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[beanwritesthings]

The Winter’s Chill (Repost)

I posted this to my main (where I post literally everything else) because I forgot this blog existed for a sec, so I’m reposting it here, and will probably (maybe?) delete it from my main after.

~~~~

A short story based on a weird dream I had. 

Warnings: Corruption, loss of control, dysphoria, some weird eldritch body shit, possession

__________

The shadow comes for me again on a cold winter’s night in the city. It sneaks into my mind and whispers words of sorrow and pain and anger to me as I walk home. I feel it settle into its usual place there as its tendrils worm their way down to my heart, tainting, corrupting everything it touches. The street lights flicker and the snow swirls around me as the wind whips through the streets. I know that, if I looked beneath my coat, the inky blackness would be slowly oozing through my veins, the color marking me for what I am. The chill cuts that much deeper now.

~~~~

I enter my apartment and kick off my boots quickly, barely taking the time to pull off my hat and scarf before I’m running to the bathroom. I hear my roommate call out in greeting behind me but I don’t respond, already inside and closing the door.

They can’t know, I can’t drag them into this.

I pull off my coat now, yanking hard on fabric to get it off my arms in the rush. It hits the tile with a soft thump that I barely notice as I’m already pulling off my thick sweater to reveal my bare skin. My veins are dark, standing out clearly from my skin and seem to pulse in time with my rapidly beating heart. I swallow the forming lump in my throat and I risk a look into the mirror. The veins in my neck stand out the most, bulging and throbbing, and the lump returns with the cold burn of stomach acid. I watch the whites of my eyes turn black and the shadow in my head lets out a low laugh.

YOU BELONG TO US. YOU ARE FOOLISH TO THINK OTHERWISE

My heart pounds harder and my head starts to join. The veins bulge and then the ink is pouring out, spreading over my skin like growing and splitting vines and I watch as I am consumed by them in the mirror. My hands make their way to my mouth unbidden and I use them to stifle a sob. I feel tears stream from my eyes but I cannot see them among the dark, shining tendrils writhing all over my face. The ink bleeds into my eyes and I feel my mouth curve into a twisted parody of a smile beneath my hands. Another sob crawls its way from my throat and I jerk out an arm to brace myself on the sink, suddenly feeling lightheaded. My whole body pounds and my skin crawls and itches as I stand there, bound by the shadow in my head.

Knock-knock

I freeze. My roommate’s voice floats into the small room, concern clear and I know any distressed sound will have them opening the door in an instant. The shadow gives one last laugh.

A REMINDER

And then the ink is gone. My skin is clear of dark veins, its presence is no longer pushing at my thoughts. My eyes are clear and tear tracks shine on my cheeks. Relief crashes through me, if only for the assurance that I can continue to bear the burden alone. I must have let out another sob because suddenly they’re there and wiping away the still-flowing tears. I pull them into a hug, unable to resist the urge and they wrap their arms around me, rubbing circles on my back and whispering reassurances in my ear as I fall apart in their embrace. I feel warm again.

~~~~

It’s approaching midnight when I leave my apartment again. After reassuring my roommate that my breakdown was just the result of a bad day at work, they spent the evening taking my mind off of anything other than their excellent cooking and whatever ridiculous late-night sitcom they scrounged up from the previous decade on the TV. I sent them to bed with the knowledge that they had improved my mood significantly and waited until they were definitely asleep before re-dressing and stepping back out into the cold.

It’s snowing heavier now, coating the sidewalks in a fine coating and hanging in the air. The streetlights struggle to penetrate through the flakes as they tumble and spin their way to the ground. Faint footprints become less and less common as I weave my way through the streets away from the heart of the city, and then repopulate as I enter another district. The streets here are narrower, older, and paved with stones worn from years and years of traffic and the snow gathers on the edges in piles where the remnants of the last snow still endure. The little shops that are still open are decorated with solstice lights that blink and twinkle, interior light shining through the iced-over windows. Small groups of people still hop from shop to shop, laughing and talking about the snow.

I bury my face further into my scarf, avoiding making eye contact with anyone and hunch over further, trying to guard myself from the wind that still whips around the buildings, launching the snow into little vortexes. I’m clenching my gloved hands in my pockets and squinting against a particularly strong gust when unnatural ice creeps down my spine and begins to spread once more.

NO ESCAPE

The shadow is back, twisting and turning into place as if it never left. The chill spreads everywhere and I shiver violently, tucking myself over even more. Passersby look at me in worry, but do not approach me. There’s no telling what I could be.

I’m walking faster now, trying to outrun the thing in my head despite everything I know pointing to that being impossible. The shadow laughs and sinks its tendrils into my bones, anchoring them there. There’s flashes of pain now, not just cold and I suppress a cry as a particularly sharp one snaps into place in my knee. I stumble away from the road and press myself hard into the side of the closest building, barely getting close enough to it to use it as a brace before my legs give out from under me. I curl into a ball facing the street and put my head on my knees, losing myself to tears for the second time of the night. The cold is almost unbearable.

