions are the case, what then is one to do with a writer such as Russ, whose prose style was from the beginning rigorous, deeply felt, richly envisioned, and with all its riches controlled by not only a verbal but also by a psychological economy that marks her sentences with a pace and precision one associates with a John Hawkes, a Vladimir Nabokov (Russ’s teacher and one of the dedicatees of And Chaos Died), a Djuna Barnes of the Spillway stories? What is one to do with a an SF writer who describes a spaceliner: “The Big One was obviously one of those epoxy-and-metal eggs produced by itself—the Platonic Idea of a pebble turned inside out, born of a computer and aspiring towards the condition of Mechanical Opera” (And Chaos Died, p. 93). The irony of that “obviously” could occasion pages of explication de texte. To appreciate fully such a sentence one must be able to call up the ghost of the Walter Pater phrase it lightly mocks (”All art aspires to the condition of music”) as well as the pulp horror story diction (”The Old One was . . .”) it mocks as lightly.

What is one to do with an SF novel like The Female Man, which in full frontal attack has taken on the aesthetic problem of our times, a problem that has obsessed poets and artists from Robert Bly to Eve Hesse—how to respond directly to politics with a work of art, at the same time avoiding both naïveté and bombast? What is one to do with an SF novel whose distancing devices make it an “epic novel” in almost exactly the way Brecht used the term epic theater? What are we to do with an SF novel in which we find passages like:

This book is written in blood.

Is it written entirely in blood?

No, some of it is written in tears.

Are the blood and the tears all mine?

Yes, they have been in the past. But the future is a different matter. As the bear swore in Pogo after having endured a pot shoved on her head, being turned upside-down while still in the pot, a discussion about her edibility, the lawnmowering of her behind, and a fistful of ground pepper in her snoot, she then swore a mighty oath on the ashes of her mothers (i.e., her forebears) grimly but quietly while apples from the shaken tree above her dropped bang thud on her head:

OH, SOMEBODY ASIDES ME IS GONNA RUE THIS HERE PARTICULAR DAY.

(The Female Man, p.95)

This is a contemporary writer working at the highest level of rhetorical risk, where the political clichés of blood and tears must be re-viewed, in a garden at once Edenic and Newtonian, regalvanized by honesty and irony, and finally exploded before they can deeply affect; the writer, by use of the literally comic, has found a way to accomplish that explosion.

But what is one to do if one is committed to the idea that the value of science fiction is not present in its style or affective social ideas? One reads, one is moved (and one is by the interplay of aesthetic and social intelligence on page after page). But to the extent that one adheres to this critical position, one is left critically mute—or at best having to apologize for this obvious excellence. And one certainly must hesitate to place such excellence at the center of our science fictional writing practive.

Thus the embarrassment.

from “Russ”, Samuel R. Delany

#pearl diver

[rantings-at-dusk]

"I've never been truly loved and I don't think I've ever loved truly either." 'How is that? You write of love so profoundly, as if you have known Love in her most pure and raw form." I hold my tongue. How could I ever explain it, how could I tell you of the curse that has bound all Masters of the Arts. That we have been cursed with a deep longing so great it is that the barest touch of the fulfillment of this longing, we dig into it and make it a whole being of it's on form and breath. My longing of a curse has been to be fully touched, felt, understood and embraced at the very core of my being by another soul. Thus whenever a being offers me impressions of this kind of love I grow restless and rabbid. Like an addict deprived of their poison I crave and long, hence I go searching. In the deepest part of my heart I let the sliver of love build and let the dream pour into my lungs. From there on every cell in my form burns to life and I'm high. High from all that fire, a calling of some sort. It never lasts. I end up pouring out and bleeding onto my canvas. Just like any drug I end up spent and wasted. The masterpiece I call a poem; really it's another piece of my soul ,chipping away from all the falsehood. The muse I call love; just hot scalding desire and lust. I find myself in limbo. Wanting something, repeatedly chasing a high with the wrong person. There is never a way back. A realization I came to on my own. So we sit there in silence, with me unable to tell you, that I'm the biggest fraud you shall ever come to know. I hold your gaze and hope you don't see the fear and void that constantly swirls within the depths of my soul. For beloved, I don't think I'll ever be loved or by the heavens, come to love.. #poetinstagram #poets #poetry #writersofinstagram #writers #writeracademia #romanticacademia #classicacademia #queeracademia #sapphic #literatureacademia #darkacademia #literature https://www.instagram.com/p/CdEi_F_MPFp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#poetinstagram #poets #poetry #writersofinstagram #writers #writeracademia #romanticacademia #classicacademia #queeracademia #sapphic #literatureacademia #darkacademia #literature

[salamanderinspace]

Hey, I hope this isn't too many! From the questions for writers post. I am curious about 10, 34, and 49

How do you decide what to write?

Man … I don't. It just happens, or it doesn't.

That's not totally true. I go through spells of feeling very in-control of my imagination. And it's like. "Ok, I need to imagine a place that makes me feel calm." Or, "I need to imagine a person that makes me feel delight." So some of the ideas come from that.

However I also have long stretches of not thinking in words, where the only words in my head are this mismash of echolalia. Sometimes a story comes from a single sentence I heard someone say. Or sometimes I'll see the shape of one story laid over another. I'll start with a novel I like the structure of, where it seems like the characters from whatever canon need to undergo similar arcs. And I'll take the novel and literally go through it sentence by sentence and shift the paradigm. Obviously at some point I'll have to improvise certain parts - add a character, tweak the ending, etc. But I use an existing novel as a template on both a micro and macro scale.

A lot of my day to day thought processes are not imagining my blorbos in scenarios, oh no. I'm always preparing for arguments. I'm not a great extemporaneous speaker, so I have to organize all my thoughts before a confrontation, and life is full of confrontations. It's always me, in my head, talking to someone. Explaining my needs to my doctor. Retelling the story of my life to my mother, who has memory issues. Fanfiction takes up little of my thought-space.

What aspects of your writing are inspired by/taken from your real life?

Normal amount. Could probably give an example if you give me a specific fic to look at.

What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

Mmm, I'm actually tapping away at a Stardew Valley thing. Kind of just exploring Penny's mental state. Her many agonies. Harvey, Joja, Pam. She was my first love in the game, the one I married on my first playthrough. I wanted to save her. Loving someone because you want to protect them is kind of dark, right? And it wasn't as gratifying as loving the romantic poet Eliot, or hellcat Abigail, or consummate queer Emily, but. It felt authentic in a way those other relationships did not.

#writing #ask #stardew valley

[khaleesiofalicante]

TID WEEK - CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

“No, no, no,” Alec threw his notepad away. “Just no.”

“Alexander?” Magnus walked out of Rafe’s room. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright,” Alec replied, not wanting to bother Magnus. “Is Rafe asleep?”

