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thenightling · 4 years

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This hilariously badly written Sandman article:

Not only does this feel like something written by a non-English speaker but it actually feels like it was generated by a bot and not a person at all. The old AOL “AI” instant messaging Smarter Child Bot felt more like a real person than this author.

https://autofreak.com/the-sandman-season-1-renewal-status-release-date-cast-plot-and-trailer/47422/

Let me provide some shining examples of the quality of this writing.

The very first line: “ The Sandman is a classical comedy series made by Neil Gaiman that will arrive as a series.“

Classical comedy series!? Oh, yes, issue 6 (24 Hour Diner) is totally in the style of Monty Python! Oh, Boy, are they misinformed. Granted sometimes “comic book” gets mistranslated badly when run through Google translate. So I’ll cut them a little slack as this looks like a language thing, still, that’s a pretty big mistake for the very first line of the article.

Moving along...

“The Sandman was likely to be a film, and most of us recognize there are those who worked on it“

Well, I should HOPE there were people who worked on it! I was worried the previous film attempts were concocted by six raccoons wearing a trench coat, or Eldritch monsters out to ruin Morpheus’ reputation, or even trained monkeys sitting at typewriters.

Granted they never actually said “those who worked on it” meant humans so the theory about the monkeys may stand.

“The lovers have been awaiting the updates concerning the show. “

I know they mean “fans” but it sounds like the Tarot card is very, very excited about the Netflix Sandman series. The queen of Cups is also waiting with bated breath. The Fool had no comment. The King and Queen of Swords were more interested in The Witcher Season 2.

“Season 1 will insure’Preludes and Nocturnes’”

Good to know Morpheus has an insurance policy! Though I never heard of Preludes and Nocturnes Insurance. Do they cover acts of Gods or Endless?

Oh, wait. You mean the season will be insured. But what happens if you misplace Preludes and Nocturnes? Do you replace it with Encores and Diurnals?

“He revealed that there aren’t likely to pay the story in Season 1, which means that there’ll be seasons in the upcoming years.”

Well, if you have to bribe a season to make it work... Do you just throw money at a PC with a tab open to Windows Word Office or...?

“He said that the series would probably be accurate and private.”

Does this mean only Neil Gaiman is allowed to watch it!?

“So fans appear to be expected from the series, Gaiman has worked on a lot of jobs.”

Neil Gaiman has worked on a lot of jobs? I KNEW I saw him working the register at Walmart! And then later in the week as a gardener. Come to think of it, I did see a rather strange looking man on a street corner holding a sign that read “Will write epic fantasies for food.”

This also could mean he’s a hitman. “Don’t worry, Don Goyer, we’ve sent Gaiman to do the job. Anansi won’t see it coming.”

Also “Fans appear to be expected from the series”? If I am reading this correctly (and I deliberately am not!) than it’s safe to assume that the characters of the story are real and are big fans of their depictions. Oh, I do hope Merv has figured out how to wire a DSL connection to watch Netflix in the library of The Dreaming.

Anyway, I’m done heckling.

I wish Google would be more careful about what it allows under the “News” tab. This is the latest Sandman related article in Google’s News tab and it’s barely in English. I’ve seen drunken tumblr posts more coherent than this.

#The Sandman #Neil Gaiman's The Sandman #Neil Gaiman #Netflix #Netflix's The Sandman

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serendipitous-magic · 4 years

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who are your stylistic influences? a lot of your language is very nice. your imagery, descriptions, etc. are you influenced by other fan fiction writers? canonical authors? poets?

This is like SUCH a lovely, lovely question and I kept it in my inbox way too long just because like. I didn’t want to stop seeing it when I opened my inbox lol.

I’d say one of my top “stylistic influences” as far as writing is Stephen King - especially “classic” Stephen King like It, The Body, The Shining. (So you can blame my long-windedness on him! :P Kidding.) I love how visceral a lot of his writing is. His writing is emotion-based (aaaaand that’s why his work often doesn’t make very good movie adaptations, in my opinion), and it’s intensely vivid. You can really feel like you’re in the story, which is for sure something I try to achieve with my own work.

Neil Gaiman has a similar MO, I feel like, but he’s a little less long-winded and more eloquent. More succinct. His worldbuilding is fantastic. Namely, American Gods, Good Omens, Neverwhere? It’s fascinating. He really knows how to set the scene via impressions. Neil isn’t afraid of getting down and dirty with the minutiae when he wants to, but he’s the master of broad-strokes impressionism by way of word. Monet with a typewriter, if you will. Whenever you see me setting a scene by way of stringing together a few fairly short or vague, but vivid impressions? That’s probably thanks to Neil Gaiman. (Ex: “It smells just like she remembers. Not just like the lab, but like that night in particular. Sterile-chemical-hospital smell; the metal-and-ozone smell of fried wires and haywire electronics; spores from the tunnel; and the dogs. Those demodogs from the Upside Down, their rubbery flesh carrying the rot-stench of their birthplace.” (From TRS3 ch3).)

I think when I’m trying to write humor or comedy I tend to think about J.K. Rowling, Rick Riordan, or Douglas Adams’ humor. Kind of a set-you-up-with-an-expectation and then suddenly turn the sentence in a direction you didn’t octopus. (Ex: “…all - except El - firing off questions. Where have they been? Why didn’t they come with everyone else to get ice cream the other day? What’s the code-yellow meeting about? Is something up? What’s up? Why have they been so radio silent lately? Are there chips in the kitchen? Can the Party eat the chips in the kitchen?” (from The Unmarked Mixtape chapter 13).) Also, situational humor. (Not sure how well I do at humor. I think I can sometimes be funny, but it’s hard for me to do actual comedy - thus far, I’ve been better at short, wry bursts of humor here and there than sustained humor. I’ll have to work on that.)

I’m a fan of poetry. I like Jewel (A Night Without Armor was the first book of poetry that was ever given to me as a gift - I was fifteen and my big sister gave it to me as a birthday gift, and I devoured that thing), Plath, Blake, Dickenson. All very old and white, I know, I have to find some more poets to read.

I’m a visual learner, so I usually tend to see my writing as “shots” (like on a screen) and that’s how I’ll describe it. What do the readers see? If a character knocks a glass off the counter and it shatters, what’s important in that moment? What should the “camera” focus on? Their elbow, clipping the glass as they turn? Their expression when they realize, in that split-second before it hits the floor, that they fucked up again and that’s it, that’s the last straw? The glass itself - an inanimate object, numb and unfeeling, swept off the counter and arcing one long, irregular snake of liquid through the air before it connects with linoleum and splinters? Or maybe it’s the characters’ shoes beside the mess of glass, their hand as they reach down, the ruby smear that wells up just off-center on the pad of their finger when a shard bites into their skin? I’m very, very visual in my thinking. So that’s how I tend to write. Images carry connotations - combinations of images can carry an infinite variety of very complex, multifaceted connotations. (Just look at aesthetic boards - the ones that tell a whole story or set a whole scene without a single word.)

