#great the writers gave me the tools to create a romance that is believable for this character

[kulemii]

mkay, i usually dont do this. i usually mind my own business and shit talk in my head but i'm not going to lie i'm so annoyed, i really need to get it off my chest before i go about this the wrong way.

hating female characters because they dared to be your fave's CANON RI IS NOT CUTE! and at alot of yalls big age, it's kind of embarrassing and pathetic.

i'm 25 and i am into a character that has at least two canon love interests and one that pined after someone. i'm not going to lie and say that that doesn't bother me on a mild jealousy level- i am saying this to put out there that i am NOT shaming any adult for having crushes on their faves and getting a little put off by them having CANON RIs.

I'm not and anyone that knows me would know that. (just wanted to say so in case this reaches anyone that doesn't)

what i AM shaming though is when yall are childish about it and go after these CANON RIs and rip them to shreds because let's face it, it's not you. at this point it has nothing to do with the characters not having enough character development, not having enough time with the character to make it make sense, not having a likeable personality or whatever bullshit yall have used as excuses to rip these typically female characters apart for having a CANON relationship with your faves and i'm tired of being nice about it.

yall sat there and HYPED YUKI UP when she was just an awkward girl that might or might not have had a lil crush on someone- which so many people decided to ignore and box her into the sibling category, just like the rest of the hostesses when it's obvious they all fell for him. and yall like to go 'oh lol those things aren't canon' because it's not in the main story- BITCH IF THE ORIGINAL WRITERS WROTE IT IT'S MOTHERFUCKING CANON! but let a substory or something come up that feeds into whatever fucking idea you've been feeding yourself yall will shout from the roof tops how it's canon and no one can take it from you.. i'm not gonna take it from you, but at some point, i hope you realize how hypocritical you sound.

yall sat there and hyped yuki up FOR YEAAAAAARS and the second she gets casted as kiryu's love interest you wanna bring out the torches and burn her at the stake??? it was never about the character, it's always been about you. and your jealousy that you're too emotionally immature to realize is JUST jealousy and you make it every fucking female character with romantic ties to every fave you've ever had's problem. i mean think about it, if you can sit here and smash characters together that have never so much as stood in the same room as the other, is it really about canon chemistry? it's not and you know it's not and you should learn how to reevaluate your relationship with these characters before you CONTINUE to make a fool of yourself because it's pathetic and i no longer have the patience to rationalize what you 'really mean' anymore.

something i want yall to remember when yall get mad at these girls for being there instead your selfship oc or another character you are clearly attracted to, at the end of the day, that's HER man. and YOU are stepping in where you dont belong. not her.

grow the fuck up.

and where i stand on this personally? oryo and ryouma are a cute ass couple and it's the ONE time we get to see kiryu end up with someone and be HAPPY about it! oryo and ryouma had a whole year of history together before you even saw them and when you did see them, they had something!! they had plot! you even got to spend time with her unlike other LIs. WHY NOT BE HAPPY FOR YOUR FAVE???? and if oryo existing bothers you soooo much, dont make it her fucking problem. write an oc and ship him with them but dont spend 12 pages bitching about why oryo wasn't good enough for him as a RI.

#might lose friends with this one that sucks but whatever man im tired #i have no problem with not wanting to acknowledge canon if you're looking to ship your own self or ocs with characters that have canon RIs #this isn't about shipping at all #it's about yall losing your breath at the keyboard typing up these bullshit longwinded ass assaults #on why every female character ever isn't good enough for your fave #it's sad and pathetic and i'm tired of it for real #imma start blocking people over this because i dont wanna see it anymore #delete later #i'm not saying you have to be a fan of a canon romantic or seemingly relationship #because you dont you can deadass pretend they dont even exist so long as your not being a fucking moron about it #hell i've written an entire love story for y0majima with my own oc because he was my fave and did i go and rip makoto to shreds? #or even acknowledge their relationship? NO! but i did mind my own business and leave that girl alone because it has nothing to do with her #when i see canon romance but i have no intention of acknowledging it in my work i get happy that i have something canon to work from #great the writers gave me the tools to create a romance that is believable for this character #and i say 'thanks for letting me copy your homework g' and then i mind my own business afterwards'

[buildingrelationshipsinanarchy]

A New Intimacy Model

So what spurred this project is a culmination of a few things. Namely, frustration with the imprecise and incomprehensible words, Platonic, Romantic, and Sexual. The English language hasn’t been great at adapting the words for personal relationships as our times and values change.

I fell into Anarchism only very recently, stumbling into the language of ‘relationship anarchy’ through the internet in discussion with forms of polyamory years ago when I started this blog. Over the last year, I’ve been getting into radical politics and finding how my un-politicized opinions were validated, and then stretched the more I learned and studied up. While I’m still learning more about Radical politics, Anarchism, Marxism, Queer and Feminist theory specifically, the more I wanted to link some of my perspectives on intimate relationships with these political and theoretical texts.

“The Personal is Political.” - Carol Hanisch, Feminist Author.

@mythr1der​ wrote a post detailing a bit of the frustration I also share in regards to how the Dichotomy between Platonic and Sexual (which almost all definitions of Romance boil back into), leave much to be desired when discussing attraction, desire, intimacy and relationships in general. I believe that this very simple dichotomy reflects, oddly enough, capitalism and the history of the role of state power in culture. I rant a little bit about it as a response to @mythr1der​‘s post here. 

It’s long, and incomplete, but I proposed an idea of just building entirely new words, so we can build an entirely new map for talking about love, desire, attraction, and relationships that actually discuss what its like to be next to someone you like to be next to! 

What is intimacy? It’s closeness right? To be near some ‘intimate’ part of another person, or them near something meaningful about why you’re you. I wanted to start this series by talking about what it means to be close to someone. If you remember my birthday without Facebook, that might make me feel a bit special. But if you remember how badly I was abused by an old friend, its because I trusted you enough to share some of the sadness that I’m not as loud about.

Intimacy isn’t always trauma, sometimes its tears of joy hearing that your cousin is out of prison, or the laughter of your friends. Being close to each other in a hyper-digitized age is a bit tricky, but phone calls, facetime, snapchat are only some of the tools we use to keep each other updating on what we’re feeling. Whether its about our love life, sex life, work life, or home life, just sharing that information can be real special, and bonding.

When we say that we have friends or that we are [Queer] Platonic Partners, does that mean we’ve decided how often we’re gonna talk or what we’re gonna talk about? What if we just send each other memes or rant about politics? Am I supposed to devalue those interactions because they aren’t the person I’m crying on the phone with?

Intimacy can be as deep as childhood scars and as simple as surprising me with my favorite snack. It all just means you know who I am, what I like, and what I care about. I want to intentionally forge those connections. And this why I set these definitions first. 

Other Words:

A Daekkon (n.) would be person/partner whom you’ve developed intentionally this kind of relationship with. 

If you desired this kind of relationship with a certain person, you’d be feeling Daekeen (adj.) for/about that person.

People who are desiring or actively doing these activities together are Daekkoning (v.). 

This would be understood as Daekkonic (adj.) behavior; as in, “My roomate isn’t super talkative with me, but is deakkonic (adj.) with Sandra from the Mosque.” 

“Tom is going through it, he’s felt deakkonically (adv.) deprived since the move.”

________________________________________________________________

In our sex-negative, ironically repressed culture, we seem to think that if you’re touching your bodies together at all, it means *something*.  I want to remove that idea. I want to reclaim physical affection. I want to be touch and be touched by others. I don’t want my afab friends who have experienced some sort of sexual violence in their lives, to ever feel weary about the fact that I’m physically affectionate. It’s been my #1 Love Language for the last 10 years. 

Fighting r*pe culture is a full-time fight, but I think adding a word, and therefore an idea[l], can be useful in reclaiming safety, and boundaries regarding bodily autonomy, for all of us. Clear communication and respected boundaries and asking consent for everything are the bedrock we need to continually practice. And as trust builds, I believe this could be very useful theoretically tool for improving the quality of our relationships and help create clearer discussion about our individual boundaries, needs, and desires. I feel like this leads me to a relevant question. What activities are inherently platonic, romantic or sexual? Is holding hands inherently romantic when almost all of us have done it with a friend? What about those of us who are religious or spiritual and have held hands with members of church, mosque or synagogue; do you think we’re out here non-stop blushing at the Pastor? Or when we held hands with family members? Doesn’t sound like it holds up, huh? 

What about snuggling a roommate? Holding a teammate while celebrating a victory? The kiss my bestfriend gave me on our shared birthday dinner? Are we left to through our Aro and Ace friends’ out of the discussion, just because our culture has bad takes on sex and romance as the only forms possible of significant physical touch? Physical touch is such an important way to communicate love and affection, as well as care, concern, and comfort. They don’t get to cast their shadow on this space anymore!

Other Words:

If you had this desire for someone, or wanted to approach cultivating these forms of affection in a relationship, you could say you’re feeling Phaddish (adj.) for that person.

.Participating or initiating acts of a non-sexual physical intimacy Phadronic (adj.) quality are said to be phade-ing/phading (v.).

A Phadrone (n.) could be the name of a person/partner you share this kind of relationship with. 

Phadroning (v.) would the act of cultivating this kind of intimacy with another person. 

Phadronically (adv.) could describe a certain level of intimacy implicit in a physical touch between to particular people.

________________________________________________________________

Now lets talk about Sex. That’s the thing the everyone’s mind always gravitates to when discuss words like, intimacy, attraction, desire. It’s the thing we want to stay away from when you use the Platonic or Friendly. But, lets be real. Haven’t many of us had sex with people didn’t even consider friends? Or people who became our “Strictly Platonic” friends after we may have had sex, once or several times, with them?

People who gravitate toward polyamory or non-monogamy tend have had a “hoe-phase.” The boundary between friend and lover, or partner and fuckbuddy have been blurred in a good chunk of people’s lives. Non-monogamous or not, I think it’s useful to talk directly about our sexual experiences, desires, fantasies, and how different it can be with different people, or in different stages of our lives. But what makes an experience sexual? Maybe that sounds redundant or obvious; I mean, it’s got the word SEX in it, maybe that’s got something to do with it? But maybe not... 

Lets ask an odd question. Is sex inherently sexual? Who wouldn’t assume the answer is automatically yes? Well, my first thought is to talk to those in the Adult Entertainment industry or friends of ours who are sex-workers, in whatever capacity. Is every client sexy or shoot erotic? Those of us who have sex, have we never been doing it and been bored through most of at least one experience? 

If sex is inherently sexual, why do we have so many Sexual Health Educators, Marriage Counselors, Pornstars, Yoga Teachers, Personal trainers and Writers telling us how to have sexy sex? Dating Coaches and Websites, telling us how we are getting something that’s supposed to sound so easy wrong.

I’ve come to the opinion that sex isn’t about body parts, genitalia, certain body motions, or even clothing [or lack thereof]. I believe that sex, or eroticism, is all about the context and the people involved. There’s nothing inherently sexy about fruit, or food in general, but if woman eats a banana in public, there are at least several men in area thinking of something than her healthy food choices. 

This is why talking about sex directly is good. And understanding it as an energy that you imbue to any activity or circumstance, could help have better sex; and and on the flip-side, show us how we may need to more aware of how we may take up space with our body language. I do also feel, that in part, some of our Ace friends (those who aren’t sex repulsed), may be able to find some resonance with this model; sex doesn’t have to feel passionate or any particular way at all (other than good?), because sex isn’t about sexiness, but about human connection and pleasure.

Other Words:

Serotic (adj.) activities include any activity that is engaged due to, or is infused with, sexual desire and/or erotic intention. It also describes the type of desire you’re feeling for another person. 

A Serato (n.) is any person you engage in serotic activities or feelings with. 

An activity that was originally un-serotic (adj.), but became sexually or erotically charged, we could described as having become Serotically (adv.) charged. 

When you are cultivating or charging an act with serotic energy, you are Seroticizing (v.) that activity

________________________________________________________________

Lately, especially since diving into Radical Politics, I find less and less desire in defining Who I Am as a part of a relationship unit. It’s an overlay from monogamy, The Couple being the only social unit that is recognized, as it’s necessary to the Nuclear Family; a super important thing for Capitalism to sustain itself. The relationships I cultivate with others, with whatever forms of intimacy or interactions therein, cant be understood by that model. I am more than my interactions with a handful of people; I am a human person, and my engagement with the world isn’t actually reducible to whether or not I’m having sex with someone or not. 

We’ve talked about multiple forms of intimacy, and some of the desires or interests associated with them. Have you noticed that in the desire, or need, to discuss relationships on a basis of, ‘sex: yes or no?’, that we haven’t talked about the webs that form because we are all reliant on each other to survive? Not everyone in your community or workplace or online spaces, you’ll get to know or talk to. Do they, as people, matter less because they aren’t in your contacts list or your DM’s?  