~~~~

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when I finally notice the temple. It’s fairly small, as far as temples go, but it has a fairly consistent stream of people headed inside. The snow has lessened enough so that I can see the stained glass on the front, various depictions of the Weaver and her creations. The glow from the light inside looks so very warm and the people headed in and out look so very normal and happy. A gust kicks up the snow in the street and the resulting spiral seems to orbit the doorway, placed a half-story above the street with some stone steps leading up to it.

I slowly move from my position, limbs reluctant to answer me after so long in the same arrangement. The chords of ink in my limbs resist for a few seconds before giving in to my demands. The shadow hisses a warning in my head, but makes no move to stop me as I get up, shaking the snow from my shoulders and stepping out into the street.

I climb the steps slowly, afraid that the shadow will decide it wants me without delay and pull me away into the cold and dark where I belong, but also terrified that I will not be able to enter a place where the Weaver has such a presence. The shadow is everything the Weaver is not and my corruption should prevent me from entering, but somehow, my foot crosses the threshold and I’m inside. The shadow lets out a terrible screech and my limbs lock up, the cords refusing to allow them to move before they’re ripped from their anchors, and they’re gone, the shadow disappearing from my head.

I collapse, strings cut, and I’m surrounded by people, being lifted up and brought further into the temple. I drift as their mutterings orbit me, people moving about and bringing things in and out of whatever room I’ve ended up in. I’m suddenly wrapped in blankets and there’s a fire roaring away in front of me and I’m warm.

~~~~

A priestess enters the room and asks me a few questions that I hesitate to answer. She cannot know about the shadow, about my failure to hold it at bay and to hold to the teachings of my youth. No, I must merely be a lost traveler who spent too long out in the cold. I say as much to her and she smiles.

There is always room in the Weaver’s heart for one more.

I’m left to my own devices as I sit there by the fire, relishing in the warmth and the true freedom that I have not felt for a long time. I am so relieved that it takes time for my trepidation about being inside the temple to creep back up on me, an uneasiness drilled into me after escaping a childhood dedicated to such extreme religious pursuits. But, there are no symbols of the Watcher here, something that they would not ever allow in a place of their worship, so I relax into my coverings and go back to watching the fire.

The same priestess enters the room again after a while, smiling softly and asks if I would like to join them in their prayers, in thanking the Weaver for her dedication to creation. I almost say no, that I would very much rather spend the night in the warm room away from the cold and the dark, but then I remember the outrage the shadow expressed at the entrance, how I was free while I was within this blessed place.

I will thank the Weaver for granting me sanctuary from my troubles.

She nods and smiles more widely, but no less genuine. I stand up, limbs straining from lack of movement, not from outside interference, and I follow her to the main hall of worship. The majority of the people inside are other priests and priestesses, but there are other people not dressed in the iridescent robes of the Weaver, other people just there to join in the prayer. I take the place offered to me in the third row of pews and watch as the priestess goes to join the ranks on either side of the altar.

The head priestess steps forward, her headdress shining and sparkling in the lantern-light and opens her mouth and sings. Her voice rings in the silence of the temple before, slowly, words form from the pure sound. They’re in the old tongue, as all prayers are, but the words are of thanks and praise, not the crazed devotion and begging that filled the prayers of my youth. The other priests step forward, opening their mouths and joining, a beautiful round in different pitches that’s absolutely breathtaking. The other people around me allow the sound to resonate in the room for a few seconds longer before adding in their own praises. I wait a bit longer, basking in the unity of the sound before adding my own to it, tongue tripping as I recall the tongue I denounced when I left the temple I was raised in. My soul feels lighter as it sings with me, so full and warm for the first time in a long time.

The lantern flames flicker and dance, casting shadows on the walls and the windows. The song orbits the room, bouncing and changing and repeating and I lose myself in it. The metal of the priestess’s headdress shimmers and the reflected bits of light seem to move on their own, creating a hypnotizing dance. The scenes depicted in the windows seem to shift and change in the corners of my vision and I find myself struggling to keep up with the song as it starts to reach a crescendo. The headdress really is glowing now, specks of light whirling and shifting into too many colors to count. I begin to feel dizzy, my eyes suddenly struggling to remain open. Between blinks, the stained glass changes, scenes of creation and the Weaver morphing into the mind boggling patterns of runes and lines so common in temples of the Watcher.

The song shifts, changing, the priestess now begging for understanding, for freedom, for knowledge, for change, and the words are filled with blind devotion. Fear fills me now, but I am captured in the music, unable to escape. Those around me sway, their song changing to match the priestess’s as the rest of the order’s words also shift to match the fanatic tone. I try to stop, to remain in praise of the Weaver, but I cannot, and now I am also singing praise to the Watcher and the warmth in my soul disappears. I am cold and darkness surrounds me.

