#Learning about Substack

[mehmetyildizmelbourne-blog]

The Joy of Having My First 10 Students on Udemy

How helping others delights me and helps produce useful content Dear friends,  I hope you had a great weekend and are well. My weekend was busy but delightful to help my new students and create a new course for level 2 and level 3 learners who inspired me to continue.  I enjoy creating interactive content to help others to become better writers and grow their audiences. I am not an expert in…

[atomicradiogirl]

i mightttt make a gen kill video essay (which will be a slight repurposing of my substack article after i do more reading and research) cause there’s only 3 on youtube and they talk about how good the show is from a film/technical/military standpoint but not really from a historical angle

[snugcuddler]

idk why but writing and like soul-searching media in general made by people younger than me has like no appeal to me anymore

[strangebiology]

Success is Dependent on Secret Information

A lot of career success depends on you and the work you put into it, as well as luck beyond your control, but sadly, it also depends on secret information, magic words, and stupid little tricks.

That's not fair. I don't like it, but we can help by sharing that secret information--which is the antidote to gate-keeping. That's why I recently wrote this in my Authors of Nonfiction Books in Progress substack:

It can be really disheartening to realize that, when you thought you failed at something because you didn't do well enough, other people had the magic words. For instance, some injustices I've witnessed (that may or may not always be the case, or maybe not anymore!) include:

A good athletic score doesn't get you into a college sport--having a coach or parent talk to the college coach is mandatory

Many school-sponsored scholarships are often not tightly linked to grades, test scores, or financial need, but whether the student said the right words ("I can't afford that") to the right person (presumably some financial office person.)

Apparently, some aspects of some degrees are cheated on by most students (if that's the case, we should tell all students that it's ok to cheat on that so they don't waste their time on something that apparently wasn't important anyway, or worse, fail out just for being ethical.)

Especially related to books: Few people will mention that you can get grants! Not my agent, not my publisher, not the 1 zillion "pros and cons of trad publishing" articles out there mentioned grants (Grant eligibility is a HUGE benefit of trad publishing.) I got more money from grants than my entire book advance!

Let me know what magic words/secret knowledge you've learned, that you wish you knew sooner. Or: the widespread understanding of what information would make a field more fair?

And please share ANBIP with anyone writing, publishing, or seriously about to start writing, a nonfiction non-memoir book, especially if they're interested in the more practical side (I share more about resources and strategy than craft.)

[cherrystaineddoll]

𝓽hings to do instead of scrolling ౨ৎ

summer is here, school is over and you have way too much free time on your hands. so unless you want to spend your whole days with your eyes locked on a screen, here's an in- depth guide on what to do this summer, or whenever!!

learn a new language - trust me, speaking more than one language is a skill that everyone should have, and it always comes in handy. you can watch tv shows, movies or youtube videos in your target language, read beginner books, use apps (not duolingo though.. ) and even just listen to music!! just expose yourself to the language as much as you can, even better if you know anyone you can have conversations with. you could also learn sign language!!

journal or scrapbook - writing down your feelings really helps understanding your own self more. you can try doing shadow work to really dive deep, or just write whatever you feel in that moment. it doesn't have to become a chore, and remember, write for yourself and not as if someone else was going to read!! as for scrapbooking, just print out some nice photos and decorate the pages with stickers, drawings, fun colored paper.. whatever you want, just be creative!!

make art - it doesn't have to look perfect, remember that all art is beautiful in its own way. even if you think you're not good at it, just create, it will help you feel better & you'll also get better with time!! you can draw, paint, sculpt, do pottery, etc. you don't have to follow any guidelines, just buy a random sketchbook, bring out your inner child and do whatever you feel like doing

learn how to play an instrument - this can be a bit expensive, but if you have any instrument in your house that you've never used, it might be a great time to start learning it!! you don't necessarily need to take classes, you can easily find tutorials on youtube, even though it might be harder to learn by yourself. but making music is a really fun activity & good for the soul

reading and writing - i will never recommend reading enough !! everyone should read. it helps you learn new things, understand different perspectives, expand your vocabulary, and so much more. i know books can be expensive, but you can always try to buy them at flea markets, or ask a friend/family member to lend you some. and just in case, there are always some sites where you can read books online for free, like zlibrary!! you can read before going to bed instead of staying on your phone (which is sooo bad for your sleep), at the beach while tanning or outside while getting some fresh air. and if reading books inspires you, you can try to write something!! i'm not saying you have to write a 600 page book, but you can try to write small stories, or poetry, and who knows, someday you might actually write a book! if you want to get published, there are some small literary magazines you can find on social media that publish the works of small writers, it can be a great way to start. you can also always post your works here on tumblr, substack, or any social media platform!! you could also try to write the story for a movie and start screenwriting, if you're into cinematography

research interesting topics - now that school isn't forcing you to study things that maybe you don't care about, you can study whatever you want !! remember, knowledge is power, and with the internet, you basically have the world in your hands. you can watch a youtube video, read a book, or simply research on websites (make sure they're reliable though). you can also take online courses!! i might make a post on ideas for what to research??