“Only after three songs,” Magnus smiled. “What is it, darling? I know something is bothering you.”

“I thought I had a good poker face,” Alec frowned. 

“You do,” Magnus concurred. “But your notepad is on the floor and you are surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper. That is usually not a good sign.”

“I’m fine, my love,” Alec reassured but then sighed when Magnus didn’t back down. “I just…I just don’t know what to do about this treasury issue. I’ve been thinking of a long-term strategy and I…I can’t seem to figure anything out.”

“Oh, Alexander,” Magnus sat down next to him. “You’ll figure it out.”

“When?” Alec scoffed. “I wish…I wish dad was here.”

Magnus held his face and laid a soft kiss on the forehead. “I know I’m no inquisitor, but maybe I can help you?”

“You always do, Magnus,” Alec smiled. “But this…this is so tied up with our history and bureaucracy…I need to talk to a shadowhunter. I need someone with clave experience. I know I can do it; I just need some guidance.”

“You could ask Jia?”

“No, no,” Alec said quickly. “Jia trusted me with this responsibility. I can’t ask her. I need to do this on my own. I can’t…I can’t be the consul who can’t do anything alone.”

“Alec-”

“It’s fine,” Alec put on his best smile. “You go to sleep. I’ll join you in a bit.”

It was already late. They both knew Alec wouldn’t come to bed without figuring this out.

“How about if you could meet another consul?” Magnus asked. “Someone before Jia?”

“None of them are alive, Magnus,” Alec pointed out.

“They don’t have to be,” Magnus replied. “I’ve been learning more dream magic now that Ragnor is back and I gotta say it is quite useful. Actually...I can help you meet one of the best consuls I know.”

“You don’t mean...” Alec gasped. “Charlotte Fairchild???”

“The one and only,” Magnus grinned.

“You can do that?” Alec gaped.

“Darling, there is very little I can’t do,” Magnus winked.

“You mean like doing laundry?” Alec chuckled.

“I just don’t see the point in washing old clothes when you could simply buy new ones!” Magnus explained in exasperation. “Do you want to meet Charlotte or not?”

“Yes please,” Alec grinned. 

Magnus led Alec to the bedroom and asked him to lie down.

“Wait, hold on!” Alec jumped up and ran towards the closet. “I can’t meet Charlotte Fairchild in pajamas.”

“And you think that sweater is an upgrade is from the pajamas?” Magnus laughed to himself.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Alec lied down again once he put on some decent clothes.

“Sweet dreams,” Magnus giggled as he laid a quick kiss on Alec’s lips and Alec rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t help but chuckle either.

“Also, this laundry conversation is not ov-”

Familiar blue magic surrounded him and Alec felt his body automatically relax. It wasn’t just the spell, but the magic itself. Magnus’ magic knew him well. It was such an intimate feeling – something only Alec was privileged enough to experience.

The next thing he knew he was standing in the middle of a manor. It was old – but not in terms of the structure. It was sturdy and strong, but the décor implied that Alec had successfully found his way to his destination.

Alec had been to many manors in Idris after the Dark War. But this one…this one seemed unfamiliar. The only thing he recognized was the familiar sigil of the angel wings on the door.

“It burned down,” a voice said, and Alec turned around. “Valentine burned it to the ground - which is why you don’t seem to recognize it.”

And there she was.

She was sitting behind a desk, reading some letters. Alec didn’t know if there was a desk there before, but he didn’t care. He was standing in front of Charlotte Fairchild, his idol.

He was not going to make a fool himself today. Not today!

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Alec said in disbelief. “I’m Al-”

“Alec Lightwood,” she smiled. “The Consul in exile. I must say, it’s an honor to meet you too.”

“Staph!” Alec giggled.

Get yourself together, Alec!

“Truly,” she insisted. “I’m so impressed by everything you have achieved in such a short time.”

“But how do you know?” Alec wondered. “Who I am and what I-”

“Magic,” she simply shrugged. “Your husband is an extremely capable man.  I don’t know how but I seem to know who you are and what you do. I even know what Netflix is! How fascinating!”

“Um, good for you,” Alec said. “Do you…Do you know why I’m here?”

“The treasury,” Charlotte nodded. “You are worried about nephilim finances.”

“Without Idris, we don’t have access to the Citadel and w-” Alec didn’t want to rant. “I just don’t know what to do. We’ve been relying on religious institutions, but I don’t think that’s going to cut in the long run.”

“I see,” she looked into her teacup gravely. “How can I help you, Alec Lightwood.”

“I don’t know,” Alec bit his lip. “I don’t know if you can help me at all. I just…I just know I need to fix this. I need to fix it for my people. They are relying on me to lead them and I can’t let them down. But I don’t know how. I’ve been trying and I can’t seem to figure it out. And I’m running out of time. I can’t let the Nephilim economy collapse. I need to fix it. I need to find a way.”

Charlotte was quietly sipping her tea. Alec couldn’t help but be embarrassed a little. Here he was meeting his idol and lamenting about his problems. What would she think of him?

“You remind me of my son,” she said then.

“Oh,” Alec responded in surprise. “I’m not a blonde though. Now my parabatai Jace is just like Mat-”

“I was talking about Charles,” she corrected him.

“Oh,” Alec blinked. “Oh. Ew!”

Realization struck him and he covered his mouth in embarrassment.

“Shit! Shit, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. God, this is so-”

“No offense taken,” she put her teacup down. “I know Charles wasn’t, how do you say…oh, yes, he wasn’t a fan favourite.”

“I’m sure he had many redeeming qualities,” Alec offered, trying to salvage his fuck up.

“He did,” she smiled, and Alec couldn’t help but notice that it was a little sad. “But he also had many unredeemable ones.”

Alec didn’t know what to say about that. As a father, it was almost impossible to find fault with his kids. He was sure that Max and Rafe both would have vices of their own, but he didn’t know how to look at them as anything less than perfection.

“One thing Charles never understood was that leadership isn’t just about leading. It’s also about relying. It’s about leaning on the shoulders on those you trust.”

“But as the Consul it’s my job to fix it,” Alec pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t ask for help,” Charlotte countered. “It doesn’t make you weak or incompetent. It makes you stronger.”

Alec pouted. He felt like a child.

“I know it makes you feel vulnerable,” she stood up and walked towards him. “I was the first female consul. You don’t think I hesitated every time I needed help? It was torture. I knew I was better with the support of those I loved and trusted. But asking for help meant that I couldn’t do something on my own. It made my question my own competency. Then I couldn’t help but wonder if other would start questioning it.”

“I know,” Alec agreed. It was exactly how he felt every time he needed help too. He was scared to ask for it, wondering if others would think he wasn’t up for the task. It was torture indeed. 

