#but it's driving me crazy and i needed to articulate it concretely

[dyed-red]

In the spn mythos I read 'soulmate' less as a person who is made for you and less (despite this being my philosophy about the real world) being a person you choose

In the fucked-up spn canon with its lack of easy answers and constant low-key horror implications in all its worldbuilding, I read soulmates as a single soul literally ripped in two

SamandDean are one entity, one shared heaven, one soul

That soul, for whatever reason, was ripped apart and placed into two bodies

And it wasn't equal and symmetric down the middle like left and right or top and bottom. Souls aren't quite so geometric

It's like this:

Sam's insides were ripped out

He is catnip for possession, for violations of his autonomy, not his fault at all but it keeps happening to him because he is the prom dress (the armor), because he, his soul, is designed to be worn. He struggles from early childhood onward with an interior feeling he can't describe, of being unclean, of craving normalcy or security or what others have, and he tries to find it, runs to Flagstaff and Stanford, fills himself with power and demon blood and coping mechanisms to maintain control. He works so hard to maintain an internal sense of stability to combat that aching loneliness and emptiness he can't articulate.

And it all makes sense in the context of his life and what he suffers, but all of it comes back to Dean as his home, as what assuages that sense of gnawing emptiness, what stops him from spiralling out, what sometimes undermines his autonomy -- because Dean's permission for what may fill Sam is absolute, and he will either exorcise or permit it as he pleases because that interior belongs to Dean, to the spot meant to be occupied by his half of their soul.

(Fucked up I know, but SPN is like that, so bear with me)

Dean's outsides were ripped off

He bleeds out at the edges. He plays peacekeeper because he lacks a boundary between self and other, struggles to maintain any sense of distance. He is the weapon, the sword, Daddy's blunt little instrument, because he exists in a state of being unsheathed, edges sharp and ready to be picked up and used because there's no casing on him to stop others from wielding him as such. He looks to his father, to authority figures he respects, to others for guidance because he bleeds out and needs others to shore up his walls. He is overly invested easily and intensely, tells Cassie the secrets of his family after knowing her for weeks, because in the absence of the other half his soul to anchor his outsides and hold his guts in place, he looks to others to control and direct him.

Because all of this also does come back to Sam, who is the stable exterior Dean needs in order to stop himself from flowing out like a bleeding wound that can't be cauterized. Which means he will follow Sam anywhere, can hardly bear to be without him, will go where he asks, becomes jealous of those around him and desperate when his sights are turned elsewhere.

Sam and Dean are soulmates but it hurts

Because it's not romantic except in the horror sense. It's brutal and bloody and it fucks both of them up, makes them vulnerable to others and to each other. And maybe that's why Chuck did it, why the angels did it, why fate did it. Whatever rules these sorts of things in the mythos. Maybe it was because they needed a sword and a set of armor and they thought this would suffice. Maybe it was because they thought it would make them easier to control and more vulnerable to the right kinds of persuasion, to their archangel counterparts. Maybe it was always destined to be like this and no one chose at all for it to happen.

But because they choose each other, they overcome it. They overcome the agony it causes, the pain of separation, of being wielded by someone else, worn by someone else, of existing in imperfect proximity to one another with only stilted, imperfect language to articulate what they need from each other, how they feel and how deep that need runs, how hungry and ceaselessly the gnawing stomache aches, how raw and violently the shredded edges burn.

They figure it out despite all that. How to sacrifice for each other in ways that play to their advantage, by being wielded and being worn and doing it in service of each other. They use it and figure out how to save each other, even in ways that horrify and corrupt but keep them side by side. How to survive their own existential separation and yet fill the aching hunger inside, stopper the open wounds outside.

That's the difference between soulmates as what happens to them versus soulmates as what they choose for themselves, time and again. What damns them and what saves them.

(and if any of this is up your alley it is the running thesis in most of my fic, fluff and angst alike, both posted and WIPs I'm still finishing to post, because I literally keep coming back to and circling this notion more and more intently as I figure out how to give voice to it and how absolutely batshit it is and how unhinged it makes them. I am in a constant state of chewing glass.)

#thanks for coming to my ted talk #sam and dean #wincest #gencest #soulmatism #I don't really care if people disagree #this is less 'meta' and more 'my personal reading' #which is in flux and ever-developing #but it's driving me crazy and i needed to articulate it concretely #because I've been too slow finishing the possession fic and the heaven fic #both of which directly acknowledge and tackle this #using some of the same language as i use here #also the wording itself of inside/outside was absolutely inspired by the fic title #a man with his insides out and his outsides off #by britomart_is #which you should go read it's so bittersweet #an inspiration

[redheadedrenagade]

Wicked Game

Chapter 3: White Winter Hymnal

Chapters 1 & 2 can be found here and here.

No warnings. This takes place one month after the second chapter. Hope you enjoy. :)

The town is bustling in a flurry of wintery solstice and chattering teeth. Snow had just started to fall lazily from the sky, blanketing the grass thinly. Charlotte looks out the window at the passersby anxiously, dying to finally be cleared of house arrest by Maria. She loves and appreciates her with her entire heart for keeping her sorry ass alive, and she knows that she wants to prepare something truly special for her this Christmas. Something that she can look at and hear the words “thank you, I love you�� every time she sees it. There would be time for that soon enough, because today her plans consisted of something she’d have previously sworn she’d never miss: patrol.

Oh, god, I’m going to drive everyone crazy…

She has so much pent up energy, and far less fear than before her survival against death, (she was kind of a certified badass now, obviously), and all she can think about is having a bow in her hands again, hunting in the forest, eating at the mess hall, spending time with Ellie and Jo-

Nope. No. We’re not going there. 

She brushes the thought off like a snowflake and gently pulls on her coat, making sure Maria sees her being careful with her almost healed arm as she walks into the room.

“Well, you ready to face the outside world yet or what?” Maria smiles warmly at her and walks forward to embrace her in a warm hug.

“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for you. You…you really are the best leader,” Charlotte says and pulls back to hold Maria’s shoulders and look her in the eyes, “the best friend anyone could ask for. Now that I’m out of that bed I can get back to convincing you of that.” 

Maria’s blushes and waves her off, but not dismissively. She’d always been relentlessly modest about her leadership in Jackson. “I’m just doing what anyone else would. Now, listen, I know you’re excited to be back in action, but I need you to promise me that you won’t – “

“Maria, I promise I won’t put all your hard work to waste. You literally saved my life. Anything you say from here on out, I’m gonna’ do, no questions asked,” Charlotte assures her with a signature crooked grin, patting Maria’s shoulder.

Maria snorts loudly and walks to grab Charlotte’s bag with her essentials and hands it over to her. 

“You’ve never listened to anyone a day in your life, Char.”

Charlotte can’t hold back a loud laugh that instantly feels so good after such a painful month. “Okay, you have me there. But there are exceptions. Well, one exception,” she replies with a wink.

Maria escorts her out the door, already making dinner plans for this coming weekend after the mandatory optional but highly encouraged Christmas celebration, and Charlotte starts the half mile walk back to her tiny cabin. The cold, brisk air feels like heaven against her face, the crisp feeling of snowfall bringing her immense comfort. Winter had always been her favorite season, even now that it was admittedly much harder to handle since the world went to shit.

