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sofiadragon · 1 year

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for Va'pak; Uzhau,

how did you get the idea for it? like it's so well thought out, in the writing style, and it feels so intelligently written, and you come out with an update pretty quick, for a fic like this. i just wanna know, like, what do you think when you're writing? oh yeah and it's a bloody fantastic fic btw

Two ideas started this fanfic:

Vulcans require mental bonds. Being without them is like sensory deprivation. Any surviving orphans would be at massively high risk for self harm or other mental health issues.

Spock and Jim in Iowa. (All elaboration redacted for spoilers.)

I wrote chapter 5 first. It built from there. My fix-it for the odd characterization choices in ST09 with Jim being a felon got added. The Vran from my other story gets a cameo. I like worldbuilding so mostly my stories build up either from "How do I explain [canon thing] and how does that explanation effect other stuff?" Example: Season 1 of TOS says Vulcan has very little free sodium salt, with what a human would consider "freshwater" oceans even if the evaporation rate would make it very mineral rich/hard water. The fannon about Vulcan food being bland to humans would therefore be because there is no salt in the seasoning, meanwhile Vulcans think human food is way too salty! Both species agree on sweets, with strawberries and cream on toast with nuts being a canon Vulcan breakfast served family style!

The other way I worldbuild is more "out of whole cloth, but color-matched to canon." My Jotenheim story is mostly this. I look at the overall framing and details and extrapolate, then build on that extrapolation until I have a complete living culture. Spock has a statue of a death god in a little meditation area of his room. Even as XO, the cabin space on a ship is at a premium. He loses almost all his storage space in the living area to have this instead. It is no great leap to say it is wildly important to him that he have this connection to his culture and religion. That alter means that much to him. Oh, he's wild, out of pocket, sassy, and indulgent at times, but he says his prayers and observes the holy days like a good boy when he's done. At least for his family, we can be sure this is a huge part of their lives... but what is that religion like? What does it say? What can I reverse engineer from canon and what can I make up to fill the voids? Then: how does that impact the story.

As for update speed and quality? Behold:

Never post the last thing you have written unless it is the end. Always have at least one more drafted and some kind of outline or plan before publishing fanfic. I use Scrivener so I have a place for a synopsis for each of these "pages" and you know what? Some of them move. I've taken 5k words and shuffled them like a deck of cards in some of my drafts because after writing it all I realized the story would work better otherwise than how it was.

My first drafts are quite rough, messy grammar and dialog that perfectly fits the "he wouldn't say that" meme.

I just keep on working it until it works out. I've been writing fanfiction since the late 1990's, and I do my best not to rush it.

#storycraft #my writing #star trek #Va'Pak; Uzhau #aos spirk #answers

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loregoddess · 7 months

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head empty, no thoughts, only Ori (this is a lie, I have several thoughts about Octo2 yet again, specifically about Tanzy and Ori)

Agnea's final chapter was fun bc I was keeping such a wildly close eye on Tanzy bc, of all the foils, she was one of the least developed and therefore most confusing/enigmatic (Petrichor gets the crown for literally not existing outside of hearsay, but Tanzy's pretty weird too).

So anyhow, every time Tanzy says something about her goddess I know she's talking about Arcanette now, which makes her statement to Agnea about "even the goddess is watching you" pretty ominous, but aside from that Tanzy is? literally impossible to read. Unlike Trousseau, who we see in the Winterbloom flashback to be a little unhinged before Castti meets him (and therefore making it not as surprising that he was so susceptible to Claude's logic), we really aren't shown any indication that Tanzy isn't doing well. I mean hell, even Ori, with her happy-go-lucky scrivener mask, slips a few times, and her "true" personality comes through a bit if you're paying attention (more on that later). But not Tanzy, which I guess makes sense, given that she's the "dancer" and I seem to recall that she was an actor at some point?

Also, Tanzy literally sees Agnea's entire performance of the Song of Hope. Y'know, the same song that saves Dolcinaea, and even pulls La'mani out of his hatred. And yet, Tanzy is entirely unfazed, and I think this speaks a lot to Arcanette's approach to manipulating people by appealing to their emotions. Unlike Ori, who is acting on her own alongside Oboro, and who isn't deeply connected to Arcanette or Claude (really, I'd argue Oboro is more using those two for his own game rather than the other way around), Tanzy gets pulled into this entire mess by Arcanette, who preys on Tanzy's grief. So I guess it's not surprising that Tanzy is entirely unfazed by the Song of Hope, because in a way the hope that Agnea could have given her has already been given to Tanzy by Arcanette, even if Arcanette's hope is a falsehood meant to manipulate Tanzy. Which is...really interesting, because really, Tanzy doesn't crave or desire the shadow the same way most of the other foils do. She's just in love with Arcanette bc Arcanette filled a void left by Tanzy's grief.

I dunno, Tanzy just seems really tragic.

This brings me to Partitio's final chapter, which is also really interesting for getting some insight into Ori. Because I think this is the only time we really see her mask slip for a second. Her little speech to Partitio before running to distract the guards with a fake stomach ache is just...really out of place compared to the mood of the rest of the chapter. Sadder music plays, and Ori acts like this is the last time she's going to see Partitio, despite wanting him to succeed.

There's also the whole "putting herself in harm's way for Partitio" thing which is...I dunno, interesting but concerning, because I get the sense that, like Oboro, Ori has this self-destructive streak at the start of the game. We even see this later after Roque pulls out the train to try and kill Partitio, and everyone but Ori and Partitio run away, and sure Ori says she wants to stay bc she "smells a big scoop" but her hesitation and some of the stuttering make it seem more like she was either too shocked by the train's appearance to react, or that she really planned to stay by Partitio and possibly die to protect him. And it's Partitio who talks her into saving herself and living, like he literally tells her to go and live.

And like! Between the fact that she actively involves herself with helping Partitio, that she has to act out the fight for hope and therefore actually gets a taste of trying to do good and actually being able to do good, that she gets to participate in hope, but also that Paritio shows that hope towards her, that he actively reaches out and tells her to live is just...! Especially after all she's gone through like, damn.

