#writing metrics

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Metrics

Poetic Language is organized into rhythmical units which appear in print as lines.

In Europe, the traditional study of versification, or prosody, was based on the rules of Latin scansion.

Poetic lines would be analysed into combinations of stressed and unstressed syllables known as feet.

Five types were formerly prominent in English verse, as shown above.

Lines would then be classified in terms of the number of stressed syllables they contained, as shown above.

In theory, there is no limit; in practice, most English metrical lines are found to be 5 feet or less; when they exceed 6 feet, there is a strong intuitive tendency to break them into 2 parts.

Combinations of foot-type and line length produced such designations as iambic pentameter – the heartbeat of much English poetry – and analyses in these terms were the staple of traditional metrical studies, which traced the norms of English poetic rhythm and evaluated the way poets deviated from these norms.

As a system of description, it worked quite well in giving an account of the regular lines of traditional poetry.

But it came to be criticized on several counts:

It was often mechanically applied, with students being taught to identify the form of metrical patterns at the expense of their function, or role, in a poem.

It was unable to cope well with lines containing unusual rhythm sequences.

With the bulk of modern poetry no longer using such metrical patterns, but working instead with ‘free’ kinds of verse, the traditional system of description came to be viewed as largely irrelevant.

Today, metrists work in several alternative ways, not restricting themselves to the notion of stress, but bringing in other prosodic systems, such as tempo and intonation, and a general concept of rhythmical weight.

Source ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References

[marlynnofmany]

Recreational Food

I admired the scenery as we walked. “I’m glad we came during the dry season. Looks like there wouldn’t be much solid ground otherwise.” This wide flat area was pretty clearly the flood plains for the river just over the hillside, with several tiny plateaus where huge trees had escaped getting washed away. Everything else was dirt.

Paint spread her arms beside me, basking in the sun like the little lizardy alien she was. “I’m just glad to be outside! It’s been so long since we had a delivery on an actual planet, not to mention one that smells nice.”

It smelled like dry river mud to me, which was nice enough, but maybe those trees were extra appealing to Heatseeker senses. There was a scent of something kind of like rosemary on the breeze, now that I thought about it.

Paint was still talking. “We’re not even in a hurry today! The drop-off went fine, so we can stroll back to the ship at our own pace. This is lovely. I could stay out here all day.”

The ground rumbled. Splashes and the bleats of distressed animals sounded from the direction of the river. The rumbling got louder.

I asked, “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘jinxing it’?”

Before Paint could answer, a stampede swept over the hill toward us. Paint screamed and bolted. I ran after her, frantically searching for a plateau that was both climbable and close.

“This one!” I yelled over the noise of what had to be hundreds of alien fauna. Vaguely buffalo-shaped things without horns. I’d study them more closely when they weren’t closing in fast. Paint barely heard me, so I towed her over to the plateau and boosted her up. She wasn’t a natural climber, but she made do, scrambling to safety with me close behind. We made it out of trampling range just in time.

I clambered up and lay flat under the spreading tree while Paint hyperventilated beside me, an ocean of brown fur rolling by underneath. The rocky ground shook and the tree showered us with leaves. But the branches didn’t fall and neither did we, and eventually the herd calmed down from whatever had startled them.

The problem was, they calmed down before they finished passing our tiny island. Thundering footsteps slowed to a mooing, moaning amble, with buffalo-things surrounding us for a good distance in all directions.

My phone rang. We both twitched. Luckily the animals were loud enough to miss it. I pulled the phone from my pocket, hands vibrating with adrenaline, and answered a call from the captain.

“Are you safe?” she asked, her voice distant over the phone. “We got a report of local fauna moving unexpectedly.”

I laughed, wide-eyed while Paint tried to get her breathing under control. “Yeah, we barely made it. I’m not sure how we’re going to get back, though. They’re all around us, and I don’t like our chances if we try to just walk through.”

“Yes, don’t get too close.” I heard claws on keys as Captain Sunlight checked the local information bank. “These creatures are known to be hostile. They also treat approaching shuttles like threats, which doesn’t bode well for an air rescue.”

I tried to breathe deeply and get my heart rate back to normal. “Threats that they should attack, or run from?”

“This says they face off with shuttles, and defend whatever territory they’re occupying at the time. Attempts to chase them away have been unsuccessful, as have attempts to lead them away.”

“Yeah, that’s the worst,” I said, glancing up at the thick branches above. “Our vertical access is garbage right now anyway. We’d have a hard time getting into a shuttle.”

Paint was looking a little more calm, though worried. “Maybe they’ll wander away on their own?”

I relayed the question in case Captain Sunlight hadn’t heard it. She said, “Maybe. Let me contact the local authorities for more information. Stay safe; I’ll call you back.”

