jacksworddoodles - Tumblr blog

[jacksworddoodles]

Casually asks ‘who domesticated grain in your fantasy world?’ but while ripping her shirt off with a WWE stage and a roaring crowd just behind and slightly to the left. 

[jacksworddoodles]

My only real and valid writing tip is that you google every word you make up for your fantasy stories. That's It

[jacksworddoodles]

If u want to write a story about a character that’s just you but hotter with a dark twisted backstory and magical powers and a pet falcon or something, I think u should just go ahead and do that. Who’s gonna stop you? The government?? Fuck the police.

[jacksworddoodles]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   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: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[jacksworddoodles]

Reblog so everyone can hear what they need.

[jacksworddoodles]

ant tips on writing episodoc story but still having an overarching plot?

Overarching Plot for Episodic Story

It really depends on how you want to structure your overall story. With an episodic story, you can either take a big story and break it into smaller pieces--at which point the overarching plot is just the regular plot--or you can follow a TV show model and tell more encapsulated stories that are united beneath an overarching plot.

In the case of breaking a story into smaller pieces, you're going to flesh out your plot and structure the way you would if you were writing a novella or novel. Then, you'll look for natural "episodes" within to break up the story. Most of the episodes will likely center around a story beat, such as the introduction, the inciting incident, the dark night of the soul, etc. In this scenario, the story is the story. The story you're telling is the one that resolves the main conflict.

In the case of a TV show model, you're sort of telling stories within a bigger story. I like to use The X-Files as an example here... the overarching story (aka the "myth arc") of TXF was aliens and the government conspiracy to hide their existence. But the everyday story was two FBI agents tasked with investigating unsolved paranormal cases. Many of the episodes were stand alone stories known in TV as "monster of the week episodes," because they center around a different conflict or "monster" each week rather than being progressive segments of a primary conflict. However, the "myth arc" would be explored and furthered with periodic "myth arc episodes" where the central conflict was specific to the myth arc. And, sometimes monster of the week episodes would tie back to the myth arc or would have a myth arc subplot. So, in this type of story, you still want to look at the premise and flesh out the main plot as you would for any other story, figuring out the "myth arc" conflict, the "big bad," and what the protagonist must do to resolve the myth arc conflict and defeat the big bad. However, rather than break that story up into smaller pieces, you'll figure out a "monster of the week" framework that works with the premise and allows you to develop the characters, explore the world, and tie in bits of the "myth arc."

Happy writing!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[jacksworddoodles]

Do other writers ever get this like, hyper-specific dialogue exchange drop into their brains and you know exactly where these character are standing and what they’re doing and how they’re saying these words but that’s all you get. You don’t have much other context and this specific moment that exists only at this time in your headspace??

[jacksworddoodles]

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3

[jacksworddoodles]

[jacksworddoodles]

I wrote a book, but my novel is dragging way too long. What's the best way to determine what needs to get cut?

Fixing a Dragging Novel

#1 - Make sure your conflict is clear.

Every story should revolve around a conflict. The action of your story is created by the protagonist's attempt to resolve that conflict by pursuing a goal. Sometimes when stories drag, it's because there is no conflict or because the conflict is weak, leading to a meandering plot. (see: Understanding Goals and Conflict)

#2 - Consider your novel's structure.

Even character-driven novels have structure, meaning there are typical story beats and plot points that need to occur. As with plot-driven and combination stories, there are many different potential structures you can use. You can also follow a structure loosely (taking only what works and discarding what doesn't) or combine what you like from multiple structures. What matters is that it works for the story you want to tell, and that it helps you hit the natural points of a good story.

#3 - Consider your balance of action, exposition, and dialogue.

Stories should maintain a relative balance of action (things happening), exposition (explaining things), and dialogue (characters talking.) Ideally, every scene should have a relative balance, depending on the needs of the scene. If you have a scene that's 80% exposition, 15% dialogue, and 5% action, that scene is really going to drag. And if the next scene is 65% dialogue, 25% action, and 10% exposition, that scene is probably going to drag, too. That doesn't mean you need to have a 33% balance of all three, but you want to make sure that one doesn't completely overwhelm the others unless it's absolutely necessary.

#4 - Consider your pacing.

Even when you balance action, exposition, and dialogue, some scenes will have a slower pace and some scenes will have a faster pace. If you have too many fast-paced scenes in a row, or too many slow-paced scenes, the reader gets bored which makes the story drag. That said, it's a good idea to vary your pacing to create a relative balance between fast and slow. If you've had a couple of fast-paced scenes, stick in a slow-paced scene or two to allow the reader to catch their breath. If you've had a slower-paced scene, try following it up with a faster-paced scene to liven things up.

#5 - Make sure everything pulls its weight.