“I think Charles would have turned out to be a better man if he had people he could trust and rely on. But he didn’t. But you know who did?”

“Matthew,” Alec replied.

“Yes. But as Matthew might tell you, there is no point in having friends if you can’t count on their support when you need it,” Charlotte said gently.

Alec knew she was right. But right things often were the hardest to do.

“You are the leader of Nephilim. It’s not an easy job. Not at all. So, stop trying to do it yourself. We Nephilim are nothing without our brothers and sisters. Trust those around you. Trust yourself.”

“I…It seems impossible at this point but I’ll try,” Alec promised.

“That’s the best any one of us can do,” she smiled. “Yours is the story that redefines what is impossible. I have faith in you, Alec Lightwood.”

“You do?” Alec asked in disbelief.

“You got Magnus Bane to settle down,” she chuckled. “There is little you can’t do.”

“Thanks,” Alec chuckled back.

They had a cup of tea then. They talked about politics. They talked about their families. They talk about the downworld. They even talked about Netflix.

It was one of the best days – or rather dreams – of Alec’s life.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Alec asked when he was about to leave.

“What’s hard?” Charlotte inquired.

“Being the first.”

He was the first gay Consul. She had been the first female Consul. He knew she could relate.

“It is hard,” she agreed. “But we make it a little bit easier for everyone who comes after us. That makes all of this worth it, don’t you think?”

Alec smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. Thank you, Charlotte. Now how do I, um…”

“Close your eyes and think of home,” she smiled. “And don’t ask me how I know!”

“Okay, okay,” Alec chuckled and glanced at her one last time.

She was small. Even tiny. Alec was surprised by the amount of strength and kindness she carried inside that small body. She continued to amaze him in every possible way.

Her hair wasn’t red and her eyes weren’t green, but Alec knew that she was a Fairchild just as much as Clary. They were two of the strongest women he knew.

“Remember what I said,” she called. “Trust those around you. If you want to lead, you must learn to rely.”

“I will,” Alec promised her again.

“Who knows, it might even help you with your treasure problem,” she winked.

“What do you mean?” Alec raised an eyebrow.

“Our shadowhunters are more talented than we give them credit for,” she pointed out. “We have inventors, writers, poets, painters, musicians and so much more. Give them the opportunity to discover themselves. Let them earn their own income. Maybe they will contribute to the Clave.”

“Nephilim doing mundane jobs?” Alec gaped. “But that has never been done before!”

“Alexander Lightwood-Bane,” she chuckled fondly. “You are a gay man married to a bisexual warlock, raising two child one of whom is also a downworlder. You are a consul who is not allowed to set foot in Idris and currently are working from New York. Nothing you do has ever been done before!”

Alec laughed. “Okay, you are not wrong.”

“My Henry once told me that Nephilim aren’t meant for destruction,” she said gently. “We are meant to create. He told me that we are meant to create strength and preserve goodness. So, let them create. Let them preserve. ”

Alec thought of Clary and her art. Simon and his music. Jace and his plants. Izzy and her clothes. They all had something they were passionate about. They all had something they wanted to show the world. They all had something they had to sacrifice just because of their blood. They all restricted themselves of the good they can do just because the law said they couldn’t.

“You are the Consul, Alec,” Charlotte pointed out. “But the shadow world belongs to all of us. It is the responsibility of every single nephilim to fix it and to protect it – not just yours. So, let them help you. Maybe you could help each other.”

It could work. It could work if they figured out the logistics. Shadowhunters doing mundane jobs to pursue their passions. Shadowhunters helping to rebuild the treasury. It could work.

“Although I must warn you,” Charlotte hesitated suddenly. “People might oppose you and call this idea crazy.”

“That’s what makes it more fun, right?” Alec asked cheekily.

“There is the Lightwood devil I know,” she chuckled fondly, a thousand memories hiding in the winkles of her eyes. “I see why Magnus chose you.”

“Thank you,” Alec meant it with all his heart. “Thank you so much.”

“I only advised what I wish I could have done in my own time,” she said kindly. “I wish all the luck, Alec Lightwood. May the angel be with you always.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Consul,” Alec smiled.

“The pleasure was mine, Consul,” she smiled back.

It was surreal. All of it. The fact that he was Consul. The fact that he was talking to Charlotte. The fact that he might figure this out. All of it was surreal.

Alec never wanted it to be anything else. He loved his surreal life where every day was magic.

“Now it’s time to wake up,” she said, and Alec closed his eyes and thought of the smell of Sandalwood.

“So, what did she say?” Magnus inquired, lying on his side. “Did she help you figure it out?”

“She did,” Alec nodded. “She said that we should rely on things that are familiar. She said that we might tempted to try new things, because it’s easier to choose something new than to trust something old. Old things don’t automatically become clean and perfect. We need to work hard to-”

“Alexander,” Magnus slapped him on the arm. “Are you talking about laundry again????”

“You just need to press three buttons!!!” Alec reasoned. “Come on, Magnus!”

“You are the worst!” Magnus slapped him on the arm again and Alec started laughing and Magnus started to laugh with him.

His heart was overloaded with love, but he had never felt lighter. His head was swimming with possibilities for the new nephilim future and his heart felt at peace. Alec didn’t know that shadowhunters were capable of sleeping like this – without fear and without burden.

Yours it the story that redefines what is impossible, Charlotte had said. So, Alec closed his eyes and looked forward to the impossible future he planned to redefine.  

#I am love two (2) consuls #charlotte fairchild #alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec #tid week #tsc snippets #kinda hard to write charlotte pov so this must make do djskskskkssk

[stay-mon-army]

The Soccer Incident

Warnings: A couple swears

Word Count: 2,534 words

Pairing: Junhoe x female!reader

Koo Junhoe was a contradiction. He was an anomaly in the usual order of things, and everyone seemed to love him for it. He was one of the most popular people in his university because he didn’t quite fit into any one category. He was a physical education major, he was the star player on the lacrosse team, the most sought after male player in the intramural soccer club on campus, he was arguably the most attractive jock in the whole school, and he was the reason there was a Jiu Jitsu club on campus. You would think hearing all of these accomplishments that he was a total meat head jock- there’s no way any man this invested in physical activity could ever be interested in more stationary, softer intellects.

However, Junhoe was also a creative writing minor. He was a part of a small writers group that he had compiled of poetry writers (like him) and fiction writers (a passion he deeply admires but didn’t have the same calling for). He had a few poems published in the school’s English journal, and was never caught without his leather bound notebook for his poetry.

Junhoe was one of the most versatile students in his university- but this never seemed to cross Junhoe’s mind. He didn’t see any reason why people would expect anything else from him. Why were people always surprised when they learned that the star lacrosse player was also a poet? Why were his friends in Jiu Jitsu club always laughing when they saw him scribbling away in his journal before meeting started instead of stretching like the rest of them?