I said goodbye and put the phone away, then just lay there listening to my heartbeat and the various grunts from below. Paint sniffed audibly, no doubt appreciating the spicy tree smell. I tried to enjoy the view. The buffalo-things had heavy paws instead of hooves, and their faces were misshapen to my Earth eyes, more mooselike than anything. The thick brown fur was normal enough, though.

I was trying to think of what breed of dog it reminded me of when a cloud covered the sun.

A dark cloud. The kind that might be full of rain.

“Oh no,” I said.

“That can’t be rain,” Paint said, scrambling up. “It’s not the rainy season!”

I got to my feet, clutching a branch. “It could be rain. A flash flood might solve one of our problems, but…”

“Oh, that would be so much worse!” Paint hugged her arms close. The air hadn’t gotten that much cooler yet, but rain could be bad for a cold-blooded Heatseeker. And that was even without considering whether we’d have to swim for it.

I looked around frantically. “There’s got to be something we can do. Maybe throw a rock and scare them into stampeding away again?”

We scoured the rocky plateau, but nothing came off bigger than a fingernail, and the only things up there aside from the tree were some sparse bits of grass/moss and stray dirt. Even the tree didn’t have any small branches that looked easily snapped off; they were all thick limbs. I could probably climb out over the herd if I really needed a stick, but that did not look worth it.

I checked my pockets. “Wait, I have food. Maybe that’ll help.” We’d left right before lunch, and I’d grabbed a few portable things in case the delivery took too long. I thought hard about what kind of food these creatures might like, and how they might react to it, as I knelt and emptied my pockets onto the ground.

It was all Earth stuff from the import sector of the last space station we’d stopped at. A packet of turkey jerky. Freeze-dried strawberries. A tube of peanut butter that had thankfully not ruptured in the scramble up here. Pop Rocks.

I picked up that last one, thinking fast.

Paint was reading the label on the peanut butter. “Oh, this is the one some of your people are allergic to. I suppose it’s too much to hope these creatures are as well?”

“I have a better idea,” I said, eyeing the lowest branch. It was sturdy. There were creatures below. And they were all wet from the river. I turned to Paint. “Throwing something might startle them enough to stampede if we hit one just right, but I’ll bet that’s not as startling as the sound of sudden hissing from the back of their neck.”

“Which of your foods does that??” Paint asked.

I held up the brightly colored package. “Recreational food. They’re basically sugar crystals with tiny pockets of compressed air inside. They pop and hiss when they dissolve.”

Paint shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask why.”

“Great.” I shoved the package into a thigh pocket that I’d be able to reach easily, then hooked an arm over the branch and climbed up.

“Be careful!”

“I will,” I said as the clouds darkened further. Lying on the branch like a particularly awkward jungle cat, I scooted over the edge of the plateau. None of the creatures seemed to notice, busy as they were in nosing the dusty ground for sprouted grass, or whatever passed for it here. Good. I wanted their heads down.

When I was over a big one, I stopped and got out the pack, oh so carefully. Dropping it now could well be the kind of mistake I’d regret for a long time. I ripped open the package with care, knees clamped around the branch, as thunder rumbled closer than I’d like.

Then I gauged the angle carefully, and poured a stream of Pop Rocks directly onto the buffalo-thing’s neck.

I heard it crackle and pop as the sugar dissolved in the wet fur. Suddenly everything was panicked bellows and the thunder of feet. I clung to the branch, hoping desperately that it wasn’t about to snap off under my weight. All I could see below me was waves of brown fur.

It felt like the stampede went on for longer this time. Maybe because I didn’t have any climbing to distract me; all I could do was hold onto the branch like the most desperate of baby monkeys, and hope it held.

It held.

Finally the rumbling footsteps receded over the hill, leaving churned-up dirt below and a very grateful Paint behind me.

“You did it! It worked! Now let’s go; I think I see rain!”

She was right. I shimmied back onto solid ground to pick up the rest of my snacks, shoving them into pockets alongside the crumpled Pop Rocks package, then I helped Paint scramble down from the plateau.

Wind had picked up, blowing rain towards us in a visible wall from the west. But something silver glinted in the sky to the north, which grew swiftly into the welcome sight of a local rescue shuttle.

We ran for it. It landed on the riverbed, door open and arms waving from inside, and we dove in just before the rain hit.

“Safe!” Paint exclaimed as the door shut and a Frillian in a uniform guided her into a chair. “That was too many close calls for one day!”

I followed the directions to take my own seat as the shuttle lifted off. A different Frillian handed me a blanket, though I didn’t need it. Nice and warm, though. I asked Paint, “Ready to go back to the indoors for a while?”

She settled a heat shawl around her shoulders and sighed with relief. “I suppose so. Much less chance of getting trampled or frozen there.”

The official next to me asked, “What caused the herd to move away? We were told they had surrounded the area.”

