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matbarzyy · 4 years ago

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Where We Land [A.B.]

A/N: I've had this in my drafts pretty much since I started this blog but somehow never finished it, so here we are now. Enjoy some soft single dad Tito x student babysitter

Word count: 5739

Babysitting Anthony Beauvillier’s son was not what you expected to do to make money during the last two years of your degree. It started as an accident, really, you were walking in the park when Alex ran into you, and a few days later you were coming over to watch him while his dad was at practice.

Alex had been an unexpected surprise with a girlfriend Tito had dated for less than a year. They weren’t really in love, but they got along well and moved in together for the sake of their baby. They figured out after the first year that they were cut out to be friends rather than a couple, there was nothing romantic between them. Tito kept on living with them to make it easier while Alex needed constant attention, and they agreed to live separately once he was grown enough to be moved between houses on weekends.

A car accident changed everything when Alex was only three. The boys ended up on their own, and Anthony wasn’t sure of how to deal with his son and career at the same time. The team was a priority, but it couldn’t be more important than his own child.

His family helped him a lot at the start, staying with him to watch over Alex, but after a few months they had to get back home. You filled in for them during the week, picking Alex up from school and watching him until his dad was home, but it was never more than that. Anthony still always made sure someone from his family could fly to New York whenever he had to leave for a roadie.

It wasn’t a sustainable option for anyone, but they were still grieving so his parents did everything they could to help out. It worked until Alex turned four, almost a year had passed since he lost his mother, and it was time for everyone to move on.

It was the reason Anthony was so anxious about leaving for this game. You would be the one watching Alex and he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. You were used to the little boy, you were there every day and they both trusted you, but it wasn’t the same. Still, Tito didn’t think he could find anyone better than you.

“Thanks for watching him for so long, there’s no one else I’d trust around here with him for three days,” Anthony sighed as he dropped his bags by the doorstep, quickly checking he wasn’t missing anything. He did his best to shake off the nerves of leaving his son with someone that wasn’t his parents. “Please call me if anything happens?”

“We’ll be fine,” You reassured him for the millionth time. “It’s only three days, he’ll be at school most of the time,”

It was a bit of a change for you because you weren’t used to the morning routine Alex had, but you knew you’d be fine. It wasn’t a long trip, and Tito would be back on Friday right after school ended, so you wouldn’t even have to go through the weekend alone.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tito nodded, his bottom lip still caught between his teeth. “I’m going to say goodbye to him, I’ll try not to wake him up,”

It was six in the morning, so you were already settled on his couch in your sweatpants, your own packed bag sitting near the dinner table. There was a blanket draped over your shoulders, and you were planning on watching Netflix until Alex woke up.

You were used to making yourself at home around Tito’s apartment, you respected boundaries, but he had already seen you bunched up in blankets with Alex a hundred times when you had movie nights together while he was busy. You hoped the little boy would stay asleep for a while, it was too early for you to function, and he already knew you’d be there instead of his dad for the next few days.

“Okay,” Tito walked back into the living room. “He’s still sleeping, he should stay in bed until you wake him up. I made him pick clothes last night to wear today, they’re on the chair in his room,”

“Alright, thank you,” You made a note of doing that tonight, you weren’t sure of how fussy he was with deciding what he wanted to wear, so it was safer to have it done the night before.

“The fridge is full,” Tito continued with the recommendations. “So you should be fine, but that’s in case you need to get anything, or if you two go out and you need to buy him something or whatever, you know I don’t care,” He handed you an envelope that you could only assume was full of cash. It wasn’t the first time he did that, and you always kept receipts and left the exact right amount in, he knew because he had counted the first couple of times. By now he had stopped checking, he really couldn’t care less even if you bought something for yourself, but the little stack of receipts was always there waiting for him.

“I don’t think we’ll need more groceries, you won’t be gone that long,” You knew the kitchen was stocked with the list of ingredients you sent him. You always managed to cook dinner with whatever he had in the fridge when he was late to come home, but he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be missing anything while he was gone.

“Mmh, yeah, I guess. Make yourself at home in my room, okay? I changed the sheets after I woke up this morning, you can use whatever you need in the shower,” He went through the last few things he needed to tell you, and you nodded.

“Thank you,”

“Okay, Mat is picking me up,” He checked his phone when the screen lit up. “Call me if there’s absolutely anything,”

“How many times a day do I need to text you we’re okay to stop you from worrying?” You joked, trying to ease his mind.

“I’m just- I’m not used to this,” He bit his lip nervously, which wasn’t in his habits. You were used to seeing him confident. He always trusted you with Alex and went out for several nights without a second of worry, but this was different.

“I promise I’ll call if anything happens,” You reassured him again. “And just call me when you want to talk to him,”

“Okay, yeah, I’m really going now,” Anthony gave you a real smile. He knew you’d take care of Alex like he was your own.

“Good luck for the games!” You waved one last time before he closed the door.

After that first trip, your job as a babysitter began taking a lot more of your time. Anthony trusted you fully and left you without worrying any time he had to travel. Roadies were rarely long, and you managed juggling your classes and time on campus with your responsibilities towards Alex.

“Can we bake?” The little boy gave you his best puppy eyes, trying to distract you from an essay you were hoping to finish.

“If you ask politely,” You reminded him, tearing your eyes away from your laptop.

“Can we bake, please?” He asked again, knowing what was expected of him.

“Sure, Daddy will be home in an hour or two, do you want to bake him cookies?” You were sure the activity would keep you both busy until he was back, and Tito would appreciate the treat.

“Yes!”

“Alright, go wash your hands,” You nodded towards the bathroom and he ran there while you closed your laptop with a sigh. So much for getting work done.

You put your hair up before washing your hands at the kitchen sink, and Alex came back to join you soon after. You helped him put his small apron on, tying it behind his back for him. He wasn’t too clumsy for a kid, but he still lacked the coordination required for baking.

You measured out the ingredients for him and let him mix them together. He was a little slower than you would have been at it because his arms weren’t strong enough to mix fast, but you eventually ended up with a good enough batter.

“Alright, now the chocolate chips,” You poured them into the bowl and left Alex to check your phone.

Anthony just texted to tell you he was on his way from the airport, so you had just enough time to bake the cookies before he made it home.

“Alex!” You scolded with wide eyes when you found him with the spatula in his mouth, batter all over his face. “Put the spatula down in the sink,” You pointed to it, and he obeyed silently.

You knew from the guilty look he gave you that you wouldn’t need to say more than that. You helped him clean his face and then went on to put the first batch of cookies in the oven. Keeping Alex from trying to touch burning hot cookies took effort, but eventually they were cool enough for him to eat one while you stacked the rest on a plate

“Daddy!” Alex shouted as soon as the door opened, running to him before Tito even had a chance to drag his bags inside.

“There’s my boy,” He grinned as he picked the little boy up and hugged him tightly. “Did you just bake cookies?” He looked up at you and you nodded, smiling at the reunion.

“Chocolate chips!” The little boy yelled excitedly, holding on to his dad.

“Mmh, I’m not surprised,” Tito loved the smell of them, and he was sure they’d taste even better. “How was today?”

“It was good,” you smiled, finishing up in the kitchen and wiping counters to leave everything tidy. “What about you?”

“Busy but in a good way,” he came and reached for a cookie on the plate. “Much better now that I have this,” he bit into the sweet treat and hummed in appreciation. “You’re a wonder, can I hire you as a full time cook?”

“Oh so I could get paid for all of this?” You teased right back, hanging the tea towel back on the handle of the oven.

“You could if you weren’t so busy getting a degree,” he chuckled, watching as Alex came into the room. “I’m going to assume you’re not hungry, uh?” Tito asked the little boy because he was sure his little stomach wouldn’t handle a whole dinner after he had cookies.

“Only for cookies!” He exclaimed in response, making the two of you laugh out loud.

“That’s not how this works little man,” you ruffled his hair and went back to the living room to gather your things.

“You’ll want to take a detour behind the theatre,” Anthony advised as you finished putting your laptop away in your back. “There was an accident when I drove home, there’s going to be traffic,”

“I don’t want you to leave!” Alex ran over to you and clung onto your legs, stopping you in your way and making you look down.

“Alex,” Tito took his stern voice before you could say anything. “You can’t force her to stay like that. You have to ask.”

“Please stay,” The boy held onto your trousers and looked up at you with a pout on his face.

“I can hang around for dinner,” You answered before looking up at his dad to make sure that was okay. He nodded his agreement and you smiled. “How about you go show Daddy the drawing you did at school today while I see what I can make you two, mmh?”

……………………………........................................................................................

Sunlight streamed into Anthony’s room when you woke up. You yawned and sighed, stretching your arms over your head before sitting on the edge of the bed. You still had trouble believing how comfortable his bed was, so you never complained when he was away overnight and you got to stay for Alex. You weren’t sure if it was because of his mattress, or his pillow, or the fact that being cozy in his bed was the closest you’d get to being in his arms.

It was Sunday, so you had extra time to cook breakfast and nowhere to take Alex except the park after lunch if he wanted to go play. It was going to be a lazy day and you were going to start it with pancakes. You adjusted your pajamas that had gotten twisted around your body through the night and stepped out of the bedroom.

You stopped immediately when you noticed a man sitting on the couch. You could tell from the hair that it wasn’t Tito who could have come back early, but he was in an islanders hoodie so you guessed he was on the team.

“Um, hello?” You asked uneasily. You wished you at least got dressed when you got up.

“Hi, uh,” the man turned around and quickly realised you weren’t the person he was expecting to see. “I’m Mat,” he introduced himself. “Is Beau still sleeping or something?”

Now that you had a chance to get a good look at his face you easily recognised him from watching Anthony’s games.

“Oh,” You visibly relaxed. “You’re Mat, he’s not home right now. He’s helping a friend move a few hours away or something,”

“Oh, shit,” Mat realised why his best friend hadn’t texted back when he said he was on his way over. “You’re here for Alex,”

“Yeah,”

“Speak of the devil,” He grinned when a tiny figure appeared behind you.

“Uncle Mat!” The little boy yelled as he ran to him.

“Hi bud!” Mat picked him up easily, throwing him up into the air before letting him settle in his arms. “How good are you at skating now? Your dad told me you go and train every week, you’re going to be a professional soon!”

“Daddy said I can almost skate as fast as you!”

“Really?” Mat gasped excitedly. “You’re going to have to show me that,”

“After breakfast though,” You knew the little boy would get whiny if he didn’t eat before leaving.

“I got a new dinosaur!” Alex tugged on Mat’s sleeve to drag him to his room, and the man followed while gasping and asking questions whenever he needed to.

You shook your head and hurried back to Anthony’s room to change into your clothes before you could cook. Once in the kitchen, you decided to double the recipe you usually made for just you and Alex. If Mat ate like Tito you’d need at least that much.

It didn’t take long for you to start cooking them, and you placed syrup with some fruits on the kitchen island. Alex had recently developed an obsession for strawberries and would eat them with everything, so Tito had plenty of them in the fridge.

“Smells good in here,” Mat walked back in and hoisted Alex up on one of the stools.

“Strawberries!” He immediately grabbed the bowl with the red fruit and messily spooned some onto his plate.

“Pancakes too,” You slid two onto his plate.

He began eating without another word and you sighed, giving up on manners for the morning. You’d be a little more strict around lunch.

“Do you want some too?” You asked Mat, hoping for a positive answer otherwise you’d end up with breakfast for the next two days.

“Did you make these from scratch?” He looked at the batter you had made and watched as you expertly flipped them in the pan, revealing a perfect golden colour on the other side. You nodded and Mat beamed. “Yes please,” He grabbed a plate and the maple syrup, drowning the pancakes as soon as you dropped them on his plate. “So I guess the three of us are going skating?” He was still chewing when he asked his question, and Alex didn’t fail to notice.

“You can’t speak with your mouth full!” He scolded and you held back a laugh at the face Mat made. He clearly wasn’t too used to kids.

“You’re right little man,” He took a swig of his juice before answering. “Lemme start again, are we all going skating today?”

“I don’t know if I can just take Alex without Anthony,” you told Mat, who nodded understandingly.

“I’ve taken him a few times, Beau won’t mind,” he assured you, not knowing that you were awful at skating and actually broke your arm on the ice a few years ago. Deciding that Alex would be safe enough with a professional skater next to him even if you wouldn’t be able to do much to help him, you turned the heat off on the stove and agreed.

“Well, then I guess we’re going skating.”

……………………………........................................................................................

You sighed in relief after you closed the bedroom door as quietly as you could have. Alex has been inconsolable for hours and it was way past his bedtime, which meant you also had to stay up for longer than usual. You settled for cleaning the kitchen first, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you thought of what you should do.

Alex never talked about problems at school before, but what he had told you and cried about last night was worrying. You didn’t want to bother Anthony on the only night he was actually going out with his friends, he usually came straight home after games and remained with Alex on any other nights, but this was his child and you couldn’t just keep it to yourself.

You finished wiping the counters clean before taking your phone and settling for a text.

Alex had some trouble at school with a few kids, cried about it for a while, he just fell asleep. Thought I should let you know if you want to ask him about it tomorrow.

You kept it short and crashed on the couch with a quiet groan. You were exhausted, it was past midnight, and seeing Alex sad shattered your heart. Draping a blanket over yourself, you leaned back and eventually curled yourself up on your side to close your eyes and rest for a moment.

“You’re so whipped,” Mathew snickered as he watched his friend getting ready to leave already.

“I’m not,” Tito grumbled, putting his jacket on and pulling his keys out of his pocket. “I’m worried about Alex,” his jaw clenched as he felt the guilt wash over him. What kind of dad was he, going out with his friends instead of being there for his son when he was crying about his issues?

“He’s sleeping,” the other man argued, earning himself an icy glare. It was enough to shut him up, even if only for a few seconds.

“He’s my son,” Tito looked for his phone in his jacket pocket and realised it was in his jeans instead. “Something happened at school and he didn’t tell me. I need to be home.”

“Whatever you say,” Mat said in surrender before he turned serious again. “But just so you know, I’ve only spent a day with her and I can already tell you she’s wife material. Don’t let her slip away.”

On his way to his car Tito mentally cursed his friend with words he wouldn’t dare say in front of Alex, but Mat had brought up something he was not ready to talk about in the middle of a night that already held enough emotions. Maybe you were wife material, but it was Alex he was supposed to focus on right now, not on your laugh, your smile, that glimpse of mischief in your eyes that was hidden under shyness and professionalism when he was around.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself.

