#now i have to form my own sentences and not steal the poems written by the rats in the walls

[tvonq]

#the semi automatic process that comes with writing tags sometimes just completely goes #and im stuck with a blank slate #thanks a lot RENJUN #now i have to form my own sentences and not steal the poems written by the rats in the walls #lets talk about RENSUNG or MARK 😭 #nct #rj #jui #markmallow #🦀 #mama20

[yugfics]

SECRET LOVE SONG LIM JAEBEOM (ANGST)

/unhappy with your arranged marriage, you find yourself having an affair with the man you fell in love with/

(inspired by & including some lyrics from Secret Love Song by Little Mix feat. Jason Derulo)

'All my heart is yours... it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever'

The words seemed to pour from the pages of the book you were holding, reaching out towards your heart and making it their home.

It wasn't the first time you'd read Jane Eyre, but this sentence, underlined and highlighted from rereading, always stood out. You'd memorised it -- like the words had been written especially for you.

Because it brought to mind the man you loved.

You closed the book, keeping your index finger where you'd stopped, leaning backwards onto the headrest of the bed you shared with your husband.

He was doing work in the spare room he used as his study, and you weren't sure when he'd be done -- he usually slept quite late. What he'd told you during dinner came to mind, and you closed your eyes to ponder on it.

The next day he'd be leaving on a business trip. It would last a few days, and you would be left alone. This thought lingered and you enjoyed the prospect of the brief freedom you'd experience. As you imagined everything you'd be able to do, excitement built inside you, causing your stomach to fill with numerous butterflies.

For it would mean you could spend time with the man you loved. Your husband wasn't that man.

You opened your eyes at the sound of your husband's footfalls.

"Mark?" you asked, surprised. "You're done early?"

"Yeah, I," he hesitated, approaching the bed. "Well, I'm leaving tomorrow and I wanted to spend a little more time with you before I went,"

"Oh," you replied, the sound not coming out at all the way you wanted as guilt settled in your stomach. You hated that you were doing this, being unfaithful to the man who was taking care of you and keeping a roof over your head, the man your parents had chosen for you. But what could you do, when your heart belonged to someone else?

You pulled your lips into a smile and pat the bed next to you. "Alright,"

He got in and laid beside you, arms slipping around your waist. It was quiet, and it was peaceful, but you couldn't seem to let yourself get comfortable. Because the only thing you could think about was Jaebeom.

—

You knocked tentatively on his front door.

Earlier that morning you'd said goodbye to your husband and promised that you'd talk at least once every day. After eating your breakfast alone, you'd decided to go meet with Jaebeom.

Now you were regretting not telling him you were coming. It'd been nearly a week since last being face-to-face, and a small part of you always wondered whether he'd get tired of what was going on between the both of you.

If he'd get tired of hiding your love.

The door opened, and as you found yourself looking into Jaebeom's eyes, those eyes that seemed to hold the universe, you felt previous agitation and nervousness fall away, replaced by a strong, unyielding love.

"Jaebeom," you said, softly.

His eyes were wide, and his lips formed a small smile. Before you could move, he pulled you inside, wrapped his arms around your waist, and swung you around.

You squealed at the suddenness of the action, and you both started giggling.

"I missed you," he told you, sincerely, as he set you down and closed the front door.

"I missed you more," you replied, turning to look at the living room of his apartment.

It was exactly the same as you remembered it, save for papers scattered all over the couch and coffee table.

"Are those...?" you began, approaching the mess and recognising the papers. They were your poems.

Along with reading, you had a love for writing, and you often wrote poems for Jaebeom, or simply left them over at his house.

He hurried in front of you, gathering the papers. "It's supposed to be a surprise, I didn't know you'd be coming today,"

"You were going to surprise me with my own poems?" you asked, confused and amused.

"I..." he struggled, trying not to reveal anything and ruin the gift.

"It's alright," you laughed." I know I'll love it if it's from you,"

Finished with putting the papers into a small stack on the coffee table, he approached you, standing opposite you and reaching his hand to push your hair behind your ear.

"How long can you stay?"

"He'll be away for two days. What should we do?"

"Have fun," he replied simply, before lifting his hand that held yours and spinning you around.

You laughed, and he bent forwards, placing a kiss on your hand. "May I have this dance?"

Smiling, you said "Yes,"

—

You sat on the windowseat in Jaebeom's bedroom, reading one of the books you'd left over.

Paintings covered the wall — he'd done them himself — and there were polaroids scattered around as well. He loved taking pictures. Especially of you.

Immersed in the book you were reading, you didn't register the sound of Jaebeom returning from buying lunch. He set the plastic bags on the dining table before walking down the hallway and entering the bedroom.

His eyes fell on your oblivious self, and he couldn't help but smile. You looked so beautiful in his eyes.

When he reached you and you still hadn't looked up from your book, he stood behind you and gently placed a blush-pink rose in the middle of your book.

Momentarily startled, you looked above to see a smiling Jaebeom. He leant forwards and kissed your forehead, causing you to blush.

"I didn't hear you come in,"

"Mhmm," he acknowledged, sitting next to you and pulling you onto his lap. You twirled the flower between your fingers.

"Where'd you get this?"

"On my way back from buying lunch. It was pretty, and it made me think of you, so I bought a few. The rest are in a vase outside,"

"It's beautiful. I love it, thank you,"

"Do you want to go out tomorrow?"

"Where?"

"It's another surprise," he replied, mysteriously. "Tomorrow is the day before your husband returns, so I wanted us go out,"

You nodded, turning to look out the window. There was a comfortable silence for a moment before he spoke. "I wrote a song for you,"

"Really?" you asked excitedly, turning back to him. "You wrote?!"

He laughed softly, embarrassed. "Yes, it's pretty short, though. I just... missed you a lot this past week and, yeah I wrote a song,"

You smiled. "Can I hear it?"

Before he could speak, the both of you were interrupted by your ringtone.

Rising from his lap, you approached the phone you'd left on his desk, among numerous polaroids and pictures. After reading your husband's name on the screen, you picked it up.

After a short while of conversing, you set your phone back down on the table and looked sadly at Jaebeom. "The trip was cut short and he's returning tomorrow morning,"

"Oh," he replied, and you could hear the disappointment in his voice, but he quickly changed his tone. "We have until tonight right? We can still hang out,"

He held your hand and pulled you out of the room and down the hallway. You sat on the couch and he faced you, hands still in yours.

You looked at him expectantly, and he smiled shyly. "Here goes,"

"We keep behind closed doors Every time I see you I die a little more Stolen moments that we steal as the curtain falls It'll never be enough

It's obvious you're meant for me Every piece of you it just fits perfectly Every second, every thought, I'm in so deep But it can never be this way

And you know this, We got a love that is hopeless...

Why can't I say that I'm in love?

I wanna shout it from the rooftops I wish that it could be like that Why can't we be like that? Cause I'm yours

Wish we could be like that Why can't we be like that?"

When he looked back up at you, he saw tears pooling in your eyes. He squeezed your hand and smiled comfortingly. "I didn't mean to make you cry,"

You shook your head. "I loved the song, and I... I'm sorry... I don't want us to be like this either, but... my parents... "

It was your parents who'd arranged for you to marry Mark. They'd said he would make you happy, and you knew that he did love you, but it just wasn't in the way you wanted to be loved. It wasn't the way Jaebeom did.

But you didn't want to upset your parents in their old age, and they always looked so happy when you went to visit them with Mark. You couldn't bear to break their hearts now.

He cupped your face and smiled. "I understand, okay? I love you,"

"I love you, too,"

—

The rest of the day flew by way too quickly, as it often does when one is enjoying themself. Soon, you were sitting beside Jaebeom in his car, parked in front of your house. After a few moments of not knowing what to say, he pressed a small polaroid into your hand.

It was a selfie, both of you smiling. You'd taken it earlier that morning, after dancing and running around like children.

In the white space below the picture, he'd written: "I'm yours,"

You smiled, leaning forwards and kissing his cheek. "I have something for you too—" you placed a carefully folded piece of paper in his hand— "I found time to write it after listening to your song. Read it when I leave,"

He nodded, and neither of your broke eye contact until you spoke, regretful that you'd be leaving him once more. "I… I should go now,"

"Alright," he replied as you opened the door. "Till we meet again~"

Smiling, you waved and closed the door behind you, before approaching your house. Jaebeom unfolded the piece of paper you'd given him. It was a poem, and when he finished reading it three times, he smiled and placed it in his phone case.

not a love that is hopeless but a love that is timeless; a love that will still live on for generations to come

in the poems that I wrote, in the things that you composed, in the memories we created in the things that were our favourite,

yes, ours is a love that will never be lost you're forever mine, and I'm forever yours. ____________ this is @yug.fics on instagram!

#got7 #got7 imagines #got7 imagine #jaebeom #lim jaebeom #got7 jaebeom #jaebeom imagine #jaebeom imagines

[eyfey]

Do you have advice on how to improve on translating? Also, what made you want to start translating? Major props to you for translating Saiki because Akechi Touma’s lines kinda make me wanna die inside.

Thanks!!! (though tbh Akechi’s blathering is not NEARLY as bad as the non-stop puns/obscure references lol)

For what made me start translating:I found some Pyu to Fuku Jaguar raws for cheap at a used bookstore and started learning Japanese so I could read them. Once I got a little faster at reading, I noticed the Jaguar scanlation team had lost their translator, so I offered to join. My first translations were super not great (the only reason they’re even somewhat accurate is because Mangahelpers was more active at the time and I posted my translations there in the forums for people to proofread/asked for help whenever there was any kanji/grammar I got stuck on.

(If you want to go read my first translation, it’s ch62 of Pyu to Fuku! Jaguar. …Looking at it now, there’s so many places I could’ve translated better lol)

Since then I’ve gotten a lot better:

So here’s my hot tips on how to get better at translating!!!(under the readmore ‘cause it’s looong)

The number one thing that I recommend is… Just Translate! Pick up some raws and start doing some translations! They’re probably gonna be bad at first but who cares! You gotta start somewhere! Translating forces you to think about how to actually translate stuff and makes you look up words/grammar you don’t know. If you’re translating for a group/actually releasing your translations: You’ve got deadlines now! People looking forward to your translations! You’ve got consequences that will make it harder for you to slack off and drop your studies!

Google things! Whenever there’s a word/phrase/grammar that you don’t know: Google it! Google is a translators best friend!!!

Here’s some keywords I use:“[vocab/phrase in japanese] 英語で” will give you a google translate of the vocab, and if you scroll down a little like a weblio page or something with some translations for the vocab (the weblio/other pages are usually more accurate than the google translate option).

“[grammar in japanese] grammar” - Example 食べさせた (tabesaseta). Can’t remember what the -saseta verb ending meants? (I don’t blame you lol) Google “させた grammar” and you’ll get some pages in english explaining it along with several examples.

Have another translator proofread your translations! They can help you with vocab/grammar, parts that you misread, or even just suggest different ways to translate things that might fit better in different situations. The first scanlation group I was in did this and I learned soooo much that way! I don’t know how many other groups do this though (or how many other groups even have more than one translator) so maybe I just lucked out!

Fun fact! If something seems out of place when you’re reading/translating, it’s probably one of the following:a). A pun/cultural reference. b). A specific phrase/saying that shouldn’t be taken literally. (Googling the entire phrase will usually give you an equivelant phrase or appropriate definition in English.)c). Some weird grammar that you’re translating wrong (do a deep google: a lot of grammar forms have multiple meanings/change meaning based on very small factors/are very similar sounding to other different grammar forms)

Understand that a literal translation is not always a good or accurate translation: There’s some famous Natsume Souseki shenanigans where the line “I love you” was translated as “The moon is beautiful” in Japanese, because of how Japanese people are more shy or something and would never say “I love you straight out”. Natsume Souseki is valid- some things when you translate directly lose their nuance and change the meaning to something completely different.

