intangiblyyourswrites

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Grief is a color spectrum with how it tints the lens. Pearlescent pink for the picturesque or the riveting red of rage. Inevitably, it blooms into the purplish-blue of a bruise earned from punching through unsaid words. It’s lingering and ugly, painful in presence like fingers around the jugular catching at breaths and coloring skies grey. Grief is perspiration collecting in clouds until saturation rips open the troposphere. Drizzle turns to tempest, that self-deprecating laugh to sobs, and then it’s rain on rough seas and torrents streaming down splotchy cheeks.

Grief ebbs and flows like waves—sometimes docile and sometimes capsizing in storms. The silence is only the lull before the tide crashes down and splinters ships or hearts. Grief is pressure building between the ribs and thunder in the sternum. It’s anger, wrath, and accusation searing up the throat and ripping out of lips like lightning aimed to strike—only to fall upon deaf ears unwilling, or maybe unable, to listen.

Grief is an intrigue, intangible and irrevocable. An inescapble experience in life, proof of a unyielding cycle. Grief tells a story because if an end is there, so is a beginning, and though the beginning is always hazy and the story full of regrets, love exists along that timeline.

In the end, all I know is that I’m tired, torn between suppression and evocation. That the world continues to revolve even as an invisible blanket dampens the noise of the earth. That a space once lively has hollowed out, and silence permeates where I hadn’t even known there was sound.

And that, in my desire to dissect grief and deter the inevitable, I’ve forgotten to think about you, if only for a moment.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

It has come to my attention that people think stories that use em dashes are AI generated. Here to say—NEWS FLASH. Where do you think it’s getting its information from?? Certainly not decades of writers notoriously using em dashes???

I’m sure there are people out there using AI to write for them but perhaps you should generate some stories on there and see how different it is from a living, breathing, human being pouring their sweat and tears into their work.

I haven’t been accused of it (yet), but the stories people tell are so disheartening. Comments are scarce to come by already; to receive one accusing you of faking your story…just ouch. Like excuse me, that is my own trauma I’m projecting onto fictional characters. Bye.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Pros of re-reading your own fic

a good time;

Has exactly the tropes you like and the characterization you want to read;

Gratification: yes you did finish a thing and yes you did do good;

just a very fun time all around.

Cons of re-reading your own fic:

Is that another TYpO

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Pssst

Hey, are you an artist or writer with WIPs?

Come here... I got a secret for you pssst come ‘ere

[intangiblyyourswrites]

No one tells you how to mourn while keeping grudges.

I am not well-versed in the tunes of forgiveness.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Me in the shower thinking about my wife: i think one of the big reasons why het culture "wifey/hubby" "his/hers" "tiaras/mustaches" matching sets other than the cis binarism of it all is that it reveals the thought process behind heteropatriarchy wherein ideal love is a product of inversion; two puzzle pieces that fit together but are separate and made functional solely by the utility of their differences. Heteropatriarchal love retroactively redefines a person as a half of a whole, their functions and idiosyncrasies only valuable when curtailed by another's. But more than that, heteropatriarchal love is so divided. My "hers" towel and your "his." Married on a friday because saturdays are for the boys. Your woodsmoke-scented deodorant and my lavender. We cant possibly hope to understand each other and that's what lends our partnership value, somehow. But the love i cherish--the love that nurtures me--is inextricability. Not the teeth of your personality spinning the cogs of mine but the blend and blur of our edges together. The further in the tide rolls the better. The love that nurtures me is accepting everything about you into my life even if i dont feel the same way about it that you do. Its a becoming. Becoming you, becoming myself, becoming us, again and again. There are no puzzle pieces to snap together, and im no more or less of anything with or without you. But no matter what happens i carry you with me now. Even in the small ways like how we wear each others jackets and deodorant and hats. I wear your mannerisms, and your jokes. I have your interests. You have my music taste. We subsume and consume one another. We explore each other by exploring ourselves and vice versa. The process of loving you is a mapping of a vast expanse and it is the creation itself of that expanse, ad infinitum. Loving you is a fluidity of the self. I try out new ways of living through you. I see through your eyes. My life doubles by virture of sharing it with you. We finish each others sentences and joke that were the same person but its truer than we have the language to describe. My selfhood blurs into yours; Im not half of a whole, but together we are a whole. You could draw a straight line from one end of me to the other end of you, no breaks. And why shouldnt we travel that line? Step inside my head and get comfy. Mi casa es su casa. Youre me and im you.

