#because it’s on google fucking docs because I suck!!! and it would need internet!

[fanfoolishness]

When you wake up horny but your spouse has to go to work to launch a space rocket instead of the sexy sort, so you are le sad

Then you realize you’re just in a foul mood regardless and try to distract yourself with art

(Newsflash: it does not work and you hate everything, and sure now you have more prints but you hate all of them)

Then you think maybe you’ll distract yourself with things that need the internet, only to realize your WiFi is utterly completely dead and has been all day

So you try to reset what you think are the router(s)??? (Why does this always happen when husband, who does this stuff, is gone) Except now not only is your network not working but it is just Gone and no longer even discoverable by your devices (now you have a creeping sense of dread you have created much more work for husband)

Then you remember husband also has the home lights all set to work with WiFi

And it was a 14 hour rocket launch shift so now it’s your bedtime and he’s still not here, and you can’t turn off the lights with your phone like normal, but if you turn them off manually, he won’t be able to see anything when he comes home, so you are going to bed with half the lights on so he won’t trip and die when he gets home at 2 in the morning

And you usually fall asleep to streaming reruns, but remember: no internet, so it’s just silence and you aren’t sleepy at all even though you have to be up in the morning

And basically everything is very stupid and you hate everything and everything is the worst.

[goldenpinof]

so basically here’s a script of “Basically I’m gay” by Daniel Howell, if someone needs it

link to a google doc

Hello Internet.

«Sex! Secrecy! And a whole lot of internal screaming. Starring Daniel Howell. One of the greatest mysteries of our generation. What is Dan’s sexuality?»

Spoiler alert. I’m not straight. Sex, the foundation of life and the only thing we’re really supposed to do. Everyone’s obsessed with it. You bunch of degenerates. In the list of things that identify a person, one of the most important for other people to know is their sexuality. For, if sex is the primal force propelling all of these humans forward by their hips, they have to know. Are we gonna fuck? Or like could we? Or are you, ‘cause I’m just wondering. Now, we live in a heteronormative world, which is a long scary word that makes people feel attacked for some reason. Shh it’s okay.

What it means is people are presumed to be straight. If you’re not, then at some point, you have to “come out”, which is a whole thing. Or people might just try and guess based on something you do or the way you act, because yay stereotypes. So this is something you have to be clear on, because if you’re not, how are all these other people that aren’t you going to cope? But I’m pretty sure no one that knows me thinks I’m straight. So I don’t really need to come out as much as just clarify what the hell is going on. As here I am at age 27 and my sexual preference is seemingly still a vague, debatable, confusing, impenetrable mystery. But why? And what is it? Well, those are some big questions. Are you sure you wanna know my answers?

[YES]

Okay, well, if you say so 'cause this is a complicated and sensitive issue and when it comes to me, boy, there is a lot to unpack here and it is a total clusterfuck. So strap yourselves in and let me tell you a queer little story about a boy named Dan.

Chapter 1 – The Word

♪ When I was a young boy ♪

♪ My father ♪

Didn’t have much time for me because my conception was clearly an accident and he was a narcissistic proud man suddenly inconvenienced in the prime of his life and this emotional neglect gave me lasting problems.

Sorry that’s not all relevant right now.

I was an only child for seven years and with working parents. This meant I had to make my own fun so I was imaginative  and loud which is something that my teachers used to say quite a lot followed by, “However.” Here I am age five. Look at me. Cute, poised, sassy, turning out this photo shoot like sorry, Grandma, I stunted on this set. Are you seeing this? In almost every way, I literally peaked age five. I loved being the center of attention. People said I had an infectious happiness, that my beaming smile brought them hope and joy. People that know me are laughing right now. But a boy, in the '90s being happy and generally polite acting? Sounds kinda GAY if you ask me. Literally, masculinity was so fragile, people were so proud and scared and society so aggressive that a boy smiling!?.. appearing to be empathetic or in any way emoting was seen as a threat. How dare they laugh and feel comfortable? They must be soft and weak and girly and GAY. So basically thanks, Grandma, for raising me to be a nice child, you dick. Just kidding. That’s a joke and I told you not to watch this video because it would be rude so if you send me a disappointed text telling me you’re offended, I don’t know what to tell you. Although, now I think about it, you did make me go to church for 10 years, which in hindsight probably also didn’t help ♪ Hallelujah ♪ the issue here so. But then it was time for little Dan to go to school and this is when it  

♪ All went wrong ♪

'Cause it turns out most children, evil pieces of shit. Doesn’t matter if you try to raise a happy innocent child, throw that kid into school, aka, a literal Mad Max Battle Royale with the feral offspring of your local community. Yeah, that crap’ll be undone in about two weeks. I was six years old running around the playground pretending to be Sonic the Hedgehog or something when two brothers come up to me aged seven and eight with an unexplained aggressive look in their eye. And the younger one pushes me to the ground, kicks me in the stomach, and just says, “GAY.”

This was the first time I ever heard that word. Well, I don’t know what the heck gay means but apparently it means people kick you on the floor so that ain’t good. I didn’t know this child or give them any cause to have an opinion on me. And, actually, I never directly interacted with them again. What epic clustershit of failed parenting and general culture brought this tiny child to get angry and attack someone, then call them gay for looking like they were having fun outside. Are you okay, 1990s? And so my relationship with sexuality began.

I wasn’t looking to define myself as a child indiscriminately playing doctors and nurses with various friends until once somebody’s mum walked into a room to find three fully naked children sat on a bed sticking sellotape to each other’s butts. Yep, which I don’t recommend. Also, Jesus Christ, the poor woman that saw that. Then you get to the magic age around 10 or 11 where everybody suddenly wants to pretend they’re totally a “cool teenager” who’s doing all the drugs and the sex and the fights, totally. Boy, gay was a really popular word back then.

[[Boy] Uh, homework is gay. [Girl] Uh, my mum’s so gay. [Boy] Uh, you touched a girl, gay.]

This one little shit who I won’t name was one of the school bullies and he loved the word gay. He had it in for me and I have no idea why. You know me, Mr. Winnie the Pooh Meets Slender Man. Well, when I was 10 just Winnie the Pooh. I didn’t do nothin’ to no one ever and yet this guy used my pacifism as a punching bag where any group situation was an excuse to single me out call me gay for some reason and then make everyone else exclude me because they were scared of him. I had a girlfriend. We dated for six whole weeks. We kissed in a game of spin the bottle once by literally sucking on each other’s faces. Then she ended dumping me over speakerphone at a birthday party that everyone in my class but me was invited to but, hey. I don’t know what I was doing wrong, but at this age, I understood one thing. Being gay, whatever that meant, was clearly the worst thing you could be. On a Darwinian level, I was being told, okay bitch, “Survival Code”. Don’t be this apparently. Evolution. Plot twist, this bully I think he was a bit gay because once he asked me to have a sleepover at his house and I thought was me finally getting socially accepted only for him in the middle of the night to come up and ask me, “So who’s going to be the boy and the girl?” I was an innocent smol bean who didn’t really understand what he meant because, to be honest, I didn’t actually understand get how babies were made yet. But needless to say I think he was disappointed. Wow, closeted child turns into homophobic bully. Thanks again society. But this whole primary school journey was really just an amuse-bouche for the full six-course tasting menu of suffering that would be secondary school.

I went to an all-boys school. It was a literal hellscape.  I thought it was hard making it through a school of 200 kids with two or three bullies. Try over a thousand where a clean 800 are fully psychopathic gorillas fueled by testosterone, Red Bull, and Eminem albums. Making sure that the word f- no longer means an innocent bundle of sticks or a cigarette anymore in the British lexicon. Nope, now it was a cool homophobic slur along with gay, gaylord, gayboy, puff, pufter, ponce, batty, batty boy, bum-boy, bender. Shit, this is so long. People have a lot of words for something they don’t wanna think about. Look at me in this stupid blazer. Oh, “you’ll grow into it at some point in the next four years”. Thanks, Mum. Day one, kid in form class, some stupid hedgehog-looking motherfucker side eyes me and says, “What you lookin at, puff?” First interaction at a new school. Great! My entire existence on a daily basis then becomes navigating this school like I’m in the bloody “Maze Runner” trying to avoid aggressive pricks with chode ties. And you know being verbally abused for being a nerd or a Greebo at least felt relevant to me at the time. Greebo, definitely one of my faves there and I’m sure that Korn and Slipknot would have been proud to have 12-year-old me as a fan. I kinda knew who I was in the hierarchy at that point. I was essentially a theater kid who spent all of his free time playing Runescape on the AOL browser on his mum’s PC instead of football. I accepted it. But at least I wasn’t actually this “gay thing” people kept throwing around because by now I understood a gay is a boy who fancies other boys. And to be honest I don’t really feel like I’ve ever fancied anyone before.

Then puberty happened.

Oh yeah, this is fun, tingly feelings, I smell bad. It was quite fun dribbling on this girl’s face playing Truth or Dare, maybe later we’ll go behind that bike sheds and, there I was sat in English class, my friend next to me. I watched as he delicately removes a pencil from its case. We briefly make eye contact as he flutters his long black eyelashes with a blink before staring forward. His eyes are so bright and beautiful yet they seem so sad and deep with emotion. I wish I could just understand. Oh fuck, I think I’m a bit gay. You’re telling me this whole time I actually have been the bad thing that people keep calling me? Shit!

Chapter 2 – Feelings

Oh do you hear it that faint hum, something coming from a deep, dark place too powerful to control? It’s the self-hatred. She is here and she’s only getting started. Short version, I fall hopelessly in love with a friend of mine who doesn’t feel the same way which crushes me into a million tiny pieces and years later actually it turns out he was gay the whole time. He just really specifically didn’t like me. [Double kill.] Here I am, 13, crying to evanescence alone in my bedroom feeling like there’s no point in really being alive as I’m clearly a faulty outcast person that has no place in the world. I stopped going to church with my grandma because I felt like I wasn’t really supposed to be there. Also, by this age, the whole Christianity thing didn’t really make much sense to me. And the adult services were dry AF compared to coloring in a picture of Jesus’s face at Sunday school. So other than the free tea and biscuits they gave away after the sermon, religion didn’t really have much to offer me. Damn, there was some good biscuits though. I miss that. But wait! All is not lost yet. Do you see that? A triumphant, rallying cry of guitars, stripey hoodies, and black hair dye. Emo had arrived! I swear to God, emo is one of the best things that happened to pop culture in the last 20 years. As well as inventing eyeliner and skinny jeans, a new word hit the theater, nerd, goth, band, kid corner that would change my world forever.