That being said, changing TOO much will also ruin your translation. It’s a fine balance.The point is: once you understand what the Japanese says, you gotta think “okay now how would they say this in English?” If this series were originally in English, how would the author write that dialogue? What is the main point that needs to get across and what is the tone and how do you accurately convey both of those in English?

Consume! Consume media! Read stuff! Watch TV! Listen Learn how people talk! Get a bunch of English vocabulary up in your head and save it for later. Translating is not just understanding, it’s also WRITING. You need to have at least SOME understanding of how to write a poem if you want to translate a poem. You need to have at least SOME understanding of how to write comics/fiction if you want to translate comics/fiction.

Read/watch translated stuff! See how other translators translate certain words/phrases and take notes. Steal their cool ways of translating things and incorporate them into your own translations. Notice what DOESN’T work in a translation and make a mental note to not do that. (Season 2 of Aggretsuko on Netflix had me going “WOW that’s a good translation!” constantly while watching it. Good job Aggretsuko S2 netflix translator!)

Google again! Remember how you had to google to learn Japanese words? Good! Now google English words too! Google vocab terms! Google synonyms! Google phrases/sayings! Google words to make sure you’re spelling them right! Google grammar to make sure you’re using it right! GOOGLE!

Accents/dialects: Tread carefully with accents and speech quirks. Sprinkle them in, don’t lay them on heavy. Read the dialogue you’ve written and think “Does this sound like how an actual person would talk? or does this sound like someone putting on a shitty fake accent?” I’ve seen so many translations where people slam the accent on so hard you can’t even read the dialogue any more… It’s not great. *Exceptions for if the character IS putting on a shitty fake accent in Japanese, in which case go hog wild.

Puns: If you hate yourself, you will try to translate the puns instead of putting a translators note. Don’t worry too much about translating the pun EXACTLY. With puns/jokes, there’s two important factors at play: 1. What is the joke? Is it a reference? Is it a play on words? 2. What is the text ACTUALLY saying?Start by translating the line with no pun, just regular dialogue, and then adjust from there. Then re-word to try and fit in the pun- swap out words for ones that lend themselves better to punnery, or change which part of the sentence has the pun worked into it. (Wanna know a secret? Sometimes*, if the pun is the main focus of the line and there isn’t actually any important meaning to the dialogue? You can just write whatever the fuck you want to fit the pun. *but only if you’re ABSOLUTELY sure that it’s 100% about the pun and there’s no other significance)

しかたがない: This sucks. This phrase sucks. “It can’t be helped” sucks 98% of the time. “What choice do we have”, “Fine then” “What did you expect?” “I guess” “If you insist” “Whatever”. There’s a million ways to translate it, but no one way works for every situation. Sometimes you can just take it out completely. It all boils down to “I don’t want to do this but I’m doing it anyway” so think of what someone might say in that scenario that conveys that feeling and still feels natural.

Sentence structure/double bubbles: Japanese grammar structure is weird. Sometimes they do stuff like put the subject at the end of the sentence. It sounds weird when you do that in English. Don’t do that in english when you’re translating it. If you’ve got a line like 強いね、君は (tsuyoi ne, kimi wa). Please don’t translate it as “You’re strong, you are”. Just translating it as “You’re strong” is good enough. If you want to try and keep the pause in there, you could do something like “Yknow, you’re pretty strong.” If you’ve got something like this that’s split up across multiple speech bubbles- DON’T try to translate each bubble individually. Translate them all together as one big block of text, then divide it where it feels natural, and THEN re-distribute it to the speech bubbles. Sometimes what was in the last bubble will end up in the first bubble.

If it sounds awkward in English- Change it. Figure out what doesn’t sound awkward and make it be that.

PROOFREAD. You’re gonna spell things wrong. You’re gonna misread things. You’re gonna go back and decide to change the wording of a sentence but forget to change the tense of one of the words. You’re gonna translate something too close to the Japanese sentence structure and you won’t really notice it the first go around but when you go back to proofread you’ll be like “Wow. No one talks like that in English.”

For reference, here’s my translation/proofread process:

1. Translate. Get it into English. Doesn’t matter if it sounds janky or awkward right now, just try to get the meaning down in English. Anything you’re not sure you translated right? Mark it so you can double check it later. (I usually do this in a google doc on my phone.)2. 1st passthrough. Go through, and turn all that janky english into more natural sounding English: Check for anything that sounds off and give it some tlc. Reword anything that needs it. Do some hard research on the places you weren’t sure about the first time.3. 2nd passthrough. One more sweep through to polish up any parts that still sound awkward in English. If you’re not pressed for time it’s good to do this one a day or two after the previous passthrough so you’ve had some time to let the translation simmer in the back of your mind. Maybe you’ve come up with a better way to word something? Maybe you came up with a good way to make that joke work?4. Final proofread. Usually I do this after it’s been typeset: Sometimes something that read fine as a script doesn’t read so great when put on a page, divided into bubbles or split into separate pages. Adjust those parts. Check extra hard for any missed typos or messed up grammar ‘cause there IS going to be some that slipped through.

KEEP NOTES: If you’re working on a series, consistency is important and makes you look professional! Keep a document somewhere with translation notes so you can do a quick consistency check whenever necessary. Write down things like: How to spell/translate the names of characters/places/special attacks/etc (especially side characters that only show up every once and a while), how you translate certain catch phrases, how you handle certain characters’ speech quirks. You WILL forget if you spelled that name with one R or two Rs and it’s WAY easier to keep it all in one document than to have to go back and scan through every chapter until you find the ONE panel to see how it was written before. It also helps if you have multiple translators working on a series.

Put your name on your translation scripts if you want to be credited! Doesn’t have to be on every page, just once at the top- I used to not bother 'cause they were always just uploaded directly to the scan groups/never publicly uploaded, but then one day someone used one of my translations and the credit page just said something like “don’t know who to credit” lol

…and that’s all I can think of right now! Hope that helps!

#saiki asks #silenthikari #translation tips

[fangsmyth]

i’ve been meaning to analyze the shit out of his poem but..... i’m on break now so i have time

it’s prefaced as “ a poem written in free verse, based on something haunting me as of late reflecting on one of my most complicated and passionate past relationships ” so while i know for a fact i could derive MANY different meanings i’m focusing strictly on this intention

i’m normally really bad at analyzing poetry but..... for Him i will Try ( this is a lot of nonsense rambling please do not mind me i am a fucking idiot if anyone has any other onions i’d love to discuss! ....p-please do not steal;;; )

gaslighting and emotional abuse warning under the cut but who’s fucking surprised

What is the meaning of a memory? A question I oft ponder Intangible and untraceable by anything but the mind Yet so potent as to leaVe one sick As if poisoned or Wounded in a literal sense.

just kind of setting the stage i guess is the best way to call this part? his first fucking stanza is god damn terrible memories leave scars that no one can see i could’ve come up with this in my goth phase

And What meaning is there in regret and longing? Can my lamentations change the past? Will they moVe the future? Shall they amount to much more than What unmoors my here and noW?

p self explanatory imo? this goes into a bit of detail about how despite the relationship being over, he’s still thinking about it and he feels bad about what he did and how he treated them.

‘ Will they moVe the future? ’ implies that despite his regret, he doesn’t feel like he’ll learn from his mistakes since he’s made them so many times before. especially so with the next line ‘ Shall they amount to much more than What unmoors my here and noW? ’

he already feels insecure, and any future mistakes he makes are just going to contribute to that;;

If I restrict my World to that but Which is before my eyes To those Whom I may touch, to that Which I might alter; One Would no doubt conclude that thoughts of You are last among What I could consider to “matter”.

this a really interesting stanza, recognizing that the past and present don’t matter, much less any people in the past that hurt him. he knows he should be looking at the here and now, but he can’t help but feel anxious about what happened and what will happen in future relationships.

( also keep in mind that ‘You’ is capitalized, not as a part of lanque’s quirk despite how naturally it seems to fit with his quirk. i kind of ended up interpreting it how ‘You’ is capitalized like you would ‘God’ and ‘Lord’ implying lanque puts this person on an insanely high pedestal? )

it’s super interesting imo that he chooses to say ‘could’ instead of ‘should’, implying he sees it as an option to stop thinking about the other but not a necessity or, for that matter, the best option he has. 

it implies that he recognizes that he has the option to learn from his mistakes, but........

And still You haunt me yet, like a scar, like a disease uneager to abate. Who are You and Who am I, after so long Without You?

it kind of hit me at this point that despite the fact that it was something lanque was recently thinking about, it’s... possible that it wasn’t a recent relationship. he’s clearly fully submerging himself into the role of the victim in this horrible relationship with emotional abuse to the point of forced codependence.

i’m legit having a hard time telling whether this is a matter of lanque making himself out to be the victim ( as emotional vampires often do ) or the very real possibility that he honest to god was the victim of a horrible relationship that left him..... permanently scarred to the point he feels like all relationships are just SUPPOSED to be that way 

i’m gonna mainly use language that points towards the latter despite the fact that i honestly believe the more obscure and difficult to explain possibility that this is him trying to put himself in the shoes of someone he treated like garbage ( since idk i feel like he’s really good at recognizing and understanding peoples’ emotions, just not so much feeling them himself )

talking about it as if he were actually the victim just makes this a lot easier to analyze

i’m kind of...... getting ahead of myself though lemme lay down the next stanza

I knoW I don’t knoW I Won’t knoW; What do I knoW but What I knoW and What can it eVen mean to KNOW?

an allusion to gaslighting. i’m bad at writing out definitions i literally just know things my brain is huge and you’re all just jealous so to copy paste from the wikipedia google search result

Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which a person seeks to sow seeds of doubt in a targeted individual or in members of a targeted group, making them question their own memory, perception, and sanity.

i *loudly gestures* i don’t feel like i need to explain much further! going between saying he knows and doesn’t know, literally talking in circles and questioning what the concept of keeping knowledge even means!! this relationship kind of fucked him up!!!!!!

knoW, knoW; No!

kind of redundant that this line is on its own, just implies getting fed up and ready to leave?

Agh, though it so Vexes me, Though so little I Valued it When it Was before me, a thing and a You I could touch and see and knoW and hate and Wonder. (reVile/Worship).

AH HERE’S THE GOD SHIT AGAIN I KNEW IT WAS HERE SOMEWHERE!!!

lanque didn’t see this person as such a central figure when he was in the relationship, or it’s possible that he simply didn’t realize how important they were to him. their godliness implies that this person was always above him, that it was a privilege to be graced with their presence alone.

this (reVile/Worship) shit in my mind reads very similar to one of the ten commandments saying ‘we must fear and love god’ or some shit like that, but it doesn’t quite fit. it’s highly probable that it just implies that the relationship walked on a very fine tightrope between kismesis and matesprit ugh i went so long without using homestuck terms i’m sad now.... anyways this is call back to that implication of choice i was talking about earlier that’s built on more immediately

NoW it, and You, are a traceless ghost, and I preoccupy myself With nothing but futile tasks of (RE)definition and (RE)interpretation and circuitous dWellings on that Which I understand eVen less noW.

SUPER obvious but the person in the relationship is gone and lanque doesn’t know what to do without them. goes over how it’s hard for him to tell whether this is a refining of his pre-existing personality or just a brand new one all together. again, a choice as to whether or not that’s how he wants to approach it

the path to this reinvention is brought about through a bunch of rebounds and new relationships, ‘circuitous dwellings’ implying he possibly stayed in some of them for too long and he honest to god has no idea why? like he wasn’t enjoying himself, he wasn’t really being reinvented. it solidifies that it was flat out a new definition as lanque is more or less going through the motions

than in the times When my Wonderings might’Ve been so easily ansWered With a question or a bite or a kiss, or eVen a single Word, spoken honestly.