~~~~

There is darkness. There is pain. I am running towards something, away from something. The shadows laugh at me from everywhere, but cannot touch me. There is a burning on my back, between my shoulders and then there is light and I can see.

The pain fades, the light fades, and there is darkness and cold once more.

~~~~

I wake to the warmth and the softness of a bed. There is a presence beside me that sends spikes of hurtangerfearregretlovehate through me, a presence that I have not felt since I fled the temple at 15. Mother sits next to me, most likely in a chair, and sings softly. Their words are in the old tongue, as always, twisting and turning on each other in a way that used to make my very being ache, but that I now track without trouble. They are words of happiness, of reuniting, of a possessive sort of love that makes my skin crawl.

MY CHILD, YOU HAVE COME HOME.

I wince, then slowly open my eyes.

The room is lit with the soft light of morning, the dull beige walls covered in the runes and line-patterns of the Watcher. The room itself is bare other than a door set in the far left corner and the two windows on either side of the bed. The presence shifts and I slowly force my eyes to the right. Mother sits there, blank eyes staring at me. Their wings are mere fractals behind them, as opposed to the usual limitless explosion, ever-shifting and rotating through more colors than should exist. The runes that constantly run over them are slow, muted enough that I can read them and identify them as the sacred text of the Watcher. Their halo is also muted, the spectral third eye remaining a bright, unnatural blue without the usual orbiting runes.

It takes me a moment to realize that my head does not hurt, that my eyes are not bleeding from looking upon so much of their true form at once. Dread begins to climb the back of my throat. They smile at me, and reach a hand out, settling it on my cheek.

YOU ALWAYS HELD SUCH PROMISE. IT WAS SUCH A SHAME WHEN YOU LEFT, ALL THAT POTENTIAL LOST. BUT DO NOT WORRY, YOU HAVE EXCEEDED ALL OF OUR EXPECTATIONS.

I am suddenly aware of a weight sitting on my head, on my shoulders and I lurch into motion. I throw the covers off of me and leap out of the bed, my legs almost giving away under me. I grunt and push through the strange feeling of notmine that fills me with every step, as I stumble my way to the door. Mother remains sitting and begins to sing once more.

I make my way down the hallway, ignoring the way the various depictions of eyes seem to follow my progress. I peek in each door, hoping for a room with a mirror, but it still takes me getting down most of the hallway before I’m rewarded with a bathroom. I throw myself in, closing the door and fumbling the doorknob with stiff hands - notminenotmine - before I’m able to lock it. Not that a simple lock would be able to keep out Mother, but the click makes me feel better anyway.

I take a deep breath, examining my hands fully for the first time, seeing the way my skin seems to shimmer and look like not-skin before settling into normalcy once more. Tears fill my eyes and I let them fall. I take another breath, steeling myself for a look in the mirror. My teeth clench and I tear my eyes away from the hands - notminenotmine - to the piece of glass in front of me.

My eyes are blank, no pupils or irises to be seen, just pure white. A halo, circular in general shape but made of tendrils that move and shape and snap into hard angles, floats above my head, shining in every color of the universe. Rising above my shoulders are two whorls of light, shifting and changing, soft knots and almost feather-like structures and they constantly shift and change, the colors always different, yet complementing those of the halo. Runes run along and through the light, spelling out phrases of wondering, of hopelessness, of pain and sorrow.

Tears fall most readily down my face as I reach a hand back, running it through the light and shivering as, though my hand did not feel anything other than a slight warmth, something else did. The whorls condense into sharp fractals so similar to Mother’s as I tense up, sharpening and making a sharp clattering noise, like that of a wind chime being hit by something. I step back, hands limp at my sides as I turn around, craning my neck to keep looking in the mirror. The wings - because they’re wings - are mirrored by a smaller set that sprout from my mid-back, equally as tense. I turn back around, beginning to shake and that same clattering noise begins again. The runes stutter in their flowing motion, stopping and starting at random.

A sob rips its wat from my throat suddenly and I reach up to wipe away the tears, only to be stopped by a sudden chill down my spine.

No, please.

The shadow laughs as it slides into my head, as neatly as if it was meant to be there and the cold rushes through me. My eyes glaze over black and the runes flow again, changing and morphing until they speak of anger, of hate, of the cold and dark, of eternal shadow. The colors change faster, darkening and alternating in a way that would have a mortal - I’m not one anymore, am I? - blinded. My halo tries to keep shifting, but also tries to stop and the pressure builds and builds until my head feels like it will explode until something gives with a mighty CRACK.