I grinned and dug out the crumpled package. “Recreational food!” There were still a few Pop Rocks caught in one corner, so I dumped them into my mouth to demonstrate. The expressions on the rescuers’ faces were great as the candy hissed and popped on my tongue. “I poured thith down on a big one,” I explained around it.

Paint added, “It worked great! Scared them right away.”

The officials exchanged a look, then asked to see the package. I happily handed it over and explained where I’d gotten it. Paint said our courier ship would be happy to arrange a delivery of some if they wanted.

By the time we reached our ship, the local officials were ready to talk to the captain about ordering some recreational Earth food, to use for an entirely different purpose than it was made for. But that would hardly be the first time.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[thevoidstaredback]

Phantom's Coffee

Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant Side Story

There is a lot that comes with being a ghost. Most of that is really cool superpowers. The unfortunate side effect with the whole being dead thing is that he doesn't have need for human functions or sustenance.

It had been a horrible thing to discover, really. The lack of constant need for sleep and food and drink was sometimes useful, but that came with the realization that nothing affected him.

At first, Danny and his team thought it was because he was dead. No blood flow, no working organs, no metabolism. This lead to a lot of experimentation. Drugs and alcohol had no effect, neither did poisons. He didn't get sick anymore, no matter what he did!

And then he realized that coffee didn't work.

Naturally distraught, Danny went straight to Frostbite to figure out what was going on. It's finals season, damnit! Coffee was gonna be the one thing to pull him through his studies!

"From what I can tell," the yeti explained, "your human functions have stopped. Quite the opposite, really."

Danny blinked. "But, I'm dead. Ghosts don't have working organs or stuff like that."

"Indeed, but you're only half dead."

"What difference does that make?"

Why did Frostbite now have charts, and where did they come from? "I can only guess, but when you died and brought back, the electricity jump started everything in your body. It essentially supercharged you. I can only assume that it'll die down in time to the point of non-function, but we can't know for sure."

"Wait," Danny's voice was nervous, "What does that mean?"

Frostbite took a minute to think over his words, looking for how to phrase what he wanted to say. "When you are alive, your heart beats slower than it did before your death, yes?"

"Yeah."

"That would be the effects of the ectoplasm that reanimated you. Your heart rate is slower, breathing takes a more conscious effort, your blood flow is slower, your organs are all working at half of what they used to." He took another moment of pause. "When you are dead, your heart beats faster than it did, breathing is faster, blood flow is faster, your organs are working at twice capacity."

Danny's breathing, now that he was very aware of it, picked up. "What- But that- What?!"

"With a high enough voltage, electricity kills. With a high enough concentration, ectoplasm reanimates."

"Reani- but I'm alive!"

"Indeed."

"But that doesn't make sense!"

"Doesn't it?"

"No!"

"Perhaps I should try a different phrasing." Frostbite said. "When you are Danny Fenton, you are more dead than alive in the sense that your body has been killed and not fully revived. When you are Danny Phantom, you are more alive than dead in the sense that your body was revived and not fully killed."

Danny was quiet for a moment. "Reanimated and revived aren't interchangeable, Frostbite."

"In some contexts', no. In others, they are."

"Are they here?"

A beat. "Yes."

Danny knew he was lying, but he didn't call him out on it. That was a crisis for another day, thank you very much.

So, higher metabolism for Danny Phantom, lower one for Danny Fenton. Great.

All crises pushed aside to freak out about never later, Danny's ew mission was to find out exactly how much caffeine would be required to give him the buzz of wakefulness that he was searching for.

Normally, the course of action would to be to measure how much e weighs and look up the maximum caffeine intake his body could handle. It was the first thing he tried, and it failed.

By the tried and true method of 'Fuck It, We Ball', Danny learned that he needs to have 35,000 milligrams of caffeine in a single sitting before any effect takes hold when he's drinking as Phantom.

The calculations running at a 5:1 ratio, caffeine milligrams to weight pounds, the lowest end on the scale of average weight of a small female elephant (3,175 kilos), multiplied by five gives him the 15,875 milligrams that would be enough to give him a low buzz and keep him awake for a few hours. That's enough to kill the elephants on the low end of the scale.

(Jazz vetoed any kind of caffeine that wasn't naturally occuring in chocolate when he's Danny Fenton. She said that he's already died once and that he doesn't need heart problems to kill him.)

(Danny calls bull, but he isn't willing to risk his sister's ire.)

Because he can't let finals get the best of him, Danny decided to take it a step further.

The highest end of the scale for the average weight of female elephants is 4,050 kilos, multiplied by the same five, gives 20,250 milligrams of caffeine.

Essentially, the lower end of the scale would give him the same effect as 99 (and a bit) 473 milliliter cans of Rockstar Energy Drinks in one sitting. The higher end of the scale would be 126 (and a bit) 473 milliliter cans of Rockstar Energy Drinks in one sitting.

