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I mean, when you follow some stories it’m becomes really addicting

I love that even if you didn't know, you can always tell whenever ao3 is down

Because all of our fellow fanfic readers flood tumblr with so many posts about fanfics and how they miss our beloved ao3 that's down for three hours of scheduled matinence

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"actions speak louder than words" unless you’re a writer, in which case you’ll spend 300 pages describing a character’s inner turmoil while they stand perfectly still in a room.

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I feel my heart bleeding. There were so many people that made my suffer that I don’t believe that I could find my inner peace near someone. And I don’t look for it. Sometimes, when I go for a walk in the city, a specially in 9th arrondissent of Paris, near the Grand Boulevards not in the fancy area but in the popular one, with tiny indépendant theaters and bars, I see really good-looking people, they look,really intelligent and interesting to talk to. My inner sapiosexual goes to paradise and rarely, when I don’t feel like my whole body is going to collapse in front of such a beauty, we have a conversation, maybe we walk together and in the rarest of cases we have a story. In the end I’m devastated. Alone. But with new experience. This suffering makes me feel good.

I think that this is the prefect description of masochism

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I consider this post as some kind of rebranding, or not, at least I’ll try to publish new posts more often. What am I going to do? Nothing special, just my thoughts, writings that, I hope, will find someone who likes writing as I do.

I used to have an account here at Tumblr, it was in 2014. I’ve been posting about my ED journey for 2 years or so but then I’ve dropped that. Now I’m leaving X, or Twitter cuz it became such a trashy place where I encountered horrible people, read tons and tons of désinformation shit, oh I’m so exhausted after being there for like 10 mins or so…

Unfortunately, I just can’t recall how does this social media work, but I gonna try to do it step by step.

LITTLE PRESENTATION OF THIS BLOG

This is some kind of compendium of all of the thoughts, posts and things that I see here and there at Tumblr and, when I’m not in a depressive episode I post little parts of story that I’m writing just for myself, in sake of my freaking mental health, not for publishing, I just have this strange urge inside me to tell you this story.

PG: 18

Genre: drama, psychological thriller, little bit of romance but this is not the first thing to look to, comedy, original story.

TW: don’t read this the following is NOT acceptable for you or triggers your traumas — depression, sect, homophobia, lookism, ageism (and many other kind of isms related with physical appearance (yeah there are really strange folks in this story)), abuse, mental illness etc.

In other words, it is not a really good story if you’re looking for something nice, light and pleasing. Actually I want to play with contrasts and to create some kind of the same mood that the mane character, Eddy had.

Size: frankly speaking, I would like to publish little parts each day or maybe each two-three days that could be combined in a little novel, why not? Gonna try, gonna look where it could go.

Author: and as I like to talk about myself, my name is Arthur Michaud [Mee-shaw], I’m 26 years old, clinically depressed aspiring writer that just tries to live this life for telling stories, I haven’t found yet another meaning for my life. I like cats, dogs and lizards, good steak with French fries, swimming, walking in parcs in autumn, learning foreign languages. I like to smell book and read them, of course, I like to write on paper, I like making presents. I don’t like receiving presents, I don’t like people shouting, I hate close minded people, but I try to not judge them, I hate when I close myself completely from the world around me, I don’t like when beautiful buildings are destroyed, I don’t like many things. And sometimes I really do like to talk in small communities about a book, story or a film I’m currently hyper fixed too.

Without any further information, let’s start.

Chapter I

I received a notification in What’s App and the light stroke in my face. Bright white screen with tiny black letters and a title “Kevin’s 35 anniversary”. I sighed and put the phone on the pillow. I don’t have any motivation to get myself out of the bed lately and here I have a hole new reason to do something. For me it is a nightmare, don’t know how it works for the majority of people I know.

A phone call. “Shit.” “Not now.” “Hope it’s not a video call at least.”

I looked at the screen and I felt something cold going down from my head to the toes, and just in second I felt dizzy, and tired, hot, my face turned red, as if someone put some vodka on it. I picked up the phone.

“Hey man, it’s me, Kevin, remember me?”