It makes sense she's the only one of the "order" of character foils who actually survives the events of the story, like. First there's the oddity that all the flames are extinguished via murder (Oboro kills Ageha, Petrichor is killed by the Darkling, Arcanette kills Tanzy), but then Ori has to go and kill herself to extinguish the flame, and while her attempt of the act is despairful enough to douse the flame, her desire to live because of how she's changed during her time with Partitio is enough to save her. She gets the second chance that was afforded to literally every single character in Partitio's story, and that's just, I dunno. That gets me, I guess. I'm really glad she gets that second chance.

Anyhow now I just have Temenos and Ochette's final chapters, and then I can wrap up the side quests and...well I think I'm gonna try fighting Vide before Galdera, bc as fun as it was to accidentally steamroll Vide for my first run, I would like a bit of a challenge this time around (and if it doesn't work I can always level-grind anyhow, since I do all my grinding at night bc of that one skill that increases JP and EXP acquisition at night). I think I'm gonna try walking around during the eternal night phase and actually talking to NPCs to see if there's any unique dialogue...maybe.

#hey did you know? I love Ori?#also Tanzy's fascinating for the incredibly small amount of writing she gets #love me some weird women side characters #oracle of lore

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dragon-swords-prophecies · 2 years

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1, 5, 11 for the weird writer asks!!

@void-fireworks

Hi! Sorry about this taking forever to answer, but I'm doing it now, yay!

What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

I generally write in whatever the default font of Scrivener is, I don't actually know what its name is. But I know its not Arial and it isn't Time New Roman, but that doesn't narrow it down a lot.

2. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

I don't actually think I have any.

3. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

I have yet to actually manage to kill any of my darlings off completely. Even the ones in Silence & Secondhand Souls (Note to self: still need an abbreviation for that) get happy endings. Well okay not entirely. But in a manner of speaking. I mean their bodies don't rot in a dragon's lair forever, they get properly buried with the help of one of their ghosts and several people who may or may not be their reincarnated souls, I'm not quite sure yet.

Actually no that's not a happy ending at all, ignore what I said.

For the first draft of Frost & Fire I did intend to kill off Anne and/or Ana and possibly Enna in the end but that's not going to happen now, I'm too attached. And no one's going to die in One of Copper.

Well, I don't think anyone will.

I'm trying not to let anyone die.

I'm honestly not quite sure if it's working. But I think it is? No one's died yet.

Well, except the people who are already dead when the story starts, but also the one important one has been dead 150 years or so, so I'm not quite sure that counts.

#asks #ask game #writeblr ask game #void fireworks #i may or may not be answering this while in a fit of emotions from finishing my favorite detective show of all time #there is a movie and a sequel series but my mom is making me wait for her to watch the movie #and i wanna see the movie before the sequel series for obvious reasons #but i am experiencing very much distress right now oh dear #anyway. sorry about the tag ramble.#i have too many Feelings right now #and they are coming out in a rather haphazard manner that is resulting in a tag ramble

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many-gay-magpies · 3 years

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short (or not so short) little kpop fandom rant below; putting a readmore because i feel kind of weird saying all this stuff on a blog that is pretty much kpop dedicated, who's follower-base is made up of mostly kpop fans, but i also just feel the need to get it out there, so. here we are

(disclaimer: im not using 'you' to direct this post at anybody in particular, if anything it's directed at myself, you just feels more direct)

kind of going off of that post about parasocial relationships i just reblogged but like. ever since watching that one video by a dude im subscribed to on youtube about stan culture and fanfiction and stuff (i think i might have linked it on tumblr at some point? maybe?) my experience in the kpop fandom had gotten... interesting, from a personal standpoint

like im starting to wonder about all this stuff and think about the fact that ALL fanfiction, even the nonsexual stuff, is still crossing a bunch of boundaries in a way? because like youre writing all this stuff about REAL PEOPLE and literally making headcanos for how they would be as boyfriends, how they'd react to certain situations, how they would be in fights for god's sake, and its just-- these are real people. you dont know them. you will probably NEVER know them on a level higher than maybe meeting them through a fanmeet, or if you're lucky running into them on the street or something. and you can't... know how these people you've never met will REACT in situations like the ones you're thinking about, you can't know what they're like off-camera and outside of idol life. and i kind of had a point with this particular section of the rant, but i forgot what it was, so i'm just gonna move on

the thing with me is that like... i think all of this stuff, and yet i still read the occasional y/n fanfic or (god forbid) full group fanfic, often with ships involved. and i justify it to myself by saying i know these aren't the REAL people, they're just characters someone else created in their image; all of this stuff is written based on the images, the characters presented to us, and not the real people underneath (but the problem is a lot of fanfic writers probably dont feel the same way; they think like it's the real people they're writing about and treat it as such). I tell myself I read and enjoy ship fics because I would enjoy the samd dynamic with ANY two people, because the relationship is something i'd admire and long for in real life, it doesn't matter who with. I don't ACTUALLY think these two idols are dating or think they would act like this—its just characters. But it's still just like... where does the boundary lie? I'm thinking all of this stuff, but if i dont act on it, do the thoughts even really matter? Because its what a person's actions say about them that matters, just thinking about something... right?

So as you can see, I'm conflicted.