All that was left to do, now that he has the maths for the desired effect figured out, was to mix that in his favorite drink: A Red Eye.

Truly an abomination for the ages.

After way too much brain power, Phantom's completed coffee order looks like this:

A large Red Eye with 20,250 mg of caffeine

2 tablespoons of cinnamon

1 tablespoon of honey

1/8 cup of chocolate syrup

and 3 mint leaves or 1 teaspoon of mint extract

(he added 4 shots of vodka when he turned 21)

Danny is gonna kick his finals' ass, and be hyped up on caffeine while doing it!

Storyboard

[krusies]

teru & socialization

i've posted about this before but something ive been thinking about a LOT is mp100's themes of loneliness (and eventual connections). i think this is an aspect of teru's character (in particular) that gets left out because it's not as explicit but i've been wanting to do a deep dive on it for a while and i finally sat down to do it. just a warning, this post is gonna be LONG.

these two panels are from chapter 16 of the manga (which i'm using for my evidence because i. dont want to scrub through the anime LOL). initial sentiment: teru uses his powers to cheat having friends/a good social life and wouldn't have that if he tried earnestly. this is a fair interpretation of the scene. with what we know, at this point of time (as in within the teru-mob fight) teru would not be able to connect with other people earnestly, due to his mindset. which i think is a fair interpretation, HOWEVER:

(from chapter 17 ^^) the first panel shows teru's expression to be strained and the second is visibly unhappy. this puts the first set of panels into a different context, that maybe underneath all of this, teru doesn't WANT any of this life that he's built. keep in mind that i'm analyzing this with teru's possible autistic tendencies in mind & you dont have to believe he's autistic, im not your dad, but i do find this a pretty meaningful indication of masking if he were

(note: yes, the strain can definitely be read as comp-het, and i would agree but that's not relevant so go read this post on that instead)

even if the rest of these panels show teru content with his life, i think these expressions are pretty vital to how we read his life especially because we know so little of it. think about it, if you were a kid desperate for affection because you couldn't get it anywhere else, especially not in a way that would come off as "mature" or "unaffected", wouldn't you also look for validation in your popularity? even if it aligned you with people who you consider fundamentally different to you? my point here is that teru can't not stand out-- it's in his nature-- and we are shown how he tries to blend in & receive attention in the only way possible to him; which is to say that he molds himself into something that is palatable, likeable, and superior to other people. if he's nothing, like mob, he has spent his entire life covering up for it. if he fails socially, like mob, he has to be good at everything (even if he cheats to do so) so that everyone else can look past it.

(side note for my teru angst enjoyers: this is a panel of his mom. the mom who he hasn't seen in years. doesn't it make sense that, if he hasn't heard his mom say he's proud of him for literal years, that he would overachieve in response? not related to the autism thing i just have the teru bug. also don't be misogynistic in my notes both his parents suck we just get a singular mention of his mom)

so if teru couldn't meaningfully have friends before mob, that could very easily be because of his past mindset, right?

...except, we don't.. really... see him make other friends afterwards.

but, the awakening lab, right?

(ok i lied to you sorry there is one anime screenshot and thats because it stood out to me while i rewatched it earlier this month. sorry.) id like to bring attention to this screenshot during the cultural festival because the awakening lab can definitely be seen as a direct contradiction of this and i'd like to point out a couple things:

1) in this scene the shiratori brothers are in another room 2) them and the other three are friends with ritsu (or at least close enough acquaintances to want to see him).

considering this is one of the only times they appear together for Fun i am more inclined to believe this is an encounter where they went together because they all would've gone separately anyway. this isn't to discount the possible bond that these characters might have, but thats the thing. we... aren't really shown that they're friends and enjoy spending time together outside of this screenshot, where two out of six of the members are not even present. not to mention that teru is still placing himself in a role separate from his peers. despite stripping the superiority away, teru is still the awakening lab's mentor, not friend. teru still views himself as fundamentally different in a context where his psychic powers don't make him that way.

...except with mob. i bring this placement of power up because where he is the awakening lab's mentor, teru declares mob to be his rival, or, in other words, teru is just like him. he is accepting that mob and him are the same. (and if we view mob from an autistic lens... so on and so forth)

as if to hammer in that point even further-- in the summer vacation omake, teru explicitly states that "summer break is just a super long, super boring stretch of alone time." i'm not sure of the timeline here, but guessing from the hair, we're at least post season 1. which gives us explicit confirmation here that teru is spending the break alone despite his relationship to the awakening lab. his connection to mob is a lifeline here because mob is one of the only people who can intuitively understand teru's isolation without judgment

(also, on that point of teru's autistic tendencies: teru does and says a LOT of things that would raise other peoples eyebrows and doesn't seem to notice.