It was lunchtime in Jackson, so she didn’t run into anyone on the way, which she was secretly grateful for. As excited as she was to re-enter the world, she needed some time to just be home for a moment. She stops short when she sees a large figure sitting on her porch steps. Cautiously, she walks on and as she gets closer comes to the shocking realization that’s it’s Joel of all people.

She shoves the hand not holding onto one of her backpack straps into her jeans pocket, looking only at the ground until she gets to the porch, where she’s forced to confront him. He’s just as handsome as she remembers. His cheeks are tinged pink from the cold, and his black hair peppered with grays is slightly unkempt from the wind. His hands are clasped together, elbows resting on his knees.

And those eyes. 

How the fuck do you make me feel like this?

She manages to give him a quiet hello, nervously re-adjusting her backpack and letting her eyes fall to the ground.

“Hey. Heard that – Maria told me you were – just thought I’d come say, well, I’m glad you’re doin’ better, kiddo,” he manages to stutter out, and it makes her heart jump a beat at how…nervous? And unsure of himself he sounds.

“Oh! Well, yeah. Um, that’s – thank you. It’s really great to be out of that damn bed. Was going a little koo-koo for Cocoa puffs in there,” she replies, laughing nervously and kicking the ground lightly with the toe of her boot. When she looks up at him again, he has a bemused expression on his face that she can’t help but chuckle at. “What’re you smilin’ about, sir?”

He breathes out through his nose in a laugh and shakes his head a bit, giving her a subtle once-over from head to foot, then back again. Charlotte feels her stomach flutter and her face becomes suspiciously warm for a winter day.

“I forget that other people remember things from back then. Sometimes I even forget I’m not the only one alive that had a life of some kind before it happened,” he replies, his eyes not leaving hers and her eyes not leaving the half-smile on his face that she caused.

“I…well, yeah, I feel like that sometimes, too. It happened to the whole world but it still feels like no one understands, somehow. It’s weird,” she says, tucking a lock of long red hair behind her ear and lingering a moment too long on the past. Her face darkens as her own memories of horror and loss flash across the forefront of her mind before she can push them back.

He clears his throat a bit as if he understands what she’s thinking and pushes against his knees to stand up and walk down the steps to her. She feels her heart pounding annoyingly hard in her ribcage as he approaches. He always had a way of snapping her out of her thoughts.

He’s so tall. And damn, does he look amazing in that sweater. Oh, jesus, get ahold of yourself, woman!

“Listen. I – well, I ain’t never been a man who knows the right things to say, or when to say ‘em. Just wasn’t born gifted with words like you, I guess.” 

She opens her mouth to protest and tell him that she can’t articulate things for shit either, but he holds up a hand telling her he needs to say more. His expression is almost pained as he awkwardly struggles to share what’s on his mind.

“I didn’t act right. That night, when you…when we brought you back. I’ve been kickin’ myself over it and I just wanna’ set the record straight.”

She nods gently and for once, revels in not being the most nervous person between the two of them. He scratches the back of his head sheepishly before continuing.

“It ain’t just because of Ellie. Not just because you bein’ okay is what’s best for her. I’m very…glad, that – Charlotte, when we first saw you, I was sure you were just about gone. I thought we were too late, and I…”

Charlotte is starting to feel bad for him at this point and decides to end his misery. She lets her backpack slide down her arm onto the snowy earth and even as he looks at her with confusion, she leans into his broad chest and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him hard against her. This is her second thank you for that night.

For a moment he doesn’t even budge; just a solid wall of concrete Joel. But he quickly rights himself and lets his strong arms enclose around her, allowing his chin to rest against her shoulder. Her face is nestled into his neck, just like before, when the world was fading into darkness. In the back of her mind, she remembers one thing as she was fading that night, a low voice saying something to her, comforting and calm as a sunset.

Sweetheart.

She blushes fiercely into his sweater and pulls back a bit to smile up at him shyly with her lop-sided grin. Looking directly into his hazel eyes is liking staring into the sun, and she swallows thickly in her nervousness. He, however, seems calmer now, with his big hands now resting lightly at her waist from pulling back from their embrace. Then, he smiles back, and Charlotte feels a burst of warmth bloom inside her belly. She's thankful to have her hands on his shoulders to anchor her.

“I don’t regret any of it. I’d do it all again if I had to,” Charlotte says, her voice soft and sincere as she struggles to maintain eye contact. Her face feels like it's on fire. He chuckles then and takes a step back, and she immediately misses the warm presence of his body against hers.

“I’ll make sure it won’t come to that, darlin’.”

She feels a pang of something in her heart that feels completely foreign and somehow as natural as breathing. The same feeling she felt when he called her sweetheart. 

People who are just friends don’t usually say things like this…do they? 

Before she can think too deeply on it, a youthful voice all but bellows her name. She knows instantly who it is and turns around just in time to have Ellie barreling into her chest, hugging her so hard she might’ve broken a rib, and Charlotte laughs joyously despite the pain.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were out today?! And you went to see Joel first? Like, c’mon, dude, I'm way more important,” she declares with passion, and it makes Charlotte smile even harder and hold her closer yet.

“Wanted to surprise you. Thought we could walk to patrol together in a bit. God, I missed you, girl!” Charlotte exclaims, swaying them side to side and enjoying every second of having the girl in her arms, safe and happy.

“She didn’t come to see me. I, uh, I had something I needed to talk to her about. An’ now I have, so I’ll let you two be. Ellie, careful of her wounds, your bein’ too rough,” says Joel, shaking his head slightly but he grins, nonetheless. Ellie finally parts from Charlotte to narrow her eyes at him suspiciously, a hint of mischief in her expression.

“Yeah, it sure looked like you were doing a lot of talking with all that hugging you two were doing.”

Oh my god, Ellie. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d strangle you!

Much to Charlotte’s surprise, Joel’s smile widens as he opens his arms to Ellie, advancing on her quickly, “Yep, and now it’s your turn, kid. No need to be jealous.”

Ellie shrieks and tries to escape, but he’s too quick as he grabs her around the middle with her back to his chest, and Charlotte can’t help but burst into laughter at the tiny girl kicking her legs in the air as he spins her around. Joel’s rich laughter fills the air amidst Ellie’s slew of curse words, but when he puts her down, her cheeks are tinged pink and she’s got a big, toothy smile on her face.

“Such a jerk!” She fake pouts and punches him lightly in the shoulder.

“That’s my job,” he replies with a wink, and Charlotte can’t help admiring the relationship and love between the two of them. She wonders if she’ll ever have something like that of her own one day.

“Well, I’ll see you ladies later. Have to go help set things up for that damn Christmas party next week,” Joel sighs, rubbing his forehead in an annoyed fashion before turning to leave.

“C’mon, where’s your holiday spirit Joel? There isn’t anything you like about Christmastime?” Charlotte enquires, eyebrows raised in surprise.

How can someone not like Christmas? That’s like not liking puppies…or chocolate…

He looks at Ellie with a soft expression, and then his eyes flicker back to Charlotte’s. She feels an electric current rushing through her veins as his expression subtly changes as he studies her face, and his eyes hold something very different within them than just moments before. 

Joel turns back to look at her and pauses, his expression neutral and unreadable. He then crosses his arms with a wry smile forming on his lips.