He was home in ten minutes thanks to his friends who had agreed to meet at a bar that was close enough to his place, and he took a deep breath before pushing his key into the lock. There was no need for him to be so overly worried, you were good with Alex, and he was asleep now so Tito most likely wouldn’t get to talk to him until morning.

His heart squeezed when he spotted you curled up on the couch, seemingly fast asleep, if your lack of greeting was any indication. It was so late and you had told him about how stressed you were about the end of the semester and the exams you had to study for. The guilt of not being there for Alex was one thing, but now, seeing you like this on his couch also made him feel like he was failing you.

He couldn’t let you sleep so uncomfortably, but he couldn’t make you drive home either. Doing his best not to disturb you, Anthony crouched down and slid an arm behind your back and the other behind your knees. He wasn’t sure of how he was going to move you without waking you up, but with enough determination he eventually managed to lift you in his arms.

You usually always woke up when he came through the door, so he could only imagine how exhausted you were to remain asleep even when he moved you like this. His luck didn’t last much longer, as when he pushed the door to his bedroom a little too hard and caused it to hit the wall with a thump, you stirred and began to wake.

“What…” You blinked your eyes open, trying to figure out where you were.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Tito whispered as he lowered you onto the mattress. He really wished you would listen to him, but if there was one thing he knew about you it was that you hated being an inconvenience.

“I should go home,” you tried to shake yourself awake, but even then your voice still came out drowsy and you couldn’t push off Tito getting you comfortable.

“It’s almost one am, you’re not going anywhere,” He pulled the covers over your body, tucking you in. “I’ll take the couch,”

“What? No, you can’t sleep on the couch,” you protested, miserably trying to push yourself up, but with a gentle hand on your shoulder Tito made you rest back against the pillow.

“I don’t mind, unless you’re comfortable sharing the bed,” he said the only thing that he knew would make you stay. If you weren’t going to make concessions when it came to him sleeping in his bed, then you’d just have to share, because there was no chance he was letting you drive or sleep on the couch.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Your eyes were already half closed and your body was limp under the covers, so Tito smiled softly and properly stood back up again.

By the time he had changed and spent a few minutes in the bathroom you were fast asleep again. Tito had a hard time reminding himself that this wasn’t normal, that you weren’t his, and that you being in his bed didn’t have to mean anything. He wished he could stop being so obsessed with you, but when he settled into the bed next to you he couldn’t bring himself to turn the lights off immediately. Instead, he took the time to study all of your features and felt himself fall a little deeper for you with every passing second.

“Stay,” was the first thing you heard when you tried to move the next morning.

The sound was unmistakably Tito’s voice, but it was deeper than what you were used to, and there was a resonance to it. It was only then that you realised your cheek was resting on his chest over his shirt. From there you became aware of the weight of his arms around you, of the heat of his hand that was resting on your lower back, of your legs tangled with his.

Your cheeks burned while you tried to decide what to do. Tito was clearly still half asleep, in fact you were pretty sure he only came back to consciousness to say that word before drifting right back into sleep. This gave you two options, either move and wake him up and pretend this was all an unfortunate accident while you slept, or stay in his arms and keep feeling all of these heavenly sensations.

The rational part of your mind was usually the one you listened to, but this morning your emotions were much stronger than usual. Still, to avoid an uncomfortable situation, you pulled away from his hold and tried your best to slip out on his arms unnoticed.

With the way you were tangled it was impossible for him not to notice, so just as you were making it to your own side of the bed, Tito opened his eyes to look at you.

“Morning,” he smiled lazily, cut off by a yawn and his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“Hi,” you breathed out so quietly he almost didn’t hear you. “What time is it?” You knew there was a clock on his nightstand but you couldn’t read it from where you were.

“Early,” he shrugged without checking, but his expression faltered a second later when he looked over at the clock. “Shit. It’s past eight, Alex is going to get up.”

“Oh, we should move,” you said before catching yourself. “I mean, I should, I’m sorry.” You rolled over to sit on the side of the bed and lamely tried to fix your hair. You didn’t even know what you were apologising for, he did insist you should stay the night, after all.

“It’s okay,” Tito didn’t reach out to stop you from getting up, but he was dying to have you back in his arms. “I mean, I want you to stay, it’s just… Alex could walk in any minute, and I’m not sure I can answer the questions that’s going to raise.”

“Yeah, I get it, I can just head out now, thanks for letting me stay the night,” you were glad you fell asleep in leggins and not some more embarrassing (but even more comfortable) pajamas that you sometimes wore when you came here. At least you could just grab your things and go.

“I don’t actually want you to go,” Tito sat up and sighed, not knowing how to handle any of this. There were too many unspoken things between the two of you, the previous night and this morning were obviously more than platonic, but he couldn’t address it in a rush.

“I get it, really,” you gave him a tight smile and prepared to leave his room. You were so embarrassed that you wanted to crawl into a hole to hide. What were you going to do after this? How could you have stayed with him in his bed? And woken up on his chest on top of it all. Of course he was attractive, and of course you had fallen for him, but he was still your employer.

“Wait,” he hurried off the bed just fast enough to touch your wrist before you could go. Turning around to face him again made you swoon. How could he be so gorgeous in the morning? He was all softness and warmth and it was absolutely killing you. “Are you free tonight?” He took his chance, but you were so surprised by the question that it made you oblivious to what he meant.

“Do you need me to watch Alex?” You frowned, unsure of why he would need you when his mom was meant to arrive today to spend a few days with him and Alex.

“No, um, I thought maybe since my mom’s coming she could keep Alex for the night, and maybe you and I could go out to eat somewhere and we could talk about some stuff?”

“Oh,” you gaped like a fish for a few seconds before remembering to close your mouth. The awkwardness of the situation hit you both harder than ever then, you still had a hand on the handle, and your lack of smart answers did not help anything.

“I get it if you’re busy, or if you just think we should forget about this. I didn’t mean to make this uncomfortable.” Tito took a step back, a lot shyer than you had ever seen him, so you rapidly shook your head.

“No, um, actually I’m free, so,” you dropped your hand back to your side, shifting from foot to foot while smiles crept back on both of your faces.

“Pick you up at seven?” He offered so that you wouldn’t have to ramble more. You relaxed and gave him a steady nod as you replied.

“Seven works.”

……………………………........................................................................................

“Anthony, you’re buttoning your shirt wrong,” his mother noted, pretending to casually walk past the bathroom to check what he was doing.

“Dammit,” he muttered, seeing that she was right and undoing the few buttons he had already done to fix his mistake.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” She leaned against the doorframe to observe him.

“Mom, please,” he sighed. Focusing on dressing himself was hard enough, he didn’t know how well he’d be able to dodge her questions if she insisted. She knew him too well and could always read him like a book, but sometimes Tito just wanted to keep some things to himself.

“Alright, alright,” she pretended to give up but her scrutinizing gaze didn’t falter. “You don’t need to be so nervous, did you get her flowers?”

“No,” he huffed. “She’s allergic.”

“So you know each other well?”

The look he gave her was to remind her he was no idiot either. She could read him well, but he also knew all of her tricks to get him to talk, and this one hadn’t been subtle.

“I need to get going before I end up late,” he put an end to the conversation, adjusting his clothes one last time and checking his hair wasn’t out of place. “I shouldn’t be back too late, but don’t wait up, okay?” Tito kissed his mom’s cheek as he walked past her.

“Have fun,” she encouraged him as he walked through the door, and he answered with a nod and a little wave before he was off to what he hoped would be a nice date with you.

He was a wreck as he drove to meet you, scared that he was completely wrong. Did you really want to go on this date with him? He was the one who told you to stay the night, he held you through the night, and he was also the one to ask you out. Were you only doing this because you felt you had to?

He was only pulled out of his head once he reached your place. He couldn’t back out now, if there was only a slight chance that you really wanted this date Tito didn’t want to be the asshole that stood you up.

Little did he know that you were even more of a wreck, pacing around your apartment and wondering how the hell you were supposed to act. You almost jumped to the ceiling when you heard him buzz from the door of your building. There was no more time to overthink.

The car ride was awkward to say the least. Tito tried to start a few conversations, but they all died after three exchanges and he eventually settled for turning the radio on. It was still uncomfortable, but at least it wasn’t silent.

Neither of you said a thing as he stopped the car near a restaurant you remembered mentioning in passing a few times. The illuminated sign stood out in the low light of the evening, but even that couldn’t cheer you up. You were so worried you’d say the wrong thing that you ended up saying nothing at all and you couldn’t tell which option was worse.

“I’m sorry I just don’t know what we’re doing right now,” Tito eventually sighed, falling back against his seat. He had gotten so excited for this, and then so nervous. Now, he was just as lost as you looked, dumbfounded by his words. Somehow, he found the will to continue talking and laid it all out. “I just… I really like you, but I don’t know if you’re here because you work for me and I put you in an uncomfortable position, or if you actually want to be here, and we’ve never talked about any of this, and I swear things have never been weird between us before tonight so I don’t know why everything is so awkward now,” he went on and rambled for a minute, which was just enough time for you to manage a few words.

“I do want to be here,” you tried to reassure him, but your voice wasn’t very steady. It worked anyway, making him breathe out a relieved sigh.

“Okay,” Tito found the courage to turn his head to look at you, offering you a small smile as you met his eyes. This was new for both of you, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t going to work.

Knowing that words weren’t your thing, he held his hand out for you to take. You smiled as you laced your fingers through his, giving him a small reassuring squeeze. “I mean it’s not like we have nothing in common, right?” You tried, earning a quiet chuckle and a nod.

“Worst case the conversation can just fall back on Alex.”

The mention of the young boy was enough to make you smile, which made Tito’s heart swell. He didn’t think he could ever fall in love with someone while his son was so young, needing so much time, attention and care. That was his primary responsibility, and he didn’t believe anyone would truly and selflessly understand that. Yet here you were, caring for the little boy almost as often as he did. You understood. Tito could doubt that you loved him, but he couldn’t doubt that you loved Alex.

You remained there looking at each other for several moments. Maybe you didn’t need to be scared of having to explain how you felt about each other, maybe this silent communication was enough for now. Even when you began to imagine Tito might find your staring weird, he remained there, unwavering, his eyes on yours holding the same intensity.

“Ready?” He spoke softly as to not break the moment.

Your answer came without hesitation. “Ready.”

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duckprintspress · 4 years ago

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How can I write quickly?

I (hi, I’m @unforth) have been asked frequently over the years how I write a lot quickly. I’m a pretty fast writer - for example, I wrote the 5600 words of my May Trope Mayhem fill from yesterday in under 2.5 hours.

First, a little of my personal history for context. I’ve always written, starting from when I was able to string letters into (very poorly spelled) words and (horrible un-grammatical) sentences. When I started trying my hand at serious, professional-level fiction writing, I joined a community called novel_in_90, which was founded by the author Elizabeth Bear. The purpose of novel_in_90 was “to be NaNoWriMo but more realistic.” Instead of 50,000 words in 31 days, it was 67,500 words in 90 days, or 750 words a day. I participated in multiple rounds of novel_in_90 starting in mid-2005, and in 2007 I completed my first (godawful) novel. When I started, even writing a couple hundred words of day took me forever, but it got easier with time.

During those same years, I also got a job that required I do professional writing on a deadline: I was a grant writer, and I only got paid when the grants won. That often meant working fast under high pressure, culminating in the weekend I wrote and edited an entire 40 pages grant that was due on Monday. I think, if I hadn’t had a solid foundation of “regular daily plodding writing,” I’d not have been able to marathon when the moment came...and it came because I had to, not because I wanted to. However, I learned a valuable lesson: I could. Subsequently, I found that, when I had the time and space and was rested enough to use my brain, I could bust out a huge amount. Like, I wrote an entire 150,000 word novel in 17 days.

My personal record is about 200,000 words in one month (it was the month I wrote that novel; I wasn’t tracking when I did that so I don’t know exactly), 25,000 words in a day, and I’ve topped out around 3,000 words an hour. I do know people who can do more...but not many.

Not everyone will be able to do this. Flat out, I MUST preface the rest of this post by saying that. Some people will find that writing fast fits their brain, and for others, it just won’t, and that’s okay. Fast doesn’t equal better, and it isn’t inherently “good” to write fast. Furthermore, even for those who can write fast, not everyone will find the same strategies helpful. I can share what works for me. Try out one item, some items, or all of these - if writing faster is something you want to be able to do, which it certainly never has to be. Use what works for you, and discard the rest.

Sit in your chair, put your fingers on your keyboard or touch screen, and write. You can’t write 1,000 words in half an hour until you write one word, however long that one word takes. I know saying this is obvious, but I’ve been asked “how can I write fast” by people who struggle to write at all...fast can’t be your priority until you’ve got a foundation of just writing. (Honestly...fast should never be your priority, but it might be helpful to you regardless, which can make it worth learning.)

Start small. Set an achievable goal, and make yourself meet that goal (daily, weekly, whatever) come hell or high water, no matter how long it takes you. Keep the goal small at first; you’re not trying to torture yourself, you’re trying to build a skill. If you set the goal high enough that you consistently fail, you’re not teaching yourself anything. And, if you find the goal IS too high...lower it. There’s no shame in working within your limits. Think of it like starting a new work out regimen: you wouldn’t try to run a 10k at a record time if you can’t run a mile slow. Treat your fingers and your brain the same way you’d treat your legs and joints. Give them time to grow, learn, and improve before you try to push yourself.

Trying to write daily is worthwhile if you want to work on your writing speed, because you’ll be forced to try to fit it in as you’re able - that might be ten minutes in your morning, or an hour in your evening, and it might vary from day to day, but making it daily means you have to fit it in somewhere.

Building skills takes time and isn’t easy. For some people, it will come easier than for others, and even when you’re fast, going from “I can write words fast” to “I can write damn good words fast” takes practice and dedication and accepting constructive criticism - speed alone will never be worth more than writing well.

Having a community can help. Ya’ll will check in on each other, cheer each other on, remind each other that missing a day or a goal isn’t the end of the world, and keep each other’s spirits up. If you don’t know other writerly folks online, I recommend Weekend Writing Marathon ( @weekendwritingmarathon ) as a good place to start (I used to be a mod there). Once you’re trying to work up to larger word counts in a day, remember that even writing fast will take minutes or hours. You can’t write 2,500 words in an hour if you don’t set an hour aside. Make sure you’re giving yourself the room and time you need to succeed.

You will probably never be able to do high, rapid word counts every day, every week, every month. The best runners in the world don’t run marathons every day. Set realistic long term goals.