Bisexual. You can be normal and gay at the same time and some people think it’s cool? Well, slap a long fingerless glove on my arm and sign me up to Myspace 'cause Mum, I’m bi. It was a good term 'cause it was a catchall for anyone who felt sexually confused or curious that didn’t want to commit to something stronger which is very me. Big commitment issues. Thanks, fam. To be clear, regardless of whatever the 2006 teenagers thoughts and feelings were, being bi is valid and should not be excused away or erased by anyone. Thank you.

From this moment, I was a loud and proud raving bi to my close friends and the strangers on the internet who saw my clearly-labeled sexual preference on my Myspace page. And the emo friends I made at this time were awesome. We just used to hang and make out with each other and listen to music and drink bottles of Smirnoff Ice until we were sick on each other with no judgment. The judgment came several years later looking back at the photos that you can’t delete. So I didn’t need to tell my family or people at school anything. But the thing is with a Myspace page, anyone with an internet connection can read it. And so the rumors started spreading through my neighborhood that Dan Howell was in fact a bisexual. I had a friend in French class who one day, totally unprompted, just turned to me and said, “Hmm, yeah, I thought so. You give off a bi-vibe.” A bi-vi-, what the fuck is a bi-vibe? Great, yeah, nothing to make a 15-year-old feel self-conscious about his behavior like being told he emanates a bisexual aura. What am I supposed to do with that? Sorry that I give off mixed signals. I’m versatile. Turns out it was actually a social upgrade from being called gay all the time 'cause bisexual was a new word that only referred to sexuality so people actually had to decide how they felt about the fact I was attracted to boys. As opposed to gay which as we all understand is synonymous with bad and also implies a general threat, plague, curse/evil force that simply must be destroyed. People at school were actually almost nice to me with curiosity about it and a few of the boys that previously loved to just generically call me gay while throwing a compasses at me or something, now started to low-key flirt with me and some stuff happened. Go figure.

But then I entered the dark ages and no I’m not talking about my hair because I was never actually cool enough to commit to dying it black. As quickly as they arrived into my life, my emo friend group vanished into the night. Like the tip of an eyeliner pencil snapping or the HTML on your intricately-crafted MySpace page falling apart when the host websites of your embedded gifs die, so, too, did my social life. One had to suddenly focus on school, another moved town, two of them just fell out with each other and started hanging out with their old friends again. Well, we don’t all have back up friend groups, Lindsey! I went all in on the emos! You’re telling me I have to go back to sitting in my kitchen playing Runescape now! Thanks a lot. So for a year I literally had no friends. And this is when the bullying at school really stepped its pussy up. The things people used to say offhand to me in a corridor were now said loudly in classrooms where everybody would laugh. People used to sing songs about me being gay on the bus while my fellow nerds sat around me just stared awkwardly out of the window not wanting to get involved. People shouted things out during GCSE exams in front of the whole school and the low key pushing became punches. People used to wait for me after school just to throw things at me. Once a guy put his hand around my throat and pushed my head against a coat peg in the locker room while everyone was watching and just slapped me for five minutes. But I never reacted. I never cried or got angry or fought back 'cause then I’d be giving them what they wanted and I refused to play along. But this way of dealing with things definitely had an impact on my relationship with emotion going into life. I became a total outcast. No one wanted to come near me out of fear that they’d get targeted, too. So no one ever stood up for me. And, you know, I don’t blame them. I just resent them even to this day. No, I’m kidding, I don’t really. I do. No, I don’t. I, hmm. Teachers at the time obviously did nothing. In fact, one of them saw this happening to me and laughed 'cause you know, boys will be boys especially the gay ones that get killed by the other ones, am I right? Ah, classic lad banter. And home. See, keeping this on the topic of sexuality and not economic class, violence, addiction, and health issues, let’s just say some shit was goin’ down. I didn’t think I could ask my family for help or share my feelings about this, mainly due to my dad. Funny guy, kind of a woke hippie who did and said a lot of things I did respect but at the same time used to walk around the house saying how he hoped someone he had a problem with at work would *clears throat* “die of bum cancer.” Yep, so picked the one area to be a bigot that would further traumatize your child. Nice! This experience coming from a childhood hearing the word gay meaninglessly thrown around as an insult at home and school, in music, on TV, to then realizing I am actually kinda gay, to then very specifically being attacked for it was traumatic. The world was clearly telling me if I ever wanted to be accepted by anyone or, in my particular environment, survive, I couldn’t be gay. I was afraid of it, literally homophobic of myself. I am talking Pavlov, sunken place, North Korea-level mind alteration that made me terrified of and repulsed by this part of me. This is called internalized oppression. It’s a real thing and it’s some real shit.

Chapter 3 – Internalized Oppression

From this moment I was no longer advertising myself as bi. No, BRB deleting that Myspace real quick, xD lemme get on that Bebo. “My Chemical Romance”? No, I’m listen to what’s this, N-Dubz? Jesus Christ. I go away for the summer break and come back to school quiet and serious and fully straight. *coughs* I needed me some new friends that were a bit higher up the social ladder, you know what I’m sayin’ for security so I go ahead and join “The Inbetweeners”. Literally this group of friends, the exact middle ground between nerds and desperately wanting to be cool. And oh how desperate we were. The great thing about these friends was they knew loads of girls. So firstly, instant cool points. Secondly, if I date a girl *scoffs* super not gay. The problem with that was it’s not like everyone just forgot everything that’s been said about me and this group of friends, casually homophobic pretty much all the time and also they hung out in places near some even more aggressive and super homophobic peeps. Just full-time Runescape would have been a better in hindsight. I find myself going through the same shit at school but now voluntarily going through it at the weekends from the people that are supposed to be my friends thinking I’m doing the right thing whilst constantly telling myself I’m now totally heterosexual. So I did what many people choose to do at that point and I got a girlfriend. But this is pretty messed up because I really liked this girl. In fact, I loved her as a friend and I was genuinely attracted to her but I was so afraid of sexuality I didn’t even wanna do anything straight in case I had some weird gay panic that I was totally frigid and I led her on. And when she got pissed at me, understandably, for being a terrible boyfriend, I just felt even worse. This was someone who I liked that I was hurting and lying to but I couldn’t leave as then I’d have no armor. Beautiful irony here is having a girlfriend didn’t in any way stop the abuse 'cause remember, gay is a great all-purpose general insult. (Call someone gay today and we’ll throw in a free set of steak knives.) And when these neighborhood teens started heavy drinking and getting into drugs, things suddenly got quite scary as people joked about setting fire to a tent as I slept in it at Reading Festival. Or saying, “You know that notoriously unstable guy? Yeah, he said he’s gonna kill you next Saturday.” Awkward.

This was definitely the lowest point in my life. I just felt totally alone, confused and I deeply hated myself. I used to ask God, in case he was there, to please, just make me straight and everyone stop. But I saw no end, no escape, no way to change the world or who I was. So one evening I thought fuck it and I attempted suicide.

I say attempted, because just before it was too late I thought

“oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit what have i done what have i done fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck?”

“what will your grandma think don’t do this to her she tried her best and she loves you”

“your family aren’t total dicks and this will fuck them up can’t you just get over it surely”

“you’re gonna get to the last year of school and give up now really what was the point”

“I heard this is one of the most painful ways to die so not a great choice if I’m being blunt”

Felt kinda bad for a few days otherwise I pretended it never happened and I didn’t tell anyone, until now, literally. Hmm, I know pretty dark right, but hey spoiler things kinda worked out. I mean still gotta lot of issues but here I am. I’m so glad I failed for so many reasons, for the people in my life, for the future I would’ve wasted. The most important being that I thought I was trapped in a situation forever when in reality, the entire world I lived in and my life changed completely. I thought it was hopeless when in reality there was so much to hope for and that’s it. Time changes everything. With the lives that we have, we can try anything we’ve dreamed of. I want anyone that’s ever felt like this to realize you are never trapped. There is always hope. You just need to believe in yourself and get to the other side. So yeah school age 6 to 18, I’m gonna give that a bad Google review. The thing is I did stand out. I’ve always been a loudmouth, class clown, annoying shit. Since graduating, it turns out half the people I knew were fuckin’ gay. That group of friends I had, all lovely people now. Five of them were gay, five gays! That is statistically irregular. Oh but they flew under the radar. All I’m saying is I wish people just hated me for being annoying and immature. Leave the gays alone!

My light at the end of the tunnel was university. I was gonna get my A levels move to a new town and ghost these bitches. But I took a gap year first to earn some money which was very boring sitting at home and working at ASDA where I was not happy to help. My shift started at 5 a.m. on a Saturday. Signed up for a Twitter account to run my mouth off and then bam. “So my name is [Dan].” My YouTube story begins, a new chapter of my life to redefine. So you know what I do? Get a Formspring because nothing gives you that attention feeling like one of those anonymous question and answer websites that are inherently toxic and no one should use. And straight out of the bat bisexual Dan returns. 'Cause hey, just like Myspace, I’m only telling a few people on the internet right now. It’s not like one day I’m gonna get so many followers that random strangers and my family might see it. Wow, I had a lot fun with many different kinds of people in 2009. Let’s just say I got a lot out of my system. Got a couple of things in my system, too. Sorry.