“Well, I guess there’s a couple things that ain’t too bad about it.”

Then, as if nothing had transpired at all, he breathes a small laugh out of his nose and takes his leave. Charlotte stands rooted to the spot, feeling like she’s just been wacked against the head with a frying pan. Her heart is still stuttering at the memory of that look in his eyes.

That look he gave me. 

Charlotte huffs out a laugh and shakes her head incredulously before picking up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. She looks down at Ellie and sees that she’s looking up at her with an eyebrow raised and a slightly smug expression on her face. Charlotte shoves her lightly and can’t help but chuckle as they make their way into her cabin.

Ellie snorts loudly and elbows her in the side, bringing her swiftly back to reality.

“What the hell was that all about?”

“Honestly, Ells? I have no fuckin’ clue.”

#wicked game fic #tlou #the last of us #ellie williams #joel miller #joel miller x oc #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #my posts #wicked game

[short-stories-club]

anonymous

It happened in November, on a cold Thanksgiving night. I hurried home in the rain and peered over that familiar but unwelcoming meadow that leads directly into the narrow strip of concrete which we called our driveway. The dirt road was wet and muddy, and my toes grew cold and damp through my thin shoes. Tonight was a frigid evening, one that makes your finger tips and extremities numb to the point where one’s dexterity is limited. I cut across the road and hiked atop the mound. My house peaked out at me slowly as I trekked over the hill whilst I quickly caught a glance at the driveway. I noticed that the unsightly old automobile was parked out front; beat up with the scratched paint like it always had. I wasn’t mistaken; he was here tonight, that vile creature I so hated to call my Father.

Aside from the surprise visitor, nothing was different or out of the norm about our landscape; grey, stiff and dead trees still filled the majority of space within the front yard with leaves scattered throughout from yesterday’s windy weather.  The property’s countenance remained consistent year around, and my mother never wanted to repair or fix the exterior of the home although it definitely needed it. This lack of upkeep with the property disturbed me, as it constantly reminded me of my Mother; she always put off her own problems at the expense of others. The ironic part of this situation was that we didn’t own a doormat, and I always joked that she likened herself to one so we didn’t need it.

I got inside and neatly put my shoes aside; I was relieved to finally dry my feet. Peering onto the wall next to my closet, I gazed upon one of my Mother’s favorite family photos. I looked into the quaint picture and studied my sister’s countenance. She was always so positive and full of life. The image jogged my memory; reminiscing on my childhood, I thought back about when father left. I was only 12 years old when this happened, and he left for another woman to top it all off. This was just 5 years after my older sister passed away in a car accident, and I often wondered if Father leaving was ultimately due to her death. He could have felt responsible since he was driving her that day. My older sister was father’s little dream girl; he favored her, undoubtedly, which is why I grew so close to mother and distanced myself from him growing up. Desperate I was as a child, I even hoped that her passing might make draw the two of us closer, but I learned early that having faith in him wasn’t a fruitful endeavor. Nonetheless, he sporadically visited throughout my teen years whenever he felt stimulated to do so. My grip tightened when I analyzed the portrait further; I glanced towards the still image of my father. I don’t remember specifically when I began to disdain my father, I always hated how he hurt mother, but the hatred grew deep as I got into high school. I disrespected my mother for so being so readily available for his presence, but she was a broken woman who couldn’t be fixed. She was truly so kind, forgiving and thoughtful when it came to others, yet self-negligence was her specialty.

“Hey, Damien!” my father yelled from the dinner table. I peered around the corner; he looked thinner and drunker than I remembered. “I haven’t seen you in a good year, why don’t you sit down at the dinner table and entertain some sweet conversation with your old man?” I stood there silent as I glanced at mother, who smiled faintly with her back to me as she stirred the soup. After a good couple seconds I replied “Why are you here? Did you tell mom you were coming?” He looked down, and took a deep breath and stood up. “You aren’t going to give me a warm welcome then, ha? Well… listen he-“My mother quickly interrupted him: “He called me to tell me something important before he came, some big news… he also wanted to tell you in person.” Her attempt to calm the mood was a success; I gazed at him ever so confused. What else did he do besides piss his days away with that whore he claimed? I was glad he left. My mother had been spared for the last 5 years from any beatings, and I was planning on it keeping it that way permanently. “What the hell are you talking about? What’s going on?” I couldn’t read him. I never really could anyway, but this time he unusually more timid. He abode almost bore a sense of grief. “Its crazy son... you’ve sure grown a ton. You’re probably taller than me now…”  His countenance softened as he sat back down, receiving my mother’s soup at the table. I was indeed taller than him now. I’d grown almost 4 inches this year. Quickly brushing the complement aside, I retained my composure and sat opposite him at the dinner table while my own bowl of soup was graciously donated. “Well you see Damien… I wanted to come see you in person to apologize… for how I’ve treated you and, well…your mother over the last few years. You see, uh, Cindy and I aren’t really seeing each other no more, and uh... Well, I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, it’s the shitty kind too... and I wanted to see you both and tell you in person I don’t have much more than a couple months left...”

I was stunned. My chest hurt and throbbed in disbelief. My mother started to tear up and went back to the sink. I couldn’t believe this outcome. How dare he? I hadn’t seen him in almost 2 years and he shows up to tell me this? Conversely, the idea of my father passing away hurt too; a deep part of me always wished things would have worked out for the better. My Father appeared the least big distracted and fully embraced the moment with us.  Nevertheless, my soul erupted with rage as the perception of the gesture was spoiled because of how he had been in the past. So many nights I wished our family hadn’t fallen apart, and that things could be reconciled someway, and this couldn’t simply serve as justification for all of the vile behavior our family witnessed because of his sins. I noticed the blank expression on both of my parent’s faces as they gazed upon me, wondering what I was going to do, or say next.

“You’re a coward...” I said with my head down. I didn’t want my expression to be noticed. “You had your whole life to live this out, yet you chose violence, selfishness, and addiction.” I struggled to articulate myself, careful not to be reckless with my words. He sat there wide eyed. I never saw a submissive countenance overcome the massive, burly figure of my father like this before. I had his full attention and it made me feel powerful. I continued “I couldn’t give two fucks… To me you aren’t a Father figure … you’re nothing but a vagabond who aimlessly moves around in life…also I won’t simply forget the multiple nights of bruising and violence I witnessed at your hand!” A violent passion overwhelmed me. I was upset; I was trying to hold back tears as well. I couldn’t convey the part of myself, of which was so deeply embedded, that wanted affection and acknowledgement from him. He deserved to be punished. There were so many emotions present at the tip of my tongue and I couldn’t find the lexicon to display it verbally. Physically, I was on the brink of violently writhing; Nonetheless, I couldn’t let this wretch see how badly he destroyed my psyche over the many years which comprised my childhood. I chose to conceal myself and put on a façade; I exemplified rage which was an attempt to obscure the ability of my father to apprehend my true countenance, which was one of sorrow and grief. I needed to finally become a man and confront my Father on his many shortcomings.

After a couple of chilling seconds, my father stood up and stared deep into my soul with a gaze that pierced through my proverbial barriers. I really pissed him off with those words. Perhaps he was calling my bluff; he was always able to intimidate me with relative ease, but this time I didn’t want to back down. I stood straight up, facing him with my shoulders square and fists clenched. After all, I was physically much larger now. It really didn’t surprise me that the sweet act lasted only for a moment. Being affectionate was like pulling teeth to him.