This is a space where not a lot of us to tend think or engage as much. An easy word to discuss this space is community. But is a community the people or the place you spend your time, whether online or off? Is the community the place you live and your neighbors? Is it the people who may share some of your identifiers or face similar forms of oppression, despite living in a different city, state, country?

We are multi-dimensional beings, and with the use of technology, there are so many ways to form relationships, and share resources. I think the ‘community’ is any space you find yourself in, which means that mutual aid is something you are always able to engage in. Whether it’s feeding the homeless guys who hang out by the intersection, or dropping a few bucks in a trans kid’s venmo, mutual aid is so much easier.

But what if that feels so inconsequential? It’s not! But it does, from time to time, feel like the problems of the world are so big, and that you and so many you know are suffering in ways you wish you could help. Well, community organizing is always happening somewhere, online and off. It becomes important to join up with others in order feel like we can actually make a positive impact on the lives of others. We don’t have to wait on a government who’s interest isn’t ours, don’t have to wait for some politician to fail on a promise to Make Things Better.

We have each other, and we are all we really have. At the end of the day, all of our concepts are man-made. COVID-19 showed us how drastically things could be different if the people in power made decisions that actually benefited us. A lot of us understand the need to do something. Capitalism says that competition is what drove human kind into evolution, the fight for survival in a meaningless, terrifying world. Anarchism, as I’m learning, throws the whole idea in the trash where it belongs.

Peter Kropotkin, whose been called both the Godfather and Santa Claus of Anarchism, penned in Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution (1902), “under any circumstances sociability is the greatest advantage in the struggle for life.”

We are better off together. Capitalism and the property relationships in our compulsively monogamous society try to tell us other wise. We don’t have to follow that model.

Other Words:

To Mudshop (v.) is to build a mudship with a particular person, organinzation, or community; Mud-shopping (v.). 

A Mudshipper (n.) is an individual in a mudship of any scale. 

I’ve said a lot. I hope this reads as accessible to as many people as it can be. I built this because I want to tell the people in my life why I love them as dearly as I do. And that I’d love to build relationships with as many awesome, lovely people as I can.

If you try to use the words Romantic and Platonic while you look at this post, and find it almost impossible, I’ve done my job.

I hope those words die along with oppressive ideas they uphold.

#relationship anarchy #polyamory #solo poly #intimacy #love #relationships #relationship dynamics #alternative relationships #communism #marxism #collectivism #Anarchist #anarchy #anarchism #aromantic #aromantism #aromance #asexual #asexuality #ace #aro #QIM #queered intimacy model

[juleswolverton-hyde]

The Words upon the Window Pane | Chanyeol

Genre: Smut, Angst (only a wee bit), PwP

Pairing: Auhor!Chanyeol x Reader

Warnings: Top!/Dom!Chanyeol, fingering, unprotected wall sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses!), subtle dom/sub themes, swearing/cussing, dirty talk, love bites  

Summary: The relation between Logic and Passion is often difficult for artists and certainly so when the involved parties dabble in words. Because language has the power to conceal the truth, to say what otherwise might not be said.

The words upon the window pane.

However, one night, a mouth is brave enough to at last utter them.

And to bring about unexpected consequences.

Author’s Note: The title is derived from the play of the same name by W.B. Yeats, who is, as you may or may not know, one of my favourite poets and greatest inspirations as of late. Furthermore, this is the first EXO smut piece to be written by this wee birdy, which hopefully shall not disappoint more experienced EXO-Ls.

All in all, I hope you enjoy the work of a feather.

Making a living as an author is not easy, especially when starting out and having only a single book to one’s name. However, Voice is not merely a literary tool to use in order to be heard, since it can also realistically become audible when speaking. All in all, it remains a fluent phenomenon and so it is of great benefit to storytellers to have mastery over it. To provide experiences that ignite vivid imagery thanks to simply creating an ambience with sound when not craftily doing the same on the page. Such is the talent of the author rapidly grown popular online due to a deep voice and funny personality, thousands of women drooling over the tailored experiences provided to them on multiple platforms.

But none of them has ever gotten the real deal, their sensual emotions remaining one-sided whereas those of a newbie novelist are answered.

Sometimes.

The relationship started after the romance department of the same publishing house contracting the famous erotic writer took a bold chance by offering a contract to an unknown name having just completed a manuscript about an innocent coffee shop romance. During the meeting with the assigned editor, icy pale locks wandered into the modern cafeteria and toward the table where a conversation about the next steps towards actual publishing took place, sitting down wordlessly and merely observing. Withal, basalt irises blatantly ignored rapidly flushing rosy cheeks on the adjacent seat, focused intently on the ones across the table that tried to maintain a steady composure.

Yet it crumbled bit by bit as genuine interest was shown during a spontaneous proposal to drink coffee together sometime after the editor held a brief round of introductions at the end of the important chat, which had gained an unintentional third participant. Piece by stiff piece got chipped away over warm beverages thereafter, talking about upcoming manuscripts and the professional giving a newbie a couple of tips to not stumble and, perhaps, fall without hopes of getting up.

And were entirely smoothed out among the sheets after the daring kiss when goodbye came on the first proper dinner date, Chanyeol leaning in without hesitance to rapidly turn a chaste caress of the cheek into sin once having been escorted safely to the front door of one’s own roof.

To make a heart fall for one which is unbound, according to the rumours spoken by the female tongues which all supposedly possess a sensual experience of sorts concerning the novelist. Notwithstanding, one can talk but not say anything, let alone the truth. Withal, the gossip has expanded while being in a strange type of relationship, always being the first to propose something to do and bleached smooth strands simply agreeing if the busy schedule allows it, of course. Spontaneous proposals for a movie night or trying out a new café are one-sided, the first time drinking coffee together being the sole occasion on which it came from the distant beloved. However, during the opportunities to be together, it never fails to feel genuine.

Sincere in spite of the mouths believing it is merely about sex, warning to get out now before it is too late.

The logical ship has left the safe haven. 

It is too late.

Regardless of bravely sailing in an individual sea, the doubt can never be kept at bay since it lurks as a kraken in the darker waters coming up on the journey every now and again. After all, the fans of the deep voice catering supposedly “exclusive” experiences for them would loathe the fact their imaginary lover actually has a girlfriend. Moreover, the serpents roaming the office keep telling tales that steadily grow arms and legs, each limb stemming from the period in which minds were apart.

Those spans of time increase in frequency.

Lunch grows lonelier.

Days are spent in isolation.

Reassuring words do not hold significance on the floor of the publishing house nor on those of one of our apartments on a lucky night.

No acknowledgement.

All there is, is vagueness.

Just something. 

Something.

Undefinable.

Certainly not pretty or comforting.

Empty. Yes, that is the best way to describe it.

Hollow, lonely, one-sided.

Unrequited.

And it takes away the hunger at the dinner table beneath the luxurious roof, the expensive wine and home-cooked meal using high-quality ingredients holding as much inherent value as a shilling in the gutter. So the fork is put down, the bite laboriously swallowed and focus averted from the porcelain plate presenting little yet seeming too stacked.

‘Baby, are you alright?’ Head cocked to the side in wonder, Chanyeol stops mid-bite, sensing something is off.

Something.

Always something is off. 

Right now, it finds a voice in a lowly muttered remark as disappointed fingers shove the still full plate and cutlery away as far as possible. The stomach can live with the stone in it, like the heart slowly freezing itself thanks to the vicious tales of betrayal can continue to exist in ice. After all, even this week’s audio consisting of ‘’sexy’’ unboxing ramblings and testing out toys sent by mistresses somewhere else is but a mere drop in the overflowing bucket. ‘I’m not hungry.’

The limit has been reached.

End of the line.

Of this.

Us.

If there even ever has been a happy chronicling couple.

‘You’ve barely eaten.’ The unsuspecting fork picks up a perfectly grilled asparagus, endeavouring the feed a soul starved of happiness. A perfectly useless attempt at making things right for the culprit knows very well what goes on behind the scenes that are enacted every time at the workplace, the little faked though credible moments of two youngsters being solely friends but perhaps a bit more. No one knows for sure, but they do assume. Gossip has a way of being heard, even when feigning to ignore it in favour of personal fantasies. ‘At least have a few more vegetables.’

‘Did it...’ A wry smile carves itself on a face which is on the edge of tears, remembering every word said at the collective coffee machine in the cafeteria alongside the lovesick comments on every digital upload and equally sensual reaction to a novel novel. How can the detailed storyteller not notice the burning water droplets searing their way to the lash line? 

Begging. 

Begging to fall.

To be noticed.

Because they have had to hide so bloody long in loneliness.

Denied.

A significant detail.

‘Did it mean anything?’ God forbid that the words spilt between the sheets, on dates and in secrecy in the coffee corner did not hold any meaning. Withal, knowing how writers are for the craft is part of one’s own personality, there are no better tricksters. Words can be made pretty, cunningly serving to conceal the ugly truth. 

‘What? Did what mean anything? Babe, what are you on about?’ The uncomprehending gravely worried furrowed brows relax, raven irises softening as they discover the tale of the Ice Queen’s heart and damnably igniting the thawing process. Looks can kill, as is the word on the street, and the big pale wolf knows it judging by the gentle smile only reserved for his foolish mistress. ‘You’ve been listening to gossip again. Look, I’ll say it again and I still mean it. I love you, Y/N. Only you. You ought to know that by now.’

The supposedly well-meaning palm resting between the abandoned dishes is not lovingly covered, digits remaining apart instead of entwining in blissful union. Instead, the chair is pushed back as the napkin that formerly rested on the lap is viciously thrown onto the table surface. Voice is barely controlled, dangerously close to cracking yet forced to maintain steady fury. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me! I know this means nothing.’

‘Means nothing? This means nothing?’ The actions are fiercely mimicked, the pleading tone in speech overruling the fabricated calm demeanour. ‘It does, babe. It really does.’

‘Yeah, right. As if you haven’t said that to one of those horny dolls who gladly listen to their fantasy boyfriend or read about all the wonderful things you’d do to them. What did you call them again? Your honeys?’ There is no stopping the jeering guided by the incomparable ache rendering every nerve paralyzed, an alternative ego who feels betrayed rising with every second of the outburst. 

In the end, she, too, is one of many.

I am nothing. 

‘Babe, please-’ Agonizingly following footsteps attempt to reason, begging to stay for a proper vis-á-vis to resolve this “problem” while making their way to the hallway. 

Evidently without success. ‘Oh, piss off. I’m sure you had others in the time I was gone.’ The searing tears on lashes in the wee hall finally stream down the cheeks, lost in bittersweet memories of a time ruled by naivety. When every touch was so certain of love, felt protective and was believed to be sincere. 

Notwithstanding, that was then. 

This is now. 

‘It really meant something to me, you know? I fucking gave myself to you because I stupidly trusted you, Chan! You were my first.’ A shake of the head brings about enough steadiness to remain coherent in speech, to at least keep a total breakdown at bay a little longer. The battle is almost won, a little bit more perseverance needs to be put in before all might become actually well. ‘But I could’ve, no, should’ve known better. So fuck off and leave me alone.’

Just as a hand reaches towards the knob of the front door, a firm palm wraps painfully around the left wrist. Once that power was loved, but now it is just that: hurt. 

And it wants… needs to be left behind.

To make it pay for the solitude.

The agony needs to face the consequences.

‘No.’

The pain in the shape of the man who was believed to make up the world.

Stupid.

We both only have our stories to speak honestly in because they are the sole place where it is possible to be true. 

Funny how a broken heart ignites a sense of creativity to exploit and there is a sudden haste to make use of it. Or so the mind wants this to be the reason behind the futile struggle for freedom for the real reason is the simple need to get away before breaking the character of the hard-headed sneering Ice Queen and leave oneself in fragments on the battlefield. ‘Let. Me. Go.’

A vicious tug makes feet stumble away from the entryway and slam into the wall opposite the stairs, Chanyeol’s face mere inches away and obsidian irises burning with sorrowful rage that has grown from incomprehension. All acting halts at once, alarmed breath coming out ragged as the powerful gentleman is sought frantically on a quietly raging beautiful expression. ‘I won’t. Not until you finally listen to me and know who you belong to, young lady.’ 

Slender digits clad in a chic ink-black jacket roughly push aside underwear, unapologetically disappearing beneath the skirt to exert sexual dominance as lips powerfully nullify all chances at protest. ‘This is mine. Only mine. All I can think about these days, so much so I can’t even write without giving you a role in my novel.’