And this is when, through the magic of the internet, I met Phil. And obviously we were more than friends but it was more than just romantic. This is someone that genuinely liked me. I trusted them. And for the first time since I was a tiny child, I actually felt safe. And the relationship we formed at that point was something that I needed in my life. We are real best friends, companions through life, like actual soulmates, not that souls are a real thing that exist. It’s so lucky to just find someone you can be that compatible with and especially to anyone that has experienced the kind of self-hatred that I have dealt with, one person accepting you can make all the difference. And I bet so many people wanna know so much more about that which, honestly, I take as a compliment. But here’s the thing. I’m somebody that wants to keep the details of my personal life private. So is Phil. I know lots of people these days, thanks to social media, want to share and monetize every aspect of their life and then as soon as something changes suddenly it’s this huge drama because everybody got invested in the story of your life like it’s a soap opera. I don’t want that. I wanna do certain things without an audience. I wanna be spontaneous. I don’t wanna feel afraid to take risks. I want to enjoy totally fucking something up and not have to post a statement about it. And if anyone thinks people really have to share these things about their life, you need to rethink your position. And look, I understand that sex is a fun and interesting thing to talk about. I get it. I am also a disgusting pervert. But the specific minutiae of who I be fuckin’, when, why, where, how long, how, uhh, I mean? Sexuality is a general fact that it can be very useful to know about a person for several reasons, but we can’t force people to disclose that either. We don’t know this person’s life story, what they’ve been through, if they haven’t told people, if they’ll lose their job, if they’re in danger. There are so many reasons someone might not be open about it. We can preach the message that being out is good, but aggressively speculating or trying to out someone is really bad. They might not be gay, in which case we’re just harassing someone and probably stereotyping. And if they are there’s gonna be a reason why they haven’t talked about it. So I don’t wanna see any responses to me finally talking about this like no one is surprised. “Dan we been knew.” Wow, you huge galaxy brain genius. What’s it like walking around with all those brain cells in there working overtime? What, you got like three in there? Don’t lose your balance, mastermind. I haven’t exactly been subtle have I? I’m an awkward, sexually ambiguous nerd. “What the fuck even is your sexuality?” That’s not the point. I’m already dead inside so it doesn’t matter here, but to me if someone’s reaction to a person coming out is just, “yeah, I knew”, they’re showing no empathy towards the issue or that person. They’re just making it about themselves like it was a fun piece of gossip they already knew. All we have to do is listen and be accepting.

So anyway back to the tale. Whilst things were looking up for Dan aged 18, things quickly got messy again. Wow, that beats the emo streak of temporary self-acceptance by like six months, nice. There was a point around 2011 where the relationship with my audience shifted from what felt like direct communication between me and individuals that just saw me as a comedy creator to communities of people that formed to talk about me when I wasn’t there. Which is fine, but for some people it was about getting generally invested in me and my real life which I thought was a bit strange 'cause inevitably like anyone who puts themself out there, some people started to really dig into my private life to find out information about me that I wasn’t ready to share. And this was around the same time that YouTubers finally started to get mainstream recognition in the British press. We had the BBC knocking at our door trying to offer Dan and Phil a radio show. From that, Dan and Phil became this entertainment duo that we could have a creative career with. And we love working together, so when all these opportunities came for Dan and Phil, we were really excited but I was also scared as people clearly knew I wasn’t straight and I hadn’t told my family that. None of my old friends knew about this, and what me and Phil had was ours and personal and yet some people were trying to get access to it for their own satisfaction. It was no longer a few people on the internet, no big deal. So I just shut down. It felt like I was back at school again, surrounded by threatening people trying to expose me for their entertainment. Most I’m sure just wanted what was best for me and I feel such genuine sadness and am sorry that I couldn’t be closer to and more truthful with the people in my life that were just trying to be nice but I wasn’t ready to deal with it at this time so I had to do something to contain it. I definitely sent some mixed messages. Some were just joking around, others were super defensive that in my panic came across like “I’m now telling everyone I’m totally straight” when all I really meant was “please fuck off and don’t invade my privacy, you creepy stalkers, thank you”. But this experience seriously triggered some PTSD in me and I was back in the dark place. I didn’t want to just disappear from the internet to escape it and throw away this creative hobby that actually started paying rent. Thanks. So I just decided to put anything to do with my sexuality in a box to come back to later as I was still processing my past and I wanted to understand my identity on my own terms and timeline and not just have it hijacked as fuel for people’s sexual fantasies or some headline in an article. And whilst we’re not exactly living in a utopia yet here on YouTube, the general internet culture only five or six years ago was a much less wholesome, progressive place as this little bubble is now. Sure, a lot of people probably would have been supportive, but there was just as much open bigotry and general toxicity 'cause people felt less accountable and it was okay to say certain things 'cause it’s just on the internet and I couldn’t handle that at the time. And, generally, I can handle a lot. I have big hands with a very wide reach for playing piano, you fucking.. get your mind out of the gutter. We can’t ask people to just put their lives on hold to address their sexuality first. If a kid dreams of being a footballer and age 18 gets signed to a club and all their dreams come true but they’re scared to come out because of the insane homophobia in that community, they shouldn’t turn it down. Yes, it’s so important to be truthful about who you are and open and proud in front of the world but it’s our society’s fault that these people are scared to say who they are. So let’s all focus on making it a welcoming place and people will come out when they are ready. So when was I ready? Well, it’s always been on my mind that I need to talk about this at some point. I couldn’t just keep going forward in my life ignoring it, not only just so I can be authentic, which is very important for general existing, but also just letting people know what kind of sexual attention I want from the world. All of it from everyone. God I’m so thirsty. And if anything motivated me, it’s the idea that I can help someone else 'cause that’s basically my whole career, isn’t it, admitting to shit that I’ve been through so you will feel better about yourselves. There we go, you’re welcome. I have a platform and a following of millions of people, many of whom I know have been through exactly what I have. And if I tell my story as painful and flip floppy and flawed as it is, I know it will mean something to someone as every time someone speaks openly about sexuality, it saves lives. I’d never met a single out gay person until I was 18. And if I had, or even just seen better representation in the media, I wouldn’t have felt so totally alone. I wouldn’t even be saying this to you now if it wasn’t for TV shows, musicians, and public figures in the last couple years reinforcing this to me. It doesn’t matter if I was living the life privately as there was still so much confusion about my feelings and fear. But things are better now, on the internet, on TV, in my real life. It’s not perfect but it feels safe enough in this space right now for me to feel confident. So thank you, sincerely, to all the brave people that came before me and to any of you that made this world seem welcoming for me. And instead of procrastinating from this by focusing on work, which was a way for me to insure my own independence and survival in case I was rejected, or just doing things for other people to take my mind off it instead of asserting my own needs, which my therapist keeps telling me is one of my biggest problems. Here I am with a fresh void of time in front of me to fuck up however I want. Now look, we all have different experiences in life. Some of us are lucky, some of us not. It just so happened that the first 18 years of my life were horrendously shit. It failed me. But we get dealt cards from the start, too. If you look at my life, I was born into this world as an able-bodied, white, cis-man in Britain which immediately gives me so much privilege in this current world and I am fully aware of how much harder making it to today could have been for me, which is why we all need to stand up for equality and social justice even if it doesn’t apply to us. No one stood up for me when it mattered the most and that almost cost me everything. So if you see a woman being harassed, a gay being threatened, someone muttering something racist, say something, do something because if you’re still or silent, the victim will just think that you are against them, too. We all have a responsibility.

This tale was just some of the stuff relating to sexuality. We all have a whole sob story if we wanna tell it but I just wanted to explain the journey of how I got to this point and overcame the obstacles that tried to block this path. And now I’ve arrived.

Chapter 4 – Labels

Okay cool story, bro, it’s answer time. What’s your answer. Whaddayalikedafuk? Here’s the thing, you want me to talk candidly about sexuality as if it’s something that I understand? I don’t know what it is, why it is. Turns out no one knows. I’ve been sitting here for years waiting for scientists to just work it out like bleep bloop. [Oh this is why and exactly how it’s different for people. There we go.] Thinking I shouldn’t run off my mouth on the internet in case my theories and opinions on varying gayness get debunked next week. Well, I waited long enough and it didn’t happen. Science, ya fucked up, you let me down. And I fully expect to have to delete this video in two weeks when you find out all the answers suddenly. Thanks a bunch. What makes someone gay or straight or all the things in between? What the ever loving fuck is gender about? This is a mess. Yet people want you to give them a word because that’s how humans communicate with words that have meanings. Which is why our disgusting species is impatient, stupid, and obsessed with labels. And this applies to everything, sexuality, gender, political identity, what obscure genre of synthwave you listen to. People just want a label that represents something they understand so they already know how to feel about you and don’t have to bother thinking. [Oh you’re a feminist well I don’t need to know anything more. Oh you’re a leftist. Oh you’re a K-pop fan but but but but.] If people just want to find a way to disagree with you or dislike you, they can refer to the label and turn off their brains. Hey, what does my label say? Huh. The issue is, especially when we start talking about the writhing mass of confusion and suffering that is sexual and gender identity, the limits of language and specific terminology become a big problem. What does being gay mean? You never thought about a boob once? What does being a man mean? You wanna be an emotionless rock rubbing raw steaks against your biceps? It’s not like humanity is all in agreement right now. I don’t like the stereotypes and drama that come with all this terminology so I’m just not gonna use it. Thing is gender identity isn’t my issue. I feel comfortable with the identity that I’ve had my whole life. Dan, a tol boy from England. But being a man means nothing to me. I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable wearing makeup or a sickening pair of heels, though I can’t even draw in a straight line so that would be a disaster. Also is anyone really comfortable wearing heels? Hmm. Icons of masculinity aren’t really a big part of my life. Might as well call me a fucking formless blob that sounds more relatable. Shout out to all my formless blobs out there, rise up. I don’t have to do anything or be anything and I personally wouldn’t feel offended if I wasn’t referred to as a he. Well, she’s feeling hungry today. Stop fucking judging me, Susan. I’m sad and I’m gonna eat this whole damn cake whether you like it or not. But anyone that has this don’t really care attitude about their gender identity is in a way privileged 'cause some people, especially trans, care a lot about their gender identity and using the correct pronouns which other people should respect. Likewise with sexuality, whilst to me the endlessly increasing list of tribes and flags being flown is a bit daunting and confusing and personally stresses me out 'cause I almost find it constrictive, some people like it. Because if you’re feelings are confusing and then you look at a word that represents something and go, “wow, that me”, it can help you realize you’re valid and find a community and that’s great. There is so much controversy around this issue and others but if we all just calm down, respect each other’s experiences and try to just be nice, reasonable people, which is a lot to ask, let’s be real, it’s quite simple. If you wanna use language to express your honest feelings and identity, that’s great and other people should respect what you say. Likewise, if you hate labels and you just wanna be a formless blob, that’s fine, too. No one should force you. The only thing that isn’t cool is telling other people what they should or should not identify as 'cause that ain’t your problem or your business, bye. This was one of the things that held me back from talking about this for years. Shit’s confusing, man. Let’s just go back to cellular reproduction by mitosis so I don’t really have to be specific. Two people that I really look up to and respect, Harry Styles and Janelle Monae, both famously say that they don’t feel the need to label it which, to be honest, is how I feel and is perfectly okay. But I get it, for me, you want a word. Oh, that’s hard, though. I’m an annoying guy. I feel uncertain specifying my sexuality in the same way I wouldn’t say I am an atheist. Who the fuck am I to say whether God does or doesn’t exist? I don’t know shit 'bout shit and neither does anyone else. I mean I think it’s unlikely in the same way I know I like DICK. But I’m not gonna pretend to have a definite answer here. Looking at my public statements is inconsistent and confusing. Looking at my personal track record through life is super confusing. And looking at the void inside my soul threatening to crush the entire universe with the force of its event horizon of misery and melodrama, well, fuck let’s close that shit up. One thing’s for sure whatever heterosexual is, I ain’t it. Really if you ask me, I don’t think anyone’s totally straight. I think there’s a lot of social and emotional issues getting in the way of yet to be understood feelings of attraction that can be very flexible. And trust me, I’ve known a lot of straight guys until a couple of drinks, some deep conversation, and lingering eye contact, and suddenly they just start leaning in. What does that make them? And am I totally gay? No. Am I slightly more gay or is it just easier for gays to hook up with each other because of societal norms. It’s not like the signs for male and female bathrooms are what I’m attracted to. I don’t care what flesh organ you have between your legs, what your hair’s like, if you’re covered in it or a fuckin’ beluga whale. I’m gonna be honest, I’m not picky. I’m easy. So am I bi or pan or poly? Well, now we’re just in a clusterfuck of defining language and I’m confused and sad and horny. This is why I personally love the word queer. I understand that some people don’t as it is a slur but as someone that’s been the target of it several times throughout my life I’m up for some reclamation. It’s like recycling. The definition makes sense because until society is equal with all sexual and gender identifies, it is literally strange from a conventional viewpoint plus it’s better than a super long acronym, it’s inclusive of everyone and therefore great for formless blobs. There we go, an identity I feel comfortable with. A highly-strung, depressed queer praying for a giant meteor to hurry up and finally eradicate humanity. LMAO, yeet!

