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the "oh. oh." moment in fan fic but instead of a character realizing they're in love it's them discovering they have a specific kink at the worst possible moment

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Realizing that the best way for a vampire to conceal themself in modern society is to become a tattoo artist that accepts blood donations as payment

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Sometimes people tag me in ask games, not as a participant but as an answer to "whose your favorite author?" and I get to see my name listed next to people like Neil Gaiman, Jane Austen, Terry, Pratchett, Tamora Pierce, Douglas Addams, Diana Wynne Jones, and I just have to lie down and breathe for a minute because I am so mean to myself when I'm writing.

I get so angry and frustrated that my ADHD means I've been writing the same chapter for a month. My physical health means I got nothing done for an entire year except survive, and I always feel behind and struggle to even care about what I'm doing some days.

It punches the wind right out of my self-loathing in a way countless hours of therapy a week can only aspire to. Seeing someone state with exclamation marks and firm resolve: That One. I want that one. This one is my favorite.

Like, what the fuck do you mean I'm someone's favorite author? I mean, thank you, but are you sure??

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Werewolves are stereotyped as ravenous monsters because the transformations burn so many calories that they’re essentially starving afterwords. The more “controlled” werewolves are just the ones who figured this out and loaded up on calories beforehand, whereas the “wild” ones assume it’s part of their wolfish nature to hunt and eat whatever’s nearby.

The transformation back burns calories too, but by that point they’re exhausted from running around in the woods all night, not to mention the physical strain of two transformations. And filthy people showing up at Denny’s in the early morning are assumed to be hungover, so the ravenous beast idea is applied only to the wolf half.

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We need to bring back mood ring eyes as a trope. It was a fun thing and I bet we could do some insane cool shit with it now that we're older and know what a narrative structure is.

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We need to bring back mood ring eyes as a trope. It was a fun thing and I bet we could do some insane cool shit with it now that we're older and know what a narrative structure is.

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PSA to fan creators who don't have a lot of regular contact with children: They are almost always bigger than you think. A 1-year-old baby may already be walking. A toddler is likely already hip-high. A 10-year-old may already be taller than at least one of their parents. A 14/15 year old may already have reached their adult height.

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“IF NOT FRIEND, THEN WHY FRIEND SHAPED!?” the human cries out after you denied to let them pet your homeworld’s most dangerous predator.

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The king is getting increasingly exasperated as the princess completes every task he offers her hand for herself.

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Hey, if you don't have something nice to say about other people's creations (gifsets, art, fic etc)

then

don't say anything at all.

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Honour can bind a man to his lord, to his country, to its ashes… and long after the wind has scattered even their memory, his honour remains.

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Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

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if a baby drowns while being baptised does it go to heaven?

Matthew 1:1 "If a baby drowns during the baptism it goes to hell no matter what"

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I need people to stop blaming the death of movies on “quips”. A quip is just a funny line of dialogue. That’s all. Like I just saw a post talking about quips and the death of movies and brought up Pirates of the Caribbean as an example of a better movie and yes it is but also that movie is FULL OF QUIPS. I just rewatched The Princess Bride. It’s all quips. Every single line. And it’s a masterpiece.

Movies suck when people don’t care about the art they’re making. That includes them not caring about their quips. Which is why a lot of comic relief dialogue ALSO sucks now. But the problem isn’t that funny dialogue exists.

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Contrary to popular belief, abandoned WIPs are crucial to the writer ecosystem, as they become the fertile soil from which completed works grow. Without them, the landscape would be sterile and barren

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I reject the idea that the paths are many but the light is one. I believe the paths are many and the light is myriad. A thousand thousand candles to the eyes like stars.

The map is not the territory, but the territory is noisy and a poor teacher. A territory cannot lie, but it is a maze of flowers with the museum at it's center. But the map, the map is perfect. There are only imperfect cartographers, and ignorant readers.