afoolandhiswriting

[afoolandhiswriting]

Anonymous asked: You suggest a timeline a lot but how would one actually look like?

You can do timelines several ways. One is to actually draw out a line and plot dates on it.

You can make them online at sites like this one or in a...

[afoolandhiswriting]

I’m gonna write tonight!!

Me fucking lying to myself  (via ohvegeta)

[afoolandhiswriting]

Five Most Common Female Character Stereotypes

 When someone says that your character is “common”, it is not a good thing. It means that your character is a copy that’s been copied over much too many times. That you’ve probably seen it in books yourself— you may have even based it off a book character. Or you may have ripped it directly from a stereotype without even thinking about it.

 It happens to the best of us when we’re absent about development. However, that does not make it okay. Common characters must be eradicated as soon as they start sounding bland.

 The post on male characters will serve as follow-up tomorrow. If you think this one’s a tad brash, just wait for that one. Juuust wait.

5- Brave chick who has utterly no personality besides oh, look she can shoot stuff pretty good can I leave her there.

 Somehow, the trend seems to be going that in order to have a female protagonist, we must rid ourselves of every trace of interesting traits and make her the equivalent of a mindless arrow-shooting vixen who’s cold on the outside… and on the inside… and is generally cold… and bland…

 Bland is not good.

 A female protagonist can and should be utterly hardcore with the weaponry and all that— I am completely down with that and in fact encourage it— but don’t sacrifice her depth for it. She can be both gun-savy and a memorable character.

 If you’re questioning that your character might be a part of this group, check to see what her main traits are. “Good with ammo” is not a trait. “Trained in judo” is not a trait. “Can do sarcastic comebacks but otherwise is still as a sock” is also not a trait.

Dig deeper into her personality, bring her out, let her delve deeper, gosh darn it.

4- Overly supportive mother/grandmother/aunt.

 Kudos to your character if she has a mother who cares. Overly supportive mother, however, cares a bit too much. She seems to live in constant peril that any sign of discipline she enforces over her daughter will make her unlikeable, and that making herself a limp noodle— albeit a sweet limp noodle— will earn her daughter’s respect.

 Common phrases from her mouth are: “Whatever you want, honey”; “Hello! I made dinner! Do you want a smartphone with that?.”; “But officer, I don’t care about the evidence— my child is golden!”

 This is one of the more distressing common tropes. Think of your own mother— you respect her, don’t you? It probably wasn’t because she let you do whatever you want. Mothers aren’t passive, and the fictional ones shouldn’t be. And if she is passive, she better not be portrayed as the perfect role model for every teenage girl. You’re just a-shoeing for both a terrible character and a warped perspective for the next generation.

3- The weird girl who all the guys love even though she sniffs her feet in public.

 You can see them through indie fiction in droves, this wave of “different” girls whose only case in point seem to be acting uncommonly weird. The sort who shy guys hook up with presumably so he can poetically narrate her wandering off bridges because she was staring at the clouds. Creating a girl with quirks is one thing— creating an offbeat girl is also great. Creating a psychopath with “cute” abnormalities like licking walls and taking baths in ketchup every Saturday— exaggerating a bit here— is not cute.

 Frankly, it’s a tad psychotic and uncanny to the extreme.

 The thing with characters is that no matter how weird they are, they still have to be human. You must provide a viable reason for her bathing in ketchup, not just because she has an excusable-because-she”s-eccentric.

 I can’t find any excuse for your character to like bathing in ketchup unless she also likes burning down orphanages and mutters to herself in public while clinging to a shopping cart.

 Again, if your character’s a bit eccentric, that is alright. But keep her reasons for being eccentric within reason— too many novels go overboard with this bit.

2- “I’m going on an unnecessary spiritual adventure and will describe it to you with looooots of adverbs.”

 (sigh)

 See if this sounds familiar: “Here is Sally. She is in her mid-thirties. Sally is bored of the never-ending rut her successful job and well-meaning friends give her, so with soundtrack accompaniment by an inspiring instrumental, she gives up all her possessions and somehow manages to pay on a trek around the globe.

 Here she meets offensively stereotypical side characters, encounters stereotypical events, and manages to meet an addendum on the meaning of life in a stereotypically philosophical way, also accompanied to an imaginary soundtracks.

 And a brick ton of adverbs.”

