doubtingreality

[doubtingreality]

if you’re white and wanna write a poc character and feel awkward about it i implore you to ignore any twitblr stuff treating it as a massive ethical burden and instead come in more with the same mindset you’d have if you wanted to write about idk firefighters but didn’t know anything about firefighters so you do... research. Like fuck off with the weird kinda creepy calls for spiritual introspection you’re not writing about god damn space aliens you’re writing about humans and if you think you need more perspective of different life experiences just read?

[doubtingreality]

oh so when the reader knows something i don’t it’s “dramatic irony” but when i know something the reader doesn’t suddenly i’m an “unreliable narrator” 🙄

[doubtingreality]

Why Today?

The most lingering question my professor asks every writer during workshop is “why today?” By this, she’s asking why is the story being told, and why do we begin when or where we do. I feel that this is an important question that is often difficult to answer for quiet fiction or novels which rely on atmosphere, so here is how I determine when I start a story.

Recently, I read a book and found myself constantly asking, why is the story starting here? I found that structurally, the novel should have started at its second part. Everything which preceded it could have been woven into the plot introduced at this second portion.

TLDR: ask yourself why you’re starting your story now? Where is the tension of your story?

[doubtingreality]

Showing people our writing makes me feel like a cat presenting someone a dead mouse.

“Yes, it’s a bit horrifying but I am very proud of it”

[doubtingreality]

Officially hit submit on my last MFA application today, feeling both terrified but also better. If y’all have applied, how did you handle the waiting?

[doubtingreality]

Been taking a big risk with my applications by self-identifying as Native. I know I am, but we are unregistered and have no verified proof, only memories.

[doubtingreality]

I am beginning to feel frightened that all I will ever love is writing. Women are beautiful, and I feel alone even in a relationship. Writing is all that makes sense.

[doubtingreality]

nothing is more sexy to me in fiction than a time loop being thematically linked to the experience of grief and/or trauma. a constant reliving of loss and pain that becomes literal, an inability to move on, a cycle that always finds new ways to hurt... literally where would we be without it

[doubtingreality]

Four applications officially submitted…shaking

Submission Day

Today is the day I start hitting submit on applications for MFA programs; my chest feels tight, and I am paralyzed with nerves. Wish me luck friends <3

[doubtingreality]

Submission Day

Today is the day I start hitting submit on applications for MFA programs; my chest feels tight, and I am paralyzed with nerves. Wish me luck friends <3

[doubtingreality]

Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Illustrated by Gustave Doré (French, 1832-1883)

[doubtingreality]

Been thinking about another book concept and finally found my main character, a fucked up little girl in a trailer park who likes roadkill and eats people’s pets…love her, it’s gonna be a metaphor for being separated from one’s heritage and the monsters it makes of us :)

[doubtingreality]

Yeah the sex was good but did it have themes and motifs

[doubtingreality]

I keep seeing the "chat is a fourth person pronoun" post and it's getting increasingly hard to avoid starting discourse in the notes of it. chat I don't think they know what these linguistics terms they're using mean

[doubtingreality]

A detailed analysis of the problems PoC novelists and marginalized YA authors are facing right now. This issue needs attention paid to it.

The way readers can assist: read more diversely and push these books the way that publishers will understand: wallet-wise. Here's Jessica's list of great recent books of BIPOC authors.

[doubtingreality]

Help !!

I am currently in a poetry class, and I have never had to revise my poetry before. It's always been more of a venting or coping strategy, very personal to me, but for my degree we have to take classes in another genre. As a fiction writer who writes poetry on the side, I figured this would be the best transition for another class. Until now, I have loved this class and enjoyed being part of poetry workshops, something I had never experienced before.

However, I have NEVER had to revise my own poetry, and our final portfolio must contain four revised poems with proof there was an earlier draft as well as a write-up describing the revision process for each piece. I feel lost and discouraged as I spend half an hour removing and returning the same five words, agonizing over comma placements, and generally feeling that I should just write another poem. Obviously I can't because we must show that we can revise. Any tips before I lose my sanity?

[doubtingreality]

There Have Always Been Others: Excerpt

Hello! I've decided to be a bit vulnerable and share the first page of my novel. I've realized I have no examples of my writing style on this blog, so if you're interested, here is a small excerpt!

The house sat upon one of the few strips of land not steeped in the fetid swamp lands which swallowed much of Louisiana, instead set on dry and sandy soil apt to erosion and greetings of dust and grit. It was clear the grass had only been recently trimmed, mowed down and clumped in swaths of green, damp and rotting. The blades were clearly dull as sections of grass stood still higher than their haply hewn compatriots, reaching out from the carrion. An onlooker might notice these fingers of green dead men, rising from an untimely grave to witness the sunrise once more, and remark with some relief and disdain that finally the neighborhood eyesore had been, minimally, tamed for new ownership, that this great beast would soon unhinge its jaw, wired shut in the casket of abandonment, to grant entrance to some selected few.

Its maw, this great dead thing of once-white paint, sat shaded by a small porch and a jutting garage, a room which seemed too obviously an addition, unplanned and incongruous. The door itself, a snapping and unappealing thing, had little enrichment of character beyond its stained surface, yellowing in the rain and dry rot typical of Louisiana summers. From the road, it seemed unassuming enough, its meekness betrayed by the chipping paint around its corners, not from frequent use but from general neglect. This chipping paint created gaps between the door and its frame, allowing for a tableau of life to take up residence in its craw, spiderwebs stretching to ensnare any unlucky fly or beetle not already within the house, an exclusive privilege extended now only by the spiders; these sentries of the beast were much more likely to catch and feast upon the undesirables as they made their futile crossing.

When again observed from a distance, the house grew in its stature, intimidating in the light of the August sun. Blinding with its white exterior in the noonday light, passersby would be forced to squint their eyes, never truly seeing the house for what it was, and what it truly was, was empty. No living soul had crossed the threshold beyond the meager souls of tiny creatures, soon drained of blood and discarded as husks, and no keeper of neighborhood history could recall the last time movement could be seen behind the dingy windows of the house, although in the glinting light, in the moments just beyond the sun’s peak, the light would dance in the attic window and cast a swiftly sweeping shadow across the murky glass, reminding the house briefly of what it meant to dance and stretch and yawn beneath the cloudless sky.