writingmccord

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I feel like as Madam Secretary fans, this may be something we can all resonate with some. Reminded me of Maggie Smith’s “Good Bones.” (Posted below, in case you haven’t gotten to read the full poem❤️)

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

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ALL MY WRITING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Reading my own fanfiction is basically just a rollercoaster of emotional whiplash.

20% of the time: “Hold on. I wrote this? This is fire. This is emotionally devastating in the best way. This scene is dripping with tension. I’m a literary perfectionist. Someone give me a book deal.”

80% of the time: “Straight to jail. Immediate prison. Why is everyone’s breath hitching?. I used the word ‘gaze’ three times in one paragraph like I was possessed. Did I think 'his eyes darkened' was profound? Why is everyone clenching their jaws? Why is someone whispering 'their name like a prayer' again?? No one talks like this. What is this dialogue. Why are there so many weird metaphors and em-dashes…”

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Her feet were tucked into the seat underneath her and her knees were pushing into her chest. She was all balled up in the chair as tightly as she could be while her thoughts were so loud she definitely couldn't hear the knock on her door. Blake walked in carefully, "Madam Secretary?" he said cautiously, standing in her doorway.

"Blake," she murmured, her fingers pinching her bottom lip over and over enough that she had irritated her lip and picked some of the skin off.

"I knocked," Blake said, and she just gave him a little smile.

"It's okay," she mumbled, putting her feet down on the floor and turning toward him, seeing Henry lingering outside and pacing beside the door. "I didn't hear you," she said softly, "But I see Henry's here."

"He is," Blake said, moving out of the way and letting Henry in.

She smiled immediately and felt her chest release pressure. Unfortunately, though, the pressure seemed to release via tears in her eyes, and she took a sharp, shaky breath to keep them from flowing over. "Hey babe," she said, her voice breaking enough that it came out as a whisper instead.

"What is going on?" Henry asked, walking behind her desk and running his palms down the side of her head. "Blake said it wasn't urgent."

She shut her eyes, taking a deep breath in and absorbing the way it smelled, letting it wash over her and drown her sorrows. "It wasn't," she assured.

"But he said it, and I knew he was lying," he said, and she looked up slowly at him, "He had that pinched noise in his voice, and I could tell."

(continue with link above :))

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She is fierce. She is correct. She is...Téa Leoni.

(old tweet, obviously. also, here's the link)

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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

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Téa Leoni on film

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5 Tiny Writing Tips That Aren’t Talked About Enough (but work for me)

These are some lowkey underrated tips I’ve seen floating around writing communities — the kind that don’t get flashy attention but seriously changed how I write.

1. Put “he/she/they” at the start of the sentence less often.

Try switching up your sentence rhythm. Instead of

“She walked to the window,”

try

“The window creaked open under her touch.”

Keeps it fresh and stops the paragraph from sounding like a checklist.

2. Don’t describe everything — describe what matters.

Instead of listing every detail in a room, pick 2–3 objects that say something.

“A half-drunk mug of tea and a knife on the table”

sets a way stronger tone than

“There was a wooden table, two chairs, and a shelf.”

3. Use beats instead of dialogue tags sometimes.

Instead of:

"I'm fine," she said.

Try:

"I'm fine." She wiped her hands on her skirt.

It helps shows emotion, and movement.

4. Write your first draft like no one will ever read it.

No pressure. No perfection. Just vibes. The point of draft one is to exist. Let it be messy and weird — future you will thank you for at least something to edit.

5. When stuck, ask: “What’s the most fun thing that could happen next?”

Not logical. Not realistic. FUN. It doesn’t have to stay — but chasing excitement can blast through writer’s block and give you ideas you actually want to write.

What’s a tip that unexpectedly helped with your writing? Let me know!! 🍒

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Fan fic request: I just watched Ghost Detainee - I feel like we need some one shots or a small series of the in between convos they had while at the horse farm. We get the argument and then the next thing is Elizabeth waking up in the middle of the night. Then they get the call from the WH, and then boom we are 4 hours later into the morning.