 Literary escapism is so hot right now. If we were to believe the charts, every middle aged business woman is currently on an adventure in deep deep {foreign country}, where she is building houses and outraging every reasonable person she meets with her ignoramus comments.

 The best way to root her out is to decide if her jaunt or move has purpose besides “discovering what she’s all about.” If no, tweak with caution until everything she says isn’t a one-liner from the great philosophical internet.

  She is also often a victim of trope number three, so beware. And if she’s ditching her job for Bulgaria in no reason besides she’s always wondered if Bulgaria hides the secret to happiness, careful. You might have this trope on your hands.

1- The begrudgingly-blank teenage girl.

 "Hello, honey!" said overbearing relative character, beaming as she gave me a mama bear hug. She always does that because I’m her golden child even though I constantly backsass her. "How was your day at school."

 ”Uhh, fine mom,” I mumbled, shoving her out of the way. She was in front of the refrigerator. This is the life of a teenager. “Do we have any milk?”

 ”Milk,” said my playful-but-clearly-unhip father, creeping out from the pantry. “I am going to make a sarcastic comment about milk and ruffle your hair, kiddo.”

 ”Ummm, okay,” I said, rolling my eyes. What a hopeless goofball. “Very funny, dad.”

And so on.

 You don’t tend to see this in published teen lit fiction; perhaps there’s a reason for that. Not only is it dull to create a character who goes around saying “umm” and mentally abusing people, it’s also inaccurate. Find the rudest teen queen you can think of, with the most perfect live who rejects it all for angst, and I guarantee you she’s nothing like this character.

 Why?

 For starters, she has a viable personality.

 This is the most forgettable stereotype—the top of the overtly-stereotypical family pyramid— and therefore is the most vital to avoid. Your character needs to have a more complex base than this.

 I don’t care what that base is, but find it. Find it before you figure out your character is an insult-spewing adolescent zombie.

[afoolandhiswriting]

[afoolandhiswriting]

Games with English: insert the word “only” anywhere into the above sentence and consider how the placement changes meaning.

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Shakespearean insults, with cats.

7 more here.

[afoolandhiswriting]

Sassy Secret Santa

So it's late and I'm super sorry, but here's your gift!

for Amber Rose

Prompt 3: Angels are treated as second-class citizens, and a group of people attack poor Castiel for no reason, breaking one of his wings among other things. Sam finds him, takes him home and patches him up, then offers to let him stay when he finds out Cas is homeless. ~They fall in love of course~ but angel/human couples are looked down on, so they have to keep their relationship a secret.

Meant to do more with this wonderful, wonderful prompt, but, time makes fools of us all. Hope you enjoy!

(fic under the cut)

Sam tried to stifle a yawn as he walked into the kitchen that morning. He squinted at the light peeking through the curtains as he started up the coffee maker, working on autopilot as he tried to decide which was easier, toast or cereal for breakfast. Coffee going, he turned around, and froze as he looking over the bar at the house-guest beginning to wake up on his couch. Right.

The Angel sat up, looking a little dazed as the thrown blanket Sam had draped over him pooled into his lap. His bandages had stayed in place during the night thankfully, but he still looked rather rough. Especially that wing of his. Sam was worried. He had just a basic knowledge of how to patch up people, he had no idea what to do with a whole other appendage.

The Angel's hair stuck out every which way as he took in his surroundings. Blue eyes eventually lighted on Sam, widening slightly as the Angel straightened up. He winced, upsetting his various wounds.

“Whoa whoa whoa, careful,” Sam said, walking around the bar and kneeling beside the couch. “You got beat up pretty bad last night.”

The Angel looked back at Sam, expression mostly blank, but slightly confused. “I...I remember,” he said, in a gravely voice that shouldn't be doing what it did to Sam. The Angels gaze looked around the room again. “Where...where am I?”

“My place,” Sam said, “I took you here after I ran those punks off. Patched you up as best I could, but you should probably see someone more qualified.”

The Angel looked at him. “Why?”

“To make sure there's isn't any lasting damage,” Sam said.

The Angel shook his head. “No, I meant. Why did you help me?”

“I wasn't going to just leave you there to bleed to death in that ally,” Sam said. “I'm not a monster.”