Work on projects where you have a clear idea of where you’re going. I’m not saying “pantsers” can’t write fast, because of course they can, but if you want to write fast, and well, and coherently, to create a first draft that’s in pretty good shape, you’ll do better if you have a good sense of what you’re trying to accomplish with your story. That doesn’t mean you need to do all your world building up front, or have a complete outline (I never have either). All you really need is what happens next. I tend to plan projects - and write them - one full scene at a time, with only a vague idea what’s going to come after. (I’m personally a “plantser,” and the strategies in this post will likely be most effective to other plantsers.)

Visualize ahead of time what you’d like to write...but don’t get too attached to what you visualize. When I go to bed, I plan the next scene I’m going to compose, often to the least detail. I then forget all of it overnight, at least all the specifics, and I’m left with a general sense and shape of what’s to come. You’ll never be able to replicate the “perfect” dialog you pre-conceive, so give up on trying to. Instead, play through the scene and think about the emotional beats you want to hit and plot points you want to forward. If you keep that in mind, you’ll be able to get the words out faster than if you’re agonizing over every word or regretting the “oh-so-great” idea that you’ve since forgotten.

Practice different work styles. If writing every day doesn’t work for you, try instead saying, “this is my writing day each week,” and aim for a lot that specific day, and write little or nothing other days. Try writing at different times of day and on different days, fitting it into your schedule. If you’re beating yourself up for not writing when you “should,” it’ll be that much harder to succeed, so instead, as I said for point 2 - set a reasonable goal that fits your life and working style, fitting it around your other responsibilities, and push yourself within that framework, instead of trying to shoehorn into a style that you “think you should” use to succeed.

Track your word counts, and take notes on how much you did and what project you were working on. If you’re also experimenting with different times of day and different days, make sure you note that too. I personally use a simple Excel sheet (well, Google Sheets, now) - column one is the date, column 2 is “starting word count,” column 3 is “ending word count,” column 4 is “=column 3 - column 2”, column 5 is notes. Pay attention to when you succeed at writing faster, and when you don’t, and consider what factors might have played into your success...and then try to replicate those factors next time you’re doing a sprint. Control as many variables as you can while you’re “training.”

If you find social media distracting, trying getting a web browser extension that prevents you from connecting to websites for a set period of time.

If you find you tend to dither before starting, I find it helpful to run through everything that I might do to procrastinate (check my social media! grab a snack! make some tea! set up my playlist! check my social media again! finish making the tea! check my social media for what I swear will be the last time!), and when I’m done, it’s like, well, I’ve done all those things, I’ve got no choice left, time to write, no excuses left.

If you find you struggle with picking up a WIP, try leaving off in the middle of a sentence at the end of a session, one where you know exactly how it ends - or, leave off mid-paragraph, or when you are positive you know what happens next (and I mean literally next, as in the very next sentence.) It’s much easier to “pick back up” when your first words are super clear. (Do not do this if you think there’s any chance you’ll forget or end up in a situation where you won’t return to your WIP for months!)

If you find you struggle to maintain continuity across multiple writing sessions, try rereading what you wrote the previous day before you proceed. Resist the urge to edit it!

Avoid stopping when you get stuck, even to do research. Don’t know a fact? Add a comment to your manuscript flagging the relevant text, “LOOK THIS UP LATER.” Can’t think of a word? Put in something you can use the “find” function on easily (I personally use “XX” since there are no words that have a double x in them) and so you can come back later, search for your chosen placeholder, and fill in the blanks. Not sure how a scene ends but know the next scene? Jump ahead.

That said, if you really don’t know what happens next, you don’t do yourself any favors by pressing on. As I’ve said previously, speed alone should never be your writing object. It’s better to slow down, consider your plot, figure out where you’re going, and then write, than to just plow ahead - or at least, that’s better if you want a manuscript you’ll actually be able to use for something at a later point. If you’re truly just practicing, you can also say “screw it, who needs coherence?” and keep going. I’d personally never have finished my first novel if I’d spent a lot of time worrying about making the pieces fit together and yeah, it’s a mess, but it’s a mess I wrote instead of a mess I got stuck on and never completed.

Don’t move the finish line. If you’ve set the goal of 500 words a day, don’t beat yourself up if you get 550 because you think you think you could have done more. If you say you’ll write five days a week, don’t get mad because you DID have time the sixth day but chose to use it on something else. If you make yourself feel like shit when you succeed, what’ll happen when you fail? And when you’re comfortable and really think you’re ready, change the goal - reassess every month, say, and up your goals. While working for speed, trying upping your word count goal without changing the amount of time you allot for working.

Your need to adhere to the above suggestions will change over time. Once, I always had an outline; now I often don’t need one. Once, I wouldn’t let myself stop even to use a thesaurus; now, I find I can look up words without breaking my flow or significantly slowing myself down. This is not an “all or nothing” prospect, nor is it a “do things the same way forever once you’ve found one (1) thing that works” prospect - you’ll experiment, and find strategies that work for you, and then at some point, your needs will change, and you’ll experiment more, and find new strategies that work for you, on and on, as your skills grow.

To reiterate: writing fast should never be your objective in and of itself! Greater writing speed will come with practice and as a general side effect of improving your craft. Simply being able to write fast is useless; being able to write fast and well will enable you to get more of your ideas out there, so if that’s something you’d like to accomplish, focus on building your general skills and training yourself to be able to use those skills rapidly and in tandem with each other to produce decent writing, in a first draft, at a decent speed.

Once you try, you may find none of this works for you! That’s okay. That’s good! You tried, which means you learned something about yourself and your own writing style, and that too will help you to improve. Keep experimenting, keep learning, and find what does work for you - and accept that no two writers will ever be the same, and one of those differences will be writing speed. Some writers will never write fast, and that’s doesn’t make them any less awesome or valid. And some writers will always write fast, and that doesn’t make them inherently awesome or valid. Only with a suite of skills that suit your individual life, personality, work style, writing capabilities, goals, etc., will you succeed as a writer (for various, personalized definitions of the word “success”); speed is only one of those potential skills, and not one that’s particularly important in my opinion...yet I still get asked about it fairly often, so here we are, these are my suggestions

Go forth, and write some words! <3

#duck prints press #writing advice #original content

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

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YOUR EMPLOYEES AND INVESTORS WILL CONSTANTLY BE ASKING ARE WE THERE YET

I think I've figured out what's going on. After the first 10 or so we learned to treat deals as background processes that we should ignore till they terminated.1 Don't Get Your Hopes Up. Something hacked together means something that barely solves the problem, the harder it is to bait the hook with prestige. And that is almost certainly mistaken. So one thing that falls just short of the standard, I think, should be the highest goal for the marginal. Big companies think the function of office space is to express rank. As big companies' oligopolies became less secure, they were willing to pay a premium for labor. You can see it in old photos. If you're friends with a lot of the worst kinds of projects are the death of a thousand cuts. And what's especially dangerous is that many happen at your computer.

And the microcomputer business ended up being Apple vs Microsoft. In 1450 it was filled with the kind of turbulent and ambitious people you find now in America. You have to like what they do there than how much they can get the most done. That's not what makes startups worth the trouble. Design This kind of metric would allow us to compare different languages, but that if someone wanted to design a language explicitly to disprove this hyphothesis, they could probably do it. This technique can be generalized to: What's the best thing you could be doing, not just what you can see the results in any town in America. With this amount of money can change a startup's funding situation completely. There I found a copy of The Atlantic. Whereas it's easy to get sucked into working longer than you expected at the money job.2 That's ok. I think you have to do all three. But more importantly, you'll get into the habit of doing things well.

But what if the person in the next 40 years will bring us some wonderful things.3 They all know about the VCs who rejected Google. The writing of essays used to be.4 You may have read on Slashdot how he made his own Segway.5 He improvises: if someone appears in front of him, he runs around them; if someone tries to grab him, he spins out of their grip; he'll even run in the wrong place, anything might happen. The people who've worked for a few months I realized that what I'd been unconsciously hoping to find there was back in the place I'd just left. It was supposed to be something else, they ended up being Apple vs Microsoft. By 2012 that number was 18 years. The first thing you need is to be willing to look like a fool.6 Google they have a fair amount of data to go on. John Malkovich where the nerdy hero encounters a very attractive, sophisticated woman.

Many of the big companies were roll-ups that didn't have clear founders.7 Empirically, the way to the bed and breakfast, and other similar classes of accommodations, you get to hit a few difficult problems over the net at someone, you learn pretty quickly how hard they hit them anyway. Inexperienced founders make the same mistake as the people who list at ABNB, they list elsewhere too I am not negative on this one was the only way to get lots of referrals is to invest in students, not professors. It will actually become a reasonable strategy or a more reasonable strategy to suspect everything new.8 Never say we're passionate or our product is great. Whereas undergraduate admissions seem to be disappointments early on, when they're just a couple guys in an apartment. Programmers at Yahoo wouldn't have asked that.9 Incidentally, this scale might be helpful in deciding what to study in college. VCs think they're playing a zero sum game.

I spend most of my time writing essays lately. Almost everyone's initial plan is broken. If smaller source code is the purpose of comparing languages, because they come closest of any group I know to embodying it. Distracting is, similarly, desirable at the wrong time. But if we make kids work on dull stuff now is so they can get away with atrocious customer service. In fact, here there was a kid playing basketball? Of course, figuring out what you like.

Go out of your way to bring it up e. The industry term here is conversion. Try to keep the sense of wonder you had about programming at age 14. At least if you start a startup, people treat you as if you're unemployed.10 But hacking is like writing. Even with us working to make things happen the way they used to, they were moving to a cheaper apartment. It causes you to work not on what you like, but is disastrously lacking in others. I do in the rest of the world. Their defining quality is probably that they really love to program.

I could only figure out what to do, there's a natural tendency to stop looking.11 Economies of scale ruled the day.12 One is that this is simply the founders' living expenses.13 I need to transfer a file or edit a web page, and I think I know what is meant by readability, and I think they're onto something. Multiply this times several hundred, and I get an uneasy feeling when I look at my bookshelves. You may have read on Slashdot how he made his own Segway.14 Everyday life gives you no practice in this. Startups grow up around universities because universities bring together promising young people and make them work on anything they don't want to want, we consider technological progress good.

Notes

Samuel Johnson said no man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. Which is precisely my point. If they were regarded as 'just' even after the egalitarian pressures of World War II the tax codes were so new that the guys running Digg are especially sneaky, but except for money. They don't know enough about the new top story.

The image shows us, they tended to make money. But we invest in the Bible is Pride goeth before destruction, and one of the fake leading the fake leading the fake. In No Logo, Naomi Klein says that 15-20% of the aircraft is.

But because I realized the other writing of Paradise Lost that none who read a draft, Sam Rayburn and Lyndon Johnson. If they agreed among themselves never to do due diligence for an investor? The best technique I've found for dealing with the other.

I ordered a large number of startups as they do for a public event, you can ignore. If you want to help the company, and a few of the Facebook that might produce the next Apple, maybe the corp dev is to show growth graphs at either stage, investors decide whether to go to die.

If you walk into a big company CEOs in 2002 was 3.

Or rather, where w is will and d discipline. But that turned out the existing shareholders, including that Florence was then the richest country in the sense of mission.

In Shakespeare's own time, because they can't afford to. The company may not be able to raise their kids in a company in Germany. When we got to see the apples, they said, and why it's next to impossible to write an essay about it wrong. That will in many cases be an open booth.

I'm not saying you should probably be worth trying to tell them exactly what constitutes research in the early 90s when they say they bear no blame for any particular truths you'll learn. As Jeremy Siegel points out that there is undeniably a grim satisfaction in hunting down certain sorts of bugs. Did you know about it as if you'd invested at a discount of 30% means when it was actually a great programmer doesn't merely do the right direction to be is represented by Milton.

But a lot of the next round. It's hard to say exactly what your body is telling you. In Russia they just kill you, they tend to be very unhealthy. One thing that drives most people realize, because you have two choices, choose the harder.

Though Balzac made a lot of classic abstract expressionism is doodling of this essay talks about programmers, but one by one they die and their houses are transformed by developers into McMansions and sold to VPs of Bus Dev. Or rather, where it sometimes causes investors to act. Eric Raymond says the best hackers want to trick admissions officers. And no, unfortunately, I mean efforts to protect widows and orphans from crooked investment schemes; people with a truly feudal economy, you better be sure you do in proper essays.

The top VCs thus have a better education. Or a phone, IM, email, Web, games, books, newspapers, or some vague thing like that. You need to fix. But the question is not much to maintain their percentage.

Kant. Loosely speaking. The real decline seems to them to lose elections. Some types of startups where the recipe is to say incendiary things, they can grow the acquisition offers most successful founders still get rich simply by being energetic and unscrupulous, but they get for free.

World War II to the frightening lies told by older siblings. That's one of the most general truths. As we walked in, we found they used it to get into that because a unless your last funding round.

But this seems an odd idea.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston, Shiro Kawai, Garry Tan, Chris Small, and Nikhil Nirmel for sharing their expertise on this topic.

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dragon-kazansky · 4 years ago

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Yes, sir! | Niki Lauda

Professor Lauda AU! 👨‍🏫

Gender neutral reader

Dedicated to @lieutenantn and @scuttle-buttle 💕

[Previous chapter] - [Next chapter]

Part 3

You stayed up pretty late working on your assignment. It wasn't finished, but you still had time. You didn't have languages today, so you could continue this later.

However, you had slept in. If it wasn't for your phone ringing off the hook, you probably wouldn't have woken up yet. You ignore the calls from Katie as you realise you'll be late to your literature class.

Grabbing some clothes, you rush to get ready and make your way to the university.

You make it just in time for class. Professor Barnes gives you a knowing smile as you sit down.

Though literature was the whole reason you were here, and you were only two classes in, you were finding it hard to focus.

Now, the assignment wasn't anything huge, but you get the feeling everyone is right about Professor Lauda. If he wasn't impressed, you may not last the term. For whatever reason, you really wanted to gain his approval.

Maybe he would stop looking at you if you were an annoyance in his classroom.

You were taking notes for Barnes' class, but your brain was occupied with German phrases from the sheet Lauda gave you.

You were thinking about what you had written so far and if it would be good enough for him. You really wanted to do well.

Ugh, I've never tried so hard for a Professor's approval before!

You did promise yourself you were going to work hard and get top grades. That would.bw the only reason you were going to try so hard for your Professor.

You had no doubt it would be the same in literature too.

A small stack of paper is placed on front of you and you blink rapidly, zoning back into reality.

Professor Barnes stands in front of you, smiling. You look up at him sheepishly. He caught you staring into space.

Looking around, you notice everyone else had gone.

"You zoned out for some time."

"I'm sorry, sir."