He seemed excited as he began walking slowly towards me with a look I’ve never quite seen before. This startled my mother, whom began running at him and took hold of his shoulder with haste; “Stop it! Don’t take another-“My Father abruptly froze as he aggressively grabbed my mother’s wrist. He always despised my mother for trying to alter his temperament. His blood shot eyes began to enlarge as he stiffened his body and took a different countenance immediately. He erupted, and exclaimed for her not to touch him as he swung his right palm with a mighty force towards her soft, delicate face. The sound was deafening as she slammed against the chair, ultimately breaking it, and crashed onto the pale floor. The raw, unhinged scene of violence that I just witnessed triggered me to new heights of dysfunctional behavior. I hadn’t seen this level of violence from my father; did he mean to kill us? I was surprised to new heights of confusion and fear, so I began to panic. Preemptive of his next move, I white-knuckled my dinner fork and swiftly thrust it into the upper region of his figure with all 180 pounds of my strength. I was careless of how much damage this could potentially cause him.

It wasn’t until a moment later I realized I landed a good shot on him. My weapon landed right below his throat area, above his collarbone. Time stood still; he immediately began fondling the sharp object stuck in his throat with desperation, which was about a couple of inches deep into his neck. He trembled, and appeared stunned. With his hands on the silverware, his eyes shifted momentarily, at the ceiling, then back at me. He seemed possessed if only I hadn’t noticed the expression in his eyes; all of his other bodily extremities were so preoccupied with the newly found hunk of metal sticking out of his throat that his eyes were the last physical vessel through which bore his true and utter terror. Those ugly pupils bled with such vile expressions as they bounced around the room, in and out of focus, trying to find a solution to the predicament which beheld him.

He bluntly pulled the fork out and began coughing, which sounded gargled and distorted. His body language regained familiarity, yet he curled inward as he was maimed and defenseless. My heart was beating; I was scared yet curious; I accomplished this with my own physical willpower. I stood still in awe taking the moment in. I could still smell the delicious aroma of soup in the air.

I came back to my senses as he was screaming some sort of expletives, though they were difficult to discern. I stepped forward towards him and grabbed his dinner fork, of which was conveniently located near his bowl of soup. I knew I had to finish what I started. It was too late to choose grace at this point. I grasped the second weapon with all my might, and began stabbing him profusely. I cared only to stab him in his upper regions; above his chest area and below his forehead. His screams were in rhythm with my thrusting motions; beads of blood drenched my hand and decorated the furniture around me. I could feel his body convulsing with each blow, yet his endurance slowed as consecutive attacks ensued. He was half alive; his arms kept reaching out at me like tentacles of which aimlessly attempted to defend against the impending offense, yet they weakened with each and every passing second. I stabbed him for all the times he wasn’t there for me, for all the nights he hit mom, and I even stabbed him because of the fact I couldn’t admit I had deep feelings for him.

It took me a while until I realized what I had accomplished; perhaps a good 5 minutes had passed by until my adrenaline faded. I was truly an abhorrent monster. My mother and father both lay unconscious, but my Mother’s heart still beat. I escaped my own body; I knew I was a monster at some level of intellect, yet I felt absolutely nothing. My body was void of all human emotion. I stood up, drenched in blood, and gazed upon at the disaster I created.

I walked to the kitchen, and did the only thing left I knew to do. I grabbed the sharpest knife above the microwave, and slit my wrists. I fell to the earth, beholding both of my parents at my feet. The heat of the moment captured me. I lacked the post processing that a normal brain, under normal circumstances, possessed. The pain in my wrists slightly brought me back to the earthly plains. The smell of the soup was now masked by the musky smell of blood and sweat. I threw up, and began to feel overwhelmingly dizzy. My senses faded, the room looked grey and lacked color. My head felt heavy and I kept drifting in and out of darkness for what seemed to be an eternity.

The contrasting moments between murdering my father, and the resulting, utter silence that ensued after the fact was almost comical. This was it? No standing ovation? Perhaps God will think otherwise when I proceed into the afterlife. It was at this moment I realized I had been weeping for God knows how long, my eyes were cold and wet; they drained the last remaining life juices from my soul. I took my last breathe as I proclaimed to myself that I had done a good deed, bringing justice to my Father.

The door slammed opened, and the firefighters and police crowded into the small, beat up home. Moments turned into hours as yellow tape stretched around the crime scene. “Looks like a case of domestic violence if you ask me, then he took the easy way out.” The officer exclaimed, as he gestured towards the teenager sprawled out on the kitchen floor. He stepped aside as a very tall man with a trench coat walked inside. “Indeed, looks like a perfectly normal family function gone wrong.” The policeman quickly replied, “Where is the girl?” The detective smirked, and turned his head to focus on the officer. “What do you mean?” He replied, “Well, look” He pulled a picture off of the wall from near the closet and gave it to the large man. “Ah… I see.” He gazed into the photograph and studied each face that made up the solemn family of four. He noticed the how her expression was bright, excited and full of passion. “It’s odd she didn’t join her own family on Thanksgiving Day.” The detective wasn’t fazed. “I was briefed during the trip out here; she passed away years ago in a car accident. Seems like nothing really worked out for this family. Sad ending, really… how’s the Mother holding up?” Both men glanced into the kitchen where the forensic group was hard at work trying to gather as much information as possible. “She is awake finally, although in a great deal of shock. She hasn’t spoken at all and she is as white as a ghost.” The detective grimaced as he handed the photograph back to the officer. He walked into the crime scene, quickly studying each body that lie there. “At least one made it out alive. We should take her back to the hospital, freshen her up. Hopefully by next week we can figure out what the hell happened here.” The officer set the photo back into its proper location near the closet door. “Of course… that’s a good idea.” He made some cryptic calls over his intercom and stepped outside.

The detective’s attention was intrigued by the expression on the boy’s face in the kitchen. He stepped carefully over the tape and into the heart of the scene. “How long has he been dead?” He motioned to one of the able bodied young men nearby. “I’d say a good couple of hours now sir.” He replied abruptly. The detective stared into the boy’s eyes which to his surprise were still opened; he noticed some tears streaming down his pale face. “It’s almost like his soul is crying out, trying to tell us he was innocent.” The worker stopped, chuckled, and slightly nodded. The detective continued, “We’ll figure out one way or the other; cases like these often have a lot of back story.” The detective took his gloves off and wiped the tears away from the boy’s cheek whilst brushing his eyes shut with the palm of his hand. “Rest in peace, kiddo.”

[sunny-hopewell]

#2 - Helena Stinchcomb

posted by sunny hopewell on sept. 12th, 20XX

DISCLAIMER: Please note that, just by reading this, you may succumb to the very phenomenon described here. My hope is that the next people or intelligent life who read this are either themselves resilient to it, or that enough time has passed that the sheer weight of this knowledge no longer causes such a heavy impact on the reader.

This is an attempt to record the phenomenon, once referred to colloquially as “ghosting,” that has resulted in a mass decrease in the Earth’s human population. More specifically, the latest estimate (prior to the disappearance of professionals who had counted) was that only 0.002% of human life remains.

