flyingcoffeemugs2

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there is nothing sexier than a character who is at all times deeply ashamed of their desires. those desires can be banal or they can be (said affectionately) pure freak shit. it doesnt matter if theyre actually monstrous because by virtue of the fear and the shame and disgust the character feels they easily become so. and someone who is always a little shaky and sweaty and ashamed is broadcasting those monstrous desires to everyone. they are worrying and poking at the wound and this causes the blood (the shame) (the want) to flow and themselves to be painted in it. its almost kinkier than just going out in a dog collar and leash or something because youre not just wearing your desire, youre publicly flagellating yourself for it. and even if that flagellation doesnt involve a direct punishment and rather a deprivation - even if the character's shame manifests as simply ignoring their desires at all costs, a life built around avoiding something is still ultimately a life built around that thing. and so you have these characters whos shame becomes so central to themselves that to look at them is to observe their deepest most monstrous desires. and that kind of exhibitionism......its kinda hot!

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Jamie Tartt stands in the penalty box, stance wide and face etched with fought-for arrogance. Goal still blazing, a phantom indent at the back of the net, he points his thumbs downwards onto his name and chants “Me, me, me!”

Jamie Tartt stands in front of his yelling father, looking at a warning of what he can turn into, crystal clear on how short the road is between being ‘James Tartt’ and ‘Jamie Tartt’.

Jamie Tartt stands condemned as Jamie Tartt, stands in front of a screaming crowd that chants loudly for his coronation and even louder for his downfall.

Jamie Tartt stands as himself, a man condemned either way, Jamie Tartt either way, a failed son either way, but at least he stands.

Condemn me, he thinks, but you’ll still love me, love to hate me, and maybe, even hate to love me.

Me, me, me.

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FANFIC UPDATES (OR NOT)

taking off all fics from ao3 and whatever i post is either gonna be here or on some other platform because anything that ChatGPT touches is vile for me, k thx

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YOUR FATHER / MY FATHER by Mal Fawzy

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jason molina’s writing advice to matthew j barnhart via his blackberry in 2008 

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“Now we are at home. But home does not preexist: it was necessary to draw a circle around that uncertain and fragile center, to organize a limited space. […] The forces of chaos are kept outside as much as possible.”

A Thousand Plateaus, on the territorial role of the refrain.

Félix Guattari, Gilles Deleuze

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Ouch

the ungodly differences in sam and dean w.

dean winchester, the reckless, unvirgin, unholy man, anything but fearful to get his hands bloody, unclean. a man filled with greed and lust and sin, unwashable, with inherited rage and dishonour

sam winchester, devoted, empathetic; a prayerful man who holds religion dear and close, like a stray puppy. the kind of man who believes in angels and god and who repents for sins he does not commit, sins of his brother’s

blood. demon blood, running through his veins. a brutalizing prophecy, a mean-to-be slaughter via his dreadful hands. a once pristine, considerate man, tied to the fate of demonic massacre, of starting the goddamn apocalypse

an angel of the lord, a protector of a man, of dean, who does not believe in heavenly nature, who does not deserve its graceful presence

sam winchester, the greatest man on earth, written to uphold the greatest sinner in history, lucifer; and dean, the most unholy man on earth, written to uphold the most holy existence in history, michael

two brothers. winchesters. dean and sam. cain and abel

the devoted sinner and the dishonorable sacrifice

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hey uhhh but fr the concept of fallen angels existing but risen demons being an impossibility is kind of a great summary of sin in christianity

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WRITING EXCERPT

He didn’t cry at the funeral

This ending was a long time coming and he had enough preview to numb him to the aftermath. Is a death any easier to handle because there is some forewarning? Maybe. Maybe the word he’s looking for isn’t easier, just ‘used to’. Used to the end that hasn’t come but you’re riding the almost there train to the finish line so the difference gets blurred on the journey, scenery bleeding into each other. 

So have we drank the cool aid? Convinced ourselves we’re not dying either?