That being said, I tend to hang onto the images that strike me particularly hard (in movies or irl) and they sometimes make it into my writing. I love the imagery in movies directed by J. J. Abrams, or Kubrick, or Spielberg.

Also, phrases stick in my head like nothing else. I’m pretty sure I recently used the phrase “giddy and grumpy to an artless degree” in one of my fics, somewhere. Confession: that’s not my phrase. At least, nor originally. I read that phrase in an otherwise wholly unmemorable fanfiction like… Maybe seven years ago? It was back in my days of Hunger Games fandom… (shudder). But my brain really liked that phrase - I just really like the rhythm of it and how it flows - and I remembered it for almost a decade, and eventually used it.

Soooooo, yeah! I’m not sure if that’s exactly what you were asking, but those are some of my “stylistic influences,” that I can think of off the top of my head.

Also, I’m looking at this and realizing that there are a lot of guys’ names in here and not nearly enough women. I should maybe work on that. 🤔

EDIT: oh gosh, wait, how could I forget - my dad! He has a very grand, vaguely Tolkien style of writing, and he adores fantasy and science fiction. I’d be shocked if my writing wasn’t influenced in large part by his.

#asks #anon #BEST. QUESTION. EVER.#sorry for going on and on lol #BLAME IT ON KING #my writing #stylistic influences

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ducktracy · 4 years

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111. buddy the gee man (1935)

release date: august 24th, 1935

series: looney tunes

director: jack king

starring: billy bletcher (jail warden, prisoners, machine gun mike), jackie morrow (buddy)

23 cartoons. 5 dogs. 3 designs. 3 girlfriend designs. 3 years. 2 voice actors. buddy’s legacy comes to a close with buddy the gee man, and what an unmemorable ride it’s been. i don’t hate him as much as i thought i would have, but i don’t nearly like him as much as i would have liked to. some cartoons he’s more insufferable than others (though jackie morrow is cute and does a good voice performance for him, i find something about the voice very unfitting and annoying. maybe i just hate hearing buddy say stuff like “blow your nosey” or speaking in rhyme.) buddy bids us farewell as he works as an undercover detective, investigating happenings at the local sing song prison.

a shot of a door labeled department of justice. a man possesses a letter, which we see is addressed to buddy — “federal agent buddy, 000 1/2 cornbread ave., kansas city, MO” (we know where he lives, boys, let’s get ‘im!). the man deposits the letter into the mail chute, and sure enough buddy opens it up. he’s being sent to conduct a “secret investigation” on the warden at the local sing song prison, investigating the warden’s treatment towards the prisoners. buddy inconspicuously dons the perfect disguise—a mustache. genius! no one will ever know!

buddy dons his trademark captain’s hat as he prepares to embark on his journey. he pulls out a horseshoe in his pocket (which has a nail through one of the pegs, already a lucky sign) and tosses it for luck. luck is promising as the horseshoe shatters a mirror behind him. didn’t your mother ever tell you not to throw horseshoes in the house? flummoxed, buddy scratches his head and shrugs.

what’s an adventure without a faithful dog companion? buddy enlists in his dog gee-man (i’m just going to call him his dog LOL) for help, who’s conveniently donning a sherlock hat and pipe. buddy whispers in his ear, the dog perking up instantly.

a crowd congregates in town as a sea of voices clash against each other. buddy and his dog use a matryoshka of people lined together as stairs to hop straight into the crowd (reused from buddy the gob). elsewhere, a pig asks a hurried frog “what’s all the excitement?” the frog answers “they’re taking machine gun mike to sing song prison!” the voice acting is so bad it’s good. mel’s absence is sorely missed. 2 more years!

we then get a shot of machine gun mike, who’s getting hauled away by the police. aggravated by the attention, he yells at the crowd in an attempt to scare them off. buddy and his dog hitch a ride on the back of the police car, the car exploding a plume of exhaust on a man peeking out from a manhole.

at the prison, a guard is asleep in his lookout tower. he snaps awake once a motorcade of motorcycles escort the convict. buddy and his dog make it safely into the jail.

buddy’s dog sniffs the ground while buddy creeps around, the dynamic duo halting at a door. the door is emblazoned “OTTO B. KINDER — WARDEN”. curious, buddy pokes his head inside the office. the warden paces around his office, scowling. seems his name is prophetic.

some nice music making merriment as a gaggle of prisoners sing “lulu’s back in town” in harmony, because why not? the jail warden is infuriated, slamming his fist down on his desk. instead he sends a tray of papers flying onto his head. he then marches over to the prisoners, shouting at them to be quiet. a lovely billy bletcher bellow. seeing as the prison is literally called sing song prison... 🤔🤔🤔🤔. buddy and his faithful companion observe, buddy scribbling down some notes.

elsewhere, one of the prisoners gossips with machine gun mike, holding out a letter and sneering “get a load of this.” a love letter. machine gun mike grunts “not bad.” a prison guard marches towards the cells, carrying a harpoon gun. at the tip of the harpoon point is a letter, which he gingerly bestowed upon machine gun mike. mike snatches it up. it reads:

“in omitting top name, send that person ten cents (10¢) as a charity donation—is this worth a dime?”

the other jailbird laughs, while mike crumples the letter up and throws it to the ground. overhearing the obnoxious laugh of the prisoner, the warden stalks back to the cells and orders the prisoner to be quiet—billy bletcher shutting up billy bletcher. buddy dutifully jots down more notes. the warden hates singing AND laughing.

in the courtyard, a prisoner slacks off and dinkily taps a rock he’s supposed to be breaking. the warden chews him out, handing him a bigger mallet and demanding he get to work. dutifully, the prisoner swings the mallet behind his head, anticipating a great swing. the mallet smacks the warden in the head and his head sinks into his jacket, a lovely visual as his head pops out of his stomach area, yelling “what’s the idea?” buddy and his pal take more notes, gee-man writing the notes with his tail instead.

machine gun mike plans a not so subtle escape. he stuffs his ball and chain into a cannon, hoping the fire of the cannon will propel him out of the prison. he anticipates the ride... nothing. instead, the CANNON flies backwards. the warden busts mike and snarls “get to work!”

satisfied with his observations, buddy heads to the typewriter to transcribe his report. it reads:

24 pennsylvania ave.

washington, d.c.

dear chief:

inspection completed. recommend change in warden. have some new ideas how prison should be run.

buddy.

time marches on, and a newspaper headline zooms into view, declaring buddy as the new warden of the jail. “BUDDY MADE WARDEN! local boy makes good”

sure enough, buddy greets a receptive crowd of prisoners, asking “is everybody happy?” in the style of ted lewis. the prisoners cheer in unison. quite a turnaround in atmosphere! a shot of the happy go lucky jail—including a few prisoners whacking the old warden on the head with some mallets. corny as that is, i can’t help but love it. buddy even serves ICE CREAM to the prisoners. i suppose that’s what happens when you put a boy in charge of a prison unit, a very funny concept.

the happy prisoners sing while carrying their ice cream, one prisoner receives a shoe shine as buddy offers him a cigar. elsewhere, a man carrying a letter inquired for machine gun mike. he asks two happy prisoners—the sound of a machine gun answers the postman’s question as the prisoners answer “machine gun mike.”

