bettifelon - Tumblr blog

[bettifelon]

There's a dirty part of me that wants to break things....and a broken part that wants to make pretty things dirty. A part of me has gone obsolete. A floppy disk drive. A rotaryphone repairman. There is a part that's scared to go, and a part that's ready to kick rocks. A part of me is confident, and a part of me is confident that you'll leave. And I guess a part of me cares, but maybe not. There is a part that's happy to be loving, and a part that just wants to be left alone. But a part of me is scared of that...is afraid that soon, she'll be truly alone. Would that be so bad? A part of me thinks it would, but what do I know? I am a storm of tepid maybes. A chaos of shrugging shoulders. I am a battle in the middle of the road...all swords and pillows and feathers. A part of me has so much to say...but a part knows no one wants to hear it.

[bettifelon]

A flash of coppery bristles vanished into the shadows under a wall of underbrush. Shelby dove in after it. One of her pigtails caught on a branch that broke off in the thick tangles. Bridgette dove for her little sister's foot, but was a second too late. "Shelby!" She yelled into the thicket. She hoped the little brat heard every ounce of frustration and anger she put into the word. "Moms gonna kill me." She said to herself. There was a squeal that might have been the seven year old or may have been a squirrel she snatched from it's hiding place. A clatter shook the bushes and Shelby's butt emerged from the darkness wiggling it's way into the clearing. "I got it!" Shelby laughed. "I got it Bridge!" The rest of her was soon scuffling free of snagging branches. "Looo-ook," she sang the word. Bridget's stomach flipped. Her little sister stood proudly smiling arms extended. A furry, writhing creature twisted in her grip. It was the color of old pennies, big red eyes wild with fear, and wings that looked like they grew right out of the things neck so it didn't seem to have shoulders. "Moth baby!" Her little sister proclaimed bouncing on the spot.

[bettifelon]

REBLOG IF YOU HAVE STRETCHMARKS

This way people can see they’re not alone. I have them and this would help me see that.

[bettifelon]

Graycloud wasn't part of any First Nations People. He wasn't born during a hurricane, or monsoon. His mom told him there wasn't a cloud in the sky the day he entered the world. Graycloud wasn't even the son of a hippy. His mom said, "the day you came out, screaming like a little banshee, you had a full head of hair, Gray. I said, 'look at that, hes a little gray cloud.' You're hair was even more silver on that day than it is now." Gray hated the story. Hated his mom a little too. How could she name him something so ridiculous? Didn't she know how mean other kids would be? Of course, she couldn't have known that no amount of dye would cover it, Or that it grew so fast that even shaving his head bald, would only hide his smoky curls for about a day.

[bettifelon]

A tree fell in a forest, and no one was around to hear. As it fell, one of its clawed branches caught in the fabric of the Universe, and tore a jagged hole through to the other side. With no one there to hear, or see, the stuff between worlds poured through. A trickle of oozing shadow gave way to a torrent of living light and dark. To sparking beings that devour dust, and slimy creatures that love to give hugs. To things that spring forward in time, and things that slip behind it....

[bettifelon]

5 more pieces of terrible writing advice

Hello again everyone! Since you all loved my brilliant advice from last time, I’ve decided to give you some more! And remember, you must follow these rules exactly - we don’t accept rule breakers here! After all, what would be the fun in variety?

1) Never use said

Said is waaaay too boring to use in an actual piece of writing. Instead, take it out and replace it with words like stammered, enunciated, ejected, inset, add, interpose, interrupt, utter, and announce. 

It’s not like you need to maintain a balance between said and overusing other words. No, your readers will love it if they have to read through pages and pages of grumbling and interposing! That won’t get annoying.

2) Don’t use purple

Why say purple when you can say mauve, periwinkle or amaranthine? All short words are bad and readers hate if you use them. No, fill your novel up with ornate, sumptuous prose that normal people can’t fathom. 

3) Avoid giving character descriptions

Spent ages crafting your character’s appearance? That doesn’t matter! Your reader won’t care anyway. Nope, don’t describe what they look like at all. After all, it’s not like knowing Harry Potter wore glasses or that Ron Weasley was ginger actually added anything to their characters.

4) Never rewrite

Think your story could do with a little more work? Well, make sure not to rewrite the entire thing. It’ll just water down your ideas and make you lose the core of your story! It’s not like rewriting could actually help you refine and come up with new ideas now you have everything plotted out…

5) You need to be amazing before calling yourself a writer

Write for hours everyday? Well, if you haven’t published anything, why call yourself a writer in the first place? Pah! If you don’t know the difference between a em dash and an en dash, then you can’t call yourself a writer. 

Being a writer is being part of a super exclusive club. It’s not like the word just means, you know, people who write. 