~~~~

My ears ring and I’m dully aware that I must have been screaming because of the pain in my throat. I hear the pounding of feet elsewhere in the building, signaling the inevitable arrival of members of the Order. I pick myself up from the ground, my mouth dry and my head full of cotton. Looking in the mirror again, the breath leaves me and I barely catch myself from doubling over by gripping the sink. My eyes are a shining, inky black that bleeds into the surrounding flesh. But my halo - howwhy, whathappened, notmine - is broken. Some pieces remain still, frozen in time while others continue their orbit, the colors dull and tinted grey. My wings are the same, stiff and shattered and bleeding iridescent fluid that floats up when it drips off the jagged pieces to disappear into the air.

My head lifts itself. A smile, sharp-edged and full of malice and wild joy, carves itself onto my face. I try to scream, but no sound comes from my throat. I try to pull away from the mirror, but nothing will move. I am so cold. My limbs are frozen, cold, notmine. I do not hold the strings.

WELCOME HOME

The shadow’s cords pull my bones and I’m lurching to the window, tearing at the latch and pulling it open. I don’t feel the gust of winter air. Someone is banging on the door. Mother’s singing is getting closer. My body throws itself out the window, wings flare and I’m flying; flying away from Mother and the Watcher and the childhood that won’t let me go. I feel free, truly free for the first time in my life before the shadow reminds me of my chains, shoving me further into the recesses of my mind. And yet, trapped as I am in the cold chains of darkness in my head, an ember of hope ignites.

The sun rises over the city and I rise with it, the kernel of warmth keeping the winter’s chill at bay.

[beanwritesthings]

pls reblog if you’re an 18+ writeblr

I have nothing against teens working hard!!!! I just don’t feel a) comfy talking to minors, b) confident, I feel late to the game at 20 yo oof

[beanwritesthings]

Ashblood: local student sees the world, finds a girlfriend, and fights haters with her squad.

new writeblr game??

[beanwritesthings]

all the tips I found for drawing a fantasy map are like :) “here’s a strategy to draw the land masses! here’s how to plot islands!” :) and that’s wonderful and I love them all but ??? how? do y'all decide where to put cities/mountains/forests/towns I have my map and my land but I’m throwing darts to decide where the Main Citadel where the Action Takes Place is

[beanwritesthings]

And while I’m on the subject of writing, does anyone know the correct and most accepted way to format a novel manuscript? I never really looked into it before I started this draft, but I’d like to do this right (or write, oh boy, I’m not funny). I’d appreciate any help! I’m writing in Microsoft Word, if that helps to know

[beanwritesthings]

Writer Beware makes posts on which publishing houses to avoid at all costs, which words to look for and which words to watch out for in contracts, and several other things that will keep you in control and knowledgeable about the publishing process.  I’d suggest reading through the website if you want to avoid getting ripped off, cheated, or scammed.

[beanwritesthings]

Hi I’m a smaller writing blog and I want to follow other smaller writing blogs!

If you’re a writeblr who has less than 1k followers, and you post a lot of original content (poetry, prose) and/or talk about your oc’s, your process, etc. can you like or reblog this? 

I’m not looking for fanfiction writers, sorry.

I’m also an adult, so if you’re a minor and that puts you off, don’t interact. 

[beanwritesthings]

me, writing my characters into an impossibly complicated situation: oh now this has drama… threat… energy… the genius of it all…

me, realising i’m the one who has to then get them out of said impossibly complicated situation: i am a Fool and a Jester

[beanwritesthings]

Resources for finding literary agents

It’s always a good idea to begin your research as early as you can, because A LOT is still not enough. When you round up your data, make sure you check out every website, twitter, or other networking site an agency might have.

To jump-start your research, here are all the resources I’ve compiled over the process of my own querying journeys (also, these sites are free, and a few of them have donation pages or additional services if you do find them helpful):

Agent Query – is a great website with a database of agents. AQ also has additional resources like how to submit to a literary agent and how to write a query.

Query Tracker – is updated quickly, especially when agents close to submissions for periods of time. QT has individual message boards for each agent page so writers who are querying can see approximate and recent response times that other writers are getting. Additionally, agent pages also have graphs and lists of clients and other useful things.

Absolute Write – is a forum for writers that has a whole branch for members to discuss agents, response times, goings-on, so on and so forth. Other helpful threads include workshopping chapters and queries – which, if you’re fairly new to querying, is highly recommended.

Literary Rambles – is a blog run by Casey McCormick and Natalie Aguirre, and they post really sweet, in-depth profiles and blurbs from interviews of literary agents in the YA (young adult), MG (middle grade), PB (picture books) and CB (chapter book) realms.

