#I have won

[flamedork]

cradling demisexual colin bridgerton in my palm

[robotfightingisgay]

YOU GUYS ARE NOT GOING TO FUCKING BELIEVE THIS

AND THEY GAVE ME A POKER CHIP

[gentil-minou]

VINDICATION

V I N D I C A T I O N

V I N D I C A T I O N

[fruskyterceol]

I GOT A GIRLFRIEND

Pink text because she loves pink

[ceo-of-sloppy-men]

For anyone who thinks tropes don’t apply to real life:

It is possible to friends to lovers yourself on complete accident.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Living Pictures | BODY BACK Update #1

A writing update??? In THIS economy???

Paying homage to my old writing updates, except we're getting 10x more self-indulgent. Let's talk about falling back in love with characters, orbital chapter structures, Harrison's messy redemption, God as memory, and of course, the first chapter of my novella, BODY BACK. With lots of excerpts of course. 😈

Post starts under the cut!

BODY BACK background:

Here's a summary if you missed the chaotic conception of BODY BACK: it's a literary fiction novella that occurs between a duology I wrote a few years ago (book 1 is Moth Work and book 2 is Feeding Habits). The duology follows two men, Lonan and Harrison, who are at the centre of a very complicated relationship.

I talked in depth about this project's conception in THIS post, but the gist is that I re-read Moth Work recently and was so enthralled by Harrison's psychology that I had to extend his story.

This was the first nugget of BB:

[ID: BODY BACK: Harrison's novella in the two months he lived in Las Vegas, 2005 (Oct-Sept, between the events of FH in 2006). Energy: bad decisions, lots of parties, self-destruction but make it glitzy. /end ID]

Logline: It’s 2005 in Las Vegas and 21-year-old Harrison is tired of routines, of gods, of men. On a mission to move past a complicated breakup, he’s about to get recklessly indulgent–and he’s come to the right place.

I'm honestly shocked, but deeply grateful to be writing this project. The last time I wrote a writing update, I'd been deeply struggling with Feeding Habits, and also hated Harrison as a character (shock!). Of course, he was still my baby, but at the time, I just could NOT crack his psychology. It took a full year to really come to terms with where he was in FH, and BB is almost an opportunity to "redo" what I wish I could've given him initially. So BB feels like a redemption for me as much as a redemption for him (albeit... he does zero redeeming in this book lmao).

I think I'm in love... with Harrison

Characterization is complicated for me. I don't think I'm particularly good at it because I have no idea how I characterize. However, BB has been such a wonderful way to fall back in love with Harrison (more than I already admire him as a fictional person in my brain lol). While I've been writing with him becoming a better person in Seventh Virtue, BODY BACK is the opposite of that. He's in his destructive era and knows it. And it's only making me love him more!

In BODY BACK, Harrison is painfully aware of who he is as a person, but simultaneously extremely destabilized in his identity. He understands he's a disaster, but also doesn't know how to be anything else (or what he was before), now that Lonan is no longer in his life. At the end of Moth Work, he willingly walked out of Lonan's life, aware this was what was best for himself. BODY BACK explores what it means to regret the "right" decision. Grey areas, wooohooo!

A smaller note that maybe only means a lot to me, but Harrison & I are the same age in this book! I've never been the same age as one of my protagonists, and maybe I'm being mushy about it, but I feel like I really... get where he is right now. We've always been similar (except he's you know... much cooler than me), but it feels like a real blessing to see him in this state (lmao *fucked up*) while also this age.

Living Pictures

We open BB with "Living Pictures," which is about Harrison perceiving his life as separate from himself, a carefully constructed veneer that he's merely watching.

Thematically, "Living Pictures" is about falsities and also how easily people can fall into--and be trapped by--roles. Harrison also thinks a lot about gods, which is interesting for his psychology because he's an atheist. However, his contemplations of God are deeply rooted in what God means to Lonan, who's an ex-Catholic. I've had a lot of fun exploring these themes also as an ex-Catholic. It's been quite cathartic to recall my memories of God, project them onto Harrison through Lonan, and then have him bastardize them.

The title comes from the literal translation of the phrase "tableau vivant" which appears in the opening paragraph.

Scene A:

Harrison floats fully-clothed in a pool that belongs to a wealthy couple. He is jaded and also thinking about God.

Scene B:

Harrison describes the couple who own the house/pool. The man is a realtor, and the woman stays at home mostly, but walks dogs on the side.

Scene C:

Harrison contemplates his "easy" Las Vegas life since moving in with his mother, Suzanna.

Scene D:

Flashback: Harrison recalls drawing his new sort-of boyfriend, Jeremiah.