I know we only got 45 minutes but like, I need some raw uncut conversations and emotion between them.

I forgot to ever post this ask/prompt, so here it is! Ghost is now completed!

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The whole ride there, she wasn't even aware of the buildings going by her. She saw them, but all she could really see was the white in front of her eyes, the anger that built up more and more with every rotation of the SUV's tires. He better not be home, she kept telling herself, stuck on the idea that the archives are supposed to be consuming all his time and not some random, younger woman.

This younger woman didn't know him like Elizabeth does. She didn't know, surely, that he likes his bacon crisped so much that it's basically burnt in a normal human being's eyes. She didn't know that Henry used toothpicks instead of floss up until they started living together, only once Elizabeth told him the picks didn't have the same effect. She didn't know that Henry and his dad had come to blows so badly once that Patrick hit him, and that Henry still feels immense victim's guilt for that day because he knew his dad was wasted and he shouldn't have egged him on. She didn't know how Henry hums Springsteen songs when he grades papers, like "Born to Run" involuntarily comes out of his head.

She wasn't the mother of his children. She wasn't the one who knows the spot to rub to get Henry to relax his muscles after having sex. She wasn't the one who fretted over him being overseas somewhere in a desert, flying thousands of feet above the sand. She wasn't the one who was standing barefoot in the driveway with a milk-spattered tee and a baby in the crook of her arm, waiting for him to meet her and take the baby because she'd just simply had enough today and couldn't handle one more cry. She wasn't the one to listen to Henry, a big, strong, tough Marine, cry in the shower after his mother died.

This younger woman didn't know how he smelled after a run—not just sweat, but something earthy. This younger woman didn't know how he folded laundry: precise, methodical, a plan set out for every sock and underwear article known to the McCord home. This younger woman didn't know what the fear in Henry's face looked like when they had to rush Jason to the emergency room, strapping his two-week-old body to a little stretcher as they life-flighted him to a bigger and better hospital when he had RSV. This younger woman didn't know what it was like to watch Henry grow up from a young college guy to a man—to hold him at his worst, at his best, and all the chaotic and joyful days in between.

She didn't know any of that.

And with her fists balled up in her lap, Elizabeth realized the very idea of someone else walking beside him without earning it made her feel sick all over again. She didn't even know what the woman looked like, who she was or what her name might have been, but she knew she hated her existence already.

(continue with link above and don’t forget to leave a review bc my writer’s ego needs a boost sometimes😂❤️)

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1988 – University of Virginia

The first thing Elizabeth noticed when her eyes were blinded with sunlight was that the sheets smelled weird. I can’t normally smell my sheets, she thought to herself, turning over on her back from her position on her side. She blinked up at the ceiling and let her fingers curl around the top of the blanket, realizing the texture was not the same as her blanket. She looked down at it and saw a blue one instead of a green one, and then the immediate panic set in.

She gasped and sat up straight, taking inventory of the situation. She looked under the blanket and saw she had clothes on, though not her own. Suddenly a little more relieved, she felt something poking in her backside. She reached back and grabbed her CIA badge out from under her, remembering that she’d come inside to get it from Henry’s desk last night. Her sleepy stupor was starting to wear off as she remembered the events from the evening before: the hot dog in his truck, the almost-silent ride home, the comment Elizabeth made about needing to get her badge off his desk, the way they ended up sitting and talking about what she could tell him of her internship, and the way he left space between them while they sat on his bed together.

She rubbed her eyes. Where is he?

And then she heard the toilet flush. She looked up and saw him coming out after the water ran, “Oh, you’re awake,” he murmured.

She nodded, “Did I fall asleep here?” she asked.

He smiled, and the way he did it made her remember another moment from last night. She was listening to him talk about Augustine, a topic she found quite boring but pretended to listen to anyway while watching his lips move. She kept thinking, if he leans in, so will I. I won’t stop him.