Now, something else worth noting is that I... don't necessarily think fantasizing about idols, in whatever way that might be, is bad. They're attractive, the images and characters they present often compliment that by being nice, sweet, funny, etc. It feels normal, to me, that you might fantasize about dating them or hugging them or kissing or being friends with them every so often—especially during the pandemic, when people rarely got the chance to actually see other people and (im speaking for myself here but i think its something that can apply to others as well) sometimes ended up filling the void with parasocial relationships instead. the fantasizing isn't the bad part—to me that just feels like a part of being human. its that we're taking these fantasies and putting them out into the world in the form of writing, reactions and fanfictions and the like—we're writing down our fantasies and letting other people read them and fantasize about them in turn.

and to me that feels... weird. personal. kpop idols don't need to know the fantasies you have about them, and no matter how impossible you think it might be, if you post something online, anywhere, there is a chance that they'll see it. and above that even, our fantasies, in our own heads, feel like something that doesn't need to be—or even shouldn't be—shared out loud (artzyy if you're reading this, you can probably figure out why i got so awkward and felt like i'd overshared during our conversation yesterday). i mean, if you're comfortable sharing your mental fantasies with the world, by all means, you do you; im just... not.

a lot of this is why i... actually don't feel uncomfortable writing enhaverse fanfiction (exhibited clearly by the two vampire jungwon fics that are now floating around my blog, the sunoo lily fic in progress in scrivener, and the various other ideas for fics still floating in my brain). because it isnt "real people" we're writing about, or idols' on-camera faces that we ACT like are real people, it's characters these boys and their company have created specifically for their music videos and lore; entirely different, fictional people, just with the same names and faces, which we've basically taken and spun into whatever the fuck the tumblr enhaverse is now (delightfully full of angst, gay longing, softness and a whole lot of fucking projection... you get the idea.)

but its just-- weird, having all these feelings, making all these justifications and having all these morals in place, and yet being part of a fandom that for the most part goes against every one of them. but i haven't left, or really changed my behavior at all, so its... yeah. weird.

#magpie thoughts #debating wether or not i tag this with kpop fandom or kpop meta tags because i kind of dont want anyone to actually see this??#except for my moots and the people following me that is #but thats like. it #magpie meta #there we go now i have a TAG for this stuff

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ldaoec · 3 years

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“The Mason.”

A part of me wishes the you in my head— the better version of you, the person I’m sure you could’ve been, if the world was just a little kinder— really existed. With that same part of me that falls in love with fictional characters, gives my heart to imaginary men, I wish the person I thought you’d been was real. Because, he was one of my favorite people. I wish the person I saw you as on March 29, 2018 really existed, because, my darling— the person I thought you were, the person you were, in my mind, I could’ve loved him until March 29, 2118. In the end, it is ironic, that song you found with your own name as the title. Because, in the end, I fell in love with someone who never existed. And, I turned out to be the Mason after all.

Kiwi Foster © 12/11/20

We were talking ,when I found this poem in my notes app. “Out of curiosity, how often do you check my blog?” I asked, less than an hour after moving this one onto the scrivener file. In the alternate universe we were flirting with— which, did turn out to be a disassociation—where you and I were friends again, I was excited for you to read this one. You said the door was open, if there was anything I wanted to talk about, regarding the poetry. I really do wish I’d asked what you thought about it. Devin thinks it’s good. She thinks I’m a good writer. But, do you? I mean, it doesn’t matter. I do. I think the poetry is really good. And, I was going to tell you about the book— how, I wanted to look into publishing, because I think art is meant to be shared. But, we never got that far. Because, like the poem says, you didn’t exist. I don’t know why you reached out. You asked if I thought you were trying to hurt me. Maybe not. Maybe you’re just naturally talented. But, you said the door was open, if I wanted to talk about the poetry. And, I know I said you weren’t welcome to reach out to me again, but, if you’re reading this— and, I imagine you are, because you, “didn’t need my permission”— I really do mean it when I say “leave a like.” After all, you’re no longer blocked, and I think letting me know if I’m talking to the Void, or to you is the least you can do. You owed me much more than that. Then again, I’ve always been talking to a ghost.

#poetry

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callmebliss-got-swamped · 4 years

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The falliability of meat

Getting restarted using Scrivener again has my poking through the mess that is my Google Drive, hunting for partially finished wordsings that I can ‘port over to turn into something reasonably complete. The problem is that I have been so bad for so long about organizing that I have Shared With Me things mixed incomprehensibly in with Things I Wrote, and my brain being what it is... I’m struggling to tell things apart. I have stories I’ve written that I stumble across later and go full I-Have-No-Memory-Of-This-Place Gandalf, which means that it’s really painful coming across things that are quite good and having to figure out - did I do this? Was this mine? I’m left to archaeologize and analyze documents like a lit student on a bone dig. Did I drape the flesh across the structure here, or was that the carefully tanned hide of one of my fellows?

I’m pretty sure the one about the void-engine is mine. I’m reasonably certain the one that uses the phrase “their jimmies squirting” is not.

I love and hate my own brain in equal measure.

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onthevirgeofdestruction · 4 years

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whyyyy whyyyy would you change scrivener that makes my job harderrr

i mean technically the ai catches all that stuff and you don’t have to mark them as wrong,,, we’re just both stubborn individuals. I was just tired of seeing squiggly lines, I’m still writing the same words I always do. I have 3 AIs look over my stuff before I even hand it over to beta so I’m clearly very stubborn. I look forward to your heated arguments because I love seeing you be passionate about it. Sure! Your way is objectively better! But it’s my right (write) to be a bad writer as someone with exactly one braincell! bonus points to anyone else who catches all the sly references to plea in my other fics because I have done it multiple times. I just love comparing various Virgils to vampires and generally the phrase ‘gay vampires’ gives me serotonin. ilyp wonderful void child<3

Also! i sorta wonder where the brain went! can I get it back! Is this my life now? I dunno!

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angstymarshmallow · 5 years

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Dear Mom (part 1) Ride or Die

[a little note: awhile back I wrote a couple of pieces of fanfiction for my MC in the TF universe, directed to her mother and I kind of wanted to do the same with the MC in the Ride or Die universe. It probably won’t go anywhere; but here’s at least something if anyone’s interested!I If not this will probably just be the first and last one].

Hi mom,

It’s been a long time.

I can’t even remember the last time I’ve written in this thing.

Actually, come to think of it – fifth grade me is probably quaking in her boots that seventeen-year-old me is picking this up again. It’s definitely been since fifth grade when Brandon Scrivens tried to glue my hair to the desk. Well, not a lot has changed since then – boys are still unbelievably stupid.

But I shouldn’t start there, I should start at the beginning.

I’m in my last year of high school – can you believe it? On some days, I can’t. Especially with the last couple months till the end of the semester. I think it’s because I spent so much time thinking of how much of nightmare this place was…and now that it’s almost over – it still feels like a nightmare but one I can finally wake up from.

