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For any writers: http://er.jsc.nasa.gov/seh/SFTerms.html

For more facts, follow Ultrafacts

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New writing rule: Checkov’s friend

If you introduce a named character with a relationship to a protagonist, their character arc must be resolved in a way that feels reasonable and satisfying

Which is to say: they can’t just dissappear when they’re no longer a convenient plot device

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Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

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Writing agent Jonny Geller gives advice to young writers. 

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One of the best writing advice I have gotten in all the months I have been writing is "if you can't go anywhere from a sentence, the problem isn't in you, it's in the last sentence." and I'm mad because it works so well and barely anyone talks about it. If you're stuck at a line, go back. Backspace those last two lines and write it from another angle or take it to some other route. You're stuck because you thought up to that exact sentence and nothing after that. Well, delete that sentence, make your brain think because the dead end is gone. It has worked wonders for me for so long it's unreal

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Basic rules for analysing fiction, an incomprehensive list jotted down in a hurry:

The protagonist isn’t always right

The protagonist isn’t always good

The protagonist isn’t always written to be relatable or likeable

The narrator isn’t always right

The narrator isn’t always good

The narrator isn’t always telling the truth

The narrator isn’t always the author

The protagonist’s moral compass, the narrator’s moral compass and the author’s moral compass are three entirely different things that only occasionally overlap

Pay attention to what characters do and not just what they say

Pay special attention when what the characters do is at odds with what they say

A lot of the time the curtains are blue for a reason. If they aren’t, you should read better books

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Writing advice from my uni teachers:

If your dialog feels flat, rewrite the scene pretending the characters cannot at any cost say exactly what they mean. No one says “I’m mad” but they can say it in 100 other ways.

Wrote a chapter but you dislike it? Rewrite it again from memory. That way you’re only remembering the main parts and can fill in extra details. My teacher who was a playwright literally writes every single script twice because of this.

Don’t overuse metaphors, or they lose their potency. Limit yourself.

Before you write your novel, write a page of anything from your characters POV so you can get their voice right. Do this for every main character introduced.

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Drabble

“Let it flow freely in you, don’t fight it” The waters of their power engulfed her once more, raging waves against bare ankles and shins, muscles tensing to urge the body to stay put, to not be swept away by this force. Then, as suddenly as it came, it stopped. “I can’t” their mentor sighed and invited them to sit down “Who are you afraid of disappointing?” They needen’t answer, the mentor already knew, but the question made Inir think.

Did it really matter if they didn’t have the same gift as the rest of their family? Inir was afraid after all, no matter how much love was professed through words and promises that were hung in the frame of what the future holds. They read more than one story of children left to their own devices, because of something out of their control. Would they become part of the rejected too? Inir wasn’t sure that they wanted to know the answer to that question, worst-case-scenarios of cold-as-winter stares and mouths twisted into disgusting snarls snaked their way into their mind every time they tried to harness their true power. For this, they weren’t even sure of what, exactly, was their gift, but they knew it wasn’t metal.

Their family’s gift was one to build tools and machinery, one to create art and shelter. Being aware of their inaptitude, given their family’s history, scared them enough to hide this knowledge to their parents and friends. Inir felt awful, a stain on the perfectly polished family coat of arms, ages of soldiers and craftsman, builders and artists, one of the most beautiful gifts one could wish for, metal, the most versatile of them all in the modern society.

But Inir felt like anything but one of those glistening structures their parents bragged about when their were little, saying “One day, you’ll build something even greater.” They saw themselves as a stain, a stain on the beautiful metal floorings of the mansion they liked to show off to the city, a reminder of what metal can do. Nothing but a stain, like when a droplet falls on steel, a stain that, if cleaned soon enough, you won’t even remember it was ever there by tomorrow.

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A mystery in plain sight

This is a short story I wrote on a whim, but I'd be glad to keep writing if you like it.