start a new hobby - your life can't only be made of school/work, sleep, and a screen. you need hobbies that you actually like and that make you feel good. some of these can be: baking and cooking, crocheting, knitting, embroidery, jewelry making, nail art, makeup, photography, editing, blogging/vlogging, coloring, candle making, soap making, perfume making, modeling, origami, sewing, making diy stuff, chess, puzzles, acting, singing, flower arranging, meditating, lego building, trying new hairstyles or outfits, doing animations, discovering new music, sudoku, the things i previously wrote, and probably a million other activities i can't think of right now

stay active - moving you body is good for both your physical and mental health, i'm sure we all know that. you can go on walks or runs in the nature with your headpones on, or do any sport that you like- some ideas: swimming, dancing (ballet, hip hop, modern, ecc) , tennis, martial arts (judo, karate, taekwondo, ecc), volleyball, basketball, athletics, gymnastics, football, archery, fencing, table tennis, boxing, surfing, rowing, hockey, horseback riding, softball, golf, biking, figure skating, rollerblading, skating.. you don't need to do it competitively (unless you want to), as long as you're having fun and moving your body. you can also do workouts, like yoga or pilates, at home or outdoors, or go hiking.

watch movies, tv shows, or documentaries - it can always be a good learning experience, or just something fun and relaxing that isn't mindlessly scrolling. a bonus: after you've watched something, write a very long, detailed and in-depth review in your journal. you can also post it wherever you want (like letterboxd, to fight all the one liners)

hang out - with friends, family, or even by yourself !! (i know, i know, it can be scary). you can do anything, as long as you're with the right people everything is fun, but here's some ideas: have a picnic, go to the beach, go to a water park, have a baking contest, do temporary tattoos, go to a concert, go out to eat, do a one day trip, go on a road trip, take a walk in the nature, go hiking, go to a trampoline park, go to an amusement park, visit a museum, go thrifting or shopping, have a board games night, try out a new cute cafe or bakery, do an escape room, have a karaoke night, have a movie marathon, and so much more!!

i hope this helped!! ♡

[malusokay]

Stop Flirting With Me Just Because I’m Breathing

On how everything a pretty girl does is seen as flirtation. (from my substack <3)

I look up and blink too slowly, and they think I’m in love. I say “interesting” in a flat voice, and it becomes a riddle to be solved, a clue in some invented puzzle about my affection. I once said “oh?” and was asked if I meant it flirtatiously. I leave a message on read for three days, and suddenly I’m orchestrating a psychological thriller. I wear a black chunky knit because it’s cold and I don’t want to be perceived, so they decide I must be hiding poetry in my bra, and unspoken devotion in the sleeves.

I’m told I look like I’d ruin someone’s life, which is meant as a compliment when all I’ve done is exist politely in a public space. I nod in a lecture, and it becomes longing. I cross my legs, and it becomes a metaphor. Everything becomes a metaphor.

There is no such thing as neutrality when you’re a pretty girl. You become a canvas for other people’s projections, their longing, their delusions, and their need to be chosen. 

Every silence is suggestive. Every quiet moment is a seduction scene they’ve rewritten in their heads by the time you’ve finished your tea. Every disinterest is taken as a puzzle to solve, a performance of restraint. They don’t believe you when you’re bored. They think you’re playing bored. Every boundary is a dare.

I say “I don’t date,” and he hears “try harder.” 

I say “I’m not looking for anything,” and he hears “ but I might be with you.” 

I say “I have to go,” and he hears “ convince me to stay.” 

I say nothing, and he hears everything. 

I leave the room, and it becomes a narrative arc. 

I stay silent, and it becomes flirtation. 

I look at a painting, and it becomes a metaphor for his feelings.

A man at a gallery once told me I had “mysterious energy.” I was just tired. I was just hungry. I was just not looking at him.

But they fall in love with the refusal. The lack. The half-second glance that wasn’t meant for them. They romanticise the unreturned gaze, the closed door, the girl who leaves early. They write poems about women who never replied. They crave the untouched part of you that has nothing to do with them, especially that. That’s the part they try to claim. That’s the part they call fate.

I once sent a man a list of corrections to his love letter. Marked it up in red like a school essay. Split infinitives, misused semicolons, a dangling modifier in the third paragraph. He called it “enigmatic.” Said I was “hard to read.” Said he’d “never met a girl like me.” You mistake disinterest for depth and correction for flirtation. You think anything that doesn’t kneel is mysterious. You call it high standards. You call it a challenge. You call it feminine mystique. I call it punctuation.

The problem with being charming is that people forget it’s often done out of boredom. It’s a reflex, not a promise. A trick you learned at dinner tables, in waiting rooms, on the phone with men twice your age who couldn’t take silence. It doesn’t mean you like them. It means you like control. Or maybe you just didn’t want to be rude.