I think I’m just ready to move on; ready to spring my wings like all the self-help books I’ve been reading lately keeps saying. But seriously can I…just graduate already?

Langston.

It’s almost here mom, our dream.

I keep jotting it down in my chem notebook, because it’s been all I can think about lately. Langston is my ticket out of here. The more I say it, the more real it becomes - I just wish you were here to see it with me.

It’s not that I hate school- I don’t. I love the thrill of learning something new. it’s taught me a lot…in its own ways. I just don’t think I would’ve survived senior year without Riya and Darius. They’ve been my rock through everything – especially Riya; you know how bold and loud she is. She’s always trying to get me out of my shell – “live a little, your birthday is coming up”. But what’s wrong with playing it safe? Playing it safe has gotten me this far already.

Darius is good for her, really good for her. They always seem to click and I couldn’t be happier for them. But sometimes I can’t help but feel out. Like I’m intruding on their happiness when we go out – but maybe it’s all in my head. Or maybe, I shouldn’t ask to hang out as much as I do. It’s not like they’ll ever come right out and say it, but I might as well staple THIRD WHEEL across my forehead.

I guess, I just miss it when it was just the two of us. Even if I’ll never tell Riya as much – I can at least admit it here; right in between two lines of paper and ink - I miss the old Riya.

So, I’m giving them space without them asking me to. I’ve been hanging out a lot more with dad – especially with my birthday and grad coming up. And that’s been going great. Mostly. I mean he still misses you, a lot. Like a lot, a lot. We try to fill the void you left behind on most nights when Dad isn’t busy at the station. But sometimes, bad things just happen. We’ll fight about why I can’t stay out late - he’ll only say he’s doing this to protect me and I’ll say he’s stifling me. Then suddenly the accident hangs between us all over again….and the silence almost threatens to swallow us whole.

I don’t want to make him sad mom, I think he’s never quite gotten over you. But I’m not you. I’m my own person and I can’t live in a world where he makes every decision for me. I’m not a kid anymore.

#ride or die #ride or die a bad boy romance #playchoices #fanfiction #choices fanfiction #choices stories you play #diary entry number 1

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authorkimberlygrey · 5 years

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Hi! I LOVE your blog, seriously my fav writer blog. How and when, and even where do you write? How do you find the energy to write? I’ve been working on a few WIPs for a few years, and lately I’m wondering if I should just throw all my outlines out the window and just completely revamp my writing practices, because I’ve felt so constructed by the outlines, lately. Much love, adore your stuff 💙

I’m your fave?😭😭 awwwwww ❤❤❤❤❤❤ that makes me so happy! I’m glad you like my blog and I hope you continue to like it.

On to your questions tho:

First off, feeling constricted by outlines is a Big Mood, my friend, I used to go into super detail on my outlines, I’m talking I planned out individual scenes and blocked out interactions. Which was a pain when, inevitably, I’d have a Great Idea in the middle of a scene that would make the entire outline pointless.

I can’t stick to an outline, so I just don’t. I make an outline, sure, but the minute it stops working for me? I just chuck it and make a new one. Yeah, I make a lot of outlines, and sometimes having such a thin outline can get me into trouble because I don’t know what I’m getting into (but that’s easily solved by yet another outline.)

I do some drawing so it helps me to think of outlines as sketches, its a structure for me to put more detail onto, but its not anything final or permanent.

An outline is there to help you, as soon as it's not doing that, toss it and make an outline that is helping.

As for your other questions, and tips on revamping your writing process, check under the readmore because I ramble lol

For those of you in a hurry:

Be kind to yourself, positive reinforcement will always work worlds better than negative. Give yourself rewards for your victories, no matter how small they are. Make writing a habit! I write at 7 every night, it helps to have a schedule, it trains your brain. Go with the flow, but don’t let yourself go over a waterfall. Take breaks if that’s what you need, but make sure its a break not an abandonment.Find the root of the problem, don’t attack the symptoms. Find what works for you, don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. You can look for examples that will help you, but don’t compare yourself to others. It never makes you happy.

I tend to think of myself as a pretty laid back writer. I don’t usually sit down at the computer and pound out 4k words a day usually my total word count when I save and exit is 500 words. Sometimes its less. Yesterday I went to bed with 200 words, it wasn’t a lot of progress, but it was progress.

The secret, for me at least, is finding the balance between being kind to yourself, but also not letting yourself slack off.

For me, that means I have to actually try at writing for 30 minutes a night. If I sit at the computer for 30 minutes and come up with half a sentence, that’s fine, that means I need to figure out what the problem is and get through it tomorrow.

I see a lot of writers beating themselves up for not hitting big numbers every night, even I can fall into that a little bit. We want progress, its natural, and when we don’t make progress then it can be frustrating and it's easy to fall into the temptation of putting yourself down over it.

Resist that. If you sit down and get frustrated and beat yourself up over writing, you’re not going to want to do it. You’re going to dread sitting down to write every night and as a result, you’re going to procrastinate it more and now you’re writing even less.

Instead, be patient with yourself. Sit down and figure out why you’re not writing. Are you distracted? Are you not sure what needs to happen in this scene? Are you afraid of it being bad?

If you’re distracted by stuff going on around you, find a quieter place to write, or get some headphones. Even if you don’t play music.

If you’re distracted by the internet *cough* tumblr *cough* I recommend Forest, its a chrome extension and app that grows a little tree as you focus and you can use it to plant *real* trees as well, so bonus!

If you’re not sure where the scene is going, outline it! When I’m stuck I go down a list: What Needs to happen, what do I want to happen, and how do I get those things to work together?

If you’re afraid that your writing is going to be bad, you have to be a bit sterner with yourself, but that doesn’t equal being mean. Sit down and accept imperfection, sometimes I sit down and I tell myself that I’m not walking away from the computer until I get at least one sentence down, even if it means that I stay up all night. I am yet to stay up all night at the computer. Sometimes one sentence is all that I get, sometimes that one sentence leads to another, and another, and eventually I’ve got a paragraph, or a page.

