#the more I write garbage the better I get at writing my own stuff

[prettyflyshyguy]

............................................. I'm regretfully writing a fanfic.

It's not gonna be big, but dialogue has been running in my head 24/7 and if I don't write it down I'll explode. Writing is a fun break from drawing besides and I genuinely feel like slowly dissecting other characters is helping me revisit my original stories, and dissect my own characters and bring more continuity and subtlety into them.

#FUCK ALL OF YOU YOU ENABLED ME #i'm kidding i genuinely love you all #but GOD FUCKING DAMNIT #these two just have far too much fun dialogue and since i've been casually watching while i draw its given me more of a character basis to #work off of #and this is like junk food for my soul #the more I write garbage the better I get at writing my own stuff #but the fandom still scares the shit out of me #given I also have a younger brother its fun to examine their relationship and see some parrallels to my own experience #and how family differs from friendships in the dynamic #you get way more baggage from their shared experience growing up #and where they diverge from each other's mindset and approach and how its shaped from the difference in their Older sibling Younger sibling #experiences which is a critical component when they have fights #anyway Dean being the huge “I'M COOL FUCK THE SYSTEM I DO MY OWN THING” then immediately shifting to “yessir three bags full sir” #in 0.5 secconds never gets old #and Sam's perpetual frustration at this hypocrasy sends me #given Sam's entire existense is based around him genuinely wanting to do his own Thing VS Dean tricking himself into going down his own pat #but they both still have that childhood need to be fullfilled by their parents and IF THAT AINT RELATABLE #but they both tackle it so differently due to circumstance #anyway tldr: sibling dynamics fun as hell you go from seamlessly working with each other #to having a massive squabble so fast its very entertaining

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hey, Horrormaster Sims. I have a wildly different question that barely relates to TMA (Sorry about that) but its about your own process. Please, if you could, can you tell me how your first drafts made you feel? I'm on the fence about writing my own thing (not a podcast, and again, not Magnus related, though I have a million little aus for that delightful tragedy you wrote, thank you for that!) But I'm discouraged by the collective notion that first drafts are always terrible, because there's no ... examples I can solidly use to help the dumb anxiety beast in my brain that tells me everyone who is in any way popular popped out a golden turd and not, well, you know. One of my friends said 'Oh I bet Jonathan Sims's first draft was nothing like what he wanted' and I got the bright idea to just. Send you an ask, since you're trapped on this hellsite like I am. Anyway, thanks for reading this (if you do) and if you'd rather ask it privately, I am cool with that. Alternatively, you're a hella busy man with Protocol (you and Alex are making me rabid, i hope you know) and you can just ignore this! Cheers, man, and good words.

To my mind all writing advice, especially stuff that's dispensed as truisms (like "first drafts are always garbage") are only useful inasmuch as such advice prompts you to pay attention to how you write best: what helps your workflow, what inspires you, what keeps you going through the rough bits. There are as many different ways to write (and write well) as there are people who write and so always consider this sort of thing a jumping off point to try out or keep in mind as you gradually figure out your own ways of writing.

On first drafts specifically, I think the wisdom "all first drafts are bad" is a bit of unhelpful oversimplification of the fact that, deadlines notwithstanding, no piece of writing goes out until you decide its ready, so don't get too hung up on your first draft of a thing, because a lot of writers find it much easier to edit a complete work than to try and redraft as they go. It's also important to not let perfectionism or the fact your initial draft isn't coming out exactly how you want stop you from actually finishing the thing, as it's always better to have something decent and done than to have something perfect and abandoned.

But the idea of a "first draft" is also kind of a fluid one. The "first draft" you submit to someone who's commissioned you will probably be one you've already done a bunch of tweaks and edits to, as opposed to the "first draft" you pump out in a frenzy in an over-caffeinated weekend. For my part, my first drafts tend to end up a bit more polished than most, because I'm in the habit of reading my sentences out loud as I write them (a habit picked up from years of audio writing) so I'll often write and re-write a particular sentence or paragraph a few times to get the rhythm right before moving to the next one. This means my first drafts tend to take longer, but are a bit less messy. I'm also a big-time planner and pretty good at sticking to the structures I lay out so, again, tend to front load a lot of stuff so I get a better but slower first draft.

At the end of the day, though, the important thing is to get in your head about it in a good way (How do I write best? what helps me make writing I enjoy and value? What keeps me motivated?) and not in a bad way (What if it's not good enough? What if everyone hates it? What if it doesn't make sense?) so that you actually get it done.

As for how my first drafts made me feel? Terrible, every one of 'em No idea if that's reflective of their quality, though, tbh - I hate reading my own writing until I've had a chance to forget it's mine (I can only ever see the flaws). I suppose there's theoretically a none-zero chance they were pure fragments of True Art and creative perfection, but Alex's editing notes make that seem unlikely.

#writing advice #rambling #first drafts #gotta say not mad on being called a horrormaster #feel like ive a ways to go yet #horror journeyman maybe

[dduane]

Salutations and good wishes to you. I am an Indie Author seeking to go Pro. Some good advice and guidance might help minimise the mountain of my anxiety about doing this. I know you got your start with fanfiction, but did you find a publisher/agent through that door? [lots sneer at these days. Still] How many rejections did you suffer before you found your place in the literary world? Thanks for your time and sorry for bothering you <3

Hi there! And don't sweat it: this is no bother.

I have to apologize in advance, because my own career arc isn't likely to serve as much of a good example. In terms of how I got into this business, I'm a serious outlier.

Quickest and easiest to discuss: my agent and I got together after my first book was already bought and published. (Which back in the day was seen as a good enough way to go forward, and then still entirely possible.) He was recommended to me by one of my editors, as—like me—he was just getting started in the business: a likely-looking newcomer then scouting new talent. We met up and chatted, and it seemed to both of us that we'd be a good fit for each other. After forty-odd years of working together, we still are.

About the fanfic: (Adding a cut here so as not to carpet people's dashes with wall-to-wall text...)

What writing all that fic did for me—from about age sixteen onwards—was give me a whole lot of practice in getting the initial garbage associated with a story written and out of the way. Best to admit it here: we all have plenty of crap writing in us. And yeah, even long-term professional writers do. Whether you're at the beginning of your career or right in the middle of it, this is what "zero drafts" are for. You tell yourself the story, first time out... and routinely at this stage a lot of what proves to be unusable stuff emerges, and can be discarded in rewrite. (Of course crap writing can also emerge without warning in the later stages of a project, but there are many reasons for that, all beyond the scope of this discussion.) And you learn even more from reworking the material after you've gotten rid of the dross.

During the period when I was executing what might have been, oh, half a million words of fanfic—Trek originally, and then LoTR—and while reading a whole lot of everything, as I'd been doing since I was first allowed to go raid the town library by myself at age eight—I learned a fair amount about writing without realizing it. Some of it was simply about writing inside a set of rules. (Which I hadn't been doing previously: between eight and sixteen I was writing original fiction, mostly fairy tales.) Naturally in fanfic you have to obey the laws of whatever universe you're working in... or even if you wind up flouting them consciously, you do have to be conscious of them. But this work also led me to something that I hadn't really spent a lot of time thinking about: the concept that fiction writing as a whole had rules. I realized I'd better find out what those were.

The best stuff I found out during this period was what I picked up by direct example from other writers, whom I'd immediately start imitating and then sort of leave by the wayside when I found others I liked better; at which point I'd start imitating them. (This being a great way to learn and hone new skills, and to start getting a sense of what a writer's "voice" is and can come to mean. I think every writer does this, to some extent: because it's really, really tough to learn how to write without reading. And the more extensively the better.)

I have to emphasize here, BTW, that the fanfic that came out of me as I started slogging up this learning curve was all almost uniformly terrible. All of it, mercifully, along with my earliest original fiction, is gone now: long since burnt, shredded, composted under many layers of time. Trust me, it's just as well. Gah was it awful! Nobody else ever saw the stuff, for which I thank great Thoth every time I think about it. ...What's interesting, too, in its way, was that I didn't even know that what I was doing was fan fiction. I had as yet no contact with any kind of organized fandom, and it would be a long time yet before "online" was invented. I was working in utter isolation, unaware that anybody else might have been doing the same thing. (And it's difficult to describe the sense of astonishment and joy that hit me the first time I went to an SF convention, saw fanzines for the first time, and found out that I was not alone. All unsuspecting, I'd stumbled onto one of my tribes.)

But somewhere along the line, as the years went by—as I finished high school and went to college, and then from there to nursing school, and graduated and started working as a psychiatric nurse, and kept on writing—at some point, as I started writing original fiction again, as well as fanfic, the quality of the output began to improve. The combination of constant practice and voracious reading of better writers outside my chosen genre was slowly having an effect. Trusted friends who saw this later material started saying, "This isn't bad, you should try to get it published!" But since none of these folks were writers, I didn't pay too much attention to their opinions.

I did pay attention, though, when my good friend and mentor David Gerrold said something similar on reading my first novel in 1976. And when that was bought by the first publisher who read it, I had to admit he might have had something there.

This too, though, is unfortunately also a way I'm an outlier: I haven't had a lot of rejection. (Even in my TV work, where rejection is pretty much the rule rather than the exception.) Speaking very generally, just about anyone I've pitched something to in the prose market has bought it—or if they didn't like the idea I came in with, they've immediately said "But would you like to do this instead?" And often enough, what they've offered or suggested has been something that sounded like fun. That's how I wound up doing the Star Trek: Rihannsu books, for example: they were "instead of" a Romulan dictionary. Paramount essentially ringfenced an entire AU-area of Trek and gave it to me to play in, which struck me at the time as amazing. And continues to do so.

Now all this may make me sound almost unfairly lucky. But things do tend, slowly or quickly, to balance out. Over time the universe has made up for its relative kindness at the rejection end of things by making sure I knew plenty about the non-rejection forms of writer-career pain: projects from which I was not rejected but which went terribly wrong (wheels come off a huge deal just before signing, promised actors or directors fail to materialize...), projects where I did the work but didn’t get paid, or where I was brought on board and then got fired/ghosted unreasonably or for no reason at all, or sometimes (mortifyingly) for quite good reason. And let's not forget how, as what could seem a very pointed shot across my bow when my career-vessel was just pulling out of port, half the print run of that very-much-buzzed-about debut novel wound up being pulped in the warehouse because another, far better-established writer's new book needed the pallet space that mine had been taking up. (insert rueful smile here) Believe me, entropy is running, and will catch up with you one way or another. So make yourself as ready for it as you can.

I don't mean to increase your anxiety. Yet that said: you're preparing to enter a business in which, for a freelancer, at least some level of anxiety is more or less part of the basic ground of being. You are going to have to develop ways of dealing with the everyday forms of that to keep it from routinely derailing your work.

I find it helps a little if you can come to consider this as a modern form of Going On An Adventure. Good things will happen; bad things will happen; and all of these will be in service of building your career. Think of yourself as being on a quest.

