#also anon asking for beasts sneak peek: it's coming i swear i'm just trying to pick the least spoilery part lmao

[whinlatter]

19 & 29 for the writing ask!

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

He doesn’t remember much of that first flat, though knows it was small: whenever the living room was full of people, as it so often was, he remembers it loud and fit to burst, the laughter of his aunties and uncles competing with the sound of the neighbours’ telly through the wall. Mostly he remembers lying on his tummy on that big swirly carpet with his felt-tip pens and some printer paper that his mum had nicked from work, tenderly drawing West Ham’s midfield. He'd glare at his Auntie Joanne when she'd try and distract him in the middle of serious business, trying to get the shape of the players' legs right as they nail a driving pass, the curve of a muscled neck lurching for a header, the fold of triumphant knees skidding across mudded grass in celebration. He’d show them to mum when she’d get in from her shift and paid the child-minder, and she’d spend ages admiring them, asking about them, while she held him around the middle, his head on her shoulder. ‘You’re so clever, Deano,’ she’d say, and give him a big kiss on the cheek. He’d always complain when she’d mix up the players’ names, forget who Frank McAvennie was for the hundredth time - real sacrilege, but he'd always forgive her, would forgive her anything, his mum. He'd bury his face in her neck, cling onto her, swing off her, cross his fingers she'd reward his efforts with a trip to Stratford Burger King. She’d plastered the flat with those pictures, stuck them up on the fridge and the cupboards and the wardrobe door in their bedroom. They’d shared a bed, him and mum, though he was already getting too tall for it, all long neck and limb. He'd never minded it: every morning he’d woken up to the sounds of the buses trudging down Green Street and a cuddle with his mum under the picture he’d drawn of the two of them, hand in hand at Upton Park, clad in blue and maroon, framed above the bed, pride of place.

29. What's the hardest thing about writing?

Definitely trying to set up plots, track and sustain them, thread them through a long piece of work, and properly land them, while still letting their twists and turns be interesting and surprising to a reader. I thought of myself as a vignette writer for a very long time because I thought I couldn't really do plot and would never be a proper plot writer. Lately I've been trying to challenge myself to develop that skill more, work it like a muscle, but it's been really hard work, ngl!

Thank you so much @merlins-sequined-hotpants (your username gets me everytime)

Yet another writing ask | ask me anything