STRANGE to me how this starts as if it continues the past sentence despite the fact that it DEFINITELY ends in a period i double checked 

anyways

he also finds himself having a MUCH easier time following the motions than trying to internalize and understand this relationship. ‘wonderings’ being... pretty obviously just anxiety thoughts like you know how your brain just says things that aren’t true

and figuring out if they were would’ve been easy if he just said something or did something!!

Pressed though I am to giVe color to our bond I look not to onyx nor ash but that Which pulses Within our Very Veins: that so blinding jade, hard as the stone for Which it is so named,

interesting that this sort of starts an outline towards giving the subject an actual identity?

like specifically saying “pulses within our very veins: that so blinding jade” OBVIOUSLY says that it’s another jade in the cloister that this is about?

usually i’d like to say that writers usually don’t do this without reason but despite the praises i constantly speak alone in my room about the endless array of implications in every other thing that comes out of lanque’s mouth i also know v is a fucking hack and a got damn terrible writer

some gremlin at 3am whispered in my ear in the middle of the night saying this is about a past relationship with bronya and i did have some points but bronya is too good so i’m going to tell that gremlin to go fuck himself

tWisted and pulled hammered and forged shaped, unnaturally as if a chain.

there were so many things they went through to try and get this to work, but it kind of just came up as an obviously fucked up mess. likely considering that it would’ve ended/ran its course a lot better if they didn’t even try getting together. 

i wish every stanza was this simple

A stricture Within scriptures; a certain so meaningful tincture.

calling back to that whole “easily answered with a question, or a bite, or a kiss, or a single word spoken honestly” and those whole religious undertones that i keep pushing this solidifies that i’m not fucking crazy

GOD there’s so much in this little piece the very fact that his object of affection’s voice and words alone leave him feeling that he literally has no room to speak. the stricture is like a noose around his neck if he talks out of turn, hence the frustration that he knows something his wrong but he simply isn’t allowed to say something.

until he gets his hand on that ‘meaningful tincture’. alcohol gives him the courage to speak up and defy that gospel, alluding to his dependence on drugs and why they’re so important to him! it’s a lifestyle he wouldn’t give up because he’d hate to be silenced again!

Resent You though I must, EnVy You though I may,

emphasizing that shit i was talking about earlier with could vs. should, lanque feels like the right thing to do is look back at this in scorn. he should despise this person he idolized so much and envy how easy it was for them to lock him in such a vulnerable position for so long yet here he is..... thinking about them again

NoW leagues and leagues stretch betWeen us And I make peace With not but What I say.

these lines are pretty transparent. this was never resolved, there was never a proper conclusion to this relationship. they kind of just drifted apart, but lanque can take solace in the truth and completion of this poem. he makes peace with the fact that he acknowledges all of the problems in the relationship, and chooses to make them a part of him rather than something to just scowl and scoff at

You are only that Which is Within me, my blood and my mind and that is at once nothing, and the most elementary definition of eVerything.

i’m tired man i wrote like what 5 google drive pages about it i feel like i’d be repeating myself since this is his equivalent of wrapping it up and tying it in a lil bow

just because it happened and ultimately doesn’t matter doesn’t mean he didn’t internalize it?

this sort of ended up defining the person he became since it just shook him that badly man

do i need to go into more depth than that i just want some fucking chicken

#ginger lemon radler ( ooc ) ;; #angelic voices ( hc ) ;; #are you down? ( saves ) ;; #the heart of he who lives beyond the pale ( poetry ) ;; #GODDDDDD THIS IS SO LONG I'M SO SORRY

[rewrite-the-wrongs]

introductions / howdy, pardner

My first short story was about a fishboy and his human best friend. They battled a mutant piranha (whose name I think may have been Mutant Piranha, such was the monumental daring of my creative endeavor) and his army, who were out to destroy a mountain that held a whole planet together. The boys won singlehandedly, because scale was apparently a bit of a mystery to me.

This was the second grade. My teacher--who held me every day as I cried for weeks, confused and miserable and stranded in the throes of my parents’ divorce--understood before I did that I create to a ploddingly slow and steady drumbeat. A sentence is always so much more in my head than I’m able to let out, at first; I have to pore over it again and again, fleshing and flourishing (and often correcting) it, the same way I often have to reread paragraphs or pages or whole books to truly capture their meaning. In a word processor, this back-and-forth is as easily said as it is done; on double-wide ruled paper with dashed-line handwriting guides, the task is magnitudes more time-consuming, especially for somebody as messy as I am. So, while nearly everybody else played at recess on the sandlot and the jungle gym around us, a select few stragglers laid our reading folders on our laps and finished our stories.

My villain, that dastardly Mutant Piranha, found himself in prison at the story’s close. Awaiting trial, I guess; I never ventured that far ahead, seeing the big fishy bastard for a coward. “When no one was looking, he stabbed himself.” That’s the last line, stuck in my memory, not for its own sake, but for my poor teacher’s horrified face as she read my final draft there on the playground.

A mom volunteered to type up the class’ stories and get them printed and bound. For years afterward I reread that collection, always proud to have written the second-longest piece therein. I felt the weight of the pages, inhaled the tiny but acrid breeze that came from rapidly leafing through them. Knew it was a whole smattering of worlds inside, that one of those worlds was wholly mine, and I had the power to show it to people however I wished. Yes, I thought, I want this.

*

I’ve been introduced to writing many times over, by many people. Don’t get me wrong--I nightowled the first several chapters to many half-baked novel concepts all through my youth. But teachers have a way of showing a thing to you from new angles.

The first person to impact me as such was a high school teacher who was essentially given carte-blanche to construct a creative writing workshop in the English curriculum. The first semester was structured--you practiced poems, short fiction, humor and essay writing, drama, the gamut. Every semester after, the carte-blanche was passed on: A single assignment due a week, each a single draft of a poem or a minimum of two pages’ worth of prose. Forty-five minutes a day to work, and of course free time at home. By the time I graduated, I’d finagled my schedule such that I was spending two periods a day in the computer lab, and several hours after school every day working the literary arts magazine before I went home to get the rest of my homework out of the way and write some more..

My next big influence came in the form of  a pair of writers who taught fiction at my university, a married couple. One had me print stories and literally, physically cut them up section-by-section as a method of reworking chronologies. Told me stories happened like engines or clocks or programs--pieces that meshed differently depending on how they were put together, rules that held each other in place. The other showed boundless confidence in me, listened happily to some older students who recommended I be brought on board for a national arts mag. They both encouraged me toward grad school, but toward the end of my junior year I began to stumble, and by senior year I was, to be frank, a drunken asshole. Time I could be bothered to set aside for writing began to dwindle. I limped through the editorship with the help of my extremely talented, utterly more-than-worthy successor--and come to think of it, I’ve never truly thanked her. Maybe I’ll send her that message, now that I’m feeling more myself.

*

On feeling more myself:

That drunken rage was brought on by a myriad list of factors, the primary ones being 1) I am the child of recovering alcoholics, and our inherited family trauma runs deep, 2) An assault that will likely be mentioned no further from hereon in, as I have reached a solid level of catharsis about it, 3) Some toxic-ass relationship issues, and 4) I was a massive egg and had no idea (or, really, I had some idea, just not the language or understanding or even the proper empathy to eloquently and effectively explore it).

I had a recent relapse with drinking, technically--a mimosa at Christmas breakfast at my partner’s parents’ home--but I’m not honestly sure I can call it a legitimate relapse. I’m not in any official self-help group, I’ve never engaged in the twelve steps or a professional rehabilitation. I had a very wonderful therapist for a few years but reached a point at which I could not pay her any longer and we parted ways--I miss her dearly, as she truly became my friend and confidante; she was the first person I came out to, and very well-equipped to handle it, lucky for me--but I’m still on behavioral medication. That tiny smidgen of alcohol pushed my antidepressants right out of my brain, and I became terribly anxious and angry and sad all at once, and briefly lashed out during a conversation with my partner behind closed doors. Not nearly the lashing out I’ve released in the now-distant past--more on that maybe-never, but who knows, as I am obviously a chronic over-sharer.

Frankly, I don’t deserve my partner. She endured my past abuses, told me to my face I had to be better, and found it in herself to wait for me to grow. She’s endlessly and tirelessly supportive of me. She sat with me to help me maintain the nerve to start this blog tonight. I came out to her as a trans woman just under a year ago, now, and I’m happier than ever, and we communicate better than ever. Our relationship is, bar-none, the healthiest and stablest and happiest I’ve ever been in.

So, naturally, I apologized fairly quickly at Christmas, and continuing where I’d left off at two and a half years, decided I’m still solid without booze.

If we’re all being honest, though (and I’m doing my best to be one hundred percent honest, here, though I will absolutely be censoring names because no shit), I still smoke way too much fuckin’ weed. High as balls, right now. 420 blaze it, all day erryday, bruh. That self-medicated ADHD life. I should be on Adderall and not antidepressants, probably, but it’s been a while since an appointment and psychiatrists are expensive, so I’m at where I’m at for now. Sativas help a lot. It helps with the dysphoria, too.

I don’t have a legal diagnosis for gender dysphoria, but tell that to my extreme urge to both be in and have a vagina. I’m making little changes--my hair, an outfit at a time, no longer policing how I walk or run or how much emphasis I put on S sounds. If I manage to come out to my parents sometime soon--and it feels like that moment is closer every day--maybe I’ll tell y’all my real, full chosen name. For right now, call me Easy.

*

Anyhow. My goals here are pretty simple:

1) Share words, both those by people I like/admire/sometimes know! and occasionally words I’ve made that I like. See the above screenshot from my notes app. Steal some words if you want, but if you manage to make money off some of mine, holler at ya gurl’s Venmo, yeah?

2) Discuss words, how they work, and how we create them, use them, engage with them, and ultimately make art of them. I am not a professional linguist, but I went to undergrad for creative writing, so, hey, I’ll have opinions and do my best to back them up with ideas from people smarter than I am.

3) Books! Read them, revisit them, quote them, talk about them, sometimes maybe even review them, if I’m feeling particularly bold. No writer can exist in a vacuum, and any writer who insists they don’t like to read is either a) dyslexic and prefers audiobooks or b) in serious need of switching to a communications major (no shade, but also definitely a little shade @corporate journalism).

5) I added this last, but I feel it’s less important than 4 and does not deserve bookend status, and I am verbose but incredibly lazy, so here I am, fucking with the system. Anyway: Art! Music! Video games! I fucking love them. I’ll talk about them, sometimes, too. Maybe I’ll finally do some of the ekphrastic work I’ve felt rattling around in my brain for a while now. Jade Cocoon 2′s Water Wormhole Forest, looking right the fuck at you.

6) Ah, shit, I did it again. Oh well. Last-but-not-last: This is obviously, in some ways, a diary, or a massive personal essay. I will sometimes discuss people, places, or experiences that have informed my work just the same as other people’s art has.

4) Be an unabashed and open Trans woman. TERFs, transphobes, ill-informed biological essentialists not permitted. Come at me and my girldick and prepare to be dunked on and subsequently shown the door via a swift and painful steel-toed kick in the ass. Everybody who doesn’t suck, if I screw up on any matter of socio-ethics or respect for diversity, please feel free to correct me.

*

Punk’s dead, but we’re a generation of motherfucking necromancers. Be gay, do crime, fight the patriarchy, and fart when you gotta. May the Great Old Ones select you to ascend to a higher plane and learn the terrible truths of existence.

Much love--

Easy

#writers #writing #creative writing #trans #trans woman #fuck TERFs #writing about writing #writer #my writing #diary

[miss-pyrrha-nikos-isms]

Getting to know the Writer

Thank you to @braith-eisen-isms and @zsweber-studios for the tags!