Of course I remembered him and I always did. That was the person that I hate the most. But there is something in me that makes me always be there when he needs me. Don’t judge me please.

[arthurs-notes]

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3

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Je reviens finalement sur Tumblr pour écrire, pour trouver ceux et celles qui adorent l’écriture comme moi.

Ça me manque les communautés d’écritures. A l’époque c’était Twitter qui me permettait d’échanger avec les autres, oj je mute entre Tumblr anglais, et la commue déjà existante sur Twitter. Je me sens un peu perdu dans ces moments.

Assis devant la table, je tiens mon portable dans les mains. J’ai réussi à écrire quelques lignes aujourd’hui. J’ai créé un planning avec les chapitres à retravailler. Cependant, je me trouve un peu trop sévère avec moi-même. J’ai fixé les dates trop strictes. La relecture prend énormément de temps, même si elle me procure du plaisir sincère, l’horloge me montre que j’exagère avec les formulations précises. Parfois trop.

Quoi qu’il en soit, je sois content d’éprouver ce sentiment de nouveau.

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don't leave me!

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[image description: the bugs bunny in a tuxedo "I wish all (blank) a very pleasant (blank)" meme edited to say "I wish all of my Jewish followers a very pleasant rosh hashanah". In front of Bugs there is a jar of honey, a stack of apples and pomegranates. In front of bug's mouth there is a shofar.]

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I’m really sorry that there are not many blogs in French here on Tumblr.

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Getting a medical bracelet that says "be nice to me".

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Cette semaine c'était la lutte contre ma dépression. J'ai adopté quelques techniques de base et je peux vous dire que ça marche, je peux finalement sentir quelque chose appart l'appathie, l'anxiété et la solitude. Finalement. Je respire

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Tumblr français

À l'époque j'écrivais beaucoup. Tumblr c'était pour moi comme mon journal intime. Il s'est passé des choses, qui m'ont profondément changés, voilà pourquoi, je voudrais bien recommencer cette tradition.

Je comprends que ce réseau social n'est pas assez répandu chez les Francophones, mais, pourquoi de ne pas changer cette situation. Si vous écrivez et lisez en français - contactez moi. Je cherche de nouveaux blogs à lire.

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Back that day. I remember the day I met new people in the hours of our common friend. The question that touched me was “What is your origin”? I don't really like this question because I have so many roots in my family that it becomes difficult to find the right one, the one that could help me choose some kind of label or tag.

My father, for instance, is a Tatar, but it is not as easy as it seems to be. My grandfather is half Crimean-Tatar half Kazan-Tatar with a little bit of Bouryats in his genealogy. My grandmother is Chuvash, Jewish, Tatar and Crimean Tatar. So my father is mixed. However, he always considered himself as being Tatar only.

He drinks lots and lots of tea, he knows how to cook, he is tall and his grey eyes are always full of courage.

As for my mother, it is no less complicated than with my father. First of all, her mother is half-Estonian, half-French with Breton origins. As for her father, he is Polish, Estonian too, a little bit Bielorus, and something else that we do not know because of the complicated history of my family members that I try to preserve and write down each and every tiny part of information.

As for me, the question of cultural identity used to be vital for me, because I had so many variants to choose from. One day, my friend told me that maybe I should try looking at the language that I speak. Hm. I've tried. And it is also not as easy as it could be. You see, I speak French every day, I also write in English, I can read and talk in Russian and I've started to learn Tatar to not forget the culture of my father. I live and I always lived in such a mix of different cultures that I've decided not to choose. I want to preserve everything that my family gave me.

So, why don't I like this very question? Because it takes me a while to explain who I am. But the most important thing is that I am a person. Don’t let anyone destroy your interior calm. You are precious, you are who you are.

I think that I would like write a little bit more about Tatars, what do you think? Let me know

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~Author Intro~

Hi everyone! I recently passed a follower milestone, so it feels like it's time to re-introduce myself to folks. I'm Anna, a queer twenty-something year-old writer/editor/translator. I spent most of the last decade in Japan and just moved back to the United States a few weeks ago.

I write about books on my Anna Veriani Substack and about disability, freelancing, and other topics at Writing on Fire.