There was a look of incomprehension on the Angel's face that made Sam's heart hurt. It must be tougher then he had thought out there for them. Feeling a sudden surge of anger at the injustice of it all he stood back up, heading back into the kitchen. The Angels' gaze followed him. “Are you hungry? I can make something?”

“I'm fine,” the Angel said after a few moments.

“You sure?” Sam said. “No offense but you look pretty scrawny there. At least have some coffee, it'll help wake you up.”

“I am sufficiently awake,” the Angel insisted.

“You need something on your stomach,” Sam said. “Anything. What foods do you like, I can start from there.”

The Angel hesitated, mouth opening and closing as he contemplated answering. “I...I like...sweet things,” he admitted eventually.

“Sweet...perfect. I think I still have some donuts leftover from last week,” Sam said, walking over to the pantry. “Yeah, here they are. Maybe a little stale but still good.” He pulled the plastic box out and set it on the counter as he pulled out two mugs from the cabinet. “I'm gonna call my half-brother, Adam. He's a med student, so he can fix whatever mess I made of your dressings, and set that wing right before it heals funny.”

The Angel looked at the black wing tucked awkwardly beside him. The middle section was wrapped in messy bandages, blood coating the iridescent feathers. He looked into his lap as he tried to move it, pain echoing back through his body.

Sam looked over his shoulder as he added several spoonfuls of sugar to one of the coffees. The poor man looked like he hadn't seen a decent meal or shower in weeks. His clothes were all torn and grungy, all leaning towards the warm side but woefully inadequate for the upcoming winter. Sam wondered if he would’ve survived the season, regardless of nearly getting beaten to death in an ally. He sighed as he picked up the mugs and donuts, heading back into the living room. “Here you go,” he said, setting them all on the coffee-table and pulling one of the armchairs closer to sit down in. “Help yourself.”

The Angel looked at the food and drink for a long moment, making no move to take either. He looked over at Sam instead. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” Sam said, pausing as he started to pick up his mug of coffee. “Why? Well...” He searched for the words. Why had he helped him? “I had to. I couldn’t just have just left you there.”

“Yes you could have,” the Angel said. “It would have been the easier course of action. Assisting me took effort and energy you could have avoided using if you had just walked by.”

“Okay so maybe physically it wasn't easier, but not morally,” Sam said. “I'm not the kind of person who's gonna leave another person bleeding to death in an ally.”

“But I'm not a person,” the Angel said. “Or had you not noticed.”

“'Person' doesn't have to mean human,” Sam said. “There's plenty of definitions of person. For instance 'an individual of unspecified character'.”

“'A living human' is another,” the Angel said.

“'The composite of characteristics that make up an individual personality',” Sam said, exasperated. “Are we really arguing about the definition of 'person'? I helped you, you're here, you're alive, I'm pretty sure that's what really matters in this situation. Now eat your breakfast.” Not waiting for a response, Sam picked up his mug and took a drink, shaking his head at the stubbornness of his new house-guest.

The Angel looked down at the donuts, coffee still untouched. His hand rubbed over one of the bandages Sam had applied last night. “My apologies,” he said, causing Sam to look up. “I did not mean to sound ungrateful. It's...it's just been so long since I've received such kindness. I...I had wondered if it even existed anymore towards our kind.”

Sam lowered his coffee, staring at the broken Angel. He remembered when was at his lowest, needing to be literally dragged out of the gutter by his brother. That was nothing like this though. He could only imagine the abuse the Angel must've survived.

“Sam,” he said, causing the Angel to look up. “My name's Sam.”

There was a moments hesitation. “Castiel.”

Sam smiled. “It nice to meet you Castiel,” he said. He got to his feet and gestured to the donuts. “Please, eat. I'm gonna go ahead and call Adam, see if he can come over between class or something.”

Castile nodded as Sam walked over to the phone. He opened the plastic box, stopping just short of taking one of the powered rings.

“Sam?”

Sam looked over his shoulder, finger poised over the first number. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Sam smiled and nodded. “Don't mention it,” he said, turning back around to dial his younger brother's number.

~*~

Sam let out a breath of relief as he stepped through the door. Finally, he thought, ditching his briefcase, shoes and jacket by the door. His day was over and he could just relax at home with Cass for the night.