Let me know what you think :)

The rain was pouring and, she, of course, had no umbrella. She had grown used to her infinite stroke of misfortune by now, but this does not mean that it was any less frustrating. Her shoes, not made for such weather, made her slip on the city cobbles, the historical buildings flying past as she ran to look for cover. Covering herself only with her bag, praying that her books were safe and dry, she turned left and then right, not even sure of where she was running to anymore. Now, Robin wasn’t a fan of this period of the year as much as she loved the small city, renowned mainly for its university; she despised it when it came to the weather. It rained often, but ever the optimist, she always left the umbrella at home, hoping it would make the sky change its mind. It never worked, but her father’s sayings always gave her purpose, no matter how silly they might have been.

After minutes of running, now soaked to the bone, she ended up in a never-seen-before library, the smell of books enveloping her like a warm hug, a familiar melody playing in the background. The place was dark, the low-hanging chandeliers barely lit the wooden floors and ceiling-high shelves, but something about it made her feel at home. She was about to call out for someone when a lady, the librarian, Robin supposed, came to greet her upon hearing the bell above the door ring. «Good afternoon,» she briefly paused upon seeing her, «Oh my, dear, you’re all wet! Did you forget your umbrella?» Robin bit back a snarky remark, «Unfortunately;» the librarian sat her down in the back after giving her a blanket to warm herself up with, a tea kettle to boil on the stove as she dried up the floor. The music was now more audible, the notes blending perfectly together, a melody she heard countless times last year when her roommate was practicing on the piano for one of her exams or for fun she couldn’t tell. The composition came to an end, «Mariage D’Amour, Ladegaard.» Robin said absentmindedly; this caught the lady’s attention, who turned around pleasantly surprised, «You fancy classical music?». She spoke funnily, Robin thought, as if she was really old or very posh, or both, «My roommate studies at the conservatory.» She gave an understanding look and started preparing tea, three cups.

«I heard the doorbell ring. I hope that whoever it was didn’t get our parquet wet!» a male voice shouted from the archive, the door open, making Robin feel suddenly guilty for the inconvenience. The lady looked at Robin apologetically for a moment before answering, «That person is still here, be polite!» the man hurried over. He peeped from the doorframe and, upon seeing the girl sitting down, sipping tea, he came out of the archive, «My apologies, that was rude of me» Robin shrugged, «No worries.» Though, she noticed the disapproval he sent to the rags on the ground.

There was a comfortable silence between the three, the only noise being the rain and the music coming from the phonograph, ‘There are still people who own these?’ her thoughts were interrupted by the kind librarian. «I’m afraid it won’t stop raining any time soon…» she looked as if she was implying something; Robin was too immersed in her thoughts to catch on the cryptic expression the woman was wearing, too busy going over the workload she had yet to complete. That’s when the librarian came up with a proposition, «If you have something to study, you can do it here! We have countless books.» Robin was surprised; it seemed as if the lady had just read her mind, but she never said that she was a student, though the opportunity was too good to pass up, and her apartment was too far away for her to run to under that storm. Completely missing the panicked look that the man shot to her coworker, she accepted, «That would be fantastic, thank you.»

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Pro-writing tip: if your story doesn't need a number, don't put a fucking number in it.

Nothing, I mean nothing, activates reader pedantry like a number.

I have seen it a thousand times in writing workshops. People just can't resist nitpicking a number. For example, "This scifi story takes place 200 years in the future and they have faster than light travel because it's plot convenient," will immediately drag every armchair scientist out of the woodwork to say why there's no way that technology would exist in only 200 years.

Dates, ages, math, spans of time, I don't know what it is but the second a specific number shows up, your reader is thinking, and they're thinking critically but it's about whether that information is correct. They are now doing the math and have gone off drawing conclusions and getting distracted from your story or worse, putting it down entirely because umm, that sword could not have existed in that Medieval year, or this character couldn't be this old because it means they were an infant when this other story event happened that they're supposed to know about, or these two events now overlap in the timeline, or... etc etc etc.