This autumn, assuming I have the spoons, I'll be posting a short spooky serial fiction story called Narrow Road to Uncanny Valley here on Tumblr and on my Anna Veriani Substack.

Working summary:

The Uncanny Valley started off as a developer company's utopian housing project: The first AI-designed condominium, built completely without human input, was supposed to bring down the skyrocketing costs of New Jersey rents. Then a wave of mass suicides among its first residents led to a permanent evacuation. For three years, the Uncanny Valley has sat empty, while its AI has continued to build...

The Infernal Lay Monks aren't into spooky shit; they're just looking for an affordable (read: free) place to rest their heads after being on perpetual tour for more than a year. If the acoustics of an abandoned condo are good enough to inspire their next album, even better.

But when the police go searching for squatters, the band is forced to travel deeper into the Uncanny Valley, plunging into a labyrinth of increasingly inhuman liminal spaces. Narrow Road to Uncanny Valley is their violinist's account of his journey into the abyss of rent-induced desperation.

A little excerpt:

After our feet were mud-wrecked—four punk rockers suddenly keenly aware that the stamina required to play a show all night does not translate to that required for hiking through the watersheds of Jersey—we ended up on the edge of the Mullica River. Faded wooden signs and more freshly painted metal ones bore the same message:

DO NOT CROSS INTO PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO TRESPASSING.

ALL OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW.

—Housing4All, inc.

We stole two neglected rowboats and crossed. In the middle of the river was a small verdant islet; night herons clung onto the wild foliage, looking like upright, oversized bats. They eyed me as I passed.

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I'm also working on a sapphic romance about chess masters for which I've got a nice pinterest going:

beyond writing my interests include moss, birds, entomology, all non-people creatures, disability, Japanese, and cooking.

favorite SFF writers: Jeff Vandermeer, Shelley Parker-Chan, Murata Sayaka, N.K. Jemisin, Motoya Yukiko, Katherine Arden, P. Djèli Clark, Victor LaValle, Maggie Stiefvater, Rivers Solomon

favorite romance writers: Cat Sebastian, Alyssa Cole, Karelia Stetz-Waters, Talia Hibbert, KJ Charles, Jordan L. Hawk, Lola Keeley, Roan Parrish

favorite literary fiction writers: Mary Renault, Alan Hollinghurst, James Baldwin, Tanizaki Junichiro

Would love to connect with writers and readers!l

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Hi Neil. I just started college and plan on majoring in literature. Any advice?

Don't believe anyone who tells you that some kind of literature isn't literature. Other than that, read outside of your comfort zone. Read things you would never read. Read everything.

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I've recently found a wonderful piece of writing: The Rudolph Nuriev biography. I always wanted to know my roots better. And today was like: oh my God, and if I read something about my city? My mother or father?

This led me to this book.

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Self harm doesn’t always happen when a blade touches skin.

It’s skipping meals because you don’t feel like you deserve to eat today. It’s drinking recklessly because you might have the ‘courage’ do something stupid. It’s smoking - not because you need the nicotine - because you know it’s bad for you. It’s banging your head against a wall when you’re angry. It’s crossing the road without looking because you lowkey hope a car might hit you. It’s thinking about all the ways you could break a bone and make it look like an accident. It’s not taking painkillers because you want to suffer. It’s taking painkillers in excess because you know it’s dangerous. It’s walking home the more dangerous way because you’re kind of half hoping you’ll get attacked or raped or stabbed. It’s going for long walks at night and getting chilled to the bone and hoping that you get lost so that you can’t find your way back. It’s seeking out triggering material. It’s all the stupid little ways you punish yourself for existing.

Sometimes self harm happens when you put effort into depriving yourself of things you like or need, and sometimes it happens when you don’t put any effort into doing the things you like or need.

It’s a pattern of self-destructive behaviour, and it doesn’t only happen in one way.

This sort of behavior is classified as “para-suicidal” It’s putting yourself in a situation of danger or destruction with the intention of risking your safety rather than a direct attempt on your life. Kind of, leaving it all to chance? Also doing things to harm yourself or your self worth because you feel you deserve to feel the outcome of those actions.