What comes out of my mouth when she walks into the room: id let you wear my skin if i could

[intangiblyyourswrites]

10 “There’s Only One Bed and Neither of Us Is Saying Anything About It” Moments

(because silence is a language, and tension is an electric blanket set to HIGH)

❥ One of them casually says “I don’t care where I sleep,” but spends the next ten minutes folding their jacket like it’s a pillow audition.

❥ They lie back-to-back with six inches of cold air between them like it’s a chasm and somehow still don’t sleep all night.

❥ Someone offers to sleep on the floor. No one lets them. No one explains why.

❥ The mattress dips when the other gets in, and they both pretend not to notice.

❥ Waking up tangled together and going still, like moving will make it real.

❥ One of them sleeps on top of the blanket “for boundary reasons.” We all know what that means.

❥ Accidentally brushing hands in the dark. No apologies. Just silence.

❥ One of them whispers something in the middle of the night, and the other pretends to be asleep, but remembers every word.

❥ “It’s fine. We’re both adults.” Cut to: neither of them moving a muscle all night.

❥ When they get up the next morning, they avoid each other’s eyes, but their hands brush as they pass. And this time, nobody pulls away.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Writing isn't the hobby. Being insane about little fake people is the hobby. Writing is just the only outlet i have for that

[intangiblyyourswrites]

10 Traits That Make a Character Secretly Dangerous

❥ Disarming Humor. They’re the life of the party. Everyone’s laughing. No one’s noticing how much they aren’tsaying.

❥ Laser-Sharp Observation. They see everything. Who’s nervous. Who’s lying. Who would be easiest to break. And they don’t miss.

❥ Unsettling Calm. Even in chaos, they stay still. Smiling. Thinking. Calculating.

❥ Weaponized Empathy. They know how to make people trust them. Because they know exactly what people want to hear.

❥ Compartmentalization. They can do something brutal, then eat lunch like nothing happened.

❥ Controlling Niceness. The kind of kindness that’s sharp-edged. You feel guilty for not loving them.

❥ Mirroring Behavior. They become whatever the person in front of them needs. It's not flattery. It’s survival—or manipulation.

❥ Selective Vulnerability. They know how to spill just enough pain to make you drop your guard.

❥ History of “Bad Luck”. Ex-friends, ex-lovers, ex-colleagues… they all left under “unfortunate” circumstances. But the pattern says otherwise.

❥ Unshakeable Confidence in Their Morality. They don’t think they’re the villain. That makes them scarier.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Story Starters #3

Found Family Starters (for the ones who thought they’d always be alone—until someone stayed)

✧ They said "I got you" like it was no big deal. But no one’s ever said that to me and meant it. ✧ I didn’t know I could belong somewhere until I walked into that kitchen and someone had already set a plate for me. ✧ We fight. We yell. We steal each other’s snacks. And still, they show up every time I need them. That’s love, I think. ✧ I used to flinch when someone raised their voice. Now I roll my eyes and throw a pillow at them. That’s growth. That’s home. ✧ They know what my silence means. They don’t push. They just sit beside me until I’m ready. ✧ I told them the worst parts of me. They stayed. That’s when I knew. ✧ We don’t say “I love you” out loud. We say “text me when you get home.” “Eat something.” “You can crash here.” ✧ I’m still learning how to trust it. How to not brace for abandonment. But they haven’t left. Not once. ✧ I never believed in unconditional love. But now there’s this couch, and this blanket, and this messy group of weirdos who make space for me. ✧ They’re not blood. But they’re mine.

Cold Girls, Soft Hearts Starters (for the sharp-edged girls who love quietly, fiercely, and would rather die than admit it)

✧ I don’t do soft. But they smiled at me like I was worth something, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. ✧ I pretend I don’t care. But I remember their coffee order, their favorite color, the way they hate pickles. ✧ I rolled my eyes at their dumb joke. Then laughed. Then hated how much I meant it. ✧ I pushed them away and they still came back. I hate that. I love that. I don’t know. ✧ I said “I don’t need anyone.” But my voice cracked on the last word and I know they heard it. ✧ I tell them to shut up. I mean “don’t go.” ✧ I’m the tough one. The reliable one. The emotionally constipated one. And I’m so, so tired. ✧ They hugged me and I stood there like a statue. But inside, something broke open. ✧ I made fun of them for being sappy. Then went home and replayed everything they said. Twice. ✧ I’m not scared of being hurt. I’m scared of wanting something I can’t protect myself from.