The possessive growling fuels the heat below, slowly reducing the hurtful stretch, as all vocabulary is lost in the marks left behind on the throat by stark white teeth. Miraculously, the ability to resist the temptation remains although it falters and starts to stutter in the strong secure warmth of a familiar palm at the end of the spine. ‘I- I don’t be- believe you.’

‘Who do you think is more credible?’ A rough mind-boggling thrust goes paired with the branding being interrupted to snarl against a slightly open mouth, dominant despite oddly affectionately resting foreheads against one another and chuckling as haphazard fluttery palms rest on broad shoulders. ‘The man who loves you or some women you don’t even know?’

In spite of being barely able to respond, a piece of hateful Logic remains and is capable of jeering and mocking the question that should have served to set things right. ‘But y- you could’ve fucked.’

‘I didn’t. Listen to me, young lady.’ The hand that formerly rested on the small of the lower back rises to envelop the throat, forcing a lock of gazes while enchantingly cutting off access to air. ‘Ever since we met, I’ve been yours. I’d never give anyone else a role in my novels because nobody inspires me like you do.’

‘D- Don’t stop.’ There is too much deliria to persist in protesting, each movement beneath fabric erasing the thought of resisting the platinum wolf as soon as it arises. Instead, it gives rise to memories of beautiful naive nights that make up the horror and delight of an insane mistress of letters, both inside the pages and outside.

Throwing the heart back into bittersweet love. 

‘Ah, there she is. There’s the helpless little slut I know.’ With an ashamedly wet noise, slim fingers undo the bodily connection that had been greedily gone along with, leading to an inevitable displeased whine that evokes a lovely dark chuckle.

A nudge of the nose asks to follow the focus of the seemingly only sane mind, see what the writer wants to be noticed without resorting to loathsome spoon-feeding. It is all in the details, that is where the heart of the tale lies. ‘See that?’ 

Lashes flutter innocently as gaze wanders lower and lower to restricting dusk-shaded denim, wordlessly remarking on the considerable outlined shape that the idiotic heart and persona meant to have walked out the door greatly want to exploit. ‘Only you do that to me, Y/N.’ An almost sweet peck on the forehead turns attention upward briefly before receiving another on the lips, after which a command makes hands act in too enthusiastic desirable greed. ‘Undo the zipper.’

It takes little time nor effort to force down sturdy and elastic fabric to bare burning desire to the chill air in the hallway. And it takes even less than that very same moment to be pinned against the wall once again, thighs supported by iron hands promising to never let go, and directly connect in body and soul. 

Willingly.

Beautifully.

‘Fuck, every time is like the first. I remember our, grm, hrm, first night. How you begged me to go harder-’ the speed accelerates, snarls growing more and more savage with every advance as behaviour, too, becomes wonderfully harsher, ‘rough you up. All the while acting like an innocent doe, turning me on. Mewling, pinned to the bed, forced to take me. God, I love it when you’re like that. Helpless. Powerless. Submissive.’ 

Every word is accentuated by an animalistic thrust, a sweet kiss on the side of the neck contrasting with the teeth leaving behind plum marks of possession at equal intervals. A low rumble of delight at platinum locks being pulled on vibrates in the buff chest lovingly keeping the spine against the wall, rejoicing in the flowing waterfall of mere meek noises. 

Exactly as we were during the first night.

Loving now as we had before. 

Honestly. 

Snarling sweet nothings against skin while erasing every thought in the chase for the satisfaction of primal desire. When tears of analyzed sadness turned into those of unadulterated pleasure. ‘Crying as you take my cock deep inside that dripping little pussy.’

‘Cha- Chanyeol-’ There are no words to break through the haze of bittersweet nostalgia, leaving the sentence unfinished. It does not matter for all focus is turned towards reaching temporary enlightenment as fast as possible in the most savage manner. 

‘Cum on that cock, baby. Cream that fucking cock.’

Any sense of resistance that somehow managed to linger, loathing Logic deeming the act wrong in every aspect and begging for liberation, is erased in an instant as the command is pressed onto firm lips. 

It is wonderful. 

Incredibly gorgeous.

Having Chanyeol wrap his storytelling palm around the throat once more as the other presses bodies together until there cannot possibly be any distance left. Wolfish grunts fall from cushiony lips, chanting maddening “mine, mine, mine”s, while sprinting during the final bit of the primitive race, soon reaching the white light found between shivering thighs. 

Who are crying silently in a paradoxical mixture that cannot be kept alive consisting of sensual delight, heartbroken self-hatred and rage directed towards loved pale locks. 

Tears to, fortunately, be noticed once reason returns enough to no longer be under the influence of the desirable beast beneath the skin. Henceforth, it is the incredible author who affectionately wipes away the droplets running over the cheeks as onyx irises soften in comprehension of pain. ‘Hey, don’t cry, Y/N. Remember what I promised you?’ 

A head shake shows ignorance because there have been a great number of promises until now, which is acknowledged by the low chuckle that never fails to allow the usual guard to be let down and now disrupts the quiet panting betraying a sliver of glad exhaustion. The simple sound never fails to make the chest puff a little in pride and veins to bask in a loving warmth, even after being frozen in place without hopes of crumbling thanks to the vivid rumours floating around the office. ‘I know I have promised you a lot, but one thing is that I’d never make you cry because I’d never dare to break your heart. I genuinely love you, seriously am head over heels for you. Can you believe me when I say that?’

It is hard to respond negatively when bodies are still one and foolishly trusted palms envelop the cheeks, resulting in wavering speech on the verge of cracking. Withal, a little bit of strength is gathered from the tight grip on defined biceps engraved with ink. ‘I wa- want to, but... the gossip...’

‘Listen.’ A long tender kiss muffles the sobs aching to be released alongside the gasp at the sudden hollow feeling when the physical spell is lifted. Another one asks for focus on talking things over instead of paying attention on the faint sound of liquid dripping onto the hallway tiles. ‘You crying makes me want to cry because it hurts me to see you like this. It really does, babe. And people will always talk, but, perhaps, it might help if we go public? I have an interview soon.’

‘People will think I’m only dating you for your money.’ No matter if a statement will be made, the way of thought lies outside the influence of words. Authors know this first and foremost for each sentence that is penned down fails to fully convey what might be going on in vivid imagination and thus fails to be entirely understood. 

A bittersweet smile tugs on the corners of the mouth as messy snow white locks fall obscure the sight of lips drawn into a stern line speaking melancholically, mocking oneself. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you’d do.’

With more fierceness than expected, an answer to the rhetorical assumption bursts from a panicked mouth uncensored, clutching the soft fabric of clothes as if not doing so will induce an unbridgeable abyss. ‘But I don’t!’

‘I know that, Y/N. I know.’ Thumbs start to caress the sides of the face, somberly smoothing the anxious sorrow in self-reflection. ‘You know I hate losing, be it games or bets, but-  but I- I-‘ Breaths grow short as tears start to brim in the corner of beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Hands fall away from the cheeks to wrap around the middle, the waist caught in a sturdy grip. Foreheads rest against each other and the arms of a claimed mistress wrap around the neck, fingertips playing with the pale strands at the back. ‘I would scorn myself if I’d lose you.’

‘You’ll lose readers if we go public.’ After all, not everyone enjoys a real life romance and certainly not those imagining one individual as their partner while he is, in truth, already faithfully bonded to another woman. 

‘Doesn’t matter, I don’t care. If they’re true fans, they’ll be happy for us.’ Chanyeol’s voice has renovated its ocean deep steadiness, tiny lights appearing out of nowhere to illuminate a sudden bright cheery idea in a nightly gaze creating a bit of distance. ‘You know what? I’ll buy you a ring and a matching one for myself so everyone can see you’re mine.’ A palm shows itself from behind the small of the back to grab the left wrist and trace over the second-to-last digit. ‘To wear on this finger.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Yes.’ The breathless chuckle is strangely melancholic yet delighted, the curious combination taking over demeanour entirely. ‘Yes, of course. Anything to keep you with me.’ The mere embrace suddenly turns into an inescapable hug, broad shoulders blocking out the world that wants to be temporarily forgotten. ‘I want you with me, only you. Please, stay with me. Here.’ The nose often kissed in the morning or cheekily out of sight of the publishing house staff nuzzles the side of the neck, whispering against the warm skin. ‘I want you to move in.’

‘Is that a wish or a command? I’m my own person, you know?’ The weak attempt at humour is seemingly appreciated, Chan tangibly chuckling before sighing in relief when being kissed on the top of the head. 

‘There she is, there’s my good clever girl.’ Foreheads come to rest against each other once more in the air scented by whatever remains of dinner, perspiration and our perfumes combined, creating a weird musky howbeit fruity undertone. The chin is lifted by a curled finger after calmly being put to rest against the wall instead of being fully at the mercy of the writer’s engraved arms. ‘But you know very well what I mean, young lady.’

‘I do,’ fingertips bashfully run over the side of the storyteller’s neck, leaving behind a growling trail of anticipating goosebumps before rising to comb through pale strands, ‘sir.’

‘Don’t.’ 

A peck. 

‘Tease.’ 

A kiss. 

‘Me like that.’ 

Lip caught between teeth. 

And freed once having clearly asserted dominance. ‘I’m yours.’ Although the inquiring peck on the cheek does not partake in the sensual teasing but is severe in character. ‘And you’re mine?’

Catching on to the need for credibility, the erotic novelist acknowledges it while sweetly yet sincerely murmuring. ‘Entirely yours. Not just in stories or audios, in real life as well. As long as possible, until we no longer breathe. This I promise.’

And thus this part of our tale ends, the fragment of the middle part leading to the end.

Of that which ink cannot fully capture on paper, in sounds or on skin.

Withal, it is not necessary because we have each other for inspiration and retellings.

Musing.

In love.

In medias res. 

#ksmutclub #EXO #EXO smut #EXO x Reader #Chanyeol #Park Chanyeol #LOEY

[phoenixfeatherquillwriting]

10 Questions Tag

Thanks for including me, Jake @homesteadchronicles! I was so pleased to see you show love to Kasumi in your answer set. 💙

1. When you find a book at the store, what about it makes you decide to buy it or put it back on the shelf? 

I read the back summaries first, and then I read the first chapter if I can, to see if I like the characters and narrative voice. Ociasonally, a really interesting title will grab me, but I don’t notice much in terms of aesthetic, like the cover?

2. What would your book’s ideal cover look like, should you have access to any artist you’d want and any resources you would need to make it a reality?

Oof, I’ve never really thought about this because I never really considered publishing my stories. But I really enjoyed doing the character challenges and lyrics edits, so I might take inspiration from those? Also, Chloe @toboldlywrite made me an excellent banner for 4TAG which would make a great cover! My other friend Inky @inkdropsonroses made me a Constellan alphabet, so I might translate the title into that on a cover for Equexia-verse!

3. If you could rewrite one story - be it a book, game, movie, show, etc. - which would it be and why?

A lot of my existing characters come into being because I liked a character in a book or show, but didn’t like the way their arc was written or where the plot took them, or thought they were underutilized in terms of potential! I also use AUs for this purpose, dropping my OCs into other stories. I’ve been working on a sort of side project right now that both Inky and Chloe already know about, rewriting portions of Star Trek Voyager in order to add to and re-imagine parts of the story of Seven of Nine. (Thank you Star Trek Picard for bringing her back 💙)

4. Have you ever given a story a second chance and liked it better the next time through? What caused your opinion to change?

I’ve given up on Equexia-verse for long stretches before coming back to it and doing reworks to make myself enjoy it again. Being stuck usually means I need to rework some plot, draw in more influences from another genre, or do some character work.

5. What do you believe endears an audience to a character?

I can’t really speak for an entire audience, but I’m drawn to characters who have strong traits that can both make me endeared and upset with them! I like characters who are in conflict with different parts of themselves, and who can be alternately their own savior or their own worst enemy.

6. What kind of romances do you prefer to read about and/or watch unfold? (Soft and shy, hot and sexy, slow burn, enemies to lovers, etc.)

All of these have their merits and I’ll read or watch any, depending on my mood! I think in my own stuff I tend most towards enemies to lovers or very soft.

7. Which AUs are your guilty pleasures?

If I like a setting from another work, I’ll throw my characters in there just for the heck of it. For example, besides my Seven of Nine project, I’ve done some work with pirates and sirens loosely based on Pirates of the Caribbean, the world of the Maleficent films, and Titanic. If I have to choose a genre type, I do mythological retellings and superheroes AUs.

8. If only one age demographic would ever read your books, which would you choose and why?

I think my story would fit well into the YA and NA spheres, but that might just be because those are what I’ve preferred reading for a while.