Your job now becomes the business of suiting up with the best equipment and advice you can find (ideally not from outliers like me). The web is full of useful pages on subjects such as how to query and how to find an agent.

Here are links to some.

Compare these resources one against another to see how their different kinds of advice seem to stack up, and which ones are the most congenial for you.

Then use this data to start drawing your personal roadmap across the terrain. Get as clear as you can in your own mind about what you're trying to get out of being in this business: what kind of writing you want to do and what results you want to produce. Then set out, redrawing your road map as necessary as you keep moving forward through the new terrain.

And I wish you good fortune on the journey! (Because luck, as you can see from the above, can definitely be part of this... but fortune favors the prepared.)

Meanwhile, get out there and have a blast. :)

#writing #writing advice #fanfic #rejection

[starlightkun]

➠ word count: 4.6k ➠ warnings: cursing, vomiting, depictions of illness, hospital settings, etc. (but he gets better! i prommy!) ➠ genre: fluff, a touch of hurt/comfort, suggestive? (i mean they’re mentioned to shower together but it’s in a very tender caretaking sort of way, it's a ‘you cannot perform this task of hygiene and i love you and will assist you in performing this vital task’ sort of thing), established relationship, former hockey captain sungchan, chronically ill reader (chronic migraines), shortfic in the buzzer beater series (after 27JSC, before garbage goal) ➠ extra info: the title is directly lifted from the title of this academic article on pubmed that came up in some googling i was doing for this fic the reader in this has chronic migraines, which i have. when the reader’s migraines, experiences as a chronically ill person, and thoughts about being chronically ill are described, that is me writing directly from my own life. i am not generalizing the lives of all people with chronic migraines/chronic illnesses, but i am sending all my love to any readers out there living with a chronic illness, and here’s a reminder to go take your meds! ➠ author’s note: i did NOT expect this to turn into a literal series but these two have rlly captured my lil heart tbh. i’m obsessed with them. they’re in love. i’m not sorry and i will not pretend to be in order to be cute on the internet. anyway enjoy 🫶 ➠ series masterlist

The utter relief that you felt having Sungchan home again was a feeling unparalleled. Having him home, in his own clothes, in your bed, holding you and laughing at something stupid he’d just said but thought was the funniest thing ever—that was the most you’d ever loved someone, you decided.

Stirring slightly in the middle of the night, you were aware of being uncomfortable, hot, and sweaty under all your sheets, blankets, and boyfriend.

“Mmh,” you groaned, pushing at Sungchan, who was of course passed out on top of you like you were the mattress. “Channie, off. ‘m too hot.”

He readjusted slightly, but just grabbed you to pull you to his front like the cuddle monster he was. You were now acutely aware of your clothes sticking to your back and chest.

“No, let go.” You grabbed at his arms. “Come on, Channie, aren’t you hot too?”

He suddenly vaulted himself out of bed, throwing the sheets and blankets off of him in a mad dash towards the bathroom. You sat up in bed, blearily watching him in confusion until he kneeled down at the toilet and you finally put the pieces together, hurrying in after him and turning on the light on your way in.

He didn’t have any hair to hold back from his face as he emptied his stomach, so you mainly rubbed his back through his damp t-shirt. With the bathroom lights on, you were able to see that the front and back of his white shirt were entirely soaked with sweat, his face pink and sweat-sheened, and his hair stuck to his forehead. His whole body radiated with an unnatural heat as you sat beside him, coaching and comforting him through it as he gripped the toilet bowl with white knuckles.

When it seemed like he had gotten to a pause in his retching, you coaxed his head up away from the opening, then flushed it. Grabbing some toilet paper from the roll hanging next to you, you bundled up enough to wipe around his mouth and nose, then tossed that into the bowl as well as the water was still draining.

“We…” He stopped to cough, then spit into the toilet. “We ate the same stuff last night… Why aren’t you…”

“Baby, I don’t think this is food poisoning,” you replied, moving his hair off his forehead to press the back of your hand there. “I think you’re sick.”

“But my immune system is so good! I haven’t even gotten a cold in like five years! I got my flu shot two weeks ago!”

“I know, I was there holding your hand.”

His whining was cut off by more puking, and you continued to soothe him through it.

“Channie, you can’t send this.” You shook your head, reading over his email to his research head again.

“But I have to… to tell him why I can’t come in,” Sungchan reached for his phone from your hands.

“Baby, this is gibberish.” You held the phone away from his grabby hands so you could delete the nonsense email and exit out of the app before setting it on his nightstand. “You go back to sleep, I’ll call the lab for you, okay?”

He sighed, laying back down in bed and closing his eyes. “Okay… don’t take too long… miss you…”

“And he’s out,” you commented to yourself fondly.

It was quick work to look up the office line on the university’s website, and you took the call in the living room as he napped in your room. Hearing the click of it being picked up first, it was answered by an older-sounding, stern man.

“Yoon Taekyung.”

“Hi, Dr. Yoon, this is Y/L/N Y/N, I’m—”

“Jung Sungchan’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, yes, Jung Sungchan’s girlfriend.” You laughed nervously, caught off-guard. You’d never met Sungchan’s research head before.

“Jung talks about you a lot. I don’t stalk my PhD candidates online, in case you were wondering.”

“No, I wasn’t, but thank you for clarifying,” you chuckled. “Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you, but unfortunately Sungchan has a stomach bug and is not going to be able to come in for a few days. He had typed up his own email to you but when I proofread it… you could tell the fever was boiling his brain.”

“I would have appreciated the laugh,” Dr. Yoon said dryly. “We certainly don’t want Jung bringing any outside germs into the microbiology lab. Keep him home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Yoon.”

Having already finished your master’s degree, you didn’t have any professors to email about missing class today. It was a Friday, and you weren’t scheduled to work all weekend, so you were free to stay home and take care of Sungchan.

Walking back into your bedroom, you stopped next to Sungchan’s side of the bed, pressing your hand to his forehead. He really was burning up.

His eyes fluttered open, and he mumbled something that sounded like your name.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” you reassured him, stroking his head. “Go back to sleep, I’m going to make you something to eat, okay?”

His eyes closed again, and you gave his head one last gentle pat.

Poking your head back into the bedroom some time later, you were pleasantly surprised to see Sungchan awake again, scrolling on his phone.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You walked over, grabbing the thermometer off his nightstand.

“Mm… great,” he groaned, setting his phone down.

“Liar.” You held the thermometer out. “Open.”

He pouted up at you with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth as the two of you waited. It beeped, and you took it back, frowning as you read the display.

“I don’t like that…” You sighed, taking a picture of it with your phone. “I’m going to text your mom. How’s your tummy?”

“Fine…”

“You think you can eat? I made some food.”

“Sure, sure, yeah.”

“Okay, be right back, Channie.” You kissed his hair.

In the kitchen, you hurriedly opened your text conversation with Sungchan’s mom. She was a family medicine doctor, and you’d been updating her on how her son was doing throughout the day.

[you: attached image]

[you: his fever keeps going up, even after the meds he took this morning. no more puking so far]

As you spooned out small portions of dishes, loaded them up on a tray, and reheated a mug of some tea you’d prepared earlier, you continued texting back and forth with Dr. Jung.

[dr. jung: Give him another dose of the acetaminophen. If it keeps going up take him to urgent care]

[you: will do, thank you. he’s about to try to eat some lunch. wish us luck!]

[dr. jung: Good luck sweetheart]

Tucking your phone away, you grabbed the tray of food to take back in to Sungchan. He had pushed himself up against the headboard, letting you set the tray down on his lap. Putting the now steaming mug on the nightstand, you started pointing to everything.

“Ginger tea, and easy tummy foods. Some rice, soup, crackers, and for dessert—” You pulled out a small package from the pocket of your hoodie.

He gasped softly. “Chocolate biscuits…”

“Chocolate biscuits,” you confirmed, setting them on the tray table then stroked his hair gently. “I’m going to go clean up the kitchen then I’ll come sit with you. Holler if you need me before then, okay?”

He grabbed your hand before you could get too far, his skin burning hot against yours. “Hey. Thank you.”

“Anything for my Sungchannie,” you smiled, gently swinging your linked hands where they hung in the air. “Small bites, and don’t force anything down, okay? You’ll only throw it back up if you do that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And how are you on water?” You picked up the water bottle on his nightstand with your free hand, shaking it. “Eh, half. I’ll refill it for you, too. Be back in a sec.”

After putting the leftovers away and refilling his water, you shook out a couple more tablets of acetaminophen and brought both of them back with you.

“Here.” You placed them on the table next to him. “Your mom says to take another dose, and if your fever keeps going up then we’ll have to take you to urgent care.”

He nodded, thankfully opting not to talk with food in his mouth. You scooted back into bed next to him, resting your head on his shoulder as he slowly picked at his food.

“Good food, baby, thank you,” he sniffled, taking a sip of his tea. “I mean, my nose is so stuffed up I can’t taste most of it, but it’s still good.”

You chuckled, patting his chest. “Thanks, Channie.”

“Are you sure you should be sitting so close to me? I don’t want to get you sick too.”

“We live together, I’m either going to get sick or I won’t. It’s not like I’m asking you to spit in my mouth or anything,” you scoffed.

“Yeah, right now.”

Before you could even make a retort, he suddenly careened forward in a fit of violent coughs, and you surged to first steady the tray table so he didn’t knock the liquids everywhere. After moving it off his legs and onto an unoccupied area of the mattress, you rested a hand on his back as he continued coughing, wincing sympathetically at how painful they sounded. Finally, he stopped coughing, and paused to catch his breath.

“Mm… I think you should keep your loogies to yourself for now, Channie,” you tutted. “Drink some water.”

Setting his water bottle back down, he blinked slowly. “Ugh… that hurt.”

“Do you want the food back? Or are you done?”

He shook his head. “I’m done. Don’t want anything coming back up.”

“I’ll put it in the fridge in case you get hungry later.”

You had just closed the fridge when you heard retching sounds from your bathroom.

It was almost two hours later before the two of you left the cold tile floor of your bathroom. There were impressions of the grout in your knees and your joints ached from the unforgiving, hard flooring. And it was only to get Sungchan to sit on the equally hard, cold, tile floor of the shower under a lukewarm stream of water—you were afraid of making it too hot with how high his fever already was, and he whimpered like the water was hurting him if it was too cold. With how much fever-sweating he’d been doing since the wee hours of the morning, you could only imagine how uncomfortable it was for him (you yourself still hadn’t had the chance to sneak in a quick shower since being awoken in sweat that morning either). Not even to mention just all the puke that the both of you had been around.

You knelt behind him to very gently work some shampoo through his hair, then tilted his chin up with your hand to direct his head back into the spray and rinse out the suds. You used your other hand to block his eyes from any stray shampoo that may accidentally run down into them. With his hair off his forehead, you could catch a glimpse of a light scar, from taking a puck directly to the face your senior year of college, soon after you started dating. You’d taken care of him then, warned him to be careful when washing his hair, and he’d joked about having you do it for him. You couldn’t help but run a finger over it lightly.