a great, incongruous setup as the machine gun sound is actually revealed to be a jackhammer. machine gun mike blows a cloud of cigar smoke in the face of the hapless mailman, snatching his letter. the letter pardons machine gun mike from his parole, signed by hans cuff. i love my puns, but they definitely feel a bit TOO coy. there are many more clever puns in the looney tunes universe. funnily enough, mike lights the letter with his cigar and continues with his jackhammering.

one last shot of the sleeping jail guard in the lookout tower. he awakens as a crowd barrels through the gates. they all want a slice of buddy’s prison heaven. free ice cream, cigars, shoe shines... who wouldn’t want to be there? buddy pops up over the gate and displays a sign that says “NO VACANCIES”. we iris out one last time on our hero, who takes off his hat and waves it to the crowd.

another “second watch saved my opinion” short. first time i watched this, i found it incoherent and difficult to understand. i think i was so distracted thinking about how this was buddy’s last appearance that i didn’t focus much on the details. it wasn’t bad, though! i think there are definitely worse shorts buddy could have ended his career on. the prisoners were very entertaining and had much more personality than buddy did—the warden and machine gun mike were especially entertaining. nothing too funny, and the puns felt a bit overboard at times, but the animation was decent—i did like the gag of the warden popping his head out of his shirt buttons to yell at one of the prisoners. an above average cartoon that may be worth a watch, just for how absurdly silly it is.

and now, onto buddy. what to say about him? he was definitely as mediocre as i had expected, maybe even moreso. i think jack king had the best repertoire of buddy cartoons. it was interesting to see how buddy progressed, especially thinking of how far we’ve come since buddy’s day out and buddy’s beer garden. i liked buddy’s final design the best—at first i had really liked tom palmer’s design in buddy’s day out, but i think his final design is more suitable, especially for the adventurer persona he adopted later on. jack carr’s voice for buddy fit him better than jackie morrow’s. nothing against jackie, who was a literal child while voicing him. i love that! but i think jack carr’s voice was a good balance between youthful adult and child, like his appearance. buddy definitely came off as more of a child in his last handful of shorts, and was thusly more annoying. i never particularly liked buddy, and sometimes he annoyed me much more than other times, but... his cartoons all blend together. i can’t really discern a particular favorite, and the fact that he only has 23 cartoons amazes me. it felt like 230! however, if anything, he’s intriguing for historical purposes. i can say i’ve seen every buddy cartoon so you don’t have to! beans will take over for his 11 cartoons of fame, tex avery will come into play, and our favorite stuttering porcine will climb up the rungs and really make a splash as 1936 goes on.

that’s all, buddy!

link!

#lt #buddy the gee man #reviews #long post

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snarkandsarcasmftw · 4 years

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tag games, ftw

I was tagged by both @rampagewriting and @heelsamizayn to answer this and it seems like a fun time and my brain’s being a bag of dicks rn, so whhhhy not... Here we go.

0) Name/Nickname? If ya wanna share it.

Ashley, AA, Snark - mostly on here. Oh and lil bit, but... family only.

1) If you could bring any two fictional characters (from books or film/tv) into the same world who would they be, what world would you put them in, and what would their relationship to each other be?

Uhhh... Uhhh... Okay, alright, hm... This is going to be an unconventional answer but.. I’d take Bucky and Cap and I’d drop them right into the middle of The Walking Dead. Hear me out.. They’re both military trained / enhanced superheroes and they can walk that line of having compassion and being totally ruthless if they must. I think it’d be neat. They’d be friends / psuedo brothers, of course.

2) If you could drop yourself into any fictional world from books or film/tv, which would it be?

Oh god, oh noooo.. Every part of the fifteen year old trapped within my old woman body is screaming at me to answer Harry Potter -cos magic.. But.. I’m going with The Walking Dead. Just for the simple fact that I could smack both Lori and Dale Horvath in the back of the fuckin head.

Alternately.. I’d really wanna hunt vampires with Edgar and Allen Frog, and the eighties were my shit, so.. That too.

3) What’s your spirit animal?

A cat or a raccoon. I have under eye circles, stay up late, eat only junk and I’ll bite if you take my food plus kinda chonky ( raccoon) and I like to take naps, I’m... adamant about cleaning / grooming plus, I like to sit around and give people side eye when they’re doing dumb shit. ( cat.)

4) What is the most unpopular opinion you hold?

NO. NOPE. NOT ANSWERING. ISSA TRAP.

Okay, since I obviously have to put something here, I’ll say it. And I’ll start with wrestling:

Seth Rollins is vastly overrated and I don’t get the whole.. Attraction to him. And the same goes for Cody Rhodes. Also, is it just me or are his fucking intros too long? Idk, maybe that’s me and my lack of patience. If you like either of these, sorry, continue to do you, but.. I’m not a fan and I honestly don’t particularly care about either and this is my own personal opinion. I’m allowed to have one. I’m not saying bad shit about either guy here, if you take it that way, it’s your own damn problem? I’m not telling you not to like them. I’m simply saying I do not.

As far as media goes : Fifty Shades of Gray is fucking dumb. I mean.. 10 page contract.. to get what has to be mediocre dick, at best? And it’s not even written with any regards to true BDSM concepts for the most part? Nah. I’ll pass.

And now, for one about our current situation: I think the idiots who hoarded TP at the beginning of this should be allowed to return things.. Provided it’s unopened, they have a receipt, and they don’t see a fucking dime of the money they spent and that the money from the returns goes to masks / other methods of protection for front line workers or straight into the unemployment packages and the stimulus thing. Like literally, the hoarder gets nothing, people who need TP / sanitizer / etc get UNOPENED NEW PRODUCTS and the front line workers get the proceeds of the voided returns. We all win here. (I realize this probably cannot happen, but. It’s one way to kind of... help this current shit show we’re all trapped in.)

5) How do you like to style your hair most often?

Uhh.. Down. I’m too goddamn lazy to be bothered.

6) I always love this overdone question - you’re allowed three books on a desert island, what do you bring? (Note: Survival Guides don’t count).

The Shining, The Dark Towers series - Stephen King, The Client - John Grisham and The Outsiders - S.E Hinton

7) Something new you’ve learned in quarantine/lockdown/corona times?

That no matter how hard I try, I cannot apply false lashes. That more than two noisy things going in the background is TOO MUCH. Oh and I’m pretty damn good at baking when I bother to try / don’t toss out the directions.

8) Favorite alcohol? (Or non-alcoholic beverage if you don’t drink!)

Haven’t drank in... a while-ish. But my favorite thing to drink when I do is vodka or tequila. Occasionally White Claw ( i know, i know.). Favorite non-alcoholic beverage is water lately.

9) Music you can’t stand? Music you love?