9. If you could pay homage to one person in your life through your stories and/or characters, who would it be and why?

I would want to pay homage to some of my writer friends who first gave me the courage to share my hobby with others.

10. If every reader walked away from your story having been changed in one significant way, what would you want it to be and why?

I would want them to know that there’s a place for any type of character with any type of background, and that they shouldn’t be afraid to include the people amd things they would most want to read about in their own creative works.

Questions for Others

1. Do you conciously take inspiration from authors or books you love, or from your genres? Or do you actively try to avoid it?

2. Do you write fanfiction, do roleplaying, or other kinds of fan activity? How do these things influence the way you create original work? Do you feel they’ve given you valuable “tools” in your “creative toolbox?”

3. Do you use WorldAnvil (or something like it) for worldbuilding purposes, or do you prefer to use your own methods/systems for worldbuilding?

4. How do you choose your characters’ appearences? Do you use generators, choose face claims, make sketches, or something else?

5. What are your favorite tropes to read about or watch? Are they the same as the tropes you yourself most like to use in your writing?

6. Do you have a network of writer friends offline, such as a school club, writing workshop partners, etc.?

7. When looking for inspiration for a story, are you more likely to be drawn to visual or auditory elements? (Ex: would you browse through picture prompts, listen to music, seek out a written prompt, or something else?)

8. Are the names of your characters and the places in your world important to you? How do you choose them?

9. Do you utilize any personality types or tests to determine your characters’ personality, like Meyers-Briggs, enegrams, character archetypes, the four temperaments, alignment charts, the elements, Hogwarts houses, or even various types of astrology (Western Zodiac, Celtic tree, Chinese zodiac, etc.?)

10. What is your favorite part of worldbuilding? (Ex: building cultures, mapmaking, history and timeline work, making conlangs, religion and mythology, plant and animal making, magic and technology systems...)

I don’t know who all has been tagged, so ANYONE CAN PLAY!

#tag games #dove’s writing process #get to know the blogger #writeblr #mine

[theshinobiway]

Isn’t it weirder to ship the characters with yourself than with other characters?

Hey There!

First, thanks for reaching out with a question like this. I want to do your question justice because it’s actually a complex subject. To start, I have a few topics I’d like to touch on:

What does it mean to “Ship” yourself with a character?

How can it be Beneficial/Harmful?

Is it Strange?

What does it mean to “Ship” yourself with a character?                             

“Shipping” would be best defined as the following: Initially derived from the word relationship, is the desire by fans for two or more people, either real-life people or fictional characters (in film, literature, television etc.) to be in a romantic relationship.

This is fairly broad, but actually doesn’t even seem to include a provision for self-ships. Does that mean that self-ships are too uncommon to even mention in the definition of shipping? well, no, not necessarily.

Because the question was phrased “Isn’t it weirder to ship yourself with a character” the implication comes across as though my writing is actually a self-insert of myself as an author. Let me take a second to address this:

When I write headcanons/scenarios, I’m actually not writing self x character. I’m writing reader x character, which separates me mentally and emotionally from the subject matter. I envision myself within my writing only as necessary to write sensory detail, such as the following:

“The alcoholic haze that blurred your vision before gave the world a surreal, almost painted expression. Scenes that would not have fascinated you before were prime entertainment for the intoxicated. Lights danced around the street, peeking out from the silhouettes of the passers-by as they went about their ways, unconcerned for the magical visions that surrounded them. And Kami, and the smell of the food stands was enough to make you hungry for seconds.”

When I write emotional and romantic scenes, I personally pull from my own experiences with romance. My writing has developed in this area only because I’m in a current, long-term relationship that has the emotional depth the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. It would make me uncomfortable to envision myself that intimately with a character because I’ve already got a real-life s/o. They’re the actual reason it’s easy to write the emotionally-charged romantic scenes that I’ve grown to love writing. It’s complicated to explain, but much of my writing is “purely business,” though the emotions are real.

That’s just me, though. If a writer does scenes more based on fantasy or puts themselves more explicitly in those situations, those habits are part of their private writing process and are entirely within their right.

So now, I’ve got two smaller questions to cover:

If someone envisions themselves in their own writing with a character, is it wrong?No. I’ll talk about OCs under the next heading.

If someone envisions themselves with a character at all, is it wrong/weird?Actually, it’s incredibly normal. But there are certain things to be aware of which I’ll explain in a second.

How is it Beneficial/Harmful?

Shipping of any kind, as we have seen in a variety of fan communities, can have the effect of being incredibly harmful. Shipping is not okay when the following is true:

One or more parties is a real-life person who has not consented to the ship. (Tom Holland x Spiderman)

Both parties are real-life people not playing a character (Sorry, K-Pop fandom, you’re getting called out here.)

Both parties are real-life people [who may or may not have already expressed their discomfort with being shipped, it doesn’t matter.] (Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, Zendaya and Tom Holland)

The ship is pedophilic in nature (Sebastian and Ciel from Black Butler)

Shipping of two fictional characters does not normally fall under this umbrella. Awesome! But wait, what about shipping with oneself? The real-life person has consented to the ship.

Fictional characters (fictional identities, such as Spiderman, Sherlock, and not Tom Holland or BC) are imagined and incapable of personhood, therefore they do not need consent the same way a real-life person does. The depiction of pedophilia is still a crime, therefore, they cannot be shipped.

All stories, by the way, were created because someone imagined them. I’ve often seen the phrase “self-insert” as a tool used to shame others who create an OC for a story. 

What this says, on a literal level, is that the creator of the OC has absolutely no right to create a character to their liking that lets them imagine themselves as part of a story they love or to share an original character that they created for an established story, no matter how much they deviate from the author. Other authors who create an original story, especially female authors, have faced this criticism as well. (Interestingly enough, this doesn’t come up nearly as often with male authors, unless a harmful depiction of a female is involved.)

Personally? I do not regularly envision my authors as their characters, and I know from personal experience that in my own creation of OCs and Characters that they can be incredibly detached. Many of my OCs share none of the same character traits as me, or if they do, it’s a few insignificant details.

Still, if an OC shares much in common with the author (as most firsts do) then that’s not an issue either. It has little impact on the story. Some people actually like reading the author’s OC because they find the character to be relatable, likable, or to have qualities they enjoy.

The argument that “Self-Insert makes the writing bad” is faulty. Writing is bad because the writing is bad. It is not bad because it’s a self-insert. The issues are that the character is uninteresting, static, or unrealistic.

Character x Reader/Imaginer shipping is harmful only when the fantasy prevents someone from living healthily because of their attachment to the ship. I am not a psychologist so I cannot explain this in psychological jargon, but any fantasy that creates a detachment from reality that is:

Debilitating

Causes serious hindrance to the fantasizer’s perception of reality

Affects the real-life ability to connect to others

is a harmful fantasy.

Fantasies that are enjoyed with a sense of impermanence and can be openly recognized as fantasies are not harmful or wrong, or really even “weird.” They are, once again, a normal part of the very human desire to imagine oneself in desirable situations.

The same way people create, commission, or request fanart, there’s a similar demand for writers. That’s where this blog falls in with the fandom. because I can’t feckin draw

What are the benefits? Two. And they’re pretty great ones:

In allowing themselves to indulge in romantic stories involving a character, many people end up discovering different traits about themselves (I’m passionate just like them! We both love XYZ!), or they can eventually isolate qualities they like in real-life people (“Hey, here’s a picture of all the anime characters I like, can’t you tell I have a type?)

It’s also beneficial for the sheer sake of entertainment for entertainment’s sake. People are allowed to have fantasies. They are allowed to share fantasies with friends/communities where this is a welcome topic. They are allowed to envision characters as they wish. They are allowed to imagine character romantically, the same way they could envision that “perfect s/o” that they made up all by themselves.

Frankly, I could care less who fantasizes about what. It’s all meant to be enjoyed and it’s nice if my writing gets appreciated along the way. People’s opinions about other things I disagree with don’t even cross my mind on a daily basis.

And unless it’s put in your face,  I firmly believe other people shouldn’t care about other opinions that much either. Isn’t it just draining? Let things just be.

Is it Strange?

Well, that’s relative.

A lot of people have preferences for ships in certain media, like Daenerys and Jon Snow. Other people prefer to just imagine about Jon Snow or Daenerys. There are just as many posts praising a single character as there are shipping them together.

So why is it then that reader insert can be considered strange if the celebration/admiration/crush on a character is fairly normal?

The reason for all of this is simple: Many people find that the sharing of fantasies is an uncomfortable topic. And on some level, it is. People are often sensitive about their own imaginations, keep that part of them private, and prefer not to share or have that shared with them. It’s a normal and acceptable boundary to have.

Would you gush to your boss about how much you love Bakugo from BHNA, or would you be more comfortable sharing that with a close friend who also loves watching the show? Other people are fine relating to others over shared fantasies. Which is why there’s a community for it, particularly here on Tumblr.

The only difference between a character that one person creates and enjoys in their own head and one that has been established in media, is that the latter character comes from another imagination already has a story attached to them that has been publicly shared.

Is it weird to have a piece of media—art, writing, what have you—that lends itself to the reader to be the main character? 

Well, personally, that’s left to the consumer of media. Some people like the “choose-your-own adventure books,” some don’t. Some like video games where you create your own character (like Skyrim) some prefer a set main character with concrete traits (like Samus Aran from Metroid.)

All creators seek to replicate, on some level, an experience that they want their consumers to be a part of. They do this through the lens of their characters. This takes various forms in TV media: 

Main characters that are “Stock” (like Kirito from SAO: Talented young Japanese male, dark hair, dark eyes, noble “hero” personality. He’s similar to many other protagonists from other harem anime) 

Or that have “Strong” Personalities (like Naruto from, well, Naruto: Similar to other shounen archetypes but he can be differentiated easily, he has a strong personality, unique traits, and quirks.)

Watcher(Reader) x Character falls into the “stock” main character: Not many definable traits, easy to imagine yourself as the character to fill in the gaps, etc.

Thus, these types of character x reader stories exist in popular TV shows, with characters that the reader has the chance to envision themselves with.

It’s hard to do watcher x character when a character needs at least some physical form. Otome Games, Harem anime, Average joe-schmoe gets the guy/girl, High school girl in a movie gets her crush, etc. all fall under the same genre of the “main character with general traits that fits the most common denominator.” Surprise! The intent is that you do put yourself in the main character’s shoes and you can idolize the guy/girl they go after.

Thus, character x watcher(reader) exists in popular media already.

It’s basically the written form of “create your own character in a video game, now you get to marry/romance who you want!” Guess what other forms of media let you romance your preferred fictional character?

Mass Effect

Skyrim

Stardew

Dragon Age

Sims

Etc.

Yep, the most popular video games out there. Does everyone play these types of games? No. That’s perfectly fine.

Here’s the final answer, though: Some characters do not exist in video games that allow a romance option. Some do not exist in tv series that allow the teasing of a possible romance with a “blank slate” main character.

Reader-insert writing is only the written form of an open-ended particular romance arc with a character, meant to be experienced in the same way you could explore that option within a suitor-friendly video game.

If you find OCs “weird,” or a reader insert “weird,” then it’s because that particular form of media simply does not attract you. You are free to disregard that part of the fandom, just as much as I disregard shipping content that does not cater to my own preferences.

Thanks for contributing to the blog!

#I didn't even go into the whole fictional character vs real people debate #but at this point it's a dead horse #it doesn't actually matter #anime #media #discourse #popular shows #naruto #sherlock #boku no hero #my hero academia #BHNA #fairy tale #skyrim #stardew #dating sims #character x reader #writing #writing tips #self insert #OCs #OC #fandom #fan community #celebrities #celebrity #fantasy #fantasies #marvel #throwing this to all corners of tumblr for those in the back

[christinaroseandrews]

Randomization and You: How to ask the right questions, know when to roll the dice, and decide when to invoke the word of God

One of the problems that writers often run into is when they’re world-building, plotting, and character-creating, is finding the answers to every foreseeable question ever.  Which is your main character’s dominant hand?  When were they born?  Did someone get pregnant from unprotected sex? Who dies in this horrific event that didn’t happen in canon? What race is this random side character? You get the picture.  

You can answer all of these questions on your own, and if they’re important, you absolutely should.  But when it doesn’t matter, when you don’t care, or if you’re unsure, sometimes randomization can help.  Randomization takes out bias. Or, conversely, a roll of the dice can clarify the direction that you actually want to go. 

The two of us use randomization a lot.  Not just in our fanfiction, but in our original works as well.  We do it for everything from character birthdays to ethnicity to who a background character might end up with to who lives and who dies.  Randomization is a nifty tool if you know how to use it.

In this meta, we’re going to go over when and how to randomize.