But to come full circle, I know that even today, deep in my heart the word gay scares me because that’s how I’ve been conditioned my whole life. So, you know what? Fuck the literal definition and the scientific definition and what everyone thinks. I finally have to just confront and accept this.

I’m gay.

Oh look, didn’t spontaneously fucking combust. Well, there we go, that was a lot of stress about nothing, wasn’t it? Bloody hell. So yup, I’m here, I’m queer, and don’t worry I’m still filled with existential fear.

WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER WE’RE FILLED WITH EXISTENTIAL FEAR.

Chapter 5 – Fear

Even though I’m at this current place, there is still so much I’m afraid of and this has taken months to make because of that. Telling my family was a big fear. I have problems connecting with them emotionally because reasons. So I only came out to them this month and if it didn’t go well, as I’m now the independent adult that I fought so hard to be, I was ready to cut them off like the bottom of a sweater turning into a seasonal crop. But I didn’t have to, love you. I didn’t think they’d reject me these days but coming out is still a surprise. It changes things. And I’m a pretty awkward person generally but the idea of just dropping this in conversation in front of them all terrified me. And I tried several times this year to do it but I just couldn’t. So you know how I finally came out to my family? E-mail. Yep, I literally just sent them an e-mail saying and I quote,

“Hello gang. I’ve been meaning to talk to you all for a while, something quite important that should be disclosed at some point. I thought I would around Christmas, then Mum’s birthday, then last Easter Sunday, etc., but every time I meant to, I either felt like I would ruin the mood of the day or I just felt awkward and didn’t want to. So I decided just to email you all instead which is really inappropriate and just weird but that somehow seems appropriate for me and at least I’ll just finally say it.

Basically I’m gay.”

Yup. It was just getting ridiculous so I thought screw it and hey, it worked. Turns out my remaining family, pretty chill bunch of people. Even my Christian grandma said this,

“We love you for being you. It must be a great relief to finally acknowledge who you are. Popsie and I just want you to be happy. People are born as they are and have no say in it. I hope that now you will feel free to live your life as you want with no pretense.”

Aw.

“Don’t forget the iPad.”

Yes, I said I’d give her my old iPad. She mainly cares about that I thing. Wasn’t so sure when I was 17 but it went well now and I know that makes me lucky but, hey, it shows that times change. As for the other people in my life, obviously all the friends I have now are cool. If anyone in my life I’ve ever known isn’t cool with it then I don’t care. And sure here online there might be a few incredibly lost bigots following me or just some classic trolls who I think should get fucked. No, like literally, I think you should try it. You’ll probably enjoy it and you might learn something about yourself. Inevitably some of you watching this might have a weird reaction if you just feel like it was a shock or you feel hurt that I kept it from you. But I feel like I explained myself reasonably here and going forward I can’t have any space for that, sorry. I’ve come to terms with who I am and now you have to, too, ha. Funnily enough straight up homophobia is probably the one thing I’m not that afraid of, because I just don’t agree so it doesn’t hold much emotional power over me but you bet I’m opening myself up to all new kinds of in real life and international discrimination now which is fun. But one of the other big fears holding me back was, honestly, that I wouldn’t be accepted by the community. I know that it’s a big pride flag covering a lot of ground and even the idea of it and certainly most of it is amazing. But there is a lot of drama within it right now especially on the internet. You’ve got Grindr gays arguing about how manly gays should be, bi’s getting ignored, trans people, especially of color, not being historically appreciated, acephobia, fucking SWERFs and TERFs. No thank you. So even though they are my people, I know some of them will have problems with something. And even then, just seeing such a loud and proud, strong and opinionated group of people celebrating something just intimidates a smol introvert such as myself. And in my mind if these people don’t accept me because I’m not being definitive enough or I took too long then I almost feel like I’ll be alone all over again, and this is a fear that a lot of people have honestly. But I’m a nice guy and I’m trying my best so you better be welcoming, you bunch of fuckin’ queers. And obviously with the topic of sexuality, it doesn’t matter where we are or how far you think we’ve come, by merely mentioning it, I will be opening up a primordial box of bullshit which will include every single stupid argument and question since the dawn of time. [It’s not natural.] There’s gay animals. [Adam and Steve.] That’s based on a story and the protagonist that arrives later probably doesn’t agree with you. [Why can’t we have straight pride?] I could spend 10 hours on all the classic crap and people would still be asking the same things. This being posted on the internet, my hopes are so incredibly low, lower than my self-esteem.  Wow, that is unhealthy. I need to stop doing that. This video is about internalized oppression and the problems of language. I’m not here to pontificate on every topic tangentially related to the entire concept of gayness. *ASMR voice*: Pontificate on every topic tangentially related to the concept of gayness.  

There’s other humans and all the time in the world left for that. The time in the world coincidentally being not much longer. Climate change LMAO. But I had to tell my story so people would understand me and these things. Why coming out is still a big deal because queer people are often invisible and suffering until they have to do it. Some people grow up in supportive environments and it’s a positive experience. But more likely, especially around the world outside of the big cities, it isn’t. This is not a fight that is anywhere near over. Even in Britain today people are debating whether children should be taught to be accepting of sexual and gender identity in school.

Queer people exist. Choosing not to accept them is not an option.

To anyone watching this that isn’t out, it’s okay. You’re okay. You were born this way, it’s right, and anyone that has a problem with it is wrong. Based on your circumstance, you might not feel ready to tell people yet or that it’s safe and that’s fine, too. Just know that living your truth, with pride, is the way to be happy. You are valid. It gets so much better. And the future is clear. It’s pretty queer.

So there we go. Now I can proceed authentically in my life with full disclosure. Cute mutuals know to slide into the DMs. And you can all fuck off and leave me alone.

Bye.

[muffinlance]

what would you say is the most important thing about writing, and are there any tips you'd be willing to share?

In the order I thought of them, which might or might not reflect their significance to me or you:

Write a fuck ton. And do it as close to daily as possible. You get better at this by doing it more, just like every other skill. Writing isn't any more magical than carpentry: show up, do it a lot, and you'll improve.

Writer's block is either you being lazy/scared to write and Ruin Everything or your subconscious telling you there's an Actual Problem with your story. Learn to differentiate the two. Writer's block in the form of "oh I haven't written forever because my ethereal muse won't inspire me" is generally the former; stop being an ass to yourself and sit down. BIC = Butt In Chair = one of the most common acronyms you'll find on writer's forums.

Critique Circle (no fanfic allowed, sorry)

The Absolute Write Water Cooler (no fanfic, and STAY THE HELL AWAY if you're not ready for serious publishing, these people talk real talk and that broke me for a bit as a newb who Wasn't Ready For This Level of Publishing Reality.)

Setting a timer to write was super useful for me when I was still trying to establish good habits. 45 minutes BIC, and no going off on that 30 minute research tangent doesn't count, no internet no research no distractions just WRITE.

I really really suck at the "no distractions, just write". System that works well for me when I need to kiddie lock myself to the chair: use phone for typing. Set it up just out of reach and use a Bluetooth keyboard. At this point I've typed like two novels using this method. Requires a good phone that doesn't crash when your Google doc gets too big though, RIP my last phone.

Google docs are your friend. Autosave and available everywhere.

I'm going to find and murder the person who decided Google docs should use some kind of neural network predictive shit for its spell check instead of comparing to an actual dictionary file. Beware REALLY BIZARRE typos slipping through. Turning on grammar check catches most of these. I will not murder the person who added that.

Backup copies of your stories. Regularly. For Serious Face writing, I typically have the main doc on GDrive, and download a .rft copy to my local hard drive any day I make sizable progress/edits. Title the file with the date (year-month-day, ie 2019-11-08, so that the files sort nicely by name), and a brief recap of what you changed. Ie: 2019-11-08 Story Title Here added ch 3 deleted wererabbits". Then if you are looking for the wererabbits scene because why did you delete that it was AWESOME, you know you just need to load up the doc before. Version control bitches, it's not just for Com Sci. I also backup my backups monthly to two different flash drives, because you can NEVER BE PARANOID ENOUGH.

Pay attention to what you like/dislike in other stories, especially things that grab you and make you want to read through the night (or make you go 'eh, this was fun to read, but not great'). Suss out WHY. Incorporate into your style appropriately.

Critique other people's stories, especially finished ones in your genre and word count. Pre-published works are a treasure trove of almost-there-but-not-quite that really helps you practice #10. Figure out how YOU would fix things, if it were your novel. Figure out three to four ways you could fix it. One suggestion can come off as imposing your opinion on the person you're betaing for, and is a no-no. A bulleted list is helping them brainstorm and they will love you and want to wed into your family. Critiquing helps the other writer a little, and helps you a fuck ton more. Crit. Lots. (As time allows, and generally when you have a work that needs critting back, because crit partners can and will disappear on you.)

