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Writers should NOT feel guilty about:

Skipping a day of writing.

Not having a perfect first draft.

Partaking in sinister, arcane rituals for inspiration.

Working at their own pace.

Enlisting demons and/or helpful spirits to aid them with editing.

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HOUNDS.

i was born with my heart in my hands. that is no way to live, the doctors said, so they stitched it onto my chest. when it pumps, blood trickles down my arm and it alerts the hounds. they bark don’t bite but their barks bite still. i wear it on my sleeve, i fear. the cologne they like. i walk the earth with my heart exposed and yet i am called weak. i feel and feel and my tears taste of metal and salt but it does not shape into armour. why am i not brave? i wear no breastplate, do you not see the wounds i healed from? is that not strength, to be hurt but trust that love will fix you? how will radiance reach my beating heart if it is kept in the dark of my ribcage?

the hounds do not answer. they only smell blood.

-anna everts (original poem, based on a writing prompt sammie.jpg333 on instagram)

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My characters ignoring the novel's outline:

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most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone

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characters in their 30's and older exploring their sexuality and discovering themselves beyond their teens and twenties is so important and beautiful and worth telling

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I just think everyone should take a moment to consider the question "what is your visual shorthand for cruelty?" and then follow it up with a critical "and who taught you that?"

specific examples include but are not limited to

why is an evil timeline character design disabled? (why do the heroes go through equally punishing battles and never lose an arm, a leg, an eye?)

why are the futuristic scifi terrorists uniformly darker skinned? (why are the heroes so much lighter?)

why is the greedy boss fat? (why are the heroes skinny?)

why is the criminal mastermind heavily scarred? (why is the brooding, traumatized hero unscathed?)

why is the predatory creep a bearded person in a dress and makeup? (why are none of the heroes trans women?)

who taught you that this is how things are?

how long do you plan on repeating it?

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make sure to delete your nanowrimo accounts

(context: nanowrimo's statement on use of ai and calling the argument against ai "classist and ableist")

(additional context: nanowrimo is being sponsored by a ai company this year)

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I don’t feel safe around most people. Conversations with strangers and those acquainted with me turn into a game of looking for exit signs just so I can stop holding my breath. Friendships are tainted by the belief that acceptance is conditional and patience wears thin. Too many daggers have grazed my skin for me to believe someone is truly unarmed.

But with her, I paint myself as a target. Red circles my heart and it taunts her like it would an archer. I show her my scars and ask her where she would like to craft hers.

Instead, she holds me.

Flowers grow from concrete and invite butterflies to come closer. I allow it, knowing she’s the gardener. She cleans the red off my chest and asks me where it hurts. Kindness is a weapon in that it can trigger old pain. But if that is all, I’ll gladly let her wound me.

And I realise, then, that safety isn’t a shield from vulnerability. It’s a sword handed over. It’s saying “I’m giving you the power to hurt me, but I trust that you won’t”.

— Anna Everts

Published in my poetry chapbook Homemade Acrylic (which you can buy here!)

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And when the sun needs to rest, we’ll take the torch from her.

— Anna Everts

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See how the sun kisses the earth before she goes to rest.

Isn’t that care?

Isn’t that love?

— Anna Everts

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It's just one day. You've been through thousands of days and survived them all, and this is just one day. You'll be okay.

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And we paint And we write And we hope that it makes a difference

That it eases the pain

— Anna Everts

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Do you ever start writing something that you’re excited about and that seems like it’s turning out well and that you’re getting eager to share, and then you start typing it up or doing an edit pass and it’s just awful it’s awful its premise is fundamentally flawed and it’s out of character and the prose is clunky and the plot is badly paced and ludicrous and the whole thing is embarrassing, how could you have done this, how could you have sunk so much time into this, you can’t even look at it, how is this that shining thing you were so excited about, how could you even have considered finishing it let alone sharing it with anyone, you’re crying, your mother is crying, nuns are spontaneously exploding in the streets,

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nothing makes u feel stupid quite like being a writer. out here googling “rooms in a house” to make sure i didn’t forget one of em. blockhead behavior.

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Here are some scientific facts about blood loss for all you psychopaths writers out there.

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LINK