I’m gonna get torn the fuck apart for this but yolo.. I can’t get into K-Pop. I’ve tried. It’s just.. It’s up there with new pop for me. Older boy bands / pop stars? Not a problem. I just don’t like a lot of pop music and I can’t get into K-pop. If you like it, awesome. It’s just not for me personally. Beyond that? I love literally any other kind of music. I have a veeeery varied eclectic listening preference but my all time favorite? 80′s glam / pop or country.

10) Have a favorite herb?

FIRST OF ALL.. GARLIC.. yeah, it’s not a herb buuuut... yeah.. Anyway, for actual herbs..Basil, Rosemary and Sage.. Oh and cilantro. Cilantro will save your ass in a pinch.

11) What kinds of cups/glasses/bottles do you prefer to drink out of?

My big tol cold cup. Or.. my stemless plastic wine glasses, of which I have apparently lost.

12) Preferred mode of communication: texts, phone calls, emails, letters?

Text or email. I’m not... fond of making calls, but I will if I have to. I prefer texts or email. Oh, I do enjoy writing letters now and then.

13) What is your favorite weather?

Not too hot, not too cold. Not too sunny but not overcast and gray either. A light breeze. NO POLLEN.

14) What kind of lighting do you like?

Softer lights, for the aesthetic.. Overhead lighting, so my blind ass can... yannow... see. If I had my way, I’d have candles and string lights every where though.

15) What is the best thing you cook?

Honestly, I feel like it’s my chili or my stew. Alternately, husband seems to ask for chicken / bacon / ranch pasta casserole a lot, so... Idk.. I guess pretty much anything (except fucking hamburger helper, i can NEVER get this shit right, despite directions, sacrifices to the culinary gods and pleas/promises of my first born. It always turns out icky so I never cook it.)

16) Do you have a favorite font to write in?

Handwriting or typewriter fonts for the most part. Roboto when I’m writing / editing my own fics and such.

17) What is something you’ve always wanted to write in a fic, but you’ve been too afraid to? Or, what is something that you were afraid to write, but then you did and it ended awesome?

Honestly, I’m scared to death to write smut. Which is why I’ve been trying to write more of it lately. I won’t say it’s going awesome ( I’m pretty sure some of you sit and read it when I post and are like what the fuck... this isn’t realistic and this is so bad.) but it’s going.

I’ve wanted to dip my toes into writing for more obscure fandoms too. Like ones that I personally enjoy. As far as something I’ve always wanted to write? Horror. But I’m scared to death I’d fuck it up.

18) If you were in your favorite fantasy world, what would your weapon of choice be?

A sword or a knife. Machete, maybe?

19) Is there a commonly used expression/saying that you can’t stand?

While I agree with the answers J and K put to this “It’s in God’s hands, etc” - sometimes things are GOD AWFUL. The last thing I want to hear is what the reason God had for doing it is. So don’t tell me.

Triggered is a useful term.. if it’s used right. And I’m starting to realize that 95 percent of people DO NOT know the proper use. They think that being triggered =‘s a reason to bitch and tear someone apart over some miniature thing they’ve done. So now, when I hear it being misused, it fucking annoys me.

20) What is something that you would like people to know about you?

I’m a grumpy ball of rage. I’m petty as fuck and saltier than all the oceans combined in the right circumstances. But.. I can be a nice person and I love getting to know people and helping people or talking to them. Even if it’s hard for me to start it off bc I’m fucking awkward as fuck also - hence the reason it takes a while for me to actually... attempt... conversing with new people both IRL and on here.

I’m gonna leave this open to anyone who wants to do it bc Idk who has or hasn’t already and I don’t want to annoy people.

This was a blast!

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goodfoodxoxoxo · 5 years

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Ghostwriter

A Jeon Wonwoo fanfiction x OC , inspired by a K-Drama “Chicago Typewriter” (It’s very recommended, even though i havent finished it.)

Disclaimer : Jeon Wonwoo isn’t mine.

Chapter 1 / 2

Jeon Wonwoo hates being compared of other writers. According to him, his style of writing is definetly different than the others. And the interview today, manage to makes him pissed off, “damn reporters” he thought to himself after taking a long deep sigh. His secretary and manager never know what to do in this situation. But, Jeon Wonwoo himself is not a cheerful or talkative person, but today is even more worse. “Wonwoo, you have one more schedule today, it’s an interview with Voug Magazine,” the manager ran to him. “Can I just cancel it?”

“This interview worth a million Wonwoo-ah.”

“It’s not that important until I release my new book.”

“Then this interview will make your upcoming book a lot more important than now.”

With that, Wonwoo sighed and went to his car and drive all the way for the interview.

After a long day, Wonwoo finished his interview and arrived at his house. He has a lot to write today, since he already figured some idea. His last book was about detective and murder, he wants to make something different about the upcoming book. Not realizing the time, he already finished a few pages of the book. The sun shines through his window. “I lost track of time again.” He thought to himself.

Meanwhile, Go Haneul is an university student and she is a number 1 fan of Jeon Wonwoo. She is currently majoring in literature, but the professor hates her.

“Go Haneul!” With that scream, Haneul woke up and wipe her drool. “Yes, I am so sorry Professor Nam!” She immediately sit straight. “I am watching you.” Said the professor.

“The professor must’ve hated me.” She walked with a slump. “Of course he hates you. You always sleep in his class.” Her friend, Bae Eunsang replied. “I am very tired you know.”

“You are finishing Jeon Wonwoo’s book aren’t you?” Her friend replied with a smirk.

“I-it’s for his assignment too! I’m using Jeon Wonwoo’s book for the assignment!”

“If there weren’t any assignment, you would also read his book yesterday.” Eunsang responded with a laugh. “Well, you know me too well.”

Haneul cherish Jeon Wonwoo’s books very much, even if her apartment is very messy, Jeon Wonwoo’s bookcase (that’s what she called it) still be very clean and neat. “Well, I can’t help, I cherish those books very much.” That’s her reason. As her friend, Eunsang would complaint about her laziness and love life. Haneul is a lazy person, but she never missed any assignment, knowing that she loves books. But, it’s been one and a half year since Haneul dated someone. “You will die alone.” That’s what her friend always say to her. She can’t help it when she has no plan on dating someone. “How can someone manage times to socialize, study, eat, wash, sleep, and date? And here I am can’t even handle two activities at the same time.” She always thought like that while watching Eunsang dated.

Haneul lived alone, both of her parents are deceased, her grandma lived outside of the city, she left her grandma’s house to study in Seoul, she doesn’t even know if she have any other relatives or not, her closest family to have is Eunsang’s family. Eunsang comes from a wealthy family, both of her parents would helped her with anything she needs, there are times when Eunsang’s parents offered to adopted her, but she rejected it. She knows her life would be much more easier if she chosed to be their adopted daughter, but her heart rejects it, knowing she has purposes to pass on in her family line. Haneul uses scholarship for her study and she works part-time as a package courier and food-delivery courier. She works at Friday-Saturday as a package courier and Sunday as a food-deliver.

Today is Friday morning, that means she needs to get ready to work. The first package today is as big as the small-safe and heavy. She had hard time putting it to her motorcycle. When she read the address and the owner of the address, she jumped in her place. “Jeon Wonwoo’s house?”