Fuck fear, get your writing out there. At the very least you'll learn what not to do next time. This especially applies to the fun that is the querying process. Related note: that short story I just got published in a major mag? I sat on that for like year before I tried sending it anywhere because I had a nebulous fear of Not Being Good Enough. Fuck that shit, shove your terrible writing at people and let THEM decide if there's anything to love in it. Especially in fanfiction, where the stakes are so low, and it's generally not the well-written stories but the most compelling that get attention.

You'll probably never grow out of the "my writing is terrible" thing. I have literally never heard of an author who has. You just learn to deal with it better as you get more and more positive feedback (and the feedback WILL get more positive if you're conscientiously writing lots with the improvement of your craft in mind.) I know on an intellectual level that I'm writing at a pro level 'cause people have literally paid me pro-level monies for it, but I'm still Super Nervous anytime I start a new plot arc because What If This One Sucks.

Corollary: Sometimes you will inexplicably want to take your latest story to the bathtub and drown it even though there's nothing objectively wrong with it. Take a big step back and work on something else for awhile. You are going to do nothing but mangle your story until you are out of that mood.

Having multiple projects helps you to have a different Favorite Child so you can avoid murdering your other children and still be productive.

Find something outside of writing that is good stress relief + healthy, because This Is Stressful. If you're being serious about it, you're probably treating it like a part-time job. Jobs are stressful. Writing is no exception. Walking/jogging pairs well with general Think Time, I've found.

Think Time is real. Think Time is that thing where you aren't actively thinking of the story and then three days later you suddenly have the solution to that plot problem. As long as you're actively engaging with your craft, there is a part of your brain that will be working on things in the background for you. Thank you, semi-automated brain subprocesses!

Don't use Think Time as an excuse not to write, you lazy ass. Put a GERBIL in your outline and come back to it, go write the next scene.

My outlines include addressing myself directly, swearing at myself, and using the word GERBIL as a marker for things that need fixing. These are optional but enjoyable. (And also the reason none of my characters will ever have a GERBIL as a pet, because then I couldn't use it as an easy Ctrl+F keyword.)

My dinner is cold so this list is done.

[genius11rare]

Figured id try this. AH  Chit chat livestream notes / QnA  7-10-20

because i'm weird i like “documenting” videos and (in this case) Live Streams. figured why keep this to myself so here. maybe one day ill just post a google docs link for a viewing copy but idk. So heres what i got for today seeing as the chitchat part will likely be cut off for the “real” video i may as well memorialize it. not perfect and may be kinda nonsensical but its what i could come up with.

Matt has a window…. With a balcony blocking above , pointless window. Red Web (trevors podcast)  “where he gets in over his head on the internet” “think if i just show them the episode of Technical Difficulties where i made garden lights into solar chargers i can get that tax kickback?” , Jacks neighbor with the tesla solar roof , having to train people to know how to install it . Ryan: “what are the odds he cant look outside at any given hour of the day and see atleast one human with a big piece of paper scratching their head” Elon Musk Starlink satellites for internet worldwide, Ryan “not saying that's _clearly_  a supervillain plot but if it was it wouldnt surprise me” , Ubisoft Far Cry teaser… oh its live action movie teaser clip- oh shit that's rendered!!! , teaser pick of a young Vaas with scars…. Ryan “Did he get them in the womb!?!?!?  Wanna know how i got these scars? Born with them don't know…”  “What is your fave type of cake?” Ryan: Chocolate (Lava)… don't put a sprinkle on it OR ILL SLAY YOU Jack: I mean is birthday a type of cake… Funfettis great Jeremy: both are stereotypical , Boston Creme cakes and Rum Cakes. Matt: Yellow cake with fudge frosting. “Pets and significant others are safe , what item do you grab in a house fire” Jack: Animation cel of the Dino DNA scene in Jurrassic Park (think i got it) Ryan: i mean my life looks alot like this corner , if i could burn this shit down to start with a new empty house i might even be happy. (chat Ryan your insurance is listening)  Jeremy: don't have much i really care about , just “well that sucks it burnt up” . Matt: first ever smash trophy i won , only one i still have. Chat answers “Photo albums , Ryans DeadPool Suit” “what games hope to be announced on microsoft stream?” Matt :  Fable 4 (Ryan ”surprised theyd try to bring it back past the press that is peter molyneu” Matt ” well now nothing holding them back , not those trees!”) Jack: not so much games but LockHeart the mini streaming Xbox. (Ryan: all those types of things have failed idk why they think - well they also made mixer and that went tits up so sure why not) Jeremy: microsoft doesnt really blow me away , arent really anything that im like “i HOPE they announce a sequel” Matt: know this isnt the right crowd but Banjo Kazzoie? Just added in smash , Crash Bandicoots got a new game it makes sense nows the time… i mean the time was already before this but fuck it do it anyway. Steffie says we are at almost 10 mil views on Achievement Knievel (9.95 mil)  Ryan “which one was that” (Jack and Jeremy) “that's Im Still In The Air” Ryan “oooohhh… now i know why i blocked it out… thought we titled it like “the greatest stunt ever” or atleast that's what we called it while making it” “rather fight 100 duck sized ChilledChaos (yey my boy chilled!) or 1 ChilledChaos sized duck?” Ryan “feel like the duck cuz atleast it still doesnt have thumbs” - Jeremy “or teeth , what is it gonna do it can bill and flipper you” Matt “i mean a bunch of tiny Chilleds can work together to kill you” Jeremy “right they will figure something out” Ryan “tiny chilled more dangerous he can infiltrate spaces i wouldnt expect to find him” “tv show / movie you could watch again for the first time what would it be?” Jack: Breaking bad and Endgame … but only if its with a crowd who is ALSO seeing it for the first time. Matt : The Office Ryan: Full Metal Alchemist (oh anime time) , everyone talks about Brotherhood but i really liked the original. Matt:  Brotherhoods a bit better but original is still good on its own (paraphrased). Ryan : had that twist at the end of “dafuq did this show just go?” made a movie based off it… skippable though. Jeremy: Futurama , *or erase all my knowledge of Whose Line* “Fave piece of Merch put out?” Jeremy: Geoff tanktop with the tribal skull. Ryan: *puts on classic gray achievement hunter hat* Jack: Extralife Posters if those count , like the Xmen AH one behind Ryan that Jon (Risinger i assume) and Pat (IDFK) made. Matt: Tiki Mugs. Jeremy “do you use those , make pina coladas?” Matt “often! When i get caught in the rain (GDI Matt) “ Chat alot saying FrontBack ,  one said Jacks Varsity Jacket. “Trapped in quarantine with a fictional character , who?” Jack: Macgyver maybe idk (Ryan: How about Dr Manhattan he could just fix it)  yeah like Q from star trek. Matt: GlaDOS but in potato form. Jeremy “theres a lot of anime girls id be ok being stuck with but idk their name” (i love jeremy)  a Matt: you want Lust from Full Metal Alchemist - Jeremy: That sounds great , (Ryan *Nods*) i can picture that i like it or if we keeping the Futurama train then Bender… think wed have A LOT of fun , and he wouldnt get me the virus! Ryan: no he would , hed deliberately try to get you  sick. Jeremy: hed bring people in “what occupation / person where you most surprised to find out was an AH fan?” Jack: Fun story im looking to learn how to Sauder , someone messaged me saying they're a fan if you need help , *hes the guy welding StarShip* Matt: well… anyone smart really… Jack (and Ryan) : the Dr Who Set/Prop designer (Ben) hes done some stuff us (think he snuck in a name plate on a show of Jack and Ryan name or something , saw a tweet about that before) Ryan: not really any that's surprising… there was the time Macauly Culkin wore our shirt (press my awesome button) “our” being RT  Jeremy: Cool meeting Xavier Woods but like we know hes a gaming fan and watches a lot of content like ours… still on Whose Line Johnathon Mangum is a AH fan , even messaging me at one point. Trevor in chat “what if president trump rode up in a Salad Chalice shirt” , Jack: one guy who bought it , like “im hip with the kids” Ryan: can you imagine someone less likely to be seen near a salad? Matt: I mean ryan he thinks he has to drink them so…. Jeremy: also been having a lot of solicitors recently for some reason… really annoying and during a pandemic. Ordered a sign thats basically “fuckoff im not answering the door LEAVE” , have a ring doorbell (some kind of doorbell app where you can talk to people at the door i guess?)  but when im recording cant be like “hang on a second - FUCKOFF” Ryan: i DO feel like you have the kind of job you could do that , if anything youd put them in the video like “hey you're live right now what you need” … Jack managed to crash 7D2D on my local system already that's a good sign (brief technical difficulties music playing as it cut to ryans screen in the game) 

[toast-the-unknowing]

26 WIP?!?! How?!?! No, seriously, what's your writing process like? Genuinely SO curious? Do you use any apps? Special playlists? Mood lighting? Snack game? Sacrificial rituals? Please share all your secrets!

I wish I had a good answer for you for how I got to a place where 26 WIPs is the low end of the spectrum but I have always been better at coming up with ideas than at finishing them and the sad truth is that my start-to-finish ratio in TRC is the best it has ever been in any fandom.

If you want to hear me ramble about my writing process that’s going behind the cut.

I do nearly all of my writing on Writer. I switch on a regular basis between two different laptops and my desktop and my work computer, plus occasionally needing to access someone else’s computer, so I need something internet based, and I need that something to not be Google Docs. I don't like Google Docs for many reasons, mainly that it’s sooooo sloooooow to load (I’ve been using it lately for a collaborative project and man is it reminding me how annoying it is), but the main thing is just that I'm paranoid I'll somehow accidentally share my gay porn with everyone in my google contacts, such as former teachers from Catholic high school, or my mother. So even if that's not likely I really want a website where that's not POSSIBLE.

Writer is incredibly stripped down, but that’s a plus for me. I can't waste time picking fonts or editing the formatting or inserting page breaks or doing anything. There's maybe a few things about it that I wish were a tiny bit more robust (better document organization would be nice) but for my purposes it works great. I have a pro account because I use it enough I figure they deserve the five bucks a month, and also because if I accidentally overwrite a document (happens sometimes if I have the same document open on two computers and there's sync issues), I can pull up a history of the previous versions and sort that shit out.