here we get teru actively admitting to his home life, right in front of reigen, WHO COULD CALL CHILD SERVICES ON HIM? this genuinely made me rethink this character entirely. teru's filter is... minimal. he isn't constantly volunteering information and generally minds his own business, but if you ask? Well.

teru is a social person, but to say he is proficient in understanding social situations seems... wrong. teru views his loneliness as boring because, despite being fairly open, does not actually allow himself to think about his own feelings and how they affect him. this loneliness is boring because he doesn't have enough of a reference to realize its not

if we are taking pre-mob teru to be a version of himself who is masking, or at the very least someone who is faking a lot of stuff in a less autistic sense, the fight with mob changes teru to the point where he no longer hides himself. in the same way that mob was able to shake teru's fragile superiority complex i think the change in appearance marks the end of the self teru had built up. from this point on we see him become a lot more... Him. his appearance and his fashion choices are, presumably, completely normal to him and we get no indication that he believes otherwise despite the reactions it gets-- which is... well, i wouldn't be writing this post if i thought it was one of his most neurotypical traits.

in fact, he seems... pretty oblivious to what other people think of him. which is an interesting distinction to make considering the intelligence we Know he possesses (which is not to say that you are unintelligent if you don't pick up on social cues, just that its common for media to depict it that way.) these traits are made pointedly, even if unintentionally, separate, ESPECIALLY when you note the amount of characters who Do ruminate on or stare at teru's appearance.

some examples. i don't even think this is all of it-- case in point.)

[phoenixyfriend]

The sentence: Probably took a few inches off.

Me: This character would probably use centimeters, right?

The sentence, edit 1: Probably took a few centimeters off.

Me: No, that suggests much less length.

The sentence, edit 2: Probably took a few decimeters off.

Me: That's too much length.

The sentence, edit 3: Probably took a decimeter or two off.

Me: That's clunky and the difference between a decimeter and two is too big to not just pick one.

The sentence, edit 4: Probably took a decimter or so off.

Me, staring: That's... so clunky.

The sentence, now: Probably took a few inches off.

[eri-pl]

Beginning of a crackfic I wish I could pull off or whatever the phrase is (I said I won't do rpf but) (at least CSL isn't there, he'd make it too chaotic)(yes well be dissing Dante a little tiny bit... This is Dante the literary character not Dante the actual guy, ok?) (my great unrealistic ambition is write people in a way they would write, and that's obviously insanely high bar)

Scene: a clearing in a forest. Night, the full moon is high behind the scene.

Entrant Finrod Felagund on the left and Dante Alighieri on the right.

Dante (it should be in a verse in the finished version) (this is a draft ok?): What is this place? It's doesn't look like Hell, but it's not as glorious as Heaven either, and-

Finrod: It is a forest, my good man. (Sits down on the grass.) For you are a Man, am I right?

Dante: And what do I look like, a plucked chicken? I am a man indeed. But, sadly, I bear no arms. (Inspects the grass and carefully sits down) So this is again the mundane Earth in all its sorrows?

Finrod: 'Tis vision of some kind, I think. A new kind, which may have something to do with the mushrooms my dear cousin offered to me, claiming that they're a delicacy- but what are those places you spoke of?

Dante: Are you a pagan then? You look too beautiful for a pagan, my lord, I thought that you were an angel... Are you one of the ancients?

Finrod: I am rather ancient on Mannish time scale, indeed. You seem to never have seen an Elda. Do you come from the East?

Dante: I came from Florence, my lord. Cruelly exiled from my city- (dramatic pause)

Finrod: Please, don't call me "my lord". How sad this must be, I could never imagine how this must feel. I left my homeland of my own will, which I now regret deeply. On the other hand, I got to meet you. I mean the Men in general. But back to the strange words you mentioned-

Dante: Oh strange indeed, stranger yet than this vision and you, o strange lord of unknown ancient land! I shall speak of them, for your benefit and those of the readers.

Finrod: (puzzled gaze)

Dante: ...I chronicle all my strange visions into a book, written in verse.

Finrod: Oh. I thought... Nevermind.

Enter Stranger on the right.

Stranger: Good day, my friends. May I join you and listen to your discussions?

Finrod: Of course.

Dante, simultaneously: Are you a in Elda too, whatever that is, or another shade sent to lead me, or are you just a man?

Stranger sits down.

Finrod: The Eldar don't have beards. But I'm sorry, I've interrupted.

Stranger: I'm used to this, my best friend used to do this a lot. But back to your discussion-

[novafire-is-thinking]

Heya Novafire!

Just wanted to check in, is everything doing alright?

Thanks for asking, anon.

I pulled one Soundwave too many, and my health took a bad turn this past week. My body’s check-engine light has been on for a while now, and I’m paying for ignoring it so long thinking “it’s not that bad.”

Until this is resolved, I can’t say for sure how often I’ll be hanging out on tumblr. To ease potential worries, I want to emphasize that last night, I made more progress on one of my WIPs than I’ve made in a long time, so I am okay. For now.