He chuckles softly, "don't apologise. Just make sure it doesn't keep happening. I made notes for you, can't have you falling behind already."

You smile and look down at the little stack.

"Thank you, sir."

He nods and walks away. You grab your things and leave. You felt silly about being caught zoning out. Especially when it was about your assignment.

You sigh. You needed coffee.

You leave the university and make your way to the nearest coffee shop. The go to spot for students.

Getting in line, you look around. You spot several students studying here. You could probably do that at some point, this would be a nice place to relax and study.

Just as you move closer to the counter, a table in the back catches your eye. You turn your head properly to look at it. Sitting there are Professors.

Huh, guess everyone likes this place.

They didn't seem to paying much attention to the students around them.

You heart nearly leaps from your chest when you see who's sitting at the end of the table. He hasn't noticed you, his gaze looking at his company, but now all you can see is him.

You turn around quickly, hoping you would get to order soon.

Glancing up, you him stand from the table. You turn away again. As long as he didn't notice you, you could function like a normal human being.

The person in front of you moves. You step up and place your order. You pay and glance back toward the corner. He's gone. You cast your eyes forward again.

Why did it suddenly feel like your coffee was taking ages to be made.

You nibble at your lip anxiously. Why were so nervous? What did it matter if your Professor saw you? Nothing would happen. He would just see you.

Ah, but it's him. It's only been a few days and you can't stop thinking about him. The cute Professor who could read you the phone book and you would be happy. The Professor whose eyes could see into your soul with one look.

Yeah, it was nothing.

A cup is placed down in front of you. You snap back to reality and take it, smiling at the lady.

You exit the coffee shop and turn away to walk down the street when a voice calls out to you.

"You dropped this."

You stop. That voice. His voice.

You turn.

Lauda stands there with his hand extended out. Within his clutch is a familiar notebook. You glance down to see your bag open, things sticking out of it.

How did that happen?

You smile as you take the book from him.

"Thank you, sir."

He lowers his hand and looks at you.

"Is that your assignment?" He asks.

Oh no, did he see it?

"Uh, yes. Well, a draft of it."

He nods his head.

"It's good."

You are certain for a moment your heart stopped. Did he just compliment it?

"Thank you.... uh, danke!"

You swear, for just a second, he smiles.

"See you in class."

You nod and put your notebook away. You both part ways. Your heart was racing like crazy. He spoke to you outside of class. He smiled at you.

He liked your assignment.

You had to be dreaming. You had to be.

You return home, your mind only able to focus on that little exchange. You couldn't the way he looked at you out of your head.

His smile.

Maybe you weren't annoying to him? He always looked like you were an annoyance to him in class. Maybe that was just him.

Didn't make you any less interested in him.

Your assignment. It wasn't finished.

You grab your notebook and get to work. He said it was good. You needed to do better. There wasn't much time left before you next class with him.

Coffee long forgotten, you work away.

You wake up with tour alarm blaring. You have no idea how long you stayed up last night working, but when you look down at your notebook, you've finished your assignment.

You smile.

It's done.

Before you could even think about getting ready for the day, your phone rings loudly. You pick it up and answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey," it's Katie, "do you have some time today?"

You look at your work. You've finished your German assignment, but you still had all the literature work to catch up on, considering you zoned out in class.

You suppose you could stay up again tonight to catch up on that.

"Yeah, I have time. What's up?"

"Can we meet up? I may need you."

"Uh, sure. Everything OK?" You ask, slightly concerned. Though she didn't sound like she's in trouble or anything.

"Yeah, I could just use your help."

You decide on a meeting place and you get ready to go meet her. Literature work forgotten for now, you make your leave.

Katie is waiting for you in the nearest park. She waves at you when she sees you. You walk over.

"What's up?" You ask, wondering why she called you here.

"I need your German assistance."

You stare at her.

"I've had two classes."

"But you can speak some German right?"

"Just a bit. I'm not fluent. That's why I'm taking classes."

She shrugs, "can you flirt in German?"

"No. Why are you asking?" You narrow your gaze at her.

"There's this cute guy from Germany in my class. I want to impress him, but I'm not the German student here."

You stare at her blankly.

"No."

"Oh come, there must be something you know."

"No."

"You aren't learning to flirt in German for your Professor?" She grins wickedly.

"Why would I be doing that?"

"Because I know we've told you how mean he is, but let's face it, he's cute and you know it. You wouldn't have asked about him if you weren't interested in your Professor, which by the way I will support if you want me to. You certainly like to play it risky."

"What are you talking about? I just wanted to know a bit more about my Professor." You say, crossing your arms.

"Which is weird, by the way."

"Whatever. I can't help you. I have work to do, as you should too." You begin to walk away.

Katie runs after you.

"Come on!"

"No!" You laugh.

She follows you right back to your place, insisting you learn some flirting so you could help her.

Your answer was still no.

The audacity she had to assume you would learn any for your Professor was unbelievable. It was just a petty little crush you had.

Nothing more.

@lieutenantn @scuttle-buttle @rumblelibrary @zemosimp05 @hb8301 @celtic-witch-bitch @somethingthatsaysbubbles @lorna-d-m @anteroom-of-death @belle82devart @vverliebt @alltimebandsexual666 @charistory @mischief-siriusly-managed @thatoneartgalsstuff @mssennimatilda @hannahbal-the-fannibal @apparrio

#niki lauda au #niki lauda x reader #daniel brühl x reader #Daniel Brühl AU #au

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feral--bog--witch · 4 years ago

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I don't know if anyone of my mutuals are from Texas but here is a really good list of winter survival tips from a lady who lives where it gets to be -40C (up to -55C sometimes).

Layer your clothes.

Start with leggings or skin tight pants, then put sweats or another fuzzy type pant over top of that. Put on a tank top, then a t-shirt, then a sweater, then a coat. Same with socks. Layer your socks as well. HOWEVER do not put so much on that you start sweating. If you start sweating you MUST remove a layer to where you are warm but NOT hot. If you get cold while you are sweating, it negates all your layers and you WILL get cold faster.

For going outside without winter gear.

Do the layering and if you have wind pants or a wind jacket (waterproof outer shells can work too), put that over top of your clothes. Its not rated for cold weather but it will keep the wind from cutting through you which is a big thing that can affect your core body temperature. The wind will be freezing and it won't take you long to get freezing as well if it can cut through your clothes.

For your feet, water proof foot wear but NOT rubber boots. Those will make your feet freeze.

And for gloves, if you don't have any, you can make some quick ones out of socks but you MUST put them on BEFORE you go outside otherwise it negates the reason for them. They KEEP you warm, not MAKE you warm.

Also remember leggings can be doubled as a scarf and you can and will lose heat through your head so wrap it up or wear a hood.

What to do if you think you have frostbite.

You can tell if you are frost bitten due to the fact your skin will kind of go numb and you can no longer feel it. The worse it is, the more you can't feel. Now to warm that area back up once you are safe inside DO NOT USE HOT WATER! This is imperative. You WILL cause second or third degree burns because you can't tell how hot it is. Start with tepid water and rub the area vigorously while you run water over it or hold it under the water. Increase the temperature slowly over time. Another point. This WILL hurt. It will hurt A LOT but you need to keep going. It hurts because your nerves are thawing out and you are regaining circulation. This is normal and GOOD. If it hurts you know the area is slowly thawing out.

If you don't have access to water, rub the affected area a lot, massage it and work the skin and muscle. The friction will slowly thaw it out through heat and you will need to keep doing it to ensure it thaws out completely. Once again this will hurt but you need to push through it to ensure you retain functionality of that area be it your hands or feet or fingers or toes.

What do do to prep your house for freezing temps.

First thing you need to do, especially because in the south your houses are not built for freezing temps is to drip your taps. All the taps in your house should be dripping hot and cold water. This will prevent your pipes from freezing.

Also open your cupboards under your sink to help prevent the pipes from freezing. If you are concerned about it still freezing you can use cardboard to wrap them, it's not the greatest for insulation as it's not built specifically for it but it will work in a pinch to keep your pipes from freezing. You can also wrap some cotton batting around them BEFORE you do the cardboard to insulate even better.

Then we move onto draft proofing your home. If your house is drafty it will get cold VERY quickly, especially when you have freezing wind blowing. So for your windows, hang dark blankets up to cover the windows, this will help prevent drafts and the darker colour will absorb heat that will be help keep your house a touch warmer.

For your doors, roll up towels and put them at the bottom of your doors to help stop drafts from coming in or out. If you are leaking around the edges, if you have it, staple double over plastic to over hang the door to isolate the draft to the door itself. If you don't, hang a blanket to cover the door completely. This will block the draft and keep the cold from coming in and the heat from escaping.

What do do if your power goes out.

First thing you are going to do is bring everyone into a single room, if you can centralize the room to be in the middle of the house, that's even better as the cold will take much longer to reach it. As you do that, close all the door you can and then you are going to amp up your space to help retain heat. So you are going to cover the door with a blanket and you are going to bring as many blankets as possible into that space.

You are going to stay there with everyone and eat and sleep in this room TOGETHER. Your body heat will keep the room warm and if you insulate it properly it will retain that heat. If you notice a wall is super cold, hang a blanket up on it, if you notice a draft, stuff it with a towel or hang a blanket up on it.

You want the room to be as insulated as possible. And yes I include pets with this so bring in their food and water dish and if it's a cat bring in toys and their litter box.

For light, use flashlights or camping lights. If you have kerosene lamps use those, but generally use candles. Make sure they are high off the ground, not where they can tip over, and make sure they have a plate or a tray underneath then so that if they DO tip you won't catch anything on fire or get wax every where. Remember that crayons can be used as candles, and if you shove a candle in a can of Crisco that shit will burn for like six days straight. Also if you have an orange, cut it in half, take the pulp out, pour in a little cooking oil into the half a peel (make sure the flash point of the oil is high so it doesn't catch fire), and then stick a small candle in the middle, this will give you a large amount of burn time for a small candle.

For heat. There are several methods you can use to heat up a space, one is you take a tiny can, put a toll of toilet paper inside of it, then you dump isopropyl alcohol (min 70%) over the roll until it's soaked, and then light it on fire. This will provide both light and heat for several hours.

If you want to double that heat, take a terra cotta pot or a metal pot and have it slightly over top of the can. NOT covering the fire but resting slight over top of it so the rim of the terracotta pot or the metal pot it level with the edge of the candle. If you have several of those, you will heat the space rather quickly.

If you have a woodburning stove or a fireplace, then use that! Just make sure you have your chimney unobstructed donut draws properly and for all burning types of heat ALWAYS HAVE A CARBON MONOXIDE ALARM. If you DON'T then make sure your space is ventilated.

Also never fall asleep while the fire is going. So candles, your little flame heaters, ect.

Keeping yourself warm at night.

The absolute BEST blankets to use to wrap up in are sleeping bags. Use them on-top of all your other blankets and they will keep your heat in so much better than anything else. They are specifically designed for colder weather and keeping you warm.

Keep your feet warm. The best and easiest solution to this is to make a 'bed rock'. Back in the old times people used to warm up rocks and stones and stick them at the end of their bed underneath their covers to keep them warm. We can mimic that by using hot packs, so those little plastic bean filled baggies that you warm up in the microwave. Pop those into the microwave for two minutes and stick them at your feet under your blankets and you will have warm feet for up to three or four hours.

If you don't have a heat pack, that's fine! You can make one with a sock, rice, and a hair elastic. Fill your sock with rice, tie it closed with the elastic and there you go! Homemade heat pack (I actually made one this winter when our power went off. It makes a WORLD of difference.)

If you are stuck outside in the freezing cold (and can't get into a shelter).

Layer your clothes and if you are still cold, crumple up newspaper and stick it between the layers. This will act as a insulator to keep your body heat in. You need to stay warm. It's easier to stay warm than it is to warm up.

Try and get access to a tent and a sleeping bag will increase your chances of staying warm. You need shelter and a tent with a sleeping bag is the best way to do that. If you have shelter you can survive but if it's snowing do NOT let snow accumulate on your tent. This can block air flow and can cause your tent to collapse.

Sleep on something that protects you from the ground. Even if you have to layer cardboard to keep the cold away from you, do so.

If you have no shelter, you can make one using cardboard boxes. Find a large box if you can, then a smaller one that fits inside of it but still fits you. Once you have them, find a place that is sheltered from the wind and then place your boxes so that the opening it towards the shelter and then shove crumpled newspaper in the space between the boxes to provide insulation and while it's not pretty, it will work in a pinch. If you want too insulate it more, put plastic over the boxes and then pile snow on the sides and a thin layer on the top. This will insulate your shelter as snow acts as a great insulator.

Buddy up. The more people you find the more heat you can generate. Never be alone out in the cold. It's easier to fall asleep when you shouldn't and you won't have someone else there who can help you if you need it. Have at least someone else with you if you can manage it.

Never go to sleep cold! If you are warm you can stay warm but you can't warm up if you are cold. Doing jumping jacks, rub your legs and arms, do whatever it takes to get warm before you go to sleep.

If it's super cold out, keep moving and find public spaces that are open to get out of the cold. Sometimes it is too cold for you to stop and sleep. You might want too but you can and will die if you do. The cold will kill you quickly and it is better to keep moving to keep yourself safe and awake. If you can find open public buildings, like 24 hour laundry mats or libraries or other buildings like that. Go in to get warm as best as you can and if you can sleep there, do so but you cannot sleep outside if it's too cold.

Stay safe.

This is the biggest piece of advice I can give you. This cold snap is horrible for people who have never experienced it before so stay safe and stay warm. Im worried for you, I'm used to this, you aren't. I love you all and stay safe!

#texas snow storm #texas #survival #survival tips #please boost #please interact #cold weather survival #tips and tricks #texas is frozen #get this to where the people who need it can see it!#stay safe #stay warm

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daisywords · 3 years ago

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What was "Children of the Red Sun" about? I know that you abandoned it, but the title has me curious

Thanks for asking!

So Children of the Red Sun was this YA? scifi story that idk I might recycle for parts in the future idk. (It itself was made of recycled parts so...we'll see what happens) I think I was actually posting parts of it here back in like...2017? 2018?

So the main conceit was that a near-future Earth gets involved in a war with some aliens. Many countries on Earth work together to form an army to fight in the space war. The thing is, the technology they are using in the space war relies on being hooked up directly with the operator's brain. It's a new technology, and right now they've only figured out how to make it work with young people, since their brains have higher plasticity/can adapt to work with the technology. This means they need Youths™ to fight in the space war. Enter "The Draft."