The problem with being beautiful is that people think it means you owe them something warm. That you’re a hostess of some private emotion, and every glance should be dipped in honey. You smile once, and they remember it forever. You don’t smile, and they call you cold. You hold the door, and it’s taken as encouragement. You cross your legs, and it’s an invitation. You speak plainly, and it’s condescension. You retreat, and it’s foreplay. They want you glowing and grateful. Soft, but not cold. Sexy, but not complicated. They want the kind of beauty that never asks to be left alone.

And when I say no, they always think I’m flirting. As if I’m playing coy. As if “no” is the beginning of a story, not the end of one. I say it flatly, with the softness stripped out, and they still tilt their heads and grin like they’ve uncovered a secret. Like I’m hiding a yes somewhere in my tone, waiting to be coaxed out.

A few days ago, I rejected someone I had known for a while. Kindly, clearly. Two days later, he came back asking if I wanted to hook up. He only left me alone (for now) after I told him I had a boyfriend. I don’t. But apparently, a man’s existence is the only boundary they respect.

Sometimes, I just smile because why wouldn’t I? Because it’s polite. Because I was raised to be gentle in rooms full of noise. Because I don’t see the harm in kindness. But they always think it means something. They take good manners for invitation. A thank you becomes a breadcrumb. A glance becomes bait. Politeness, in their minds, is the opening act of seduction, never just softness for its own sake.

You learn quickly that innocence gets devoured just as fast as intention. That even your unthinking gestures get rewritten in someone else’s script. And then they call you manipulative. Say you “led them on.” As if their inability to read the room is your strategy. As if their projections are your responsibility. You smiled. You were nice. You said, “thank you.” And now you’re the villain in their heartbreak story. 

They fall in love with an idea, and when you don’t return it, they act like you stole something. Like affection was a contract you broke by breathing near them. Like your politeness was a promise you forgot to keep.

my insta: malusokay

[dashcon-two]

Volunteering, Virtual Dash, and Various Other Happenings!

Hey y’all!

Buckle up, we’ve got a bit of everything in this one.

Volunteer Applications!

We’re excited to say that volunteer applications for DashCon 2 are now open! You can apply to our form here (https://forms.gle/aaBjd9eSGZBsARBE7), or find out more on our website (https://www.dashcontwo.com/volunteering/). Our convention relies on volunteer staff to keep everything running smoothly, and there’s plenty of work to go around. We’re really glad to have received interest from so many of y’all, so applications will be open until we’ve filled all of our positions.

All regular volunteers will be assigned to at least one 4-hour shift between 7 AM and 11:30 PM on July 5th, 2025. Volunteers who complete their shift, or otherwise work 4 or more hours, will get free access to the con for the rest of the day.

Successful applicants will be required to sign a waiver to volunteer for the convention. Applicants who are under 18 years old must have a parent or guardian sign their waiver.

What about Virtual DashCon?

We appreciate all of the feedback we got after our announcement post last week! We’re happy to say that we’re going ahead with our plans for a virtual convention! However, considering how many of you were enthusiastic about the concept of virtual dash, we’d like to address a common question!

Why would a virtual con cost money? Because it costs money to run! We’re partnering with Live Media to ensure that the live-streamed panels, pit, and duel will run smoothly. We want to make our convention as accessible as possible, we’ve received hundreds of messages from people who couldn’t get a ticket, but we just don’t have the resources or expertise to run a virtual event with volunteers alone. Even with a professional live-streaming team, we’ll need to organize moderators for the official server, vet digital panellists, and all the other administrative work that comes with a virtual event. DashCon 2 is going down in history one way or another, but we’ll be damned if we don’t get good footage for the next generation of documentarians.

We’ll also donate 15% of every ticket to the Canadian Cancer Society! That’s 15% of the total price of the tickets, not the profits. You can learn more about our fundraiser here, and donate directly to our campaign on the Canadian Cancer Society’s website.

Drag at DashCon 2!

DashCon 2 is excited to announce that we’ll be featuring a spectacular showcase of talented drag performers! Performers will be lipsyncing, dancing, and generally serving, to the tune of such classics as How Bad Can I Be? We’re happy to say that we have two confirmed drag artists: Heaven/Hellish Lee (@heaven_lee_court.hellish_lee) and Pandora’s Box Muncher (@pandorasboxmuncher), both on Instagram! They are both incredibly talented - please check out their work and give them some love :)

We hope to announce a few additional performers before the day of the con, so stay tuned!

If you’re an interested local performer: please feel free to reach out to us directly at activities@dashcontwo.com with a link to your website/social(s), a few example photos, and what sort of performance you’d like to give. Portfolios may contain 18+ content, but performances at DashCon 2 must be appropriate for ages 13+.

LVLUP Board Game Room

We’re happy to remind you all that DashCon 2 will have a board game room, kindly sponsored by LVLUP Games! A quick FYI: while they will be providing board games of all sorts, they will not be providing TTRPG materials, dice, or DMs, so you’ll have to BYOD (Bring Your Own Dice). There must be at least a few dice goblins in our audience who have collections to show off.