Not everyone judged Junhoe so harshly, and there’s no way he could miss the way girls watched him when he walked around campus. Like he could ever be oblivious when the girls in his writing group created love interests that could almost be his doppelganger. Junhoe’s gay-dar was also almost flawless- it wasn’t just the girls that gave him heart eyes in passing.

However, there was one girl that totally ignored Junhoe— (Y/N) was the conundrum that Junhoe couldn’t figure out. He knew she liked boys- he’d seen her at parties with boyfriends, but she didn’t seem to notice him at all. He’d only tried to talk to her once, and she’d been kind, but she’d been late to class and had to rush off. Of course, it was just Junhoe’s luck that the only girl that Junhoe had eyes for was also the one who looked right through him.

He didn’t know much about her— it wasn’t like he was some stalker. He did know, however, that she was also a creative writing minor and was a junior- just like Junhoe. They had previously been in two classes together, which was how she had managed to catch his eye. She would come to class either dressed to the nines- perfectly designed outfits that matched all the way to the jewelry- or looking like she’d just rolled out of bed- her hair in a messy bun, a pair of sweats baggy and hanging from her waist haphazardly. To him, she always looked beautiful.

The thing that really won his heart, though, wasn’t her look or their similarities; it was the way that she always gave him blunt, brutally honest feedback on his pieces. Most of their others in his creative writing classes either don’t know enough to give good feedback, or were so infatuated with him that they gave nothing but blind praise for everything he wrote. (Y/N) was the only person except the Professor who could give advice that Junhoe could use— ideas that sparked Junhoe’s mind to make even better, deeper poems that expressed exactly what he meant.

Her straightforward nature had won him over, but was also the thing that stopped him from shooting his shot. Nothing scared him quite like the idea of being rejected by her— he could imagine it now and it gave him chills. His mind paints the picture without his consent; asking her out the next time they pass, her blank face staring before it morphs into one of pity, her soft voice explaining she’s not interested, her turning away— scurrying off before he can make it more awkward.

No, he’s perfectly fine admiring from afar. It hurt less; he’d rather her not know he exists than to be another weird boy hitting on a classmate he barely knows.

Fate seemed to have other plans for Junhoe, however. Or, more accurately, his best friend, who happens to run the intramural club. He had shown up slightly early for the club meeting that day and was surprised to see Donghyuk with (Y/N) and her best friend, (Y/BF/N), who was the best female player on the intramural team. He really was contemplating running in the opposite direction as quickly as he could, but he was a second too slow.

“Yo, Jun, come here!” Donghyuk waves him over, a wide grin on his face, knowing exactly what he was doing to the poor man.

With a deep breath and a lot of internal cursing of Donghyuk’s existence, he slowly jogged towards the trio.

“Dong, what’s up, man?” Junhoe had no idea what was coming out of his mouth, or why he suddenly sounded like some of the more asshole boys in his sports classes, but he was too focused on remembering to breathe and not trip to care much. Donghyuk’s eyebrows bounce at the greeting, obviously making the same judgement that Junhoe did, before nodding at him, playing it off.

“You know (Y/B/F/N),” Donghyuk gestures to the two women beside him. “This is her best friend, (Y/N). She’s going to take up Miyoung’s spot while her wrist heals.”

Junhoe nods at (Y/B/F/N), who smiles at him. He doesn’t know where he gains the confidence, but he looks directly at you and says, “Don’t we have a creative writing class together?” The automatic look of confusion makes Junhoe’s heart freeze, then instantly knock impossibly fast against his rib cage.

But then your eyes burst with realization, a huge grin splitting your face. “You mean Dr. Scott’s class? God, I’m barely alive for that class; how are you awake enough that early to know the other kids in that class?” You were laughing with him— though it took him a second to laugh along because wow you were having a conversation.

“I just really like the class— I zone out in most other classes.” It wasn’t a lie, he just didn’t point out you were his favorite part of the class. All his other writing classes over the semesters without you had been almost torture with all the fawning, ass-kissing girls.

“Yeah, Jun is actually a pretty shit student because he’d rather write poems and join every sports club on campus than do his damn homework.” Donghyuk nudges Junhoe, laughing as Junhoe balks at his words.

“Well his poems are good so it must pay off a little! I’ll be the judge today if the same can be said about his sport skills.” You chuckle, and try to ignore the look that (Y/B/F/N) is shooting you that Junhoe thankfully doesn’t catch.

Junhoe is too busy having to physically restrain himself from fawning over your praise. Luckily your friend jumped in just before he could combust with the effort.

“We should go get ready. Let’s go stretch under the shade over there, (Y/N)!” She loops her arm around your bicep, lightly tugging you away from the boys. You wave at them, looking simultaneously absolutely adorable and like you were afraid your friend would kill you when you reached the aforementioned shade.

When you finally turned to look at (Y/B/F/N), Donghyuk whacks Junhoe’s bicep hard, making him wince and rub the abused spot. “Make a move already, idiot. Are you blind, or just stupid? Did someone put you in a particularly tight chokehold recently?”

“Wh-what?” Well that told Donghyuk all he needed to know and he sighed as he rubbed his face.

“She likes you too, dipshit. Just ask her out already.” Junhoe stared at his best friend for a solid minute before he burst out laughing.

His eyes welled with tears as he gasped around peals of laughter, holding his ribs as his sides spasmed from the force of his laughter. He couldn’t believe Donghyuk had said that when he’d just done so much to try not to seem like a crazy person.

“You’re hopeless, I swear.” Donghyuk shakes his head, leaving Junhoe’s still cackling figure to go greet a couple other students in the club who had arrived.

Although Junhoe is able to physically calm himself down and begin to stretch for the game, his mind wouldn’t stop thinking of Donghyuk’s words, and he repeatedly had to stop himself from looking over his shoulder at you to see if you were looking at him too. Finally Donghyuk called everyone to the side of the field to split into teams.

Just Junhoe’s luck that he was on the opposite team as you. He had wanted to work with you to win— the idea of you two playing soccer together and beating the other team made his heart race in a way that confused him. It was just a little passing crush on you, why was he so invested in doing things with you?

Get yourself together, Junhoe, and get your ass out there.

He took a deep breath and huddled up with his team, splitting up positions and delegating who would play when, since there were so many members on both teams that they would change out players. Junhoe was to be the first member in the goal, which he wasn’t ecstatic about, but he accepted it with a grin. He could play any position just as well as the next person, so he knew he could keep the goal safe from the other team. He really would’ve preferred to be out on the field to show off his skills though—especially with you out there. You had pulled your hair from your face and you had shed the light jacket you had on previously to show off a band t-shirt, a group he absolutely adored to listen to while writing that he never would have expected you to like as well.