In this series of accounts, I document interviews with remaining survivors of this phenomenon. For more details on the nature of the phenomenon itself, please click here. Otherwise or afterwards, read on at your own risk.

I encountered a woman by the name of Helena Stinchcomb when I saw the fourth floor of a large office building entirely lit up. Thinking perhaps it may have been an outpost containing multiple survivors, both my mission and my curiosity led me to that floor.

I rang the fully-functional doorbell at the back entrance of the first floor. I would consider breaking in only if I received no response, but just shy of a minute later, the very articulate voice of a young woman spoke, asking how she may help me. I explained that I was hoping to ask some questions relating to her take on recent events, but expressed that I understood if she declined to speak— multiple people had already done so for me at this point. You would understand my pleasant surprise when I heard the door bolt unlock, and I was invited in. The woman told me to come on in, explaining she would need to allow me to the fourth floor with her own badge, so she would meet me just inside shortly.

The office lobby seemed unremarkable, aside from its emptiness. The lights seemed to come on as soon as I walked in— likely on a motion-sensor.

It wasn’t long before a young, dark-haired lady emerged from a door that seemed to conceal a concrete staircase. She smiled at me as though I was a visitor to her office, urging me in with an energy that was both friendly and professional. She wore a dark, pin-stripe pantsuit, and her thin, black wireframe glasses only added to her aesthetic.

She showed me upstairs, thanking me for my patience. She explained she was in a meeting until just a few minutes ago, and that the speaker system that allowed me to speak with her outside was across the office. Of course, I asked her how many people were stationed on that floor. To my own disbelief, she estimated nearly 30 folks were in-office that day. 

At this time, we entered the fourth floor’s reception area, which appeared entirely empty. She waved to the empty reception desk on her left briefly, not ceasing her conversation with me about the work they did there. She explained that she worked for a newer kind of advertising firm— when in the 2020’s, social media and technology users realized the extent to which their information was being used without their consent, such firms opened up, acting as a middleman between web users and advertisers who wanted their attention. In essence, she explained, users would come to these firms seeking to sell their web usage data to these advertisers, and the firms would act as representatives for these individuals to advertisers, who they often partnered with for competitive pricing. 

As she finished explaining this, we entered her office. She asked me to wait just a moment while she typed away— a quick message, she said, to one of her part-time work-study students, asking if she could bring the two of us some bottled water and cookies. As she finally closed her laptop, she thanked me once again for my patience and gave me her full attention. The transcript of our interview is as follows:

SH: So, tell me about yourself. What’s your name?

HS: My name is Helena Stinchcomb. I serve in senior leadership here at The People’s Information firm.

SH: It’s very nice to meet you. How has the Ghosting Phenomenon impacted you?

HS: Do you mean personally, or professionally?

SH: Oh, uh— both, provided you’re up to speaking to them.

HS: Sure, I’ll start with personally, since that’s less complex. A few people close to my circles apparently ghosted, but I’ve yet to have anyone in my innermost circles ghost, themselves.

SH: That’s fantastically fortunate, given the numbers.

HS: [laughs] Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s hard to trust the numbers anymore, though.

SH: How do these people in your circles spend their time?

HS: [hesitating] I— you know, I’ve been so absorbed in my work lately, I really should reach out to them and ask instead of answering that at this time.

SH: Sure thing, thank you for that. Let’s talk about work, then. How has the Ghosting Phenomenon impacted workflow?

HS: Honestly, it’s mostly the same. Lots of people are hiding out in their homes, and are trying to work less at times like this. This, as you can imagine, drives their web usage way up. We’ve since fortified our model for online communications with clients so they never have to meet us in-person. This is the perfect recipe for helping them earn some money just by using the internet.

SH: Have you, personally, been able to reap any benefits as a result of your strong model’s success?

HS: Well, I’m in the process of giving everyone else in this office a sizable raise to recognize our efforts.

SH: That’s fantastic. You must be very proud of your team.

HS: Thank you, I am.

SH: How many folks did you say are in-office, today?

HS: Hmm, I’d say probably just under 30.

SH: All holed up in their office, I take it?

HS: Some of them are a little concerned with ghosting and are isolating there, yes, but not all of them.

SH: What of the others? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else here yet, today.

HS: [briefly hesitating] I haven’t seen many, but our receptionist Patricia waved to us just in the door. You must have just missed her.

SH: Ah, I see— my mistake. Maybe I’ll catch her once we’ve finished up here and apologize for that.

HS: I think you’d love her— she’s always smiling. Very sweet woman.

SH: So, enough about business— what do you do when you’re not working?

HS: [laughs] Sleeping? We keep pretty busy here, so I work long days, six days a week.

SH: So you just hang loose on your one day off?

HS: Typically, yes. I have three little ones at home— Jack is six, Joseph is seven, and Elena is twelve. They keep me busy in other ways. I’m thankful to my partner for sticking around at home to watch them.

SH: A stay at home parent, then?

HS: Yes, and I’m grateful that she is so willing and capable.

SH: I’m sure she’s lucky to have you, too.

HS: Thank you. [smiles] I like to think so.

SH: If I may ask— [I was cut off by the sudden manifestation of bottled water and small bags of chips on the desk between me and Helena]

HS: [looking at an empty space adjacent to her desk] Ah, thank you, Patricia! Sunny, I’d like for you to meet our receptionist.

SH: [Greeting the empty space] Hello, it’s so nice to meet you. Sorry I missed your hello, earlier.

HS: [After a momentary silence in the room, smiles and chuckles] That’s excellent, Patricia. Thanks so much for bringing this by!

(As if some invisible entity had left the room, Helena’s attention returned to the interview.)

HS: Sorry, what were you saying?

SH: No worries. I was going to ask if you could speak on your perspective of the Ghosting Phenomenon more specifically.

HS: [letting out a deep sigh] I think local leadership has been excellent, given the circumstances of it all. I know it’s still a touchy topic for some people, but I’m still certain that there have been massive exaggerations about the impact of the Ghost Phenomenon on society. Am I saying it’s fake? No. I’m saying it was being used as a ham-fisted tool for social control.

SH: I see... Yes, I can see that causing a mass panic surrounding the phenomenon is usable as a strategic power-move.

HS: I’m so glad you agree. I feel like people are going crazy over a phenomenon that has long since passed.

SH: When was the last time you heard news of a ghosting?

HS: [pausing to think] It’s been a pretty long time… Probably nearing two years, now?

SH: Two years…

HS: I could be a little bit off, but probably by no more than a couple of months. It came and went like that. [snaps her finger]

SH: Ah, I see. Well, before I wrap this interview up, is there anything else you’d like to say to my readers?

HS: Don’t believe everything you hear. Trusting people can be too easy. It takes discipline to distinguish delusion from reality.

SH: Thank you so much. Readers out there, be sure to check out The People’s Information Firm if you’d like to make a little extra cash by just browsing the web.

At the conclusion of this interview, Patricia and I exchanged a few formalities before she showed me back down to the door at my request.

Just to make things absolutely clear: There was not a soul in Helena’s office space apart from the two of us. She spoke to thin air when a Ghost had evidently brought us those snacks— likely in response to the message she had sent out earlier. As stated in my previous post, the general work completed by ghosted individuals in their pre-phenomenon lives remained mostly unchanged. I recall reading about bosses who would send emails to their ghosted employees with assignments, only for the assignments to be completed somewhat quickly. These bosses would scarcely receive reply, but if they ever did, it was in the form of an incoherent, word-vomit sort of email, much like many of the messages you might see online today.