As always, you can find more information on our website or follow us on Substack!

[secretmellowblog]

Les Mis Hidden Name Meanings: "Fantine"

Every character's  name in Les Mis is either an elaborate pun or has some deeper symbolic thematic meaning — usually both at once. 

One example of this is “Fantine.” There’s a wealth of hidden meaning packed into to her name, and some of those meanings are explicitly discussed in the original novel. 

The name “Fantine” comes from the french word “enfantine,” meaning  “childike, infant-like.” Her name basically means “Baby.” And obviously this speaks to her innocence and naivety. But also “baby”  is kind of,.,, well, it sounds more like an informal term of endearment than an actual legal name?  

And that’s because– Plot twist– Fantine isn’t her legal name!

 What is her legal name? She doesn’t have one. 

And the reason she doesn’t have one is directly tied to political turmoil of the era she was born into. 

Fantine grew up an orphan living on the streets, without a family without parents. Hugo tells us the origin of her name: 

“She bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. (...)She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained. “

This moment is adapted beautifully in the Manga adaptation by Takahiro Arai: 

But now let’s talk about the Directory. 

To wildly oversimplifly a lot of complex history: Before the French Revolution, the Catholic Church’s records of baptismal ceremonies were often used as a  registry of people’s legal names. During the French Revolution, the Revolutionary government– including the Directory– put in place a series of policies we now call “dechristianization,” where they attempted to dismantle the power of the Catholic church. 

Fantine was born during the age of these dechristianization policies. So she was likely never baptised, her baptismal name was never recorded, and so she has no documented legal or family name. She’s slipped through the cracks of the legal system, and ended up completely anonymous.

This sets Fantine up as this anonymous child of the Revolution– a stand-in for everyone who was left behind when the Revolution was left behind, and kings were restored to the throne. 

Fantine’s namelessness is meant to show her isolation. She has NO support system. She has nothing to connect her to other people, nothing to connect her to a support system. 

Finally, the way Fantine tends to “slip through the cracks” is something that follows her throughout her life.  When she’s fired from her job at a factory, Mayor Madeleine never learns  of it– Fantine has this tendency to be overlooked and forgotten in official records.  At the end of the story, she is buried in an unmarked grave, with not even the name “Fantine” on her headstone. She is born anonymous and she dies anonymous.

It ties into the novel’s questions about  which people we consider worth remembering, whose lives are worth being recorded. 

[Thank you for reading! This essay was originally posted as a video here. For more Les Mis talk, you should subscribe to the 2025 @lesmisletters readalong on Substack here, and join the BrickClub Discord server here!]

[circuseyesofgod-if]

DEMO (prologue) | my substack (for free, non-IF writing), KOFI 🎈🎠 Circus : Eyes of God is a horror interactive fiction story with dark fantastical elements. It is written with an 18+ audience in mind due to heavy themes and topics such as body horror, non consensual use of drugs, swearing, violence, sexual content etc.

The Circus doesn’t come in town often. Never, really. Only when it needs to be fed.

On the outskirts of a decaying town, a mysterious circus arrives overnight. It seductively whispers of never-seen-before acts, and ardently promises healing for those that are desperate enough to bind themselves to the Circus as performers.

That sounds right up your alley, doesn’t it? Well, They know what happened to you as a child, why you keep your face hidden from the world. You remember too, don’t you? The darkness, the shadows, a voice as old as time asking you to follow it, and clawing at your face when you refused.

They think that you have kept your sweet face hidden under those veils for long enough. They will heal you, they will heal your scars. They will let you take the veils off. But They won’t do it out of the kindness of Their heart, no. You must give Them something in return. They want to know—what are you willing to sacrifice for it, for taking your veils off? For healing? For beauty?

You just need to whisper it, and They will give it to you. They will know. Because the Eyes of God are always watching.

Customizable MC (including name, gender, pronouns, sexuality, physical appearance, personality etc).

Create relationships with one of three eclectic characters : one male, one female, one … fish? mermaid? siren? oh, come on!

Hone your contortionist skills to perfection. Remember, you have to put on a good show! Otherwise, They will have to pay you a visit.

Lots of uncanny masks and always-smiling faces, too many mirrors, and … wait, is that guy juggling with an eyeball?

Discover the secret of the Circus and the secret of your childhood incident. Could they be connected?