1. Short stories, novels, or poems?

I’ve been informed when I turn my hand to poetry it’s not bad at all. Sadly, I think otherwise.

Truthfully, the most of what I write is campaign notes, world-building, NPC and character backstories and downtime. I’ve helped building three different worlds thus far, one medieval low fantasy, one extrememly high fantasy, and one somewhere in between. And one Sci-fi universe. Although, admittedly, I had an absolute blast with that.

When I do turn my hand to proper writing, it’s typically RP responses that are grossly overdue and short fics. I’m massively guilty of what I call ‘consequence free writing’ wherein I’ll create a scenario, I’ll let a problem or scene develop, and then I’ll end it after the scene’s climax.

Actions don’t have consequences if you’re a character in one of my fics ^_^

2. What genre do you prefer reading?

I’m a dolt for Fantasy in it’s many many shapes and forms. I’ve been known to pick up a a Sci-fi or Dystopian novel once in a blue moon. There’s even some poetry and epics on my bookshelf. If the paranormal, magical, other-worldly, bizarre or otherwise fantastical make an appearance, I am all over that.

And, of course, some writing manuals. Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’ is an actual god send.

3. What genre do you prefer writing?

 I write what I read. Admittedly, RP-wise, I have been writing a surprising amount of romance as of late. I’ve turned my hand to horror before, but I fear it didn’t go overly well.

 4. Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person?

 I can have a beautiful plot lined up, full of intricacy and clever twists, and my lead character will take one look at it and simply decide otherwise. They have minds of their own. I just sort of set up the world, create the character, their motivation and turn them loose.

 5. What music do you listen to while writing?

 It really depends on the genre. Like almost everyone, the LOTR soundtrack features heavily in my playlist. There’s some translated anime soundtracks thanks to Lie and Lee, Nate Wants to Battle and Amalee. The Swedish Orchestra have done some beautiful work with gaming soundtracks, particularly Bloodbourne and Witcher.  

 6. Fave books/movies?

 Ohhhhhhh buddy. I’ll save us all and limit myself to 5 recent books.

 Mistborn- Brandon Sanderson

Sanderson’s character breathe. They are truly marvellous. His world is a vast one, his story gorgeously compelling and holy hell those twists. 

A Darker Shade of Magic/ A Gathering of Shadows- V. E. Schwab

I adore Delilah as a protagonist. Schwab doesn’t pull punches and try and make his protagonists completely likeable. They are flawed human beings and that gets them into just as much trouble as their abilities get them out of. Kell and Lila serve as each other’s muse and devil, even when half a world away.

 Terry Pratchett- The Night’s Watch

The Discworld never fails to enthral me with it���s wit and charm. Pratchett’s characters are both caricatures and subtle developed individuals. Everyone has at least one character in Discworld they simply adore. Vimes is definitely one of mine. 

The Once and Future King- T. H. White

This collection of Arthurian tales will forever remain on my bookshelf. It has earned it’s place there time and time again.

 The Last Wish- Andrzej Sapkowski

I heard the books where darker than the game. I am currently in the middle of finding out. Sapkowski’s world is a brilliant example of a grimdark world down without the depressing overlay. There are glimpses of nobility, of love and companionship. One just has to be careful those traits don’t get you killed.

7. Any current WIPs?

Every single RP thread I’m working on. The worlds are constantly expanding with more lore and epic-tier backstory.

 8. If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be?

Leather leggings are a must. Likely a vintage cartoon T-Shirt or a block colour top with a loose denim shirt as a cover and ankle boots. 

Unless we’re LRP-ing- Then it’s the corset, gyspy-top, long boots and Hunting coat ensemble. Two swords, a small hand hammer, holy symbol around the neck, more potions than possibly needed and a hipflask (essential). An outfit I love way too much. 

9. Create a character description for yourself:

(More of a NPC description, but ho hum)

‘Away with the fairies’. She had frequently been described as such, and now she seeks to emulate it. Tall, but with far too much of a sweet palette to be lithe. She has a smile like a breeze. Perpetually there, and many don’t realize it’s presence until it’s gone. A mane of curls bounce as she talks animatedly.

10. Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing?

I may steal a series of conflicting traits from a person, but I won’t steal their full being.

 11. Are you kill-happy with characters?

 Oh gods no. I will put them through hell, and possibly their worst nightmares, but I will rarely kill them. All too often, that would be a kindness.

 12. Dream job?

A librarian, or a lighting apprentice for a theatre. I’ve always been fascinated by the backstage of the theatre. The special effects and everything else. I can’t be onstage for the life of me, but I would happily delve into the secrets of the backstage arts.

If I could write LRP plot for a living I would love to, but a girl’s gotta eat.

 13. Coffee or tea while writing?

 I’m with Braith. Hot chocolate wins.

14. Slow or fast writer?

 I make the tortoise look like Usian Bolt.

 15. Where/who/what do you find inspiration from?

Everywhere. I carry a notebook everywhere I go. Sometimes it’s a great collection of ideas, sometimes it’s just one well-wrought sentence. 

16. If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be?

 Oh dang, which one? I’ll assume person preference.

 Probably one I helped make. If I forced to pick, Asyre, particularly in the City of Larchenette. A city risen from the sea, sourced around a fragment of the legendary Sun Crystal. It was one of the first places I ever created and sentimentality holds a lot.

 Not to mention, at some point a dragon washes up on shore, with a merfolk, and half a dozen others.

17. Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche?

 Favourite- ‘Two characters sparring, one partner pins another to a wall, intense few seconds, both character start making out.’

 Least favourite- ‘My biggest flaw is I’m clumsy/My power makes me heartless.’ Get OUT of my novel with that nonsense. I will fully rage-quit a story over this type of writing.

 18. Fave places to write?

I tend to write best in an environment where something is going on. A coffee shop, a library, a bar, there’s a lot of options.

19. Fave scenes to write?

 Descriptive, or ones where I can work in some foreshadowing.

 20. Most productive time of day for writing?

 Whenever the feeling strikes. Normally when I’m in the middle of something.

 21. Reason for writing:

 “For a teller of tales will never die- not while there are still people willing to listen.” Stories speak to something primal and universal. In every culture, we have narratives for entertaining, narratives for warning and ones written in tribute or commemeration. I find it speaks to me on that level. Hearing a compliment after I bear my soul, or put my best effort into writing somethingfulfils me in a way nothing else does.

To make things easier, and to quote a wise green haired man once upon a time, I am a writer “because there is nothing in this world I would rather be.”

Tags- @cody-baxter-isms, @churchboy42, @and-his-name-is-rouge-crimson, and anyone else who wants to give it a whirl!

[iamsonyeondone]

liar liar pants on fire

*˙˚○ kim jaehwan x reader (feat. hwang minhyun)

*˙˚○ bandmate! & roommate! kim jaehwan

*˙˚○ some fluff but most is just Jaehwan being Jaehwan 

*˙˚○ word count : 2.7k

“Kim Jaehwan, you’re lying straight through your teeth,” You gritted your teeth as you glared down at the brunette who had a sheepish grin adorning his face. If it weren’t for those squishy cheeks, you would have given no mercy and kicked him out of the apartment that the both of you had shared in. Apparently, those dumpling cheeks had helped themselves to your secret snack stash. And by that, I meant, wiped it out entirely.

“C'mon (Y/N), I only took a few,” His little grin was replaced with puppy eyes and a tiny pout but that never worked on you. Maybe a little bit. But you’ve seen it too many times that the spell had completely lost its effects.

“Then maybe I should just cut a few of your guitar strings, that wouldn’t hurt right?”

“No, (Y/N), don’t you dare,” And with a wide smile, you dashed towards his room, locking the door once you slammed it shut in his face. But regret soon filled your gut when your eyes laid on the pig sty that laid in front of you - empty wrappers were strewn on the floor while mountain piles of laundry decorated the room. A game of hide and seek in his room would be an infinite one but then again, no one would have the guts to hide themselves in the mysterious piles of used clothes. But you couldn’t back down now, Jaehwan deserved punishment for stealing the snacks you had painstakingly hidden beneath your bed where your drawers were hidden under your covers. You even wondered how he managed to find the key that led to your stash in the first place. But first, revenge.

After almost an hour of searching for the right item to sabotage, the helpless wailing of your roommate died down. He probably gave in and was watching the tv in the living room while you scavenged. And just as you were about to announce your failure, you came upon a little plain notebook. It didn’t seem like the notebook he usually wrote lyrics in but the formation of words and sentences in them caught your eye. It seemed more like a poem than a song. The words effortlessly working together to form quite a masterpiece. Who knew Jaehwan was capable of being sentimental. Before you opened the door to reveal your presence, you tuck the book into the back of your jeans, covering it underneath the thick hoodie you had on.

Once Jaehwan heard the door unlock, he scrambled up to his feet. He had been waiting outside the door ever since you denied his access. And the first thing that came out from his mouth brought a little smirk to your face.

��I swear to god if you really did cut off my guitar strings, I’m banning you from going to our next concert. I’ll just be a solo act then,” Jaehwan whined as he rushed into his room to search for his guitar. But he was simply greeted by it, still encased by its cover and untouched. Then, confusion struck him, why did you look so mischievous then?

“If you really want to be a solo act, then go ahead. I have better things up my sleeve,” You chuckled before locking yourself into your own room. The snooping had just began.

You looked through the pages one by one, and once you had reached the last page, you had come up with a conclusion. Jaehwan was in love. By the use of cheesy words in his poems, nothing else can beat the fact that Jaehwan had fallen head over heels for a certain somebody. But who? You knew the guy long enough to see every one of his ugly sides, so who was this ‘lucky’ girl. Sure, he has a few perks but this guy was a walking mess. Well, his room is enough evidence to show his character. And knowing full well about your roommate, this guy would have gushed about this pretty girl like all the other girls he found attractive on the street. So now you had another objective in mind. Mission : Find Dumpling’s Possible Love Life.

“(Y/N), get your ass out of bed and get ready, we’ll be late for our concert if you don’t get up this instant,” Jaehwan mumbled, still attempting to rid his eyes off the exhaustion that managed to linger. Once you grumbled and swung your legs to the side of your bed, Jaehwan saw it as the cue to use the bathroom before you did. He didn’t want to increase the risk of being late to one of your first performances after a long time.

Once you had been fully dressed, makeup done with your best attempt, you headed over to Jaehwan’s room to check if he was ready as well. Although you were greeted by a groomed up Jaehwan, the guy was scavenging around his room, flinging clothes in every direction and removing all his notebooks full of lyrics and ideas an scattering them onto the desk where they filled every surface. Calling it a pig sty now was an understatement.

“What are you missing? Our manager’s are waiting outside,” You inquired as you lingered by the doorframe. Your question didn’t even bother him from his little hunt and all you were replied with was a small frustrated sigh before he uttered a simple “Nothing,”. You had a gist that he was finding for his little book full of romantic poetry so you shrugged and walked away, knowing that if he caught sight of your guilty expression, your mission would crash and burn. And you weren’t going to throw away your chances just like that.

Even when the both of you were backstage, practicing your vocals and you with your beat rhythms, the look of worry still adorned Jaehwan’s face. Who knew the book was so important to him? You even thought of giving away your intentions since this was risking your performance and you knew stress could greatly affect him.

“Hey, don’t worry too much, girls are already falling for you so I doubt they’d realise any of your mistakes,” You smiled sweetly as you rubbed his back to soothe his nerves. Your actions brought a small smile to tug on his lips as he murmured a thank you, the boisterous and overconfident Jaehwan still out of sight.

“Y'know, one of their mistakes was falling for you. If only they saw your face this morning, oh my, that would have completely changed their perception of you,” You teased to see if this could ignite some confidence in him. And you actions and finally pulled the trigger.