Helena seems to have survived this phenomenon by deluding herself into believing all of these people never vanished. Although nothing could be farther from the truth, I couldn’t bring myself to try and question that reality of hers during our interview. Should I have succeeded in casting doubt on the coping mechanism she had developed, she would have likely ghosted shortly thereafter. My hope is that she continues to live happily as such, blissfully unaware of the empty society in which she lives.

‘Til next time,

- sunny hopewell 

----

tags: #ghosting #hope #humanity #nonfiction #bliss #lifegoeson

#hope #humanity #nonfiction #horror #life goes on #ghosting #sunny-hopewell #the empty society

[jin-was-here-2]

This is going to be more me getting my thoughts out than coming for anyone.

But I'm def arguing some of the arguments I've seen over the last couple weeks.

And for the record I love both boys however I'm probably considered more of a Dean stan. (Reallly I love all three. But this is going to be more feud focused.)

That being said... I just don't see why Seth's majority being painted as the one in wrong or straight up deserving of this treatment. At least on Tumblr. The crowds seem different. But on here there are a couple things driving me absolutely u p the f r e a k i n ' wall, lads.

One is seeing things like, and I'm paraphrasing, "well Seth (and Roman) haven't purposely done things to make Dean feel down or lesser than. But that's how he feels and what led him to this point". Like that makes what he did or has been doing ok or justified. I really don't think it does. Because what could they have done to make Dean not feel that way? Not be proud of their titles? They fought hard for them. And if Dean really didn't want to help Seth get his fairly at SummerSlam he really didn't have too. Talk to him? He wouldn't give them much when they tried beside loosely veiled threats, acting fine, and/or walking away. So they're just left like, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ "what do we do? What CAN we do"? At the end of the day it's his deal. He has to deal with it ya know?

And listen I understand how it's easy for some people to get stuck in their heads. I understand because I'm like that. And I can 100% say that shit like the silent treatment, stewing, the hot and cold game, and saying shit was fine all the while were definitely factors in my one and only really good friendship ending. Not the only factors, mind. But for sure the way I chose to handle some things (My feelings. My anger. ...And insecurities.) did not help. (Coincidentally that relationship got toxic. Maybe even on both end. So walking away was ultimately the healthiest thing to do. ...Which has me side eyeing these two boys. Ma heart. T_T)

So like I totally get it. I really do. ...But I just can't justify it. Ya gotta find a way to deal with your shit 'cause it's not really anyone else's responsibility. Not your friends or love interests. It just isn't. (Unless you have already agreed apon that type of dynamic. i.e. top and brat, Etc) (And. AND. Can I just say that Dean has a crazy skillful way with words and is articulate like a motherfucker yet "Baby Boy can't communicate". I- I just needed that pointed out.)

The second thing that's got me s e e t h i n g is what seems like a total refusal to see why or how Seth might be feeling the way he does. Broham just got some terribly terribly awful news. And at a time where they both could really benefit from having each other at their sides... Dean. Out of nowhere. Slams his head into the mat. ...And then again. Methodically. Deliberately. Into concrete. Seth doesn't know why. We don't know why. Not really. We think we do but they're just assumptions. Dean hasn't s a i d.

Is it that farfetched to understand how Seth might be angry at this point? Or even why he may assum Dean's actions were selfish? He doesn't have much to go on. Personally I don't believe Dean would turn on Roman. (I mean I would like to believe he wouldn't on Seth either. But also, in WWE, nothing is sacred. Not truly.) And I think we can all agree this Dean is different. So... maybe? Maybe he would do such a thing. (He did pointedly take off and throw his Shield shirt, walk back up the stairs, and show up there the next time. All stuff alluding to the shield as a whole so????) And I believe Seth is feeling that too. Because it was on THAT night and he doesn't know who this Dean is and is FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

The third thing I have thoughts about is some of the reasons for the turn being thrown around. Like Seth had it coming? Why? For what? For what, when they already hashed Seth's turn out. He took his licks for the heinous things he did. There was an ark about it and everything. And more importantly Dean forgave him in the end. He didn't have to. And he would have been well within his rights to not, but he did.

So for me it would feel very fucked up if he's been harboring these feelings towards Seth when he didn't have to go back to partnering with him in the first place. That's blatantly leading someone on. And more over, him needlessly putting himself in what he would presume is a dangerous situation. And to me It still doesn't make since to say these feelings came about while Dean was out. Because why? Because life went on and Seth got himself some titles? That's the sport. Dean would have done the same. (I mean they both got titles THE NIGHT Roman had to leave.) Because he teamed with JJ? He didn't even want to. And when Jason got too big for his britches he straight up told him he would never be like Ambrose. Pretty vehemently, too. So like? If that is it then it goes back to Dean just having to deal with his feelings and why he's feeling like that. Because it's hard for me to say it's anything Seth or Romans did.

Now this next thing is the thing I think I'm the most intrigued by. (And is really just me marking the fuck out.) Whatever the FUCK Seth supposedly said to Dean that night that set him off. Because honesttly A LOT of theories hinge on whatever it was. Depending on what it was Seth should not have been so surprised. If it were that bad Seth could totally be playing it up right now. But then if it WERE that bad Dean could have just said this Monday. But THEN that could be why it look like Seth interrupted him. It's so open-ended! Ah!

I'm just so very intrigued by this seemingly big piece of the puzzle we're missing. So very. There was apprehension before Dean went totally ham. So he's conflicted by something pretty heavily. Perhaps because it was THAT night. And he DIDN'T want to lose it then. But Dean screaming things like "why'd you say that", "you think it's funny", "it's not a joke", and "watch your mouth" make me think Seth called him Lunatic again. Which makes it kinda like... Seth... why would you D O that???? But also it still feels like an overreaction on Dean's part? Like beat his ass a little, a little bit down the road ya know? Not THEN, that much, over THAT. Though I know he's fed up with that shit.

But THEN there's weird stuff being yelled too. Like "this all you care about", talking about the titles. Seth doesn't care about titles anymore or less than Dean or Roman do. He learned what was more important to him month's ago. And it was his boys. The "You told me it can't happen"???? What could that even mean? I have no clue. But I want to know so so bad.

Tl;DR: I love all these boys but Dean's being a lil asshole for s e e m i n g l y not much reason. S e e m i n g l y. And Seth could use a little bit more understanding.

TL;DR 2 : We're only two weeks in and I have HAD. IT. Yet I want more. I hate ALL of them. The fuckers.

#wooo-wee. my head hurts. so much. anyway. have this spiel. #dean ambrose #seth rollins #roman reigns #ambrollins #the shield #wwe #jinouchi.txt

[putalittleloveinyourheart20]

Musically Minded

For my first official post, I wanted to do something a little bit intimate so what better way to get to know each other than through song. I ripped this idea from a recent interview I watched from Seventeen where they got the star of Moana (i don’t know her name, i’ve never seen the movie but her singing is incredible!) to sing her favourite ______ song. As a first post and the fact I haven’t got a drop of vodka in me counting against doing a recording where I too would sing, i’ve opted for the written version. I hope you enjoy the list and find song or two that you want to add to your playlist!