A note: there are major spoilers for some of our fanfic and minor spoilers for some of our original fiction.  If you want to know what those spoilers are, please feel free to message us.

oOo

When is it a good time to randomize?

Randomization is best done in the planning stages.  It’s not something you want to do halfway through the story (although you can, if you discover you need to -- we certainly have!), but it’s best done early on, when you’re still world-building, plotting, and creating your characters.  

Say you’re creating a fantasy world.  You know you have three countries that are going to be your primary focus.  But does the world have more nations?  You might not know the answer to that.  In which case, it might be time to randomize.  

It can also be used in character creation.  Sure, you’ve got your main characters and you know what their main traits are, but do you know when their birthdays are?  Or other seemingly unimportant details that may end up being important later, like religion, physical characteristics, or taste in entertainment.  This is especially important when you’re dealing with secondary characters who may not be as fully fleshed in your mind when you’re in the character creation phase. Because seriously, unconscious bias will come into play here. The number of books and stories we read where the only characters are the ethnicity of the author is staggering. This is especially problematic when it comes to creating accurate representation. Randomization can solve this. Want to write a story about 5 friends who kick ass and take names? You can literally randomize every major trait -- age, gender, sexuality, race, religion, skillset… you name it. You don’t have to randomize everything if you have a vision, but you should randomize things that “don’t matter” like the doctor or the secretary or the janitor. Randomization can remove stereotypes and bias. It’s colorblind casting but for the author. 

You also can choose ranges within which to randomize -- for example, if said story is about 5 teenagers, your range can be 14-18.  You are definitely not required to use all possible options while randomizing.

Then there’s randomization when you develop your plot.  Say you’re writing a romance.  You know your main characters will end up together.  But what about your secondary characters?  Your main characters’ best friends/siblings are going to end up meeting.  Do they hook up?  Are they interested?  Believe it or not, Prim and Bing getting together in Floriography was entirely randomized.  (Floriography has since been turned into an original work, The Language of Flowers -- but we kept said randomized relationship.)

Another thing -- in a romance, you know your main characters will end up together and you may know how they get there.  But what if you don’t?  You can randomize where they have their dates (using both typical and atypical choices such as a restaurant or a monster truck rally), other events that might interfere, and various other beats in your plotting.

Or the biggie... who dies in a major event? Plot Armor is lovely. The trio in Let Me Fly has Plot Armor. (We are not killing our trio, stop asking!) But everyone else… nope… no Plot Armor. That meant when Johanna Mason failed her rolls to survive the flu, she died. We love Johanna. Love her. She’s a blast to write. But she wasn’t crucial to the story we wanted to tell, so she died. The same is true for a lot of other people in our stories. Some deaths we’ve planned. But some that happened ended up changing the story… we’re looking at you, Third Quarter Quell deaths in Let Me Fly. Don’t think we don’t see you. Justice for Justus, indeed!

So yeah. Randomization can completely change your plot and understanding of the characters. It can even help you out of an “I don’t know what to do!” slump.

You want to go wild with the randomization?  Go to TV Tropes and pick a list of tropes that would make up a main character.  Pick a list of villain tropes.  Pick a list of plot tropes, romance tropes, whatever.  Number them all, shove them into a list, use a randomizer, and pick ten of them.  Congratulations, you now have the outline for a short story.  Think this doesn’t work?

Well… here goes.

We went to TV Tropes Character pages first to get our protagonists and antagonist. And this is what we picked.

  Sounds fun, right? I bet you can start imagining stories that could fit these tropes already. 

We ran these through the randomizer and got the following:

A Gentleman Thief and a Big Beautiful Woman Wake Up in a Room on a spaceship wearing matching rings. The door opens to reveal a notorious Space Pirate who congratulates them on their Accidental Marriage. Unfortunately they won’t be able to enjoy the honeymoon Mwah-ha-ha-ha! While they are making their escape, they end up someplace where they have to truly pretend to be newlyweds and they realize that somehow along the way they’ve Become the Mask and are truly in love. YAY! 

Sure it’s pretty rough and there are some parts missing, but it’s an absolutely viable plot… and I’m fairly certain I’ve seen something like this before. This is a great way to get out of a writing slump or even your comfort zone.

It’s all about asking questions and deciding if you know the answer, if the answer is necessary, and what the possible answers can be.

oOo

How do you randomize?

Randomization isn’t always as easy as rolling a die or flipping a coin.  Sometimes it takes creating spreadsheets or lists, while other times it involves understanding probability and percentages.

For example, say you’re writing a fantasy novel that features swordplay.  Knowing if someone is left or right handed is actually plot-relevant.  However, fifty percent of the population isn’t left handed.  Here, Wikipedia is your friend.  Knowing the percentages will help you know what numbers to use.

Another common time to do randomization is pregnancy.  Depending on what method of birth control and/or pregnancy prevention your characters are using, you can research the failure rates.  For example, when figuring out if Katniss was going to get pregnant during the arc of Brand New Breeze (second arc of Let Me Fly), we looked up the failure rate for the rhythm method and applied it to each menstrual cycle she had -- which, by the way, the length and duration of her menstrual cycle was also randomized.  She did okay for the first few months, and then all of a sudden, right around the time that the three of them got married (which was not randomized), she got pregnant.  

That opened up a whole slew of other randomizations, including: did the egg implant?  Did she have a miscarriage?  Was she carrying twins?  Who was the father?  Was the baby a boy or a girl?  What were its eye color, skin color, and hair color (based off of the parents and what was genetically possible)?  How difficult was the pregnancy?  When exactly did she give birth?  How long was the labor?  How difficult was the labor?  What time was the child born?  What were its length and weight?

You notice that was a lot of questions.  But they came in order.  The first question that got asked was: did she get pregnant?  The rhythm method is one of the least reliable forms of birth control.  Without proper medical data, Katniss was guessing, which increased her chances.  According to the Mayo Clinic, thirteen out of every one hundred women get pregnant.  Because of other reasons, we upped it to twenty percent for Katniss.

Using random.org, we rolled on a 1 to 100 scale for each menstrual cycle, with a roll of 81 or higher being a pregnancy.  Katniss did not get pregnant on her first two; she did on her third.

After conception, there are two primary hurdles to a pregnancy.  The first is implantation.  Many fertilized embryos never implant.  The numbers change based off of the age of the mother, the health of the mother, and other environmental conditions, but it’s estimated that at least 30% of fertilized embryos never implant.  So Katniss got randomized on that with a roll of 30 or below being a failed implantation.  She rolled higher.

Then there’s the risk of miscarriage, which, considering Katniss’s environment, health, and activity levels, we gave her a flat 30% chance of miscarriage.  Again, she did not miscarry.

Then it was just answering a lot of yes/no questions and looking up pregnancy-related details.  Did you know that the chance of twins is about 10%?  Identical twins is 1%, so the other 9% are fraternal.  If there are fraternal twins, they can have different fathers.  

We didn’t roll for anything higher than twins because the chances of Katniss surviving a pregnancy with triplets or more with no medicine are extremely low, and that’s if she even got pregnant with more than two babies at once -- which is highly unlikely.  We did not roll for Katniss dying in pregnancy.  That was us invoking the word of God.  

But wait, you ask.  Didn’t Katniss have a chance of dying?  

And you would be correct if this were the real world and not words on a page, Katniss would absolutely have a chance of dying in pregnancy.  However, that was a direction we were not interested in exploring, and that’s when invoking the word of God becomes necessary.  You have to know what you are comfortable writing as an author.  Not everyone wants to write a pregnancy, so they might say, “Nope! This unprotected sex did not result in a pregnancy!”  While others, like us, will occasionally roll for this -- while other times we’re like “Nope!” Trust us, we’ve totally noped Katniss getting pregnant… random.org has it in for her, I swear!

Some people might’ve said “oh hell no, I’m not dealing with a pregnancy in this story” and that’s perfectly fine.  They wouldn’t even have rolled for it.  It depends on what you’re willing to do as a writer.  But often that’s something that randomization can help you with… knowing your own mind. Because oftentimes people don’t know where to go next because they have choice paralysis… randomization can help solve that problem. 

oOo

So when do you invoke the word of God?

Well, here’s a secret.  The two of us invoked the word of God when it came to both of the Hunger Games in Let Me Fly.  

For the 74th Games, the original randomized winner was the girl from Three.  Unfortunately, that did not work with our plot.  Three was too far from our group for Cressida and her group to flee from there and conceivably make it to our characters, which was a plot point we wanted to happen.  So we rerolled with an eye toward what would work, and Taylor, the girl from District Eight, won.

For the 75th Games, the initial randomized winner was the woman from Eight, and -- having plotted the 74th Games -- we realized that the Capitol really wouldn’t be okay with back-to-back winners from an outlying semi-rebellious district.  So we rerolled and got Chaff.  (By the way, some of the side characters -- the infant for instance -- had zero chance of making it out of the bloodbath alive, and each other character had a percentage for what their chances of winning were based on their age, skill, and other factors, and we used a 1-100 scale for randomization.)  

However, there was another thing that happened that basically has colored our plot from the moment that it happened.  

Justus came in second.

The six-year-old kid only had a two percent chance of being picked at any specific time.  But he came in second.  And we took that and ran with it.

That is how randomization can end up creating plot for your story, and also why you want to do it fairly early on.  If your outline changes, you may need to do it later.  Or if you’re a pantser.  But if you’re a plotter, you’ll want all your ducks in a row before you get started.

In reality, randomization is all about asking questions and figuring out probabilities.  And sometimes the questions can tell you which way you want to go -- and you end up answering the question itself without randomization ever coming into play.  Or the randomization tells you which choice you wanted… something you often know by your reaction to the choice you rolled.  (If you groan at something you roll, it is probably a choice you’ll want to override.)

Remember that you are not bound by your randomization.  If you absolutely hate something that randomized and can’t figure out how to make it work, throw it out!  It’s still giving you valuable information, because it’s telling you something about where you don’t want the story to go.  

Sometimes it’s even fun to work with the hard things, the complicated things, the stuff you never expected to roll.  Making something surprising work is a challenge -- and a way to grow as an author.  But if you can’t or don’t want to, you can always toss your randomization. 

oOo

So why would you want to randomize?

One of the downfalls of being a writer is that you know everything about your story.  Where it’s going, the relationships, everything.  Randomization creates that feeling of wonder that you experience when doing something new.  It allows you to brainstorm, and it can force you down paths you might not otherwise have chosen to take.

The two of us were very hesitant about pairing up Prim and Bing in Floriography (later The Language of Flowers).  They were the siblings of our main characters, they were seven or eight years apart in age, they lived a good four, five hour drive away from each other, they’d just met… and would they even want to be together?  We asked the question on a whim.  And then we rolled it.  And then we ran with it.  And it’s become one of our favorite pairings ever.

We would’ve never paired the two together if it weren’t for the randomization.

We’ve even done this when writing whole fics… like we didn’t know what we wanted to write, just that we wanted to play in a particular fandom. So we rolled what characters we were going to play with.  This is how we ended up with a Darcy/Tony/Sif threesome because Why Not? 

We also do this with original fiction all the time. As stated above, it deals with the unconscious bias that we carry in regards to racism, sexism, and a whole slew of other -isms/-phobias. It can also help shape directions where you might take a story. Like our Adeniyi Siblings Series… we initially had all of the siblings paired with white characters… but then (thankfully) we realized the serious Unfortunate Implications… so we broke out the randomizer. Other than Paige (who we’d already written her story). All three of the other siblings’ significant others changed, and it made our series better in the long run. 

In addition to removing bias and answering questions, randomization can be fun.  Even if you never incorporate what you’ve randomized, you’ve got these little details, special things that you know about the character or the plot or the world.  We can tell you EVERYTHING that Katniss and Prim hunted and gathered in Damaged, Broken, and Unhinged. We can tell you every single character who got sick from the flu in Let Me Fly. This is information that none of you need, but gosh darn it it was fun to find out, and it colored how we wrote the story even if the specifics never made it on the page.

As we’ve hopefully explained, randomization can be a powerful tool in the writer’s toolbox.  But like any tool, it’s about knowing when and how to use it. We recommend using it to answer questions. Develop plots and even plot twists. And most importantly, remove unconscious bias. 

Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a Gentleman Thief and a Big Beautiful Woman demanding that their story be written.

Until next time!

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#Writing Meta #Writing tips #writing advice #randomization #fanfic meta #on writing #we love the randomizer #you will too #seriously we've written whole stories based off of things we've randomized #Unconscious bias #unintentional bias #removing unintentional bias #colorblind casting #tw: miscarriage #tw: pregnancy #writing guide #plotting #planning #characterization #tropes are tools

[of-suns-and-guns]

What's wrong with oneshit? Did I miss something?