After finishing up washing his hair, you reached behind you to blindly fumble for the handle and turn the spray off. It was a bit dicey getting the two of you to stand up in the confined space with Sungchan’s less-than-optimal coordination at the moment, and you toweled the both of you off in the bathroom quickly.

Back in new clothes, you let him fall into bed as you appraised the nightstand. “Did you take the meds before you threw up? I don’t— Oh, there they are.”

You grabbed them from behind the water bottle, nudging Sungchan’s shoulder. “Baby, you can take a nap after you take these, okay? They’re going to help your fever.”

“Uh?” He squinted one eye open, then dropped his mouth open. You placed the tablets on his tongue, then held the straw up to his lips. He swallowed with minimal difficulty, then dropped his head back down to the pillow.

You crawled into bed too, curling up behind him and throwing an arm over his middle. Sungchan groaned and shifted in place.

“Are you warm?” You asked quietly. “I’ll scooch if you’re too warm.”

“No,” he whined, grabbing at the blankets and pulling them up higher. “Cold… ‘n everything hurts, baby. My head hurts, my throat hurts, my stomach hurts, my muscles hurt from throwing up so much. Everything hurts.”

“My Sungchannie.” You scooted in closer to him, burying your face in his neck. “I’m sorry… I wish it didn’t hurt, baby. I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it stop for you.”

“I’m going to take a nap, I think…” He sniffed.

“I think that’s a good idea.” You kissed his shoulder. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, baby boy.”

“That’s it, we’re going to the urgent care,” you declared with a shake of your head, looking at the most recent temperature readout on the thermometer. Up again.

Despite all of Sungchan’s grumbling about not being that sick, you still managed to get him into the car and to the doctor, keeping a wary eye on him as you took all of your turns very carefully and accelerated and braked as smoothly as possible so that he hopefully wouldn’t vomit all over your car interior as well. After staying in the waiting room for an agonizing amount of time, you two finally went back.

The doctor took one look at Sungchan’s vitals, and you explained just how many times he’d thrown up in less than twelve hours, before deciding to admit him.

You had been asked to step out of his room for the moment, and walked up and down the long hallway, continuing to update his mom.

[you: he just got admitted. doctor says he probably just needs fluids and something stronger to bring the fever down but wants to keep him overnight for observation]

[dr. jung: Who’s his attending?]

[you: dr. chen]

[dr. jung: Oh good. He’s good, our Sungchan’s in good hands. I’ll be by after clinic closes.]

[you: thanks, i’ll let him know you’re coming]

A nurse left Sungchan’s room then, and you perked up as the older man seemed to be walking towards you.

“I’m so sorry, miss, this is going to sound weird,” he began with a sheepish smile. “But has your husband been on TV?”

“Oh, uh, boyfriend…” You corrected him distractedly, way more focused on said boyfriend. “And uhm, not exactly. Why?”

“He just looks very familiar.”

You thought for a second, then suggested, “Do you like hockey?”

“Yes, my wife and I have season passes for the local university’s team’s home games.”

“Sungchan played for the Raptors a couple years ago.”

“Oh! I was wondering why the name was so familiar too…”

“Sorry, did you need something from me?”

“Yes, I need to put his IV in, uhm, but he’s asking for you…”

You nodded. “Yeah, he has a fear of needles. Shouldn’t that be in his chart or whatever somewhere?”

“We just have the records from the urgent care doctor who sent him up here, sorry,” the nurse admitted. “But I’ll make a note of it.”

Following the nurse in, you saw that Sungchan was all by himself, and had to bite your lip at the image of him already hooked up by wires to a bunch of other machines. He still smiled when he saw you, though.

“Hey, baby…” he held his hand out towards you, and you took it, giving it a squeeze.

“Hi. Heard you were asking for me.”

“Thought you might feel left out if I got a needlestick and you weren’t here.”

“Yeah, it’s my favorite hobby, watching you get pricked over and over,” you replied sarcastically.

“Which arm?” The nurse asked.

“The right. He’s a lefty,” you answered immediately.

He looked between you and Sungchan for a moment.

“What she said,” Sungchan confirmed.

As the nurse prepared his arm for the IV, you distracted him on his other side.

“So, I was texting your mom in the hallway,” you told him. “She said she’s going to come by after the clinic closes. She also knows your attending, says you’re in good hands, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, that’s good.” He suddenly squeezed your hand tight.

You rushed to find another topic and keep talking, “Also, I have to tell you about this new book I was reading. Really, it was a collection of short stories, but you know how I am with those. God, it’s incredible. It’s like surrealism, and sort of psychological horror, and some of them toe in body horror, but also magical realism, but all of them sort of explore like womanhood and societal expectations of women and that kind of thing. They’re so fantastic. There’s one about a teenage girl who just starts eating birds one day. Like, live birds, the kind of birds you’d keep as a pet. Feathers and all. She’s not actually the POV character, though, you get to follow her dad as he tries to take in this change and adjust and acclimate to it as his otherwise normal teen daughter has to consume live birds while his estranged wife tries to convince him to just accept it and that it’s really not that bad. And obviously that can be a metaphor for how fathers—”

“Done.” The nurse announced. “Dinner’s in an hour, Mr. Jung. Buzz if you need anything before then.”

“I think you freaked him out with your ‘eating live birds and scaring your dad is a metaphor for being a teen girl’ story, baby,” Sungchan chuckled.

“But it is!” You defended yourself. “And it’s so good, really!”

“I’m sure it is.” He scooted over in the tiny bed to make a little bit of room, then patted the empty space he’d just created. “Want my girl to tell me all about it.”

You clambered up next to him, still with one foot hanging off the bed to let both of you fit, but just all too happy to be with him again.

Just a little while later, and the nurse was poking his head back into Sungchan’s room. Dr. Jung paused the funny story she had just been telling from her seat on the small recliner next to the bed, and all three of you looked over at the newcomer.

The nurse focused his apologetic eyes on you, “Miss, I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over.”

“Oh.” You looked around awkwardly, starting to get up from the bed. “Sorry, I thought he was allowed to have one person stay overnight.”

“Spouses and immediate family only, I’m sorry.”

“That’s fi—”

“No, we’re married,” Sungchan insisted, grabbing your hand. “It’s fine, she can stay.”

“Sir…” He trailed off, clearly debating about whether or not he wanted to just outright call Sungchan a liar.

“Channie, I told him earlier we were dating,” you informed your boyfriend quietly. “It’s fine, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“Baby…” He sighed.

“It’ll be okay, Channie, I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promised him, grabbing your go bag off the floor and hoisting it onto your shoulder. “You just worry about resting and getting better for me, okay?”

“I’ll walk you out, sweetheart,” his mom offered kindly, standing up as well.

“Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Channie,” you leaned down to drop a peck on his forehead. “I love you.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He continued to keep a deathly tight grasp on your hand. “I love you too.”

You gave his hand one final pat before regretfully, gently shaking him off and walking out of the room. Dr. Jung slowly meandered down the hall with you.

“I’ll be there, in case they have to inject him, or draw blood, or anything else,” she reassured you.

“Right, thank you,” you nodded, looking down at your feet. “Has he always been afraid of needles? He never really talks about it with me, it’s just one of those things. I go with him for his shots, blood draws, all that.”

“Since he was a kid. He used to run from the room crying. We at least wanted him to be able to handle it on his own by the time he was an adult, even if it wasn’t comfortable.”

“He gives me my monthly injection now, the one I take for my migraines. Did you know that?”

“Really?” She did sound surprised at this tidbit of information.

“Pretty much since we started dating, yeah. Still wants me to go with him for his shots but…”

“It’s different when you’re the one being stuck.”

“Yeah, it is,” you agreed, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You pressed the down button on the elevator. “Usually I’m the one that has something wrong with me and he’s taking care of me. It’s so… it doesn’t feel right, seeing him like that.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” She rubbed your arm. “But he’s strong, he’s healthy. I’m sure they’ll discharge him tomorrow to go back home with you.”

“Of course.”

“Now you go home and take care of that migraine that’s been coming on for the last fifteen minutes.”

You looked up at her with one eye open, shrugging. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a full migraine…”

“You’re squinting at the lights, sweetheart. Go home so you can take your meds, okay?”

The elevator dinged just then, the doors opening on your floor.

“Okay, thank you.” You gave her a tired, but genuinely grateful smile as you stepped onto the elevator. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You spent that night going through your first migraine alone in almost two years, curled up on Sungchan’s side of the bed in one of his huge hoodies, feeling like your head was exploding. But that wasn’t even the reason that you were crying.

In the morning, you were awake before visiting hours opened back up, and despite your instinct to drive to the hospital and wait in the parking lot, you pulled yourself into the shower instead. You didn’t have a lot of time nor mobility for your own shower routine yesterday, and were in desperate need of a good thorough clean and refresh now. After eating some of the leftovers you made the day before, you packed up a small to-go meal for Dr. Jung as well, unsure of how good the cafeteria food was there. She had given you an update during the night that his fever had finally broken, then another once she woke up that he slept through the rest of the night fine, and was still resting as of her text.

By the time you got to the hospital, it was open for daytime visitors, and you were let in with no issues. You’d let Dr. Jung know when you were on your on way, and she was standing outside the door to his room when you arrived.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she smiled, giving you a hug. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” you waved off her concerns, reaching into your bag to grab the container of food you’d packed. “Brought you breakfast. Wasn’t sure what they were serving downstairs…”

She accepted it gratefully. “Thank you. Now: How’s your head?”

“Last night kind of sucked,” you admitted. “And I’ve got a rebound headache, but I’ll be fine. We don’t need to tell Channie right now, though. He’ll just worry too much and he won’t get better. How’d you sleep? That recliner looked pretty comfy.”

“Would’ve slept better, except he snores like a freight train,” she scoffed. “How you get any sleep is beyond me.”

You let out a round of genuine laughter at that. “He doesn’t usually. Must be the congestion.”

“Must be.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’m going to take my breakfast downstairs. He’s awake, been asking when you’d be here.”

“Thank you.” You gave her one last fleeting hug before hurrying in.

Sungchan already looked better than yesterday, still tired, but not as deathly pale as before, with no sheen of fever-sweat over his skin. He really just looked… tired.

“Good morning, Channie,” you said breathlessly, setting your bag down. “Heard your fever broke last night. How are you feeling?”

“Morning, baby.” He reached out for your hand. “I’m feeling a lot better. I wish I could’ve made my girl breakfast this morning…”

“You can make me double breakfast after you come home.”

“And what’s double breakfast?”

“Guess you’ll have to figure that out.”

“Breakfast and breakfast for dinner.”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

He looked up at you with a thoughtful frown on his face, reaching out to gently touch his fingertips to your cheek. “Are you okay, baby? You’re not feeling sick now too, are you?”

“I’m fine, baby. Just a bit tired. I’ll sleep like a baby once I have my Sungchannie back home with me.” You mustered as big of a smile as you could, squeezing his hand.

