livvywrites

[livvywrites]

my favourite thing is characters who just met the person theyre literally going to be wildly in love with for the rest of their lives and theyre like “:/ they’re not all that” this is so embarrassing for u

[livvywrites]

How to Write When You’re Not Inspired

I’ve been writing for...let’s call it a year or two. Or twenty. And honestly? There are months when I just don’t write. It’s not because of a lack of motivation. It’s more that sometimes, I simply don’t want to. And that’s okay.

The creative bug, as some call it, died in winter (because, of course, it’s winter). It won’t crawl back out until summer, and honestly? It’s infuriating. I want to write. But I can’t.

This isn’t about losing motivation or writers block. It’s the sheer gravitational pull of everything not writing: video games, naps, watching shows/movies, etc.

When this happens, especially to others, they begin to doubt themselves. “Did I ever even love writing?” Might be a question they asked themselves. They haven’t touched it in months, but they’re happy doing other things. And yeah, I’ve had those same thoughts too.

Here’s the first thing I remind myself: There’s no harm in needing a break. Some people swear by the “just write one word!” advice, but honestly? If that one word takes me hours and leaves me frustrated, I haven’t achieved anything. I’ve just made myself miserable. And in a world that’s already exhausting? I’d rather just stay happy.

So how do I fix this?

Honestly? I don’t have a perfect answer. Sometimes, I just have to wait for summer to roll back around before I can write again. But there are a few things that help me ease back into the flow.

1) I Get Jealous

Weird? Maybe. But it works.

I’m in a bunch of writing groups, and when I see them posting about their word counts, their edits, or, their upcoming book releases, that little bug starts gnawing at me. And you know what? It’s weirdly effective. Suddenly, I’m back in my chair, typing away.

Now, let’s be clear: I don’t write because I think I’m better than them (have you seen their work? It’s incredible). I write because I want to keep up. I want to share my own progress, to feel that same pride, to inch closer to finishing my own story. So yeah, sometimes jealousy isn’t a vice. It’s a spark.

2) Write Something Else

Picture this: I should be working on my book. But it’s cold, inspiration is hibernating, and my electric blanket + coffee combo is calling my name louder than my manuscript. (This may or may not be how I procrastinated before writing this.)

Then, the guilt hits. I haven’t written in weeks. But instead of forcing my book, I wrote a random Facebook post, and somehow...it worked.

Weird? Maybe. But sometimes, you need to grease your gears with something completely unrelated. A silly post, a rant about your pet’s weird habits, anything to remind your brain that writing can be easy and fun.

This is why “uninspired” isn’t the same as “unmotivated.” The desire is there; the engine’s just stuck. And sometimes, a low-stakes warm-up is all it takes to get the real work moving again.

3) You Can’t Write on a Cloudy Day

For me, writing requires a clear mind, one that can fully immerse me in my characters and stories. But inspiration refuses to show up, no matter how badly I want to write. Sometimes, the best course of action is to walk away.

Sure, that might mean not writing for three months. But if my brain’s fogged over, forcing it only leads to awful drafts I’ll despise later (and inevitably rewrite).

To ensure I don’t fall behind with my writing, I keep a notebook of ideas. Jotting down random thoughts means I never truly “lose” them. Weeks later, re-reading those scraps might spark excitement all over again.

The planets don’t need to align, just my focus. If my mind’s not on the page today, that’s fine. I know it’ll be there another day.

As long as the want to write is still there, the inspiration will circle back. And when it does? You’ll find me at my desk on a sunny day, ready to go.

[livvywrites]

i think it's fucked up that there are plants that decided they wanted to eat meat

[livvywrites]

Devotion: profound dedication, loyalty, or love for a person, activity, or cause.

To love like a dog. To give everything and receive nothing but table scraps. To always want more.

[livvywrites]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[livvywrites]

ok so i think that my favourite fantasy subgenre is The Inherent Tragedy Of Being Born Into Royalty. which mostly means that i like to read about gay princes but with some nuance

[livvywrites]

welcome to the casparverse comic sans intro <3

taglist: @serendipminie-writes, @sparrow-orion-writes @thelaughingstag @notwritinganyflufftoday

lmk if u want to be added or removed from the taglist !!