Scene E:

Harrison describes his vices (smoking and his ex, Lonan lmao, comparable)

Scene F:

Harrison recalls a recurring dream/nightmare of his aforementioned ex.

Scene G:

Distracted by the dream, Harrison is caught by the couple. The man seems unimpressed by him, though the woman (Sadie), perhaps realizing how young he is, invites him inside for tea.

Scene H:

Harrison observes the couple's "catalogue" home while Sadie makes tea.

The writing process & orbital structures

This first chapter took about two weeks to draft start to finish. Total word count is at about 3k. The scenes are very short, almost like vignettes!

Across MW and FH and BB, I use what I call an "orbital plot structure." I've been using this method for years now for this particular duology.

Essentially, we have a core theme (the "satellite") that every single scene "orbits" around. Here's a horrific drawing of what that visually looks like in my head:

Instead of thinking as these chapters as a three-act structure, I think about them on a deeply thematic level. What is the core of this chapter, and how does every single scene lead back to that core theme?

If this diagram is unreadable, dw, I'll make a video explaining this soon, LOL.

Excerpts

I've shared a number of these, but enjoy this repeated content! Also this is... most of the chapter LOL. I'm going for this extremely shimmery prose style to mimic Harrison's mindset.

Here's the opening scene, which is... the best opening I have ever written LMAO. CW: blasphemy??? So sorry.

Harrison doesn’t need a god. Fully clothed in a stranger’s pool, he pities people who do. So what if he’s alone? The sunless sky is carbonated with stars, another stranger’s backyard smelling like burned cedarwood and marijuana. And he likes it here, star-fished on water that doesn’t belong to him, inventing constellations while someone else’s cigarette hangs from his lip. What god could manage this miracle? Take this drowsy tableau vivant: a man cloaked both by the sky’s navy and his own jacket’s leather, his eyes as wide as spoons. Harrison is fine art and God isn’t. He wins.

Here's a chunk of Scene B:

This isn’t the first time he’s done this. This means a couple of things: 1) challenging God and all his righteousness, and 2) breaking into the pools of wealthy suburbanites. The latter really isn’t that hard. Since mid-September, he’s stalked the houses plotted along Paradise and learned routines. This is even easier—people who fringe their homes with crisp lawns often stick to the same schedule. The pool he floats in belongs to a young couple. The man works real estate according to the signs Harrison’s seen of his face peppered around the neighbourhood. He’s wondered if that’s ever humiliating, to constantly see pixelated versions of yourself everywhere. But that doesn’t matter. His wife walks dogs in her free time, which means always. Last week, Harrison watched her jog with a vizsla, and just yesterday she spent the morning on their gable-roofed veranda brushing a wispy Alaskan malamute.

Here's the entirety of Scene C (CW: suicidal ideation):

Technically, everything in Harrison’s life is easy. He lives in an easy apartment, sleeps on his mother’s easy chesterfield, eats over easy eggs for breakfast, watches easy infomercials every night from midnight to 3:00AM. (Technically, the infomercials aren’t necessarily easy because he watches them in French without subtitles, but it’s entertaining to make up slogans: Cut Away Your Problems with Our Wrapping Paper Cutter! Yeehaw!, so he doesn’t really mind.) And he’s grateful for this, how unassuming his life has become barely a month after Lonan. Perhaps this is how he views things, in two simple parts—not Before Christ, but Before Lonan, which now that he considers it, might be the same thing. Anyway. Before his fawny portrait face, just like Renaissance men in oil on canvas. Before his blunt hands. Before his raven hair, glassy as dark water. Now there’s only one place left to go: after. And how can Harrison complain? His easy mother has insured his easy sedan which means he could get around the city easily if he wanted to. She’s even offered to use her easy money to set him up in his own easy apartment— “Imagine the view!” she’d said as a selling point. And Harrison did. As Suzanna unclogged the kitchen drain, he painted an easy coastline in watercolour and surrendered to the image of his easy, independent life. Easy trees like the date palms pinched against this couple’s home. Easy skies, never a cloud in an easy haven of blue. Easy walk to an organic farmer’s market for easy pancetta if he wants it, or easy cinnamon butter that he has no purpose for, so eats straight from the jar. Easy morning coffee in an easy alternative garden right out his back door, easy sand where there should be golden columbine, easy gravel where there should be soil. And the easy neighbours to greet—them going, “Hello!” and then him going, “Hello!”

Harrison doesn’t like easy. He’d rather walk all the way back to Brooklyn with nothing but an empty backpack and a sleeve of cigarettes, scale a silverish high-rise with his bare hands, struggle onto the vacant roof, stare out at the blinking, vulgar city, then climb onto the building’s railings, let the wind ripple his jacket, his hair, and jump right off.