“I’ve got to get better quick then, can’t have—” he was cut off by loud, violent coughs, throwing his arm up to cover his mouth with his elbow. You rubbed his back as he continued coughing, and he reached for the bedside table. Handing him a couple of tissues from the box sat there, he spat out some of the mucus that had come up, and you used a few more fresh tissues to grab it and throw it away without complaint.

Returning to his side, you continued rubbing his back as he caught his breath. When he started slowly easing back into his bed, you took your hand away and grabbed his cup of water to give him.

“Here.”

He took a few sips before handing it back, and you took his hand again.

“As I was saying,” he cleared his throat. “Before I was so rudely interrupted by my own phlegm: I can’t have my girl all alone in a cold bed at night…”

You laughed, feeling the smitten smile on your face as you looked down at him. “There is some horndog switch in you that gets flipped when you’re unwell, I swear. Scientists need to study you.”

“I’m a scientist, remember?”

“You study a disease in one kind of fish,” you pointed out. “I mean like… sexologists or something. If those exist.”

“They do.”

“Well they’re missing out on… something here.” You gestured to him.

He half-laughed and half-coughed, which devolved into another full coughing fit. After recovering, he said, “Anyway, once my doctor rounds again and checks me out, he’ll be able to say if I can be discharged today or if he wants to keep me another night.”

“Fingers crossed.”

The utter relief that you felt having Sungchan home again was a feeling unparalleled. Having him home, in his own clothes, in your bed, holding you and laughing at something stupid he’d just said but thought was the funniest thing ever—that was the most you’d ever loved someone, you decided.

You suddenly rolled over to lay on top of him, pressing your face to his chest, wrapping your arms around him, and throwing your leg over him. He let out a slightly punched-out noise at the unexpected force of your affections, but nevertheless readjusted to wrap his arms around you.

“Hey, baby… Everything okay?” His throat was still hoarse, and he let out a half-cough half-throat clearing noise between his sentences. He added jokingly, “I’m not going to float away, you know?”

“I never want you to leave again,” you mumbled into his clothes. “Never. Never ever.”

“Okay, yeah,” his voice softened, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and stroking your hair. “I’ll never leave, ever again.”

➠ next | series masterlist | blog masterlist

#sungchan x reader #riize x reader #sungchan imagines #riize imagines #sungchan #sungchan imagine #riize imagine #nct x reader #nct imagine #nct imagines #jung sungchan #i: sungchan #f: onsaom #s: buzzer beater #writing #text #mine #bias tag #*100

[diagonal-queen]

hello can i request dazai, kunikida, and fyodor with an insomniac s/o who's really tired after a busy day but can't seem to fall asleep no matter what and gets frustrated bc of it

"Can't sleep?"

♡ pairing: Dazai Osamu, Doppo Kunikida, Fyodor Dostoyevsky x gn!Reader

♡ synopsis: How do they help their S/O with insomnia get to sleep?

♡ cw: Reader is an insomniac (I genuinely don't know how that would manifest itself as a trigger but hey! I'm just one person in a sheltered world. Stay safe everyone <3), probably super inaccurate because I myself am not an insomniac and don't really know everything about it, Dazai horny, mentions of taking medication, mentions of alcohol, swearing

note: I feel like garbage cus my writing takes forever and I feel like I'm letting y'all down for taking so long with reqs, but I don't know what to do to fix itttttttt. Apologies for errors and I hope you enjoy x

Dazai:

Well reader. You're lucky you cuffed yourself a night owl

He'll help you calm down from your frustration and tell you that it's fully normal. Everyone has trouble falling asleep, and you just haven't figured out an effective routine yet. He doesn't really know what he's talking about but if it makes you feel better then meh

His first suggestion would probably be sex, to tire you out. Even better if you go for multiple rounds just to be sure~

Yeah right Dazai, like anyone's gonna wanna fuck every single work night (besides him lmao). Safe to say, the idea is thrown out pretty quickly

He'll throw some similar ideas around (not necessarily sexual but certainly 'if they're tired out then they'll fall asleep faster') but those are all just temporary solutions, so he gives up quickly. What else did you expect from him?

He might also suggest drinking yourself to sleep since alcohol is a depressant and makes you tired. You have to remind him that excessive drinking is actually not good for you and should NOT be used as a substitute for sleep meds

He reckons that it's best for you two to let sleep overtake you naturally, and so you may as well just stay up for now.

From then on Dazai treats every single night like a sleepover. He'll wanna watch movies, eat snacks, and talk all night even if it's a work night and you absolutely shouldn't do that

If you want, he's happy to do something more chill like cuddling while sharing a pair of earphones playing mellow music

Whatever it is that the pair of you decide to do, he'll likely find that it helps him just as much, maybe even more, than it helps you. And he's grateful for that

Kunikida:

I feel like Kunikida also has at least mild insomnia, so he knows just how you feel and is right there to help you out

He's got it all ready. Fans/blankets to balance out the room's temperature, a warm drink (milk, tea, whatever you prefer), basically all the stuff Google would suggest

He would do all of that stuff alongside you even if he's already tired enough to fall asleep on his own because he understands the struggle. He doesn't give up until you're asleep and honestly get you a man who would also do that

He also discourages you from things like caffeine before bed or napping during the day to help you get more sleep at night

He'd make a whole new bedtime routine for the two of you and adjust it based on what works, it'd be like a whole thing that he takes super seriously

He'd suggest reading before bed and recommend/lend you books that he likes, and also read to you if you really pleaded for it. He really enjoys reading and he would be thrilled if the pair of you had a little thing you did together <3

If they don't give any side effects/react poorly with any meds you may already take then he would also give you some of his sleeping pills (because let's be real he's fully stocked with them. this man)

Kunikida would let you cuddle him in your sleep whether or not he likes it or it makes him sweat, because let's face it you need the sleep and he needs the physical touch. It's basically a win-win

He gives you permission to wake him up if you can't sleep and need his help, or if you want company in your waking time.

He honestly does whatever it takes to help you because he cares so much about you. Perfect man fr

Fyodor:

Bold of you to assume that Fyodor sleeps. Like ever. He's too busy being evil or something

When he learns that you're an insomniac he's fully willing to let you stay up late with him while he's working if you're in need of company. He doesn't care whether you're just on your phone or reading a book or whatever

If you ask him he'll also let you sit in his lap and cuddle him (as long as you don't bother him- if you do he's sending you right to bed)

Fyodor knows that calming music is a good way to help people sleep, so if you're down he'd be willing to play something mellow and soft on his cello for you

He probably wouldn't admit it but he kinda likes that you find it hard to get to sleep since it gives him an excuse to spend more time with you

But if you really do wanna get to bed then he'll have some tea made for you and he'll read to you. His voice is very relaxing and nice to fall asleep to and he kinda knows it (he's smug about it too because he's a bastard)

If you find that you actually sleep better in his presence then he's more than happy to move a couch into his office and let you sleep there.

He's also happy to forfeit (SOME) work so he can come to bed earlier and help you sleep. And he's also happy to cuddle you because you're warm

Fyodor will basically just help you get to sleep with methods that he uses to get himself to sleep because it's the only way he knows how. Even if it doesn't work please give him credit for trying because he really is trying super hard T-T

taglist~ ♡ @gettinshiggywithit, @fyodorhatr, @flower-of-darkness, @bejeweledgirl, @kokoenjiandco

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd fanfic #bsd ff #bsd fanfiction #bungo stray dogs fanfic #bungou stray dogs fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #headcanons #hcs #bsd hcs #fluff hcs #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #bsd dazai #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #bsd kunikida #kunikida doppo #kunikida x reader #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader

[olderthannetfic]

I just reread the whole Alice Oseman ask-answer and holy shit. It's like a playbook. The posturing, the condescension, the weird other-ing of queer relationships vs. straight ones. It's almost good enough to be satire.

I get that there is fear in writing kids having sex. Lots of authors these days are dealing with all sort of crazy accusations when it comes to their YA books including any sort of sexual material. Fine, you don't even have to say that but do not moralize to queer people about it and then tell us it's for our own good. Yes, this also goes for fellow queer people.

Her post said it's not ok to write sex scenes for teens over the age of 18. So when the characters turn 20 it's fine? How many sequels is she writing and when they do hit that age will she be writing sex scenes?

--

I do have a particle of sympathy for Oseman because I think it's extremely likely that fans have pestered and pestered and pestered her for more sexy stuff with those characters. This is something we see even with medium-popular fic writers, never mind anyone achieving mainstream popularity with their art. (Same with any other annoyingly persistent request like a different ship or a different genre, honestly.) And it can be really draining to have to keep saying no to requests you shouldn't be having to field in the first place...

But...

A more self-confident and self-aware author would be able to set that boundary by saying "I'm not comfortable doing that in my own art" or "I choose not to". As it is, the whole thing has the taint of purity garbage. Gay teens already get enough messaging that gay sex is disgusting and that they're only valid if they don't go farther than holding hands. All teens already get enough messaging that the perfectly common feelings many of us get with puberty are dirty and anomalous.

Oseman is replicating the godawful strain of culture that gives us teens asking in all apparent earnestness if they're a ~pedo~ for finding people their own age hot. I don't demand that creators be saints, but I think Oseman can do a little better than this, for fuck sake!

Nobody, including me, asks to be a role model, but at the point you're famous for your YA fiction, you could at least try not to give your audience a god damn complex.

[tossawary]

I started watching a few extremely long reviews of garbage books (and some reviews of better books, but that's not what I'm focusing on here) because 1) I need stuff playing in the background while I work and there's a LOT of time to fill, and 2) I don't have to pay it my full attention (can't give it). I'm not going to be tested on this later. I don't even have to look at the screen.

While I understand "everyone stop talking about garbage books, you're just giving them free advertising, you're being PROVOKED into giving this terrible book free advertising", it is still... fun... to listen to someone pull apart the pieces of a badly written story just to dunk on them. And if the reviewer actually knows what they're talking about in regards to writing and better stories, then you can actually learn a lot. I think that when learning, it helps to study good art and how it works, but it can also help to look at "bad art" and study why it doesn't work. I think that the strings of what a creator is trying to accomplish are often more visible here.

I also picked up some specific tips to keep in mind when providing descriptions! Example: It generally pays to design your world (characters, locations) with more specifics to draw people in. What KIND of sword? What KIND of tree? Also, when people write descriptions, they leave often leave out the sense of smell, which is not always necessary to include, but can be a helpful tool when setting a scene. Like, I already knew this stuff, but it's good to keep specific thoughts / critiques freshly in mind if there's something specific that I want to work on in my own writing.

I'm also super nosy sometimes and I want to know what people are talking about without having to read it for myself. And I know some people find it depressing that writing THIS bad gets published at all and becomes super popular, and I feel that sometimes, but I also find it kind of heartening while reflecting on my own writing and knowing I'm definitely better than that. And I actually like being reminded that I'm not alone in my frustration at various creative industries, and being reminded how much of success comes down to connections and good luck.