“Well, you should’ve seen yours. I may have some disadvantages but nothing can beat my visuals, vocals and dancing skills,” He retorted as he looked down on you with his chin facing the sky. Now that Jaehwan was back, your cue to enter the stage was sent and you breathed a slow shaky breath before you went out there to face the crowd full of your fans and friends who came to support. Your dream of one day filling an entire room had been fulfilled and the surge of excitement and adrenaline coursing through your veins caused your heart to beat right out of your chest. The fans chant out your names, swaying their creative banners and boards in the air as you stood in the middle of the stage. It was absolutely surreal, even after the numerous concerts you had. They say the feeling would fade overtime when you got used to the popularity. But when you looked back at Jaehwan, his face being illuminated by one of his widest smiles, both of you knew that the excitement was incomprehensible for the both of you. Even after 3 years of performing, the support from your fans, family and friends were still unfathomable and you couldn’t help but shed a little tear.

“Yah, all of you are making (Y/N) cry! Why don’t we lighten the mood with a cheerful song?” Jaehwan teased as you chuckled, wiping the tear with the long sleeves of your sweater.

“Who remembers the song we released during the spring?” You asked, still sniffling as you sat on your cajon, a percussion instrument you had grown to love at a young age due to its simplicity and mobility. Your fans screamed in agreement, chanting your song title as Jaehwan checked to see if his guitar was tuned with a little strum. And soon, your concert started with a few teary eyes, laughter as you joked with your fans and genrally having a joyful time as you did what you loved most. Performing.

After a few more farewells and flying kisses goodbye, you waved one last time as the curtains hid you from the fans sight. Instantly at the chance of privacy, Jaehwan rubbed your back, holding a packet of tissue in his other hand. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his worried expression as you pulled tissue paper from the packet and blew into it, your nose turning red at the impact.

“I guess we know who’s perfect to dress up as Rudolph this year,” Jaehwan teased as you punched him hard on the shoulder. Jaehwan yelped in pain as he retracted his hand from rubbing soothing circles into your back and instead rubbed the area where you had just hit him a few seconds ago.

“I already dressed up as Rudolph last year, get more creative, knucklehead,” You groaned as you blew into the tissue once more.

“Why don’t we dress up as Santa Claus and Mrs Claus,” He wiggled his brows, only to earn another punch from you.

“You’re just feeding the fans more theories. I’ve seen the fandom, you don’t want to go there,” You huffed as you got into your vehicle, along with all the sweet gifts that your fans had brought along to your concert. And most of them was secretly taken by the both of you while your managers were busy handling the sound checks as well as ensuring that there were security outside the building to ensure the safety of the both of you before you exited. You had been reading the letters in the car, sneakily reading them under your big wooly coat. Once you got onto the next letter, pictures of both you and Jaehwan filled the envelope as well as a letter they had handwritten for you. You couldn’t help but snicker when you caught sight of the silly faces you made when the photos were being taken at your previous concerts as you awed at the sweet words of encouragement and support that the fan had written. The last few words though, ignited confusion in you but it was nothing unfamiliar to you as you looked back to the photos, most of them was of Jaehwan looking at you with a soft smile as you pulled on your funny faces.

“The both of you look really great together and we would totally support your relationship so please don’t hide in the shadows anymore,” 

You knew your fandom would like the both of you to be in a relationship or like the idea of it but you simply brushed it off, thinking that these fangirls just really liked the chemistry the both of you had. Well, that’s because the both of you were close friends especially since you shared the dorm with the guy. But you’ve never seen the pictures before or saw how Jaehwan looked at you in such a way. The only time you saw him smile in such a vulnerable fashion was when he fell in love with one of the members from a girl group, and that didn’t end well.

“Hey dork, I’ve been asking about dinner and you have yet to reply my growling stomach. If you don’t reply me in three I’m going to- oh let me see!” Jaehwan looked over your shoulder. But before he could get a snippet of the letter, you tucked them deep into your coat and stuck out your tongue.

“You have your own, dumbass! Anyways, order me some sushi, you still need to pay me back for stealing my lifeline,” You huffed as you scrambled to hide the pictures back into their envelopes and keep them before Jahewan got his grabby hands to work. With a whiny Jaehwan from your choice of food, you slid the envelope into your bag as you simultaneously bickered with him. Why were you trying your hardest to hide them away? Jaehwan knows what the fans do too, the both of you even joked about the fact that the both of you had rumors of being in a relationship together. But why did the exact same situation feel entirely different now? You held onto your questionably heart-racing chest as you ended the argument with Jaehwan by allowing him to get any food he wanted to. Something else was now far more important than your hunger, and that frightened you.

Dinner was served as you and Jaehwan sat in the corner of a Korean bbq restaurant, enjoying the meat and dishes that were served. You would have completely devoured everything due to the fact that he insisted on paying the bill and letting you order whatever you want but today you were completely off. You had only gotten to your fifth bite in almost half an hour and Jaehwan took notice of that. With a little sigh, he picked up a lettuce leaf and begun to make a wrap, just like how you like it.

“Here, eat this. You barely ate this morning so I bet your monster of a stomach is hungry,” He smirked as he offered to feed you the wrap. But once the both of you had eye contact, you looked back onto the sizzling meat and shook your head, your heart racing right out of your chest.

“I can make it myself, dimwit. I’m an independent woman,” You mumbled as you aimlessly tossed the meat to cook them evenly, completely avoiding the watchful eyes of Jaehwan. Before he could retort, a familiar voice called out both your names, instantly grabbing your attention as you turned your head to the source of the voice. It was none other than Jaehwan’s best friend Minhyun and you had the urge to hug him so tight for saving you from the embarrassment that crept up your cheeks.

“What’s the two of you doing here? I bet Jaehwan dragged you here, right (Y/N)?” Minhyun chuckled as he grabbed a seat next to yours. You groaned a ‘yes’ as you returned to tossing the meat and offering some to Minhyun.

“Oh no I couldn’t. I’ll order my own set. Anyways, how’s the concerts going? I heard you just had one a few hours ago,” He asked before calling out for the waiter at a nearby table.

“One of the best ones so far. She started crying out of thin air so me, being a gentleman, decided to treat her to meat but look at how my kindness has been repaid! She calls me a dimwit and barely eats,” Jaehwan complained as you placed meat onto your plate and ate it right in front of him to prove him wrong. Minhyun chuckled at the sight of both you. He awed at the chemistry that bubbled between you both and how you guys were capable of being two childish brats who acted like a married couple when the both of you were in your 20s.

“If you guys bicker any further, the distant sound of wedding bells ringing will be right at your doorstep,” Minhyun smirked. And at the sight of his unusual attitude, you were utterly shocked as you grabbed your chest in mocking pain.

“Who is he? Do you know him Jae?” You asked Jaehwan as he replied with the vigorous shake of his head. And in a split second, the three of you blurted out laughing. But the loud sound of your beating heart couldn’t leave you alone. There was a little hope in you that you expected Jaehwan to agree to the little teasing remark. And then it hit you. You were whipped for your band mate. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. But who knows?

—

Part 2???

#kpop #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #wanna one #wannaone #wanna one imagines #wanna one scenarios #produce 101 scenarios #produce 101 imagines #produce 101 #produce 101 season 2 #pd101s2 #scenarios #imagines #kim jaehwan #kim jaehwan imagines #kim jaehwan scenarios #jaehwan

[joyfullynervouscreator]

A Labour of Love

for @asparklethatisblue who gave me nwalin feels when I was intending to go to bed early...

word count ~2k

He’d begun finding these small… notes. Nori recognised Dwalin’s handwriting, and Dori had managed to teach him enough to realise that the letters – written on paper of a quality he used to nick for Ori, and in an ink Nori was pretty sure would have cost Ori a month’s pay per bottle in Ered Luin – were addressed to him. He had also managed to – well it wasn’t guessing, not really, Dori also began with D, after all – figure out that the letter were from Dwalin. At first, he had wondered what they were, but he’d shrugged it off as some sort of nobby courting custom and simply given Dwalin kisses in return.

Now, however, as he stared at the surprisingly large collection before him, he began to wonder – was it a hint, of such incredible subtlety that he’d rather considered it beyond Dwalin, who was as solid as a Dwarf could be; completely opposite his own twisty mind? – if Dwalin realised that he couldn’t read them. Counting – a quick tally showed him a total of 23 pieces of paper of differing sizes – counting was easy, any thief had to know how much he’d stolen and how much he’d been paid, but letters had stumped him for more than a century now, and Nori hadn’t really noticed the lack of literacy in his daily life before these blasted letters began appearing.

 Elsewhere:

“Nori doesn’t like my poetry!” Dwalin exclaimed, barging into the King’s study and falling back onto Dís’ sofa. The King of Erebor frowned, her clever fingers continuing to move her small needle, the silk thread becoming a repeating pattern of triangles and squares that Fíli had favoured since he was a dwarfling.

“I thought it was quite good, honestly,” she murmured, shooting Dwalin a look of sympathy, “I mean, the part about him stealing your heart might be a little obvious, but overall you did very well.”

“But he hates them!” Dwalin despaired. “He never even comments on finding my notes, let alone the words I write for him.” Despondency writ in every feature, Dwalin turned over, hiding his face in a pillow. Dís tutted, pulling her thread taut.

“I’m sure Nori doesn’t hate your poetry, Dwalin,” she hummed softly, putting down her embroidery hoop and crossing to perch on the edge of the sofa, stroking his hair softly as though he wasn’t older than her. Pressing a kiss to the back of his bald head, she hummed a small tune; a lullaby Thorin had once written, in fact, though none of them remembered the words by now. Dwalin chuckled.

“It’s better than Thorin’s at least,” he smirked. Dís laughed.

“Also better than Balin’s,” she retorted, pinching his ear gently. “Now, if you want to move forward in this courtship, I do think 23 poetic descriptions of why you love Nori is enough to move on to the Family Songs… even if he hasn’t responded.” Dwalin just groaned.

“But he deserves the right words, Dís!” he exclaimed, with such dismay that Dís had a hard time keeping the mirth off her face.

“Maybe you could ask him?” she suggested. “I know that’s a bit…unorthodox, but, surely, you can’t claim he hasn’t conveyed interest?” Dwalin grumbled something unintelligible. “Sorry?”

“Balin!” Dwalin growled. Dís laughed.

“Aye, I can see your trouble, Cousin,” she admitted, returning to stroking Dwalin’s hair. A flash of insight occurred to her at that moment. “Dwalin?” she asked carefully, “are you sure…”

“Of course, I’m sure!” he growled, “I wouldn’t be doing this stupid courtship ritual if I wasn’t sure!”

“I know that, cousin, please, do credit me with some intelligence!” she tossed back at him, flicking his ear with displeasure. “I meant: Are you sure that… well, are you sure that Nori knows how to read?” Dwalin stiffened.

“He must!” he exclaimed. “I mean, Dori can read – he and Balin have literary discussions all the time – and Ori is a scribe, Mahal’s Beard!” Dís hummed thoughtfully.

“Yes, cousin,” she murmured, “but Nori’s never exactly struck me as the type for scholarly pursuits, if you know what I mean.” She winked at him, disarming Dwalin’s scowl with her fond smile. Dwalin frowned.

  “Nori?” Dwalin called, walking into their home – Balin had frowned at him for moving in with Nori before reaching the appropriate stage, but even he had to admit that evicting Nori would be counterproductive at best; the thief had simply showed up in drips and drabs, until he had seemingly always lived in Dwalin’s house.

“Dwalin!” Nori exclaimed. Dwalin frowned; Nori was never surprised to hear him come home.

“Everything alright?” he asked carefully, running through scenarios in his mind. Nori was in the bedroom; there were several reasons – good or bad – for him to sound like he wasn’t particularly pleased to have Dwalin home just yet.