And if you’re interested in how I do my writing

I hate working at a desk so I have a comfy chair in the living room that I sit in. Sometimes if its too distracting there I’ll go to my room and chill on my bed to write. Like I said above, 30 minutes a night at 7pm every night unless I’m giving myself a break. I recently discovered the wonders of scrivener and have transferred over to that (Ywriter is a good free alternative btw!) OneNote and Microsoft word made too much of a habit of toying with my emotions ((and sacrificing my outline to the Dwellers of the Void)) so I’ve mostly quit writing there. I do save there though because I’m paranoid about losing stuff.

My elaborate backup system is as follows:

Every night after I finish writing I save on the computer and onto my USB. (note that I save every night as a new, dated file all in one folder.)

After every chapter, I save onto another document on my computer and onto Google docs. I used to send chapters out by email as well for an additional back up but I’ll admit that I’ve gotten lazy about that.

and when a draft is complete its saved in every location and onto another back up USB.

I’ll admit, I’m paranoid about losing stuff. but on the other hand, I also very rarely lose stuff so who’s the real winner here?

Anyway! Thank you for the question anon! I hope you enjoyed my giant rambling answer and I hope your writing goes well going forward! feel free to message me any time if you’ve got more questions or even if you just want to talk, I’m always up for more friends ❤❤❤

#speaking into the void #ask #writing advice #writing help #writing rambles #this is why I do powerpoints #if you just let me loose on a blank page I ramble

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hope-and-sleep · 5 years

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07/08/2019, Tuesday [038-41/100]

In the span of time since I have last screamed into the void of Tumblr, I have:

Attempted to learn how to use Scrivener

Watched Macy’s fireworks at the piers

Stayed in bed for two days reading Webnovel/Boxnovel stuff

Went to the Met

Joined a company-wide fitness challenge

Annnnd today I have watched Mean Girls on Broadway! There have been many things I have done! Right now, I suppose the things I am focusing on are NaNoWriMo, which is difficult, and the fitness challenge, which I only have until Sunday to do because the challenge only lasts a week. But it gives me a free membership to Equinox! I have to at least attempt to go to the gym and do the classes, y’know?

Which is why I’m going to sleep now. Because I have a class at 6:30AM and I’m kinda afraid I won’t wake up.

#my life #internship #100 days of productivity #everything

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aphreal42 · 6 years

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Writer’s Reflections: Tag Meme

Rules: answer the following questions about your own writing, whether fanfic or original. If you can’t/don’t want to answer a question, just put N/A. If you don’t have that many posted works, tell us about your WIPs or individual chapters/drabbles or even your ideas! Then tag as many writers as you like :)

I was tagged by @withthebreezesblown and it’s been a while since I’ve answered a set of questions like this (in part because it’s been a while since I’ve been actively posting anything I’ve written here), so I figured I’d give it a go.

AO3 name and link, if applicable: aphreal

What’s your most popular fic, by whatever metric is most relevant to you (hits, kudos, comments, reblogs, some other trait)?

By kudos, my top two fics (and the only ones to have broken 100) are Soldier’s Mask and Void. Interestingly, they also represent the longest fic I have in each fandom (DA and ME, respectively), not counting crossover between the two.

What’s your favourite fic that you’ve written?

I can’t pick one favorite anything, but I can give a short list.

Soldier’s Mask is going to be pretty far up there, by any metric. It was a conscious decision to unapologetically write all of my favorite fluffy romance fic tropes in one Alistair/Cousland AU.

Shepherd’s Lost also holds a special place for different yet similar reasons. It’s another very “me” fic, a throwback to the sort of ensemble cast, high body count, convoluted plot stuff I used to be into back when I first started writing X-fic twenty-plus years ago. (It’s not a coincidence the working doc name on this one was DoFP, standing for Days of Future Past.)

What’s your best fic, and is it different from your favourite fic?

Best by what metric? If we go by popular vote, then Soldier’s Mask and Void. I mean, the purpose of posting fic is to provide an audience with entertainment/catharsis, so presumably the fic that has best met that goal is the one that’s the most people have liked, right? Although if we’re going with providing catharsis, I might toss Silences into the list as the one with the highest proportion of deeply personal comments about how it touched a little too close to readers’ own experiences of the challenges involved in maintaining a marriage.

Do you have a fic whose popularity surprised you?

Foster Child holds third place in my kudos rankings, and I’m not entirely sure why. It’s not a bad story, by any means, but I don’t know that it’s better than others I’ve written to warrant that much attention. I can only assume that something in the narrative is a thing people are looking for.

Do you have a fic you wish more people would read?

Living is Harder is really far down my list on number of hits, which is even more significant because it’s multichapter, which means multiple hits from each reader. There are reasons -- it was written well after the wave of DA popularity had crested, it’s picking up an AU that doesn’t have full context outside my head, it’s an Alistair fic where Alistair only shows up in like the last three chapters -- but I put a lot into that fic and always kind of thought it, like Rendon Howe, deserved better.

Is there a ship or fandom you haven’t written, but really want to?

I’ve always felt a bit neglectful that I’ve never written Sulevin properly, although I’ve dabbled around the edges of her relationship with Cullen. I’d have to actually advance her playthrough enough to play the relationship with Cullen in order to have any confidence I’m writing it properly, and that seems increasingly less likely to happen as time passes.

I also really, really want to write Mera/Josephine, because I would like to write an explicitly asexual relationship. But the prospect of doing so is daunting enough that I’ve never quite gotten the nerve up to do it.

Tell us a random fact about your writing process.

I outline. A lot. Probably too much.

For anything that I expect to be over 10k, I have a four-step outlining process. First I do a rough plan of events. Then a specific scene list. Then each scene gets put on an index card with major elements, snippets of dialogue, etc. The final stage is a full outline in a ring-bound notebook, with each scene getting a page where I write out a shorthand version of the full scene: every description, event, emotional reaction, dialogue line, etc. (I’ve been told this is effectively a rough draft, but I refuse to think of it that way because it’s less pressure if it’s just an outline.) Oh, and it’s all done by hand. I may type things into Scrivener later to keep track of them, but it’s all handwritten on paper originally.