Love song = Wake me up, Ed Sheeran (if you haven’t heard, you haven’t lived. This song is a bit of an unconventional choice when it comes to your typical love song but Ed Sheeran is a romantic literary genius and his ability to articulate love in words is unparalleled. Listen to the song, you’ll get it when you hear it)

Break up song = Jealous, Labyrinth (an obvious choice and considering i’ve never been through a break up, maybe my opinion is less valid but to me a break up can be more than a romantic relationship falling apart - its losing friends, loved ones and people you’ve counted on to be there no matter what and this song represents the way one may feel when a constant in their life isn’t there anymore)

Pump up song = Rise up, Andra Day (again another unconventional song choice for the ballardesque tone but this song is an expression of power and of overcoming and when i need pumping up, it’s generally a need for emotional support and preparation so this song takes the cake in musical pep-talks)

Song to get ready to = I am here, p!nk (this song perfectly describes an epic night out so what song better to set the mood for an drunken craziness than a song that empowers and emboldens you to get crazy and have fun. Also P!nk so thats really all the explanation one needs)

First song for a night out = The Greatest Show, The Other Side, From Now On (basically anything from the greatest showman there’ll never be a time in my life when i don’t love that movie with every fibre of my being)

Sad song = Palace, Sam Smith (i have an epic love for Sam Smith, him and Ed Sheeran being my 2 of my favourite singers in the whole wide world but this song really gets me, especially when i’m in the mood for a cry - the lyricism is wonderful, the music, everything. Palace gets to you on a whole other level particularly when you’re feeling down and out)

Cry song = Still The One, Shania Twain (massive meaning for me and my mum, can’t get through that song without crying)

Sleep song = You Are The Reason, Calum Scott (recently discovered but fell in love immediately) and In Case You Didn’t Know by Brett Young (i’m a country gal through and through, particularly fond of the pretty ones)

Thinking song = Funeral, Lukas Graham (kinda morbid but has a nice idea, makes me think about the future and how I’m living my life)

Relaxing song = Dear Life, Delta Goodrum (coz who doesn’t appreciate a little Delta in their lives, and this song is the life anthem for taking a minute to breathe and just re-centre)

Cleaning song = Hunt You Down, Kesha (if i can recommend any song to wiggle your butt when you’re getting down with the vacuum cleaner, it’s this song. When you hear it you’ll understand but seriously, its the folky, country, poppy genius that i never knew i needed until i stumbled across this song. Trust me, the next time you’re cleaning windows listen to this song and the job will become infinitely more enjoyable!)

Road-trip song = Halo, Beyonce (who better to rock a road-trip song than queen B, not that I’m the hugest Yonce fan but you can sing, dance and pretend you’re in a music video all in one with this classic jam)

Childhood song = Follow Me, Uncle Kracker (mum used to sing it to me to fall asleep, we’d sing it in the car and just dance around in the lounge to it. Brings me straight back to being a kid every time i hear it)

Bad mood song = I’m Just a Kid, Simple Plan (i never left my punk pop stage and as the Sandi Thomas song goes “oh i wish i was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair”. Whenever i’m upset or in a bad mood this song makes me want to rock out and slam a guitar or punk a concrete wall with a pillow taped to my hand (coz ow!) but the essence of this song speaks to me when i’m down “i’m just a kid and life is a nightmare”)

Summer song = Body Like a Backroad, Sam Hunt (what a tune, always in the mood for a long drive as the sun sets or a beer on the beach)

Disney song = How Does a Moment Last Forever/Something There (beauty and the beast gets me everytime!) or Kiss The Girl (who doesn’t love a singing crab??)

#EdSheeran #Labyrinth #AndraDay #P!nk #thegreatestshowman #SamSmith #ShaniaTwain #CalumScott #LukasGraham #DeltaGoodrem #Kesha #Beyonce #UncleKracker #SimplePlan #SamHunt #BeautyAndTheBeast #TheLittleMermaid

[ginnyzero]

How much do you want that goal?

In my previous post about fan fiction (and why I love it), I wrote a bit about how fan fiction helped me churn idea after idea and string them together into plots. How there were some ideas out there that were an incredible mish mash that were so crazy you couldn’t help be what the fuck, and hopefully just enjoy the mad crazy and fun for what it was. And hey, you don’t have to enjoy the extreme crazy sides of fan fiction, because everyone likes different things, but those extreme crazy sides are out there with their whacky ideas that usually make me go “why didn’t I think of that?” And then later I remember, that peoples brains work in mysteriously different ways and it’s okay that I didn’t think to crossover Supernatural, Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes. I have my own fun and whacky ideas that make people look at me and go “I couldn’t ever think of something like that? How do you come up with these ideas?”

When I say I’m a writer, people think that’s pretty cool. (And tell me so.) Then, they tell me their idea for a book. Which is great, I love ideas. I’m overtly enthusiastic about ideas. And sometimes they go on a little overlong about them, but I know I’ve droned probably to someone overlong about an idea and hey it isn’t me running my mouth for once so I can be gracious and listen. (I have opinions, okay. I almost always have something to say.) I will try my best to never insult or put down an idea. I’ll be honest and say that something might not be my cup of tea, but if other people like it then that’s great. Go you and go them! And then when I tell them that they should write their idea (even if the execution might be terrible, the idea is important.) They either want me to write it or they just sort of laugh it off and then don’t do anything.

And that makes me think of this strip from Irregular Webcomic. And I’m linking it, because it’s not only the comic itself that is important, but the writing underneath it. Go ahead, click the link, read the comic, read the writing underneath, and then come back. I’ll wait.

You read it. Good. You came back! Better! Thank you. (And please, go ahead and read Irregular Webcomic from the beginning if it interests you. Because I find it awesome! Just finish my post first, please.)

Ideas are great. I love ideas, and I love people who have ideas. We creative types have to stick together. And in some ways, I’m not even talking about creative things. It takes an idea to start a sport. It takes an idea to create the next wave of awesome technology. It took an idea that the world wasn’t flat to sail across the Atlantic Ocean. But ideas, on their own, are just, ideas. They are a concept. They are a seed from which things could grow. Ideas are nothing by themselves. In order for them to become anything, one has to take that next step and do something. And to take that next step, one has to want it.

It’s easy to be dismissive or even derogatory of an idea. “Anyone could do that?” or “That’s stupid.” (Oh how many times have I heard those words? If I had a quarter.) But those ideas, stopped being a concept and became reality because someone wanted and had the creative drive to make their fantasy into something solid and concrete and there. And maybe you in particular don’t want and don’t see the artistic merit in painting an entire canvas a certain shade of red, but there was an artist that did and took the time to meticulously put red paint onto a canvas to get it the precise shade that he wanted and we need to respect that drive and that willpower that pushed him into having that creative force. Don’t degrade that creativity simply because you didn’t do it or can’t see the artistic merit.

I find that I can tell something about a person by how much effort they put into something they say they want. If they want something, they will be out there every day with whatever spare energy they have finding some way to make their wants reality. If they truly want something, they will put the effort into making it come true. And no amount of negativity or nay saying is going to bring them down until they get what they want. Those that truly want something, have spent the time to know the steps to get what they want. And they know that there will be a certain amount of luck and a certain amount of money invested on their end. They know they will hear a lot of “no,” and laughter and “that’s not what we’re looking for at this time.” And they will carry on. They’ll go and make their idea better and try again!