H̸̬̖͔̮̻͉̪̲̾̌̋̽̿̾̿̕͘E̴̯̥͕̓A̸̡̺̳̮̫̬͊̀̉̑́̈ͅL̷̡̡̛̺̄̈́̽̈́̎̀̋ ̶̢͎̪̘̹̱͊̔́͜Ḫ̷̩̼͚̤͂Ḗ̸̙̰̭̲͖̯̪̝̬̯̉̎̈́A̷̖͙͎̘̱̣͇̱̒̄̅̅͘L̸͔̟̮̣͘ ̸̛̫͎͇͚͚̪͇̞̋͌̆͠͝ͅH̴̛͚́̔̀̕Ẹ̶̣͙̪̖̀͆̅̍̉̋͆̃̚͠A̶̱̙̽̂͐͑̑͜L̴̛̖͌̀̆̈́̓̏̉

THE RINGLEADER — Pharo's face is the first one you see as you step inside the Circus, lit by bright and colorful lights. He doesn't need all that, though. His skin dark, his teeth sharp — it's all gleaming on its own, glitching, barely holding Pharo at the seams. He sees all, he knows all. And his smile gets wider and wider with each secret he learns.

THE BURLESQUE DANCER - Odessa's red lips, with a cigarette between them always, ache with demands every time she opens her mouth. Yet no one is able to keep their eyes off of her when she is on stage, moving like water on land and between thin and hanging fabrics. Odessa doesn't seem keen on talking about anything before the Circus, but she will make sure to get you talking about it soon enough.

THE ATTRACTION - Vesper is the newest addition to the Circus, one that has never been seen before. Or you haven't seen anything like it, at least. Vesper is quiet, almost unnervingly so. The tail and gills and twisted arms with sickly green-grey skin are to make a profitable attraction for sure. Just ... don't ever lift up its tank's lid.

ros details.

[drdemonprince]

Where I grew up in Ohio, the women had to raise the kids, maintain the house, work overnight shifts at the hospital or the grocery store, clean out the gutters, and keep all the animals fed. They drank beer and watched football and never talked about their emotions all that much. They smoked out back behind their workplace, shot the shit with their co-workers, told their children to toughen up, and held a hard, complicated life together as practically as they could. They were the rocks of their families and their communities, both nurturing and no-nonsense, with little taste for sensitivity, frivolity, or extravagance.  I was none of those things. As a child I was physically inept and passive, too terrified of other people and slow in my reaction times to play sports or fix things. Absolutely anything could make me cry, from a sad passage in a fantasy book to a broken refrigerator lightbulb. I pranced around the home on my tippy toes and waggled my arms in a flighty, fanciful way, and dreamed of becoming a fairy or elf. I was silly and too soft and downright effeminate, and though I’d been viewed as a “girl” since the moment I was born, none of these traits were particularly desirable or considered all that gender-conforming.  Most people talk about “female socialization” as a kind of enforced femininity that’s imposed on anybody assigned female at birth. But I wasn’t a masculine girl who was punished for being insufficiently girlish. I was a feminine child who was made an outsider because of my foppish, impractical femininity. I wasn’t strong enough, tough enough, or masculine enough to be the ideal, low-maintenance kind of woman that my culture had prescribed.  My upbringing was therefore far closer to what many gender non-conforming boys undergo than it was the stereotypical experience of the “female socialized.” And from speaking to other gay trans men and femme lesbian people, I’ve learned that my case is hardly unique. “Female socialization,” to the extent that it exists, is hardly a monolith. Femininity is not expected of every girl. 

read the rest of the essay for free on substack

[wilwheaton]

Mainstream journalists could learn a few things from social media, such as writing clear headlines instead of the cowardly, obtuse headlines that often appear in news outlets like the New York Times. And they should respect the fact that quality journalism can come from nontraditional sources – including fact-based outlets that lead with their values instead of adopting a false posture of objectivity. Among these startups is Courier Newsroom, the center-left news outlet that sponsors this Substack newsletter and brings pro-democracy news to under-reached audiences via social media. And there’s Meidas Touch, which broke a story last week about CNN including a longtime Trump supporter on its panel of “undecided” voters even though the voter’s social media made his Trump affection clear.

Mainstream media on a path to irrelevance

CNN: Why is it so hard for people to trust us? Why are our ratings in the toilet?

Also CNN: Let’s put a Trump partisan on a panel of people we tell our audience are undecided voters! Then we’ll use his dismissal of VP Harris as evidence that she isn’t reaching undecideds! And we won’t tell our viewers!That’ll be great for ratings!

Voters: WOW. Goodbye forever.

CNN: We just can’t understand why our ratings are cratering. It’s a total mystery.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

The internet has taught me many things; how to start a crochet project I will inevitably abandon, how much I can cry about ancient animals dying together in a burrow, and how persistent and well-accepted eugenics is in our society. Now it’s usually around the time I drop the e word in casual conversations that people’s eyes glaze over and their feet start shuffling back. A comment section is irreparably derailed when eugenics enters the chat. You, yourself, might be considering closing the tab and calling it a day. What’s so silly about these reactions is that I (or other disabled people like me) am rarely, if ever, the first one to bring it up. You are. And that’s because the lexicon of eugenics thinking is widespread, insidious, and learned. It rolls off the tongue or into the keyboard with such unconscious precision that any mention of its connection to its historical roots is met with immediate disavowment. But if writer Marie-Helene Bertino’s quote is to be believed—“what we love, we mention”—then y’all love eugenics. Given our most recent past, nowhere is this love more apparent than how we collectively speak about viruses. It’s there in RFK Jr. leading the MAHA charge against vaccines despite benefitting from them himself, and it’s there in wellness influencers tackling your post-viral fatigue by repackaging the Protestant Work Ethic as a manifestation series (for only $899!), and it’s there in the public health messaging that says “it only affects these people” that infers that these people might be an acceptable loss. (See: HIV, Monkeypox.) The name of this Substack is inspired by Dr. Fauci’s infamous “the vulnerable will fall by the wayside” quote for a reason. But it’s not just people in charge or influencers with big platforms relying on the death of disabled people (and others) to earn money or political favor. It’s every day, in every conversation, in every political group. It’s everyone, it’s you, and it’s me, too.