Cass. It was hard to believe it had only been a couple months since the Angel had come into his life. It felt like he had been there forever, sleeping in the guest-room across he hall, making friends with all the neighborhood cats, dumping most of the sugar bowl into his coffee every morning. It was almost like there had been a Castiel shaped hole in his life, just waiting for the blue-eyes Angel to step into. It made Sam smile just thinking about it. Castiel barely left the house, which made him restless and a little difficult to live with sometimes, but both agreed it was safer for him like that. At least until his wing fully healed. After that...

They never talked about 'after'. It seemed so far away, when really it was less then a week. Somehow it had been assumed that after he was back in shape Castiel would move out, but Sam wondered why that had to be. It's not like there was anything waiting for him back in the world, nothing other then more beatings, social isolation, and constant abuse. He would worry about him constantly, not to mention the fact he would miss him terribly. Sam liked Cass—maybe a little more then he should. He'd tried to deny it at first, his growing attraction to his house-mate Angel, but even he had to admit it was a stretch to deny it any longer. Not that anything could really come of it. Even if by some miracle Castiel felt the same way towards him what would they do? People would flip just if they found out Cass had been living with him. A relationship? Impossible.

Sam tried to push away those thoughts as he walking into the main area, the sent of something delicious greeting him as he walked by the kitchen. Cass was at the stove, cooking something Sam didn't immediately recognize. He did however recognize the posse of cats surrounding the amateur chef.

“I see we have some guests for dinner,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing it on the couch as he took a seat at the bar.

“They're not staying long,” Castiel promised. “Just keeping me company while you were off to work.” He petted the head of the tabby currently taking up residence on his shoulder.

It was amazing how much Castiel had transformed from that reserved, broken thing Sam had brought home that night. In all those quiet days along he had taken up cooking and quickly become master at it. He also helped with the cleaning—even though Sam insisted he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. He did feel guilty about leaving Castiel alone so often though while he was at the office. And to make it worse sometimes the cases he had been assigned were so time consuming that even when he was home he wasn't available. Only a few people knew he was staying at his house. Adam of course, Dean and Charlie. And Kevin, his intern had figured it out too, but none of them really had much time to come over and keep Cass company.

“Maybe we should think about getting someone more permanent to keep you company if you're that desperate,” Sam said.

Castiel paused, then turned around to look at Sam. “You mean maybe we should get a cat?” he said.

Sam shrugged. “Always been more of a dog person, but cats seem to love you and the feeling appears mutual.”

Cass watched Sam for a long moment, the cat on his shoulder getting bored and hoping off after awhile. “Am I going to be staying long enough to constitute getting a pet?” he asked.

“If you'd like,” Sam said, suddenly nervous that maybe Cass didn't want to stay with him after he was healed.

Castile come closer, pressing against the other side of the bar. Sam looked up at him, distracted by the blue of Cass's eyes.

“Do you want me to stay?” the Angel asked, voice rougher then usual. It made Sam's stomach do flip-flops.

Sam stammered for a little, mouth opening and closing as he though best how to answer. He looked away to try and clear his head. no no no. control yourself. He glanced back up. Cass's gaze hadn’t changed.

aw screw it

Sam stood up just enough to lean across the bar and press his lips to Castiel's. The Angel stiffened slightly in surprise but quickly returned the kiss, a had coming up to cut the side of Sam's face.

When they were done they pulled apart, meeting echo others eyes as they panted for air, faces flushed. Castiel licked his lips, which distracted Sam enough that he almost forgot what he was about to say.

“Does that answer your question?”

Castiel smirked. “Yes,” he said, and leaned in for seconds.

What happened after this could wait. For right now, it was just them.

And that was good.

[afoolandhiswriting]

Hannibal Secret Santa

So here's my secret Santa gift for tumblr user pathologos. Hope you like it!

Recreation

Will snapped the book closed with a sigh, sliding it back onto the shelf. Hannibal looked away from his work, up at the mezzanine where Will was seemingly glowering at the rows of books. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“I don't understand,” Will said, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“The book? Certain forms of poetry can be rather difficult to comprehend...” He trailed off as Will shook his head. “Something else then?”

“How...how can people watch, everyday. And yet, still not see anything?” Will asked, strolling down the rows of books. “The same patterns. Over and over...”

“I assume you are referring to your latest case?” Hannibal asked, setting his pen to the side and closing his notebook in order to give Will his full attention.