I’m answering this fully conscious of the fact that this ask may very well have come from either her, or someone she’s asked to do this for her. Which, if any of you have ever sent me an ask I never answered, 75% of the time it’s because I’m all too aware this is something she does, and I’m sorry for any genuine askers I’ve ignored because of it.

That being said, no, you haven’t missed anything. I’ve never spoken publicly about it (nor has anyone else she might’ve tried to do this to, of whom I know of at least one person in this fandom, and two others before me from other fandoms).

Even in private I’ve only alluded the actual extent of it to one person, and even further still, there were details I couldn’t make myself say, and won’t say now because re-counting them makes it feel like it’s still happening and I’ve spent too much time getting violently sick in my recovery of it.

But maybe part of that recovery comes with no longer being afraid to warn people of what to look out for when it comes to her and others like her.

Content warning for sexual abuse below the cut:

This might sound like a stupid place to start, but nothing about what happened was stupid or so benign as this intro might lend you to believe, so I’m asking you to just go with it, for a second, please.

I write angst, drama, and romance. Clearly. Unabashedly. It’s what I’m here for, and it’s what I love to do. I’ve also always been upfront about my disinterest in writing smut. There’s nothing wrong with it, it just doesn’t hold my interest, so even smutty prompts will turn dramatic and romantic in my hands.

And literally can’t count the number of times I said that to her.

She read something into one of my first ficlets that I didn’t put there, and because it came up in the very beginning of our relationship before we’d established a stronger report, I didn’t argue further than to just tell her, when read in context, this[1] was meant to describe the way Alex feeds her own self-deprecation, NOT because it’s actually a sincere reading of what happened between them.

I told her so many times that smut was difficult and uninteresting to me to write, that I wanted to write drama and romance, and I was remiss for ever thinking she cared about that, because she wanted me to write smut for her, and getting what she wants is literally all she cares about.

And after a time, I did write smut for/with her because, while it’s not something I have ever sought to do on my own, I am physically capable of it and I’m a good enough writer that I do write it well, so I didn’t see the harm in making the concession for someone who, at that point, I considered a really good friend, with every chance of becoming a best friend, especially at a time in my life I didn’t have many of those, and had NO fandom friends to speak of.

So I did it on the basis that it wasn’t something I would do often, and it still didn’t hold my interest the way it held hers, making it clear throughout that I would always prefer to write within my own genres.

I had no clue at the time that, in my concession, I was giving her the tools she needed to create an environment in which she’d tell me to perform to her liking, and very quickly established the punishments I’d face for saying no.

Those punishments included:

pushing the issue, asking again and again, until the easiest option was just to give in so the issue would just finally go away

pretending to make concessions herself by asking instead for only part of the original whole, regardless of why I didn’t want to do ANY part of it

treating me with cold antagonism if I stuck to my original no, making interactions one-sided and uncomfortable

guilt-trip or punish me (in all the listed ways) if I didn’t react to her or her writing (also all smut, do not let the genre of her public works make you doubt that) in the way SHE qualified as the correct way to respond (which was almost always an expectation to enthusiastically jump into continuing the [smutty] prompt with her)

making it very clear that she only kept people around if they served her purpose, likening friendship to a quantifiable transaction, that if she wrote something for me (which was almost always smut, by the way, in case you were wondering if she wrote my preferred genres for me), I was expected to write something for her that she deemed appropriately proportional

going so far as to actually stop talking to me for two or three months at a time when I really pissed her off, left stuck with the knowledge that if I’d just done what she wanted, or if I hadn’t opened my mouth and called her out for her shitty behavior, then I wouldn’t have lost my friend

if I showed her any of my writing that DIDN’T include smut, she eventually stopped feigning interest in it, and would instead: not actually react, outwardly belittled it, belittled me, make me feel stupid and dramatic for writing what I love to write, like my writing wasn’t actually good or enjoyable without smut being included, or she’d take some core part of my plot and MAKE it vulgar in an attempt to spin the whole thing into a way to force me to write smut with her

Again, I know this sounds like a relatively benign place to describe what happened and doesn’t do much to claim she was anything other than a shitty friend, but I need to make clear how she works and the choices I faced, the choices SHE gave me between saying no to her, and just giving in.

Because it wasn’t just writing smut for her, and everything fatally wrong about even that part of our relationship got exponentially more so when the relationship became sexual between us.

No wasn’t a suitable answer for her. Hard-line, “No, I don’t want to,” means, “Convince me in whatever way you can,” in her opinion. If I didn’t have a reason SHE deemed good enough to not be able to do what she wanted, then she expected me to get over it and just comply, and she’d push and push and push because, to her, no means I just haven’t said yes yet, and she had no qualms about using those same punishments against me when that yes never came.

And those choices change the way you think until it’s, “I don’t want to do this, but I don’t want to even tell her that because things have been good and I don’t want to make her mad,” and “If I just do it, she’ll let it go and leave me alone,” and “Is sticking to my first no really worth the fight? Is a little discomfort worth losing her?”

She cornered me into a lot of vulnerable positions, and I am utterly terrified of her using those things to retaliate against me for talking about this now, because last time I even vaguely alluded to her, she sent me a message making it very clear she not only read it, but was defensive and angry at me for doing so.

I adore this fandom, I love being here, and I’m terrified of people hating me for the things she’d say.

But I’m saying it now, because I’m tired of being scared. And I’m tired getting sick to my stomach every time I see her writing being held up to any kind of esteem, and I hate that it took someone else noticing my reactions to sex and intimacy were that of someone who’d been sexually abused for me to actually face the extent of what she did to me.

And most of all, I hate that she might be following this blog. That she might be reading this, or having people send me messages, or being anywhere in my fandom space at all, and I will not let that vile, disgusting, predatory, miserable excuse for a human being scare me out of my fandom.

It took time, distance, and a few unimaginably awesome friends to stop excusing every vile thing she did, and certainly played a major role in keeping me from folding to her the last time she tried to twist me back into it.

I’m still not quite at okay though. I still can’t stomach sexual attention, not even from my partner[2], and there are still a lot of days I can’t even stand skin-to-skin contact. But I’m strong enough to do this. To talk about it now. Still terrified, but my friends know most of this already, and I know I’m not going to lose them.

And not gonna lie, a huge part of my ability to do this comes down to the fact that you guys have always been so unfailingly supportive. I wouldn’t feel safe enough to do this if you weren’t so great, and while the fear’s still there, I do take comfort in what you’ve shown me thus far.

[1] “You’re her little sister, and you turn her on, make her wet, make her want. You’re her little sister, and she loves seeing your blue eyes staring up at her from between her legs. You’re her little sister, and she loves watching you come for her, knows what every inch of your body tastes like, and she can list every vulgar thing that drives you completely wild.”

[2] Yes, my partner knows the full extent of this. They were actually the one who broached the subject of my reactions being that of a sexual abuse survivor. We’re also in a poly relationship, just by the by.

#anon #if you want to reblog this to spread awareness i'm okay with that #but i don't want anyone to feel obligated to interact with it if you don't want to have anything to do with it

[annwinter94]

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How To Stop An Unwanted Divorce

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#Save Marriage For Children Marvelous Diy Ideas #What Can I Say To My Husband To Save My Marriage

[autodiscothings]

Prayers for the wicked must never be forsaken.

I jokingly tag all my Thane Krios reblogs and posts as ‘Sad Murder Lizard,’ but I think it sums up my thoughts on him pretty well.

When you first meet him, it’s very cool- neck snapping, vent crawling, sauntering down darkened ducts to casually take out guards, starting a gay awakening in salarian janitors… as introductions go, it’s great.

And then you learn he is dying. And holy shit, is this the trait in which his entire character is built upon; death and redemption. He tells you this, several times over:

The universe is a dark place. I'm trying to make it brighter before I die.

And later, during his loyalty mission trigger:

As I face the end of my body's time here, I find myself dwelling on my mistakes.

Well alright, it’s a suicide mission! Hop aboard, sad murder lizard, you’re recruited. Plenty of room on the Normandy with similarly inclined folk staring at the end of a barrel.

So Shepard sits and talks with Thane over tea, and the first conversations are surface- religion, his sickness, where he’s from. Given what choices you make, he can be quite dry in wit- not Garrus levels of snark, but it’s there.

The second conversation, however, is when the fucked up shit starts surfacing. You learn he’s been an assassin-in-training since he was six, given to the Compact by his parents to the hanar:

They were training me. I was not to be used and thrown away. I was an investment.

Oh but don’t act shocked- sorry, did I mislead you? They saw me as a person, honest. And anyway, I didn’t really kill my first man until I was twelve. This is normal, yes?

And if you fire back that it sounds like slavery, he gets very defensive:

They rescued us – some of us- from extinction. We owe them our lives. Don't insult me, Shepard. Anyone can refuse to serve. Few do.

So let’s talk about that Compact. When I first started writing about drell, I was trying my hardest to see it from the hanar’s point of view; that their intentions were honourable and good, and to some individual hanar, perhaps. Thane gives a mauldin Thomas Hobbes quote about the drell homeworld:

“When all the world is overcharged with inhabitants, when the last remedy of all is war, which provideth for every man with victory or death.” As Rakhana died around them, my people slaughtered each other for mouthfuls of water.

Out of the billions left to die on Rakhana, the hanar took 375,000 drell to the ocean homeworld of Kahje. Later on, thanks to Kepral’s fucking them up, their life expectancy actually decreased: out of those 375,000, Thane tells you:

There are only a few hundred thousand of us left, after all.

I’m going to assume drell are not a mono-religion culture, but to Thane’s religion, where the literal goddess of the afterlife carries you across the sea, it’s very easy to imagine the deep effect it had to most. We the lucky ones have been carried safe and sound, and placed on welcoming shores by our saviours.

The drell at the time weren’t even space faring, nor had they discovered the Relays. They had “no fusion power,” which given the janky space science the writers are prone to can either be taken to mean actual (still a theory)  fusion power, or (already proven, thanks Manhattan Project) nuclear power.

If drell were pre-nuclear power, that means Rakhana fucked itself over during their version of the industrial revolution; the hanar literally took a race that barely made aeroplanes and cars into a world full of Mass Effect relays and made them their servants.

And this fits in very nicely with what Thane tells you the third time you speak to him. That his accountability for his actions are not his own, because drell do not think of their body and souls in the way humans, asari and turians do. So when he kills, it’s on whoever ordered him to make the kill- he was the gun, not the one who pulled the trigger.

My body is merely flesh. Flesh whose reflexes were honed to kill. My body was only the tool they used. If you kill a man with your gun, do you hold your gun responsible?

As lines of defence go, it’s fairly shit, isn’t it? You can’t argue anything back to him, the game won’t let you.

It’s also of note that during this conversation he lets slip his infamous “sunset eyes” solipsism, and his Wife In The Refrigerator is mentioned.

Irikah at least gets to speak in the Foundation comic, and I like some on the things they introduced about her. We learn she was a scientist, and worked researching a cure for a hanar disease; that she really did stand defiant in the laser dot of his sniper rifle.

But it was still her role to die, and I did not get the impression she was her own person in either the  comic or through Thane’s dialogue. In a 24 page comic about her husband I would understand this can be hard to achieve, but she still was a prop created for Thane.

Her death is glorified, too. There’s an entire panel of Thane kneeling in her blood; her attacker goads Thane by telling him she “tasted sweet” when she died, and of the “unspeakable” things they did to her.

And so Thane went after them all in a suitably badass manner. It’s a common storytelling trope: John Wick, Akira, Cowboy Bebop, Logan/Wolverine, The Punisher… Revenge yarns are fun to watch, but the reason for the revenge always seems to be an afterthought.

All of this could be dealt with Thane telling you what he loved about her; perhaps the pride he felt because she helped people with her work, not like him, he was just a killer- that she was a good mother; how she liked her tea- just something other than- defiant, wife, murdered.

Fridging aside, we learn that Thane tried to be a family man. In the comic, he flat out states he didn’t know how to be a husband or a father, but did it anyway. When he asks Shepard for help finding his son, we see he starts to contradict himself:

My body is blessed with the skills to take life. I didn't want that life for Kolyat. I hoped he would find his own way. If he hated me, so be it. He would not have shared the path of sin.

He calls it sin, his life. Gone is the “it was a honour, Shepard” defence and in its place is a man who knows the paths he walked down were dark:

I'm trying to make it brighter before I die.

The loyalty mission hinges on finding Kolyat so his son doesn’t make the same mistake. What’s interesting here is two things introduced to underpin this. The use of Captain Bailey, who looks the other way to help because he sees a parent who gives a damn and knows what estranged father feels like, and Mouse.