“Yes!” came the chirped reply, which did nothing to soothe Dwalin’s nerves. Nori was… well, chirpy wasn’t among the list of Nori’s moods, as Dwalin knew them, at least, he finally decided, scratching the back of his head.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, steeling himself for anything as he opened the door.

Dwalin stared.

Nori looked up, a guilty look fleetingly appearing on his face, lit by the flickering of the candles disturbed by Dwalin opening the door. That was not the reason Dwalin was struck dumb in the doorway, however. Scattered across the bedspread – carefully arranged in rows of eight – were every note of poetry he had left for Nori. The last space was blank, almost like it was awaiting a final letter of completion.

 Nori felt his ears burning, watching Dwalin stare at his collection. He might not know what they said exactly – though he had a feeling they weren’t shopping lists, for example – but he had kept each one, taking them out every now and again to trace the N in his own name and feel the warmth of Dwalin’s love run through him like a shiver. Honestly, it didn’t matter what was written on the pages in Dwalin’s careful hand – less practiced than Ori’s, even to Nori’s eyes – because every letter was put there for the sake of Nori, for Nori to find in the most obscure places Dwalin could think of, and in Nori’s head that meant as much as the words themselves.

“You kept them,” Dwalin breathed, and Nori would have said that he sounded relieved, if it wasn’t a ridiculous notion. He nodded. “You… you can’t read, can you?” If the words had been challenging or harsh, he would have denied Dwalin’s claim, but the warrior’s rumble was soft, tender like the large hands that reached for him, pulling him close.

“No,” Nori admitted, feeling small and vulnerable. Dwalin hummed, his big arms firm around Nori in the way he liked to be hugged.

“Aye, Dís thought so,” Dwalin murmured, “I been drivin meself spare for weeks wondering why you’d not responded to a single poem.”

“They’re poems?” Nori wondered. Dwalin hummed. “Why would you write poems?”

“I’m not a terrible poet, love,” he chided, pressing a kiss into Nori’s hair, “and it’s traditional, innit.” Looking up, Nori realised that Dwalin was blushing just as vividly as he was.

“Traditional?” he frowned, turning his head up for a kiss.

“Yes?” Dwalin asked. “Step five in the dance of courtship, as first described by Sunna of Khazad-dûm in the First Age: ‘The beloved must be made aware of their traits and habits the lover finds most…” Dwalin trailed off, his blush deepening. Nori raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of the sentence. “Well, pleasing…” Suddenly, his collection of letters was infinitely more precious, Nori thought. Dwalin continued briskly, his ears red, “and if the beloved responds favourably, the next step of courtship can be initiated.”

“Nobs,” Nori sighed, shaking his head, though part of him – a large part of him – was inordinately pleased with Dwalin’s small love letters.

“Well, I didn’t know you couldn’t read them!” Dwalin defended, and Nori suddenly realised that Dwalin had believed he was putting a stop to their courtship by never mentioning the letters. Moving out of Dwalin’s arms, he scooped up the letters carefully, forming a stack in his arms and moved into the main room.

“Bring the pillows,” he called back over his shoulder as he put the stack on a small side table and added another log to the fire, lighting a couple of wall sconces for extra light.

“What are you doing?” Dwalin asked, appearing in the doorway with the pillows off their bed.

“Come here,” Nori asked, reaching for him. Beneath him, the large warg skin protected his knees from the chilly floor. Dwalin moved slowly, placing down the pillows; reclining on them when Nori pushed him down. “Read them to me,” Nori murmured, fetching the stack of letters and putting them down beside Dwalin, taking up his favourite cuddling position along the warrior’s side. Dwalin stared down at him. Nori smiled, leaning up to kiss him. “Read,” he prompted, “please.” Pressing his mouth against the top of Nori’s head, Dwalin picked up the first piece of paper.

“My grey-eyed Thief,” Dwalin began slowly, somehow feeling more emotional reading the words than he had when he was penning them down…

These are words, and no more than strokes of ink on the page. But they are yours, to keep, for the rest of our days. For each morning, each noon, and each night, whether spent upon duty or enjoyed with delight. I don’t quite know how, but you stole my heart, And all I can pray, is that you will not tear it apart.

My star, my love, my pin-prick of light, you bring me joy, even in the darkest of night.

…Putting down one page, he blindly picked up another, feeling Nori’s soft lips pressing kisses against his neck as he continued…

What if I told you, I wanted to love you for the rest of my life? Would you let me? If I gave you the key to my heart, my soul, Would you cherish and protect it? Would you fill my days with your grey eyes, smiling or sorrowed? Would you let me hold you, and hold me in turn when I need it? Would you want to grow old with me Until death do us part And the Maker calls us to His Halls? “I love you,” Nori whispered, when Dwalin put down the last piece of paper. Dwalin turned his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “So much.”

When Nori felt stable enough to leave his arms, he gathered up his stack of letters once more, neatening the pile and stowing it away in the box he had had Bifur make for the purpose when the first three letters had appeared. Pulling Dwalin along by the hand, he set the fine wooden box on his nightstand before crawling into bed, wrapping himself around Dwalin’s bulk once more.

 Three days later, Nori was off doing something related to his work as the Black Owl, and Dwalin was getting into bed alone, tired after a long day. Beneath his pillow, something rustled. Lifting it, he stared at a folded piece of paper, a finely crafted D on the side facing him. Pushing the pillow out of the way, he opened the small piece of paper, surprised to see his hands tremble.

 Dwalin, it said, in letters that looked like they were made by a dwarfling. Dwalin stared, moisture quickly gathering in the corners of his eyes as he continued to read the letter, picturing Nori labouring over each pen-stroke; his tongue made an appearance in the corner of his mouth when he was focused on some minute details.

Love me tomorrow, for it is a new day Love me again, like you did the first day Love me always, for my heart beats for you Kiss me sweetly and gently upon tomorrow morning Tell me tomorrow that today wasn't a dream Hold my hand to guide the way Hold my heart to keep it safe Tell me sweet nothings as I begin to sleep And I'll always remind you that I am yours alone Truly and forever until we're reborn Then I will find you once again To tell you I love you all over again

 Dwalin fell asleep with a smile on his face.

@life-is-righteous @pandepirateprincess

dedicated to @hattedhedgehog because you let me ramble at you.

#dwalin #nori #nwalin #asparklethatisblue #love poetry #dwarf courting #feels

[saltypire]

you replied on an anon ask a while ago talking about the best books you had read this year. have you read more good ones? totally not just fishing for book recs 💎

Woah! I’m really flattered you’d send me this kind of question. Thank you, I have! So many good books! I think I made a list last time, I kind of wish I had waited until now so I could make a big taxonomy (GOSH taxonomies make me heart eyes), but I’ll make a small, maybe muddled one. (Again, a lot of these are essays, plays, etc)Short political goodies: * A Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft — a short one! A very good one! As a lover of Mary Shelley and feminism in history, I had to read this, and I’m glad I did. If you’re wanting to read one of the first pieces of openly feminist literature, go here. Real good. * The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels — Sooo, this was for my ideology course, and it was a deeply interesting read, but there’s no denying it had a very rushed tone and only scratched the surface of Marxist ideology. However, I understand why and have that contextual knowledge. If you’re looking for the pocket version of Marxist ideology, give it a read, it’s a bitty thing.* The Cheviot the Stag and the Black, Black Oil by John McGrath — This play instilled in me so much patriotism. Good descriptions of women warriors. Good amount of Gaelic. Good. The highland clearances never ended.Classical literature (I have an equal; umbrella like love for all of these works. I loved all of them. All of them!):* Antigone by Sophocles — Tragedy. Rebellious gal buried brother against will of tyrant Creon, is buried alive. * Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus — Tragedy. Our boy Prometheus steals fire, angers Zeus, talks to very emotional Oceanids, is tied to mountain.* Women at the Thesmophoria by Aristophanes — Comedy. Lets all laugh at Euripides. (I’d mention Wasps, but writing about the authority of the chorus in Wasps was like trying to wrestle with real, actual wasps and thus I pull a face at its mention)* Histories by Thucydides — This one was a difficult one to wrestle, despite enjoying its contents overall, there’s no denying how challenging Thucydides can be under a time limit. (P.S. I think we should all stop bullying Herodotus. Let him write about women flooding all of Asia with their piss. Let! Him!)Hard Ones but Good Ones™️:* Paradise Lost by John Milton — This too was for my ideology course, and although my heart will always be with Homeric epic poetry, this was enjoyable (which is a weirdly short thing to say about this poem? But there’s so much to say? Too much to say! Which isn’t a problem, but is probably not suitable for this form of recommendation. It’s deeply interesting! Explorations of mortality, gender, the universe, everything!) I did feel a bit guilty whilst reading it, however. I don’t know if there’s anything whiter than John Milton.Reading now and ADORING:* The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin — The first sentence of this novel is so harrowing considering our current political climate. “There was a wall.” And oh my GOODNESS! I could write about this book in all caps probably forever. A very sci-fi exploration of two ambiguous utopias, one not too dissimilar from our own. Cultural barriers/ clashes. Very intriguing when you compare it to its context (Cold War). An incredibly intricate and wonderful exploration of every day concepts. A protagonist I like spending time with, two worlds (literally) I like jumping between. BEAUTIFUL exploration of gender and sexuality. People live on the MOON! They have their own MOON LANGUAGE! They’re all BI! BI ON THE MOON! This novel is the kind of novel that contains a lot of very human truths about relationships, society and possession written in a way that makes you look up from the page, sigh happily, sit in that description for a second, and return to the page. I’m not finished yet, but already I think I can safely say this is one of my 2017 favourites. Books to be read over Christmas (recommendations I’ve snatched from the Reading The End bookcast):* The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern* Fingersmith by Sarah WatersThank you for your question, happy reading! (If you have any recommendations for me that’d be wonderful)

[lerah-mae-blog]

Residency: TEXTure Weekend, Day 1 (2016)

with John Berkavitch, Si Rawlinson, Shruti Chauhan and Paula Varjack

291016 - 301016 TEXTure Weekend University of Derby, Markeaton Street Campus

UK Young Artists @ Facebook:

"Our workshops with Writing East Midlands, delivered by John Berkavitch began today at the University of Derby. See the results during the Festival at Deda as a part of Art/Talk/Think/Do on Sunday 6th Nov." 

In my account of the first day’s… shenanigans, a friend neatly summarized it: ‘sounds like a perfect blend of creativity, fun and madness.’

Having impulsively applied for this workshop out of sheer curiosity, and promptly forgetting I even applied to it in the first place until I received an email of acceptance (cue frantic scrolling through my email’s ‘sent’ folder, rereading the answers I’ve written to the questions in the application and physically cringing) – I did not know what to expect. And there was a little moment of mutual curiosity and confusion as the other artists introduced themselves, what they did (are you a writer? Illustrator? Performing artist? Dancer? Oh you’re from Leicester too!), whether they were students or at university or recent graduates, and a shared sense of being lost in Derby’s streets and maze of obscure campuses.

So here is a two-part account of the two-day residency workshop. This is as much a record of the two days as my attempt to process the whirlwind that is this weekend. I met a lot of people, produced improvised work and moved more than I possibly have in my entire life. I was completely out of my comfort zone.Thrown into the deep end, if you will. And I was (to my surprise) okay with that.

TEXTure Day 1/2: Saturday, October 29th

We all came in not knowing what was going on, not knowing what to expect. I had a vague image of collaborating with other artists in other disciplines, not just writers. And it was that, but oh so much more.

Maybe it was that mutual feeling of being lost that made everyone accept everything as it came. To just go along with whatever was going on, whether out of sheer curiosity or just for the hell of it.

What’s in a metaphor?