Most of all, sometimes I just really need some random book nerd to take me gently by the hand and say, "You're not crazy. It's not just you. This New York Times bestseller, that went viral on TikTok, by a multi-millionaire author, is complete dogshit."

(I haven't read anything super bad recently, actually, but years ago, I read a single Danielle Steel book (from a library, can't remember the title) because I saw her name around a lot and I was vaguely curious if she was honestly any good. That book made me feel nuts with how bad it was. Airport bookshops lied to me about her skill as an author. :( )

#I was watching KrimsonRogue and as far as I know he hasn't read Steel; I hope he doesn't; he seems like he's been through enough #tossawary watching #tossawary reading

[hollowtones]

do you have any tips for . getting motivated to learn to cook? i am struggling but i really want to enjoy good foods made by me…

Start small. Start simple. Do stuff that requires minimal prep and few ingredients. That way you have more energy to spend on practicing technique because you're spending less energy worrying about everything else. Bake a potato. Make a simple pasta. Make a salad. Put a can of beans in a pan with some spices and a bit of garlic. Make oatmeal. Cook an egg. Fry up a grilled cheese. Find a veggie side dish you like and see how you can make a simple version of it. You know yourself better than me. Think about what you like & how you can make it fun to make something for yourself.

If the issue is "where do I start? how do I start?" The websites I tend to look recipes up on are Serious Eats and The Omnivore's Cookbook. There's other good sites out there, but there's also a lot of clickbait garbage type stuff (like with anything else out there, I suppose), so you might need to do some looking around.

If the issue is "how do I actually do any of this?" One of my favourite Guys Who Do Cooking Stuff Online is J. Kenji López-Alt & he does a lot of POV videos where he cooks & talks about the technique & ingredient substitutions and stuff. He does a buncha writing for Serious Eats, too. Another channel I like is Internet Shaquille, which also generally focuses on technique & learning & approachability to cooking. I have spent a lot of time looking at various channels on YouTube related to cooking and there are a lot of them ranging from "useless if you are new" to "useless if you are on a budget" to "this is a long-form advertisement" to "this guy's just miserable to listen to". There's more than just two good video resources out there, obviously, but these are two that I like.

If your issue is "but this seems like so much work?" Well... sometimes it is. Try focusing on individual steps if that stresses you out (it stresses me out on some days, too). Also, get into the habit of cleaning your dishes / kitchen ASAP. I don't have much specific advice to offer on that other than Find Out How To Make It A Habit For Yourself. But making sure you have a clean & empty sink / a loaded dishwasher by the end of the day makes things less of a slog in my experience. You know your own capabilities and energy levels better than I do, and you ought to know there's no shame or no wrong-doing in getting help, or getting certain things pre-made or pre-cooked, or anything like that. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably projecting, or a dickhead, or trying to sell you something.

I know some of this kind of amounts to "well just try it". But genuinely, just try things out. Try not to be too discouraged by failure. Mistakes are a learning experience for next time, and often cooking mistakes are recoverable, and sometimes cooking mistakes let you accidentally discover something you like. (The number of times I've fucked up eggs over-easy made me realize I like it when the yolks are broken up & they're just kinda soft and lightly scrambled. LOL)

[skinnypaleangryperson]

There's something that I can't stand about the whole narrative and couldn't stand in the past. Depending on my personal situation my severe depression gets better or worse. For example, I haven't been working class with coworkers that don't care about me for quite a while now, so I don't feel as much pressure or worthlessness from being what is more likely than 90% that has not an ounce of talent in their body. But when I was working class with coworkers that thought I was worthless even when it came to a job I didn't want to do, and I was being made fun of in the fandom I was writing fanfiction for I was literally paralyzingly suicidal and depressed everyday. When people are constantly saying that they think most people's creations are going to be inherent garbage and they're so little faith in anyone, it makes it difficult to have a clear enough head to sit down and to create for hours, what's in a more pure world or with people less terrible or nihilistic it would be a lot easier to enjoy

What even defines great work? Because I've always read work like Shakespeare and Harry Potter and frankly when I was a kid I didn't even think it was that good. And yet, there's some of the only pieces of literature that people actually know about. So what in the hell makes good art if I don't even think that the good art is good? Doesn't that mean that it's just a matter of opinion? Most people's personalities and thoughts seem to align to pretty much be the same so if you're eccentric you're not going to like the same work that the public likes. But does that mean that there's really a line between good and great or just difference in opinion and those who are subjected away from the majority?

Haha, well, I think I'm a genius. Yes, I'm aware that my work is far from perfect, but when I sit down and create in my imagination for hours I never feel more rich or enlightened. I don't know if that just means that I'm biased or if I'm crazier or delusional, but I've always felt incredibly reaffirmed and fulfilled by my work. I never feel cheap or bored with my own imagination at all

I wish that there was a place where people that were just trying to figure out their voice and are waking up everyday with the process of raw creation how to place where they could talk reasonably and kindly with people outside of unpredictable trashy internet discussions. I wish there was a place where people like me could talk about their work and could hear about others, so that I wasn't literally just sitting completely alone in the same four walls going mentally crazy every day from isolation and meaninglessness, only wondering about what people would think and about wishing that I had even one person to talk to about stuff with. I would give anything. I literally sat in my room for so long yesterday working on stuff until I got dark in my room, I was so in my own head. It's both miserable and meaningful at the same time. But more than that, I just don't know what the hell is going on with me because I have no outside real affirmation of opinion of pretty much anything, whether good or bad

#writing #storytelling #fanfiction #authors #literature #what do you even tag general posts like this as? #would be nice to not be talking to myself all the time

[avelera]

A few thoughts on writerly endurance, word count, how to increase it and why you might want to

So over the last few months I've had, bar none, the highest word count I've ever produced as a writer over the course of (*checks watch*) 23 years of writing, on and off. This was after a pretty long dry spell brought on, most likely, from stress from current events and playing way too much Sims 4.

No one is more shocked by this than me. Mostly the word count lately has been me just trying to outrun the Doubts that set in if I pause for too long. Let's hope I can stay ahead, because I feel like garbage when I haven't written in a long time. Mostly, I just thank Calliope every day where I've got something to write and the urge doesn't leave me.

But this crazy-ass word count has led to a few people commenting on it so I want to give some scattered, not exactly linear tips on how to reach a longer word count and why you might want to do so as a writer.

1 ) Learning to write more is, in my mind, a matter of endurance with an almost 1-to-1 correlation with the sort of training one would do to become a long distance runner. No one is born with the ability. It takes practice. Expecting to be able to do it without practice is as ridiculous as expecting to be able to sit down at the piano if you've never played it before and bang out a tune. Be gentle with yourself.

2 ) The incentive to learning to increase your word count is to learn how to cut and edit more viciously. Which sounds odd. And I actually don't recommend deleting what you write, I recommend a discard document even for phrases as small as half a sentence, because you never know when you got it right the first time and if you (like me) do track word count as an accomplishment, it's good to see how much work you actually did at the end of the day.

3 ) But really, you need* (*if you so choose) to learn how to write 100 words easily, and then 1,000 words, and then 10,000 words because at some point, you might realize your story has gone off track and hit a wall and the only way to fix it is to go back 50 words, or 500 words, or 5,000 words and if you nearly killed yourself to write that much, you might be reluctant to remove it (to your discard doc), even if failing to do so will mean the whole story dies. The less effort it takes to write a lot, the more likely (if you're like me) that you'll be able remove the things that need to be removed without getting too possessive of them because they were so hard to write in the first place.

4 ) Now, the one reason to not just increase word count for the sake of word count is that short pieces actually, pound for pound, tend to get more attention because they represent less of a commitment for an audience. Long fics might have more comments, but if you broke down word count-to-feedback ratio, most one shots do a lot better. So don't negatively compare a short fic to a long fic just because it has more comments. Short fics and one shots can be very rewarding. But, as said in point 3, learning to write a lot means you can be more precise with removing extra stuff. For me, at least, writing something short is harder and takes a lot longer than writing something long. Even this post would probably be more successful if I could boil it down to a few bullet points, but that would take 10x more time and energy for me than just writing my thoughts out linearly without boiling them down to the most salient points.

5 ) For me, learning to write a lot had a lot to do with learning to trust my initial instincts. I've heard runners say the hardest part of learning to run was learning to stop stopping themselves. They said their own bodies held them back until they trained themselves to work with their bodies. I think writing is similar.

We have our internal editor, many people have heard of that, the voice that tries to edit a piece before it's done. That's worth noting if you haven't heard of it: don't try to edit while you're writing. Editing is for when your story or at least your chapter draft is done. Because you can't really see what needs to be fixed until you have the whole picture before you. It's like trying to color in the lines before you've actually drawn the lines of a picture.

But also consider this: you're not going to learn to write better than you already have in the .5 seconds while you're thinking about what to say next. Go with your first instincts. You've been reading, watching, and otherwise consuming stories for most of your life. You've been writing for some significant period of it too. You know everything you need to know, that you can possibly know to write the story in front of you right now. That's not going to change if you agonize over that next sentence for hours or weeks. You're not going to get better in that time without actually writing. And if you do, most likely you'll want to write something else because your interests and skills will have shifted and the story in front of you will die in that time. The best way to get better? Write and finish the story in front of you. There really is no comparison.

So the best thing you can do is write the next line that first appears in your head. Don't doubt yourself. Your brain knows what it's doing. Trust yourself. You know what comes next. And maybe you'll get to the end and realize it wasn't the right line. Well, then you can edit and fix it. And you'll have a much clearer idea of how to do that, of what needs to change at the end than you'll ever have in the moment. In the moment you need to stop fighting your own body and brain. Trust yourself. You know how to tell a story. You know what the next line will be if you just listen and don't edit it before it exists.

6 ) It's going to take practice. But writing 50 kind a crappy 100 word drabbles in under 15 minutes is going to teach you a lot more than staring at the blank document of your magnum opus novel that you haven't written a word for. Particularly, writing that many drabbles is going to help you with point 5: trusting yourself to know what the next sentences will be.

7 ) Don't bite off more than you can chew. If writing 100 words exhausts you, don't plot out a 100,000 word story. You're not there yet. You're training for a 5k and that's a marathon. You need to build to it and you need to be gentle with yourself about the fact that 100,000 words is a serious amount of effort and it would be as absurd to expect of yourself as expecting someone working up to a 5k to run a marathon without training first. Doesn't mean you shouldn't run every day though, or run when you can.

8 ) Random note but: stop checking your word count while you're writing. Check the word count when the section is done. I've stopped checking word count unless I'm looking to see how close I am to having a chapter's worth of content ready to post, I don't check it mid-scene anymore, only when I feel I've got something to share. I think it helps with both avoiding discouragement and feeling like you're "done" before you've actually finished anything and then resting on your laurels.

#writing #maggie rambles #maggie's writing progress

[steampunkforever]

Y'know Art Spiegelman? The guy who wrote Maus? What if I told you he was indirectly responsible for one of the worst films I've ever seen hands down?