Unless you are 1000% certain that a specific number is adding to your narrative, and you know rock-solid, backwards and forwards that the information attached to that number is correct and consistent throughout the entire story, do yourself a favor, and don't bring that evil down upon your head.

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My collection of clothing references for writing. 

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Realistically, how long would it take for someone to heal from a couple of fractured ribs? I mean, well enough to be able to run even if it causes some discomfort? Also, WELCOME BACK!!! *fireworks* *fireworks*

Hey Beast Under My Bed!

Sorry about the dust... Hey, are YOU the one stealing my socks??

Anyway. Like most fractures, broken ribs take about 6 weeks to fully heal, though pain tends to subside a bit before that. Running would be prohibitively painful for a while -- my guess would be about 4 weeks?

It depends on the type and severity of fracture though, and how well they let themselves recover. Re-injury is definitely a potential complication.

We do have a pretty great primer post on broken ribs, available right nyah. (Tumblr)

There's also a chapter of Blood on the Page (amazon link, yes I am the author) dedicated to this -- the chapter appeared free here on Tumblr (did Tumblr eat it? can't find) and on my blog here. (external link, free resource)

Good luck!

xoxo, Aunt Scripty

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Prophecy #5307

Part 2 of “Meaning: one who heals”

Part 1 can be found here

Pair: Gabriel x female OC

Fandom: Good Omens

Warnings: none? I think?

Words: 1264

Also: the beginning’s a bit rushed, I’m sorry, hope you’ll like it anyway

‘Of one thing he was sure, though, she had to be his.’

To say Altea was confused was an understatement. There she was, standing in the doorway of Aziraphale's backroom, staring down at none other than the archangel Gabriel. A million questions were running through her mind right now; she didn't have time to address any of them as said archangel stepped in front of her friend and introduced himself. "Goodmorning, I'm the archangel Gabriel. I do not recall your name, though. It's strange I don't usually forget such an aura..." he trailed off, and she started shifting her weight from one foot to the other. When she was born, they tried to hunt her down, and her parents had to fake her death to ensure her safety; she surely didn't want to be found now. Fortunately, Zira came to her rescue, intruding in the conversation, "If I may, we should really go right now; why don't you come back tomorrow? Or next week maybe..." the angel anxiously suggested. Strangely, Gabriel agreed, exiting the back, but not before turning around to look at the raven-haired woman, "See you soon," and it sounded more like a fact than a greeting.

"Seriously, what a creep" Crowley was fiddling with his wine glass, plate empty; he didn't care much for food, at least not as much as Aziraphale or Altea, that's for sure. He had been listening to the pair complaining about this guy for the past hour. He was growing more and more annoyed by the minute, so he proposed a change of scenery.

The ducks in St. James’ Park are so used to being fed bread by secret agents meeting clandestinely that they developed their own Pavlovian reaction. Luckily, this was no longer WW2, but meeting in the open, with Altea's growing paranoia, felt just as illegal. "What if he finds out and he reports me to the HQ?!" she was freaking out, and this tuned out both Zira's confusion and Crowley's exhaustion. "Sweetheart, I doubt he'll find out, honestly he's not the brightest at times," the angel got red as his friend bit back a laugh, "I'm sure everything's gonna be fine, plus I could use a hand." Altea frowned at the subtle proposal "With what? Teaching him how to be human? No way" the angel only smiled.

And smiling he kept, although the action was more painful than sincere now. He reluctantly left his dear friend to tend the cash register as she was trying to explain to the archangel how emojis worked. They had been meeting up for months now, sometimes even over lunch or at the park, one could almost say they were friends, given that the archangel knew what the word implied.