People obviously had an issue with sending literal children to fight their wars, so they compromised with a minimum age of 17. Basically as soon as you turn 17 you are eligible for the Draft, and you age out at 20.

The story follows two main characters: Olivia and Bart.

We first meet Olivia on her 17th birthday, obviously a tense day. She gets drafted a few months later, and we follow her through the military induction process. In her group happens to be the other girl from her school that is also named Olivia. (og Olivia was almost named Olivia Rodrigo rip but I she ended up being Olivia Garcia and the other was Olivia Haywood.) They go by last names in the space military so it's not that weird but idk I have a common name and I really wanted to capture the energy of like...that person that you're not friends with but always aware of idk. (They also bunk with a french-speaking regiment and make friends with two of my favorite ocs that I never got to use, Camille and Noemie.)

Olivia is also trying to find out what happened to her best friend Shay, who was drafted almost a year ago and never heard from again.

Bart begins his story in a facility for veterans of the space war who have been severely injured and given scifi prosthetics (now they're cyborg kids woo.) The facility is to like help them adapt to their new bodies. Everything is pretty poorly funded and only ppl with rich parents have parts that actually function well. Bart is a basically a genius kid and has begun to suspect that not everything about the war is adding up.

At the facility, he begins to find clues left by a previous resident (spoiler alert: it's Shay)

Why did I abandon this story?

Well, first of all, idk where Shay is either. Second of all, I couldn't decide exactly where to go with the war plot. (I was toying with the idea of the war being functionally over and the aliens having left, but nefarious people putting it on as a show to exploit the Youths for sinister purposes. But I couldn't figure out how to make it work)

There was also a tonal mismatch that was pretty hard to work with. There was a lot of serious things happening, but there were also a lot of campy elements and it was hard to figure out how seriously the story should take itself.

Here's a snippet for your viewing pleasure:

It was almost two months later when they came for her. Enough time to almost forget, to almost get comfortable. Two more months for Olivia and her father.

For the first few weeks, every envelope felt like it almost certainly contained a condemnation, every ring of the phone made her about jump out of her skin, every knock on the door made her heart stop outright.

Then, when nothing happened for weeks, it started to feel more and more like a story. Something that happened to other people.

But then, there she was, sitting in the back of that bus. She’d been one of the first ones on—what kind of person decided 3:15 am was a good time for her to report? She had stood on her front porch with her father in the bleary clear cold, and now she was here.

Sometimes the bus would stop, and another unlucky kid would clamber on. Nobody talked to each other.

She pushed the top of her head into the seat in front of her and closed her eyes, trying to reach that state between asleep and awake that always got her through airplane rides.

They’d given her 24 hours notice. It was more than she’d expected. Time to pack the allotted two (2) personal items weighing no greater than 2 kg. Time to say goodbye.

So why hadn’t Shay?

The sky was beginning to lighten when someone sat next to her. She didn’t lift her head, just felt the seat shift slightly beside her, watching the newcomer’s bag settle between their shoes. A dirty lunchbox between dirty sneakers.

A lunchbox. Olivia had the straps of the flatpack she’d gotten from some soccer camp strung over her knee. She guessed a lunchbox was as good as anything.

It just made this whole thing more surreal, like she was just going off to school. Except not like that at all.

#my writing #wow this made me nostalgic I did like the characters #Bart was v sassy and had a lot of good lines #and like the whole thing idk...I feel like I was onto something but wasn't experienced enough to pull it off

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willowcrowned · 4 years ago

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Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @tessiete

Tagging: @mandaloriandy @outpastthemoat @phoenixyfriend

Remember to make a new post!

How many works do you have on AO3?

48, thirteen of which have been made anonymous.

What's your total AO3 word count?

260,698

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

On Ao3? 12, including Star Wars (obvs), FMAB, Twilight, The Silmarillion, LOTR, Much Ado About Nothing, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Narnia, The Arcana, VLD (yes, I know), Buzzfeed Unsolved.

In my drafts folder? WAY more. (one day I'll finish you post-OoT Link character study... one day..)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Paternal Relations, Leap of Faith, (Arguable) Flirting, To Catch a Serial Killer, and Being an Investigation of Sorts into the Supernatural and the Supernaturally Stupid

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do! Not all of them, because that's something I don't have the energy for. (Fic writers who do respond to all comments—I have the greatest admiration for you, and also how the hell do you do it.) I always respond if it's particularly thoughtful or insightful, and I'll usually respond if it's a joke. I don't bother for an emoji or an 'I liked it.'

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Ehm... I don't really do angst. I do have something in my WIP folder that'll end pretty angstily if I ever get around to it. I think my anonymous Narnia or VLD fics? Maybe the anonymous Silmarillion one?

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you've written?

Not as real fic. As not!fics on tumblr? Absolutely. I'm going to go with the fmab/TPM crossover, because that's the silliest one that comes to mind immediately.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I've only ever received "hate" once, and it was the funniest comment I've ever read (not intentionally, unfortunately for them), so I have it screenshotted for when I need a good laugh.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yes, primarily pwp. I think that emotionally-driven smut that functions as a device for a character study is some of the best, most compelling smut out there. Unfortunately, my smut writing interests lie in a different direction—a hornier one.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, but now I feel like I should go check.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! Smoking_breath did a russian translation of Paternal Relations!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope. I'm a bit of a control freak, and very particular about style to boot, so there's really only ben one time I've considered it and it was with someone who I was sharing a braincell with.

What's your all time favorite ship?

Oof. I don't really do OTPs, so I don't have an answer for this.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I hesitate to say never, because there's always a chance I'll come back to it, but I have a Princess Bride AU in my WIPs folder that's nearly done that I probably won't touch. (It needs major rewrites, but I do like the premise, which is that Buttercup decides to vent all her grief via grabbing a sword and whacking at things, so who knows.)

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and humor! I think I've got a really good hold on how to pace writing so that jokes land really well, and I think I'm also pretty good at figuring out where to put dialogue tags and such so a conversation proceeds with the pauses where I want them.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I really struggle with anything character driven. (For context, the last character-driven thing I tried stopped at 20k, but that 20k took me several hundred hours of writing time.) I don't know why that is, but I do know that writing something character-driven is like wrestling with a sugar-crazed five year old covered in oil, and whatever comes out inevitably needs major rewrites. I get a little better every time I try, though! Maybe in thirty years I'll actually be able to do it without giving myself a headache every time I open the doc.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Unless I know the language, I won't do it, and even then I think it can be really dicey. A lot of the time, a foreign language will take me out of the reading experience—not just because it can be hard to understand, but because the author has no idea how people actually use a second language. A really good example of that (and the one I see the most) is pet names.

Unless it makes sense within the context of the characters (e.x. two characters that share a heritage using a pet name from that heritage's language as a means of connecting to each other), I find pet names really take me out of it. I have never in my life been speaking English with someone and then called them a pet name in Hebrew (which, even though I'm not fluent, is the language that I've been called pet names in by my family and is the language I'd use for a pet name). When someone switches languages mid-sentence just to call someone a pet name in a language they don't know, it can read as a little... odd.

Foreign language use gets even dicier when I do speak the language and I can tell that the author doesn't. I've put down fics because they had no clue what they were doing with the Hebrew or the French. If your character is supposed to be fluent and they're making mistakes with gender, then I'm not going to be able to pay attention to the actual story and will instead be trying to format a comment in my head to tell you in the nicest way possible that your grammar is wrong.

So: I don't use it in my fics. I think it can be used to great effect when done right (see: insight into a character's relationship with their past, heritage, etc. (also for comedy, because there's nothing quite like "can you hand me the—the—fuck. The סוכר?" "the sugar?" "oh my god it's the same fucking word in english.")), but on the whole, I'm iffy about it.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Technically Avalon: Web of Magic, which I did in fourth grade with a friend. We didn't know what fanfiction was though, so I'm not sure if it counts.

What's your favorite fic you've written?

I'm quite fond of Smoke Raised with the Fume of Sighs right now, but more as something I'm enjoying writing than something I'd like reading. It's my first real foray into posting as I go, and it's the first time I've done chapetered fic in a while. It's also great fun, character-wise.

Other than that, I still very much enjoy Paternal Relations. It's got some fun lines.

#it is so weird to be tagged by a fic writer I've never talked to #good weird! good weird!#but I am continuously shocked that I'm not tossing my writing out into the void #what do you MEAN people read my writing now #what do you MEAN my little corner isn't as isolated as it used to be #anyways thanks for the tag #tag games

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thechekhov · 6 years ago

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Due to popular demand, I’m making a 4-part series about how to make a comic! Check out the other parts while you’re here!

1) Thinking of a story 2) Making characters (this part) 3) Drafting pages (coming not soon) 4) Presentation (coming eventually, we hope)

So, here’s the big question:

How do you make a good character?

I’m going to have us step back for a moment to say:

There is no such thing as a “Good” Character. Because how good a character is or isn’t is subjective. We can argue back and forth for hours about what we value in a character, but no one will ever agree. You can’t make a character that EVERYONE will like, and you shouldn’t try to.

Instead, I urge you to focus on trying to make ONE or MORE of the following:

Relatable characters

Sympathetic characters

Useful characters

“What the FUCK is goin’ on here I just wanna know” characters

I think they’re pretty self-explanatory, but let’s go through it anyway.

1. Relatable Characters:

What is says on the tin. These are character you and someone else could relate to. Maybe they’re a teenager who hates school. (Timeless classic.) Maybe they’re a young adult down on their luck and in need of money, willing to forgo some moral standards to get by. (Millennials, roll call!) Or maybe they’re just like you (or literally you. We don’t judge self-insert. There’s a reason Write What You Know is a thing.)

Regardless of what you want to believe, many human experiences are universal. Some of them are universally unacknowledged, but they are still universal. You want to just be careful about falling into the ‘my character is so special and the rest of my characters are dumb’ trope. That isn’t interesting - or realistic.

(source: xkcd)

2. Sympathetic Character:

I also call this the Looking Glass Character.

Even if most of us have universal human experiences, many of our own experiences are also unique to us. Some experiences are things we will never live through - but we can still sympathise with the emotional state of the characters. If a story allows us to experience new things THROUGH a character, we feel connected to them.

Keep in mind - this character still has to be somewhat relatable. We have to be able to say “if I was in this situation, I would do that too!” Allowing your readers to believe what is happening makes the reading experience more believable.

(I’m pretty sure none of us have been a half-gem half-human hybrid suffering through trying to right your defected-the-diamond-authority war-criminal mom’s past mistakes, but seeing Steven repeatedly say “I’m fine!” as he descends into madness is something we can all sympathise with.)

Similarly, if your character is in the woods and finds a tiny house on the edge of the prairie and it’s getting dark and the house has flickering lights - whether or not they go inside is inconsequential to sympathy. What matters is if they have a good REASON to go inside. Sometimes, it’s not the actions that’s sympathetic - it’s the motivation!

(My sister disappeared in just such a house! I must get revenge! vs I’m a bored teenager with a potentially unrequited deathwish and/or a crush on a ghost. Well... scratch that, I can sympathise with both scenarios.)

3. Useful Characters

I was previously asked what to do to avoid making your characters into a Mary Sue. This part will be about that.

Let me start by saying: I don’t think Mary Sues are as prevalent as some people bemoan them to be.

A Mary Sue is a character that is often described as ‘too perfect’ - they can do everything, know everything, never fail at anything, have a tragic past that excuses every emotional outburst, and are overall just ‘too good to be true’.

I think, if played correctly, such a character can still be a good one. What makes all the difference is how useful these aforementioned traits are to the plot - or to other characters.

Let’s acknowledge some universal truths (aside from the one about the men in want of wives and the relation of such a desire in proportion to their fortune):

The plot must go on. That’s obvious.

In order for the plot to move, there must be things happening (in one sense or another). Also obvious.

In order for things to happen, there must be a conflict or a tension of some sort. THAT is your litmus test for a ‘Mary Sue’ character.

“If I remove them from the plot, will the plot suffer any holes? Will they impact the plot or impede it? Will their OP superpowers make some other worldbuilding completely useless? Will their incredibly tragic backstory overshadow another conflict between other characters?”

Characters should be like legos - they must have a function within your plot. Looking cool isn’t a function. Well, sure, it CAN be - but it must also be a function that doesn’t break Newton’s Laws. An object at rest will remain at rest. If your Perfect Character is already flawless, they have no reason to change, ergo nothing needs to happen.

Make your character serve a use within your plot!

4. WtFiGOHIWK Characters:

Do you ever watch a show, or listen to a podcast or read a webcomic and think to yourself “Okay, cool, but what the FUCK is UP with _____? What’s their deal?!”

I like to categorize these characters in a group of their own. These characters are likable ONLY because we all have a socially wired brain that makes us CRAVE comprehension of social background like drugs. We CRAVE THAT MINERAL. And the mineral is - gossip. Backstory. Tea. The DEETS.

Many characters are somewhat of an enigma, and the initial plot doesn’t give away all their secrets. We get hooked not because the characters are relatable, and sometimes not even because they’re sympathetic - but because their social tension within a group of other characters is RIDICULOUS and we are wired to want to understand them.

Everyone has their own examples, but one of my favorites is this asshole:

Do I relate or sympathise with Dr. House? Broadly, no. He’s obscene, rude, and most of the time he’s not even the good guy in any given episode. But his morality roadmap resembles knitting directions for a scarf and his reactions to the most mundane situations are FASCINATING.

(Never underestimate the power of human curiosity and how strongly it can work to make your readers turn to the next page, even if your whole plot is about a dumpster truck on fire next to a fireworks factory.)

Q: So how do I make a character?

There are several options:

- Wait and do nothing. The character will happen when you least expect it or are least prepared. Now they’re in your head. They won’t leave. aaaaAAAAAAA!

- Take a person or another character you know. Change 3-5 fundamental things about them (I don’t mean name, hair color and shoe size... I mean something PERSONAL, like background, motivations, religion, dream job, species, etc.) BAM character. (I mean, is it QUESTIONABLE to write a story about your sister as a lizard who wants to go to the moon? MAYBE. Should she still be more grateful than she is? ALSO MAYBE.)

- Take yourself and change uhhh... at least one thing about the character. Try to veil the fact that it’s actually just you. Fail. Wipe away tears. Write the story anyway. Hope no one notices.

- Write a story in your head and then think “Who is the LEAST likely person to participate in these shenanigans?” There’s your character.

Q: What should I avoid in a character?

Honestly, you can go around to 100 people and ask this, and they’ll give you 100 different answers. What people dislike and like in characters is so vast that there’s NOTHING you can do to stop people from hating on a character.