Here's some of Scene D, ft. Jeremiah:

The cigarettes belong to another man. As Harrison sucks its filter, blowing out remaining plumes of smoke, he’s enthralled by him. Skin velveteen, hair always tediously puffed like dandelions. Jeremiah is more than a man in Harrison’s eyes, the way he speaks like a cross between the frontman of a nineties alternative band and John the Baptist. “You’ve got the soul of a cypress,” he said once, while Harrison sketched the fake rhododendron perched on Jeremiah’s nightstand. He crouched lower over his sketchbook, fingers blackened by a slim rod of charcoal.

This is also from Scene D, ft. Harrison being an Artiste. Screaming at the last line:

Jeremiah quirked a brow, his smile dopey like his glazed eyes, but didn’t move. He could’ve been one of those tawny art mannequins, flat-faced, poseable. But he was so much more than that. As Harrison approached him, setting his sooty hands on his chin, shifting it slightly to the left, pushing his ring finger slightly up so it eclipsed the koi’s eye, his silver signet ring pinging a circle of light onto the opposite wall, Harrison understood Jeremiah wasn’t just a model. More than a man, yes, but not a god either—the creator’s creator, maybe, or perhaps a private natural wonder meant only for this room. Or maybe he was just beautiful, and that was enough too.

Harrison continues to reflect about God (also CW: blasphemy!!!):

In the pool, he doesn’t look at the moon because how cliché would that be? So what if it’s a wide bend in the sky like the parenthesis of cantaloupe his mother ate for breakfast this morning? So what if it looks also like a good bite in a wrist, molars and all? He’s not in this pool to be poetic. He doesn’t care about godly creations, miracles, divine epiphanies. Sure, God said let there be light, but why should Harrison give a fuck? He’s not a romantic. He’s not a dreamer. Not anymore.

This is the entirety of Scene F, which is a direct continuation from the above. I love how the "dreaming" element is immediately brought over.

There’s this one dream though. It hovers over him nightly, a thorny memory warmed by sun. He holds a face like a sculptor holds a brick of clay. This is a face he knows. A face he loves. Soft light dredges both their jaws, firm and ready to rear into the other’s, two animals feeding, or laughing, or breathing. Sometimes, the dreams add birdsong, sometimes a black cat named Beatrice who mews in the corner. Sometimes, the face’s hands become Harrison’s hands, and he searches for his own pinkie to find someone else’s. They don’t need to touch more than this. Even as the sun hazes the room gold, looking is more than enough. Are there mirrors in his eyes? Harrison isn’t always certain. Is he a mirage? He could be—a chromized distant object. He’s a masterpiece in some moments, a man growing into soapstone, buffed marble. Sometimes he’s haloed like Jesus in citrine stained-glass portraits. A saviour, mid-ascension, a shadow of flesh. But sometimes he’s just there, wide-eyed, a simple body. In those cases, Harrison wakes up screaming.

This is from the beginning of Scene G:

Sure, he is a floaty man in this pool, his clothes bloomed around him. He could be petals of blood dispersing in open water, or the unspooling ribbon on a Maypole. His cigarette has burned down nearly to his knuckle, smoke chalk white and feathery like cirrus clouds.

Just going to leave this extremely Lonancore excerpt here:

And then a voice. At first he thinks it might be Lonan’s. One of the last things he’d said: How long will you be gone? Gone. How easily Harrison had stood in that apartment, aware of what he’d do just like he was aware of the mouth Lonan had touched the night before, the palms Lonan had imprinted with his own like Eucharist imprints a tongue before being swallowed.

(????? bruh ???)

This paragraph continues the previous:

And then he’s gasping on water, and there’s the voice again, and it’s not a friable whisper but a shout. “Who the hell are you?” it’s saying over and over again, a godless prayer, except scratch that—when God speaks, he does it with violence.

And the end of Scene G:

Harrison is dragged out of the water by the realtor like he’s a plastic bobber attached to the end of a hook. His cigarette butt smolders in his hand, curlicues of white trimming the tarry night. On the concrete pool deck, he coughs water, the world spitting around him like a skipping VHS. His soaked hair drips into his eyes, down his mouth, half his weight bent on his wrist, his waterlogged jacket heavy like a body on his shoulders.

The man’s got a bony hand hooked around his collar and hides his struggle to let go with more shouting, something about grabbing a home phone, about police, about changing the locks. Really, Harrison should care more, but he’s focused on the man’s drawn face. He looks different than he does in his signs around the neighbourhood, his thin mouth clefted, his hair mousy without its Dippity Do shell. Did his wife fall in love with him, or the glossy image in the ads?