[soracities]

Do you have any recs for beginners who want to write poetry? I love your blog so much!

there's a list of starter poetry recommendations for reading poetry here. For writing poetry I would recommend essays and nonfiction by poets: Upstream by Mary Oliver, Still Life with Lemons by Mark Doty, Now and Then: The Poet's Choice Columns by Robert Hass. If there are specific poets you like and admire, I would read their interviews to see how they themselves approach poetry and writing. I would also subscribe to Devin Kelly's Ordinary Plots substack, Padraig Ó'Tuama's Poetry Unbound (substack and podcast), and the On Being podcast's interviews with poets. There's also this section on The Poetry Society of America which features poets and writers interacting with either their own work, other's work, or simply discussing different aspects of writing and experiencing poetry.

I would also recommend really familiarising yourself with the technical aspects of poetry: poetic structures, rhyming schemes, language and all its textures etc., because those are the essential building blocks more than anything else. Practice writing poems following established formats: try your hand at an abcderian poem, or a sonnet, or a tanka, or a villanelle--the structural limitations are a good way to force yourself to really think about what you want to say and how you want to say it.

At the end of the day, the most important thing if you want to write is to read widely, and read often--and practice and practice and practice again. Learning to write anything is like training a muscle and you have to train and work it consistently. Hope this helps and best of luck with your writing endeavours anon 🤍

[malusokay]

How I Made Loneliness Feel Like a Lifestyle Choice

What it means to live inside pauses, and why I still think solitude is sexier when no one notices it’s deliberate. (from my Substack)

Everything smelled like rain, and I thought that was enough. It reminded me of the garden after someone had hosed it down. I didn't grow up around cities, but they always seemed to tolerate me. I think I liked being somewhere that didn't know my name, but still assumed I belonged.

Striped sweaters, pleated skirts, tangled headphones, clothes that made me feel like I was always en route to class. Or auditioning for a French indie film. Moving through a city of lights that buzzed louder than conversations, a dull, constant hum that never really stopped, even when the streets emptied or the shops pulled down their metal shutters. I moved through it the way you walk through static: alert, but blurred around the edges. Roaming through busy stations, empty cafés, quiet library aisles, the kind of spaces that were public but impersonal, where everyone passed through but no one stayed long enough to be noticed.

I knew the schedule of trains I wasn't taking, the smell of pastries I never bought, the sound of my own shoes across polished floors. I always wondered what it would feel like to walk in and choose something without thinking, to point at a donut, maybe, and eat it right there. Like a normal person. Like someone with blood sugar, zero shame, and no existential beef with breakfast. But I'm very strict with myself. I'd linger just long enough to let the air hit, warm sugar, butter, vanilla rising from trays behind glass—and then I'd keep walking like it hadn't crossed my mind.

I wasn't running out of anything. That's what made the slowness feel indulgent, not dangerous. Being there didn't serve a purpose, and maybe that's why it felt like a secret, like I was getting away with something small and private, a softness no one had to witness.  I came from a world that didn't use public transport. That's probably why I liked it, the quiet subversion of being somewhere unchauffeured. Sitting alone felt earned. Watching the city move without me in it felt like a choice.

I liked places where no one stayed long, where nothing stuck. Where it was normal to be alone, to be quiet, to be looking down at nothing in particular, most of it passed without detail. Just motion. Noise, breath, movement. The lift of a coat sleeve. The scratch of a chair leg on tile.

I wasn't trying to stand out. But I didn't want to vanish into the wallpaper either. I wanted to be the kind of girl you looked at twice, but never remembered why. I wanted to be looked at without having to speak. The kind of presence that makes people wonder but not ask. I think I learned that posture in school, that specific neutrality. Just polished enough to blend in with the ones who mattered, just distant enough to never be mistaken for someone waiting to belong. I walked like I knew where I was going, even when I didn't. That was usually enough. It worked 90% of the time. The other 10%, I accidentally stumbled into a linguistics conference breakroom or a storage unit filled with mannequins missing their hands, with no recollection of how I had ended up there.

