Gently fixes a typo in my homie’s google document like a humble gardener pulling a single weed from a dear confidant’s expansive estate they forgot they had given me full access to
Me writing my first draft: Editing is going to be so much easier than writing stuff for the first time.
Me now, knowing how naive my past self was:
When you write an amazing line and can’t tell if you’re a genius or just accidentally plagiarized it from a book you read seven years ago:
Muses. Champions of the arts. A misunderstood species thanks to Greek historians and Walt Disney. Muses are all around us. There is probably one in the closet under your stairs, the dusty tea kettle on your shelf, or the pocket of your favorite jacket.
Me: I have a lot of replys I haven’t gotten to.
Evil me: make another starter
Evil me: make. Another. Starter.
Come on brain. Write mermay grandthorki fic.
Lying on the floor wedged between the bend in the couch and the corner of the coffee table, the dry scent of 10,000 dust mites engulfed my senses. Eyes closed, writing close at hand, I was prepared to leap up and pretend to be a normal human the moment a stray roommate passed by. And I waited.
Waited for a glimmer of my unconsciousness to hover over the face of my novel outline and say it was good.
It was not good. It was very bad, horrible, no good, and generally trash.
So much trash, in fact, that I gave myself an F-. The last quarter of the unfortunate thing was chock full of ludicrous attempts at crafting an intelligent conclusion to a meandering story. The mad result of writing a full-length novel in one month. I expected something good to come out of this crazed frenzy and waited for a spark of genius to ignite.
It was not to be. For good ideas form slowly in the unconscious part of the brain that cannot be wielded by ugly sentience. This unseen intuition feeds concepts into its unsuspecting victims at random. Turning left, the other left, and occasionally right, but always away. Like a cat, it adores you, then bites your wrist for no freaking reason seconds later.
On the floor, encased in dust, dirt, and chip crumbs, I felt the pull of the unconscious. It whispered the answer to my writing woes. Suddenly I knew my outline really was trash and with that understanding came the drive to sort through and find the lucid sparks lurking under the refuse.
Accompanied by a desperate need to vacuum the dust mites out of the carpet, of course.
Do you have epiphanies in weird places?
me: I’ll start writing in a sec
*3 hours later*
also me: Just one more youtube video, and then I’ll really start writing
in other news i am a dumbass with no concept of time
me: i should work on writing the actual first draft of my nove-
me to me: write a hogwarts au about your ocs
OH MY GOD I CAN’T BREATHE
so i have this friend who has this kind of mom who thinks her daughter a genius in everything she starts to show interest in and wants her to get famous
And my friend is really annoyed bc of it
So recently, her mom found out that she’s writing on wattpad
And she started with this ‘god my baby writes’ 'she will be a famous author’ 'can you include me into your stories’ and she told all her friends how her daughter is about to publish a book without even knowing what she is even writing
And she kept being annoying about that she wants to read what my friend is writing
And my friend was so pissed off that she printed and handed her out one of her stories
BUT ALL SHES WRITING IS GAY PORN ON WATTPAD
SHE GAVE HER MOTHER A GAY PORN FANFICTION
AND HER MOTHER JUST HANDED IT BACK TO HER AFTER READING WITHOUT ONE SINGLE WORD ABOUT IT
I AM LAUGHING SO HARD
Me: Man, I love these characters I’ve created! They’ll make great foils to one another!
Also me: I accidently made them gay.
Can’t believe I just let all my story ideas live in my mind rent-free. What a bad decision on my part.
I feel so called out right now.
Epiphany strikes. The words fly from your fingers. The process like giving birth to a sweet baby child. You fall in love at once, fancying it has your eyes, cheekbones, and all manner of ridiculousness. Writing babies are notoriously manipulative. Their only goal is to sustain their mediocre life lest they fall into the Deep Dark Abyss of Discarded Writing. Even the purist writers have been infected by this parasitic breed.
Writing babies are notoriously manipulative. Their only goal is to sustain their mediocre life lest they fall into the Deep Dark Abyss of Discarded Writing.
Not all writing babies are leeches, of course. The well-behaved are quite moldable. These bits have great potential but are often sent to the Land of Limbo if they serve no purpose. Genius bits of writing, on the other hand, occur once every great while under a stormy sky, new moon, or the rising of Jupiter in the dark, dark night. These masterpieces are so impressive they often induce writer’s block. Captivated by their brilliance, writers decide to wait until the next rising of Jupiter to finish the project – a ludicrous plan since Jupiter only rises once. To avoid this fate, simply stuff the pages into a handy vase with a poisonous plant or two.
Most writing babies are rebellious demon spawn. Their stubborn refusal to adapt into a work of art requires a few months of nothingness in the Abyss. Marinating in the gloomy depths will silence all delusions of grandeur. Take care not to interact during exile lest they conspire for early release. Prematurely freed writing babies are a fearsome sight, inserting themselves into every crevice and wreaking havoc on manuscripts, articles, letters. Even Instagram. Soon, you will have no editing skills left at all and your writing will resemble a howling fluff ball.
A sort of parental pride is common when the spawn takes its first faltering steps, staring wide eyed at the bright lights and loud noises. Eat some cake. Drink some champagne. And let the infatuation end there. Remember, if the writing does get the upper hand, stab it with a pencil. Lead is lethal and desiccation will occur immediately.
Have you been overpowered by your own writing? All war stories deserve to be told.