Writer Beware – is sponsored by the SFWA (Science Fiction Writers of America) with support from the MWA (Mystery Writers of America). They update with publishing scams and schemes and traps with advice on how to spot and avoid them. They also have a blog and a facebook page.

What to do when you’ve finished your manuscript – is advice I put together to help writers to prepare their manuscripts and submission needs. Many writers begin querying before they’re ready.

Avoiding publishing scams – another quick tidbit of advice on steeling oneself against the temptation of “too good to be true” offers. The aforementioned sites are linked here as well.

[beanwritesthings]

Fantasy Guide to Ships, Boats and Nautical Lingo

Of all the ways to travel in fantasy and historical novels, there are two favoured ones: horses and ships. But I covered the horses already so here we have some ship terminology and kinds of ships.

Common Boat Terms

Aft/Stern - The back of a ship.

Bow - The bow is the front part of the ship, the pointy part or the place where Kate Winslet stood on in Titanic.

Port - The left side of the ship

Starboard - The right side of the ship

Windward - The wind the direction is blowing.

Hull- outside of the ship

Leeward - Or sometimes called the lee. This is the opposite direction of the wind is blowing

Boom - A horizontal pole extending from the base of the main mast. It adjusted toward the wind direction in order to harness the wind for the sails.

Rudder - The rudder is a flat piece of wood below the ship, used to steer the ship. It is connected to the wheel of the ship.

Tacking - A common sailing maneuver that involves turning the bow through the wind, to change the wind direction from one side of the ship to the other, making the boom move.

Underway- This is when the ship is moving

Astern- The ship is moving backwards

Amidships- Middle of the boat

Topside- when you move from the lower decks to the upper deck

Compartments of the ship

Most ships would have compartments inside the hull and underneath the deck.

Cabins- most war ships and merchant ships would only have one or two main cabin occupied by the captain and higher crew.

Galley- The kitchen on board the ship. The galley would be fitted with tables and cabinets. Galleys were built in such a way that they were more resistant to the heaving of the ship. Most galleys were built with special stoves to stop people from colliding with them and things from spilling out of pots and pans.

Wardroom- some ships are built with a common room for the crew. The wardroom acted as a common room as well as a dining room. It would usually be conjoined with the galley.

Sick Bay- is the compartment of the ship that is given over to the injured and sick. The sick bay would hold the medicines and medical devices and would often be under lock and key.

Hold- This will be the largest compartment in the ship were the cargo or the ship's weapons.

Crew and Positions aboard the Ship

Captain

When we think of captains we imagine them as blackhearted slave drivers (something akin to managers in the customer service industry) but on further research you will find that is not true. There are two kinds of Captains you find in history. Pirate captains and Legitimate Captains. Pirate captains were elected by their merit in battle and dedication to the crew. They were considered equal to the crew, only taking full charge during raids and battles. In the Navy or any legal-bound ship, captains were selected by rank and wealth. There was no equality between captain and crew as in pirate ships. Legal ships were Capitalists and the Pirates were Democratic.

First Mate

First Mate is the captain's deputy. They act as captain when the captain cannot. This was mainly seen in Navies and merchant ships as Pirates usually placed their quartermaster as their deputies.

Quartermaster

The Quartermaster was in charge of ensuring that the ship ran smoothly, rather like the ship's HR manager. The Quartermaster was in charge of supplies and had certain powers such as being able to punish the crew for minor infractions.

Sailing Master

These were officers in charge of piloting the ship. They would have to be educated enough to read a map and was a much desired position because it was a fair paying job. Pirates usually kidnapped sailing masters from ships they attacked to use aboard their own ships.

Gunner

Gunners were the overseers of any many qualified to load and fire guns. They were in charge of aiming cannons and making sure the crew were safely using guns. Most the guns were loaded by young boys called powder monkeys.

Boatswain

Boatswains or junior officers would act as supervisors, watching over the crew as they did their duties. If things were not going well they reported to the captain or quartermaster to punish the crew.

Surgeons

Surgeons handled any diseases and wounds. Since being at sea limited the amount of medicine available. Most ship's surgeons were forced to cut off limbs to avoid infection pike gangrene. Surgeons may not always be found on ships. Cooks or carpenters were often pressed to do amputations: meat was meat and cutting was cutting.

Cooks

All ships needed somebody to cook. Navies and merchant ships would often have trained cooks while on pirate ships it was just a crewmember who was handy in the kitchen.

Kinds of Ship

(Not a complete list, may post more later.)

Brig- A brig is the ship that one most thinks of when you think of a ship. The brig is a large vessel, set with a pair of square-rigged masts. Brigs were fast ships and highly maneuverable. They were used as merchant ships and warships.