As he took his place in the goal at their end of the field, he watched you stand next to your friend, laughing at something she said, pushing her lightly. He couldn’t help but smile wide at how happy you looked—totally at ease despite the fact you were about to play soccer with a group that you barely knew.

Donghyuk shouted out a “start game” from his position on the sidelines (he was sitting out this first half, but he would later take Junhoe’s position, as he preferred to stay on the side, watching the action instead of running around). Junhoe’s team was a surprisingly good mixture of members; while not the best players, they seemed to work together beautifully today, and Junhoe’s job was mind-numbingly easy.

The ball almost never came to their side of the field, except for a handful of close calls that Junhoe quickly dispatched with calculated ease. His team was winning 3-0 with only about 10 minutes left for this half before they switched out the members. Hearing this minute warning seemed to light a newfound fire under your ass, however, and you suddenly seemed to learn exactly how to play soccer like a pro. Your goalkeeper had kicked the ball at you after saving it from another goal. Seemingly in a matter of seconds you were one with the soccer ball as you effortlessly handled it all the way across the field to his goal until you were only a few feet from him. You made eye contact and he could see the fire and drive in your eyes for a goal, and he made a conscious decision in that second to let you make the goal. He would let the ball through—what was one small goal anyway, and it was only an intramural game.

However, his plans changed quickly when you punted the ball—hard. Instead of going into the goal cleanly, like he was expecting, it went straight for his forehead, knocking his head back with a sharp thwack sound. He fell to the ground with a harsh groan, his hands coming up to rest on his face as the world spun and warped, pain spreading across his whole head. He lay on his back, cradling his head in his hands, as he grunted out swears that would make his mother smack him harder than the soccer ball had.

“Oh my god, are you alright? Jesus, I’m so so sorry.” Your voice was high and anxious, and racing closer to him. He moved his hands and opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh sunlight to see your face looking down at him. You were sweaty from all the running, and your hair was starting to fall back into your face, but he still couldn’t help smiling.

“God, you’re beautiful, (Y/N).” He didn’t know what that ball did to his head, but he didn’t really mind the sudden courage it gave him.

Your face dropped into shock before you burst out into glorious laughter, your face lighting up into the widest and most adorable smile Junhoe had ever seen.

“You’re crazy, Junhoe.” You brush a strand on his hair from his face before pressing a hand softly to his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch softly. “No, no, don’t close your eyes. We don’t know if you have a concussion yet.”

His eyes flutter open and look at you with soft eyes. He gathers the last bit of pain-drunk courage to blurt out, “Go on a date with me?”

You nod, looking down at his splayed figure. “It is the least I can do after almost taking your head off with a soccer ball.”

“Good kick, by the way.”

You both laugh at that as you stand, slowly taking his hands and helping him to his feet as well. He winces and places the heel of his hand between his eyebrows, where the most pain is currently radiating.

“Let’s get you an icepack.” You chuckle, putting his arm around your shoulder and walking him towards the nurse’s office. Donghyuk didn’t seem to even ask if Junhoe was alright, he was well aware that he would be fine with some rest and ice. Instead, he just jumped into his place with an accomplished grin on his face, starting the game right back up.

You didn’t need to help Junhoe all the way to the nurse, or stay with him for the 20 minutes he sat there with an icepack to his forehead, but the conversation you had was funny and sweet. And truth be told, you had noticed Junhoe many times in the past and had been drawn to him. You were more than happy for any excuse to interact with him outside of class. And thanks to this upcoming date, you would finally get the chance to get to know him that much better.

#koo junhoe imagine #ikon imagine #ikon #koo junhoe #ikon imagines #koo junhoe imagines #ikon ju ne #ikon june #ikon june imagine #ikon june imagines #ikon fluff

[definegodliness]

University of Curiosity

End of summer. Bright days. Kind weather. I went to a school, a vast university offering countless of seemingly random programs and courses, designed to let people tap into their full potential. First day. Bit nervous. We were with a group of say fifty people. There were three mentors, and after a short introduction they split us up into smaller groups so we could talk and get to know each other. My group was full of creative people. Writers, poets, painters, musicians, the lot. We got along fine, but not all too long after being grouped together, one of the three mentors, our specific mentor, came into our communal room. We went silent, but he told us to just continue whatever we were doing. Then, he glanced over us, observing the group as a whole, then, all as individuals. I had forgotten he was even in the room, and time must have flown cause all of the sudden it was late dusk, but sudden as a lightning strike he spoke.

"All right, that's enough."

He split us into pairs and directed each pair toward a pod-like room with little more than a door, and one kingsized bed. I was paired with a girl with emerald eyes and long wavy honey brown hair. She was about my height, with broad shoulders and a strong build. Not toned, but soft. Stocky yet feminine. Cream skin. We dropped our belongings in the little space left around the bed and sat on it. She immediately came onto me. Which made me uncomfortable. The lighting started flashing, as if due to electric failure, and through our open door I could see into the other pod-like rooms where the other pairs already were fucking. I remember thinking, 'well, that's what you get.' 

Meanwhile, honey brown hair girl was getting annoyed by my standoffishness, and the way I kept rejecting her. She had already dressed down to her underwear, dark purple lingerie, trying to get on top of me. She looked back at the open door, then at me, as if I were some of the worst kinds of puritan prudes, then jumped off the bed to close it. I took in her figure, her comely curved legs, round butt, and small breasts, wondering why I was making it so difficult. She glanced at me the same, as if saying: 'what the fuck, dude?'. I told her, apologetically, it had just been a while. Explaining the sitch. And she rolled her eyes fiercely, and pounced on me again. This time we kissed. And I decided it be best for me to, uncharacteristically, just give in.

I took over. A shift in dominance. Clutching her wrists as I splayed her on the bed, then letting my hands travel to her throat and chin. She wrapped her body around mine vice-tight. So tight I had to use all my strength to move. It was a kind of physical euphoria unknown to me. The lights started flickering again. Our door slammed open, but I didn't care. But then all of the sudden I had to stop. Startled, I looked at her cream skin. Around her wrists, around her chin and throat, where I had touched her so firmly, her skin had blackened as if smeared with ink, or coal.

We sat on the bed for a while, confused. She looking at her hands, me looking at her face. We felt no fear. It hadn't hurt her. It was just so weird. The black faded as if her skin absorbed it. All good again. She smiled at me.

We stood up. Facing each other. Both thinking the same thing. We interlaced fingers and pushed into each other as hard as we could. Her hands and arms gradually turned black again, smoking and sizzling. Mine turned bright white, emitting flashing light. And shadows and ball lightning shot from us, through the open door and across the communal room.

"Do you see that? Do you see that?!", I heard the voice of our mentor ecstatically exclaim. They must've been looking for this to happen. And he stood in the center of the communal room, looking at us through the open door. We were just standing then. She with the blackened arms, mine still bright white.