“I’m delivering to Jeon Wonwoo’s house, I’m delivering it, oh my gosh.” When she arrived in front of the gate, she tidy her hair, her clothes, she wear a little bit liptint in her lips. She’s very nervous to press the bell. After a few while of practicing what she’s gonna say, she immediately press it. “Package’s here for you!” She said with a little scream.

Jeon Wonwoo opened the gate door and showed himself. He was wearing his spectacles, white shirt with chocolate cardigan, and chocolate pants. She was mesmerized to see him in a person, standing a few feet away. “Thank you, let me take it from here.” Wonwoo responded while taking the package from the ground. “No, no, as a reliable courier I must put this in your house.” Haneul pulled the package back to her hands. “I can do it on my own, thank you.”

“But I insisted, other than that you must sign some papers too.” Said Haneul while still holding the package. “Okay what do you want?” Wonwoo drop his hands from the package immediately, she could not hold the package properly, and the package is heavy. Her body was unbalanced, resulting an immediate fall. “I’m your number one fan!” That’s what she said before falling and losing unconscious while holding the package.

When she opened her eyes slowly, she saw an unfamiliar surrounding. “Am I in heaven?” “Unfortunately no.” She rises immediately, remembering the incident before she fell unconscious. “So, I’m at your house? Your bed?” Her eyes light up. “Yes, but since you already woke up. You can leave now.” Before she manage to respond, her tummy grumbled. She was very ashamed of it, she could only give an apologetic smiled to him.

After hearing her tummy grumbled, Wonwoo sighed, and went to the kitchen. “Follow me.” He instructed. At the kitchen, he opened his refrigerator, some ingredients were there, but he doesn’t know how to cook, those ingredients are cook by his secretary. He gave her a chocolate pudding and prepared one portion of ramen. “Thank you for the food!” She responded in her seat. While she ate, he continued to write his book using his laptop. He’s distracted at the sound of her eating. “Can you eat a little more quiet?” Her eyes rounded and she nodded. This time, he’s distracted by her face, golden-brown eyes, pink cheeks, moist lips. “What did I think?” He tried to clear his thoughts and continue to write.

“Are you writing for your next book?” Haneul suddenly asked, “I’m cheering for you!” “Yes, but you must wait a while for this book to release.” He responded with a flat face, eyes on the screen, typing. “I am ready for it!” She smiled.

“How old are you?” What did he actually think to ask her? “My name is Go Haneul, turning 20 this year, currently going to Seoul National University, majoring in literature, and i’m a big fan of you and your books-“

“That’s too much information.” He stopped her. “What if i’m a bad guy that will terror you or spread fake information about you.”

“I know you won’t Wonwoo-ssi. My favorite isn’t like that.” She responded with a laugh. “I’m done eating, thank you for the food! I need to wash this-”

“Go home then. I can wash that later.” He said flatly. “Wait, no thank you for me? I saved your package with my whole life.”

“I saved you, put you to my bed, prepared you a nice meal.” He said while escorting her to the main door. “The meal wasn’t even that good, it’s just a pudding and instant ramen. You owe me one!”

“Okay, i owe you one.” He responded with a smile and opened the door for her. “Hope you arrived safely at your house.” With that, he closed the door.

“Oh my gosh! I slept at Author Wonwoo’s house! Oh my!” She walked while jumping and screaming. Haneul is definetly grateful for the experience. Meeting Jeon Wonwoo, her favorite author, is like strength to her. Little did she know, Wonwoo can only watched her throught the window and smiled.

When she gone, Wonwoo opened the package and saw the Chicago Typewriter that he bought in Chicago. He is really happy, because his antique collection increased. He put the typewriter near his working table, he feels that the typewriter confer some weird aura, either because it’s antique or because the typewriter itself is weird. He continued his writing immediately.

Haneul rode the motorcycle back to the delivery place. It’s already afternoon, her work-time is already over, she doesn’t care if her boss would scold her for going too long to deliver, she’s definetly happy.

When she arrived at her house, she called Eunsang immediately. “You know what, I was delivering my package to Jeon Wonwoo’s house, and I suddenly faint, woke up at his bedroom, and he prepared me a meal!”

“You are crazy, that won’t happen!”

“Pinky promise, it happened!”

The talk continue with how Jeon Wonwoo’s house smell, how his cologne smell, how there are so many books at his house, how big is his house, how handsome he is with spectacles. “ I have a bad news for you.” She said with a serious voice. “What? Professor Nam talked about me behind my back? I already expected that.”

“No, I eavesdropped some of literature students and they were talking about Professor Kim’s assignment, they said they need to make a serial story for a year, the genre can be anything, but the professor wanted the story to be published, you can do this as a group or duo or solo, there are no boundaries.”

“Wow, that’s a lot. I’m not sure if I can pass it or not, doing it solo would be very tiring, but I don’t really have friends either in the faculty.” She sighed, she hated group work, but she can’t do this alone.

“Then, do it with your lovely Jeon Wonwoo, since you already know him.”

“Hey, stop joking!” Haneul laughed, actually that’s a very clever idea, making a serial story with your favorite author.

“Who say I was joking? And they said there are no boundaries for this assignment. This could be your chance.” Eunsang responded with a serious tone.

Haneul’s laugh stopped. “Well, Wonwoo owe me one right?” She thought to herself. “What did I think?” She immediately swipe her thoughts off.

“That’s a brilliant idea but i won’t do it. And I’m sleepy, see you tomorrow Eunsang-ah.” With that, she ended the call and think deeply. “Well this is could be my chance, but it will seems like i did dirty. But the professor said that there are no boundaries.” Not long enough, she fell asleep after her long thoughts.

Monday arrived, Haneul went to the college and guess what, the assignment from Professor Kim is real. Haneul panicked, she knows that this assignment is heavy for solo work. She tried to ask some of her class attendee to partner up with her, everyone except one reject her, well the one person is still pending too, she said “she’ll think it first”. Knowing that her reputation in the faculty isn’t good, “a lazy scholarship student” she expect nothing.

“Yea, you have a good nickname “a lazy scholarship student” way to go to search for a partner Haneul-ah.” Eunsang said with a sarcastic smile. “You know, I’m just lazy in class, but I never missed any assignment, sometimes I give them earlier than deadline.” Haneul defended herself. “Well it’s true, but everyone only know how you act at college, they don’t really understand you.”

The person that was pending rejected her through message, saying that she already partner up with else person. “Bless my luck” she thought.

Chapter 2 here

Well, this isn’t my first fanfiction, i posted my first fanfiction long time ago in asianfanfics.com, and doesn’t continue it because i was busy as a student. But, now i already graduated, so i hope i can finish the story!!

I hope you enjoy the first chapter! Please show lots of love! <3

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #wonwoo imagine #wonwoo fanfic #seventeen imagine #seventeen fanfic

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the-knights-who-say-book · 5 years

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Tower of Ink

Dinah had been printing so long, sometimes she forgot she used to do other things.