Mouse the drala’fa, the forgotten duct rat. Mouse who Thane gave chocolate to, but not Kolyat. Mouse who he took a photo of. Mouse who he used for his wetwork, to spy on his targets. Mouse, who is more observant than he lets on:

Whenever you talked about your kid, your eyes got like that. Like they was someplace else. Sad. He had that holo you took of me, you know. That's how [Kolyat] proved who he was. But when he turned it on, his eyes got like yours do.

Interestingly with Thane, I find the Renegade options reveal meatier options (and snarkier responses.) It’s through Renegade Thane begs Kolyat that he knows no other life:

I was six when the hanar began to train me. I didn't know any better. Your mother woke me from my battle sleep.

That’s him admitting it was a hard life, a life no child should have. There’s no honour of the Compact there, but a lonely man trying to reach out to his son to not make the same mistakes he did.

If the mission is a success and you slap/shoot Kolyat, Thane tells you about Irikah (in an offhand manner I take issue with, as mentioned.) But the main takeaway I get from this conversation with Shepard is this:

It is difficult. All things worth keeping are.

That’s him realising his mistakes, and having some semblance of hope for the future. The last conversation you have before the last mission, no matter if you romanced him or not, is Thane telling you he walked to his death with open eyes. That when you met him snapping necks in Dantius Towers, it was his last target, because he knew without Shepard there, he would’ve died.

If you fail the loyalty mission, Thane walks to his death again, because taking bad is not that same creating good, and that:

Entropy always wins.

If you romance him, you know he’s now terrified he’s woken from his battle sleep and had a reason to live again (Kolyat, Siha) only to have the ticking time bomb in his lungs and the Collectors remind him what little time he has left:

[I will] take the time left given and praise all I know for allowing me to walk my final days with hope and certainty that I am worthy of more than my cold isolation, solely because you believed.

So Mass Effect three happens; Thane is a bit of an afterthought here. From a cold logistical gaming writer POV, I can see why it happened, but it still sucked to endure if you: 1) romanced Thane and 2) actually liked the character.

The writers seemed that take the letter to a romanced Shepard from the Shadow Broker dossier and used it to shape Thane’s narrative for the third game, as well as for the Citadel DLC. Kepral’s isn’t magically cured in the space of six months; no space magic happens for Thane to return to the Normandy and be at your side again.

If I’m honest, I like this aspect of his story; Thane Mod exists for those that do not. In my opinion, death has always shaped his character; it is his constant companion, still.

The reunion you have as a romanced Shepard is very much him “letting you go,” in some ways. After apparently getting it on in a hospital (classy, Shep- classy) the second conversation is him telling you that:

Live well with the time you have. Perhaps we shall see each other again.

No tu fira here yet, that comes later. To fit in with the narrative of the DLC, you can perhaps argue he’s keeping himself out your way as his sickness is worse than he’s letting on. Thane knows Shepard’s role in the Reaper war is important; he would only hold them back.

Which of course means that the game codes you as single there after, and you can’t tell Vega to get jumped when he’s all flirty, or brush off other advances.

Cerberus coup time, and Captain Cutscene (aka Kai Leng and his silly sword) is here. Thane goes out in the way he wanted; not coughing in a hospital bed, but trying to do some good saving a Councillor.

Thane is at least given a goodbye here; he dies with his son and either his Siha or his “only friend” by his side. He prays for you, not him. He wants the last thing he hears to be Shepard’s prayer, not his.

No one in the game recognises the sacrifice, and you need to buy a DLC to be allowed to grieve. When Garrus stands by the memorial wall to talk about the Virmire survivor -if they died, if they didn’t- Thane isn’t mentioned. All the headcanon in the world can create a reason why, but it’s still a dick move from the writers.

The DLC memorial scene is interesting. It has a stilted, awkward Kolyat not understanding why he has to have it (which, for a race built on memories, is hilarious, and I head canon that some drell don’t see the point of memorials, since they never forget anyway.)

Even if you don’t romance him, he sends vidmails to you, his only friend. You know he tried to reach out for you, but circumstances meant you couldn’t connect.

The main interesting thing I take from the funeral scene, is that the Council want to make Thane a recognisable hero. Thane Krios’s name would be associated forever with an act of good, not his “path of sin” as an assassin. He became his wife, defiant in the sight a scope. Or rather, a Cerberus sword.

So, to summarize: Thane Krios- death becomes him, death defines him; in his sacrifice, he will be remembered as a hero, not as a villain: Your mission gave me purpose. A cause to die for. A chance to atone. I was able to speak to my son again. I can leave my body in peace.

NOTE: Despite someone who has so far written a fanfic about Kolyat and has a lot of thoughts about sassy lizards, I’ve been very quiet on Thane/Kolyat’s dynamic in this little essay. It’s an interesting one to talk about, but it deserves its own separate post, which I’ll get around to at some point.

#thane krios #I have feels about him #sad murder lizard #not quite character critical but maybe? #writer critical though holy shit #mass effect

[mrmichaelchadler]

Bright Wall/Dark Room May 2018: An Essay on 'Punch Drunk Love' by Ethan Warren

We are pleased to offer an excerpt from the latest edition of the online magazine, Bright Wall/Dark Room. The theme for their May issue is "Second Time Around," featuring essays on films that their writers once hated but now love, or vice versa. In addition to this essay by Ethan Warren below, there are also pieces on "Suspiria," "Adam's Rib," "Manhunter" "Paris, Texas," "Interstellar," "2001: A Space Odyssey," "The Assassin," "Drop Dead Gorgeous" and Emir Kusturica. The above art is by Brianna Ashby. 

You can read previous excerpts from the magazine by clicking here. To subscribe to Bright Wall/Dark Room, or purchase a copy of their current issue, click here.

American adolescence is a marathon of milestones. In those wilderness years between the end of childhood and the onset of adulthood, every birthday seems to bring some seismic new authority—now you can drive; now you can buy cigarettes and a lottery ticket; now you can buy your own beer. But there’s another milestone that, while less often heralded, may be, at least to some of us, the most significant of all: on your 17th birthday, you can buy your own ticket to an R-rated movie, and enter that darkened theater unsupervised.

There’s something solemn and almost mystical about gaining access to a new tier of films. We go to the movies to gain insight, references, social cues that we can use to navigate the world. There’s so much that we experience first on a screen—faraway places, unfamiliar lifestyles, what it looks like to hurt someone and be hurt, what it looks like to love and be loved—and being granted entrance to grown-up movies is like being handed a manual for the adult experience, one you believe you’ve earned by virtue of this personal epoch shift.

That shift happened for me in 2002, and my friends and I spent that year gorging ourselves on the grown-up films of the day. We rushed out to see Adaptation, About Schmidt, Road to Perdition, and afterwards we furrowed our brows over Sprites at Chili’s and earnestly discussed the experience, test-driving analytical terms we’d learned in English class. It felt satisfyingly adult, but I have a feeling I wasn’t the only one with a nagging voice in the back of my head: would’ve been great to see Spider-Man or The Two Towers again instead…

I never voiced that feeling aloud, or even gave it full voice in my head. Because that longing for juvenile art reminded me of the most disturbing truth imaginable: despite this leap towards adulthood, I still felt like me.

One chilly Saturday night that October, my friend Josh and I visited a creaky old arthouse near his home on the south shore of Boston. I’d recently read a review in Entertainment Weekly—the publication of record to my high school mind—that described something fascinating: an Adam Sandler movie for grownups.

“The Sandler we see is, in essence, the same Sandler we have come to know,” Owen Gleiberman had advised, “except that the movie isn’t nudging us in the ribs to laugh at him.” To young men with almost no understanding of cinema except that they loved it, this was a thrilling and fascinating notion.

Ninety-five minutes later, Josh and I burst out of the theater enraged. That movie wasn’t just bad, it was appalling, offensive. We wanted to call the director and chew him out for wasting our time with that faux-artsy bullshit, and any intelligent and rational viewer would obviously agree. We shook with anxious fury as we stepped into the ice cream parlor next door—it was cold out, and Josh’s mom wouldn’t be there to pick us up for another 10 minutes.

*

Punch-Drunk Love—Paul Thomas Anderson’s fourth film as a writer/director, released when he was just 32 years old—puts you on uncertain footing from the first frame. With no title cards to orient us, we cut in on Barry (Sandler) hunched in the corner of the screen, making a phone call in what appears to be a barren warehouse. He mumbles about the finer points of some corporate fine print, but before we can get the drift, he’s distracted by a strange sound. He walks out onto a dreary corner of predawn Los Angeles and looks in vain for the source. In the distance, a car hits a curb and flips, a visceral and horrific accident that could well be lethal, observed with a detachment that emphasizes nothing. Barry flinches, and then a taxi pulls up, stops long enough for someone to place a harmonium on the ground in front of him, and speeds off.

This avalanche of input is accomplished in three minutes, and we scramble to organize all we’ve seen—was the strange sound relevant? (It wasn’t.) Will that accident be relevant? (It won’t.)

These opening minutes feature no score, and camerawork that’s mostly neutral and restrained. Over the next few minutes, the viewer can start to acclimate to this cold tone. But then, as happens so often in this film, as soon as you gain a foothold, the ground starts to shifts under you.

The eerie vibe lasts about 10 minutes, and then the score finally kicks in. A calliope-tinged waltz brings a sense of grace to the proceedings for, oh, about two minutes. Then that dreaminess is broken by an abstract interlude—shifting colors scored by an atonal aural collage—which is itself then broken when we jump into Barry’s morning as a distributor of toilet plungers. We watch him move about his warehouse in long, smooth takes, all set to a score of thudding timpani and various taps and creaks, which creates a mood of teeth-gnashing anxiety even before we witness the assaultive phone calls and potential for workplace accidents that surround Barry at all times.

As an adolescent, I thrived on the familiar. I fancied myself mature enough to handle avant-garde art, but in a pre-streaming world, I had little exposure to films that truly challenged me. I would pore over descriptions of Eraserhead and Putney Swope, wistfully trying to conjure them in my mind, but whenever I persuaded my parents to drive me over to Video to Go, the selection I perused had “daring indie provocation” defined as Chasing Amy—which, though I would never have admitted it aloud, did provide some shameful measure of relief; that Eraserhead sounded pretty freaky. In that old seaside arthouse, though, I experienced for the first time a full-scale assault on my understanding of what a movie could look and feel like, and I had no way to process a surging tide of intense emotion.

Punch-Drunk Love continues to swing wildly between extremes. Over another stretch of about 10 minutes, we experience brutal rage (when Barry is overwhelmed during a date with Emily Watson’s Lena, a woman seemingly out of his league, he steps into the bathroom and kicks in the stall doors, grunting with volatile distress), we experience achingly sincere emotion (when the date ends with Lena unexpectedly calling Barry back up to her apartment for a kiss, he sprints down the hall like a man on fire rushing towards an extinguisher, underscored by strings and accordions straight out of an Audrey Hepburn romance), and we experience stark terror (after the date, Barry is accosted by extortionists and flees on foot as they pursue with hurled invective). 

And I do mean we experience these extremes, rather than observing them, as Anderson uses every tool at his disposal to put us directly within Barry’s feverish worldview: When the score is oppressively percussive, we’re infected with Barry’s own excruciating stress, and when the score soars with romance under externally mundane events, we’re reminded of the heart-shaking significance of this moment in his life. When a shot goes agonizingly long without the relief of a cut, we’re left stranded along with Barry wondering when this anguish might end, but when a scene is shattered by a jagged flurry of cuts to accompany the introduction of some new character or information, we’re stranded again as both we and Barry struggle to process this sudden influx of input. And when a frightening outburst of Barry’s is shot with cold objectivity, we become implicated as Barry then turns to see everyone—ourselves included—staring at him, reminding us, somehow even more keenly from an outer vantage than if we were within his, how lonely it feels to lose control when everyone else has retained it.

For a young man trained on traditional film grammar, never forced to sort out provocative juxtapositions, this was all too much. Three-quarters of the way through the film, I broke. As Barry and Lena lay in bed on the verge of consummation, whispering flirtatious threats of violence—“I’m looking at your face and...I just wanna fucking smash it with a sledgehammer.” “I want to chew your face and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them.”—my discomfort flipped into revulsion. I’d made every effort to engage with this movie, and now I felt mocked, a sting that burned all the more for my low-humming fear that I was still too immature, and so worthy of that mockery. I built a wall between myself and the screen just before the finale erupted in a crescendo of cruelty, rage, courage, and love, numbing myself in the nick of time. Rather than grapple with any of my intense responses, I made a simple ruling: this was the worst movie I had ever seen.