"Can you do that again?"

And I flung my arms forward, shooting great beams, pillars of light. As if in a dance. Honey brown haired girl watched me, her jaw dropped as the light traveled onward. I wanted her to join in dance with me. Clash the black and white and see what happens. But all of the sudden a grey haired man in a suit came barging into the room.

"All right, that's enough."

The lighting stopped flickering. And our hands and arms returned to normal instantly. I tried evoking the light again, but couldn't.

I woke up.

And instantly fell back to sleep.

I found myself wandering the university's offices, looking for our group's mentor to explain what just happened. But as I walked through the corridors, I came past a room where the grey haired man in the suit was speaking to other suits, saying it was time to fire the three mentors and end the program I was in. The program designed to let people tap into their full potential. I picked up the pace and frantically searched for that mentor to tell him and maybe find a way to prevent all this from happening.

Long story short, because the second dream is hazy: I didn't find the mentor, but ganged up with honey brown hair girl again. She had become my friend and study partner. Together we ended up at some kind of space observatory on a hill, after a little adventure full of sneaking past suits and professors, where we were able to get our hands on all documentation about the program. Our intention was to give all that stuff to our mentors, so they could continue the program independently. But I woke up at the moment we were sure we had everything.

And instantly fell back to sleep.

The new campus was on green fields amid a forest area. The last dream was a bit more social drama. Honey brown hair girl had a friend, who for no reason hated me, and hence annoyed the fuck out of me. I spent that dream trying to get my study partner continuing our adventure, but her friend kept dragging her away for trivial you're-not-giving-me-enough-attention matters.

Seeing the laissez-faire approach of the program, we both we're entirely confused what to do next. All we knew was that we had homework for the next day, but there wasn't a hint as to what that homework could be.

Now the drama part of the dream isn't very interesting. At one point I had enough of the friend, when honey brown hair girl was on the opposite side of a revolving door, and she kept blocking my way. I started pulling faces at her, first mocking her behind her back (very mature, I know, but I was fed up and had no intention to get physical). Then, when she noticed and turned around angry, I just kept doing it until ending with, ‘there, those are the ugliest faces I can pull’. She spat at me. And I was like, "seriously, during covid times?" She also stole my bike, but the other people, offended by her spitting, swiftly returned it to me. I didn’t see the friend after that. Finally I could go on, and through the revolving doors, to my study partner.

The triple dream ended when we discussed the homework. We agreed you had to figure out what to do for yourself, and all we had to fall back upon were our experiences during school time. That, and our own toolbox of skills. I told her I would write an essay about all that happened over the last period. And jokingly added it would be hard because so much had happened. Then, her eyes turned to the floor for a while, till she looked at me and answered:

"You think that's hard, but I have to write a poem about loving someone who loves someone else."

Sad eyes met mine. I fell silent. 

I woke up for the last time before I could answer.

#dream #triple dream #dream diary

[kulaykape]

Ina Kingsley x MC: Love Poems

Who do you see when you write about love?

I'M BACK, AND WITH A SUB-PAR FIC IN HAND. ENJOY, OR DIE. >:D

Tags: @sakaily @samanthadalton @citybornchick @domakir @kaitlynliaofanxx @justtryingtofillthevoidxx @thedaft1 @jenxespinoza @astrangeandunusualgirl @nydeiri @thepotatobleh @hellyeah90sbaby @ikingsley @loyalshrimp

•••

“This is so corny.”

Ina laughed as she snatched the book back from Aliyah. “I thought you of all people would appreciate some good literature,” she said as she turned her back to Aliyah, flipping through the worn and dog-eared pages.

There was an edge to her tone though, almost as if she really was disappointed. And so Aliyah quickly added, “I love poetry, just not that kind,” she jutted her chin at the book Ina was still holding.

Ina plopped back down in the cushioned chair. They’d decided to take a trip to the school library and gather some resources. Ina had found herself passing through the poetry section, and snagged one of the books for her own leisure before meeting back with Aliyah in the study room. “And what’s wrong with this poetry?” She asked, shaking the book a little at Aliyah.

“It’s too pretentious,” Aliyah said, grimacing like she could taste the shitty metaphors and allegories in her mouth. “Some things aren’t meant to be metaphorized, you know. Like gas pipelines,” she said.

Ina pouted. “I rather thought that line was clever,” she flipped the book back open to that page and read it over again.

“You can’t romanticize pipes, Ina.”

A conceding laugh left the professor. “Okay, okay! I get it, I’m tasteless and stuffy and perpetuate every stereotype of a college professor,” she drawled.

“Well, I don’t know if being shamelessly sexy and golden-hearted is part of the college professor stereotype,” Aliyah retorted, feigning turning her attention to the books on the table in front of her.

Ina smirked as she toyed with the leg of her glasses. Aliyah looked up at her again, and felt all the breath leave her when she saw Ina biting on the leg of her glasses. She narrowed her eyes.

“Stop it.” Damn the sexy professor, trying to prove a damn point.

Ina let out a laugh as she set her glasses aside, then rose from her chair to stand behind Aliyah. Aliyah sighed as Ina put her hands on her shoulders and began to knead them gently, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

“So what kind of poetry do you actually like?” Ina asked while Aliyah scribbled down citations from the books Ina had used for later.

“Nothing to your standard, Shakespeare,” Aliyah quipped.

“I’m not that pretentious! I don’t care where the poetry comes from, as long as it’s quality work,” Ina defended herself. Aliyah’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Ina pinched her neck.

“Ow!” Aliyah batted her hands away, “Okay fine, hold on.” She threw her pen down on the table in an all too dramatic fashion, then bent down to reach into her book bag. Ina cocked a brow as Aliyah produced a blue leather notebook and put it in her hands.

Ina looked at Aliyah questioningly. “Did you write these?”

Aliyah shrugged. “Some of them. But you don’t know my writing style, so you’ll never figure out which ones,” she said. Ina rolled her eyes as she opened up the notebook.

It was beat up. To the point where Ina almost felt sorry for the old thing, if she didn’t know that that was the mark of dedicated attention behalf of the writer. She sat down in the chair next to Aliyah, their knees touching as she read the first poem over.

Aliyah was glad Ina seemed so entranced with the words, so she didn’t see the look of slight- okay, extreme- fear on her face as she watched Ina read. To say that some of the work in that notebook was her own would be an understatement- it was more than most. In fact, only a few probably weren’t hers, those that hit her extra hard and she always wanted to have close at hand.

And she knew for certain that the first poem was her own.

Ina flipped past it unceremoniously, in fact skipping over the next few pages as If to increase randomization. A small smile alit her features all the way through though, warm and flickering like a candle as she read over the next several pages.

“These are beautiful,” she said offhandedly to Aliyah.