When I sit down to actually write, all I have to do is turn that final outline into sentences, fleshing out ideas, but all the decisions have been made. I do the exploring and experimentation in the outlining, so once I’m putting things into full narrative form I know where I’m going and don’t run into a lot of dead ends.

#writing meme

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nanowrimo · 6 years

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Camp Pep: How Much is Your Story Worth to You?

Camp NaNoWriMo is nothing without you, our incredible participants. Today, YWP writer Elysia Lopez offers you a boost in your third week of Camp to help you reach your writing goals:

It was the middle of NaNoWriMo, and I was 20,000 words behind in my novel. I didn’t know what happened to the time. I’d kept telling myself that I would catch up on my word count tomorrow, but too many tomorrows had passed, and here I was, a 20K-large void in my word count.

I realized that at this point, my overall goal of 50,000 words was simply unrealistic. I had homework. I had robotics competitions. I didn’t have time to write a novel.

Both Camp NaNoWriMo and the Young Writers Program allow you to change your word goal whenever you want during the month, and I’ve taken advantage of that feature. My goal dropped from 50,000 to 30,000. 30k words, which still allowed for a good chunk of my novel, so I was content. But it made me realize something:

Don’t just be content with your novel — consider what your novel means to you and what it can be.

We participate in NaNoWriMo to motivate ourselves to finally write our stories. Remember that. Our ultimate goal is to write the story, not reach an arbitrary word count.

It’s very easy to take this in the wrong direction. Since the word count doesn’t matter in the end, should we really worry about how many words we write per day, as long as we’re adding words?

What still matters that you write as much as you can. In Logic class, I learned that if someone has the power, opportunity, and desire to do something, they will likely do it. This applies to writing. Let’s break that down:

Power: Writing in itself is a very low-maintenance task. We all have the power to do it. We have laptops with Scrivener and Google Docs that enhance our writing experience, but at the very least we only need a pencil and paper. J.K. Rowling wrote her initial Harry Potter ideas on a napkin.

Opportunity: Even though it may often seem otherwise, we all have opportunities throughout the day to write. The car ride to and from school. The wait in line at the grocery store. These opportunities exist in small pockets of time, we just have to grab them.

Desire: The desire to write is often where most of us fall short. This is the reason the story never gets written, which is why I would like to focus on this point more. I think I can safely assume that we all want to write our story. Sometimes we get inspiration bursts and find ourselves writing our stories at the speed of light. But what about the times when we don’t exactly feel like writing?

Everyone falls into a writing slump now and then, but the ways we respond to writing slumps can make or break our stories. It’s so, so easy to get sidetracked because we don’t feel like writing, and we open up Netflix or Instagram and suddenly time slips out of our hands. And it’s so, so easy to lose sight of our ultimate goal of writing the story.

But next time you’re in a writing slump, ask yourself: How much is this story worth to you? Or, in other words, what would you do to get your story written? NaNoWriMo is a time for big projects, and if your story is really, really worth it (hint: it is!), sometimes those big projects take big sacrifices, like abstaining from social media and television.

You might know this feeling: it’s a Sunday night, and you haven’t finished your homework yet, so you have to stay up past the wee hours of the night, and you spent the entire time wishing your past self had been more productive.

That’s the feeling of regret, and it isn’t pleasant. Guilt hangs over your head like the sword of Damocles and you just wish that you hadn’t been so careless with your time. From my experience, the bigger the project I’m neglecting, the worse the regret, and as previously said, we work on big projects during NaNoWriMo. I don’t want to end the month with biting regret. I want to make sure that I work as hard as I can, because this is my story and I owe it to myself to write it. At the end of the month, I want to feel proud and satisfied, like the burn that singes your muscles after a workout.

Let’s circle back: after my stressful NaNoWriMo experience of catching up from 20k words, I’d realized that my novel meant too much for me to put to the side. After reading many pep talks and watching videos of NaNoWriMo participants who successfully reached a goal they’d thought was impossible, I realized I wanted that experience too.

By lowering my word count goal, I felt like I was downgrading my story’s importance. But that wasn’t right—lowering your writing goal is by no means failure. But later on, I returned my word count goal to 50k and stepped up my writing game, constantly reminding myself that this story was worth it, that it was important to me that this story was written. And on November 30, 2017, I reached my goal of 50,000 words.

So keep on writing that story. At times it may be arduous, and you may be tempted to get sidetracked, but keep your eyes on the prize: your story. Don’t end the month feeling regretful. Remind yourself exactly how much this story is worth to you, and the story will eventually get written. I’ll be rooting for you as you pull through these last stretches of Camp NaNoWriMo.

Elysia Lopez is an 8th grader and lives in the ever-sunny state of California. She enjoys reading fantasy and dystopian novels, and her favorite authors include Neal Shusterman, Cassandra Clare, Rick Yancey, and Cinda Williams Chima. Besides writing, she also enjoys building robots and programming video games. One day Elysia hopes to work as both a software engineer and a writer.

#camp nanowrimo #writing #amwriting #writing advice #pep talk #by nano guest #elysia lopez #young writers program #ywp

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years

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Dying has its own scent. Different from rot and from bloodspill, the moment itself, the close-by before, the immediate after, all have a scent of their own. Simra knew that well enough. Place and time might subject the reek to their subtleties. Scaleskins dying in the humid heat of the far south, the Blackmarsh borderlands. Dunmer letting go their misty last breaths in a salt-scented Ebonheart winter. Subtle differences, but they were sibling things all the same.

The scent of dying had gone from this place and turned to the stench of death. A sour complexity, unfinished and final. Bodies becoming bodies as they voided themselves; let slip dignity, let slip life, then let slip warmth and what came after.

Simra sat on the shape of a hide and wicker shield. He’d found it, abandoned in the fighting, face-up on the grass. The whole place felt tainted with the taste of death. Habit kept him from sitting down on the ground at the best of times. Here, he was scarce willing to stand on it. Wrongsoil, blood-tainted, bile-tainted. How could Tammunei feel and hear death all around them, always, and yet feel none of this revulsion? How could they be surrounded by something this and not get lost in it?