End-of-the-World Vibes (for stories where something big is ending, and something small, and tender, is beginning)

✧ The world is ending and all I want is to feel their hand in mine one more time. ✧ Everything’s falling apart and they’re still making me laugh. How dare they. How beautiful. ✧ If this is the last sunrise, I want to spend it with them. Quiet. Close. Real. ✧ I thought I’d be afraid. But with them here, I’m just… present. And maybe that’s enough. ✧ They looked at me like I was still worth saving. Even now. Especially now. ✧ We kissed like we were running out of time. Because we were. ✧ I wanted a big moment, but instead it was this—my head on their shoulder, the silence stretching soft around us. ✧ We said goodbye like we’d see each other tomorrow. We both knew that wasn’t true. ✧ Maybe the world doesn’t need a hero. Maybe it just needs someone who won’t leave when things get ugly. ✧ I don’t know what comes after this. But if they’re next to me when the lights go out, I think I’ll be okay.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

every writing tip article and their mother: dont ever use adverbs ever!

me, shoveling more adverbs onto the page because i do what i want: just you fucking try and stop me

[intangiblyyourswrites]

writing is the most insane hobby it's like,

is it easy? no

is it fast? also no

but is it fun? well,

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Clothing Style & Vibe Descriptors for Writers

(Because how someone dresses says so much about who they are.)

Polished — Sleek, well-put-together, and clean-cut. Grungy — Worn, layered, dark, and deliberately messy. Bohemian — Flowing, artsy, natural fabrics; lots of patterns. Minimalist — Clean lines, neutral colors, nothing extra. Sporty — Functional, casual, often branded or gym-inspired. Vintage-inspired — Nostalgic, retro cuts, old-school flair. Dark academia — Tweeds, layers, and mysterious literature major vibes. Streetwear — Trendy, oversized, edgy with a splash of attitude. Gothic — Dark colors, lace, leather, often dramatic. Soft girl / boy — Pastels, gentle patterns, dreamy aesthetics. Preppy — Polos, cardigans, and a “top of the class” shine. Business casual — Professional, but relaxed—like they could go from meeting to martini. Careless / wrinkled — Looks like they got dressed in the dark, and kind of did. Eclectic — Mix-and-match chaos, but somehow… it works. Utilitarian — Functional over fashionable, lots of pockets, maybe ex-military.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

To bleed onto the page while refusing to be cut.

[intangiblyyourswrites]

my dad–also a writer–came to visit, and i mentioned that the best thing to come out of the layoff is that i’m writing again. he asked what i was writing about, and i said what i always do: “oh, just fanfic,” which is code for “let’s not look at this too deeply because i’m basically just making action figures kiss in text form” and “this awkward follow-up question is exactly why i don’t call myself a writer in public.”

he said, “you have to stop doing that.”

“i know, i know,” because it’s even more embarrassing to be embarrassed about writing fanfic, considering how many posts i’ve reblogged in its defense.

but i misunderstood his original question: “fanfic is just the genre. i asked what you’re writing about.” 

i did the conversational equivalent of a spinning wheel cursor for at least a minute. i started peeling back the setting and the characters, the fic challenge and the specific episode the story jumps off from, and it was one of those slow-dawning light bulb moments. “i’m writing about loneliness, and who we are in the absence of purpose.”

as, i imagine, are a lot of people right now, who probably also don’t realize they’re writing an existential diary in the guise of getting television characters to fuck. 

“that’s what you’re writing. the rest is just how you get there, and how you get it out into the world. was richard iii really about richard the third? would shakespeare have gotten as many people to see it if it wasn’t a story they knew?”

so, my friends: what are you writing about?

[intangiblyyourswrites]

[intangiblyyourswrites]

Natalie Portman being confused by the fact that you have to say “hi” to someone before starting a conversation in France got me like ?????