Once she’d had a different job, one that was not at the top of this tower, above the smog that lay over the city like foam on waves, always moving. Once she had gone out in that weak gray sunlight. On the ground.

It had been so loud down there. The clicking and rumbling of wagons coming down the streets, the hissing and screeching of the steam that powered them. Bells ringing. Machines clanking. People yelling. So unlike the muffled quiet up here.

What had she been doing on the streets?

She remembers holding another girl’s hand. They had laughed together, dodging around wagons and other pedestrians. And they had sat together, in quiet nooks in the noisy city.

She remembers a smell that wasn’t the oily, grimey stink of the streets. It was hot wet air, bleached clean through copper pipes. They were twined together in the basket formed by twisted pipes against the side of a building. A faded blue dress lay rumpled over her thighs. She remembers their clasped hands in the dip between her knees.

Rema pressed her lips to Dinah’s ear, her cheek, giggled into her hair. “Show me what you’ve written,” she begged. Arms looped together. One girl’s leg over the other’s. Their hands and bodies like puzzle pieces, like interlocking gears.

Dinah slides reams of yellow-white paper into the press. Her pace is brisk. Line them up. Crank the handle. The press comes down with a groan. All her weight on her hands as she stands on tiptoe, pressing the handle down the last few grunting inches. Hair sticks to her damp forehead. Her vision ripples. After years at this job, she knows the telltale sign she needs a break.

She leans against the warm metal of the press, unhooks the flask from her belt and downs water gone unsatisfyingly warm. Swaying less, after a moment she goes back to the handle, begins to crank it up.

Dinah always had stories to show Rema. She wrote them longhand on paper thin and shiny as onion skin. Her handwriting made each letter look like a spindly, twitching, many-armed bug.

She wrote stories about her neighbors, mostly. Sometimes she exaggerated, but mostly they were true. She liked to write about the everyday happenings of the people around her. She liked to make them sound like they were out of a newspaper.

City Shocked By Local Man’s Rejection of Father-in-Law’s Advice

Absent-Minded Woman Has Watered Same Plant Three Times This Morning; Plant’s Reaction Yet Unknown

Unanimous Poll Declares Rema Lockworth Most Beautiful Girl in the Country

Rema laughed and laughed.

The sheets come out thin and flat and covered with thick columns of type, the ink so dark the words seem to bump under her fingers. It smears a little. That’s fine. Her hands are always splotched with ink.

She holds a sheet up to the angled light from the window to check for imperfections in the paper, but her gaze is drawn to her hands instead.

She’d kept her hands clean once. She’d scrubbed off the ink when she was done writing. The idea seems like a strange, distant luxury.

Rema liked stories about fake people, fake things. Dinah would try to write that, sometimes. But her stories weren’t the exuberant fantasies Rema liked to read. Her stories always ended up being about mundane things, even if she wrote them about peculiar people.

“Perhaps,” Rema had said with an almost apologetic smile after Dinah read aloud her story about the Magical Queen Who Presided Over Tax Reform Debates, “you should be a reporter.”

That was right. She had been a petty mechanic.

Dinah stared absentmindedly at the roller that had screeched to a halt, wiping her hands with a rag that only smeared the ink and grease around her hands.

Fetching and carrying parts. Doing the small things that had to be done so grand mechanics could do the big things. Oiling and shining. Not the dainty, precise mastery of a pixie mechanic, crafting tiny toys with spinning wheels and wind-up curiosities. Or the rough, show-offy skill of a grand mechanic servicing steam wagons and ships. Just a grease-stained girl under everyone’s feet, pockets full of screws and cogs.

Rema used to help her scrub her hands and face after work. She would press their noses together with that little smile, eyes closed, and breathe in the lavender-wax scent of soap. Dinah loved that moment. The memory touches her lips and makes them smile.

Her first time using a typewriter had left Dinah breathless. The cool, round keys, subtly concave to fit each finger. The hard, heavy clicks they made beneath her hands. The type bars punching the paper as if they were vexed and in a hurry, dammit. Each little letter precise as the cog in a great machine.

She felt like a grand mechanic.

This roller is particularly prone to complaints. Dinah has taken it apart twice this week. It’s quick work to do it a third time. She refits each piece holding it to the printer, screws them tightly, coaxes them to get along.

The other machines around the tower chug along with their work. Each finished paper slaps against the pile as it slides out. The upbeat rhythm is lost in the clamor of all the machines steaming at once.

Dinah presented her first typed story with pride. It was just two paragraphs about the rescue of a lost dog. She had been slow typing on the borrowed machine.

Rema exclaimed over it appropriately. So professional, with hardly any errors! She could imagine it with a plate-print image of the dog right next to it, with a caption and everything. Just like a real reporter.

Dinah let this go with a smile. She was still a petty mechanic, and no plans to be anything else. She liked the typewriter because it was practical, and because she doted on all machines.

Rema had honey-gold-red hair and her eyes were a deep warm brown. Crooked teeth showed when she smiled. She liked to sit half in Dinah’s lap and gesture expansively with her hands, play with Dinah’s loose curls, tug them out from her cap.

Now, Dinah finds herself touching the curls at the nape of her neck, blinking away the memory of Rema’s bright smile.

Reality taps her shoulder in the form of the pile of papers toppling over. She was fixing the lever. The print run isn’t finished. There is work to do. She shakes her head and gathers up her tools.

They had been together for several years, she remembers now. She should have been moving onto the rigorous training to be a grand mechanic by the time the Rust Ball came around.

The Rust Ball was an exhibition held every five years, and Rema was enchanted by the first one she would be in the city for. New dresses and dancing and eating pastries dusted with sugar and oozing honey! It was all she wanted to talk about.

The great square had been cut off from traffic. Swept, lit with lanterns, swathed in sparkling gold. Baskets of roses hung from every window that overlooked it. Long tables for the exhibits were set up in the middle of every street that branched off the square. Dinah was kept busy day to night helping to prepare. She knew Rema was impatient with her absence, but being at the beck and call of her elders was part of being a petty mechanic.

“So be something else,” Rema said in one of their rare moments together that week. “Apply for a reporter’s job. They get to have lives.”

But that was a fantasy of the mundane kind that Dinah might write but would never live.

She wasn’t going to wear a gown to the ball, and Rema’s fixation on what color, fabric, and style her dress should be ground on her nerves when they did get time together. She started avoiding Rema during her free time. Just until the ball had passed, she told herself. And then they would go back to normal.

The typewriter has been clacking away as Dinah works on other things. When the light through the window reaches the glow of midday, she wipes her hands as clean as possible, stuffs half a sandwich in her mouth, and goes to check on it.

The tentacles are reluctant to show her. They hover around the paper, blocking her view, fussing with the corner of the page.

“Stop that now. Let me see.” She waves the tentacles away — they draw back and curl inwards indignantly. The article she pulls from the typewriter takes up the whole page, headed with: THE THIRTY-FIRST RUST BALL ARRIVES.

Dinah wore her best mechanic suit (black overalls with many neat pockets and no obvious stains over a good black shirt, a black jacket with the sigil of her master mechanic), shoes shined and cap at an angle. Her black curls stuck from one side like the probing arms of a sea anemone.