Galley- The galley is propelled via oars. The hull is long and slender and most of them featured larger sails. Galleys often were rowed by slaves and used in war.

Galleon- Galleons were large ships, built with multiple decks, carrying three or more masts with square raised stern. The Galleon was usually rigged with square sails on the fore-mast and main-masts.

Caravel- The caravel was a small ship with triangular sails, famed for its manoeuvrability and speed.

Longship- The longships were the ships of the Vikings. They were slender ships, narrow. They were able to keep afloat in shallow waters as well as the deep sea. Longships were able to reverse quickly, a very important skill. The longship was a warship, a raider's ship propelled by oars.

Carrack- the carrack was a large ship, often built with mass cargo holds making the most popular ship to go on long voyages on. The carrack had three or four masts.

Cog- This ship was a large vessel, the hull wide and large. The ship is propelled by a great single sail flown from a tall mast.

Junk- The junk or Chinese junk was a kind of coastal or river ship used as merchant ships, pleasure ships and sometimes houseboats. They are small ships and made with battened sails rather resembling wings.

Trireme- the trireme was a slender ship set with three banks of oars pulled by one man each. The trireme had a concave hull and usually had an underwater ram at the prow of the ship.

For @viola-cola

[beanwritesthings]

trying to come up with a title like

[beanwritesthings]

Stephen Kings Top 20 Rules For Writers

I usually don´t do this, but I read them and thought they are worth sharing.So here is 20 rules of writing by Stephen King:

1. First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story. Your stuff starts out being just for you, but then it goes out.”

2. Don’t use passive voice. “Timid writers like passive verbs for the same reason that timid lovers like passive partners. The passive voice is safe. The timid fellow writes “The meeting will be held at seven o’clock” because that somehow says to him, ‘Put it this way and people will believe you really know. ‘Purge this quisling thought! Don’t be a muggle! Throw back your shoulders, stick out your chin, and put that meeting in charge! Write ‘The meeting’s at seven.’ There, by God! Don’t you feel better?”

3. Avoid adverbs. “The adverb is not your friend. Consider the sentence “He closed the door firmly.” It’s by no means a terrible sentence, but ask yourself if ‘firmly’ really has to be there. What about context? What about all the enlightening (not to say emotionally moving) prose which came before ‘He closed the door firmly’? Shouldn’t this tell us how he closed the door? And if the foregoing prose does tell us, then isn’t ‘firmly’ an extra word? Isn’t it redundant?”

4. Avoid adverbs, especially after “he said” and “she said.” “While to write adverbs is human, to write ‘he said’ or ‘she said’ is divine.”

5. But don’t obsess over perfect grammar. “Language does not always have to wear a tie and lace-up shoes. The object of fiction isn’t grammatical correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story… to make him/her forget, whenever possible, that he/she is reading a story at all. “

6. The magic is in you. “I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing. Dumbo got airborne with the help of a magic feather; you may feel the urge to grasp a passive verb or one of those nasty adverbs for the same reason. Just remember before you do that Dumbo didn’t need the feather; the magic was in him.”

7. Read, read, read. “You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do so. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”

8. Don’t worry about making other people happy. “Reading at meals is considered rude in polite society, but if you expect to succeed as a writer, rudeness should be the second to least of your concerns. The least of all should be polite society and what it expects. If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered, anyway.”

9. Turn off the TV. “Most exercise facilities are now equipped with TVs, but TV—while working out or anywhere else—really is about the last thing an aspiring writer needs. If you feel you must have the news analyst blowhard on CNN while you exercise, or the stock market blowhards on MSNBC, or the sports blowhards on ESPN, it’s time for you to question how serious you really are about becoming a writer. You must be prepared to do some serious turning inward toward the life of the imagination, and that means, I’m afraid, that Geraldo, Keigh Obermann, and Jay Leno must go. Reading takes time, and the glass teat takes too much of it.”

10. You have three months. “The first draft of a book—even a long one—should take no more than three months, the length of a season.”

11. There are two secrets to success. “When I’m asked for ‘the secret of my success’ (an absurd idea, that, but impossible to get away from), I sometimes say there are two: I stayed physically healthy, and I stayed married. It’s a good answer because it makes the question go away, and because there is an element of truth in it. The combination of a healthy body and a stable relationship with a self reliant woman who takes zero shit from me or anyone else has made the continuity of my working life possible. And I believe the converse is also true: that my writing and the pleasure I take in it has contributed to the stability of my health and my home life.”