Animals die with abandon, Simra thought. No lies with them about the pain of it, the shame of it, the rushing sea-dark fear of it. A guar wails. Its voice becomes a dry grinding sound and then no sound at all. Its head stretches up, neck long and frail, then falls beneath the weight of its head. And in the grass, the corpse is already half-eaten, hidden by the dry-blonde stems. Simple, honest, shameless.

But people put on shows. It’s not that we see clearer and closer to the truth of things, Simra thought. That’s not what makes for people. That’s not all it takes. It’s the lies we tell ourselves, and live by. We see the truths and turn away. We live in their shadows, and say we don’t mind the shade.

He remembered the last rider to die. Legs crushed, caught them under the bulk of the guar that Noor had shot from under him. Still he’d struggled the ruin of his lower body out from its flank. Hand over hand, grinding-slow like climbing a cliff-face, he’d clawed his way through the grass. No telling if he was crawling towards some hopeless hope of escape, or else to seize some scrap of revenge. But Simra remembered his face. The lines of his old features flushed dark. The long dun-black whiskers of his beard, dragging themselves full of dry grass and spilt blood. Knowing this could only end one way, the old mer fought through pain and certainty, empty eyed and with hate held tight in his gritted teeth. And Simra had opened his head. One running blow from his heavy-bladed sword.

Except for that old mer the others had died quick. One bleeding out from her injuries beneath the survivor’s guar. One stuck through with two arrows and struck by Simra’s wand, ribs screwed in to crush and pierce the soft parts they were meant to protect. One carried at spearpoint down from his guar and finished on the ground with a knife. One last lay mangled by Tammunei’s leashed ghost, a few red feet of throat spooled out from their neck like they’d been dragged by it, then discarded.

On his shield-seat, Simra hunched over his work and did what was needful. Red hands, but no sense cleaning them. Not til the dirty work was done. Needle and twine, needle and twine, he threaded five grey ears onto a length of rough string.

He’d gone about, sleepwalker-slow, checking each dead face against the woodcut and clayprinted handbills he kept in his bookbag. Seemed he’d been right. Dolgrassur was an Angkut name. The name of a dead mer now.

“Five ears makes five bounties. One for a named name,” he said. Better to think aloud than let his thoughts run wild in silence. He could slow them this way; censor himself. Better to think out loud. Busy hands and busy mind.

Noor knelt nearby, working with a knife to cut her arrowheads from Tiamtar Dolgrassur’s body and thigh. Already the corpse was missing one ear, and a shined-shell stud from the lobe of the other. “Are you happy now?” she said.

“It’s twelve glass drams, give or take, once we’re at Othrenis.”

“You say this like it ought to mean something.”

“What it means is we’ve got enough to charter a boat once we’re at Davon’s Watch.” Mouth twisting, Simra set down the string of grizzly trophies on a scrap of cloth cut from a bandit’s ruined shirt. Pockets, bags, saddles, he’d gone through them all and searched out their salt. All of it lay on that cloth-scrap now. A half-gleaming heap of sea-grey and shining white; a bed beneath the string of severed ears. He gathered the cloth’s edges up to make a pouch and tied it off with the last of the twine. “It’s enough for passage to Molag Mar…”

He turned the idea over in his mind. Asked questions of its angles and underbelly. Enough.

Ears waiting on transmutation at the hands of a smalltown clerk; gristle to be turned into glass. Enough.

He looked over the rest of what lay before him: the spoils of what they’d done here, grouped and arranged neat as the tables in a scrivener’s ledger. A polished shell earring; a string of clay and lacquer prayer-beads, blue then red then black, then blue and over again. A necklace formed like a cascade of bronze plates that hung from a plaited string of beads the colour of copper patina. A clay flask of strong drink: sujamma, as far as any batch of sujamma was like any other. A lacquered wood box of birch-tar. A little oval luckstone, glazed ceramic, painted with a purple pattern of anther leaves that twined and entwined on a backdrop of white. An enamelled kindling-kit, the inside of its lid painted with a cameo of a red-headed mer, and inscribed with a bad verse in formal Dunmeris: ‘in every fire that lights my nights / let me remember my spark.’ Enough.

Already he wore a new bangle on his left wrist: a band of indigo bronze, smooth on its inside, and with nine hammered sides facing out. Each facet was etched with an eye; five open, four closed, all shaped like diamonds and scratched into the metal by a hand less skilled than the one that had first forged the bracelet. Enough.

And then there were the arms, the armour. A short dagger-headed axe. Another curved Vereansu sabre. Eighteen decent arrows in a waxcloth quiver and an etched leather bow-sheathe, from one rider’s broken bow. A dirk of shaped and sharpened chitin, blue-black and shining. A helmet formed like a hood of oil-black mail with a peak of red-painted bonemould, articulating down to cover the forehead and shade the eyes. Five pairs of boots. Enough.

“It’s enough,” Simra said again. But the words had no force except a kind of sadness. “Dunno that we need to risk the other six bounties. Dunno that I want to, today.”

Hard to remember now if it had always been this way. There was a rush in it: lying, fighting, chancing it all for the gain. The lavish almost-pride he could take in violence, but only in violent moments. But it always seemed more than it was; more, before it began. The killing came easier, but after it was done there was always a waiting edge, easier still to fall from.

Simra’s mouth was dry. A slip of tongue flickered out to wet his lips. He set his spine. Made his whole body stiff to stop the slouch of his back, the start of a shudder in his shoulders. He stood and clasped his shaking hands — stilled them, with each hand a tight violence against the other, like holding down a rabbit to wring its neck. He felt the bones grind. Felt a third hand close around his wrist. A cold length of terror slid under his ribs, parting skin from bone to get to his heart.

“Not real. Not now.” Simra balled shut his eyes. Opened them again, hard, filling them up with the here and now. “Not now.”

Noor was staring at him, up from beside the body. “What?”