Often some of the best films come from unexpected places. Cult favorite Boondock Saints was never supposed to be made and yet some how a no budget Boston masterpiece captured the hearts and minds of college dorm rooms everywhere. Spaghetti Westerns were low budget castoffs of a genre no longer en vogue, and yet produced hands down some of the best cowboy films we've ever seen. My point is that often movies that come from unexpected sources have that spark that conventional productions don't. The Garbage Pail Kids Movie, on the other hand, may come from an unexpected source, but is an exception to this rule.

It started when Topps, a chewing gum/collector card company created their own twisted parody of the Cabbage Patch Kids out of spite after a licensing agreement went sour. Speigelman was one of the first designers on the project, and he and his team (including James Warhola, nephew of Andy Warhol) put out a series of wacky collector cards depicting what were basically softcore ratfink reimaginings of the Cabbage Patch line that proved to be so popular as to be banned in schools. The cards did so well that just a couple years later Topps produced the live action disaster that was the Garbage Pail Kids Movie.

This is a film completely irredeemable in almost every way. Part of my distaste for it comes from the fact that rather than pull a Gremlins and have these walking aberrations actually cause chaos, the film tries to somehow soften them into something that could deliver a moral to the story. Not that there's much story. The plot is paper thin, to the point that the motivator for the Garbage Pail Kids (lost Garbage Pail Comrades) is hastily wrapped up with an "I guess they're dead!" (???????) and we're whisked away to an equally uninspiring plot point where the Garbage Pail Kids do more stuff we don't care about.

Obviously I don't think we should be demanding prestige writing from the series known for figureheads like Messy Tessie and Greaser Greg, but dear lord not a single character in this film is even narrowly sympathetic. The bully/antagonist force in this sucks, and yet frankly you sort of root for them to end these creeps. The main character (played by Sean Astins brother apparently?) is written as a peeping tom who wholly deserves the sewer dunking he gets, and none of the other characters are much better. The Garbage Pail Kids aren't even fun in their mischief, just awful to look at and listen to. There's a segment where the main love interest (who is grooming Astin's character, by the way) has a block of dialog dedicated to how horrible the Garbage Pail Kids are, and though its certainly cast as an unfeeling villain speech, she's 100% correct in her assessment. Nobody in this movie has positive traits. I would kill Foul Phil with a ball peen hammer.

One of the most jarring parts of this film for me was--in a fairly innocuous scene--the presence of a MACVSOG patch the costumers stuck on Astin's jacket. What sort of secret messaging is there in the Garbage Pail Kids Movie that they're alluding to the CIA's special operations group that was tied to the Gulf of Tonkin incident and US operations in Laos?

Don't watch this film. If I ever see Foul Phil again it's on sight.

#filmposting #film #the garbage pail kids movie #garbage pail kids #art spiegelman

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Closeted gay reader who's only out to his best friends Steve and Robin, telling Robin he has the BIGGEST crush on Eddie and Robin offers advice and she gangs up with Dustin, Mike, and Lucas to set Eddie and reader up for a date? (More sub reader if possible please?)

Hi, thanks for this! I'm going to be combining this request with another one:

Do you think you could do Eddie with a sub male reader who's a really good portrait artist, and one day he gifts Eddie a drawing of himself that's basically a nude. Eddie gets flustered and basically wrecks reader in bed? Maybe soft Dom Eddie and really shy reader

Eddie Munson x Male Reader

CW: 18+ Content (Smut)

Requests will be closing Monday, November 28th at 11:00 PM EST. You can submit yours here!

Currently writing for Eddie Munson. I write for a variety of reader inserts (male, female, gender neutral, POC too).

The more details you had to your request, the better it is for me. EX: “What about some fluff for Eddie after he’s had a long day?”

Feel free to look through my masterlist here!

_____________________________________

"Hey," Robin calls out. You lift your head from your sketchbook to find her in the action section, holding a VHS above her head. "Date night or no?"

You squint just a little, getting a slightly clear view of the title. "No," you return. Robin nods and turns back to the couple in front of her. Her voice is distinct as she rambles on how much she holds your opinion to a higher standard than anyone else's. She then goes on to recommend a film you hated.

If it weren't so funny watching her clearly trying not to flirt with the girl tucked up under the guys arm and keep herself on task of helping them pick out a film, you'd want to interject and tell them that the pick is garbage. But you refrain enjoying the way Robin's cheeks flair a bright red and she nearly runs out of breath with how fast she's talking.

The couple decides to go with something more classic action adventure that Steve recommends, which you do like. The couple leaves without so much as another glance backwards. "Figures," you laugh.

"Whatever," Robin huffs. "Clearly, they don't have taste."

"Clearly," you snort. "Rob, thoughts?" You turn the sketchbook around and reveal the portrait of her that you'd been working on over the last couple of days.

Her jaw drops, hands reaching up for the book. "Holy moly," she gapes. The 2D rendition of her own face is uncanny but she inspects all angles to see if somehow she'll come alive off the page, all graphite and smoky, but she doesn't. "You are a God amongst men," she exhales.

The bells chime yet again from the front door and the trio of you turn to the sound. Robin and Steve prepared to greet the new customer and there, hair billowing just a little from their face is Eddie Munson. He only gives a nod to Robin and Steve before turning to the left and heading for the thriller and horror section.

You watch him as he walks and right before you break the eye contact, Eddie looks back, a smile softly lifting his cheeks. You're not sure if you actually witness it or not, but you swear he winks at you and the thought that Eddie would ever have half the mind to give you more than a two second look over is enough to make your knees nearly buckle.

"I'm literally going to throw up," you whisper. Robin hears it, slapping the back of her hand into your chest. The action alone gets you to tear your gaze of the back of Eddie's denim vest.

Robin grins up at you. "Ask him out."

"Oh get off it," you hiss and then take your sketchbook back from her. You flip it close and stuff it into your backpack. You were supposed to be helping out, considering Friday night would get undeniably packed with people preparing for the weekend. Rather than going home before your shift, you just came immediately here.

"Oh, c'mon," she calls out to your retreating figure. "I'm sorry! I just--my brain and mouth are literally are on two different speeds and timezones. C'mon!" she calls even after the doors to employee room closes.

"Ouch," Eddie comments. "Trouble in paradise?"

Robin turns to the voice and notices a copy of Children of the Corn in Eddie's hands. "Again?" she laughs.

"Jeff keeps chickening out at the best part. It's his fault," Eddie laughs, sliding the box over the desk. He rattles off his phone number without Robin having to prompt him. But his gaze keeps lingering on the employee door. "He okay?"

Robin scans out the copy of the movie and looks over her shoulder in the direction that Eddie is still staring. "He's okay. I'm just an idiot." Robin gets what it's like--there's no telling who isn't and is like them. There's no telling who's going to accept you or shun you. A lingering gaze that last too long or even just a date could be social suicide if not actual suicide. She just knows that you and Eddie would work out.

She can see it right now in the way that Eddie keeps looking back over her shoulder. Like he's got something else to say or something else he wants to do. But he doesn't. He nods at Robin, smiling but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. His exit is swift soon after and Robin swears in that moment that she cannot let you or Eddie miss out on the chance of at least one date together.

She find Steve, flirting with a girl that clearly is not looking just for herself and politely recommends another film for her to read through before dragging Steve away from the customer. "Does Eddie like care about the town fair?"

Steve blinks for a moment trying to understand why Robin has such an investment in Eddie's taste of extracurricular activities. "Why-Do you think I would know?" he asks.

"I just need to you ask Dustin for me okay. Just get Dustin to agree to get Eddie to the carnival on Saturday. 6PM sharp."

Steve watches Robin's retreating figure as she jobs to the employee room. He gapes at the ghost of her. "Henderson is not going to be able to convince Eddie alone," he whispers, scrubbing a hand over his face, knowing he's somehow getting roped into something and it most likely involves you if Robin is asking about Eddie.

And on Saturday, 6PM sharp you stroll up to the ticket line, hands slipping into the front of you front of your jeans. You're not sure when Robin or Steve are going to show up. You know Steve probably grabbed Robin before heading here and so you're more than willing to give them a few minute grace period. Besides, it's a strangely warm night. With the hint of summer approaching, the days were growing warmer. But there was nothing quite like the MidWest to keep you on your toes.

You resolve yourself to waiting and from just behind you, someone calls out your name. You turn and spot Eddie, strolling, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He stops just a couple feet shy of you. "Fancy seeing you here," he teases.

Your heart stammers in your chest and your tongue grows thick and dry. "Oh, uh, hi," you stammer out.

"Are-are you waiting on someone?" Eddie asks, elbow extending out to the crowd that is approaching.

"Uh, Robin and Steve. You?"

"Steve," he returns slowly. "And Henderson, Sinclair, and Wheeler."

Your brow furrows. "Dustin? And both Wheelers and Sinclairs or?"

"Just Lucas and Mike. They, uh, they asked if I'd come and I couldn't really say no to them even if I wanted too." Eddie laughs at his own tendernes and then gazes back up to you. "They told me to wait for them as Steve was picking them up."

"Robin said Steve was picking her up."

"Steve's beamer seats 5 anyway. Do you mind if I wait with you? Since we're sort of waiting for the same people?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I don't mind." It's a miracle now that you're thinking in the silence that's settled for a moment that you've managed to keep a conversation up for as long as you did with Eddie. You always felt way too nervous around him to get the words out before. But he's easy to talk to. It definitely helps that Eddie seems to be able to keep a conversation alive even if it feels like it's fallen silent for far to long.

"How'd-how'd the art show go?" Eddie noticed it being judged when he was sneaking out after lunch to the woods. He saw you standing in front of your drawings, judges peering at the displays. He stopped only for a minute to watch you.

"Good. Placed second overall."

"Shit, dude, that's awesome." The happiness is real, but Eddie cringes at his use of dude. He doesn't want to just be friendly but he's sure he can't outright flirt with you. So far, he's able to keep you enganged. Your face lights up as you talk about your art and you catch how after a few minutes you've just been rambling about things you're sure Eddie doesn't care about.

"I'm sorry. I'm totally just on a soaobox. I-I heard you're playing at The Hideout now?"

"Yeah, yeah, Tuesday's nights."

"Better than Gareth's garage?"

"Ten times better," Eddie laughs. "You-you should come by. If you want of course. If that's your scene."

"As-as long as you sure you want me there?" you return, not wanting to overstep through the yes is burning the tip of your tongue.

Eddie nods. "Oh, I'm sure." He happens just to check his watch to see fifteen minutes have passed. "Huh, would've thought they'd be here by now?"

You check yours too and noticing how much time has passed. "DO you think they're okay?"

"I would hope. I mean, it's not that far," Eddie laughs. Silence falls between the two of you for another moment longer and then Eddie reaches out, his hands ever so gently grazing your elbow. "Do-do you want to get tickets and head inside? We could do stuff near the front for when they show up?"

"Oh, I-oh." You want to articulate that you'd love to do that but then you're worried you'll miss Steve and Robin and the kids.