No one talks about how loud fluorescent lights are until you've been under them too long. And I was under them a lot. Not because I had anywhere to be, but more because they were always on in the places I ended up. They flickered sometimes, but mostly they just buzzed, high, steady, and inescapable. You don't notice it at first. But then it's all you can hear, like the sound is inside your head, not around it. It doesn't hurt, exactly. It just presses. Constant and low, a hum under everything else. After a while, I stopped noticing until I left the building and felt the sudden quiet of normal air. Even the street seemed softer in comparison.

I think I liked that. The sudden relief. The way silence felt like something you could wear.

I miss subway lights in my eyes, the way they flickered across the windows, breaking my reflection into something softer. Less defined. Easier to look at. Not quite me, but close enough to follow with my eyes as the train moved. There was something comforting in the blur, in the way the glass doubled everything, made it all a little less certain. I could sit across from myself without having to explain anything. No smile. No correction. Just the outline of a girl who looked like she read too much and might start crying if you asked about her favourite movie.

Sometimes I'd stare until my own face went unfamiliar, my mouth wrong, my eyes too far apart, and my hair a bit too dark. It never felt dramatic. Just distant. Like someone I'd borrowed things from.

Loneliness wasn't dramatic then. It didn't lurch or shout or demand anything from me. It just sat next to me like noise, like background static, easy to ignore until everything else went quiet. It lived in the pauses. In the space between songs. In the wait before the train doors closed. I wouldn't have called it sadness. I still don't think I would. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake, one that stayed close but never really touched me. Like a bruise I'd forgotten about until something pressed against it.

That's the part that's stayed with me. Probably always will.

I moved without urgency. There was rarely a reason to be anywhere, and even when there was, I didn't feel like rushing to meet it. Sometimes I rode past my stop on purpose just to see how long I could go before anyone noticed I wasn't where I said I'd be. Sometimes I just forgot to get off. Not in a distracted way, just in that quiet, slow kind of forgetting that happens when the lights blur and the announcements start to sound the same. I always stood in the same place, by the door, leaning against the divider on the side facing forward. I liked the way the movement pressed me into it, like the city was gently holding me in place, even if just by force.

The train kept going, so I did too.

There wasn't much to say about it. Long walks that led nowhere in particular, though they usually ended at water. The kind that gathers without spectacle, canals, harbours, the quiet undersides of bridges. Places where things collect. Leaves. Bottles. Thoughts. I'd stand there for a while, coffee in hand, like I was waiting for something to surface, though I never really expected it to. I always kind of hoped I'd see a seal. Something about their vibe, fat, quiet, mysterious, felt aspirational. I imagined us nodding at each other like two girls who just get it. The coffee would go cold before I finished it, not because I forgot, but just because I didn't like it that much. But it gave me something to hold. And sometimes that was enough. It made me look busy. Like I had somewhere to be, or someone waiting. People don't ask questions when you're holding coffee. It's basically an invisibility cloak for awkward people.

Now I don't even know if I ever liked it, or if I just got used to the taste the way you get used to minor inconveniences, like blisters, or boys who say they hate small talk and then spend forty-five minutes telling you about their crypto portfolio.

Afternoons slid into evenings. Evenings into nights. The kind of hours that don't announce themselves, they just collect. Soft and weightless, but heavy if you stack too many. I stopped keeping track after a while. Someone once asked if I was lost. I wasn't. But I said yes anyway. Just to try on the softness of being helped. Some days blurred at the edges, others vanished completely. I'd look up, and it would already be dark, and I'd have nothing to show for it except a half-drunk coffee and some vague memory of walking somewhere. Sometimes I bought things, like books, mugs, bracelets, or old things. Small enough to fit in a coat pocket. I never needed them, but I always found a way to use them. At one point, I was probably one paperweight away from becoming a hoarder.

I didn't feel bad, exactly. Just delayed, like I was waiting for something to begin, only the beginning kept moving further out of reach. People always talk about time as if it's passing them by. Mine never passed. It hovered. So soft and idle, just out of reach. It felt like holding your breath without realising it until the exhale came in the form of darkness outside the window, the kind that arrives before you're ready, even if you knew it was coming. That's what threaded through. The weightless ache of not moving. Of being still for so long, the air starts to fold around you.

I miss how easy it was to let days slip by without asking for more. To let them spool out behind me like a thread. Nothing dramatic, nothing wasted, just hours layered on hours. Some light enough to forget, some heavy enough to keep. But none of them urgent. I could move through them like scenery, like I was there to notice and not to shape.

And I miss the way that almost felt like enough. Not good. Not exciting. But bearable in a way that made me believe there was something elegant about it. And sometimes, when it's late and everything smells like rain, it still does. The trains, the coffee, the blur in the window, they never really stopped. I still take the long way home. Not out of forgetfulness anymore. My mind knows where to get off. But there's something about delaying arrival that still makes sense to me.

The city feels smaller now. Familiar. I've stopped needing to read the signs. I know where the doors open. I know which step on the stairs creaks. And the buzzing, I don't notice it as much. It's in the walls, it's in the air, it's in the glow of shopfronts at night. It's less intrusive now. Almost gentle. Like background radiation. It's just part of how the world hums.