The man is trying to yank him up by the arm, manages to get halfway before Harrison says, “You’re the guy in the ads,” his voice hoarse as he wipes a hand over his slack mouth. And this must be surprising to him because the man immediately loses his grip. Harrison could ask him about that—why expect not to be noticed if your face is everywhere?

“What did you say?” asks the man. What’s his name? Something generic, but with an edge. Trevor Slade. Sean Horton. Brody Spencer. A gingery light pulses behind his head—a lamppost from the street. Harrison pants like one of the woman’s dogs. If he were a dog breed, which one would he be? Mastiff, German shepherd, golden retriever? He’s about to ask when the woman speaks first.

She’s got that same rainy look in her eye from before, a pointed pity that’s soft at the edges like highlight bloom. “Do you want to come inside for some tea?” 

In Scene F, Harrison dangerously flirts with the idea of being punched in the face:

“I like your place,” Harrison says, pinching the ceramic kitten that sits on the coffee table. This isn’t a lie unlike everything else he’s told them—his name is Harold Fraser, and the number Sadie dialed into their home phone is his personal assistant’s, not his mother’s. In here, the walls are tangelo orange, each entryway arched instead of severely right-angled. Suz would like the warm wood, the army of rubbery philodendrons on the windowsills. Harrison cranes his finger up the kitten’s paw, as if shaking its hand. Across its domed belly, translucent letters: JESUS IS STILL THE ANSWER.

“Don’t break that,” says the man, whose name is actually Nash Baker.

Harrison quirks a brow, his mouth twitchy. In five minutes, he’ll need another cigarette. “Family heirloom?”

“Do you take any sugar?” asks Sadie, perhaps at the right time because Nash Baker’s fist is agitating like a fighter fish’s tail through water. Harrison wouldn’t blame him if he did punch him in the face—to be frank, that would be the most interesting thing to happen to him all week.

Harrison relates to Sadie's apparent feelings of being trapped in a picturesque life:

Sadie walks dogs, sure, but what else does she do? A beaded tapestry of a blue heron hangs in the foyer—did she make it? The bird’s eye is onyx black, something unfurling there—maybe the urge to spear a minnow, maybe just deadness. If Sadie didn’t make it, what did she do in this house? Nearly everything is handmade but certainly purchased—the pottered mugs shaped like seasonal fruit that she vigorously plops teabags into, the rust Chobi rug that snags under Harrison’s socks, the ringed vases fluted with dead baby’s breath. How does she know life in this catalogue home? Besides the numbing daily walks with dogs, the repetitive brushings. She’s as fucked as he is, isn’t she? Trapped in this living picture.

And finally, another mildly blasphemous excerpt! We return to the "easy" metaphor from above.

Tomorrow, Harrison will again wake up in Suz’s easy apartment, eat her easy turkey bacon, drink an easy cup of dark roast. He’ll do this for the rest of his life, probably. For Yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever, amen. Harrison’s got no kingdom. The best he can do is steal Jeremiah’s cigarettes, float in an aquamarine pool that doesn’t belong to him any more than Lonan’s aquamarine eyes ever belonged to him. He’s got no more power than a dead car battery, no glory. That’s right. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever amen.

Harrison, basically:

And that's it! Chapter two is going to contain the trigger into destruction territory, so look out for update #2!

Rachel

[willgrahamsbecoming]

hehe

@concretecanalcreature

[metallix-mixin]

thanks tumblr

I feel so honored

[kermit-p-hob-brainrot]

I have gotten my token straight white guy friend to start saying babygirl in relation to fictional characters

[allo-frouto]

Turns out there’s a Parthenon in Nashville, TN so without any warning, poof — there you were in my brain today. 🇨🇦🫶🇬🇷

I feel so euphoric knowing that historical monuments or works of art make people think about me.

[thevoidbunny]

THEYRE HEREEEEEEEEE HAHA

[arrow-guy]

I get to take a little vacation with my partner this weekend and I'm so fucking excited I cannot contain myself

[relamune]

getting @jcfoxington to try out ffxiv bc the autism beam was too strong

[mxlktxa]

opened tiktok and like 5 minutes later i find a tiktok where casCINA COMES OUT AS PAN???? HAVE I WON AT LIFE?????? IS THERE A CHANCE????? I HAVE A CHANCE???????? (no not in a million years i am highly delulu)

[elvenroach]

i finally, FINALLY finished the grind for gyre

[zombiefishmonster]

finally got my best friend to watch greys anatomy. i feel accomplished