But yes, there ARE some overused tropes and I want to share 1 rule that I personally keep to when making characters. (Keep in mind, this is MY personal list. It isn’t the end-all-be-all, and yes, you can argue about this. But don’t @ me, I don’t care.)

DON’T describe your character as “______ is kind and friendly until you piss them off - then they will kill you.”

This has been my biggest pet peeve since high school - and it’s unfortunately an absolute staple of any YA character. Someone is ‘friendly’ and ‘nice’ and ‘shy’ UNTIL - you hurt their friends. Then they go berserk.

I know it’s tempting because ‘usually demure character lets loose their True Potential’ is a very empowering thing to see. (And I admit, I think Mob Psycho 100 pulled this Trope back in by the scruff of its neck and managed to get JUST the right angle for it to work.)

BUT it’s overused and it tells us absolutely NOTHING about your character. It’s a calorie-free fact. Feels like a description but is actively devoid of any interesting information about your character.

Why? Because literally EVERYONE is like this.

We are all, at a baseline, somewhat friendly. That’s... just how most people are. Societal convention tells us we must behave with some semblance of dignity and respect towards others in standard situations in order to keep peace.

And I daresay getting pissed off and Breaking Character is ALSO a thing that most humans experience. Getting angry when your friends/loved ones are hurt is the bare minimum necessary for being relatable.

Not to say your character can’t do this but - it doesn’t need to be described as a part of their personality any more than, say, the fact that they have hair on their head.

Q: How do I make my character more believable?

Research.

We all hate that word, because school usually teaches us to think of research as boring but it is ESSENTIAL to your desire to make ‘good’ (relatable, sympathetic, useful) characters.

IF YOU PLAN TO WRITE FOR AN AUDIENCE, THEN YOU NEED TO PUT IN THE EFFORT OF MAKING YOUR CHARACTERS MULTIDIMENSIONAL.

That means - knowing their background. Knowing details. Knowing cultural, financial, religious terms you need to know to write them believably.

I know, I know - what if I’m just writing for myself? you say.

Well, fine. If you’re not planning to have your work be widely public, if you’re just having fun and don’t care, then write whatever you want. Make a Japanese character with a Korean name. Force your UK characters to use USA slang. Forgo any historical accuracy. Change up facts! Erase the moon landing, whatever.

But if you want to share your work with people, and if you want people to interact with your writing on a more serious level, then you NEED to know how to use Google and gather at least SURFACE information what you are writing. If you don’t but pretend you did, people WILL be jolted out of their zone.

Research the things and people you are writing about. And more importantly - READ about the experiences of the people you are writing about! Avoiding Stereotypes in this day and age is EASY. You literally have an endless, free encyclopedia in your hands. If you can send a tumblr ask, you can google it.

That’s all for now, and CHEERS!

#how to comic #how to comic part 2 #chekhov writes a tutorial #writing

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notsowrites · 4 years ago

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the heart i know

Alex misses Michael terribly while he's off on an roadtrip with his siblings.

This idea has been knocking around in my head for a while, and somehow ballooned into 6500 words.

(AO3 Link)

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Despite living in a house with three brothers growing up, Alex had always felt alone. His time in the Air Force had never dissuaded him of that feeling, even as he was constantly surrounded by others. Part of him knew it was the secrets he'd kept, the parts he'd been unable to speak freely about, show the world his whole truth. Buying the house in Roswell after his accident, he'd dedicated time to trying to make it into a home.

But even as he filled it with music and books, and decorated the rooms exactly how he wanted for the first time in his life, he couldn't deny that it felt as though something was missing. An emptiness still lingered through the walls, and though Alex loved this place that was all his own, it wasn't quite home yet.

It wasn't until after - after he'd dated Forrest, after he and Michael had spent months carefully navigating a tentative friendship, after they'd slowly and carefully fallen back together, after Michael had begun to spend more nights sleeping next to Alex than not - that Alex started to truly enjoy the space he'd once carved out for himself.

In his study, against the wall opposite his own desk set up for days when he works from home, is a drafting table covered in sketch paper and notebooks filled with calculations. The sight never fails to make Alex smile, to fill him with a sense of pride for the way Michael's mind works, how he is able to conceptualize and design things, and turn them into a reality. The bookshelves in the room now hold more than just Alex's coding textbooks, and the random literary novels he's acquired when he's had free moments to read, but mathematics and physics, books on environmental science and agriculture that Alex would never have dreamed of owning or reading.

There's a black Stetson that regularly hangs from the hook in the hallway near the front door, a pair of well worn cowboy boots are usually nestled on the floor next to his own work boots. And though he'll never admit it out loud, opening the door to the hallway closet basks him in the familiar and comforting smell of rain that accompanies everything Michael owns.

Before, the most he'd ever left sitting out on the kitchen table had been his laptop, now there are notebooks full of Michael's handwriting that regularly disappear and reappear usually occupying the space at the far end.

In the living room, the blanket he'd kept meticulously folded on the back of the couch rarely ends up that way these days, instead thrown haphazardly after an impromptu nap. Though it's usually Michael who dozes on the couch because he'd been watching and listening to Alex play on the keyboard or trying to work out a new chord progression for a song. He wonders if it should bother him, the way Michael drifts off during those times, but it never does.

The kitchen remains immaculate, save for one new notebook shoved in between the cutting boards that sit neatly against the back splash - Michael's recipe book. Each time he finds some new dish to try, he scribbles the ingredients and the instructions down for reference, though Alex has never seen the notebook open while Michael is cooking. As if he's already committed the entire thing to memory.

But one of the best reminders in the entire house that shows Alex how much this isn't just where he lives and rested his head at night, but is a home he shares with the person he loves, is the modifications to the bathroom. When he'd bought the house, Alex had immediately installed a grab bar and purchased a cheap little bench he could sit on - enough to make do in the shower, but never anything more than functional of their intended purpose. It had been the renovations that Michael had undertaken, designing a more comfortable bench, and a much more accessible grab bar system, that allowed Alex to truly begin to enjoy taking showers, no longer feeling like they were just a necessary, but also something to relax him after a long tiring day on base.

He sits at the dining room table now, setting up the new computer he's purchased for Michael. Of course he'd been unable to stick to a budget, too concerned with making sure Michael had the best for the work he was going to be doing on it. Alex had asked, of course, after realizing that Michael was often just using the browser on his cell phone to search for things, and sticking to pen and paper for everything else. Michael had hemmed and hawed, claimed he didn't need one, and Alex had gotten him one morning, after they'd woken each other up with lazy blow jobs, to admit how much easier his own computer could make things.

Alex misses him terribly.

"I feel pathetic," he'd admitted to Maria three days into Michael's trip with Max, Isobel, and Liz.

"You wanna come over?" She'd asked, taking pity on him. "We can just cozy on the sofa and watch cheesy romcoms and gorge on junk food."

He appreciated the offer, and almost took her up on it. The problem was, the trip Michael had taken didn't have a defined timeline. It all hinged on what they found up in following some clues that led North regarding the UFO crash and it's survivors. Alex had tried to go with him, hadn't wanted to be so far away in case something went wrong, but when his PTO request was denied due to insufficient notice, he'd relented after Michael had convinced him he'd check in every day.

But now it’s been three days since the time they’d spoken, and Alex is starting to worry. He’d resisted during the first twelve hours, convincing himself Michael just hadn’t found a moment alone. The remaining twenty four had been agony, especially when there’s been no answer on anyone’s cell phone - Michael, Isobel, Liz, and Max’s all had gone to voicemail in the end.

"He'll call," Maria had said when he'd told her. "Perhaps there's no signal where they are."

He'd been surprised, given her own ancestral ties to the crash, that she'd elected to stay in Roswell. But Maria had gently reminded him that she was more concerned about Mimi than road trips with no definitive answers, and she had a business to run - sometimes personal trips just had to be sacrificed.

So he occupies himself with setting up the new programs on Michael's computer, making sure it all runs smoothly for when he returns, and buries himself in work projects to pass the time, and tries to not think something went wrong and that's why Michael hasn't gotten in touch.

"We're on our way back," Michael greets him in the first conversation they've had in thirty six hours. "We ran into some problems, so I can't talk long, but we're maybe four-"

"Six!" Alex hears Liz shout in the background.

"-hours away, and there's nothing stopping me from coming right to you."

Alex looks at the clock, and how it's after midnight now, which means it'll be well into the morning hours before Michael is walking through the front door.

"I know you'll probably be tired-"

Michael scoffs, laughing and it's the most wonderful sound Alex has heard in days.

"Tell those bastards you're going to be late."

Alex smiles. "I might not leave at all then."

It's tempting to think about, calling out to spend the entire day with Michael instead. But he has three meetings scheduled, none of which he can get out of short of being on a ventilator. But it will mean that when he gets home in the afternoon, Michael will be there.

He reluctantly falls asleep after that, curled up on Michael's side of the bed, face buried in the pillow that no matter how many times it gets washed, always smells exactly like Michael. It doesn't make Alex miss him any less, but it's been his only comfort these last couple days.

When his alarm goes off several hours later, Alex stubbornly doesn't think about how he woke up alone again. He takes his morning shower on autopilot, wanting to go through the motions enough so that he can just come home to Michael. Breakfast is coffee and cereal, same as it's been every day Michael has been gone, because while Alex is able to cook for himself when he has to - recipes are not that hard to follow - he prefers Michael's cooking. A voice in his head tells him it's just because it means he doesn't have to, but that's not it. He loves watching Michael experiment with things, adding spices or flavors that he never would have dreamed of, and everything still tasting delicious. He'd tried not to be too surprised the first time he’d watched Michael cook for him, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Did you learn from one of the people you lived with?*

Michael had shaken his head, concentrating on the vegetables he'd been chopping up.

"Sanders was the first one who took an interest. After I started working for him, sometimes I'd crash on his couch, and he'd cook me breakfast in the morning. First time someone didn't make me feel like I was an imposition."

Alex's heart always broke hearing about what it had been like for Michael growing up. To not have any memories of happier times, but believing they existed and surviving on that hope. He's often wondered since if there was a way to retrieve the memories that Max, Isobel, and Michael couldn't remember. Particularly after learning about Nora and Louise, and how hard they'd tried to protect their children. His own childhood hadn't always been bad, there had been some good moments, memories from before his mom left when it had felt like they had been something akin to a happy family. It was only after she left when things had changed.

It’s that fear now, of possibly turning into a monster like his father, that keeps Alex from entertaining the possibility of a family. Neither he or Michael have brought it up, and Alex wonders if it’s because they’re both too scared of repeating the unpleasantness of their childhoods. Part of him knows, believes, that he would never turn into the monster that his father was, but fear isn’t always rational, and it doesn’t always make sense, Alex knows that. Maybe one day he’ll believe it too.

Because deep down, he wants it. He wants to marry Michael some day. He's had part of a proposal written since he was seventeen, when he was younger and more naive. There's never been anyone else who made him fell so fast and hard, but Alex doesn't care.

He continues on autopilot as he goes about his day, making the commute to the base, attending his meetings, going over a project that's currently in development for the land the Air Force had purchased from the Foster's several years prior - delayed because of funding and approval issues. He skips lunch, trying to make it through the day faster, and spends most of his last meeting staring at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen.

The drive home is excruciating - it feels longer than it ever has before. There's no new text messages, no missed calls, no voicemails, and Alex tries not to think about how it's probably only because Michael was exhausted. Hopefully he fell asleep the moment he hit the bed, and that's where he's going to find Michael when he gets home.

It's just been two extremely long weeks.

He toes his boots off inside the front door, and drapes his jacket on the hook. There's a black duffel laying near one of the chairs at the dining table, and Alex lets out a sigh of relief. He wastes no time pushing open the bedroom door, greeted by darkness because Michael has all the curtains pulled tight to keep out the sun. He closes the door behind him and pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it in the middle of the floor as he makes his way to the bathroom, flipping on a light. Inside, he partially closes the door and removes his pants, sitting down on the window seat to remove his prosthetic. There's a crutch leaning against the wall, one of the places Michael is always diligent in making sure to place one of his spares. The stress of the past several days has traveled all through his body, and Alex feels it acutely in his hip, and around his stump, which feels extra sensitive to pressure as he removes the liner. He debates the merits of drawing a bath, letting himself relax and let the tension melt away - but it would mean delaying being near, and getting to touch, Michael again for the first time in two weeks, and he decides against it.

Crutch nestled under his elbow, Alex makes his way back into the bedroom, naked except for his boxers, and crawls into bed, letting his crutch fall to the floor. He lets his hands sweep up Michael's legs, past his hips and stomach - a thrill traveling through his body that Michael had fallen asleep naked and ready for him - body following as Alex leans down to place feather light kisses to Michael's skin. He continues upward, pressing his face into Michael's neck, breathing in that familiar and comforting rain smell, his whole body relaxing in response. Alex presses a kiss to somewhere along Michael's jawline, before feeling Michael's arms move, wrapping around him, and pulling their bodies tightly together, indicating he’s awake too.

Without a word, just Michael pushing up to try and find his lips, kisses landing on his cheek, and neck, before finding his lips, Alex feels as he lets go of his hold, and Michael's hand brushes against him. He shifts a bit, so Michael doesn't have to try and squeeze his hand between their bodies, and reaches down, taking Michael in his hand. It's rough, just skin on skin, and Alex knows that friction can't feel good. He pauses, leaning back, and retrieving the bottle of lube from the nightstand where he'd left it during Michael's absence. Carefully he coats his hand, recapping the lid, and reaching back down, fingers wrapped around Michael again as he runs his thumb over the head, which makes Michael moan so so beautifully, and Alex wonders if he'd even touched himself at all during the trip, if he'd been alone long enough to. He jerks Michael off, keeping his face pressed against the side of Michael's neck until Michael is shifting, turning his head and pressing his open mouth against Alex's. He quickens the pace, sensing Michael is close, and pushes his other hand into Michael's curls, pulling at them slightly, but causing the desired effect as Michael thrusts up to meet his hand, and Alex slows his pace, letting him ride it out, pressing kisses to Michael's cheek as he settles back against the pillows.

"Welcome home," Alex whispers, nuzzling against Michael’s cheek, reveling in the contact.

“I told you I’d make it back.”

Alex lets Michael press their lips together, before watching as he slides out from underneath him, pushing up off the bed and heading into the bathroom. Alex only moves as far enough to sit up, his eyes never leaving Michael, watching as he moves around, grabbing a washcloth from the closet, and running it under the hot water.