But he didn’t.

Or maybe he had? And she’d been too tired to remember? Because she also doesn’t remember falling asleep here, but she’d also had a few beers yesterday and was reminded of that by the dull headache she had this morning.

(continue reading with link above!)

[writingmccord]

this new story is based on an anonymous prompt from tumblr, so thanks! I won’t share the prompt yet, but will soon :)

-

Elizabeth is asked to step into the Secretary of State role, and everything after that seems to move so fast-Vincent Marsh and George's murders, her State duties, and her marriage and family life trying to adjust. But then in India, everything seems to shift along with the tectonic plates, and her marriage and job may be in more danger than she realizes.

"Enjoy your stay," Elizabeth said, smiling once more at the woman from Minnesota as she walked through the streets of D.C.

Strutted, of course, was more of an accurate term. The red dress and red coat did it exactly what it was supposed to, and the red shoes were something even more special. The personal image consultant really knew what she was doing—Elizabeth had to hand her that.

Greeting more people and talking to a few more reporters, she finally let her security detail take her back to the motorcade where they'd been all but begging her to go all along. Frank told her multiple times that it was unsafe for her to be out like that, but she insisted that this was a one-time thing and that she wasn't planning on making him risk his life constantly like that.

She slid in the back of the SUV and Blake handed her phone to her from the back row, "It's been buzzing," he said. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder briefly, noting the panic in his tone, "It's mostly been Henry."

"Oh God," she mumbled, immediately thinking that there must be something wrong. Him? The kids? She put her password in on her Blackberry and saw Henry's texts:

UR HOT!

Babe this red is killer on u.

Ok, I c the news and how they're talking about u…let me just tell u that I need u home. NOW.

Babeeeee

Plz come home

Babe the kids are out of the house

She snickered when she read the last one: Wut if I told u I am already naked

She bit her lip and thought about Blake, hoping he didn't let curiosity get the best of him. Serves him right if he did, she thought, typing out a text back to Henry:

I'm OMW home now. Be ready :-*

(continue with link above!)

[writingmccord]

Tim Daly in Unholy Trinity

(credit to kehanarose via Instagram)

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“You think winter will never end, and then, when you don't expect it, when you have almost forgotten it, warmth comes and a different light.

Under the bare trees the wildflowers bloom so thick you can't walk without stepping on them. The pastures turn green and the leaves come.

You look around presently, and it is summer. It has been dry a while, maybe, and now it has rained. The world is so full and abundant it is like a pregnant woman carrying a child in one arm and leading another by the hand. Every puddle in the lane is ringed with sipping butterflies that fly up in a flutter when you walk past in the late morning on your way to get the mail.

And then it is fall and the cornfields are ripe and the calves are fat and shiny and the wooded valley sides are beautiful with color. The sun is bright, the air clear, and the shadows dark. There is the feeling of completion and storing up and getting ready.

You have consented to time and it is winter. The country seems bigger, for you can see through the bare trees. There are times when the woods is absolutely still and quiet. The house holds warmth. A wet snow comes in the night and covers the ground and clings to the trees, making the whole world white. For a while in the morning the world is perfect and beautiful. You think you will never forget.

You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can't remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happen-ing. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind.

And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence.

But you have a life too that you remember. It stays with you. You have lived a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present, and your memories of it, remembered now, are of a different life in a different world and time. When you remember the past, you are not remembering it as it was. You are remembering it as it is. It is a vision or a dream, present with you in the present, alive with you in the only time you are alive.”

—Wendell Berry, “Hannah Coulter”

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this is old, but his hand placement and her hand under his arm feel new to me, so I’m sharing anyway ❤️

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"Who wants to die? Everything struggles to live. Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It's growing out of sour earth. And it's strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way."

Betty Smith "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn"

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David Duchovny reference on The Naked Truth