At some point, when people are telling me their ideas, I have to sit there and ask myself, ‘How much do they really want this? What are they doing now that makes me believe that this what they truly want?’ People who aren’t doing this are a waste of my time. I can’t invest my personal energy into cheering on their goals, if they aren’t going to invest their own energy into attaining them! Because it is so easy to put the cart before the horse, as in that web comic, and be thinking ahead to the movie deal or money, when you haven’t even taken the horse out of the barn! It’s all well and good to daydream. The more you visualize something happening, the more likely it is to happen. But without work, or advancement of the idea, you’re never going to see that end result!

It isn’t easy. It is so much easier to stay in motion instead of applying an opposing force to ourselves to change what we’re doing. It’s easy to make excuses. It’s understandable to be afraid of failure and rejection. It takes work and work is hard. And there will be up and downs, there will be some days where whatever it is you want, it comes easy. It gives you energy. And you’re happy and flying high. And other days where it will be all you can do to roll out of bed in the morning, put on your bathrobe, tie yourself in and slog through it. Working at it, means you practice, practice makes you better. And once you’ve carried through with something, gotten past the pain of uncertainty, there is a road ahead of you and you’re ready to hitch that horse to that cart and see where it takes you!

But it involves work. It involves wanting that goal so much that whatever that work is, it is worth it for that end result.

I was attending a party with some of my parent’s friends. They’re good people. They’re dedicated people to a particular craft. They're musicians and musicians are a special brand of people. (In more ways than one.) They might not come up with anything new, but they enjoy what they do and I respect that. And I don’t remember how, but the topic of the choir performance on Sunday came up. And one woman said that no matter how awful or horrible the choir sounded during practice during the week that on Sunday, it was like a miracle and they sounded wonderful. And when I responded along the lines that, no, it was because they put work into it and without that work, the performance would still be bad despite the fact they were in church on Sunday. I’ve been part of and sat through enough bad choir performances to have a little authority on the subject. (I don’t know if I was quite that blunt, I hope not. Cringe. Apologies if I was. I know I wasn’t as articulate as I wanted to be.) I was replied to with a very dismissive “Oh ye of little faith.”

This deeply upset and frustrated me, because to do what these people do on a regular basis, which is to play musical instruments, takes a certain amount of talent, skill, and hours upon hours of practice. They did not become good at their instrument because of a miracle or magic. They wanted to be good at playing an instrument. So they put effort into becoming good. They spent at least an hour or two every day to become as good as they are. To be in a choir is no different. To have all the voices in harmony, on key and singing together as a unit rather than disparate people takes time and practice. Have you listened to professional choirs? You have to audition. You practice every day! To become that good, you don’t do it by not putting in the hours and showing up every day to practice. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be part of the professional choir very long! To be so dismissive of the hard work that it takes to do both things, play an instrument and to sing well, is insulting to the choir (church or professional) and to their own hard work! (The amount of dedication it takes to be an organist for a church makes me dizzy, not only do they practice on their own time during the week, they practice with the choir as well, who meets at least once a week and are practicing songs several weeks, if not months, in advance.) Learning a new piece of music takes time. (Unless you’re a genius or an idiot savant, then I tip my hat to you and applaud.)

I love these people, and I know I wasn’t ever able to articulate why I was so insulted that night. The idea that faith without work will carry a person through to succeed insults everyone who has put their mind to any task that requires practice, be it music, or art, or engineering. It insults people of all walks of life and education. (As my daddy says, it takes four years to become a good machinist. And I say, you also have to want to be a good machinist.) To throw away all that hard work to begin with and those who have done the same amount of work and failed at their goals with a dismissive 'oh, you don't have enough faith,' is deeply offensive and condescending. That a person didn't succeed because they didn't believe hard enough? Belief is not something you can quantify and put in a spoon or chart in hours and minutes of time put into learning or practicing a concrete skill. There could be a hundred and one reasons that they might have failed at this time, but let's not say it was because of lack of faith or belief. (If there was no faith or belief, they probably wouldn't have put themselves out there in the first place!)

By God, yes, you can have faith the size of a mustard seed and move a mountain. It doesn’t mean that mountain is going to be the end result of the choir performance, the group performance as a whole. It could simply be the courage of one individual to get up there, stand in front of a huge group of people and sing, no matter how squeaky, or off key you sound! Faith, is sitting in a room, day after day, writing something and believing that there are others out there that will want to read it. (It is also ego, but thank God for ego or else I wouldn’t have books to read.) And that faith is going to carry you through until you are published one way or another. (Because that is a mountain.) Faith is believing that there are people out there that want to know and care about what you do. Faith is belief that your hard work will pay off. Faith is stepping off that cliff and not knowing there will be something to stop your fall and doing it anyways. Faith is the follow through to the idea, the want, the motivation and the work. Faith is the end game, not the beginning. Kind of like an idea itself. Faith grows. It is something you have or you don’t. You either believe or you don’t believe. Faith and hope can be similar in concept and execution. Hope is the feeling. Faith is the action, (which is funny because hope can be a verb and faith is a noun.)

To become proficient in something, it takes ten thousand hours. And in the beginning, you’re going to fumble and drop your pick, you’re going to be out of key and your voice will quaver, your fingers might tremble. Your words won’t always be the best. With practice, and hard work, and drive, and learning from mistakes, you can get better, to achieve that lofty goal you’ve been dreaming about. And when you’ve reached that goal, you’ve learned that piece of music, you’ve stood up in front of everyone and sang and you’ve written that book. There comes this giddy flush of satisfaction (or the nauseating feeling of misery.) And suddenly, you want to do it again (or if it was a bad experience you swear it off for good. It happens.) And it’s on to the next idea. The next want. The next goal, with faith that there were people who liked your first idea and maybe they won’t like your second idea, but you won’t know until you try.

I didn’t learn this from Irregular Webcomic, though, it really did help crystallize some of what I’d been thinking. I didn’t learn this in college, (unfortunately no one there was quite that deep.) I didn’t glean it from ‘The Writer’s Little Book of Wisdom.’ (My personal writing bible.) Though some of the ideas are there in those pages if you know where to look. I learned it from fan fiction. From putting myself out there, time after time. From braving the uncertainty, from taking that leap that there was someone out there wanting to read my stories. That while my ideas might be stupid or ‘anyone could do that’ in some people’s eyes, those people didn’t matter, because they hadn’t done those ideas and I had! I can look back and see now that my first stories were awful, but after a lot of hard work and focus, hey, I’ve improved drastically. And the end result, that someone wanted to read what I wrote. Someone shared my passions. That reading my stories would make someone feel a little bit better even if it was just for an hour or five minutes that they could forget their troubles. Because writing them distracted me from my troubles. I achieved that goal. And that gave me courage to post another story, because I had faced that uncertainty once and nothing bad had happened, and another story, and another (and oh dear, I was awful wasn’t I.) I was/am a part of something bigger than me! And that was the sweetest satisfaction of all.

And all it takes is an idea, a deep want to motivate you to work and work hard and a little bit of faith.

#Writing #writerblr #writblr #writing is hardwork #you can do it #one step at a time