(seriously tho guys, if you write - no matter how well - you’re a writer. Don’t let people tell you otherwise.)

[bettifelon]

She was the kind of person who spent long stretches of time with her face titled toward the stars and clouds. She was quite and skittish. Clearly nervous, but also serene when she was deep in daydreaming. She wore secret smiles and glinting tears. Dresses fit for a ghost, and jeans that were just a little too long. Inside her mind a riot of dreamt landscapes in rusty ochers and moonlit pastels. Places she longed for, even as they shifted and faded into forgetfulness. Quiet places where the creatures were as shy as she was. Where the people were silent and bristling with misty magic. Places that were full of coiled danger, and triumphant redemption. Her hear ached with it...

[bettifelon]

She looks lost. Confused. She wanders among the trees, leaves fall. Birds trill, they scold, they sing. And she follows the empty spaces they leave. She travels the faded game trails. Her bare feet soft on hard stones. She breaks the bonds of ancient cobwebs. And slips deeper into green shadows. Someday she will emerge, changed, wearing the forest in her heart.

[bettifelon]

I wish that you could see me...

And speak in the mellow tones of autumn...

For your words to fall like leaves,

And scatter over the landscape of my thoughts...

So that they whisper through the shadows softly.

Tumbling, sliding with the breeze

until they've gone to gather in the corners

in drifts of subtle red and tangerine.

And, oh, how I wish to hear you speak them....

in a language that is ours...

alone.

[bettifelon]

Say a Thing

I have to start over, so here is DAY ONE. I'll try to write every day...cheer me on.

Say a thing...

about something lost...

say a thing about something you've found.

Say a thing...

about what the air smells like in the morning...

about stubbed toes

and fuzzy sox.

Say a thing about Mexico or Mars.

About beauty queens...

and black plastic bracelets...

about summer

about blue bugs..

Say a thing...

That sounds better than this...

about a girl you met a million years ago.

about a hallway...

cookies.

Say a thing about smoky rooms and happy memories.

About poker...

and coffee

of lavender roses.

Say a thing...

Any fucking thing...

that makes me feel like your first choice...

So I can stop hearing the thing you said...

To someone else.

[bettifelon]

Welllllllllllll....... I kinda suck. I got up to over 20 days in a row writing and then fucked up. Now I can't seem to rekindle my fire. I'm disappointed in myself.

[bettifelon]

Still life

Day 14 My Experience sitting on a picnic table in the front yard.

The day had righted itself. The sun burning away the thin cloud cover that had lingered for most of the morning and afternoon. Birdsongs overlapped: the "bip bip bip" of red shouldered black birds cut though the soft rhythmic hooting of a pair of mourning doves, the gruff call of a crow spotted the tapestry and it was all stitched together by the elaborate song of the mocking bird who sang in his own voice and everyone else's too. Summer and Spring were still fighting for control, so there were brittle brown weeds along side robust green bushes and cacti. Soon the bushes would sleep away the unbearable summer heat and the stubborn cacti and ancient olive trees would have the place to themselves. It would be a struggle to keep the dust from flying away as summer stripped the rest of the cover from the earth. Even now, as the last cool breaths of the gloomy day sighed out, dust rode the currents though the open windows and inside. The little house would be filled with the dry smell of it. But right then, it didn't seem important, because the day was still, save the birds at work, and everything felt peaceful and safe.

[bettifelon]