Rema wore a full-skirted dress of pale pink. Her hair was loose and wavy and her lips were tinted redder than usual. When she threw her arms around Dinah and called her “my handsome mechanic girl,” Dinah blushed and grinned like she’d just won blue ribbon in the exhibition.

But she got frustrated explaining to Rema that she couldn’t leave the table for long, and they both parted a little bitter. When she did finally leave her station — when the ball had gone on into the velvet night and the dancing square was lit with orange lanterns — to find her beautiful tailor girl and get a honey pastry, she saw Rema dancing with a girl in ebony black embroidered with whirls of gold. They spun around and around, and Rema never looked up from her face to notice Dinah standing there, plummeting, frozen, watching them.

When she wandered back to her grand mechanic’s table however long later, mouth sticky with sugar and some amber-colored drink, she got scolded with a snarl and contemptuous anger for taking too long.

Dinah announced quietly that she quit. She left the ball.

“Oh,” Dinah says distantly. “Has it been five years since the last one?”

The tentacles wave and gesture emphatically, but cannot really answer.

The girl in black and gold was named Elliot di’Allo. She was a pixie mechanic. She didn’t write at all, but she read the same kind of books Rema loved. She tinkered bookshelves to bring you the volume you named or described and designed tiny swans that sewed buttons onto fabric with their beaks. The embroidery on her dress had been real metal, meticulously drawn and twisted and shaped and sewn on.

She and Rema got married a few months later. Both brides wore white, with sleeves of silver ribbons crafted to fall like thin lace straps.

Dinah attended the ceremony with her fingers tapping her knees the whole time. She had been practicing her typing. No workshop would take her until she typed fast enough. So she’d drawn a keyboard out on her desk, letter by letter, so she could practice at home.

Letters spun around her head. She typed out phantom stories instinctively whenever her hands were free.

After the ceremony, Dinah bided her time in the corner of the reception until it wouldn’t be astoundingly rude to leave. But when she put her hand on the door, a boy in the black livery of Elliot di’Allo’s family stopped her and requested her presence, with a bow, on behalf of Lady di’Allo.

She wondered, as he led her down a hall, what Elliot could possibly have to say to her, until the boy opened the door to a study and Dinah realized he meant the newly-minted, newly-married, Lady Rema di’Allo.

Dinah scans the article, gaze weary. “Adequate,” she tells the tentacles, which draw back sharply, like the gasp of an offended old woman. She tosses it onto the pile of articles for the next day’s paper. “Do something light. The fashion of the ball. Expected styles. Something about accessories, hair styles, etcetera.” She turns her back and almost lifts her rag to her eyes before remembering it’s filthy.

“I heard you quit the mechanics’ guild.”

“Yeah.” Dinah shoved her hands into her pockets. The suit she wore to the ball was still the nicest thing she owned, so she’d worn it again. “Still doing some freelance work while I interview for jobs, though.”

“I heard—well, Elliot said a friend of hers who owns a printer’s workshop interviewed you. I’m… I’m glad you’re trying to write.”

Dinah stared at her, unwilling to come up with a diplomatic answer.

“I wanted you to have this,” Rema finally says.

This was a typewriter. Old, used, its gilt designs flaking off. The letters on its keys were worn. Some of them were rubbed clean off.

“So you can practice. And write at home.”

“Thank you,” Dinah said flatly. She wasn’t ungrateful. But she wasn’t happy, and she couldn’t fake it.

Rema accompanied her to the door, and the boy carried the typewriter for her, and then she took it, an ungainly, blocky weight in her arms. She didn’t bother glancing back as she descended the two wide steps into the street, clutching the typewriter to her chest.

It took her a few weeks to give the typewriter any attention beyond using it to practice, memorizing the placement of letters and punctuation. She couldn’t waste money on paper until she was getting paid.

But the night she got the entry-level job at a tiny workshop typing up senior writers’ revised articles, she came home to the typewriter, took out her tools and brushes, and began working on it.

She stayed up until the morning hours retouching the letters, the flaking paint and gilt; she fixed sticky keys and the uneven bottom so it would stop wobbling.

Her first solo article was written in that haze of tired bitterness as soon as it was done and dry, on the first ream of paper she set into the machine.

Wedding Between Lady and Tailor Sets Fashion For Future Ceremonies

It was crisp and neutral. Had the writer of this article even attended? Had she known either bride? It was hard to say. She took it with her to work. Her boss decided it was a good filler piece, and said she would take a look at any of her future articles.

It was good job. It was a good life. Even if it Rema wasn’t in it.

At night, Dinah wrote mostly-true stories about real people and real things. And when she got tired of that, she worked on the typewriter.

What Rema had never understood was that the imagination Dina never applied to her writing had always gone into her physical work. Her mind showed her pages of typed articles in elegant fonts, so she carved new letterforms and replaced the old ones. Her thin budget demanded more efficiency, so she took it all apart to modify how much ink it used. And her fancy wondered why she should stop there, so she began to add things. Keys for decorative flourishes, modifications so she could add accents, a lever that when flipped tilted the letter forms to approximate italics.

When her wrists began to ache from the position they held while typing, she began to imagine appendages that would type for her.

Several promotions and a new job later, Dinah wipes her forehead on her sleeve, checks the daylight, and wraps the piles of news in brown paper. Sheets and sheets of her stories, folded into quarters and tucked into each other like two girls slotted together with tangled legs.

It’s a good life, she tells herself. And it almost is.

#tower of ink #short story #original fiction #fantasy #My writing #fic #wlw #wlw stories #steampunk #writeblr

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seanhtaylor · 3 years

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Can I first say that I freakin' loved this movie? Harry Potter, sorry, Daniel Radcliffe shined in this "based on a true story" narrative the intertwined lives of Allen Ginsberg, Lucien Carr, Jack Kerouac, and William Burroughs. It's chock full of great moments of acting, dialog, and (most important to this blog) insight about the writing life.

There are lots of lessons to be gleaned from this film ranging from the importance of a writer's group of friends and comrades in typewriters, the passing on of a writer's legacy from Allen's father to Allen himself, and how far to push against the status quo and how important is that for a writer.

But the thing I really want to zoom in on is this line that young Ginsberg hears in his poetry class:

"There can be no creation before imitation."

Allen's dad is a renowned poet of the traditional form and structure and rhyme, and Allen is, well, not. He loves his Whitman and the breaking of the structure to discvoer freedom to say something that to him is more honest. His professor is, in essence, saying that he needs to forsake free verse to write rhyming poetry, but is he really? (Plot point I won't spoil for you.)

However, even if we simply take him at his word, the statement holds true. All writers tend to begin by imitating the writers who influenced them. Then they tend to imitate the writers to influence them away from those initial influences. Then, if they're really blessed by the muses, they are able to synthesize all those influences together with a bit of their own personal experience into some amorphous, mysterious literary alchemy we call "style."