A flush blazed on Simra’s neck. “Nothing,” he snapped, stamping over to the corpse and snatching up its waterskin. He upended it over his hands, one by one, scouring the blood from both. His eyes searched starving for something to fill his mind with. Focus before the panic came. Not now. Please not now.

Tammunei laboured a short call away from Noor and Simra. Arms under the arms of a body, they hefted its bulk up, dragging it backwards, heave by scraping heave. The body had hair the colour of yellow ivory. A leather longcoat. A head half-ruined at one side by the downward strike of a sword. Bandrys.

Galgas knelt nearby, still roped tight around the arms with a braided leather lariat. “Leave him! Stop!” His shrieks came ragged from a blood-soaked mouth. Clothes, face, scalp — everything about him was torn. The riders had dragged him to pieces when they dragged him across the plain. But Galgas was still alive and hysterical with it. “Stop touching him!”

For all Galgas’ screaming, Tammunei heaved Bandrys away and laid him down, arms folded on his body’s barrel chest. “He deserves rites. I can give them to him,” they said in slow gentle Dunmeris.

“Get your hands off my brother, you filth! All of you! All of you!” Galgas staggered to stand, arms still bound. He fought against the rope. Fought a few steps towards Tammunei when the rope proved too much for him.

Tammunei took a half-step back, head angling down, red hair half-covering their face. Shrinking body, shrinking pose, they backed away from the corpse and the corpse’s brother.

“Bastard! It’s you! You did this to us!”

“I did this to you,” Simra barked, blunt-sharp as flint. Striding over, he stood at Tammunei’s sloping shoulder and stared Galgas into stillness, five strides from them both. This would do, he told himself. This would do for a mask to wear, to hide from himself for a time. “Don’t look at them. Don’t you dare look at them. Look at me. I did this.” Simra jabbed a finger into his own chest. “I did this to you. But only as far as you didn’t do this to yourselves.”

“Fetcher! Fucker! I’ll pull your fucking teeth!” Pink spit sprayed from Galgas’ mouth. He broke back into motion and made to charge, not knowing what he’d do to Simra, to Tammunei — only that he needed his hands on him.

Simra had seen that kind of rage before; had felt that kind of rage before. He knew not to gamble against it. He raised a pointing finger. “Galgas, by your name be bound!” he barked. Old words, old Dunmeris, a dialect hard and legal. He made his hand a cage. The words, the name, the gesture formed the shape of the spell and it snatched at Simra’s insides, stinging like hunger as it went.

Galgas’ eyes gaped wide and red, sore-pink round his lids, his running nose, his drooling ground-cut mouth. He stumbled as his legs turned strange, his limbs stiff and his muscles slack.

“By your sins be weighed,” Simra hissed.

Bones and flesh, clothes and armour, all of it hung heavy with the press of the spell. Temple magic, Ordinator magic, used to run down criminals, fugitives. Telling, that the spell paid no mind to innocence. Galgas lay slumped, face half-flat to the ground. He was silent now too, tongue too heavy to lift from the bloody floor of his mouth.

“Listen.” Simra walked over to Galgas, crouching down by his head. His voice was quiet, patient as only cruelty can be. “I know what you’re thinking. You think I enjoy this. You’re thinking, how could anyone enjoy this? Any right-minded person. But that’s just the thing. I’m not like this. Not on the ordinary. I’m a reasonable person. But following some poor bit of scrawn from a cornerclub to the first alley you find, hoping for an easy jump — that’s you and your brother, isn’t it? You and him, on the fucking ordinary. You look at me, you follow me, you turn that sad little act on me. If anything’ll make my right-mind go quiet for a bit, it’s that.”

Eyes livid, Galgas could only stare up at Simra. A small strained noise fought free of his throat.

“If anything’ll kill my pity dead, it’s your greedy fucking gullibility. Threaten me? Insult my friends, insult my blood, and you think after all that I’ll still play nice? Would you have done the same? Fuck…”

Tammu crouched next to Bandrys and made to pick up a handful of dust to start the rites they’d promised.

“Leave him!” Simra snarled, knotting the muscles of his neck with how hard his head snapped round. “Leave him for the racers and the buzzards and the crows. Leave him for his brother.” He kissed his teeth and looked down at Galgas. “He ran straight into this. Chose this, far back as Ouadabridge, and chose every turn along the way. You followed, like I reckon you always have. But all along, remember it was Simra Hishkari leading you both by your greed; keeping you blind on your blindness. And if I told you the pleasure I got from this was just professional, I’d be a fucking liar.”

Simra forced the worst grin he could muster onto his face. Bared teeth and broken lips; scars and cold-brewed cruelty.

“I robbed you, used you. Just like you would have done to me. I benefited from you. But you’re wrong if you think that makes me just as bad as you. It’s not that I’m the better man. It’s just that I’m nothing like you, Galgas. I am so – much – worse.”

Simra eased up from his crouch and turned on one heel to walk back to the pile of spoils.

“Give it an hour and you’ll be able to move again. Another while and you’ll be out from that rope. Deal with your brother, do what you want. Just have the good fucking sense not to follow me again, Galgas. Learn, live, and remember.” Drained by spells, fight, false-facing, it was all Simra could to keep the crow in his voice. His face had already slackened, tired and unsmiling. “Noor, Tammunei, pack this lot and round up their mounts. We’re done here.”

The pit of Simra’s stomach was sour. The tread of his feet was heavy. This is you, he told himself. This is what you do. Perhaps things would be easier if any of it was true. His hands at least had stopped shaking. The pressure round his wrist had gone. When the panic came, what else did he have to feed it but lies? Pieces of himself? He’d lose no more of them.

Half-stripped corpses and a swathe of blackened grass. Soil gone dark and rich with blood beneath a smoke-fed sky. On a pair of guar, the three of them rode away.

Simra slouched behind Tammunei in the saddle. Hands tight as terror on their waist, head heavy on their shoulder. He breathed in the blue-grey scent of Tammunei’s knotted red hair and stared over the plains in silence.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Noor Jedhredzuk

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