cranberry-queen

[cranberry-queen]

*opens word doc covered in blood* it doesn’t have to be good. it just has to be done.

[cranberry-queen]

I’m safe enough today to let a little sadness come to the surface.

[cranberry-queen]

Snippet from a literary romance I'm writing. It's more of an experiment because I've never written anything like this before and I'm curious to see if I can:

His eyes are brown. Not just brown—desert brown. Wind-carved. Sun-scorched. Brown that’s been alive for centuries.

He could be Middle Eastern. South Asian. African. Mediterranean. Something about him belongs to history. To warmth. To spice markets and silent prayers. It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

I’m— “Beef, chicken, or vegetable, miss?” The stewardess smiles. It’s the kind of smile that folds under the weight of routine.

I’m not hungry. Not for food, anyway. I want to say vegetable. Light. Safe. But what if he’s watching? What if he notices? What if he thinks I’m one of those people—no offense, just… difficult.

“Chicken,” I say. And I hate how much I want to be understood.

“Beef, chicken, or vegetable, sir?” she asks him. Same smile. Same tired eyes.

“Vegetable,” he says.

His voice— It’s what a violin would sound like if it knew how to ache like a bass guitar. Low. Bowed. Honest.

Fuck. What if he is a vegetarian? I don’t know how to cook without meat. I don’t even know who I am without meat. How do you feed someone you’re not prepared to become?

[cranberry-queen]

Can we retire the “bitchy girl” trope already? You know the one where the main character walks into a room and there’s instantly one woman who hates her for breathing too confidently. Because she’s too pretty, too powerful, too noticed by a mediocre love interest.

In my actual life as a woman? I’ve never been side-eyed on sight by a woman. But I have been complimented by strangers in bathroom lines, hyped by co-workers, rescued by girl gangs at parties, and held together by women who had zero obligation to care.

Women don’t hate women for existing. Media just got lazy.

[cranberry-queen]

Tips from a Beta Reading Writer #3 (I think)

I love a good love-at-first-sight moment—especially in short stories or contemporary settings. It can be electric, swoony, and just the right kind of dramatic.

But I’ve only ever seen it really land in two ways:

1. Emotional connection. Person A sees Person B doing something that hits—rescuing a puppy (Person A’s an animal lover), leading a protest (for something Person A also cares about), wearing a niche fandom sweater (that Person A thought no one else knew existed). It’s not just “they’re hot,” it’s “they matter to me already.”

2. Physical attraction. Sometimes Person B walks in and Person A’s brain just goes !!. Totally fair. We’ve all had our parasocial celebrity crush moment. That kind of instant pull can be fun to write, especially when it’s intense but not over-explained. But if Person A is, say, immortal or five hundred years old, and this is the first time they’ve ever been into someone? That probably needs a bit more weight. (Unless they look like someone from their past, but then we’re tiptoeing into reincarnation or emotional echoes.)

Anything outside of that—like Person A falling in love while Person B orders a latte like a regular human—it can feel a little floaty unless grounded in something specific.

Not a rule, just a thought. I love this trope! I just think it shines brightest when there’s something more than the vibes.

[cranberry-queen]

Hi, I’m Lameez. I write, mostly fiction, sometimes fanfic. This account is where I talk about writing and post the occasional tip or insight that might help someone else.

I also beta read. If you’re looking for feedback on tone, character, pacing, or just need someone to tell you if it flows, I’ve got you. I’ve worked with writers across genres.

I'll attach some of my reviews below. No hard sell. If it feels right, reach out. I'd love to beta read your manuscript :)

BETA READ SERVICE

[cranberry-queen]

Sometimes I get too in my head with my writing. Especially about my smut. I reread every last word with the most critical of eyes and think, Ooh is that cringe? Will that be too graphic? Will this word or phrase take people out of the scene?

And then I read a book. A published, hardcover, NYT bestsellers list book and...

Did you get that?

Someone looked at this sentence (likely more than one someone, tbh) and was like, 'Yeah. We'll print that.'

So the moral of the story, my fellow heathen smut writers, is that we're fine.

As a matter of fact, we're actually fucking amazing.