"Just say yes! You idiots! Oh my god!"

You turn behind you to see Robin peering around from the ticket booth. "Just say yes. This was supposed to be a magical moment for you two have a date but I swear to God, I have to spell everything out for you."

Your eyes widen like saucers and you're whipping around to see who's around. There is no way Robin would do this to you and you can feel your feet carrying you away before you can really process what's happening. The tears are brimming around your waterline and the lights are blurring.

"Hey, wait," Eddie's touch is soft on your shoulder. You pull out from his grasps. He calls out our name again breaks out into a jog to stop in front of you. "I like you too," Eddie whispers. It's all he can say, panic crawling up his chest. "I'd love to go out on a date with you."

The words, once they process, feel like you're breaking through water. At first muffled but then slowly it's clearer and clear. "You-you like me too?"

Eddie nods, his curls bounce at the action. A tiny smile breaks across his face, lifting his cheeks and causing a couple wrinkles to become pronounced around his eyes. "Yeah, a lot actually. No one has to know it's a date, but us. And well, Steve, Robin, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin. But like, we can keep it on the low, if it's easier for you. But I know half the reason I even agreed to this is because Dustin basically swore with 100% certainty you'd be here."

Your heart flutters at the news. Eddie agreeing to show up because you're here? It didn't seem possible. But there's Eddie smiling softly at you, his hand still cradling your elbow gently. "I hate heights," you answer.

"I love them," Eddie returns. "And I'll make sure that the heights won't hurt you."

You give a tiny nod. "Okay, promise?"

Eddie holds out his pinkie. "Promise."

And if you ever thought a pinky promise would land you here, pressed into the warmth of Eddie's bare chest, the rising sun now hitting you more and more in your eyeline, you think you might've asked for one sooner. Eddie's breathing is steady against your back. You've always been an early riser and you know Eddie likes to sleep in until noon, so you don't mind the few minutes of feeling his breathing tickles your neck.

After a while your bladder gets the best of you so you push up as gentle as you can from Eddie's heavy embrace and pad gently into the bathroom. By the time you return to the room, any lingering hold of sleep has slipped away. Eddie doesn't seem to have noticed your departure from the bed, but you don't want to go paddling about in the kitchen just yet, so you sit at Eddie's desk.

The morning continues on in relative silence. Eddie stirs, the bed creaking and he settles down, seemingly not waking. You watch him, on his back now only for a second before you go back to your page. The drawing is truly nearly done. But you're trying to capture the curl just right and are careful with each stroke of your pencil.

The bed creaks again behind you. A huff hits the air and you turn now, to see Eddie on his stomach, one arm splayed out where you know it would be over your stomach and waist. He lays there for a minute or two before he picks his head up. "Baby?"

"I'm here," you return softly, sitting now on the edge of the bed.

Eddie stretches out for you, palm settling on your knee. "Why are you up?"

"Had to pee."

"Come back to bed. Please?"

You could argue that you're not tired, but you know it's a losing game. Eddie will get what he wants. You're too soft for him to argue seriously. "Can-can I show you something?"

Eddie groans, but pushes up with a heavy exhale. "This is going to cost you exactly ten kisses for waking me up."

"I can pay the toll," you tease, and gingerly guide him up and out of the bed.

Eddie lumbers behind you, eyes still not fully open but cracking more and more as the seconds pass. You settle Eddie down on the desk chair and he tugs you onto his lap, holding one arm securely around your waist.

"Now, what is it that you want to show me, love?" he asks pressing a kiss to your exposed shoulder. Both of you are shirtless, though you wear boxers and Eddie wears sweatpants.

You push the sketchbook closer to him. Eddie takes it gingerly, not wanting to smudge anything or get oils onto it and ruin something. He takes in the resemblance of his face and has to do a double check. That's his nose--undeniably his by the slope and shape. He continues over his own face--the big eyes, wild hair, and takes in the bare torso. The tattoos are rendered almost perfectly.

Eddie takes in the sight of his own naked form for more than a minute solid in complete silence. Like ghost he catches another pair of hands holding around his torso in the picture too. Eddie stares at them, the way the fingers trace him so delicately. The silence causes you to squirm a little in his lap, unsure if he hates it or not. "It's-it's not done yet, but I was thinking of--

You don't even get the chance to explain what you wanted to do for the background, or the other set of hands before Eddie sets the book down and turns your head to look at him. "It's beautiful," he whispers. Your lips brush as Eddie speaks. "Is it for me?"

You nod. "Do-do you like it?"

"Like it? Sweetheart I love it. M'ere," Eddie commands. There's only centimeters between you two, but you close the distance and seal his mouth into a kiss.

Eddie's one hand slip up onto your cheek. The other kneads at your waist, pulling you closer into him. The movement brings you higher onto his lap and his erection is evident now. You grin just a little at the feeling. "Already?" you tease.

"Oh, darling, when it comes to you, I'm always hard," he laughs, kissing you again. "Thank you, for drawing this. For sharing it with me."

"Of-of course," you stutter out as Eddie's plump lips find your neck.

"So good." The thought doesn't even carry a full breath behind it and you're not sure if Eddie even meant to say it aloud, but the thought makes your lower stomach tighten in desire. You straddle him now, hands gripping at his shoulders as he kisses down your chest.

"Eds," you exhale, all shake and on the verge of a whine when his turn swirls over your nipple.

"Yes, sweetheart? Something wrong?"

You shake your head. "It's so right," you huff. Eddie's working a mark into your skin and you don't really care that it'll be there for at least the week. All you care about is the feeling of Eddie's calloused fingers sliding up your spine. All you care about is the feeling of his torso pressing into the front of you, putting just enough pressure on your own erection.

The chair soon becomes too small and too confined. Eddie lifts you up and carries to you the bed, all of a few inches. But you're happy for the change. Eddie crawls up after you, lips still latching to every inch of your skin. His praise, so good, thank you, perfect, that's what you are literal perfection, go straight to your head and make you dizzy with want.

"Gonna take these off, okay?" Eddie tells you, snapping the elastic of the boxers back into the skin of your hip. His lips and tongue cut through the sting.

"Please," you whine, realizing that his hands and mouth are closing in right where you desparetly want him.

But Eddie is devious. He pulls the cotton down with his teeth, taking them down your ankles too and then flinging them somewhere in the room before kissing back up your skin. He licks at your ankle, then kisses your left cal. He kneads at your right thigh but he skips over your puckering hole or your twitching coke.

"Look at you," he purrs, taking in your panting chest. "Tell me who's got you this riled up."

"You," you whine. "You, Eddie."

"And can anyone else do this to you?"

"No," you exhale. "No one else can."

The game continues, Eddie begging you to answer him as he works over your length, or plays at your hole. And it takes every ounce of your power to get the responses out as your brain slips in and out of the haze. All you want to do is succumb to the pleasure. It feels like you're floating without a care in the world. You revel in that feeling until Eddie snatches you back to reality with a harsh yank, nip, or even more crudely, tearing you from the brink of your first orgasm.

Eddie isn't all mean--he loves watching and listening to you cum for him. He loves when your mouth hangs open and no sound comes out because you're sunk too deep into the pleasure to have enough air for it. Eddie will always gives you that--the release. But it doesn't mean he can't toy with it occasionally.

By the time you have enough energy to become conscious, you're not sure if it's just the second or third orgasm that you've had but Eddie rocks his hips into your ass and you don't care about what really is going on as his length nudges against the one spot that will have you crying.

Eddie shushes you, kissing away the fat tears that roll down your cheek. The sight of you babbling beneath him in tears as his own cock twitching inside of you. He knows he won't last long, but he slows down to comfort you. "Oh, hey, you're okay. I'm right here," he coos.

The salt of your tears mixes on his tongue with the salt of your previous releases and Eddie's grip on your thighs loosen just a little as his rubs the fingers he can spare to the back of your thighs. "Too much?' he asks noticing how you haven't caught your breath.

You shake your head no. "More, please." It comes out with a croak, but Eddie resumes the snap of his snaps. "Thank you, thank you, thank you.'

"Gratitude has never sounded sexier," Eddie whispers into your neck. "Fuck."

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x male reader #eddie munson x reader #h writes #stranger things #soft dom! eddie #sub!reader

[squigglywindy]

Y'know what. I just had a thought and I'm going to share it because it's What I Do.

I recently saw a really, really good writer putting down their work because it wasn't 'up to their usual standards', and 'not as good as it could have been' and 'just plain garbage' (It was none of you my lovely moots, I have no idea who this person was, I just saw them online).

And I read their little story and like...it was good. It was really, really good. Maybe they've been writing longer than me, maybe they're just That Talented, but it made me think that like...it was better than probably anything I'll ever produce, and...they didn't like it.

Made me think things like 'why do I bother sharing my weird little stories when even something this good isn't Good Enough?'

So then, because I'm me, I had a Lot Of Thoughts. What if there's a Baby Writer reading my stuff, and they see me throwing down on it because I have the self-confidence of a bullied slug, and decide that hey. Maybe my stuff's not Good Enough, so I'll keep it to myself.

Because the thing is, I've been writing for fifteen years. Am I great at it? Maybe not. As good as I'll ever get? No, everyone's always improving all the time! But I've been doing it for a while. Will everything I write be a masterpiece? Absolutely not! But do I string together words with a little more proficiency than somebody writing their first story ever? Probably. And I don't want any of them looking at what I say about my writing and deciding that they shouldn't try.

So, this is my official statement that I'm going to stop being self-deprecating about the things I create, and my request for anyone who sees me break this promise to jump on me and make me delete it. Yes, I'm still going to look at it and feel like it could be better. I'm still going to read my stuff and hate it sometimes. I'm human, and sometimes humans have trouble seeing value in their own work, even if it's so easy to see it in other people's. But I'm trying to get better. Because just the act of creating something makes it priceless. We, as writers and artists and people in general, put a little piece of our hearts into everything we do, and that's worth something. It's worth creating. It's worth sharing. And it's worth forcing yourself to see the value in it.

Please, please, never look at what somebody thinks about themselves, or anyone else, and wonder if it applies to you.

Never hesitate to create something, and share it, and be proud of it, just because maybe you think it will never be as good as what somebody else made.

It's not a race. It's not a competition. We're here to have fun.

Ily'all/plat. Keep creating. Keep sharing. Keep being you; you're awesome enough exactly as you are <3

#Squiggles Rambles #This got away from me a little but anyway

[fainthedcherry]

Haven't posted these 2 lil bbys anywhere yet, I think!! Soo let me post something, to try to get back into the habit. I don't think it's a secret, that I hate social media and mostlyyyy do not like posting on it, plus it's hard for me to keep up with algorithms. I wanna be my own artist, without algos, to determine, whether people see my stuff or not. I guess it's an advantage, starting so small again. On some days, I was embarrassed to post stuff, on others I wanted to be seen by everyone under the sun. So let me just...Post something for the sake of myself.