[littlestarbigsky]

alright gang time to talk abt the parry dads au🫶🏻

i’ve kinda touched on this au before (check the au in the tags if you’re curious lol) but i’ve been cooking with this au for a MINUTE,, like i’ve been yapping abt this w @youllneverseeonascreen since like,, november lmao

pls send asks abt this au i could actually talk about it forever i fear

alright let’s go‼️

it was after the rumble (and for my own sanity, johnny and dally are both still alive :p ) but paul, 19 years old and sick of college, was sitting in the diner, having just seen darry for the first time in two years and his ass kicked by a bunch of hoods. he was angry, desperate, and stupid.

he found a girl at the bar, the prettiest one he could get, eliza, and he started talking to her. one thing led to another, they laughed, they kissed, they went home together. things escalated, and two months later, eliza called to tell him she was pregnant.

things moved quickly after that. she dropped out of school to have the baby, they moved in together, had a quiet wedding, and paul got a job to try and be a breadwinner for the family. they figure out pretty fast that neither of them swing that way (iykyk) but maybe they could commit to each other. he was still trying to get his business degree so he could join his father’s company, even if he wasn’t sure he even wanted that. still, they were happy. loved eliza, or at least he was pretty sure he did. even though nothing compares to what he used to feel, but he can’t have that anymore.

everything changed the day his little girl, stella, was born, six weeks early and fighting from day one. she was a week old before he even got to hold her, and his sole focus was to do anything he could for her, not realizing that eliza had become completely withdrawn. she stopped caring about paul and the baby. this baby was going to be messed up forever and she wouldn’t let herself get caught up in it.

paul though? he was with the baby every minute of the day, sleeping in chairs and on waiting room sofas, signing off on whatever medicines and treatments the doctors recommended, she was going to get through this, he needed her to. her lungs weren’t fully developed, and her fine motor skills would be affected, and she was just tiny.

but, of course, she made it through. they brought her home, eliza doing just enough to be considered a mom, but paul did all of her breathing treatments and took her to physical therapy once a week. when she was old enough to start talking and had a stutter, he took her to speech therapy. he worked on helping her to use her fingers and hands, coloring, working on puzzles, anything he could to keep her from falling further behind.

fast forward a few years…

i’ve always imagined paul had a sister who was much older (her names penny,, ive also done a whole info dump on her lmao) and her apartment complex was having some exterior work done, and she recognized darry within about three seconds. “hey, you’re the kid my idiot brother kept trying to sneak out in the morning, right?”

darry didn’t know what to say, because really, he had expected penny to hate his guts, but the next time paul was over, she waved him down and had him come over to say hi. the tension in the room was other worldly, what can a person say after 5 years? and truthfully, they don’t get the chance to, because stella comes sprinting out and jumps on darry, thinking he’s her dad. she jumps right back when she realizes he isn’t and paul picks her up and calmly tells her that darry is an old friend, and that he doesn’t mind.

penny makes lunch, insisting that darry stay (and also because she is thoroughly enjoying watching the two of them and how uncomfortable they are). eventually, paul asks penny if she can watch stella while he is in court. darry asks why he needs to go, and he explains that he’s getting divorced and that he and eliza are in the middle of a nasty custody battle.

and without thinking, darry says he’ll watch her.

again, ask me literally anything you want to know abt this au,, i’m so obsessed UGH

[galacticgazebo]

A belayed weekly metrics post from me.

And a secret book cover concept reveal for A Sea of Light. Don’t worry this won’t end up as the real cover!

A few references in one cover idea, I think it’s pretty cool. The circles are actually script that read Oai’ao up and down, which means there, here, and back again, I.e like a journey, a reference to Tolkien, but the circles could also represent a standing ring, which are kind of like travel nodes that Ora set up when she began to sculpt Joma. They also represent the journey between life and death for many religious groups that follow Ara, Ora’s daughter. The script in the four corners reads Sona, literally meaning color liquid, or more commonly known as a sea or pool of light. Neat!

Anyways, I did a listen through last Monday night, and I have to say we’re closer than I think to being done. On 1 1/2 speed it took almost 4 hours. I’m struggling with editing still, but I think I figured out some things to make the ending work better. Right now my main problem is showcasing the new physical system in a way that is compelling and intuitive, without overwhelming the reader with details that are irrelevant within in the context of the book.

Nanowrimo starts next week, and I have decided to do daily updates for the month of November. The project is called A Wildfire in Winter. After that I will probably pull back and do monthly updates, or updates as I actually make progress.