Every bit of everything that happens, every bit of info given and things explained, every conversation, every scene... all of it needs to be there for a reason. If you're writing a story about researchers going to Skull Island to find King Kong, you can't have a whole scene on the boat taken up by a high stakes card game unless things happen during that card game that are critical to the reader's understanding of the characters or plot. Things can't be there just for fun, or because it's cute, or to give the characters some interaction. Everything has to contribute to the plot in some way. If you have a lot of things happening that don't really matter in the story, it can make your plot drag. That said, go through your story and look at the things that happen. Ask yourself if you can remove that moment, event, or scene without it affecting the overall story. If you can, or if a few minor changes would make the removal work, it's a moment, event, or scene you can think about cutting.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[jacksworddoodles]

Anonymous asked: I just read saw your suggestion to serialize a large story instead of chopping it into smaller books. This idea sounds great! Is there any site/method you recommend? Or somewhere to find more info on the topic? I have been thinking of Wattpad, but I feel like original stories and those that aren't romance, go unnoticed against the fandom/romance content.

Kindle Vella and Radish are two popular platforms for publishing episodic stories or serials. Tapas, Yonder, and Inkitt are others. I'm not sure about which genres do best where, but they're all worth looking into.

As for Wattpad, although romance and fan-fiction do really well there, YA, fantasy, sci-fi, and supernatural are all said to do well there also. Mystery/thriller are said to be gaining traction there as well.

Here are some articles to Google with some great information:

-- How to Write Serialized Fiction for Kindle Vella by Jill Williamson (via Go Teen Writers) -- How to Write a Serialized Story: 4 Reasons to Write Serial Fiction (via MasterClass)

-- The Joys (and Perils) of Serial Novel Writing by Will Willingham (via Jane Friedman)

-- Serial Writing, An FAQ by Alexander Wales

-- Plotting Addictive Serials Workshop + Free Serial Fiction Outlining Sheet (via Storytellers Rule the World on YouTube)

-- PLOT A STORY | Story Structure for Serials + FREE TEMPLATES (Scrivener) (via Author Brittany Wang on YouTube)

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

LEARN MORE about WQA

SEE MY ask policies

VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts

COFFEE & FEEDBACK COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa

[jacksworddoodles]

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

[jacksworddoodles]

Describing Body Types

Now, one thing a lot of young writers I see forget (especially those who write fanfiction) is that everyone does not have the same body type. One reason I noticed this was because it was a huge writing vice of mine; I got used to everyone already knowing basically what the characters looked like when I wrote fanfiction, so I got lazy in describing people.

So, body type is important, I think, for realism in writing. Because unlike on some cartoon show, people do not fit one mold. There’s a gazillion types out there, all valid and pretty in their own way.

It contributes to the idea that there is only one good body type for either gender when you either describe everyone similarly (unless it’s some sort of dystopian future, and they’re clones or modified on purpose) or give no description of body type at all.

You don’t need to go overboard and describe every person from their chest size to their head shape to whether they have cankles. But, a general idea might help your reader visualize, and yet not force an image on them too much.

For instance, ‘Carolina was top heavy, to the point that it looked like she would tip over if she leaned forward too far,’ or ‘Jace had a practically concave chest, and skinny, bony arms. He looked like someone whose bones had tried to outgrow his skin.’

Of course, you can take this any which way; just point out the most obvious parts of your character’s body type (heart-shaped face? wide hips? stocky build?) and go from there. It’s usually good to have some idea of what your character looks like beyond colors and height.

So, go wild!

[jacksworddoodles]

Writing about a child rapist did not make Vladimir Nabokov a child rapist.

Writing about an authoritarian theocracy did not make Margaret Atwood an authoritarian theocrat.

Writing about adultery did not make Leo Tolstoy an adulterer.

Writing about a ghost did not make Toni Morrison a ghost.

Writing about a murderer did not make Fyodor Dostoevsky a murderer.

Writing about a teenage addict did not make Isabel Allende a teenage addict.

Writing about dragons and ice zombies did not make George R.R. Martin either of those things.

Writing about rich heiresses, socially awkward bachelors, and cougar widows did not make Jane Austen any of those things.

Writing about people who can control earthquakes did not make N.K. Jemisin able to control earthquakes.

Writing about your favorite characters and/or ships in situations that you choose does not make you a bad person.

It’s a shame that in this day and age these things need to be said.

[jacksworddoodles]

[jacksworddoodles]

Match with me on dating sites I'll tell you shit like

"Laid down to sleep and had spontaneous writing energy and if I don't hunt that shit down like a wolf fixing an overpopulation of deer it'll destroy the creativity ecosystem"

[jacksworddoodles]

It was the crows that did you in. How were you supposed to know they'd flock like that, following you around the small town you'd just arrived in, croaking murder like they knew. They couldn't know. That's what you told yourself everytime the croak came from the trees on your walk through the park. That's what you told yourself everytime the call chased you from your car to your cute little office job. Murder.

They said two could keep a secret if one of them was dead. So how did the crows know the secret your best friend took to their grave? They haunted you more than the memories of blood leaking into your trunk and the flames that burned that car on the side of the freeway with the smell of burnt flesh seeping into the night. They haunted you more than the taste of graveyard dirt under your nails and the sound of that shovel cutting into the ground over and over again. You didn't used to know how hard it was to dig a hole that deep. It was harder than you expected. It took longer than you expected. But it was worth it if your secret could be kept. So how did the crows know?

They say that “Two can only keep a secret if one of them is dead”. You find out that’s not entirely true, for the dead are quite happy to gossip to any who will listen