[livvywrites]

think that everyone has their own personal theme in life

[livvywrites]

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[livvywrites]

immortality as theft (you have to steal life from something else) immortality as parasitism (there is something else inside You that is keeping you alive and you become less of yourself more and more the longer it stays in you) immortality as violence (everything is trying to kill you because everything is supposed to die and the universe will always try to find a way to right the wrong that is You) you understand

[livvywrites]

The divine right of kings but it's a curse

[livvywrites]

btw what is Annette's approximate age? What kind of furniture does she have at home? And, does she collect artwork or anything?

She’s in her mid to late twenties! Maybe early thirties 🤔

Hmmm furniture… This one is a hard one for me for some reason xD I picture an almost mid-century modern vibe for her? But also at the same time I am thinking that maybe I want the setting for her story to be maybe more cyberpunk (possibly with fantasy flavoring but we’ll see), so I can also see her having a more “futuristic” looking furniture aesthetic too xD

I could see her having a collection of prints and stuff she finds interesting! Her main collections I think are wigs, sunglasses, and sharp things tho xD Oh, and music! I could definitely see her having some album art framed / some records on display.

[livvywrites]

Hi Livvy, I hope you're doing well.

I hope you don't mind that I borrowed Annette for a thing :)

i am!! i hope you are too 💖💖

👀 i don’t mind at all <3333

[livvywrites]

writing advice for characters with a missing eye: dear God does losing an eyes function fuck up your neck. Ever since mine crapped out I've been slowly and unconsciously shifting towards holding my head at an angle to put the good eye closer to the center. and human necks. are not meant to accommodate that sorta thing.

[livvywrites]

when god made me he just wanted to see how many things could be wrong with a girl at once

[livvywrites]

“No one wearing a crown came in the name of peace” for whoever you want pls! :D

so sorry that this took so long!! this kind of. got buried, lol.

but!! have this piece :) it ended up being a non-Metanoia piece, lol, but i’m really proud of it!! i kind of want to continue it 🤔

anyway. most of it is under a cut because it got kind of long, but i hope you enjoy!!

The Free Council sits on the dais, each of them in a chair of wood. You sit in the center, as Founder and Leader—even though you insist that you are no such thing, your vote still sits heavy in your mouth, as you know it will sway the others. That is why you usually speak last.

But not today.

For today it is none other than Catherine di Asternon—the Queen of Blood.

She is the reason that this council was formed—the reason that you built the Free City, the reason that a country has grown up around you, filled with the refugees of her tyranny and her wars. The wars her family started ages ago, and that she continues without thought.

She kneels before you now; her tattered and singed gown a pale likeness of the grandiose thing it once was. There is a golden circlet on her brow, though her hair is loose from a once immaculate bun. “Asternon is no more,” she says, her voice trembling and weary. “The Pale King has taken it—and now I throw myself and my people upon the mercy of the Free Council and the kingdom of Haven.” She swallows. Bows her head further, chin touching her chest. “Please.”

The rest of the council looks at you. They do not speak. They will not. You know this. They will wash their hands of this decision and leave it all in your hands.

You look down at her. You feel the weight of everything you have built on your shoulders. You know how easy it would be to falter… and watch it all crumble about you.

“You come here seeking asylum, after all that you have done?” you ask. Your voice is strong. It fills the hall, over the crackling of the fire behind you. “Do you know what it is we call you here, Catherine di Asternon?”

She takes a shuddering breath. “Queen of Blood,” she says. You know once that name would have come with a smirk; pride filling every inch of her. Now she says it as if she is ashamed… but you are not fooled.

“Yes. And you come to us, wearing your crown, dressed in your finest—and you ask us to help you?” You stand and approach the edge of the dais. “Haven centers itself around one truth. It is the truth we write on our seals, the motto we have chosen for our fledgling nation—the truth we have etched into the very walls of this building.” You gesture, above your head. On a lowered part of the ceiling, above the dais. “No one wearing a crown ever came in the name of peace.

“So tell me Catherine, why it is you’re really here.”

The woman before you trembles, and for a moment, a moment, you are almost drawn in by her act. But you hold yourself strong.

“I speak the truth.” Her voice shakes almost as much as her frame. “My people… they have lost everything. Their homes. Their loved ones. Their innocence. Making it here alone was a journey that we barely survived. We will not survive if you send us away.

“They say that Haven was founded on… on the backs of refugees. That they do not turn away those seeking asylum, and I kneel here, now, begging you to prove that to be the truth. Please. Do not… do not turn them away.”