*

Three months later, I went off to a new school, three hours from home. It was my idea, an attempt to shake some measure of courage and confidence into my life, but as my departure approached, I started experiencing explosive bursts of emotion. One night, seized by something I could neither understand nor articulate, I punched a wall, shattering the plastic casing around the light switch. I was shocked at how much damage I could do on a volatile impulse, and my anger melted into bitter self-loathing.

When I arrived and started settling into my new dorm, my new roommate and I tried to bond through that age-old young man’s ritual of comparing pop culture tastes. I mentioned that I had recently seen the worst movie ever made: Punch-Drunk Love.

“You probably didn’t understand it,” my roommate sniffed. He hadn’t seen it, but he knew it was artsy stuff.

“Yes I did!” I spat back. “And there was nothing to understand!”

I didn’t have the vocabulary to defend my opinion, only the memory of my amorphous distress. But before I could gather my thoughts, I was overcome with shame at being accused of intellectual inferiority. This was the imposter syndrome that I had crossed states to escape. But the invisible infection couldn’t be shaken that easily.

*

Slowly but surely, in fits and starts, I kept growing up. I was in college when Anderson released his next film, There Will Be Blood. I tagged along with two more enthusiastic friends, and while I expected a dreary historical epic, I was startled by how strange and lithe the movie was, shocked that it could have come from the director of the worst movie I’d ever seen. I was in grad school when Anderson released his follow-up, The Master, and I watched it alone out of tentative curiosity—then rushed back out immediately with friends, eager to share this enigmatic bruiser of a film. Before long, I was routinely citing it as my favorite movie.

I doubled back to his earlier films; I loved both Boogie Nights and Magnolia, but they felt like the work of a different artist entirely, one less sure on his feet and more indebted to his influences than the one who’d produced these singular masterpieces in the past decade. Falling in love with his remaining body of work, though, never sparked any interest in reconsidering Punch-Drunk Love; I remembered everything I’d hated about it. But I was nagged by curiosity as to how this little film I recalled as so spiteful and ugly might serve as a link between these two eras in his work. When it showed up on Netflix, I finally bit the bullet, pressing play with the apprehension of a spurned lover at risk of being hurt all over again.

*

The intellectual response was the same: I have never seen anything like this. But as I experienced all the same whiplash that unmoored me a decade earlier, the emotional response was flipped, leaving me breathless with joy. Where before I had seen nothing but a haze of ugliness, I could now sort and compartmentalize the stylistic juxtapositions, and the result was one of the richest viewing experiences I’d ever had.

Early on, there’s something approaching the kind of conventional joke I had once expected from a grown-up Adam Sandler movie. In the middle of the first stressful warehouse set piece, Barry offers to demonstrate a new non-breakable plunger for potential buyers. He smashes the plunger on the table, and it shatters in a geyser of particles. He remarks, “OK, this was one of the old ones.” That moment could come from a comedy of any style, but a conventional one would use editing and sound design to help us process the joke. Here, the moment is only one note in a symphony of anxiety and it’s played so deadpan that it almost crosses the line into anti-comedy. On first viewing, I was so behind the 8-ball I would barely have registered the opportunity to laugh.

I now had the benefit of Anderson’s full filmography to decode the sequence. Each of his films has a prankster’s spirit that evinces an admirable lack of pretension. Even the towering Old Testament-style epic There Will Be Blood was largely influenced, he claims in interviews, by Tom and Jerry and Spy vs. Spy. That willingness to subvert genre expectation is a large part of what makes him so appealing as an artist. While some “serious” filmmakers feel the need to saturate their dramas with unvarying solemnity, Anderson has the confidence to play with every shade of tone available, knowing that this variance will make each disparate element pop to maximum effect.

When a bleak drama is subverted by jolts of laughter, it’s a relief; comedy subverted by unvarnished pain and distress, though, is a much more acquired taste. Watching Punch-Drunk Love now, I marvel at the unbearably tense warehouse scenes because I recognize the puckish spark and unique vision in that discordant cinematic symphony. But as an adolescent, I didn’t yet have the necessary experience and context to laugh along with provocation. Feeling mocked, I responded with a very adolescent outrage.

From my current vantage a decade and a half removed, though, my adolescent response strikes me as appropriate. Josh and I weren’t just irritated in 2002, we were rattled to our cores in ways we could only process with agitated babbling and shrill jokes. That disturbed intensity, it seems so clear now, was an unconscious attempt to control the narrative for why we felt how we did, to assure ourselves that we were sophisticated cinephiles with complete perspective on our revulsion. But if we’d truly had perspective, we would have been recognized the truth too awful to reckon with in that moment: that Punch-Drunk Love functions on a very specific level for adolescent boys, one so precise and intense that it’s easier to look away from than to accept. It’s simultaneously an expression of fantasies they don’t dare express, and a bleak realization of their darkest fears.

*

Each of Barry’s defining traits perfectly matches the profile of a typical adolescent boy. He’s agonizingly uncomfortable in his own skin, constantly shifting posture and expression in search of some elusive social ease. His trademark primary-blue suit, which appears at first to be a flourish of heightened production design, is quickly revealed to be a deliberate affectation—when an employee asks why he’s wearing a suit, Barry responds, “I bought one. I thought it would be nice...and I’m not exactly sure why.” I would wager most adolescent boys have experimented with similar sartorial trademarks in hopes of crystallize their identity—Maybe I’ll be a hat guy, maybe I’ll be a Chuck Taylors guy. On that chilly October night when I first watched Punch-Drunk Love, I can say with virtual certainty that I was wearing the canvas jacket I’d recently festooned with carefully selected pins and patches, and which I would wear daily for the next several years, convinced that as long as I wore something distinctive, I could project the illusion of a sense of self.

But Barry’s emotional troubles are more severe than social anxiety; he seems plagued by turbulent pubescent hormones, leading to mood swings that are unbecoming in a teenager but horrifying in an adult. When he’s teased by his sisters during a party, his bruised feelings surge so hot that he punches out the panes of a sliding glass door. Moments later, he confesses to his brother-in-law, “I don’t like myself sometimes,” then collapses into sobs, clasping his face as though to literally hold himself together, and lurches away moaning, “I’m sorry.” There’s a dark comedy to the sequence, but it rings recognizable to me now in a way I couldn’t have allowed myself to see as a teenager. I remember the snap into destructive rage that made me break my parents’ light switch, and I remember so often wrestling with a shame over my very existence as I struggled to imagine where I might fit into the world. Some alarm must have triggered in my teenage subconscious watching this film—there’s a chance you could feel this way forever.

At my darkest moments, this alienation convinced me I might be unworthy of romantic love. Barry clearly never outgrew this fear, and it sparks the twin plot strands that braid into a vision of simultaneous fantasy and terror. When his sister suggests introducing him to Lena, he instantly tries to sabotage the potential setup: “Yeah, I don’t wanna do that!” he responds with a sort of shocked awe. “I don’t do stuff like that!” It’s so much easier, as I knew all too well at 17, to avoid trying than it is to invite the inevitable pain of rejection.

But Barry aches for connection, so he calls a phone sex line late one night. He finds brief satisfaction for his lonely urges in the operator’s unnaturally erotic voice, unzipping his pants in a tense hunch at her direct order when he can’t delay it any longer. The next morning, she calls back and begins extorting him, a call he takes in a tight hallway, literally boxed in. It’s the realization of any anxious virgin’s darkest fear: if you accept anyone’s offer of help alleviating your loneliness, you’ll pay for it.

The extortion follows Barry throughout the rest of the film, first in phone calls that seem almost supernaturally able to track his location, then in the team of enforcers who accost him after his shockingly successful date with Lena. The fact that this blackmail threatens to destroy what seems like Barry’s first real shot at love only heightens the tragedy from an adolescent perspective.

Lena is so kind, engaging, and assertive in her desire for Barry that she’s not so much too good to be true as possibly divine. She’s the platonic ideal of a first girlfriend, the kind of girl your mom would love but who’ll eagerly participate in your most embarrassing bedroom desire (say, Barry’s urge to whisper violent threats as foreplay). She’s the teenage ideal, and this miracle is put at risk because just days earlier Barry accepted his unworthiness of love and paid for sexual relief. It’s a perfectly calculated recipe for teenage despair.

We learn very little about Lena, and why she might pursue Barry with such intense focus despite his initial resistance. Her nigh-supernatural goodness does beg the question of whether she represents a complete character; we’re left to fill in the blanks about her, and while Watson’s performance paints a vibrant portrait, she’s certainly thinly sketched on the page. But in a story that places us in the mindset of an overgrown adolescent, a preternaturally perfect love interest seems appropriate. How many adolescent boys are actually capable of considering the objects of their affection as three-dimensional beings? If the happy ending, the promise of a future with Lena, offers Barry the chance to finally leave adolescence behind, then the perspective it takes to actually deserve Lena, to see her as a complex person, is a door that opens as the credits roll—a door that I, as an adolescent identifying with Barry so strongly that I repressed it as a coping mechanism, would be only dimly aware of for years to come.

*

A question has nagged me since I first revisited Punch-Drunk Love: was my old roommate right? Did I, in fact, not understand this movie on first viewing? With a few more years’ perspective and many more viewings under my belt, I don’t think so. I may now have the context to recognize Anderson’s goals, but that doesn’t mean I watched the film incorrectly before. Films aren’t cold and static objects. They’re dynamic organisms, built to provoke emotional responses, and as long as our inner landscapes can change, a film will change with us. You can watch a film until you’ve memorized every inflection of every line reading, and still be caught off guard on the hundredth viewing thanks to some new significance that couldn’t have coalesced before you became the person you are today. A final, definitive understanding of a movie is as elusive as final, definitive understanding of yourself.

In my mid-20s, I noticed a pattern: whenever I look back at who I was five years ago, I feel disappointed in the choices I made, embarrassed by what I thought was important. I feel relief that those times are behind me, and a temptation to believe that I’ve finally got it figured out, that I’ve won the game of growing up and it’s smooth sailing from here. But with every half-decade’s leap, I can sense another me five years in the future looking back in disappointment. It’s tough to grapple with this knowledge that you’ll always be a work in progress, but there’s liberation in it, too. It can be such a burden to know that you’re irrefutably right, and that any challenge to your worldview is an act of spite.

Whenever anyone asks why Paul Thomas Anderson is my favorite filmmaker, I say that his films only grow richer on repeat viewings, largely because they always leave with some question. I still puzzle over the symbolic value of the car crash that opens Punch-Drunk Love and is never remarked upon. I haven’t managed to fully track the role the harmonium plays in Barry’s emotional journey, though I’m developing a hunch that you could compare it to the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and that reading might help contextualize some of those weird sound effects. Better watch it again through that lens and see what happens.

It’s so tantalizing to feel like enlightenment is just beyond my reach, that the next viewing will bring me that much closer, and that maybe, if I’m lucky, someday I might catch that missing piece that brings it all together.

*

Punch-Drunk Love changed for me once again on my most recent viewing. I was struck more than ever by the ending.

I had just enough time to squeeze in that short runtime while my wife and daughter went out to brunch—it turns out my fear of never loving myself enough to be loved, the fear that once made the film unpalatable, was yet another certitude that just needed a little patience and perspective.

We actually settled very close to where Josh grew up—and he settled, along with his wife and son, only a few miles from where I grew up; funny how life rhymes that way sometimes—so I often go back to that drafty seaside arthouse where we underwent that formative trauma. It’s the best place around to see challenging films, so I went back this January to see Phantom Thread, the eighth feature film by Paul Thomas Anderson. His career is twice as long now, and I’m twice as old—making me the age that he was when Punch-Drunk Love was released; another rhyme—so I’m even more tuned in to the way his style has grown in sophistication, how his thematic concerns have deepened. But that prankster energy is still there in the way he subverts period romantic drama with deviant sadism, and that penchant for a strange and incongruous obscenity—it’s impossible not to laugh in disbelief when Reynolds Woodcock shouts that, “no one gives a tinker’s fucking curse,” or when Lancaster Dodd processes his frustration in The Master by cutting off his thought with a sputtering, “PIG FUCK.” There are so few important directors working in important genres so willing to get so weird. His movies may be even more grown-up now, but goodness knows he’s still him.

I’d never before been particularly struck by the final line of Punch-Drunk Love. But this time it took my breath away. As I kept an ear out for my family’s return, I considered Barry sitting at his harmonium—I’ll crack that riddle next time for sure—and then I considered Lena, wrapping her arms around this overgrown adolescent who may finally have a fighting chance at becoming a man. I considered that quiet moment at the crossroads where one story ends, and so many more are about to begin.

“So,” Lena says quietly, “Here we go.” Time for another great leap forward.

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