Finally, thanks to the light of the bathroom, Alex gets a good look at Michael, and immediately sits up in bed, blinking hard at the sight. Michael’s body is covered in bruises -most of them are on his abdomen and back, and Alex is pretty sure there’s a cut on his cheek below his left eye.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Alex yells out, suddenly pissed off that Michael hadn’t said anything, Alex had put his hands on those bruises, they had to have hurt.

Michael pauses, looking down at himself like just realizing the bruises are there, before glancing back at Alex, shrugging his shoulders, and Alex tries to maintain his composure. It’s not going to do him any good to get angry at Michael.

“Turns out the people we were looking for were actually looking for Jones. They saw Max, and wouldn’t believe that he was someone else.”

“And Liz and Isobel-”

“They’re fine - it’s only me and Max who get to look like this. The girls had stayed at the hotel the night this happened - or well, the two days we were missing afterward.”

“Missing?” Alex is seething now, understanding the reasoning behind the fact that he hadn’t been able to get in touch with Michael or anyone else for several days. “Did you forget you have telekinetic powers?”

Michael smiles at him, making his way back into the bedroom, and leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. It doesn’t do anything to calm Alex down, but he appreciates that Michael knows he needs the physical contact of some kind in this moment.

“They had some sort of serum, something similar I’m guessing to what Helena Ortecho dosed me with when she wanted me to build the atomizer. Rendered me powerless for almost two days. Max too.” Michael slides back onto the bed, and Alex immediately leans forward, hands carefully running across the skin, careful to avoid all the places where Michael has bruises and cuts.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Michael doesn’t reply, and turns away from him, running a hand through his curls, and Alex watches as they slowly fall back into place.

“I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You didn’t-”

Alex glares at him, and thankfully Michael doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Because you would have stopped touching me, and I didn’t-” Michael sighs, reaching out and taking Alex’s hand. He lets him, adjusting so their fingers are intertwined, and watches as Michael presses a kiss to the back of his hand. “Because it’s been two weeks, and nothing these past two weeks has felt as good as your hands on me.”

“Michael.”

Alex takes a deep breath, and barely lets the idea form in his mind, knowing that he’ll overthink it and talk himself out of it if he does. He pushes himself up, maneuvering on the bed, until he’s straddling Michael’s lap, legs wrapped around his hips. Alex digs his hands into Michael’s hair, and pulls their lips together, foreheads gently knocking against one another. The feeling of them pressing together, only the thin layer of his own boxers in the way makes Alex grind down harder, needing the touch.

Michael flips them, so Alex is underneath him, but his legs still wrapped around Michael’s hips, pulling them close together, and Alex laughs into Michael’s chest as he leans over him and retrieves the bottle of lube from earlier. Alex watches, as patiently as he can, as Michael stands up, pulling his boxers down and squirting some onto his hand, coating his fingers, before reaching down and with one finger pressing into Alex.

It has been too long as he pushes down into the contact, hands gripping into the sheets of the bed as Michael adds another finger, using just the tiniest bit of force to open him up. And Alex can’t look away, can’t stare at anything except Michael’s face, and the focus in his eyes in how he’s touching Alex. He feels Michael press in one more finger, and while he appreciates the care Michael is putting into making sure he’s ready, Alex finds that he doesn’t care, he just needs, needs-

Michael’s fingers slide out, and Alex groans at the loss, before Michael is lining himself up and pushing forward, and Alex wraps his legs around Michael’s hips again, urging him forward, filling him up. For a moment, they stay like that, Michael buried inside him, and Alex reaches up, grabbing hold of Michael’s shoulders, his neck, and finally his face, and pulling him down into a desperate crush of their lips before he feels Michael pull out, almost all the way but still inside him and holding him open, before thrusting back in. When Michael hits that spot inside him that sends him wild, Alex can’t do anything except bury his teeth into the junction where Michael’s neck meets his shoulder, the rain smell that is so very Michael all he can focus on, before he reaches down and takes himself in hand, leaning into the tightness he can feel forming, his orgasm inching closer now.

Michael’s orgasm hits first as he continues to thrust forward, dropping his head to Alex’s chest with a muffled groan, as Alex continues to jerk himself off, feeling his own orgasm grow, but the friction is too much, and it’s wrong, and as he slows down his movements, he feels Michael’s hand cover his own, and Alex pulls back, watching as Michael takes over. It doesn’t take long, Alex has spent too many nights dreaming about Michael’s hands on him, and it’s as Michael thumb brushes across the tip that Alex lets go, moaning out his own climax into the curls on top of Michael’s head, fingertips pressed into the skin of Michael’s back.

He pulls Michael down into him, their bodies pressed tight, and Alex keeps his legs wrapped tight around him, one hand digging into his curls as they both breath deep and heavy, coming down from their highs.

It takes another couple minutes before Michael is pushing himself up, and pulling Alex with him, and Alex realizes too late, Michael is carrying him into the bathroom. He doesn’t protest as Michael carefully sets him down next to the shower, and Alex gracefully falls onto the bench, leaning forward and turning the water on, watching as Michael disappears back into the bedroom, returning moments later with his crutch. Alex uses this opportunity to clean himself up, removing the remaining evidence from his skin, letting his fingers dance across Michael’s skin as he watches him do the same.

They dry off, Michael double checking his crutch is within reach, before pressing their lips together one more time, and disappearing back out into the bedroom. He returns a moment later with boxers, and a t-shirt, leaving them on the sink for Alex to get to, and disappears again back into the bedroom again.

By the time Alex has put on the boxers, and pulled the t-shirt over his head, Michael is standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of black boxers, and his hair is towel dried enough that it’s wet, but not dripping onto the floor.

“Dinner?” Michael asks, and all Alex can focus on is the cut next to Michael’s left eye. It’s already in the healing stages, clearly having been received several days earlier, but it’s entire presence makes Alex angry. “I wasn’t thinking anything too complicated, maybe fajitas? If we have the ingredients, since I’m sure you haven’t cooked anything while I’ve been gone.”

Alex scoffs at him. “I went shopping yesterday.”

He takes his time getting dressed, and fishing out one of Michael’s clean work shirts from the dresser, pushing him arms into the sleeves, pressing his nose into the fabric. He’s always amazed at how well the rain smell persists, but it’s comforting, and it makes him feel like he’s surrounded by Michael even in those moments he’s not. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, debating whether or not to put his prosthetic back on, eventually deciding against it - they’re not going anywhere else tonight, and the idea of wrangling with it when they’re just going to end up going back to bed in a few hours isn’t appealing to him at all.

By the time he makes it out into the main room, standing at the foot of the dining room table, Michael, who has slipped into Alex’s Air Force hoodie so he’s not walking around shirtless, has already spread out the necessary ingredients on the counter in the kitchen. There’s a pan on the stove, and Michael is concentrating on slicing the steak into strips, the vegetables from the crisper waiting to be cut up next. Alex doesn’t pay too much attention to the specifics of the cooking, and glances down at the table, only to notice Michael’s regular notebooks are missing, though the laptop that is his gift is exactly where he left it.

Alex watches, transfixed, as Michael scribbles something into one of those notebooks, and then retrieves his cooking notebook from it’s spot against the wall, writing something down in that as well. The way Michael moves, Alex can’t even begin to imagine what his thought process is like to be able to shift around constantly like he does, one idea after another flowing through his mind, needing to be captured and saved.

As far as he can tell, Michael hasn’t seen him yet. Which is fine, because Alex is more than happy in this moment to enjoy watching him, reveling in how comfortable Michael looks. He thinks of the drafting table in the study, and two vehicles parked in the garage, and Michael’s clothes with their own space in the dressers, and in the closet, and can’t look away from Michael in the kitchen, cooking and looking very much like this is his home. And Alex thinks of every time Michael has told him about not belonging, about not feeling wanted, and about how often he’d been shuffled around the system, and something tightens in Alex’s chest.

Years ago, he’d seen this beautiful, handsome boy who made his heart beat just a little bit faster, and offered him a warm place to sleep at night. A boy who had stood up for him when no one else would, who had without hesitation put himself between Alex and danger time and time again. Who looked at Alex like he was the only person in the world that mattered, and Alex has always wondered if he’s worthy of that love, of that devotion. But Michael has never looked at him any other way, even in their worst moments, during the arguments and the fighting - Alex has never doubted that Michael loved him. Because while Alex knows he’s always had trouble verbalizing his feelings, Michael has always been one to stand tall and declare them in the most beautiful ways.

And Alex knows that, without a doubt, there is nowhere else he would rather be in this moment.

“Michael,” he chokes out, because the words are clawing up his throat, and usually Alex is careful about what he says, and how he says it, and he’s never - at least he doesn’t think he has - truly told Michael how he feels. And standing here now, after being apart for two weeks, and the issues with keeping in touch during that time, and the fucking bruises, and it’s all too much for him to keep in now.

“I was thinking about my workshop, and how we can modify some space in the basement here if that’s-”

Alex doesn’t let him finish, can’t even process what Michael is talking about past agreeing with it because he's talking like he knows this is his space, and Alex can't help but feel happy and so fucking proud to see that Michael knows this is his home too.

“Michael,” he starts again, waiting until Michael is looking back at him. “I am so fucking in love with you.”

He was expecting a reaction of some kind, probably something akin to Michael just crossing the room and kissing him. What he certainly doesn’t expect is to hear the knife clatter to the floor, and Michael swear under his breath, and for him to turn the water in the sink on, shoving his hand underneath it.

It takes Alex’s brain a moment to come back online, wondering what just happened, before he realizes that Michael has sliced his hand open. But before he can move, Michael has grabbed a dishtowel, and wrapped it around his hand, as he rushes toward Alex, good hand reaching out and pulling their bodies together, kissing Alex. And Alex is helpless, he melts into Michael’s touch, his arms wrapping around Michael’s waist and pulling himself closer, and Alex faintly realizes his crutch has fallen to the floor.

“You’re such an idiot,” Alex says against Michael’s lips, but Michael just shakes his head, diving back in and kissing him again.

“I don’t care,” Michael replies against his lips, and Alex feels helpless to stop him. "I'm happy to be your idiot."

“We’re going to have to call Kyle now, and have him look at your hand-”

“It’s really not that bad-”

Alex grabs Michael’s wrist, pulling back far enough to get a better look at it, the towel wrapped tightly enough for now, and Alex knows the only reason he hasn’t immediately settled into worrying about an infection is because of Michael’s alien DNA and it’s resistance to human diseases and ailments.

“What if you need stitches?”

Michael smiles, leaning in again, and Alex doesn’t stop him.

"I'm gonna go put my prosthetic on, and then call Kyle, so please, no more accidents." Alex tugs at the dish towel, and Michael yanks his hand back.

In the bathroom, Alex collapses back on the window seat, and takes a deep breath, cursing the events of tonight. Well, not all of them because he'd never regret Michael - even through the good and bad between them, Alex has learned to take it all in stride. He just can't believe Michael's reaction to what he'd said had been to slice his hand open.

He calls Kyle first, leaning against the wall, and wondering if he should never had said anything at all. They're lucky - Kyle isn't working, and agrees to come over, but Alex can hear the apprehension in his voice and knows he's going to have to figure out a way to repay the favor.

By the time Alex has put his prosthetic back on, Kyle is letting himself in through the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere but here - and Alex can't blame him for that. His status as Alien Doctor means he's the only one who can treat the aliens without fear of discovery.

“Do I even want to know?” Kyle asks, carefully pulling back the dishtowel, and inspecting the wound. Alex watches as Michael ignores the question, his good hand reaching toward the new laptop that's still sitting on the table.

“Guerin’s an idiot,” Alex supplies from where he’s standing in the kitchen heating up leftover pizza, since dinner was ruined, and Alex was done letting Michael near sharp objects for the evening. As Kyle sets about cleaning and bandaging Michael’s cut, including dropping a full bottle of nail polish remover on the table for Michael to drink, Alex moves around the kitchen, cleaning up the ruined dinner that Michael had planned for them, shaking his head at the half cut up meat and vegetables, and putting anything that can be saved back in the fridge.

“Yeah,” Michael adds, not paying attention to Kyle, his gaze firmly settled on watching Alex in between sips of acetone. “But you love me.”

Alex watches Kyle stop what he’s doing, eyes moving up first to Michael’s, and then over to his own, as if asking if he needs to tell Michael to shut up before he starts telling Kyle things he definitely doesn’t need to, or want to, know.

“Did you just figure that out, Guerin?” Kyle replies instead, and Alex wonders if he thought that the safest option. “Cuz the rest of us had bets on how long it would take you two to figure your shit out.”

Alex glares at Kyle, remembering several conversations years ago, where Kyle had tried to nudge him into talking to Michael, insisting that it was the key to everything between them. It hadn’t been bad advice, it had been exactly what Alex had needed to hear. The problem was, like it had always been with them, timing.

Timing had always been their enemy, even from the very beginning. Alex had thought they’d beaten it, after everything they’d been through where they’d all but given up on ever being together. He doesn’t like to dwell on it too much, on their crashing back together in the weeks following the reunion, or how fast he’d pulled away due to the threat of his father still lingering over them, choosing to protect Michael over being with him.

“Who won?” Michael asks, and Alex glances over to see Kyle bent over Michael’s hand, gauze pressed against the wound. He doesn’t want to know how far off their friends were, if he and Michael had spent too much time letting everything else get in the way instead of trying to work things out between them. But he’s already cleaned up the kitchen, and after all of this, Alex really just wants to eat dinner and take Michael to bed, and not wake up until the morning.

“Max.” That’s a surprising answer, Alex thinks. He’d expected it to be Maria or Isobel. Or even Kyle himself, who seemed to have picked up on what Guerin meant to him long before Alex was even willing to admit to himself that it could be obvious to anyone. “And even he was off by about four months. You two really did take forever.”

“I’m surprised Maria didn’t win.”

“She took herself out of the running, said it’d be cheating.”

Alex is thankful when the oven beeps, indicating the pizza is ready, and ignores the remaining conversation between Kyle and Michael. He removes the tray from the oven, and plates two slices each on plates for him and Michael, before wondering if Kyle is hungry. But as he turns around with the intention of asking, Kyle is standing up, backpack in hand, looking ready to leave.

“I don’t want to know what caused that cut, but for my sanity, please don’t do it again.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving the two of them alone again.

“Alex, what is this?” Michael asks, fingers running across the smooth top of the laptop.

“It’s yours,” he replies, matter of factly. He knows Michael is going to resist, going to insist he doesn’t need or want it.

“I didn’t ask-”

Alex takes a deep breath, because he knew the fight was coming. He knew that Michael would resist it, because that’s how Michael is. He gives and gives and gives, and Alex has watched him reject things people have done for him over and over again, thinking they were debts that needed to be repaid.