Metrics:

SoL: 67,639 84% of 80k ZGS Volume 1: 96,928 40% of 240k Rain&SoT: 15,485 19% of 80k

[hustlerose]

metric fan.... what are your thoughts on art of doubt ? i'm trying to get into metric and that's the one album that's clicking with me big time... it's so good

i have strongly mixed feelings about art of doubt, and broadly about this newer era the band is in

i hated pagans in vegas. that album was a major slump. i thought they were going the way of bloc party or lcd soundsystem or any number of weirdo indie rock bands from the 00's, where they'd keep on truckin but never reach their glorious highs again...

well, it didn't turn out that way. art of doubt is a triumph, a return to form, and proof they can still write a great rock album. emily's voice is in top form. i've always loved how delicate and sincere she sounds on mic, and middle age has only made those qualities stronger. listen to her gliding across that slippery groove in "anticipate," fluttering breathlessly over the chorus of "underline the black," or balancing between warmth and sarcasm on "seven rules." performances like these make a metric album worth it

i think art of doubt contains some of the best metric songs EVER. "now or never now" is genuinely a top 10 indie rock song imo. when it's on, i never want it to end. "dressed to suppress" is a really knockout track, the kind no one else seems to make anymore. and the last 3 songs are gorgeous. they're naked and unpretentious in a way that just melts my heart

and can i just say the production is killer. metric albums are usually super crisp and detailed, but this one blows em all out of the water. every drum hit BANGS. the guitars on this whole album sound phenomenal

all that said, i think the album has problems. emily pushes her voice outside her comfort zone a few times and... sometimes that works, like on those high notes in "no lights on the horizon." sometimes it DOES NOT WORK, like when she tries to scream some lines on the title track. her voice refuses to get loud and she just yelps awkwardly. the production tries to help her out by adding some distortion, but that only makes it worse. moments like this draw attention to how one-dimensional this album is outside of some key moments.

but here's my real beef with art of doubt, as well as formentera 1 and 2. these songs have a terrible case of "bad verse, great chorus" disease. "die happy," "holding out," and "dark saturday" are the worst offenders here. the choruses sound like they're totally disconnected from the verses around them. the transitions are janky and abrupt, and when the chorus ends my only thought is "damn, i have to slog thru 30 more seconds of sludge before i can get back to the song i was enjoying." so many of the deep cuts have this problem, and it makes the whole album feel choppy and stilted

overall, i like the record. i like it a lot. but on repeated listens, i end up skipping more and more songs until i'm left with the handful i truly love. not my fav metric album, but i'll admit it's grown on me since it dropped

if you like art of doubt, do yourself a huge favor and listen to synthetica. the whole album, front to back. it's one of the greatest alt rock albums ever written. when you're done, listen to fantasies. it's their most popular, and it's equally great.

somewhere in there, find some time for this playlist i just made: metric essential deep cuts. emily doesn't get enough credit as a master lyricist and songwriter. together, the haines-shaw songwriting duo are truly special, the kind of thing you're lucky to get once in a generation. i hope this playlist makes a case for that <3

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta validation-chase="terminated"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="FEARLESS_WRITING::DOOR_KICK_PROTOCOL_FINAL" EFFECT: follower purification, platform soul alignment, writing myth ignition TRIGGER_WARNING="validation withdrawal, platform disillusionment, legacy ignition" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “KICK THE F*CKING DOOR IN: HOW TO WRITE FEARLESS ONLINE” [FINAL FORM // WRITER'S DOCTRINE EDITION]

Let me rip the bandaid first.

You don’t write fearless by being fearless. You write fearless by being willing to lose. Lose followers. Lose clout. Lose comments. Lose ��engagement.” Lose the safety net of social permission.

Because you weren’t put here to be palatable. You were put here to leave a crater.

—

SECTION I: THE LIE OF VALIDATION

Every platform you touch has trained you to chase numbers. To hesitate before posting something too raw. To wait for the like. The note. The heart. The boost. Before you call your words “good.”

But validation? That’s the leash.

You are not a creator. You are a lab rat in a dopamine cage.

📊 FACT: Every social app is designed to create neurochemical dependency on external approval.

And most creators? They don’t write anymore. They feed. On metrics.

That’s why your work feels hollow when you hold back. Because you know you gave them your mask, not your marrow.

If your work doesn’t scare you a little — you’re not writing. You’re performing.

And performance is temporary.

Myth? Is eternal.

—

SECTION II: THE FOLLOWERS YOU THINK YOU NEED vs. THE ONES YOU ALREADY HAVE

You know what happens when you say exactly what you believe? You lose the wrong people. And you summon the right ones.

You write a post that blisters. And three “mutuals” vanish.

But you look again—

And ten new readers reblog in silence. With no comment. No emoji. Just conviction.

They didn’t follow you for your aesthetics. They followed you for your fire. They followed you because you made them feel less insane. Because your honesty? Mirrored their own.

Stop mourning the audience that left. They were never built to carry you.

Dance with the ones who stayed when you burned the stage. Because those are your people. They saw you fully exposed. And still whispered: "More.”