“Day after day...they sat with him. Talked with him. Ate with him—yet they never [once] suspected who he was,” Will said, as if Hannibal had never spoken. “All those people...”

“People create convenient fictions,” Hannibal said, as if there was nothing to be done. “They only wish to see what they wish to see.”

“Wouldn't you want to see if there was a murdering sitting next to you?” Will asked, fingers skinning over the railing as he glanced down at Hannibal.

The psychiatrist stood up, tilting his head in assentation. “But, while I, having the luxury of being able to think it out logically, may say that now, when faced with the situation itself may react differently.”

Will paused his roaming and looked down the doctor. “Explain.”

“Take the incident with Garrett Jacob Hobbes,” Hannibal said. Will flinched but the doctor didn't notice. “I'm sure when you entered the house you didn't plan to shot him ten times—”

“Yeah okay,” Will said, retreating to a further part of the mezzanine. He was right of course. One shot was really all it should have taken, but he got off the shot that should've taken down Hobbs and the man reached for Abigail's throat again.

Did he?

Shut up. He reached back so Will shot him again. And again, And again. And again until his pulls made only clicks in the barrel of his gun and he let the useless twist of metal fall to the ground, thousands of scattered flies buzzing around hims as he fell to his knees beside a dying girl.

A fly buzzed past his head and he swatted at it.

“You train, and try to anticipate what will happen in the real world,” Hannibal said, stalking Will from below. “But all the training in the world can't accurately prepare you for a day in the field. There's always a surprise somewhere.”

“Always,” Will agreed.

Did he reach back, or did you think he was going to reach back?

Did it matter? He's dead now, it's all in the past. “That doesn't mean training is useless though,” Will said, fiddling with the knobs on a row of cabinets and drawers. “It's something to fall back on when you don't know what to do.” He opened a cabinet. There was a forest inside. He looked closer and a raven-feathered stag stepped out into the clearing. It's neck straightened, black eyes staring right into Will's. Something moved in the trees. He closed the cabinet.

“So what happens when your training fails you?” Hannibal said. “Lost at sea without a paddle.”

He wasn't going to say it. “Aren't you supposed to be my paddle?” Dammit.

“I am your paddle Will,” Hannibal promised. Words said before and hollower for their repetition. Especially now.

Will felt something breath down his neck.

Did you want him to reach back?

He turned around. The stag stalked the area behind where Hannibal was standing, looking up at Will expectantly. He said nothing.

“Get out of my head,” Will said.

“I'm only trying to help you understand the demons that surround you Will,” Hannibal insisted.

They were in the lab, dark except the section they were standing in. Abigail laid on the silver slab between them, the side of her head crusted with blood surrounding a missing ear. They never found the body. Hannibal still watched Will, maroon eyes piercing.

“What do you see Will?” he asked.

Will spared one glance down at the glassy-eyed girl before looking back at Hannibal. “I see you.” The wall clock ticked obnoxiously.

“Are you sure Will?”

A migraine flared in the back of Will's head. He groaned, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. When he looked up again there was a figure in the darkened part of the lab. A low growl emitted form the walls. Hannibal tilted his head. “Will?”

They were Hannibal's office, sitting across form each other. Will absentmindedly picked at the seam underneath his fingers.

“Why did you refuse Jack Crawford's offer to quit?” Hannibal asked, pen poised above his notebook.

“This again?” Will asked.

“You complain about how the job is effecting you, but when you get a way out you refuse it,” Hannibal said. “What made you stay?”

Why'd you pull the trigger Will?

“I told you,” Will said. The shadows behind Hannibal's seat moved. “I like helping people.”

“Why?” Hannibal said, sitting forward. Will laughed, gaze drifting to the twin curtains to the side.

“Isn’t that a bit stereotypical doctor?” Will asked.

“An important question,” Hannibal said. “Why do you like helping people? Or more importantly, what do you like about how you help people?”

Will looked back at the doctor. They were in Garrett Jacob Hobbs's kitchen, the doctor standing in front of him, a trembling gun in his hands. The ticking returned, echoing in the empty space.

“What are you talking about?” Will asked, gun still poised.

“You go though, recreate the fantasies of these killers,” Hannibal said. “Move though their spaces, become them in your mind.”

“Not all of them.”

“Enough of them,” Hannibal said. “Enough to get a taste.”

Will laughed, grip adjusting on the gun. “Still trying to change me, aren't you doctor?”