“I know you didn’t, but with all your research and your designs - I thought this would make it easier.”

Michael doesn’t say anything to that, and Alex wonders if he’s not going to actually argue against it.Maybe it’s just the events of tonight, maybe Michael is going to save the bickering for another day, another evening.

Instead, Michael shakes his head, eyeing the computer one more time, and pushing up off the chair, and walking into the kitchen. Alex tries to not focus on his injured hand, on the stark white bandage wrapped around reminding him of a different time in their lives, causing him to flinch away, picking up a plate and taking a bite of pizza.

He watches Michael lean against the counter across from him, picking up a slice of pizza and testing if it’s cool enough to eat. It’s shit timing, but Alex needs to know something, needs to ask Michael about tonight.

“Did you not know?”

Michael pauses, pizza poised in front of his mouth, and frowns at him, before dropping the slice back onto the plate, and sliding it back onto the counter.

“Of course I knew.”

“Because I know I’m not good with words, I know that I don’t make those big grand declarations like you do that take my breath away and render me speechless.”

“Alex-”

“I just,” he pauses, leveraging himself across the linoleum until he’s standing in Michael’s space, fingers itching to reach out and make contact. “It felt important to tell you.”

He lets Michael crowd him against the cabinetry, pizza temporarily forgotten. Wraps his arms around Michael's neck, as Michael pulls him on with his hands settled on his hips, and Alex just loves this man. He's infuriating and he's beautiful, and more than anything else, Alex wouldn't trade anything in their past if it meant changing getting here.

"I told you a long time ago, I don't look away from you. I never could." Alex lets Michael lean in, foreheads pressed together, noses bumping, lips pressed together in smiles. "You're my home, Alex. You made me believe, when no one else did, that I didn't have to build a ship and leave. That I could have a family here too."

Alex thinks about home and Michael's plans for moving his workshop into the basement and kisses him again and again and again, feeling like he's that seventeen year old boy again who got nervous around the boy he liked. Except now they're grown up, they're men who have seen more and done more, and changed them. But one thing through it all has remained the same.

"You really want to move your workshop here?" Alex asks, knowing the answer, but needing Michael to understand that he's asking to make sure. He needs to hear it from Michael.

"Do you not-"

"No!" Alex immediately replies, and then catches himself, knowing how this has to sound. "Fuck. No, I want you to. I'm just - I'm making sure it's what you want."

Michael reaches behind him, and Alex twists his head to see it's one of his notebooks, and they pull away from each other just enough so Michael can flip through the pages to find something specific. Be holds it up so Alex can see and-

It's a design for a prosthetic for him.

Alex takes the notebook, staring at the pages, not understanding half the calculations and formulas scribbled in the margins, but not caring because he understands the design schematic.

"I just thought I could try and make you something that was lighter and easier to get on and off-"

Alex lunges forward, cutting Michael off, and wrapping his arms back around him, using Michael and the countertop for balance and leverage to stay upright. He kisses Michael over and over again, and thinks about everything Michael does for him.

"Say it again," Michael says, pulling back so they can look each other in the eye.

Alex buries his face in Michael's shoulder, pressing his lips against the skin of his neck, but he's smiling. He hasn't felt this happy, this excited, this in love since he was seventeen. He knows Michael is waiting for him, the ever patient partner that as a teenager he never dreamed of deserving, much less finding.

"I love you."

#roswell new mexico #malex #alex manes #michael guerin #malex fic #notso writes fanfic #some references to off screen violence and past abuse #but mostly just what it says on the tin

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bettsfic · 4 years ago

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february pinned: the real & the ideal

in this month’s edition of my lowkey writing-related newsletter, in addition to my writing-related post roundup and consultation availability, i have short story recommendations for you and an essay on the nature of reality in fiction!

if you want to receive my lowkey writing-related newsletter directly, you can subscribe here.

in other news, i finished two fics this month:

digging for orchids (hualian, 43k, explicit, fake marriage au)

let ruin end here (hualian, 8k, mature, neighbors au)

full newsletter below the cut, or you can read it here.

oof,

what a month. january is already a rough time. throwing in a pandemic, a coup, and an economic revolution spearheaded by reddit just seems unfair. as for me personally, the spring semester came at me fast and even though it’s only week 2, i am already buried in grading. which i realize is my fault, considering i’m the one who assigned homework.

so after hearing your feedback, i thought i’d make this newsletter even more writing-related by writing more about writing. this month i’ll start off by talking about the nature of reality in fiction in a segment i call “been thinkin a lot about.” more on that below.

new resource

i’ve compiled a folder of PDFs of the short stories i teach most often, which is to say, the stories i like enough to re-read every semester. most of them are literary fiction but a few veer into fantasy, sci fi, and horror.

i know before the MFA, i didn’t really know what a short story was. like i knew, abstractly, the concept of a short story (it is as it sounds), but i could only list a couple i’d ever read as an adult, and i hadn’t read anything that had been published in the last decade. i remember wondering why i was even being asked to care about short stories. who writes short stories? who reads them? apparently, a lot of people. short storyists are a lot like fanwriters in that they make no money and when you talk about your writing in public, people give you that “why would anyone waste their time with that?” look.

so here’s why i was asked to care about short stories: a good short story gives you the entirety of a world in a very condensed space. moreover, it can sometimes leave you as satisfied as a novel in a fraction of the reading time. all the stories i’ve compiled here are ones that stuck with me, that i find myself recommending over and over to writers who want a good example of developing character, or weird narration, or establishing stakes.

if you’re a writer considering publication or an MFA in creative writing, i highly recommend familiarizing yourself with short stories, if for no other reason than to get the feel for them so you can write some of your own. if you can get a few short story publications under your belt, it’ll be easier to open doors when you’re ready to query agents for a novel. also, short stories make a great writing sample for grad programs, workshops, fellowships, residencies, and grant funding.

if you want to check out more short stories but have no idea where to start, the 2020 best american short stories just dropped in november, or if you want a cheaper one, used copies of 2019 and earlier are available on thriftbooks. if you want an overview of the history of the (american) short story, there’s also the best american short stories of the century. fair warning, though, while it’s more diverse than expected, it’s still a bit heavy on dead-white-dude writing.

content warning: the stories in the above-linked folder may depict instances of sexual assault, suicide, and/or abuse. i have not labeled them individually with warnings but i hope to soon, as well as provide a catalog with summaries.

i’m also still working on my essay and novel recs. more to come on that hopefully next month.

writing-related posts

how i quit my banking job to do a creative writing MFA

how i learned to read faster/stop subvocalizing

how to write when you have no time or energy to write

my experience writing fic in small/dead fandoms (aka fics that will probably not get any traffic)

how to describe facial expressions

how to ask for help from your professors

how to navigate tenses during flashbacks

how to separate yourself from your work

how (and why you might want to) write a shitty first draft

why you should consider making the climax the inciting incident

for a complete list of my writing-related posts, check out this masterdoc (which i still need to update it with the past few months’ posts).

stuff i’m into rn

i’m about halfway through the rhetoric of fiction by wayne c. booth which has more or less become my narrative bible. it’s a little dated (1961) but it tackles banal writing adages that are somehow still believed, like “show don’t tell” and whatnot, and breaks them down with amazing insight, clarity, and research. it’s a bit of a dense text so i’m only reading a few pages a day, i think the first time i’ve ever let myself read something so intentionally slowly. now i’m kind of obsessed with doing things slowly. reading slowly, writing slowly, cooking slowly. i even drive slowly, because it’s so rare to go anywhere at all, and i want to enjoy it. also, it’s very snowy where i am. also also, the battery died in my car this month and i really have to make it a point to drive more often.

february availability

i have 2 openings for initial writing consultations in february! if you’re interested, please fill out this google form.

you can learn more about my services on my carrd.

been thinkin a lot about

compulsory reality in fiction. many of us have probably received feedback along the lines of, or thought to ourselves as we read, “that’s not realistic.” many of us believe, consciously or not, that fiction that is more “realistic” is inherently better than fiction that is less “realistic.” for some of us, real means a saturation of details, the clear depiction of the surfaces of things. reality is found in the rendering thereof; if you can “see” it, it’s real. for others of us, it might be the development of complex characters and their growth across a narrative. and for yet others, reality is subtlety, or misery, or the idea of “slice of life,” a term i don’t think means anything, because aren’t all stories a slice of a character’s life? what would a story that’s not a slice of life look like? you’d either have to take away the “slice” part and render a whole life, which is impossible, or you’d have to take away the “life” part and create a dead story, which may be possible, but why would you want to? even if you wrote a story about a rock, the rock would be brought to life by virtue of being written about.

anyway. i think the word “real” is a shitty word for the same reason “slice of life” is a shitty phrase: everything is real and therefore nothing cannot be real. slices of life are all we know because we are alive and cannot truly perceive not being alive; reality is also all we know, and any depictions beyond reality are thus made real because they have been depicted.

so the “goal” for fiction to be “realistic” seems to me to be a false one. all fiction is real because it exists and no fiction can be truly real because it’s only a facsimile of reality. not to get all “this is not a pipe” but writing is just making squiggles, and we as a community of English-knowers agree that certain squiggles correspond to certain sounds, and certain sounds together make words which conjure meanings. and words put together into sentences into paragraphs conjure even more complicated meanings. and when those paragraphs are woven into narrative we create yet more and more complicated meaning.

every time you write anything — a text message, an email, a tweet, a fanfic — you are taking the infinite abstraction of your own cognition, narrowing it into a single concept, and representing that concept with patterns in the form of sounds represented by letters and given meaning with words, so that the infinite abstraction of your own conscience can be fractionally witnessed by the infinite abstraction of someone else’s. and even though we can’t definitively prove for ourselves that any other thing possesses a consciousness, writing shows us the shape of someone else’s mind, and tells us we are not alone.

and yet we still expect writing to be “real.”

have you ever read a story where a character sneezed? like just, a description of a sneeze for the sake of it, with no purpose or function in the plot? if not, is it because our characters aren’t real enough to sneeze, or because the sneeze isn’t relevant to their plight? what would a written sneeze look like, and why would somebody want to write it? moreover, why would somebody want to read it? that leads me to wonder, do we depict reality in the service of narrative, or narrative in the service of reality? in other words, do we write to portray reality (sans sneezing), or do we depict reality to constrain our writing, the way one might request bumpers when bowling so as not to fall in the gutters?

i’ve never read an artful rendition of a character pissing or shitting, either, even when those things are related to a character’s plight and circumstance — stories involving long road trips, living in the woods, being kidnapped. the only exception i can think of is when those things are eroticized (we do not kinkshame here in this lkwrnl), the same way it’s rare to find detailed sex writing that isn’t for the purpose of reader arousal. are there just some things about the nature of being human that are too intimate, too complex, or too boring to write?

once i wrote a murder that takes place in a small fictional midwestern town in the 90s (for the ~aesthetic), and it went uninvestigated by said town’s police force. early readers repeatedly commented along the lines of, “that’s not realistic.” and i thought, no, if anything, the incompetence of police is too realistic for the heightened reality i’m trying to render. have you ever heard of a cop solving a murder that didn’t come with an obvious suspect or immediately found evidence? i haven’t. that doesn’t mean those cases don’t exist, but i definitely think they’re less likely than mass media has us believe, and the average small-town police force has far less motivation (and possibly training) to solve crimes than we think.

i started working on the above-mentioned novel in 2016, and my goal was to depict a reality that hovers above the surface of plausibility. in this novel, which is based on macbeth, a preteen girl, mercy, becomes jealous of the love her best friend elisa shows to her father. mercy decides to get her older and very unstable brother to kill him. naturally the deed goes awry, but it does occur, and the cleanup is far messier than anticipated.

is it plausible for a 12 year old girl to plot and execute the murder of her best friend’s father? no. is that what this book is about? yes. a book about a 12 year old girl who has a perfectly healthy relationship with her best friend and who has no feelings toward her bff’s father one way or another is probably far more “realistic,” but that’s not the book i’d want to read and certainly not the one i want to write. my goal of a heightened reality is what henry james calls the intensity of illusion, the thing that allows a reader, through the witness of one’s distilled cognition into language, to exit physical, knowable reality, and enter a new and unknown reality. and isn’t climbing to that higher place, that intensity of illusion, the purpose of fiction? if it’s not, what is?

the best feedback i got on the aforementioned murder scene was from one of my professors, who, of the perfect calm of all children involved, said, “they just shot a guy. at least one of them would be freaking out.”

he was totally right, but it opened up a lot of questions for me. by what standard did he reach that conclusion? was it something in the chapter itself, was it his personal understanding of the work of narrative, or was it the logical conclusion of the slim plausibility of the scenario? moreover, where did i come up with the idea that all of my preteen characters would commit a murder and proceed to be very chill about it? if an implausible scenario begs the expectation of emotional distress, would it be more compelling to buy into that expectation or deviate from it? is it even my obligation to be compelling when i can never have a cogent grasp of the personal tastes of my audience?

that brings me to what appears to be reality’s opposite: idealism, the state those of us who write fanfic are often trying to achieve. we’re working in an entire genre of ideals, of happily ever afters, of hurt that is always followed by comfort, of glossily rendered sex during which everyone orgasms and no one has to pee afterward. we fix broken texts and continue incomplete ones. sometimes, we want to make existing things better, deeper, more complicated. but all the time, we want to make a text more than what it is.

some see this process, this drive for the ideal, as antithetical to realism, and i think that’s part of the reason fanfiction and other idealistic genres (romance, etc.) get a bad name — the assumption that more real (which for some means more miserable) is better, and therefore its opposite, the ideal, is worse. for them, i have this quote from vladimir nabokov:

For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.

the ideal, aesthetic bliss, the intensity of illusion. these are all phrases that boil down to the same thing: you the writer get to define the constraints of your own reality. you get to choose if your world even complies with the known laws of physics. and if it doesn’t, you get to choose which ones to break, and why to break them. you get to choose if your stories take place in a real house in a real town on a real day. if you wrote a story that takes place on september 11, 2001, would the events of that story be shaped by the events of that actual day, or are you writing a better world where 9/11 doesn’t happen? consider the consequences of both: why might you want to write reality? why might you want to write ideality? how do these things shape your identity and goals as a writer?

no matter where a work falls on the real-ideal spectrum, you have to accept that prose itself will only ever be a verisimilitude of reality and therefore an interpretation of it, one that might be interpreted differently by a reader. in writing and everything else, you can never have complete control over what others perceive. it’s like giving someone cash as a gift. they might buy themselves something nice with it, or they might spend it on groceries. the point is, eventually we all have to let go of our realities.

#lkwrnl #pinned

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