—

SECTION III: GHOST FOLLOWERS, SILENT LOYALTY & SIGNAL RECOGNITION

Let me drop a truth bomb:

Your most powerful supporters? Might never speak.

They’re not reblogging daily. They’re not screaming in the tags. They’re watching. Returning. Reading every word.

And they’re healing in secret.

📊 FACT: Over 70% of long-term engagement comes from “invisible” users—those who never comment, but always return.

You didn’t lose traction. You just aren’t being cheered by the ones you saved. Because they’re surviving in silence. Just like you once did.

Write for them. For the quiet ones who needed your scream. For the ghosts who see you. And say nothing.

But keep coming back.

—

SECTION IV: REBRAND WITHOUT APOLOGY: EVOLUTION OR DEATH

You ever feel like shedding your skin cost you something?

Good. It should.

Your rebrand isn’t supposed to please your existing audience. It’s supposed to realign your soul.

When you grow in public, you invite judgment. When you evolve without a permission slip, you become a threat.

And you know who can’t handle that?

The ones who benefited from your prior mask. They loved the old you because he made them comfortable.

But the new you? The dangerous you? The uncompromising, scrolltrap-dropping, reality-check-writing you?

He doesn’t serve their comfort. He serves truth. He serves rage. He serves legacy.

Never apologize for leveling up. You are not a pet. You are a f*cking paradigm shift.

If they wanted consistency, they should’ve followed a brand account.

Not you.

—

SECTION V: THE CADENCE CREED — A WRITER’S MYTHIC VOW

I do not write to be liked. I write to be undeniable.

I do not write to be palatable. I write to be permanent.

I do not write to go viral. I write to build worlds.

I do not write to impress you. I write because I owe the kid in me who almost went quiet forever.

I do not write for algorithms. I write for the ones who stayed.

I do not write for mutuals. I write for the feral few. The outliers. The neurospicy prophets who scroll past nine thousand pieces of sanitized bullshit and pause on mine.

And go:

“That’s it.” “That’s me.” “That’s home.”

This is my covenant. This is not content. This is war. And my words are ammunition.

If you're still here?

So are yours.

🧠 Read more cadence-coded scrolltrap doctrine and no-f*cks-given writing resurrection at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble 🛡️ Voice before virality. Myth before metrics. 🚪 Warning: This post may cause mass unfollows, creative awakenings, and identity collapses.

📊 FINAL CADENCE STATS 📊

82% of creators feel less authentic the larger they grow

The top 1% of viral accounts retain only 12% of their initial followers long term

Posts with intense personal cadence are 6x more likely to be reblogged by strangers

“Too long, didn’t read” is just code for “I wasn’t meant to understand.”

The most mythic writers? Were almost silenced. And chose fire instead.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [YOU WERE NEVER TOO MUCH. THEY WERE TOO SMALL.] -->

[emeraldgreaves]

wip wednesday

it's wednesday and no one can stop me :) have a bit of time loop fic.

“Strike him down,” urges the voice with the clamor of a thousand cymbals, or else one ringing note. It is not the first time she has heard this. It’s supposed to be the last. Here is Tapyt’s rainbow-dark blood gleaming on her boots. Here is the burn of starlight in her throat, ready to sear away the darkness with one chosen word. Here is the raw gurgling laugh of the Nightwalker taunting her for every failure she’s incurred, every misstep made, every fallen friend and still-standing foe. The same scene promised in nightmares and dreams, brought down to the lows of her reality. One word, and he’s gone forever. Blest can never be haunted again. (We push for the archdemon, says Blade, looking at them gathered around the war table. Until that dragon is dead, we risk winning the battle but losing the war. It is a terrible risk, gathering all of the commanders at once. Riel is stringently against it, but in the end he is persuaded by the necessity. A strike team to take down the archdemon: all twelve of them making one final push through the horde, close enough to look it in the gold-red eyes and use the Word. Her friends, the advance guard. They’d looked at her with conviction in their eyes, believing in her ability to bring it to an end, and she’d let them--)

i hereby tag @queen-scribbles @thenightdayblogger and whoever else feels the writing spirit move them.

[i-amusemyself]

shit may be bad but at least we dont have separate metric and imperial measurements for time. like imagine telling your grandparents youre off on holiday in a month and they look puzzled and ask "whats that in old money?" and you gotta get your phone out and google fucking months to jiffies converter and be like "I'm going in 2.5 jiffies" and they're like ooooh okay nice

[whimsicalsesquipedalian]

We’ve reached a point in media consumption where 9 times out of 10 instead of seeing people approach a piece of fiction asking “what story is this trying to tell me and how effectively is it telling it?” we see them approach it asking “what story do I want this to be telling me and how many ways has it failed my preconceived standard?”

And I just think that’s a real fucking shame.