[cranberry-queen]

there is an anger in me with no exit wound.

 a sealed room with no door, no window, no name.

my mother was raised to smile through discomfort, to swallow frustration like bitter seeds, to laugh when the world humiliated her— because no man wants a woman who might turn disagreement into dynamite.

so she married my father, and he spent thirty years chiseling her into a doll. silent. still. displayed.

and some days, i think she poured all her rage into me. a lifetime’s worth dripped through the womb, folded into breastmilk, woven into the braids she tied each morning, seasoned into every meal— until the warmth that once held me became the very thing that caged me.

and inside that cage: my rage, her rage, stacked like generations of unscreamed screams.

because i had my own stories too. the catcalls, the hands, the betrayals. friends who used me, boys who broke me, grades that slipped, dreams that crumbled. each rejection another log on the fire no one ever let me tend.

i was raised, like her, to be soft. to be kind. to be small enough to never take up space, and quiet enough to never cause discomfort.

so now, i bite my tongue until my mouth tastes like blood and metal, and i wonder— if i spit it out, will it come out as words? or fire?

[cranberry-queen]

[cranberry-queen]

i was raised to be a whisper

i was raised to be a whisper.

 to laugh like lace unraveling, to cry like an apology, to walk like i might bruise the air. to play music low enough that even my happiness wouldn’t draw attention.

be soft, they said— but soft meant small. soft meant don’t speak unless spoken to. soft meant never say no loud enough for someone to stop.

roudy was the enemy. roudy was having edges. roudy was having voice. roudy was believing i mattered.

and so my pain sits— fermenting on the back of my tongue, sharp as vinegar, because i was taught that saying it out loud would make me disrespectful.

they told me don’t follow the crowd— but don’t stand out, either. be a leader— but not one who makes noise. they said, you’re a girl. they are boys. know your volume. know your place.

but here i am. after years of swallowing the sun, i still burn.

i have thoughts that won’t stay buried. i have opinions that refuse to shrink. i sing while scrubbing the sink, dance when the sky remembers me, cry when little girls raise flags to stop wars their leaders start.

i scream at f1 races. i curse at football matches. i read poems like they were written in my blood, and love stories where heroes turn monstrous— because every hero i trusted wore a mask.

not all of them were men. some of the soft girls learned how to burn, too. not the world— not yet— but the quiet little life they were handed.and in the ashes, we build again. not hard, not cruel, but unafraid. not soft— not like before. something else. something more.

[cranberry-queen]

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

[cranberry-queen]

Sometimes I think there’s a world inside me.

Not a quiet one—no, it roars. A world built from the scream caught in the back of my throat, the one I can’t let out because I’m standing in a crowded mall, and the world doesn’t know what to do with the noise.

My legs twitch with the need to run but I’m locked inside a cubicle, inside my own ribs, inside a skin that feels too fragile for all this feeling.

I carry this weight— not just for Lando, but because I see myself in him. The softness. The way people twist it into a flaw.

I made a Tumblr account to bleed a little quieter. But even then, when you dare to feel in public, they make you pay for it.

And when I see what they post about him, they may as well be saying it to me. I don’t know how to fight back. I was never taught how to fight back. And every time I try, they just sharpen their teeth.

I hear my parents in my head, saying the world has no place for the soft. But Lando is soft— and Lando is brilliant. So maybe they were wrong. Maybe softness has a place.

But then— the headlines shift. The comments multiply. Weak. Unworthy. Undeserving. His team turns away. His friends forget how to look at him.

And suddenly, my parents’ voices sound like prophecy.

I think: if the world can’t make space for someone like him— how could it ever hold someone like me? And if there’s no place I can exist without being asked to bleed or harden, then maybe I was never meant to be here at all.

[cranberry-queen]

reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

[cranberry-queen]

"Why do you cut yourself?" It's the only way I know how to let the sunlight in.

When I was 18, I wrote one line of poetry. Just one. It was dark. It was haunting. It was beautiful. It was Pulitzer-worthy if the Pulitzer had a "holy shit" category. It's been 11 years. Haven’t written a single line of poetry since. Not even a breakup-induced haiku. Just one cursed masterpiece and radio silence.

I think about that line at least once a week.

[cranberry-queen]

When I was 18, I wrote one line of poetry. Just one. It was dark. It was haunting. It was beautiful. It was Pulitzer-worthy if the Pulitzer had a "holy shit" category. It's been 11 years. Haven’t written a single line of poetry since. Not even a breakup-induced haiku. Just one cursed masterpiece and radio silence.

I think about that line at least once a week.

[cranberry-queen]

you dont have to be useful to be loved btw

[cranberry-queen]

Anonymously tell me your assumpmtions about me and I'll confirm or deny them.

!!!