tllancaster

[tllancaster]

Ah, yes, the great feeling of "I hate that I love it!".

exchanging headcanons and AUs with friends like

[tllancaster]

Life, Death and all other states of life sit in silence as nothing happens.

This was not the nothingness that a mortal mind can comprehend. That is a state where many things are in fact happening all around them but none are of interest. This was true nothingness, the absence of something. A breath not taken and held far too long.

“Have you tried turning off and back on again?”

“Of course, do you think me a fool?”

“Sometimes.” Deep coma said.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Well… How about pulling the plug, waiting ten culpas, and plugging it back in?”

“That’s the same as turning it off and on.”

“No, it’s not!”

“How about this-?”

Ned woke up. That was an odd dream. Or, odd lack of dream. He wasn’t sure.

[tllancaster]

I felt like using my typewriter to make a prop for a book I am working on.

The setting is 300 years after a zombie appocolyse and there is an order of monster hunter/ law men that patrol what use to be the Southeastern U.S.. The tech level has been reduced to what can be made locally by hand due to a lack of infrastructure.

This is what the orders for these guys look like. Typed on old butcher paper for "it will do" aesthetic.

[tllancaster]

You know, some people just have a combination of talent, willpower and spare time that I will never have. Good work.

[tllancaster]

A recent addition to the collection of writing utensils I didn't realize I was making until I was explained to the seller why a 33 year old man wanted a typewriter. It is a Olympia SG1 saved from the store room of a Times Union in Jacksonville. It is in mostly working condition with the exception of some less than required functions.

[tllancaster]

A recent addition to the collection of writing utensils I didn't realize I was making until I was explained to the seller why a 33 year old man wanted a typewriter. It is a Olympia SG1 saved from the store room of a Times Union in Jacksonville. It is in mostly working condition with the exception of some less than required functions.

[tllancaster]

That dog is communing with his ancestors.

[tllancaster]

And which one you are depends on the day.

Also, 2 is a lot of fun to both read and write. No one will overthrow the toad-talian dictatorship

there are two types of writers.

“this plot has been in my head for 10 years and finally it’s perfect.”

“what if frogs had a secret government?”

[tllancaster]

In his defense, a similar wreck can easily cause as much and/or more as a band of raiders would on a medieval village.

i love truck stops in winter bc i love a little good old fashioned reconnaissance. i’m at a wyoming truck stop eating taco bell with a bunch of random truckers discussing road conditions like we’re in a high fantasy tavern & inn and we’re warning each other about monsters and highway men. everyone talking about where we’re coming from and going to and how bad it’ll be getting there.

THE tallest man i’ve ever seen in real life just stopped me in the hallway by the coin operated laundry apropos of nothing and asked “which direction are you going?” i said east and he said “good” and walked away.

i caught up with him and asked why and he said “west’s no good right now. i just came from there.”

apparently a truck jackknifed and has traffic backed up ten miles but he sounded for all the world like he just found his village raised to the ground by an evil mage’s army

[tllancaster]

Two wizards, old friends from when they used to join adventuring parties to pay their ways through college, sit smoking in one of their studies. As they talk about the issues with the world, one bursts out.

"I think something is wrong with the souls of our young."

"Explain."

"There are too many old souls, set in their ways and stubborn. Too worn from exess lives to bother change. Also, too many young souls, fresh and tender. They cannot tolerate the ways things are but too immature why things became that way. We need more middle aged souls."

The second puffs, "what kind are we?"

"Too buzzed to be talking about this much longer."

[tllancaster]

Hey, Doc. Here is my stool sample.

[tllancaster]

To have a beginning, One must start

I am writing, but I do not know what. I want to write, but nothing comes to mind. So, I write to write. To get my fingers moving and used to the keyboard of an underused laptop. I know I will never see this again. Likely, I will be embarrassed to have written it if I ever see it again. But it must be written. Why, because I want to write and to have a beginning, one must start.

I do not LIKE to write. I like having ideas and want them down in a semi-permanent location. They should feel more real than, or so I tell myself. In reality, the thing in my head rarely makes it to the page. What I end up writing seems, if anything, less real. It does not fit in the space of what I wanted. It is a Frankenstein’s monster of the Story I wanted, a monstrosity of the idea. A bacterization of the true original still in my head claiming, “It’s not me!”. I hate writing. It never feels great but if I do not write, the stories will kill me.

I must write. Why? Heck if I know. It’s a compulsion. A need. I need to make the ideas in my head real. I must show the world what I smile stupidly at while I’m on my walks. The things I quote randomly need context, so I do not look completely insane. I am still off my rocker, but less so if what I’m quoting is something others can reference. “There it is, the things Tim’s been talking about for years. It’s a thing.”.

It's all madness. I have nothing to show for it. But then again, I do. I have a binder filled with my writing. Pages of me screaming into the void, “I was here. I made things. I thought thoughts!”.

I need to come to terms with knowing that only a few people, if any, will enjoy my work. The best I can hope for is in 60 years one of my grandchildren finds the binders of my writing and they sit down and read it, like I did with my grandmother's writing. Little notes of who I was. Who I wanted to be. I need to be comfortable with knowing that Likely, only I will be a fan of my stories. I just wish the synopsis of my stories were not better than the whole text.

I hate writing. I hate having to cram entire worlds through a hole 26 letters wide. But it is that or they never see the light outside my mind. I hate that I am the only one who knows what Aleir Berries taste like. That has felt the dry cold of the Brunold halls on my shoulders. Smelled the Fields of North Corico and the dusts of the Blasted waste. I must write them, so others might go where I go, feel what I feel. I want to introduce others to the voices in my head calling themselves Wellem, Lamnad, and Adamant. I want them to meet my friends.

I have no more idea how to end this than I did how to begin it. I feel like I should leave this with something that will leave it with a feeling of closure. It is what a good writer would do. I am not a good writer.

[tllancaster]

You need to see Jim butcher talk about how the Codex Alera happened. He told someone "It is not about having a good idea, it about what you do with the idea". And then told the person to give him 2 bad ideas and he would use them both.

anyone else terrified that their story idea is secretly terrible but too stubborn to give up on it?

[tllancaster]

I am a huge fan of all the books I have yet to write. The author really needs to write more.

My existing work... not so much.

[tllancaster]

Once I was telling my brother about a story and he swing back at me with.

"Sound like you don't have a plot. All you have is a situation."

[tllancaster]

I got so.many funny looks walking my Dog.

"How do you write such realistic dialogue-" I TALK TO MYSELF. I TALK TO MYSELF AND I PRETEND I AM THE ONE SAYING THE LINE. LIKE SANITY IS SLOWLY SLIPPING FROM BETWEEN MY FINGERS WITH EVERY MEASLY WORD THEY TYPE OUT. THAT IS HOW.

[tllancaster]

And being the writer is like "Bitch, you work for me!"

Characte, hand on my cheek: Honey, it's adorable you still think that

It's me y'all, I'm bitches