“Just trying to let you live up to your true potential. I do so hate to see such a gifted mind rot away.”

The ticking stopped. The finger on the trigger pulled slightly.

They were back in the office, a familiar scene. Will looked out the window at the snowy night. Hannibal came up and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. It mimed comfort but offered only control.

“It's not too late Will,” Hannibal said. “Just say the word.”

Will turned around, but instead of the good doctor a black figured stood behind him, antlers stretching out towards the ceiling. A guttural growl emitted from between sharp, white teeth.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. The antlered man surged forward, jaws snapping. Blood dripped from his neck and pooled on the carpeted floor. He closed his eyes.

You liked killing him.

I'm going to like killing you too.

He opened his eyes. Hannibal was there, jaws dripping red with blood. He smiled. A smirk. Triumphant.

Will snapped back to reality with a gasp. It was night—or at least the time of day the hospital staff wanted you to think it was night. He sat up, prison jumper soaked with sweat, and buried his face in his hands. They may have treated his encephalitis, but his dreams were something that had been with him for a long time, and seemed to not be going anywhere. Plus, he had been left with plenty to dream about, the good doctor had made sure of that. Looking back it had all been so obvious—hindsight 20/20—and all, but it gnawed at him. He should've figured it out sooner. His fingers griped the metal frame of the bed, looking at the opposite wall with a determined look. Cell walls or no cell walls, he was going to find the evidence, he was going to brings the doctor's dirty little secretes into the light.

A lifetime away, the door to the cells buzzed open then shut, and a set of feet made their was down the stone hall. Will smiled at they paused in front of his cell.

[afoolandhiswriting]

This science joke is a real gem!

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Click through to awesome photo array at: http://www.buzzfeed.com/doree/quotes-about-writing

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it’s not a good pun unless everyone in the room wants to kill u

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“Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?”

[afoolandhiswriting]

The Best April Fools' Prank (That I Shall Ever Do)

Once upon a time, I decided that it was my solemn obligation to prank my friends before we graduated.

So…I made Hogwarts Acceptance letters. A lot of them. Because who isn’t still waiting for their freaking letter to arrive?

My hand hated me so much. Also, cursive G is the worst.

Letters were posted. All was well.

Until this happened…

What the-?

[afoolandhiswriting]

[afoolandhiswriting]

Incorporating Flashbacks

Flashbacks are often used to give information about a character’s past. It’s a device used to step away from the current narrative and reveals something substantial about the plot. I don’t like to utilize them much because I find it difficult to pull the story away from what’s currently going on without it feeling out of place. Flashbacks have the annoying ability of sizzling out the tension you created if they’re used incorrectly. If there’s a more effective way to show information about your characters, you should consider it. You need to find what works best for your novel.

Flashbacks, when used correctly, can be great. You have to remember that the scene you are writing about in a flashback is already over, so you need to find a way to make it exciting. It’s important you make sure the reader KNOWS IT’S A FLASHBACK. You can confuse people if you don’t properly explain that the scene they’re reading is taking place in the past. This might take some time to figure out.

Here are some other useful tips—

Your flashback should never take place at the beginning of any scene. If you’re introducing a character, don’t do it with a flashback. First of all, we have no idea who the character is. We don’t know why or if we should care about them, so why should we care about their past?

Make sure you have an important enough reason to use a flashback. You don’t want to have your character at work and then use a flashback to tell us what he ate for breakfast. We don’t really care what he ate for breakfast unless it WAS POISON. It’s boring and it’s unnecessary.

Use the right verb tense. This will help your readers understand that the scene is a flashback and then bring them back to the current narrative.  This is important, but a lot of writers forget to do this. It will make your flashback flow correctly and no one will be confused.

Flashbacks could be used to expose something very important about your character, so think about the tension you want to create when you write one. This needs to be information you MUST tell. If you’ve been withholding information and creating tension all along, readers will be happy to dive into your flashbacks. They must come out of it feeling like they learned something they couldn’t in the present story line.

Flashbacks can add depth to your story, but make sure that you really need them. If your story is great without them and you’ve found a better way to expose a character’s back story, don’t force it. It’s all about what you feel comfortable writing.

-Kris Noel

My book

My goodreads

[afoolandhiswriting]

That’s typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

Markus Zusak (via writingquotes)

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