12. Write one word at a time. “A radio talk-show host asked me how I wrote. My reply—’One word at a time’—seemingly left him without a reply. I think he was trying to decide whether or not I was joking. I wasn’t. In the end, it’s always that simple. Whether it’s a vignette of a single page or an epic trilogy like ‘The Lord Of The Rings,’ the work is always accomplished one word at a time.”

13. Eliminate distraction. “There should be no telephone in your writing room, certainly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with. If there’s a window, draw the curtains or pull down the shades unless it looks out at a blank wall.”

14. Stick to your own style. “One cannot imitate a writer’s approach to a particular genre, no matter how simple what the writer is doing may seem. You can’t aim a book like a cruise missile, in other words. People who decide to make a fortune writing lik John Grisham or Tom Clancy produce nothing but pale imitations, by and large, because vocabulary is not the same thing as feeling and plot is light years from the truth as it is understood by the mind and the heart.”

15. Dig. “When, during the course of an interview for The New Yorker, I told the interviewer (Mark Singer) that I believed stories are found things, like fossils in the ground, he said that he didn’t believe me. I replied that that was fine, as long as he believed that I believe it. And I do. Stories aren’t souvenir tee-shirts or Game Boys. Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible. Sometimes the fossil you uncover is small; a seashell. Sometimes it’s enormous, a Tyrannosaurus Rex with all the gigantic ribs and grinning teeth. Either way, short story or thousand page whopper of a novel, the techniques of excavation remain basically the same.”

16. Take a break. “If you’ve never done it before, you’ll find reading your book over after a six-week layoff to be a strange, often exhilarating experience. It’s yours, you’ll recognize it as yours, even be able to remember what tune was on the stereo when you wrote certain lines, and yet it will also be like reading the work of someone else, a soul-twin, perhaps. This is the way it should be, the reason you waited. It’s always easier to kill someone else’s darlings that it is to kill your own.”

17. Leave out the boring parts and kill your darlings. “Mostly when I think of pacing, I go back to Elmore Leonard, who explained it so perfectly by saying he just left out the boring parts. This suggests cutting to speed the pace, and that’s what most of us end up having to do (kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your ecgocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.)”

18. The research shouldn’t overshadow the story. “If you do need to do research because parts of your story deal with things about which you know little or nothing, remember that word back. That’s where research belongs: as far in the background and the back story as you can get it. You may be entranced with what you’re learning about the flesh-eating bacteria, the sewer system of New York, or the I.Q. potential of collie pups, but your readers are probably going to care a lot more about your characters and your story.”

19. You become a writer simply by reading and writing. “You don’t need writing classes or seminars any more than you need this or any other book on writing. Faulkner learned his trade while working in the Oxford, Mississippi post office. Other writers have learned the basics while serving in the Navy, working in steel mills or doing time in America’s finer crossbar hotels. I learned the most valuable (and commercial) part of my life’s work while washing motel sheets and restaurant tablecloths at the New Franklin Laundry in Bangor. You learn best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.”

20. Writing is about getting happy. “Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.”

source: x

[beanwritesthings]

Can all the writeblrs reblog this so I can follow ya’ll (please)

[beanwritesthings]

Uhhhhh writeblrs? Fantasy writeblrs??

[beanwritesthings]

How to Write a Fight Scene (Rebloggable Version)

Admin Note: This post is a rebloggable copy of our page on fight scenes. The page is being phased out, so from now on all updates will be made on this post and not on the page. 

Among the typically difficult scenes writers face in their stories, the fight scene definitely ranks high on the list. Below you will find several resources with tips for writing a good fight scene.

Action with a Side of Zombies: One of our articles focused specifically on writing action scenes. Bonus:  the examples all include zombies.

ArchetypesAndAllusions: An article on the three main types of fighters and their various approaches to kickin’ ass (or not).

TheCreativePenn.com: Alan Baxter, speculative fiction author, gives some great advice on characterization, setting, martial style, and cliches. 

StoryHack.com: A PDF that takes you through writing a fight scene step by step by Randy Ingermanson, compiled by Bryce Beattie.

MarilynnByerly.com: An extremely good guide to writing fight scenes. This guide includes tips on character viewpoint, mapping the fight, and tricks for writing each type of fight. 

Shelfari.com: This site is an interview with famed fantasy author R.A. Salvatore on how to write great fight scenes.

TheBusinessOfWriting: C. Patrick Schulze gives some good, solid advice on identifying and writing your fight scene.

EzineArticles.com: Marq McAlister explains how to make a fight scene pack some serious punch. This article is good for fine-tuning.

Martin Turner: Focusing specifically on sword-fighting scenes, Martin Turner writes in great detail on every conceivable detail of this type of time-honored fight scene. 

SeriousPixie.com: Susan tells you about the three types of fight scene writers and explains how to fix the problems that arise for each type.