The 13th

Day 13 Adelaide's wasn't for tourists. For one thing, it was too small, just a modest four-hundred square foot saloon with three booths, a few tables, and the bar. For another, it was quiet, never a horn player nor juke-box to cause a ruckus. And since it was on the outskirts of the French Quarter it stayed just how Robby liked it: empty. Empty meant he didn't have to worry about a thousand dirty mits touching everything. It was paradise, the tabletops and floor were never sticky, the lights were always low, and Pete the bartender was, well, a neatnik, just like Rob. Being at Adelaide's almost made him forget. Well, until Pete put a paper down on the table in front of Robby. Pete was just doing what he always did, he couldn't have known what it would mean to Rob. He held his breath, his eyes going to the date even though he told them not to. Friday, June 13th 1957, was there, bold as you please. Carefully Rob pushed the newspaper away. His mind whispered "twice more" so he gave it two more little scoots. He could still see the date, black and thick like tar. But if he pushed it three more times it would end up on the floor, and that might be worse than just being able to see Friday the 13th. "Doin' alright there, Robby?" Pete asked while pouring Rob's usual gin and tonic. "Evening, Pete, I'm alright. How are you?" "Fine and dandy," Pete said with a wink. He came around the bar holding Robby's cocktail. He held the glass on the bottom with a cocktail napkin between his skin and the drink. "Good to hear," Rob said relieved when the glass was on the table. Friday the 13th meant trouble. But Adelaide's was his safe place, it was close and clean and he could relax here. He didn't want to think of anything outside this place. But this day? History would almost certainly repeat itself. Maybe he shouldn't have come here. Maybe he should have gone to one of the jazz joints up on Bourbon Street. He wouldn't mind seeing one of those places go up in smoke. If he left now, he'd take his bad luck with him, he was sure. He checked his watch, 6:47, that wouldn't work. He had to wait three minutes. Just three minutes. He was simply giving himself the heebie-jeebies. He knew his thoughts were just thoughts. Just thoughts. "Kickin' the habit?" Pete asked, nodding at the paper sitting at the edge of the table. Lifting his glass to take a drink so he wouldn't have to say anything, Rob gave what he hoped was a friendly shake of the head. "Missing out," Pete said. "There's a story in there about some eggheads over in Bywater loosin' their lab to Betsy. Rumor is, they were doing some strange things with animals. Seems there's been a half dozen ungodly creatures set free in the hurricane. "Nonsense," Robby tried to laugh. "Oh, I don't know," Pete gave him a big smile. "Scientists like to play God these days. Seems God gave them a warning, set their experiments free." "Pete, you can't really believe that there are mad scientists!" Robby laughed, he hoped it sounded incredulous, not nervous. "Queerer things have happened," the bartender shrugged. Robby shook his head. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. In the back of his mind a thousand dark things were stirring. He could hear the scrape of claws the whisper of scales. "Sounds like nonsense," Rob repeated. The creatures in his head grew horns and fangs. Goosebumps lifted the hair on his arms. The 13th wouldn't touch his bar. He had to get out. He looked down at his watch. 6:52! Damn! He'd have to wait until seven now. He sucked down another pull of his drink. What if one of the escaped experiments found it's way to Adelaide's? Unlikely. He told himself. He just needed to relax. Needed to focus his thoughts elsewhere. He couldn't let the dark parts of his thoughts come to the forefront. Dr. Moore told him when they started, he needed to try to refocus. Valium may be a woman's drug, but it sure did help Rob. He stood and excused himself headed for the can. Mother's little helper was Robby's little helper too. Though he'd never let any of his

buddies know. He'd become an expert at dry swallowing a few pills without anyone being the wiser. With a few pills in his system, he might just make it through the rest of this cursed day! After all, he'd made it this far! Not a single lick of bad luck had bothered him all day. Maybe Dr. Moore was right, maybe Friday the 13th was nothing but a false perception of luck. "X doesn't always mark the spot," he reminded himself. He shook his head. He was standing in front of the basin the water was running, but Rob wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there. The Valium was doing it's work. Yacking to himself in the men's room mirror? Yes sir, it was time to finish up his cocktail and head home. Before fear of the 13th took hold of him again. After he washed his hands, of course. Robby prepared himself for the sight of a kitchen fire. Then told himself that was not likely. He'd have heard the fire bell. So then, he pushed the door open and... Zippo. Nothing. There was no bear-hog hybrid, no Goatman or Sasquatch escaped from the mad scientists, no fire, or flood or blood. Everything was fine. His fear was unfounded. And a little hysterical, though he hated to admit it. Adelaide's was still quiet and empty and perfectly clean. Pete was behind the bar, just waiting for someone to come though the door and order their usual. They were all usuals at Adelaide's. Robby sighed, the tight feeling in his chest that lingered, even after Robby's little helper, eased. But it only lasted a moment. Just one moment, before the door crashed open and a nightmare charged inside. It made a noise that could have been a car horn or the wild bark of a coyote! It was unlike anything Rob had ever seen, massive barrel chest like that of a bull, but it's hind quarters sloped down ending in a bottle brush tail. Horns sprang from the head of a massive dog-like creature. It's fangs snapped the air before it's black eyes found Robby. When it saw him, the creature's jaws fell open and drool spilled out onto the pristine floor. Rob couldn't help but think, "there goes the neighborhood." Just before the creature charged at him.

[bettifelon]

Here's the first 13, I'll try to post the rest in both places...maybe. If I remember.

[bettifelon]

This thing I'm doing...

So I am doing a thing that I've seen artist or songwriters do, but I'm applying it to writing. I'm going to write EVERY DAY no matter what. I'll write a short story or scene even if I really don't want to.

So.

Some days the writing will suck because I just don't want to write, some days it will suck because I want to write but do it badly. Follow along if you wanan. :D

[bettifelon]

via @Jackalcakes

[bettifelon]

Oh no! My pen is nearly out of ink. This one is labeled "Writing Creativity" will I still be able to write creatively without it?