I mostly have one document per fic (if I’m working on a bunch of prompts those will all be compiled in one document until they start getting long enough to deserve their own file; I also have a file of things that may or may not become new stories in the LA verse). Files are titled with the fandom name and fic name, or just ALL CAPS BASIC DESCRIPTOR if I don’t have a title yet. These days most of my shit is TRC so the fandom name may be superfluous, but who knows when I will want to write in other fandoms again. I also keep a list in Writer of current WIPs, which I update every couple of months or so. Sometimes in updating that list I have a hard honest conversation with myself about whether I am actually WORKING on all of these works-in-progress and, if not, whether I think I ever will. If necessary I take it off the list and copy that fic into my junk drawer file, where I keep fics I've abandoned and fic ideas I haven't fleshed out and also just one sentence notes like IDK WHAT ABOUT A RUSSIAN COSMONAUT DOG AU.

Lately I do a lot of my writing during my commute; I load up a document on my laptop and switch the wifi off before I leave home/work, and then I can write as much or as little on the bus as I feel able to. I am also That Bitch who takes her laptop and writes at coffee shops and bars (or the library, but that feels less pretentious).

While I’m writing on the bus (or while alt-tabbing at work) I'm generally listening to music, because I generally have music playing anyway. If I'm just at home I don't generally put music on; I do get distracted a lot by my roommate watching tv, even if it's something I'm not interested in, so maybe I should play my own music, but it’s not a habit I’m into. I can sometimes focus better if I have a word war with someone (basically message each other we’re going to write, write for 15/20 minutes, and then talk about how it went/share any really good lines that were written). I am not in the habit of making special playlists either for writing in general or for specific projects, although I might have a song or two that I associate strongly with a long term project and might listen to to get in the mood. 

I have always had lots of projects going on at the same time, which has in the past hampered my ability to finish anything, because I jump from project to project without finishing anything. On the other hand, grimly clinging to one project and not starting anything new sucks the fun out of writing and makes me feel less creative. I’ve gotten better at balancing those impulses; my current system is that I have one or two fics that are the Designated Top Priority, but I let myself get distracted when I feel like working on a different WIP or starting a new project or just banging out a short fic quickly. (Although there have been numerous times that I have thought “I’ll put everything on hold to write this one really fast dumb fic, it’ll just take a day, maybe two” and then it takes a week or more.) If I find that I haven't worked on the "top priority" in a couple of weeks then I ask if that's still really the top priority, and if I’m not feeling inspired and there’s not some reason that it HAS to be first (e.g. it's for an exchange or there's a deadline coming up), then I’ll usually pick a different one to focus on. After finishing something I’ve worked on for a LONG time it can be really hard to pick the new top priority, so I usually give myself a window of time to just fuck around, but that usually leads eventually to a point where I just open my WIPs, read them, and close them without working on them at all, which is a sign I need to focus back in. Things like noticing those signs and being able to act on them is really the biggest improvement to my writing process in the last decade.

[izupie]

100 Relatable Writer Things

(Courtesy of the creative writers from the Kacchako Discord server. We suffer together fam.)

doesn't write for 84 years 

starts a billion things, no time to finish or update

daydreaming about writing 

thinks about writing in shower, has no writing utensils

about to fall asleep, sudden motivation and inspiration

stuck at dayjob, pure, unadulterated motivation and inspiration

arrives home too tired to write

sits down at computer to write, spends two hours on the internet doing everything except writing

listening to music and it slows your writing to a snail's pace.

accidentally write the lyrics instad of dialogue

ignore typos

your Internet sucks and you can't connect to Google docs for a day.

trying to write angst only to slowly turn it into fluff

you remember you have pets and wanna cuddle them over writing 

you have a carefully written plan, that all of your characters are ignoring and start going in directions you are unprepared for

your characters do what they want, fuck u 

you realize you wrote a plot point too early and then mash the delete button.

you bingewatch a sitcom and plan all of these everyday aus and don't write any of them and demolish ice cream in the dark instead

you stare at your screen after doing nothing for an hour and the whole time you are internally screaming.

you open your story document and suddenly realise the bookshelf in your room needs alphabetising 

you look back at the manga for reference but end up just rereading the manga 

you fantasize about your characters and blush because they're so attractive

you realise you've been making weird expressions at your screen while you've been typing

the people around you have also noticed.

people wonder if you are okay in public settings writing angst

you brainstorm amazing ideas for your fic as you sleep but when you wake up you don't remember shit

having idea bouncing buddies to help with your au and end up creating a separate au

getting aus mixed

finding somewhere to write smut where nobody will accidentally look over your shoulder

you write smut in public but you're so tired that you don't care who sees anymore  

doing dumb shit like "bakugou looked at bakugou" and publishing it

you finish writing a chapter and look over your outline only to learn you skipped doing a scene.

try to quickly edit things, end up combing through chapter again

lots of picture refs for characters

forgetting your time scale while writing. how much time has passed? idk man

writing a one shot that becomes a 20k multichap

hitting 4k a chapter and crying it's not enough

hitting 19k a chapter and thinking, "maybe I can do more."

wondering if word count its too short/long

just crying. in general.

intending to write an epic slow burn and dropping it two chapters in for another idea

having a fully written arc expecting 10 chapts but with editing it becomes 7 chapts somehow

wanting to write a slow burn but getting so excited to get to the big part you just say fuck it

having so much of an au build up that you are excited for that it unintentionally becomes slowburn

intending to write a serious fic but you don't want to put the characters in any more pain than they canonically are so you turn them all into major goofballs

OR character didn't get enough pain canonically and it was supposed to be funny story

writing angst and pain because you're a masochist

love watching readers cry

taking pleasure in watching them cry

blasting meme music in your ears as your readers scream at you about breaking their hearts

hoping for fanart

teasing spoilers bc you want validation

running from rabid readers

sometimes you write for an hour and have done 500 words. Other times you blink and 3k words are suddenly there.

having a decent steady schedule or becoming spastic update qween, there is no in between. Bonus points if you do separate fics like this

watching a movie, inserting characters for yet another au

taking polls what to update next

never listening to the polls you create

making a schedule and sticking to it. Your fans think your organized but it's more like controlled chaos.

motivated to do something but what? 

literally buying a journal with goals and a tentative update schedule so you can keep your ass in check

not using said journal bc lazy

having monthly updates but writing more than half of it in the last week.

WHAT THE FUCK DO I TITLE IT

what's editing

can someone edit my stuff pls

writing the title of the chapter and then nothing else that day.

write, no edits, only write. Cry

69... 

setting a day to respond to comments. forget

stare at comments with awe and fear

wordvomit, keyboard smash

comments are life

kudos are resurrected life

holy shit a bookmark???????

holy shit someone recced me

wanting to share but don't want to be annoying

wanna collab?

surfing tumblr for writing refs bc your english sucks

i love dialogue~

i hate dialogue

does this sOUND NATURAL THO

is this too descriptive or not enough?

how do i describe this place i've never been to

have i used [blank word] too much?

more pic refs

said is too plain, but they're not doing anything but sitting and talking

does this smell description sound too fanficcy?

having a color bible

is this ooc?

how would you describe a <____> hitting the <___> floor?

how do i describe violence accurately

how many followers/readers will i lose to this

what does <___> pain feel like?

compare yourself to other popular writers

what are you writing has several word docs open

googling stuff that makes you sound like a murderer for rESEARCH

staring at your phone praying someone reviews it soon

how do i write texts or IMs

having that one follower who always comments

BONUS:  Is it truly finished or am I just sick of writing it

[welllpthisishappening]

Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming (1/35)

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 9.1 this chapter. Lots total. Lots.  AN: Ah! Hey, hi, hello there! The thing is happening! After sitting in my Google docs for way too long, AngstFest2k17 is finally seeing the light of internet day. I’m super psyched for you guys to read this and fingers crossed that my video game knowledge is not too obviously lacking. I asked my husband a lot of questions. This is real different than anything I’ve written, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Tuesday and Friday updates because I am who I am. A million thank you’s to @madelainespetsch for reading this over.  Also on Ao3 & FF.net if that’s how you roll. Tag List: @jamif @alicerubyfloyd @kmomof4 @bmbbcs4evr @courtneyshortney82 @jennjenn615 @artistic-writer @onceuponaprincessworld​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ (let me know if you want to be tagged!)

What was that thing Darwin said?

Survival of the fittest? Evolve or die? Something a little less harsh, probably. Or maybe not. The guy was, after all, obsessed with turtles. Tortoises? Maybe.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push thoughts of Darwin and turtles and how much he absolutely despised the island of Manhattan from his mind. None of those things mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting to the office in one piece with some sort of almost-believable smile on his face and a can-do attitude that everyone in a ten-foot radius would probably be able to see through immediately.

So maybe he needed to come up with a slightly better list.

And learn how to breathe through his mouth.

What was it about summer in New York that made everything smell slightly like sewage? It was probably a test. Survival of the fittest or something.

He’d circled right back around to Darwin.

“God damnit,” Killian mumbled, trying to weave his way through a crowd of tourists, all of whom had decided that the middle of Broadway was the perfect place to just stop and take photos.

They didn’t move. Even when he started muttering more curses under his breath and, maybe, didn’t turn his shoulder when the light turned green and the whole lot of them started pushing across the crosswalk and, well, they just deserved to get hit in the side at that point.

Rational. Reasonable. Survival.

Killian Jones was, at one point, at least two of those things and then he turned ten.

And then he wasn’t really any of those things anymore.

And, now, several decades removed from watching that very particular bubble burst right in front of his eyes, Killian Jones was nothing short of angry, frustrated and visibly fed up with just about everything.

Including tourists in downtown Manhattan.

Especially tourists in downtown Manhattan.

“The sign says walk, that means you’ve got to walk,” Killian grumbled, only to be met with the wide-eyed stare of a woman who, very clearly, had never seen a building taller than two stories before in her life.

“What?” she asked. She’d stopped walking. This was not going according to plan. He was going to be late. And maybe get hit by a cab. That would, at least, get him out of this meeting. But then he’d probably drop the coffee in his hand and that was just a waste of four dollars he couldn't really rationalize anymore.

“The sign,” Killian repeated, nodding towards the post on the corner of the block. “See that light-up person on there? It means you can walk. He wants you to walk. Or her. I’m not here to determine gender for a crosswalk sign.” “Just to be an ass.” He shrugged. He wasn’t really expecting that from the very-obvious-tourist with her I Love NY plastic bag, but she wasn’t really wrong. “Welcome to New York or something.” She might have muttered dick under her breath, but she did pick up the pace a little bit and they both managed to get across East 8th without a major traffic incident or possible hit-and-run, so the whole thing seemed like a bit of a victory.