Rainbow-colored fireworks went off in Aliyah’s head.

A certain passage seemed to make Ina pause, and she shifted in her chair to move a little closer to Aliyah. “I like this one especially,” she said, and in her silken voice read it aloud:

“The very first time I saw you, your lips said hello.

And mine said the same.

But in that same moment, my eyes said I love you.”

The two looked at each other, and shared a quiet smile. “Is this one yours?” Ina asked, her hand now resting on Aliyah’s leg.

But Aliyah shook her head truthfully as she entwined her fingers with those on her thigh. “No. Some girl in high school wrote it to me,” she replied. Ina furrowed her brow and frowned a little, and Aliyah burst out laughing. “Really? You’re gonna be jealous of some sophomore poet who probably experienced an ‘intense crush’ at best on me?”

“I’m not jealous,” Ina said, pouting in a manner that said that she definitely was.

Aliyah chuckled as she rubbed Ina’s back comfortingly. “I thought the whole love at first sight premise was stupid, but I still thought it was sweet so I kept it,” Aliyah explained as she looked over the words, copied over in her chicken scratch cursive. Ina looked up to meet her eyes, deep and constantly in thought.

“But?” She asked knowingly. Aliyah bit her lip.

“…I don’t think it’s stupid anymore, though,” she said quietly. Ina’s gaze was intense and all-consuming, and Aliyah could feel her heart strings pulling just from being able to swim in the depths of Ina’s eyes. That look, that gaze, was only ever for her, and it was almost too overpowering to know it.

Quickly, Aliyah cleared her throat and took the book from Ina’s hands. “Here, let me show you one of my favorites,” she said, trying to keep the smugness out of her voice.

She’d written this one just a few weeks ago, at two in the morning when the words had hit her. She handed the book back to Ina when she got to the page. Ina took it curiously. She had to blink a few times since she didn’t have her glasses on, before focusing on the words. She muttered them quietly under her breath, but even her mutters hypnotized Aliyah…

“For her it was fun, for me it was love.

But you… for you it is love.

And for me it is submission.

For her, I said I’d live. But for you, I’d sooner die.

For her, I went on my knees.

But you, you lift me to my feet.

In everything, she demanded love.

While you… you asked how you could have mine.

Through the cold, she made me strong.

And through your warmth, I’m weak once again.

…So yes, you do have me. Even on the days you doubt it.

In the loving quiets of our mornings, and the rage of our disputes,

I thank her for breaking my heart.

If only to have you fix it.”

Ina gulped slightly as her eyes ran across the page over and over again. Aliyah’s hand curled a little nervously on her back, and only more so when Ina turned to look at her. Her mouth was slightly ajar, as if she were looking at something ethereal rather than her quippy and smiley girlfriend.

“You know there’s no way I’m going to believe you didn’t write this, right?” She said in a breath. Aliyah let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she looked away.

“Good, ‘cause I was about to say I did,” Aliyah replied, smiling warmly at Ina. “Every poem, every song, every lyric… it’s always been for you. Sometimes I’d write love poems when I was younger and single as hell, and I knew they were for someone, but I just didn’t know who yet,” she continued, eyes filled with stars as she looked at Ina, “You were with me before I even knew who you were.”

Something beyond even the adoration Aliyah had described in her words alit in Ina’s eye (now there was a look Aliyah wished she could capture in writing). She squeezed Aliyah’s notebook with a shaky sigh, and closed it resolutely.

Aliyah frowned as Ina put it on the table. But any words were cut off as Ina slid into her lap and pulled her in for a deep kiss.

Aliyah groaned slightly, putting her hands on Ina’s hips as she pulled her as close to her body as possible. Ina tangled a hand in Aliyah’s hair as she parted her lips with her tongue, delving into her with desperation and all the love that she didn’t have the patience to express in words. She only pulled away when Aliyah’s hands started pawing at her blouse.

She rested her hands on the younger woman’s chest, while she stared up at Ina with dazed eyes. “I… should write more love poetry if that’s the kind of reaction it gets,” she managed to say in between heavy breaths.

Ina chuckled lightly as she stroked her fingers across Aliyah’s clavicle.

“…Did you mean it?” She asked.

“Hm...?”

“Everything you wrote in that poem,” Ina furthered her question, “Did you?”

Aliyah’s eyes quickly refocused, and she shifted Ina in her lap so that she was looking her dead in the eye. “You have me,” she said firmly, “Even on the days you doubt it.” She jabbed at the center of Ina’s chest with her finger. “And don’t you ever forget it,” she added.

Ina took Aliyah’s hand between hers, stroking her fingers gently with hers. Then she raised it to her lips, and gave her a kiss that could only be described as grateful. And she met her eyes one more time…

“I don’t think I ever will.”

~end~

#ina kingsley #professor kingsley #queen b #ina x mc #aliyah diaz

[alittlelife]

The Average Fourth Grader Is a Better Poet Than You (and Me Too) by Hannah Gamble. Published March 5th, 2013

While in graduate school at the University of Houston, I supplemented my income by working as a writer in residence for Writers in the Schools (WITS). I was with WITS for three years, during which I visited third, fourth, and fifth grade classrooms, and worked with groups of students visiting the Menil museum of art, the Houston Historical Society, and the Houston Arboretum.

When first hired by WITS, I expected that working to explain some of my favorite poems to fourth graders would result in me becoming a better teacher of poetry. What I wasn't expecting was that (thanks to having my brain blown apart on a weekly basis as I browsed my students' folders of barely legible poems) I would become a better poet.

Here are some lines written by students in grades 3rd-6th:

"The life of my heart is crimson.”

[Writing about a family member's recent death:]

"My brother went down/ to the river and put dirt on.” "Peace be a song, silver pool of sadness” "Away went a dull winter wind that rocked harshly, and bent you said, 'Father, father'.”

[Writing about a terminal illness:]

"I am feeling burdened and I taste milk…… I mumble, ‘Please, please run away.’ But it lives where I live.” "The owls of midnight hoot like me shutting the door to nothing.”

[Writing about life as a movie:]

"The choir enters, and the director screams 'Sing with more terror!!!'”

"I have provisions. Binary muffins. It's an in/out/in/out kind of universe. We cannot help you, this is a universe factory. A sound of rolling symbols. Disappearing rocks, screams of lizards. Sanity must prevail. Save vs. Do Not."

"I, the star god, take bones from the underworlds of past times to create mankind.”

These young writers are addressing subjects that still obsess poets fifty years older: sadness, death, love, responsibility, aging, family, loneliness, and refuge…and they are addressing these subjects in language that is new, and thus has the power to emotionally effect a well-seasoned (/jaded) reader. The average fourth grader is able to do this because she hasn't been alive long enough to know how to do it (and by “it” I mean talk about the world) any other way.