David Alan Lucus: This multi-part guide gives advice in exhaustive detail on how to write an awesome fight scene.

NightFoot: This Tumblr post offers some great tips for writing fight scenes.

Film Crit Hulk: A shoe-in for screenwriters, the Hulk and special guest Tom Townend talk shop on how to write a great movie action scene.

Harry Edmundson-Cornell: Harry writes a series on the fight scene geared toward writers of Superhero comics.

How To Fight Write: The knowledgeable and thorough admins of this exceptional Tumblr blog will teach you everything you ever wanted to know about fight scenes and weaponry—even if they have to beat it into you.

Scholagladiatoria: A YouTuber with lots of weapons teaches you how they were/are properly used to their greatest advantage.

These links provide advice specifically for writing battle scenes:

Gerri Blanc: eHow’s article on battle scenes is a basic step-by-step list for you. It’s a good introduction to writing battle scenes.

StormTheCastle.com: This article takes you through an in-depth guide on how to write battle scenes for fantasy stories.

Rhonda Leigh Jones: Jones lists some dos and don’ts of writing battle scenes.

Other resources:

List of Martial Arts: Looking for a fighting style? Find it here!

List of Weapons: Every type of weapon you can think of is listed here.

List of Military Tactics: From troop movements to siege warfare, this list has got you covered.

Asylum.com: A few examples of awesome battle tactics from history.

BadassOfTheWeek.com: Get some inspiration for awesome fight scenes and fighting characters from this compendium of badassitude.

Thearmedgentleman: Austin has offered to share his knowledge on weaponry with any writers who have questions. Thanks, Austin! 

Don’t see what you’re looking for here? You can find every post we’ve ever made or reblogged about fight scenes in our “fight” tag. You might also find our “action scene” tag useful. 

We hope this helps! If you have another link or a tip for how to write fight/battle scenes, hit up our ask box and let us know!

[beanwritesthings]

Nothing you do will ever be waste.

Did you end up scrapping a WIP you’ve worked on for years? Not a waste! Sure that WIP might not be something you’re actively working on anymore, but it gave you so much good practice. You learned so much about how to craft a story, your prose has improved so much as a result of it, and the fun you’ve had while working on it still means something really valuable.

Did you fall out of love with a character you made? Not a waste! Every single detail you researched for this character, every single trait you gave them… That’s going to help you in the next character you make. You’re better at character creation because of that character you might not use anymore.

Did your plot veer into a completely different direction, and now the majority of what you’ve written for your WIP doesn’t fit? Not a waste! That change wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t already written for your WIP. It gave you a better idea of your WIP and what it needs, and your story is better for it. 

Every single success, every single failure has contributed to the amazing writer that you are today. 

Nothing is a waste, nothing you do will be a waste — it’s all meaningful and important!

[beanwritesthings]

Horse terms for writers

Gelding - An adult male horse (3 years or older) that’s been neutered.

Stallion - An adult male horse (3 years or older) that is not neutered.

Mare - An adult female horse (3 years or older), used interchangeable for both fixed and unfixed female horses.

Pony - A full grown horse under 14.2 hands.

Foal - A newborn horse.

Weanling - A colt or filly that is 6-12 months.

Yearling - A horse between 1-2 years old.

Colt - A male horse under 3 years old.

Filly - A female horse under 3 years old.

Hand - Measurement of how tall a horse is, one hand = four inches.

Tack - Riding equipment.

Halter - Headgear you put on a horse to lead them, can be made of leather or fabric. 

Gait - Speeds a horse can got.

Trot - Gait faster than a walk but slower than a canter.

Canter - Gait faster than a trot but slower than a gallop.

Gallop - Faster than a canter, basically the highest speed a horse can go.

Lunging - Exercising a horse by walking them in a circle, usually done with a halter and lunge rope.

Lunge Rope - A long rein/rope used when lunging a horse, typically 20-40 ft long. 

Colic - Pain in a horse’s stomach ranging from mild to severe, can be fetal if not treated.

Cribbing/Windsucking - Biting onto a fence post and sucking in air, horses do this when they’re extremely bored.

Farrier - Someone who dresses and trims a horse’s hooves.

Bridle - Headgear used to control and maneuver a horse.

Bit - The metal mouthpiece of the bridle.

Frog - The triangular part of the inside of the hoof.

Rain rot - A fungal infection horses can get on their backs, easily treatable with antibiotics.

Mucking - Cleaning out a stall.

Hot blooded - Extremely energetic, excitable horses. Hot blooded horses are used for more speed driven tasks.

Cold blooded - Very low temperament, very relaxed horses. Cold blooded horses are used for more labor driven tasks. 

Draft - Large, working horses.

Feathers - The long, fuzzy fur on a horse’s hooves, usually found in Draft breeds.