The weekend’s product will go towards a ‘sharing’ event on Sunday, November 6th at Derby’s DEDA, and Saturday started with a metaphor. What were our expectations for Sunday’s sharing event, expressed as a metaphor? I wrote something about tapestries stitched together with threads of words, sounds and movements. Another said “On Sunday, we will be libraries.” It sounds beautiful. Shruti wrote “burning bodies.” Sounds morbid, but it could work? (Metaphorically, hopefully, and not literal burning bodies…)

Moving connections

Using the whole room (lecture hall, seats pulled aside, wide open space), any position or movement, as loud or as quiet as we wanted and with music in the background, we then had to make a six-sequence… choreography? Individually. Always a different position, and a different transition between each position. As we repeated our sequence – running across the room or gracefully gliding to get to the next position, walking as silently as a thief or making a right ruckus and stumbling across chairs (I’m looking at you Si), or even crawling across the floor and hiding behind curtains – Berkavitch would give instructions. “Make connections. See how your movements fit in with another’s, how your transitions cross with someone else’s.”

Even writing this produces a very strange image. A room full of strangers moving across the room in a memorized sequence – something about movement and observation, connections, improvisation…

What a bunch of folley

Inspired by the musical term folley or folia, we had to write sentences in the pattern ABA CDC AB. It reminded me of poetic meter (which I am terrible at identifying in poems and always left out when I’m analyzing poetry.) This time we had to write a few sentences, some would be repeated but different words would be stressed at different times – in turn, changing the overall meaning. For example, in the sentence "/she/ didn't steal that pen", the meaning would change when the stress is on a different word like "she didn't /steal/ that pen.”

After writing it we had to go into pairs and while a writer read their set of sentences, another would act it out.  The catch: the actor performed their sequence of actions in the same pattern (ABA CDC AB), but without knowing the writer’s set of sentences.

Two seemingly disjointed elements came together and somehow created a coherent narrative, but it was up to the audience to interpret said narrative. It was also interesting to see how, by changing certain actions – by moving around the speaker as they recited their sequence, for example, or by turning your eyes away from each other – it was interesting to see how those simple changes altered the whole narrative.

Photo by Michael Markham @ Facebook.

“Burning bodies”: movement improvisation (in the dark)

This was surreal. After a break, the group entered the now dark room. The only light was from a set of green and red lights at corners of the room – like club lights. Breaking the silence, Berkavitch says: "There are two states: movement and stillness. At least one person must always be walking, but stillness is important." In a silent agreement, we all start walking or standing still in the dark room. “There are three states.” Berkavitch continues after a while. “No more than two people must be walking, but any number can move across the floor. And stillness is important.” So we start crawling, at least one person walking, while others stayed still.

There's some instrumental playing in the background, while we kept an eye on each other and made sure someone was always walking. The music changed from slow pianos to harsh beats, and to eerie, morbid, haunting music. “Make connections.” And suddenly people started interacting with each other. Some danced together, mirrored another’s movements, sat in circles. Some stayed still only for others to incite movement in them. Some flitting (rolling, tumbling, bending across the floor – still looking at you Si) about, only to stop and join in with the stillness.

Maybe it was the element of darkness, or the mutual ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on, let’s just go with it’. Maybe it was the trance-like state we entered. I’m not sure, but everything felt… unreal. The dancing in the dark in a sort of trance reminded me of Paulo Coelho’s The Witch of Portobello:

“If theatre is ritual, then dance is too... It's as if the threads connecting us to the rest of the world were washed clean of preconceptions and fears. When you dance, you can enjoy the luxury of being you.”

Maybe it was that. Uninhibited in the darkness, losing yourself to the lights and sounds, dancing, existing. Maybe it had something to do with our constant need to move, and the protagonist, Athena’s, musings in The Witch of Portobello regarding what she called “blank spaces”:

“Music only exists because pauses exist, and sentences only exist because the blank spaces exist.”

We need movement in our life just as much as stillness – because in the stillness are “blank spaces” that help us understand. Without the pauses, silence, stillness, everything would be disorienting; incomprehensible shadows on a wall.

Honestly, at some point I just sat down in a trance, and stared at the wall. The red and green lights illuminated moving bodies, and formed shadows. In the stillness, you can observe. And I saw a few things:

The shadows told as many stories as the people who formed them – and they could be very different from each other.

Movement incite movement, but stillness is contagious too. Stillness allowed you to observe. But it can feel alienating, urging you to join in.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, music affected how people moved. Erratic music made movements more frantic, shadows almost writhing on the walls. When softer pianos played, everything slowed down – an unspoken agreement to glide rather than run.

With the red and green lights hitting contours and shapes of people as they moved, maybe Shruti’s prediction of “burning bodies” wasn’t so far off after all.

“You did that for 45 minutes.” There was a collective gasp. Time was lost to me in that moment. “How does everyone feel as humans?” It felt like I was detached from myself. It felt like I was outside of my Self. I was simultaneously an observer and a part of the dizzying dance. “It felt like we were part of a cult even,” someone points out. I forgot that self-consciousness existed. When people held out their hands to you, you respond, you went with it. When someone made eye-contact mid-movement, you stare back. You dance along.

It was bizarre. It was enchanting. And it was oddly calming.

Photo by Michael Markham @ Facebook.

Auto-theatre: a dialogue between three people

It was back to writing exercises after recovering from the dancing. A dialogue between three people. Three members of the group then had to record their voices as one of the three characters. Separately. In the end, in front of the whole group, and with earphones in to listen to the recording, we said the lines out loud and acted it out. But it was disjointed at some points, we could only hear our own lines and not the others. With two others next to you, you produce a strange narrative. You’ll be responding to them without knowing. It was here too that small changes in movement, the use of the room’s space, created different stories. It was fascinating.

After that we were given the task of coming up with an idea and pitching said idea the next day. Something to perform on the day of the sharing.

+

Day 1 was hectic, but it was a lot of fun. I felt like I detached from myself. There was a disconnect. I stepped out of myself, an observer amidst this chaos of lights and movement and darkness and shadows. Yet at the same time I was in the middle of this. I was both outside and a part of this... spectacle.

Eye-contact can be jarring. But this time it was a connection. Physical contact can be suffocating. But this time it was part of a dance. You lose inhibitions in darkness. There's freedom in utter blackness. The shadows told stories. People are fascinating. Their stories are fascinating too. And the kindness of strangers always leaves me in awe.

In fact, I felt like a different person for the two days. The usually anxious and jittery English student took a step back, performed in front of strangers, produced work she doesn’t usually do, she interacted with others in a way she never did before. And she was surprisingly fine with that. She was comfortable even.

Maybe stepping out of your comfort zone isn't too bad after all.

#blog

[rfield87]

Writing Advice from Best-Selling Authors: Danielle Steel

This week’s re-blog was written by Danielle Steel herself and is titled: Writing. This post does have some writing advice, but it’s mostly a blog about Danielle’s writing process and how she got to where she is today, but I still found it rather interesting and wanted to share it. It doesn’t have a publish date, but if you would like to read the blog in her web site, I will leave the link below.

https://www.daniellesteel.net/writing/

                                                   Writing

As I start another book, I’m getting off another message to those of you who read my blogs. And I notice that some of the recent responses from you ask about my writing habits.

For those of you who also write, I always say that there is no ‘right way’ to do it (or anything in life). Some people write half a page a day and agonize over each word and sentence. Others write pages and pages, and that’s fine too. Whatever works. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else’s writing style or habits. We each do whatever works best for us.

One of you asked ‘where to start’ when you finish your novel. The first thing you need is an agent. Most publishers won’t read books that don’t come through an agent. So, you need to find an agent to get your work published. I know there are lists of agents in literary journals, and it can be harder to find an agent than a publisher, but you really have to. And then it’s the agent’s job to send your book to publishers. It’s usually a long slow process, and perseverance is the name of the game. I was very lucky that my first book was published - but the next 5 weren’t and were never sold or published. But my 7th book was. If I had given up before that, I would never have had the career I have today. So, you just have to keep at it and not give up (as with most things in life) and keep writing.

Someone else asked if I would consider writing a book about how I write, and the answer to that is: No, I wouldn’t. That seems pretty dull to me. (You just have to plant your bottom in a chair, keep it there, and do it. There’s not a lot of mystery to it). So, no, I would never write a book about how I write.

Another person asked about my writing schedule, do I write all year round, etc. And that person very wisely guessed that my success is based on hard work - and oh boy, is that true! I work very, very hard. Very early in my career (I only had one baby when I started writing), I figured out that if you wait for time and the opportunity to present themselves - it never happens, and you don’t get anything done. So, I made writing my priority, and I turned down just about everything else. For about 30 years, I never had lunch with friends, never broke into my writing time. And my rule of thumb about school related activities for my kids, was that if the child was actually involved (like a school play or a track meet), I was always there - but if my kid wasn’t present, I didn’t go - which meant no ‘coffees for Mom’s, no PTA meetings, etc.) The only greater priority in my life was my family, my children and husband. They always came first - but after that, I turned down just about everything else so I could write.

In one form or another, I do pretty much write every day. Not always on a book, sometimes it’s an article or an essay, a poem or a thought, this blog, or a series of letters and emails. In order to feel comfortable, I need big chunks of time to write. I always allow myself more time than I need for a book, because if I feel crowded, or pressed for time, then I can’t write. I need the luxury of time, with nothing else to do.

My process is that first I have an idea, and it may only be a tiny kernel of an idea, something that intrigues me. It may just be a thought, a tiny piece of something about a person, a news item, something in history, or a philosophy about life. I start making notes, and so so for several months usually, as the story emerges in my head. Sometimes I sit for hours, just staring into space, pursuing the idea. And then about the characters to go with it. And then one day, I sit down at my typewriter and write the outline for the story. By then, I pretty much know the story. And the outline tells the story chapter by chapter. The outlines are anywhere from 40 to 70 pages long. And then I go over the outline correcting it and making changes. And when I’m comfortable with it, I send it to my editor and agent, and they suggest some changes. I make those changes if I agree with them, without compromising the essence of the book, and then send the outline to my publisher. And then, it is a total mess, with things crossed out, corrected, written over, full of asterisks (my editors hate the mess I make!! And beg me to change my typewriter ribbon more often, which I forget to do, and when I’m excited about what I’m writing). And then my publisher suggests changes too, so I do another re-write on the outline. And whenever I write, I do nothing else. That’s all I do, so as not to be distracted from the book. When my kids were little, I only wrote at night after they were in bed. But now they’re grown up and in college, I write night and day when I’m working.

Once the outline is set, I put it away, and let it simmer for a while. And I am usually working on 3 to 5 different books, in various stages at the same time. I work it all the way though to the end of the story, and then put it away for a while, and it continues to cook somewhere, in the back of my head.

When I start a book, it is like climbing a mountain. Brutal, exhausting, an endurance contest. I start the book and don’t leave my desk until the first draft is finished. I work from the outline, but the book just flows on its own (like a movie I see and hear in my head - and sometimes even I’m surprised at what I’m seeing and hearing!) I cry at parts, laugh at something funny one of the characters said. My life becomes populated by the people of the book. I don’t talk to anyone, and don’t leave the house. I go from my bed to my desk, to my bathtub at the end of my workday, then back to bed, and then back to work. I work 20 to 22 hours straight, sleep 3 or 4 hours, and then go back to work. And I do that until I have told the story and the first draft is finished. Michelangelo called it ‘stealing it from the stone’, when he carved a statue. I’m almost afraid to stop working at night because I’m afraid I’ll forget where I was going with the story, but I don’t forget. And I keep on going until I’m through. That fist draft is very rough, and full of mistakes. I read it many, many times afterwards, making corrections, and then when I’m satisfied with it, I send it to my editor (and agent), and then she sends me back a ton of corrections and changes she wants made. I do most of them and re-write it, and the book goes back and forth that way for many months, while I correct it and polish it. And between rounds of working on that book, I work on others. And each time I come back to a book, I see new things I want to improve, polish, or change. I usually re-write a book off and on for well over a year, even a year and a half. And if I need historical research, or about an industry, or geography, my researcher gives it to me (to read and digest) before, during, and after the book, and I weave it in where I need it. So, as you can see, it’s a long, arduous process.