They were sitting unbelievably close, attraction undeniable between the pair, as Gabriel kept trying to remove what little space was left, scooting closer every second, and the poor woman couldn't help but feel a bit flustered. She couldn't help but notice how bright his aura was, beautiful golden wings right in the middle of the pulsating light. The vessel he chose was just as beautiful, light purple eyes observing her every move, stopping to stare at her lips now and then. The grey suit fitted him perfectly and hugged him in all the right places, highlighting his fit figure.

She forced herself out of her staring to tend to the matter at hand, Gabriel was struggling to understand, either that or he was playing dumb because Altea couldn't believe that the archangel could be so daft. He wasn't, but in his opinion, if playing dumb meant he could spend more time with her, then so be it. 

She turned around as she tried to explain to him once more that animals don't live inside the keyboard, they're just drawings, when he leaned in, lips almost touching hers. Their breaths mixed with each other's as both waited for the other to make the first move, she tried to play it off "What, you want to practice?" he moved his gaze from her lips to her eyes, expecting to see jest, instead, he found insecurity "No, I like you" his tone hurt by the assumption that he somehow didn't care about her, couldn't she see? Couldn't she feel the love that was in the room? "How can you like me, you don't even know me" she got up, worry attacking her nerves. She didn't want to act this way, Altea had to admit the attraction was undeniable, he didn't know how to hide it and she didn't want to, too many years spent alone, watching lovers die to the disease of mortality, she was tired of it. Being with Gabriel would have implied an eternity of opportunity, an eternity together, no more feeling alone, desperate for touch, for love, for care. Admitting it, though, could have great consequences, would he be as merciful as he is now if he found out she was a Nephilim? Would he still like her? She couldn't say, and that was her greatest fear.

She had grown used to the little moments they shared during her lessons, like his kiss on the cheek when he wished her goodbye or when he held the door open for her, or again when he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, accidentally caressing her face with his fingertips. All these moments she had grown to cherish and look forward to every week, but now fear was biting at her and she couldn't say if it was worth it or not. Was love worth risking her whole immortal life? 

She paused. Love? she cursed under her breath, too engrossed in her own mind to remind herself that Gabriel was still there. "What are you afraid of?" she turned around, slightly startled, and stared at him like a deer in headlights, "From the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted to be part of your life, heaven knows how badly I wanted you to be mine. I was starstruck by how bright your aura was, too bright to be human, too little bright to be angelic." he places his hands on the sides of her crossed arms and he felt her tense under his touch "I know you're a Nephilim and I don't care. I love you, Altea, and no stupid rule is ever going to change that". She looked up at him, eyes glazed over, barely able to focus her gaze on him, "You love me?" she breathed out. Altea could swear that time had slowed itself down just to let her taste this moment, just so that she could relive how his harm moved to her back to gently bring her closer to him, how he leaned in with a small smile on his lips, cheeks tinted pink, lifting her chin and closing the gap between them. The full-blown force of that display of affection travelled all the way to both heaven and hell, not that demons felt love, but a certain angel named Aziraphale, that was right in the next room, was hit by the wave like a bomb, soliciting a smile from the knowing angel.

Altea and Gabriel were whispering sweet nothings to each other between soft kisses that were long overdue as Zira went to add a note to his copy of "The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch", right next to the prophecy number 5307 which recites as such "An angel will be sent for he has forgotten humanity. He will be loved by the one citizen of both realms, and so he'll love, and their love will be felt by all."

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The best advice really is to just write. Write badly - purple prose, stilted conversations, rambling descriptions. Don’t delete it, pass go, take your $200, save all your garbage in a big folder. Look at how much you’ve made - it doesn’t matter if it isn’t perfect, isn’t polished, it was practice. Every time you write you learn a little more, and find another piece of your voice.

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a person from 150 years ago would be terrified by modern stuff . however , a duck from 150 years ago would just be all like ,still got lakes? yes ? okay cool

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ohhhhhh i love looking at cute storage containers and drawers and organizers at target and figuring out how to store things in the most efficient way. just virgo moon things