That was, however, until Killian stepped back onto the sidewalk to find himself face to face with an enormous set of doors and a building with far too many windows and the heating bill must have been insane during the winter.

He probably didn’t have to worry about that.

He assumed he wasn’t in charge of the heating or cooling of the building. Just the writing. Maybe. Regina hadn’t been all that specific. And he absolutely hadn’t been listening.

He’d been far too worried about being pissed off at the entire world – her words, not his. She was right. Killian just wouldn’t ever admit to that.

Regina knew anyway. That’s why she’d called in the first place and offered him the job. Offered was generous. She’d demanded his presence in New York a week before, quick to remind him that he didn’t have anything else to do and, as much as it pained Killian to admit, she was right. That’s what he got for telling Robin anything.

Killian sighed, taking another sip – gulp – of coffee and wincing when he burnt the back of his tongue. It was way too hot out to just be standing there, staring at The Daily Caller emblazoned on the two glass doors he still hadn’t managed to open.

God, fucking damnit.

His phone rang in his pocket and Killian might have actually jumped at the sound, taking him by surprise and nearly leading to another dropped coffee incident. He moved the cup into the crook of his elbow, trying to pull his phone out while still keeping the bag on his shoulder from falling on the ground and, somehow, another tourist managed to bump into him.

“What?” he snapped when he finally managed to get his phone out and pressed up against his ear.

“Do you always answer your phone like that? That was incredibly aggressive.” Killian’s shoulders slumped and he heard the thud of his bag hitting the sidewalk. It was probably covered in garbage now, just by default. He’d blame New York. And Robin was practically cackling on the other end.

“Maybe I just knew it was you,” Killian said. “Trying to make jokes. Badly, for what it’s worth.” “Not much. I know my jokes suck. What I don’t know though is why you’re camping out in front of the door when you were supposed to be sitting in a chair in front of Regina’s desk five minutes ago.” “She’d let me sit in a chair? That’s awfully generous of her majesty.” “Don’t be a dick.” “You know that’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.” “And that doesn’t surprise me at all. You should really come inside though, you’re freaking out the receptionist. She wanted security to call the police because she thought you were a really well-dressed loiterer.” Killian scoffed, but he could feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of his neck and the bottom of his spine and maybe he should have taken the jacket off. Or not worn the jacket at all. Or ignored Regina’s commands completely.

That last one was, absolutely, impossible.

“How come you need security to call the police?” Killian asked, delaying the inevitable meeting and not even doing a very good job of hiding it.

Robin laughed again. “They’re security, Killian. They can’t actually arrest you for whatever lewd activity you were doing to scare our receptionist.”

“Lewd, huh? When’d you swallow a thesaurus?” “When I married a reporter.” “That whole being editor thing didn’t help then?” The laughing stopped. Killian smiled and took another drink of the now luke-warm coffee. “See, I want to call you a dick again, but if I do that, you’re going to make another quip about my vocabulary and its limited uses. So, how about you stop being a complete and utter bastard, actually find some kind of unspoken courage and show up to a meeting we’re only having in order to save your ass?” “Did you practice that?” Robin groaned and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that easily, probably the last time he’d been in New York and with Robin and Regina and...whatever. That wasn’t important. He’d started breathing through his nose again and he could smell whatever it was that smell was – possibly just the scent of the questionable steam that was actually coming out of the ground at the end of the block, funneled up with city-provided equipment and he’d never understood that.

He’d probably look it up later.

“Dick, ass, bastard, idiot,” Robin listed off, each insult sounding a little less insulting.

“I’m a little hurt by idiot, I’ll be honest.” “Come inside, Killian.” The doors in front of him actually buzzed and he had to admit, he was kind of impressed by that. Killian grabbed one of the incredibly ostentatious handles, kicking his foot back to step over the threshold only to be met by a pair of bright green eyes and even brighter hair and an incredulous expression.

“So you actually came in then,” she said slowly, resting her elbows on the top of the desk in front of her.

Killian narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips slightly and nodded. “So it seems. You guys have air conditioning. That won out.” “Robin said you were late.”

“Five minutes. The subway sucks.” “They’re calling it ‘summer of hell’ for a reason, I guess. Where’d you get stuck?” “Excuse me?” The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she sat up a bit straighter and brushed her hair off her shoulders. “Stuck. On the train. I’m assuming that’s the reason behind the five minutes.” “Well, it’s more like seven minutes now, but that was really Robin’s fault. And, no, had to transfer. He also said you thought I was loitering.” She shrugged. “You’ve got a look to you. And it wasn’t just me. Our security guy agreed with me. He’s the one who said I should call Robin.” “A look,” Killian repeated slowly. Another shrug. He glanced at the desk she was still leaning on, elbows just a few inches away from a nameplate that proclaimed her Ariel Golven. “What exactly constitutes this look?”

“Tall, dark, brooding. You kept staring at that coffee cup like you thought it was going to give you up for murder. Have you murdered anyone recently?” Killian quirked an eyebrow at her and she grinned in response. “Not that I’m aware of, although I can’t be held responsible for anything I do to tourists in the middle of crosswalks. Why, are you trying to turn me into a murderer?” “No, I don’t really want to deal with murderers,” Ariel said. “I’m assuming you’re Regina’s eleven o’clock? The one she and Robin keep talking about in hushed tones?” “Yes to the eleven o’clock, but I refuse to acknowledge tones hushed or otherwise.” He paused, licking his lips and downing the rest of the coffee. Ice cold in ten minutes, flat. “You have a garbage can back there, Ariel? And any idea what was discussed in those hushed tones?”

She laughed. Loudly. Enough to draw the attention of the previously mentioned security guard who, at first glance, appeared to be seventy-two years old and absolutely should call the police before deciding to do anything, if only for the sake of his health and probably several different joints.

“Here,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly and wiggling her fingers when Killian didn’t move immediately. “That’s a yes to the first question,” she continued. “And a vague sense of impressed that you know how to read and an absolutely not to gossiping about the people who sign my paychecks when I know you’re here for some great, big important reason.” “I don’t know about great and important,” Killian argued.

Belittling and just a bit trivial, maybe. Survival of the fittest, it seemed, meant agreeing to things you absolutely, positively would not do in any other situation – like agreeing to come back to New York and be Regina Mills’ eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning in August.

Ariel clicked her tongue. “Ah, but those hushed tones say otherwise.” The phone on her desk rang, a loud, shrill sound that cut through the lobby and seemed to shake off the glass doors and directly into the very center of Killian’s soul.

Darwin probably hadn’t been that emotional. The turtles wouldn’t have allowed it.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Ariel answered, some unspoken question that could only be Regina if the demanding tone of voice on the other end was any indication. Killian still hadn’t handed over his half-empty coffee cup. “Uh, no I don’t think so.”

Killian widened his eyes and Ariel rolled hers, mouthing dead at him. She wiggled her fingers again, finally just leaning over the top of the desk to grab the empty cup and dump it into the trash can behind her. “Thanks,” he muttered, just a bit stunned by the show of kindness and he was a jaded asshole.

Regina was still talking a mile a minute, what sounded like a very detailed list of demands that were only serving to make Killian even later than he already was.

The elevator at the other end of the lobby dinged and they needed to do something about the acoustics of that building because everything just seemed to sound louder, or maybe those were the nerves he’d resolutely refused to acknowledge in the last two weeks, and Killian didn’t even want to think of all the reasons he knew exactly who was walking towards him as soon as the footsteps fell on the tiled floor.

“Killian, seriously, what the hell?” Robin shouted, striding towards him like he was eighteen again and breaking curfew. “We, literally, just went over this.” Killian waved his hands through the air, the silent gesture more than enough to warrant the scowl on Robin’s face and maybe he was eighteen again because he’d absolutely done it for the reaction. “You told me to come inside,” he corrected. “I am inside. And I’m also a guest in your delightfully large office building. You want me to break protocol by not signing in or whatever you do with guests?” “Cretin.” “Oh, that was a good one.” Robin sighed, rolling his whole head in frustration, but there was a hint of a smile on the edge of his mouth and Killian knew he’d won. Ariel slammed the receiver back into the mount, mumbling a few words under her breath and she nearly fell out of her chair when she realized who was standing in front of her.

“Oh, Mr. Locksley,” she stammered. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you...I didn’t see you there.” “It’s fine, Ariel,” Robin promised, elbowing Killian when he couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing. “Killian’s not a guest. He should have a keycard, actually.” “What?” Killian snapped, turning on his friend and, maybe, mentor and pseudo parent-guardian in some sort of sign your permission slips kind of way. Robin brushed him off. “That wasn’t part of the deal. There was no deal.” Robin clicked his tongue, tapping a knowing finger against the strap of Killian’s bag. “Exactly. You gave her an in, Killian and now she’s got her tenterhooks locked in. If you tell her I said that I will push you off the roof.” “I wouldn't dare. “You would. I fully expect you to say something anyway.” Robin took the card out of Ariel’s hand with a smile on his face and promptly pushed it into Killian’s chest. “Take this. Guard it with your life. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get into the building from now on. Come on.” “Wait, what?” “You stop understanding English at some point?” Killian shook his head. “Come on. Gina’s pissed you’re late.”

“Right,” Killian muttered, following Robin back towards the elevators as Ariel shouted welcome aboard as soon as the doors clicked shut.

It took some kind of eternity to reach the twentieth floor, Robin’s smug smile making Killian reconsider every single decision he’d ever made that led him to that moment. Regina had the whole floor to herself. Of course she did.

“God, spare no expense, huh?” Killian asked, running a hand through his hair as they walked towards another set of glass doors.

Robin rolled his eyes. “You really have no sense of self worth at all, do you?” “To be fair, I have no idea what’s actually going on, so I guess I’m just stringing along for the ride at this point.”

Regina Mills looked older than she did when Killian first met her. The band t-shirts that had been some kind of uniform when she was twenty-four and a cub reporter on the entertainment beat were long gone, replaced, instead with a seemingly ever-growing pant suit collection that cost more than Killian’s last apartment in Boston. The curls were gone too and her hair was short, cut straight and business-like, a no-nonsense attitude that seemed to permeate every single inch of the expansive office.