I write in old, comfy wool nightgowns, bundled up at my desk. I don’t see anyone. I don’t comb my hair for weeks. And my only concessions to beauty are soap and toothpaste. I just don’t exist while I’m writing, except to tell the story. And if readers say they couldn’t put it down, it’s because I didn’t either, and if they cried, so did I. People bring me food on trays and I literally don’t stop until I’m finished. I don’t go out; I don’t have fun. But I get to go out and play when I finish the book!!

One of the odd things I’ve noticed is that when I’m working on a book, I always have ideas for other books and things I want to write. I’m working on all my burners and all fired up. But when I’m not working, everything goes to sleep, and I rarely get ideas. It’s only when I’m working furiously that I get more ideas. I know, it’s weird.

So that’s how I do it, and it’s fun to do, although a huge amount of work. When you work 22 hours a day, or even slightly less, everything hurts a little (at any age), your back hurts, your neck is killing you, every muscle is shrieking. I write until I damn near stop. And even once I’m exhausted, I keep going, and push myself harder. Sometimes that’s when you do your best work. Sometimes my fingers get swollen from typing (I have ice mittens), and often my nails bleed from so much typing. It’s a crazy way to make a living but I love it.

I don’t know where the ideas come from, they just do. I try to know that I’m unimportant in the process, that I’m just a vehicle for the story, like a pane of glass that light shines though. When I start to feel important, light shines through me like linoleum. I think you need a certain amount of humility to do it. It’s a gift, and I’m very grateful for it.

It’s pretty brutal physically, but somewhere you find the strength to do it.

One person asked if I do it all year round. I try not to. For more than 30 years, my life has revolved around my children and their schedules, so I always tried to work it so that I was totally free during their vacations, and I never worked in summer so I could be free for them. That’s still true now as they vacation with me in summer, and three are still in college. So, I work like a dog all winter (I work hardest between October and May/June), and take the summer months off. Sometimes now I get a re-write to do in summer, but I try to stay free during June through September, and I don’t work over the Christmas holidays so I can be with them, without distractions, although I’m often making notes on an outline.

When they were young, I was with them all day, and wrote from about 8 pm till 3 am, then I’d sleep (provided no one got an ear ache, a stomach ache, and didn’t have a nightmare), and up in the morning. Once they were in school, I’d write while they were is school, and then stop in time to pick them up at school and take them to their activities. I’m always in my office by 8 am. And I’m blessed that I don’t need a lot of sleep. I manage fine on 4 or 5 hours, which with a writing career and 9 kids is a huge blessing! And my deal with my husband who is the father of my children, and the man I married after him - was that I would go to bed with them at night, but get up to write as soon as they went to sleep. I was happy to adjust my life to my husband and kids, but now that I’m alone I push harder and keep writing. And I’m always a little sad when I finish a book, I miss the people in it. But once the book is finished, it’s over for me, and I move to the next one. I work a lot of the time. (And I’ve written 106 books, since the first one when I was 19). 

Somebody else asked me when and how much I read. Not enough!! I have always been extremely careful not to read anyone else’s work while I’m writing. There is always the possibility that you could be inspired by someone without even realizing it, so I don’t take that chance. I only read when I am not working at all, usually in the summer months, and never when I’m in high writing mode. The only thing I read then is the Bible, or religious articles to inspire me.

So that’s pretty much the story of how I write. Occasionally a rude or crabby reader will write to suggest that I must have other people writing for me. No. No such luck, there are no elves in my basement. I do it all myself...and I’m so glad that most of my readers seem to enjoy what I do. And now...I’m off to start a new book. Talk to you soon.

[literateape]

Couplea Jerk Poets: In Conversation with Nic Souder

by Dana Jerman

So, there you are, out in the world. Looking at things and making stuff and doing stuff and working and thinking and by thinking considering a notion that there are people out there whom you would love to meet, whom it would change your life to meet, whom you will never ever meet. People who are out in the world, looking at things and making stuff and doing and working and thinking...

And in the best case, this thought reminds us that we're not alone. That good art, or at least fun and often therapeutic art, is being made. And that art doesn't happen in a vacuum. And that maybe if we're lucky, we can celebrate some of these folx we have had the good fortune of meeting, who possess a lens for making art and collating thoughts that leave us awestruck.

Chicago native Nic Souder is one of those people for me. A podcaster, a poet, poetry show host, visual artist and acquaintance (not at all in that order). One whom I admire because he manages to use his darker experiences and the everyday to lace everything he touches with a kind of mad hipster magic. 

He was gracious enough to let me steal him away after work for a few beers and a long chat, heavily abridged and presented here in celebration with National Poetry Month, about process and other creative curiosities…

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NS: (After talking about the soundtrack to the movie "Akira") I read the manga this past summer. 1, 2 and 3 in one sitting. Then 4, 5 and 6 in one sitting. I was obsessed.  I cried when it was over. Just because there was nothing else to read. It's that good. I have a new long-term-life-goal for the next 20 years to adapt the manga into a live action three-part film. I need Netflix to give me a billion dollars.

DJ: Is there any specific work of your own you'd adapt to manga?

Huh. Well it would probably be something from my collection Kill My Idols. One about Kim Gordon being dead. There's a lot. It's like a 3-act narrative. Something like that.

So say a little bit about Kill Yr Idols the live show.

Started five apartments ago. Twenty... twelve? Having a goodbye reading for my friend Jes who was moving to NYC. We wound up having two of them. At one I read a piece that I didn't finish, because that's a thing I always do. Never goes well, but... Then we did another one right away. It moved over to Cole's Bar and then we were in the Reader as one of the suggested things to do. We did a flip-show where it was a bunch of musicians and one poet at Gallery Cabaret. Slaying or roasting Iggy Pop or Kim Deal or whomever as a theme. Now after a long hiatus it's at Bucket of Blood Books in the weird back room. I overbook because a lot of jerks cancel or don't show up. "A variety show featuring poetry, music, comedy, and conspiracy theories."

You had a photography show last year, how'd that go?

Disasterously. I actually really liked the prints I made. I haven't done a photo show in a decade. But nobody bought anything, and I needed to sell one to make some money back. I went overboard and made too many prints which is another thing I always do. Going back to re-crop and reprint. I would always stay too late at the photo lab in college and they would have to kick me out of it. Anyway I also didn't eat before the show and immediately started drinking. Work sucked. Whatever. But they hung up the big stuff and what they didn't hang I went in the back and wrapped up in my coat and took off. The show was supposed to be up for a month but a week later I texted the gallery curator I was coming to pick up my shit. Over it. I'll still sell them though. They'll become gifts. Eleven by fourteen and quality.

Would you consider yourself to be an "analog" guy? Like, when you write, do you start on paper?

More or less. Well, I start with notes on my phone until I get stuck. Then re-write what I already wrote and hope I get going again. What I used to do a lot, because I feel like a lot of my poems need to be read out loud, I would write them out loud. Kind of as performance pieces. I'd get stoned in the middle of the day and start walking around the house and sort-of just keep different pieces of paper in different places and cycle through those, then bring them together at the end. 

That's genius! I've never tried that. Strategic stations.

Yeah, those are my favorite ones. Pieces that are meant to be performed for people. Wandering around and timing it out as I went along. But then, my editing process is so stupid. I hate it. It's like newspaper journalism editing of poetry. How do you get this many words to fit into this many breaths. How do you get this point across using only this set of words. How do you make this a headline. And it comes from schooling, journalism. Even in a text message I won't allow myself to have two contracted words in a sentence.

Oh yeah, rules after a while are meant to be undone. Don called me out on my routine phonetic spelling of "thourally" and "thru", and he's correct, but I like the way they look.

I like that. I like that a lot. I use "yr" all the time for "your" then one day I tried "y're" for "you're" and said, fuck that, that looks awful. 

Composition is kind of funny right? Things have to sound good and look good. 

It has to be both. It sucks to have poems that you really like but sound like shit and you'll never read them out. I spent a lot of time on a few of them. The whole idea at that point is to finish them. But out loud feels like my tongue is too big for my mouth. They just don't sound natural. Rhythm is huge. Which is funny because when I do a reading it's always something unfinished. Just so I can hear how it sounds out loud. Touring on my new shit. Five years of Kill Yr Idols I think I've saved two pieces.

Oh sure. There's always a handful of works that will forever remain 99.99999% finished. There's always a word or two that could switch back the other way. Not the same necessarily as the struggle to actually finish something...

Yeah, I either finish or get to the point where it's unsalvageable. I do this a lot. Throw out the whole thing except for one or two lines I like, and just carry those around for years until they finally slide into place. I've got a series I've been working on for five years. "Stoner Review of ___." Reviews of movies that aren't about the movie. When I go back to smoking it'll come back with a bullet. I go back and work on it every once in a while. The beginning and the end are fixed. It's hard to edit because it's so topical. Now wherever I am editing is at some point in the middle. I haven't been back to it in a year. "The words shot out of her mouth like an accidental fart popped out of a slapped ass." That's the line at the end. Eventually I'll finish it and read it once at that'll be it. (Laughs) They're super long, but right now I've got less then ten unfinished pieces, but if I finished them I wouldn't know what to do with my life. Which is a strategy I've also applied to reading. Sometimes I'll get to the last ten pages and never pick it back up again. Ambiguity is the best thing ever.

What? Ha! Seriously? I could never do that. Wild. Well another question I had for you: is there a habit or a physical manifestation that mirrors writing for you? Or that aids concentration? 

Like during the process? I clean. Do dishes. Sweep. Laundry. I used to do this when I had panic attacks when I was younger. Cleaning the house helped me calm down. Now I'll clean my room and have a few beverages. After work I'll go to my local gas station. Get a coffee for the next day. A Topo Chico and a Gatorade. Topo Chico never lasts into the next day. I should have a sponsorship. Making lists too. When I make lists I do things. The worst habit I probably have in general is Lyft. I've been trying to get better, but I'm never on time anywhere ever.

When did you start writing?

The pretentious answer is six. The honest answer is sixteen or seventeen. Six because that's when I saw Tim Burton's Batman in the theater, first movie on the big screen, and wanted to start making movies. Worked on some films when I was younger. Was in a scene in one where I was supposed to get pissed 'cuz a girl threw a rock at my face but we had to retake because I was actually really into it. I've downloaded some scripts and written some scripts, but haven't taken any screenwriting courses. But I wanna shoot 'em. Wrote a script for my friend Erin Rose, who hates everything that we watch and doesn't use computers, and her brother Bob who loves getting wasted. We've got a really bad podcast together called Erin Rose's Never Seen It. They're on iTunes and I made a dumb Squarespace website for it. But really I just want to nerd out and not care. I have a short attention span and want to make homage. I feel comfortable with dialogue and have lots of ideas, just no real discipline. Easily distracted.

Oh lordy. Nice. That's fair. Ooo, before I forget tell me about Hobo Slumber Party and other new self-publishing endeavors.

I don't know how long it's going to be. More than seven pieces probably. Five act structure per poem. Maybe a line or two as an act. Somebody asked me once to describe my poetry and I said "it's pop music". There'll be one called "Roll Call". An alphabetical alliteration in the middle of which is a palindrome in iambic pantameter. It doesn't work yet, but when it does it'll be great! That's the thing! It's all form, then function comes later. I'd say body of writing as a whole is like a staircase. But be careful because parts of the railing have worn away and there's no board on the third step.

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