You have spent a lot of time thinking about what you would do, if Catherine ever had cause to throw herself upon your mercy. In those daydreams, though, she was alone; her people finally rising up and casting her out. She was still proud, then. Demanding. Not begging.

Seeing her before you now…

You want to feel the thrill of satisfaction. You know it’s wrong—but you don’t know what to do with… this. This choked feeling in your throat; the feeling of secondhand shame that comes from watching someone you have only ever known as prideful and vain knelt before you in supplication.

Still. Your voice is strong when you speaks, because it has to be. You have to be. “You say your people have lost their loved ones. Their innocence. They lost those things long before the ‘Pale King’ ever took your throne,” you say. “He didn’t take it from them. You did. You have thrown their loved ones, their kin, into war, time and time again. And the thing about war… sometimes those you love don’t come back.”

Her shoulders shake.

You stare at her—and after a moment, you realize that she is weeping.

Without meaning to, you find yourself taking a step back. You glance around, looking at your fellow councilors, but you find them staring at their hands—to the side—at the wall. Anywhere but at you and the queen begging you for mercy.

You drop your eyes back to her.

She is no longer kneeling. Both of her knees are on the ground; her hands touch the wooden floor. Her head is bowed so low that her circlet nearly touches the floor. “I know,” she says, and there are tears in her words, even if you cannot see them on her face. “I know what I have done. The things that I have brought upon them. I do not… I did not come here expecting you to understand that, nor to justify it.” Her words crack and break, little hiccups coming between them. She makes pretty speeches even as she’s crying.

“I did not come asking for asylum for me. I do not care what you do with me. Banish me, exile me, toss me into prison. I don’t care. But please.” Her hand comes up. The circlet comes off, and she throws it. It clatters somewhere, and her bare forehead touches the floor. “Do not turn away my people. My children.”

Your breath freezes in your lungs and your heart stills. Children. The word echoes through your mind like a drumbeat. You have never heard of the Queen of Blood having children.

You stare at her. At this woman, who has thrown curveball after curveball into your life.

You once served her. You were happy, then. Both of you just teenagers. She used to talk about peace. About ending the war that her father had started and forging a better life for you and her people. She used to hold your hand, and smile, and you thought—

It didn’t matter what you thought.

Because when her father died—so unexpectedly. Not in battle, not riding off into war. Something else. You never did learn why, only that Catherine called a meeting that same day. She walked in, pale as a ghost… and instead of calling off the war, as she had promised so many times. Instead of putting together a peace treaty… she sat at that table and she called a vicious, merciless strike on a land you knew, you all knew, was civilian land.

And then she sent you to lead it.

It was the ultimate betrayal, in your eyes. You defected then. Told her where she could stuff her plans. She just… looked at you.

You left the castle, and no one stopped you.

And for the next few years you watched as she tore through the surrounding lands, displacing people without a thought. Rivers of blood ran where ever she directed her people. Even more so when she visited in person.

It didn’t take long until you could no longer sit by and watch. You gathered up the refugees. The lost and the hopeless. You founded the first Free City and Haven unfolded around you. You lost people. Good people. People you loved, people you laughed with, people you ate with, people who saved your life on more than one occasion. But in the end, you have made this a sanctuary, a safe-haven for all those who need and now.

And now Catherine has come and she has invaded that safe haven and you can’t even be angry like you want to because all you see before you is a broken husk of a woman.

You turn your back on her. You look into the fire and for the first time in a very long time, you do not hear the screams of the damned and the dying. You hear the sound of children’s laughter. Your laughter. Yours and Catherine’s, from so long ago, when you used to sit together by the hearth and imagine what it would be like in a world where you didn’t have to be afraid.

“Your people… your children,” you say at long last, “are welcome here. But you. You will be transferred to the dungeons. You will see trial. You will explain your actions to all of the people that you have hurt, and then they will decide your fate.” You will decide her fate, because no one else will take that job. They will speak their pieces and they will wait for you to do something—only to condemn you once it is done. But if that is what must happen, then that is what must happen.

There is a shuddering sigh behind you. “Thank you,” Catherine breathes, and the sound of it shatters the heart you thought you turned to iron long ago.

You shut your eyes. “Guards.”

You do not look as they take her away, down the stairs and into the dark of the dungeons.

There is work to be done, and you will do it.

forever tag: @aslanwrites | @alternativeforensicscientist | @idreamonpaper | @half-explored | @quilloftheclouds | @tragedyshow | @firesidefantasy

[livvywrites]