#amwriting #fiction #writing #storytelling #writers #authors #blogging #blog #indipenned #indisciple #fictionwriting #bookstagram #movies #Daniel Radcliffe #Kill Your Darlings

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analogued · 3 years

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after yesterday camp nano week 1 update

[image description: a split-screen image. the left half depicts the silhouettes of two houses with a tree in the middle, in front of a posterized sunset in deep oranges and pinks. the right half depicts a posterized cityscape at night, in shades of blues and black. a small white moon shines in the upper right corner. centered on top is a black rectangle overlay with the words "After Yesterday" in white script and "week one update" in smaller typewriter-style capital letters underneath. end description.]

STATS

12 / 200 pages

51 panels (will not be counting panels again, oof)

1 / ? chapters (including prologue)

REFLECTION

i fell off the nano wagon very quickly after the 5th... need to get back on

i haven't felt like i've been slogging yet! but then again i've taken many days off unintentionally...

finishing the prologue and starting chapter 1 proper made me realize i need some sort of an outline for this if i want it to flow cohesively-- unlike prose, the level of detail needed for panel-by-panel considerations means if i mess something up or realize a different direction would be better, fixing/changing it will be an involved, and tbh annoying process! so i have started an outline of sorts-- it's more of a brain dump atm, really

@haldimilks got me thinking about a phantom of the opera sapphic adaptation and it has started to encroach on my allotted camp nano writing/planning time :>

#camp nano #analogued #wtwcommunity #wocwriters #graphic novel #after yesterday #wip: after yesterday #camp nano 2021 #week 1 update

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senor-plume · 4 years

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Soft Visitor

I would read her some poems Of mine As she lay Neck deep In the hot bubbled water

Moaning from pleasure From time to time She has her eyes tightly shut But I know she is only Concentrating On the words that Drop out of my mouth And onto her naked knees which are just two little Islands Among the bubbles and water

I finish up And place the papers On the damp floor Without much care And turn to her to find her lips Beginning to open a bit And then words flow from her hot Persian mouth

“ You know When I get out of this Bathtub I have every intention of Jumping your bones again …just so you know Mr. Poet Boy “

I grin like a fool And think that maybe This bathing beauty Could be on to something Fresh and wonderful

Love making For the third time today

My brown eyes shine Lighthouse style And I rise from the stool Stopping in front of her And as I remove my shirt I tell her That I’ll be waiting for her In bed

I have learned a few things During This lady’s visit (From California) One is that I can write well enough to impress her And to win her praises And also That I am much better in bed Then I ever thought before

She does wonders for my ego

And now here she is Jumping into bed next to me A mere 60 seconds later

Her nails gouge deep into my back As I enter her with Force and length Joy and passion Humor and desire

This is only the 6th time we’ve made love But she feels like home… So very soft and inviting so very turkey in the oven

Warmth that radiates from her lips To the tip of her fingers and toes And when she holds me closer I can feel my flesh slide up against her And she is the miracle of Christmas… In the heavy heat of this July morning

I read her some poems today And I feel they went over nicely As she now Sleeps to my left As I slowly climb out And make my way back to the Typewriter To write a few more poems That will help me get her stirring Again Tomorrow

#TUMBLR POETRY #tumblr poem #tumblr poets #poetry #poets #poems #love poem #creative writing #creative writing poetry #lit #alt lit #werealllight

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dazedplace-blog · 4 years

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Book Cover Examples

09/09/20- offsite

I picked these book covers out by simply choosing ones that instantly caught my eye. I believe the most important aspect of a book cover is the ability to stand out against a sea of competition and is memorable enough to recall it after only viewing it once. I realised early on that the cover that stood out to me straight away were ones that used simplistic, flat and clear imagery in a restricted palette of about two to four colours. Now, this style may just appeal to my specific demographic of a young female adult, however, the titles I chose ranged from typical children’s stories such as The Jungle Book and The Wizard of Oz to horror and mature themes such as The Shining and The Scarlet Letter which have very varied target audiences.

Comparing Covers and Traits

Here are examples of alternate cover designs for the same book The Great Gatsby. I believe the imagery of the left cover does an excellent job of capturing the essence of the story, a suit clad man floating in a cocktail glass, this portrays the being of Gatsby, known for his lavish lifestyle and parties becoming encased in this persona and eventually coming to his demise in a swimming pool (represented by the cocktail). The cool blue of the illuminated cocktail glass also links to the elegance of Gatsby, reminding me of crystal or diamond.

Despite this, the cover that caught my attention first was the the right one with its vibrant mustard yellow colour paired with monochrome imagery. The yellow colour reminds me of Gatsby’s refined lifestyle also as it is similar to gold, gold being more of a colour in the 1920′s when the novel is set, but more subtly hints to the plot with the imagery. The cover pictures a classy gentleman reclined, holding a cocktail glass. The cocktail glass is created from the Y in Gatsby, adding a refreshing twist to the title and overall piece. Examining closer, you can see that the man’s upper body is printed in black ink, as if it is covered with a shadow referencing the mystery surrounding Gatsby’s character and his outwards persona. Also, the method of what appears to be screen printing instead of the sharp computer generated image in the former cover is more pleasing to the eye in my opinion. Ultimately I am more intrigued by and believe the yellow cover is more memorable than the blue cover so I would be more inclined to purchase that copy.

Other Covers

This cover’s strict contrasted colours in it’s monochromatic palette first grabbed my attention. The line work of a face draws the eye in to read the less noticeable title but apart from the peaceful tone to the background colour, nothing else really effectively represents the story so as the viewer I am not so inclined to read the book from just the cover alone. I do enjoy this technique but I would consider additional imagery to generate further interest and link to the plot.

Although having a more muted colour scheme that didn’t catch my attention at first, I believe this cover captures the story line of The Shining with its imagery. Story is based on a man, with his family, who go to look after at a hotel in the hopes of having time to write but basically ends up becoming insane. This plot line is represented by the image of the hotel being on the typewriter’s paper as if written by the protagonist descending into a blood stained mess like his sanity. I myself would consider having the title be a little more prominent in the design but as the book is well known and the imagery is interesting enough that it isn’t essential.

The brilliant, clashing colours of this art deco styled cover wonderfully represent the fantastical story of The Wizard of Oz. The imagery used clearly portrays the journey of the protagonist and supporting group to Oz but the composition highlights the city/castle along with a lighter yellow to indicate its importance and exoticism. The title is also bold and present in the design so overall I think this is an excellent book cover design.

I believe what caught my eye in this piece first was the bold was the bold letter ‘A’ in red. The prominence of this central letter grouped with the surrounding images of printed pointed fingers and the title ‘The Scarlet Letter’ indicates that the plot of this book’s story is most likely centred around this letter ‘A’. As well as pointing at the, the printed hands also point past it at each other hinting themes of blame and accusation. In total, the imagery on this cover does an adequate job of sampling and representing the book’s story here. I enjoy the varied artistic techniques used on this cover and the aesthetic of which is one I would wish to explore within my own cover experimentation.

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bridesmaiddressesteyoiu · 4 years

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theusuallyfreshcollectorstuff · 4 years

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