(This drawing is almost a year old again, fresh posts will be rare from someone like me with low energy btw, to new people visiting my page by some sheer stroke of luck)

I made this back when like...I freshly changed my chibi style again, to something I'm more happy with.

I love drawing Chloe and Leo together but....I still yearn the day, where Finn and Marco overtake via "most images" category on TH. I just can't stand to see Chloe is my most-drawn character. I do NOT want to accept that fact. I want C.I.Ta or my boys to stay on top. I don't even LIKE Chloe that much, which I think, bothers me to the core, that she has so many drawings to begin with. My fault ofc, that she's so easy to draw as well. But that begs the question, why I keep putting my more detailed charas along with someone like her together sdfgkjsdg.

One thing I might need to get rid of btw, is my bad tendencies to CONSTANTLY write long descs. Like idk. Does anyone read these? Should I just..Stop adding these? Even though I love rambling? Does it stop people from looking at my art? You can let me know, if you want. I spend 1-2 hrs just...Putting down my process and my thoughts about a drawing down here. But I'm not sure, if people want that. Yes, it's my blog and all, but I try to keep it more professional and high-key here, unlike my Insta, which is just...My garbage dump basically, 0 fricks given.

Anyway, I'll see if I can schedule a posts for a bit, so that I don't just drop off the face-of-the-earth again. Between all the death that surrounded me and just overall, the many migraines I had last week, I am ever so mildly concerned, about my own wellbeing not getting any better, yknow? Also btw, I am a bit rusty with tagging things, so expect me to possibly get tags wrong again, but as mentioned in a previous post, how tf do you tag something properly anyway. There's no rules to tags, just basic human decency, to add the right ones and not be a scumbag bot-advertiser LMAO

#art #digital art #artwork #my art #artists on tumblr #character art #original art #sonic fan character #sonic oc #chibis #chibi art #chibi style #chibi character #fainthed #Fainthed-Cherry #Fainthed Cherry #o0fainthedcherry0o #o0CherryPie0o #ship art #shipping

[theratartist-2815]

wrote sum stuff for a scott pilgrim oc of mine

said writing continued under the cut, check tags for tws

i am snapped awake by a jolt of electricity, exploding through my veins and putting a jumpstart to my heart. it felt like a kick from a mule whenever my heart started pounding, like an old train engine suddenly forced to carry freight after not being in use for so long.

it was cold. i was cold. my eyes flew open as i sat up like i had been pulled by some otherworldly force. i looked around. it was dark. two men in glasses cheered, round and square framed.

"HES ALIVE!" the one in the circular frames cried, his clothes and glasses covered in blood. thats when i became aware of my own body, completely bare against the cold stainless steel metal operating table.

i only saw more blood, and fresh stitches on my abdomen where i had been operated on. my brain flickered to life, though nothing about myself i knew. it was confusing. i was dazed, momentarily.

i realized i had tubes attached to me, in my arms and on the back of my neck. thats when the adrenaline rush hit, and it hit hard. the men were still cheering as i ripped the tubes from my body, getting up off of the table, stumbling as i struggled to walk.

the man in the circular glasses didnt notice me get up, so i ran. however, the one with the sharp rectangular ones noticed and tried to subdue me.

i felt my arm move back, then barrel towards the mans face like a bullet. it hit him smack on the nose, with a small crack. the punch i threw was almost like muscle memory. memory that my brain didnt have.

i think i broke his nose, but i definitely broke his glasses. he fell to the ground, in agony. he called for the man in the circular frames.

midas.

that name i wont forget. thats because i knew what that name was from. greek mythology. the king of phyrgia, who could turn anything to gold, haven been blessed by dionysus.

thats when i put two and two together, as i ran up the stairs, my bare feet smacking against cold concrete. i had just been brought back from the cold clutches of death.

ironic his name was midas, then. he brought me back to life. no touch of gold, a touch of life. though i could sense judging by the cold dark basement i had to run up from, the intentions of this were.. dubious at best. i dont want to think about the worst.

when i reached the top step, there was a ladder i had to climb to reach a trap door. mustve been correct in my judgement this place had less than humane intentions, as it was locked up tight. i began to scale the ladder as i heard footsteps pattering from the stairwell below. just as i heard the mans voice, i was up and out of the trapdoor.

i was now in an office of some sort, where i noticed a trash chute. in that split second, i decided to jump in, knowing it was either escape into the trash or be caught and used for god knows what from these men.

i opened the trash chute, sliding inside. i was barreling down, my bare skin freezing against the cold metal. then, just as i got the feeling my body would never stop hurtling downward, i hit the bottom of the trashcan with a loud metallic pang.

i mustve been unlucky, it mustve been trash day recently. my entire body ached. from the sudden jolt to life, the stitches my body had, and from hitting the empty garbage bin. i had to lay there for a second, breathing heavily.

soon, i crawled out of the garbage. i knew theyd be looking for me. i was in a dark alleyway. it smelled awful, i mustve been wrong about trash day, because the other bins themselves were full. did they switch them out? oh well, it didnt matter. i stumbled out, searching for something to cover up.

i managed to find some clothes, though dirty, ruined, and too small on me, which smelled of garbage. but it was better than nothing. i had to get the hang of walking, even though my newly awakened muscles begged me not to. i felt like i was about to collapse.

i saw a building in the distance, cars all around it. there was flashing multicolored lights coming from the windows, and i could feel the baseline from here. a party. perfect. i needed help, before i passed out in the alleyway and woke up in that mysterious laboratory again.

i shuffled my way towards the building, making a beeline for the doors. i felt like a zombie. i definitely looked like a zombie too. i passed by a graveyard on the way. i thought it was ironic, though, i could barely form thoughts that were coherent that werrent about the current situation at hand.

i pushed my way through the doors when i got there, hobbling to my destination, though i didnt exactly have one. i received weird looks from the people at the party as i shuffled along aimlessly, in no particular direction.

i bumped into two people, men, who looked scarily alike each other. i ignored it, and kept walking. i also bumped into a man wearing all black, but i ignored him too. i pushed through a crowd, bumping into various people.

there was a woman wearing round glasses, like midas, with her hair up in a ponytail. she snapped at me to watch where i was going, but i ignored her. i bumped into another person, a man with scruffy brown hair and close shaven beard. he looked slightly nervous, but i didnt pay attention to it.

i pushed through, bumping into several people along the way. an unkempt man in a beanie, a girl with shoulder length, straight black hair, a clearly drunk man in a sweater and messy black hair, holding a martini.. i also slightly remember a guy with long brown hair and a sort of creepy smile i didnt like. but none of that mattered when i broke through the other end of the crowd.

i made my way to a table, with various things to eat on it. thats where i saw him. a guy, about my age, holding a plastic cup with punch inside of it. he looked just as confused as i am, with his light brown hair swept over his head. he wasnt wearing anything remarkable, just a tshirt and jeans. but this was the guy i decided i was going to ask for help from.

i opened my mouth to speak, but i just held my mouth open. he looked confused. i tried again, only to realize that my voice was gone. i was worried. had i just lost my voice, or had they taken my vocal chords out entirely? i tried once more. i managed to mumble the word "help," albeit pretty quiet for the scenario.

unfortunately, that was all i could attempt to say. i felt my eyes getting heavy, knees week, vision blurring. my hearing became dampened as i felt myself hit the floor with a soft thud. the last thing i remember was seeing the footsteps of people walking towards me and the anxious chatter from the crowd, before my eyes fully shut and i became unconscious.

#scott pilgrim vs the world #scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim gideon #scott pilgram takes off #scott pilgrim anime #scott pilgrim oc #scott pilgram #oc #spto oc #writing #oc writing #tw blood mention #tw alchohol mention #cw

[anarchistauthor]

The Junk I Write

I'm an author who wears many hats, I'd say. I've got four books, two of which are very SPN-like, since they star a vampire who eventually works her way up to becoming the goddess of hell (it's complicated), one of which is a fairly conventional superhero story starring a bunch of queer communists, and a medieval fantasy book about people who turn into weapons and kill shit. And that's just my *finished* works.

In the drafts are sequels to all three of those series, a magic school thing I'm working out, a body-horror book about a girl turning into a monster like The Thing and using that power to murder the ones who did that to her, a spy thriller which (no joke) was inspired by Game of Thrones, something I call a "mecha western" which I think describes it better than I could put into words here, and more fanfiction than I know what to do with. And, like always, ideas keep coming to me. (I have ADHD)

So here's the thing: Basically anything I write is derivative in some way. Basically anything ANYONE writes is derivative in some way. If you read my books, and you've also enjoyed the same kinds of media that I have, it won't be hard to pick up their scent. Several major characters in my works got their start in trashy fanfiction which sits on my Google drive and only a handful of people get to actually read. That doesn't mean my novels are based on those fanfictions, and in fact, they have very little to do with the source material other than surface similarities. My novels are original, whether you believe it or not.

Take, for instance, the newest thing I've been writing, which I shall here codename "Greek Gods Thingy." GGT is not a book about actual Greek gods, but about a pantheon I made up based on some archetypes. There's a god of the sky, of the sea, of war, all that good stuff, but they're not the same as their equivalents in any particular real-world pantheon. And, no, this is not the part that's related to my fanfiction.

GGT's protagonist, a young lesbian called Ember, is chosen by one of the gods to do his bidding, and that's basically the plot, whatever. I actually tried to write this thing like a year ago, but I couldn't really pull it together. It felt off, I wasn't vibing with the characters, and in general I was doing kind of a crappy job, only ended up writing like 3500 words. And then, recently, I got the idea to cut and paste a character from one of my fanfictions onto Ember. I'm not gonna say what series it was a fanfic of, but it will be pretty obvious if you've seen the show and pay attention to Ember's mother in particular.

But here's the thing: The more I write it, the less copied it is. It's a completely different setting, different plot, different everything, just with the main character starting from a similar place in her life. I don't know if this applies to anyone else, but when I make an OC for a fanfic, I'm not doing it to self-insert or whatever, I'm crafting a person I love, who I love writing about. And then, what almost always happens is that I say, "Sucks that this character is stuck in a world I don't have ownership of," and then I end up making my own shit for them. That's basically what my medieval book was, too.

That doesn't mean the original work is a copy of the fanfic. If anything, it's freeing great characters, allowing them to spread their wings and prove their right to exist in something real. That's what Ember's done. And genuinely, I can't wait for this book (or any of the rest of them) to be out, so I can share my love for these babies with the world, and hopefully you all love them too. And, frankly...the idea of """real""" authors being judgmental of fanfiction is absurd to me. Fanfic makes writing better, it expands a person's voice and in many cases gets them into writing way before they have enough confidence to try publishing a novel.

Yes. Write that garbage fic of yours. Polish it, sweat over it, let it keep you up at night because you want it to be perfect. It might show you that you have it in you to write something your own. Or, maybe not. That's fine too. Either way, flexing your creativity is always a good thing.

Unless you're a nazi or some shit.

#writeblr #writing #fanfiction #ramblings #art