I think that's the part no one ever talks about—how some patterns don't mean anything until you realise you never left them, how stillness starts to look like stability if you don't call it by its name. It's not that I want to go back. It's just that I never really moved forward. I've stayed exactly where I was. Just quieter now. More fluent in waiting.

In Latin, the imperfect tense describes an action that was ongoing but never finished. I liked that. It felt honest, like naming something without needing to change it.

my insta -> malusokay

[and-her-saints]

"People often ask me how to approach their first Confession in a while or how to go about Confession in a non-destructive way. This question usually comes from queer people or ‘lapsed’ Catholics. Likely, both. Look, I am no theologian, priest, or spiritual advisor. I am merely writing and sharing this to encourage people to rethink their outright repudiation of the Sacrament of Confession, or at the very least, have a healthier approach to an Exam of Conscience and learn how to stay away from scrupulosity and self-harming thought patterns, whilst welcoming mercy and grace in a new way..." [full guide available for free on substack]

Special thanks to my beta readers: Kat, Niamh Marie (@thegospelofjudas) and Nyx (@catholicsapphic) <3 Thank you all so much.

[catgirlcalling]

In response to your request for a prompt, what about the first time Tommy calls Buck “baby”, or any term of endearment, and Buck’s reaction?

Oof, this took a minute! Thank you so much for the prompt, and helping me un-rustify my writing!

(Anyone else who has been kind enough to send a prompt, I'm getting to them! I'm just slow and rusty 😂)

Buck had always had a weird sleep schedule. Working nights or odd shifts had never seemed to mess with him the way it did for everyone else. Part of him thinks it definitely helped with being a firefighter- being able to squeeze in some extra study where he could, or sleep at will when needed. To be able to slam into full wakefulness when the alarms rang, or sleep in the strangest locations and still get rest.

It had caused problems in past relationships, girls upset their bedtimes didn’t line up, claimed his quiet puttering around at night was too disturbing, and one memorable occasion where the need for sleep had outweighed his need to wake up to his alarm for a pre-organised date. Abby, and eventually Taylor, had had some understanding by virtue of similar work styles, but in the end his late night substack dives had just always been one more thing added to the list of negatives he brought with him.

And then there was Tommy.

They’ve been dating for almost four months now but they quickly graduated from goodnight kisses on doorsteps to multi night sleepovers, and Buck discovered the joys of dating someone whose more innocent late night escapades were just as weird as his own.

Tommy understood the sleep schedule of a firefighter, the crazy hours and the inconvenient call ins. Buck had even found him sleeping in places strange enough to rival his- still upright at the dinner table with a mountain of bills spread out in front of him, really Tommy? But for all the weird sleep quirks and adjustments that came with being a firefighter, there was one Buck wasn’t quite prepared for.

Tommy was a sleep talker.

For a man who didn’t talk much during the day, Tommy certainly had things to say when he was unconscious. Sometimes it was utter gibberish (“The goblin shouldn’t be on the microwave, Evan. It should be in the jar,”), and sometimes it was observations from work and past calls, but he also reacted to the waking world while he was counting sheep. Buck learned Tommy could have entire conversations and not remember most of it, and he could ask him questions that Tommy would answer with alarming truthfulness.

(It had taken a very long and confusing conversation about hot dogs for breakfast before Buck had finally realised that Tommy had been asleep when he made the request. While most of the things he had said to Buck in his sleep were truthful, that one was just bizarre.)

As strange and jarring as it had been the first time though, Buck found himself so hopelessly endeared by it. That this big, strong, incredible man felt comfortable enough with him to not hide that he sometimes said strange and sweet things while he dreamt. He found himself loving crawling into bed after Tommy, wrapping himself around his gorgeous man and listening to his mumblings until he settled back into dreamland.

Tonight, Tommy was typically chatty. Buck slid under the covers as quietly as he could, but was foiled by Tommy rolling half on top of him and snuggling in like a giant cat.

“Did you tell the Governor we said no to the dinner at the Oscars?” Tommy mumbles into Buck’s pec, drawing a chuckle from him.

“I’ll tell him tomorrow, Tommy. You sleep now, ok?”

Tommy smiled and practically purred as he tried to cuddle even further into Buck’s side. “Thank you baby, you’re amazing,” he murmured, finished with a quiet snore.

Suddenly Buck’s chest felt too small for the warmth spreading through it, radiating from the man drooling gently into his tshirt. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he squeezed Tommy tighter and pressed a kiss to his sleep rumpled curls.

“Tell me that again in the morning, baby,” he whispered back, finally letting the pet name he’d been wanting to call Tommy for weeks now slip free. It wasn't exactly how he'd imagined saying it for the first time let alone hearing it, but it felt right.

He lets his eyes close and curls further into his boyfriend’s embrace with a dreamy smile of his own, drifting off to plans of repeating those pet names over pancakes in the morning.

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