(i remember I wrote a whole top gun maverick fanfic and deleted it but i still have some parts of it somewhere around)

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worth a read

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

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if kripke wanted to actually serve cunt he should have followed through on the plan for dean to kill john. in this version, dean kills john bc john was going to kill sam. john should have stuck around as a ghost haunting dean until after 3x10 “i dont deserve what he put on me and i don’t deserve to go to hell.” after that, dean salts and burns john’s jacket.

this would make s4 “you don’t think you deserve to be saved” go absolutely crazy. cas saves him bc it’s an order but later he knows he would have saved him anyway! bc sometimes you have to disobey your god! sometimes you have to kill him.

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Sacharine Suburbia: Excerpt

"That's seriously messed up"

"Oh shove it, Sam!"

"No, why didn't you tell me?

"Because it wasn't your circus, man! Back off and mind your own business"

"My bus- this is my business Dean!"

"It's fucking not"

"My brother and my father", and Dean hears it now, oh he knows sam can't help the condescending derision that twists his mouth "doing whatever it is you were, is my business"

"It's really not", and Dean is so close to blowing up on him, so close for calling Sam out on his fetishistic joy of riding that high horse.

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/49774420

I'm gonna share this work again because damn, I did well here lol (I think my writing thrives more in one shots than long form stories but that's why I want to finish Flesh &/+ meat, it's a challenge.

And my personal favorite bit from this is:

Chapter Three: “You Already Love Your Father”: Justifying Conditions of Love

Case Study: The Bible

God had a baby boy, all cherubic cheeks. 

He swore, from cradle to coffin, he loved his boy.

But son, your very existence was his to give love the way he understood love.

For what is love if not taking turns in offering a pound of flesh?

Capricious, like.

He already loves his father, Jamie knows this. He’s got love in him so bloated it could pierce his troposphere. He’s got love in him contaminated enough to wreck his eco-system. Maybe one day he’ll unearth the roots and plant it somewhere else.

Except.

The seeds sit behind his rib cage, and he’d have to tear his whole chest open for that kind of re-gardening. 

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“Shame thrives in silence, and wants more of it. The language of shame is silence. I wanted to incorporate silence, and silencing, into a poem, and was able to approximate that by blacking out language. What is unsaid becomes a visible absence—the hole I was writing around.”

— Leila Chatti, from an interview with Sneha Subramanian Kanta in Parentheses Journal, Issue 10 (via skgroutpoetry)

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There is nothing more mysterious than a TV set left on in an empty room . . . It is as if another planet is communicating with you. Suddenly the TV reveals itself for what it really is: a video of another world, ultimately addressed to no one at all, delivering its images indifferently, indifferent to its own messages (you can easily imagine it still functioning after humanity has disappeared).

Jean Baudrillard, America

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Flesh &/ + meat: Chapter 3 Excerpt

The issue he has with Lasso didn't just land on broken trust, mind games and his, more often than not, glaring incompetency when it came to footballl as a sport.

It came down to their fundamental understanding of competition and the parameters they were allowed to exist in when their boots where tracking through wet, mud-caked grass.

The pitch was maybe the only field where Jamie was sure of his existence and truly honest in it as well. Maybe it was a speculation on his end, but he was sure it was the same for the rest of the team as well.

Fuck, even fucknugget Kent would understand this.

That the people on this level of Football, in the Spanish, German or any other leagues, were truly obsessed with the sport to an extent where they were indistinguishable from it. There was no distinction between man and Footballer. One fed into the other, and you couldnt have Jamie Tartt the footballer without having Jamie Tartt the man and that included all of him.

In their sanitized world, where Dr. Sharon preached about niceness without pointing at the consequences that came with it, where they were all polite and on their best behavior, where most of the time, their experience was a lukewarm repetition day after day, the pitch was where they were warmed by a forest-fire. The honest love for the game, where all they cared about was playing it and playing it well, gave room for the only kind of human connection that Jamie could trust.

In all its beauty and brutality.

And now, Lasso was taking that away from him too.

How could he not have a problem with that?