Story time: When I was a child I believed that one day I might be allowed to cross into an alternate dimension by walking through a quilt hanging on my living room wall. As I got older I stopped believing that this was a possibility—not because I grew to believe that the universe was not an extremely strange place where incomprehensible things could happen on a daily basis, but because I passed year after year after year not being able to enter the spirit realm through a wallhanging.

Anecdote that I hope you'll find relevant: When Jean Piaget began studying the intellectual processes of children, he was not doing so because he had any special interest in children. Piaget was interested, rather, in the intellectual processes of (adult) humans and was seeking a control group. [His first thought was that the best control group would be comprised of martians but, as he did not have access to martians, he decided to use children since children possessed what is farthest from human consciousness.]

So let's look at what happens to our young writers as they age [I took these lines from poems written by middle-school/ high school students (Italics, mine)]:

Snacking on this and that my friends and I keep the party going even when it is over”

"Whispers of a secret crush being unraveled”

"I’m trapped in this hole that I can’t break through”

"Barack Obama in the White House. I can feel the inspiration Can you feel it?”

"Now I feel secure with my head held high.

Sad times. By middle school/high school, the average student has learned how normal people talk. The resulting language is underwhelming and predictable—the safe regurgitations of a thoroughly socialized consciousness.

While the average older student's poems are heavy with allegiance to a limited view of reality, the average younger writer's vision of the world is nimble and surprising—bizarre, yet true.

Last year I spent every Saturday tutoring an extremely undersocialized kid in vocab. When I taught her the word blandishments (“to flatter, coax, sweet-talk, appeal to”) she wrote this sentence: “The blandishments of the sugar flowers made the cake so much more inviting.”

The sentence is interesting because the student understood that a blandishment is something that attracts favorable attention without fully realizing that people almost always use the word to refer to a human action.

The poet’s job is to forget how people do it.

#**

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Conversations On Love by Natasha Lunn

This has been a highly anticipated read for a lot of my fellow bloggers and I was delighted to be accepted for it. With such a general title, I didn’t really know what to expect but I knew it would make me think and perhaps even teach me something about the broad spectrum of what love is.

Part memoir, part series of interviews, Conversations On Love is Natasha Lunn’s deep dive into love in all its beautiful, messy forms. Input comes from Candice Carty-Williams, Greg Wise, Philippa Perry, Lisa Taddeo, Dolly Alderton, Roxane Gay, Juno Dawson, Alain de Botton, Diana Evans and more. 

The book’s introduction explores Natasha Lunn’s own obsession with constantly longing for something more from her life. It really sets the tone for the whole book as it’s suggested that this longing for what we don’t have is perhaps responsible for all of our dissatisfaction. It is the cause of why we sometimes abandon what we have in search of something else or why we are simply never completely happy.

It also explores where our insatiable desire for romantic love comes from. The innate fear and prejudice that comes with being single is something that many people, particularly women, are desperate to avoid. Of course, this can often lead to unhealthy relationships and intense unhappiness all in the name of not being alone or ‘without love’. The following interviews all talk about the many other forms of love and endeavour to show both Natasha and the reader that not having a romantic relationship does not make you either alone or loveless.

Several sections of the book, particularly Candice Carty-Williams’ interview on the wonders of female friendship and Dolly Alderton’s comments on how friendships change over time, made me really consider why platonic love is considered less significant than romance. If you’re lucky enough to have a set of friends who have seen you through some life-changing or formative years, there is no doubt that this is an incredibly special form of love. The book does a lot to demonstrate how all other types of love can lead to a deeper happiness than the wrong romance ever could.

There are some poignant passages and really beautiful words of wisdom all over the book. These are lessons that we all need to learn and draw from when our relationships and lives get hard. Anyone thinking of ending a relationship should certainly read these parts and think about what how it applies to their own situation. I have no doubt it will give those readers the strength and confidence to make the right decision.

The conversation with Emily Nagoski, a writer and expert on sex and sexuality, made this striking but highly accurate comparison between wanting spontaneity in a sexual relationship to the demands of capitalism. It’s true that capitalism runs on selling satisfaction, which of course requires people to be permanently dissatisfied. Is it possible that this society-produced habit runs over into all aspects of our lives? It’s a fascinating connection and to me, it makes perfect sense!

Author Diana Evans talks about the love she has for her children and how that changes as they grow up. She also talks about how our relationship with her husband inevitably changed when the children arrived. Of course, it’s no secret that the introduction of children into a relationship makes for monumental change but Diana explains that it’s a beautiful one. Seeing your partner as a parent throws a new, gorgeous glow on them and although, your shared life is different, you can fall even deeper in love.

Poorna Bell’s interview focuses on the importance of her relationship with her sister. Poorna’s sister has been her confidante through the most horrific life events and her interview really caused me to think about the power of sibling love. The above quote really resonated with me and of course, I couldn’t help but think of my own relationship with my brother. We have always had a unique bond and I know that there may come a time where he is the only one left who has known my entire life.

There are also many sections that mention how important it is to know who you really are and what you really want before entering into a significant romantic relationship. Losing your sense of self is common when entering a new relationship because you’re trying to be a certain version of what you think your new partner wants. True self-awareness is something that I only achieved through months of therapy but I know it has made me much clearer on what I want from my relationships. The truth is that a shiny, new relationship will never be the answer to deep-rooted self-esteem problems and it takes a lot of people years to realise this, if they ever do.

I loved the philosophical parts of the book too. Some of the people that Natasha interviews go off on little tangents where they talk about how strange and complex humans are. The above thought from poet Lemn Sissay is one that I’ve had myself many times. The fact that everyone in the world has their own thoughts, dreams, fears and problems that we will likely never know about it and yet we’re all united in so many of these very same things is fascinating. 

The final part of the book talks a lot about the concept of loss and what grief really is. When you love someone, the idea of losing them is always terrifying but it’s something that we will all have to endure multiple times throughout our lives. The conversations with actor Greg Wise, who cared for his sister Clare in her final months of a battle with cancer and with Lucy Kalanithi, the widow of When Breath Becomes Air author Paul, are heartbreaking but they’re also full of hope. In these interviews, I could see that their loved ones were very much still with them in everything that they did and that’s an extremely comforting, beautiful idea.

Conversations On Love is about the importance of making and maintaining connections of all kinds. We will never get all of our needs met by one person and we need to be willing to meet some of those needs ourselves. Friends, family, colleagues, work, passions and faith are all valid sources of love that will evolve over time and because of this, we need to be willing to work at our relationships. Natasha Lunn is a fantastic interviewer and this is a wonderful collection of deeply personal stories, sage advice and stunning writing that will make you think and take your breath away on the same page.

#conversations on love #natasha lunn #non-fiction #love #book review #review #books #bookworm