The lights on her desk phone probably never stopped blinking and the pile of paperwork a few feet away from her right elbow probably never got smaller. She looked a bit like her mother.

Killian wouldn’t ever say that out loud.

Robin was absolutely wrong – he had, at least, a little self worth.

“Where have you been?” Regina demanded, not even bothering to get out of her chair. She just glared at Killian.

“And hello to you too, Regina,” Killian answered. “It’s super great to see you. Long time. Or something. How’s everything? How’s Henry and Roland?”

He nodded towards the few frames sitting behind her, decorating the tiny shelf and Killian couldn’t look too long – certain he’d get vertigo from staring out the massive window back towards Broadway. Liam would have made fun of him for that.

Oh.

Oh, well, shit.

He shouldn’t be surprised – jumping back into the deep end of memories and emotions as he was, it only made sense that, eventually, he’d think about Liam. He just wished it wasn’t in front of Regina when he was fifteen minutes late and she was absolutely doing him some kind of enormous favor.

“Can I sit?” he asked. “Or is that against the rules?” Robin groaned, flopping into one of the chairs in front of Regina’s desk and stretching his legs out. Regina might have smiled. “Yeah, you can sit,” she said. “After you answer my question.” “You know I think that’s referred to as aggravating your sources.” “An answer or I’m actually going to get Robin to move that other chair into the hallway and you can stand for the rest of this discussion. Your call, Jones.”

She was definitely smiling and Killian felt some of that ice he’d built up in the very center of him shift just a little bit, the nickname sparking just a hint of feeling. “An ancient callback, your majesty,” he muttered. “And I had to transfer trains. It took fucking forever.” "Why are you taking the train? Aren’t you staying downtown?”

Killian shook his head, sitting down and nearly sighing in contentment when his knees bent. There’d been no seats on the train – either one. “No, it’s too...downtown.” “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Regina countered. “Hip. Is that better?”

“That just makes you sound old,” Robin said. “You could have told us you were staying uptown. We would have sent a car or something. Avoided this whole thing.”

“And not done this get-to-know-you-again banter?” Killian asked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Robin laughed in agreement, but Regina pressed her lips together – a thin line of judgement and red lipstick and understanding that Killian didn’t appreciate at all. “Why are you torturing yourself?” she asked. “He wouldn’t want you to stay up there.” “Straight to the point then,” Killian muttered and Robin stopped laughing immediately. “It’s not like I’m staying in the apartment. It’s just quieter up there.” And maybe Killian wanted to torture himself a little bit.

It was easier to do that when he wasn’t living on Astor Place with 24-hour pizza places and several dozen bars and the incoming freshman class at NYU exercising their first few weeks of freedom from adult supervision.

Once upon a time, Killian Jones lived in a tiny shoebox of a Morningside Heights apartment in upper Manhattan with his brother and it was a mess. They barely paid the rent every month and God knew how Liam managed to feed them every day and, at one point, he only owned two pairs of socks.

It had been an unqualified disaster.

It was, easily, the happiest Killian could ever remember being.

But happiness, it seemed, was not something that was ever meant to be consistent. It was fleeting and easy to lose and, eventually, Killian just decided to stop expecting much of anything from anyone.

Which was why he wasn’t quite sure why he was reacting to Boston the way that he was. He wasn’t just mad – he was pissed off. And yelling at tourists about it.

Print was dead. There was no future in it. Or, more importantly, no profit in it. And he had the metaphorical pink slip to prove it.

An email. Years of work and bylines and ignoring everything else to get the story and the best The Herald could do was send him an email informing him that he was part of a round of staff cuts and he needed to have his desk cleared by the end of the week.

He did one better. He cleared out his entire apartment.

“There’s not really any sense in beating around the bush,” Regina said pointedly and shit she sounded like Cora. Killian rolled his eyes. “Liam wouldn’t want you up there. You’re not the ghost in this situation.” Killian let out a low whistle and even Robin mumbled something that sounded a bit like jeez, Gina, he was ten minutes late, no need to actually ruin his entire day. She just lifted her eyebrows and stared at Killian, waiting for him to argue and smiling slightly when he didn’t.

“What do you want me to say, Gina?” Killian asked, certain if he fell back on nicknames and familiarity maybe he wouldn’t be tempted to run out of the office screaming.

“Why you’re being so difficult about all of this?” Because my brother’s dead and I’ve avoided New York for the last decade and the one job I thought mattered very easily informed me that I was mistaken, again, and your windows are freaking me out.

It sounded absurd in his head, he could only imagine what it would sound like if he actually said any of those words out loud.

“I’m not being difficult,” he said, ignoring whatever strangled sound Robin made next to him. One of Regina’s eyebrows moved. “I’m not! Why are you so mad about ten minutes?” “This is a fairly important website, in case you haven’t noticed,” Regina said evenly. “Strangely enough I do have other things to do besides waiting for you to grace us with your presence.”

“This was your idea.” “And you’re being an ass about it.” “Robin already used that insult, come up with a different one.” “Bastard.” “Nope.”

“Dunce.” Killian grinned and Regina’s shoulders seemed to settle just a bit, spine not quite as straight and the tension in the office not quite as thick. “Winner winner,” he mumbled, ancient games matching up with ancient nicknames and Liam absolutely wouldn’t want him to stay uptown.

“Did Robin give you the keycard thing?” she asked.

“Super articulate, your majesty. And yes, he did. Before he actually coughs up a lung in a misplaced attempt to argue with both of us.” Robin snapped his jaw shut, glaring at Killian again and kicking at his ankle for good measure. “Although I don’t understand why you’re giving me one of these things if I’m just going to write breaking stuff for you.” Robin made another noise – it might have actually be a moan and Killian twisted in the chair, a wooden arm colliding with his side. “What am I missing?” he asked.

“See, this is why you should have gotten here on time,” Robin said. “Then we could have gone over all the reasons you shouldn’t freak out without having to rush over them.” Killian glanced back at Regina, an unreadable look on her face and the phone was probably going to explode at some point if she didn’t acknowledge all of those flashing lights. “Am I not your top priority, Gina?”

“Obviously not,” she responded easily. Robin was going to choke on air. “And you’re not going to do news either.” “What?” Killian’s eyes darted between the two other people in the room, desperate for some kind of contradiction or explanation and all but growling when he wasn’t provided with either.

This whole thing really was Regina’s fault. Not that she’d ever admit to it.

He was eighteen and a freshman in college, working two jobs before and after class and it had been a Saturday afternoon when a twenty-something woman with black hair and bright red nails strode into the coffee shop just off campus and ordered a large Americano with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso.

She’d been on her phone and there’d been a pen stuck in her hair and a notebook gripped tightly in one hand.  

He thought she was crazy. Whipped cream on an Americano was disgusting. Years later, Killian asked Regina about it and she claimed it was for the sugar, but he got the distinct impression it was some kind of rebellious act because Cora refused to admit that anything good in the world, like whipped cream, existed.

Regina could have done things easier – she could have lived up to her mother’s plans and demands and expectations and she probably could have gotten an above-the-fold story in The Times before she was thirty without having to do much more than mention her last name.

She didn’t want that.

She wanted to earn it. Or so she explained to Killian after she started showing up in the coffee shop  several times a day, saying that she’d moved uptown on her own and graduated with a masters in journalism and was covering music because she loved it.

He never forgot the way her eyes lit up when she started talking about it – the emotions and the feeling and the want and when she told him to come along to see her boyfriend play in Alphabet City that weekend, Killian wasn’t sure he’d seen anyone love anything as much as Regina loved her beat, literal and metaphorical.

He declared the week after, marching into the Dean's office at Hunter with a sense of determination that made Liam ask what he’d done with Killian Jones and it only took a few minutes to lock into some sort of future.

And Killian Jones, reporter was born.

“Explain, Gina,” Killian said sharply, doing his best to get the Mills demand into his voice. It didn’t work. “I don’t know how to do anything except news.” She didn’t look impressed. “Ok, that’s not true at all. You have a degree. I know you took a features writing course once. I fixed your grammar.” “If we’re just here to walk down memory lane…” “Obviously we’re not or I wouldn’t be so pissed off about you being late and screwing up my entire schedule for the day.” “Guys,” Robin cut in, actually standing up to move in between them and Killian didn’t remember shifting to the front of the chair until he was nearly falling off it. “There’s no space in news,” he said, staring intently at Killian. “We don’t have the byline.” “You’re a website,” Killian accused. “An enormous website mostly made up of freelancers. I’m not asking for a staffer job.” “Too bad,” Regina mumbled and Robin shot her a look over his shoulder.

Killian took a deep breath, sliding back until his shoulders collided with the top of the chair. He pressed his tongue against his cheek and stared back at Robin. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’m listening.” Robin tilted his head slightly – an exasperated move Killian was fairly certain Liam taught him – and balanced on the edge of Regina’s desk. “I’m not even going to acknowledge that with an insult,” he mumbled. “And I don’t care about your reservations as a staffer. That’s why we got you the keycard. You already are one.”

Killian opened his mouth to argue, but Robin just widened his eyes and he’d gotten very good at that look. It probably had something to do with raising two kids. And Liam. Liam definitely taught him that. “This is not up for debate,” Robin continued. “You, Killian Jones, are now an official staff writer at The Daily Caller and, now, an official employee of Mills Media. There’s a shit ton of paperwork for you to fill out later, but we’ll get to that. You’ll be full-time, you’ll get benefits, you should move out of that hotel you’ve been staying in for the last two days. And while we can’t tell you not to live uptown, we can both strongly suggest that you consider moving down here to make the commute easier. And,” he said, eyeing Killian with a look that left little room for argument, “you should forget whatever misgivings you have about a beat that does not revolve intrinsically around death.” “Ok, breaking news isn’t just death,” Killian reasoned. Regina made a dismissive noise. “It’s not! It just ends up that way a lot because people are awful.” “And this kind of involves death,” Regina muttered.

Robin almost looked defeated. “Virtually.” “What the hell are either one of you talking about?” Killian asked, half shouting the question in the hope that, maybe, it would get him some answers.

“Video games,” Robin said. “A whole string of feature stories about video games. Or, well, one video game. And one team of...video game players. Is that what they’re called?” Regina shrugged. “I have no idea. Ask Killian in a week. He should know by then.”

Killian’s head was spinning – and he was fairly certain it wasn’t because of the vertigo he may or may not have been experiencing. He was breathing through his mouth again. And that time wasn’t on purpose.

He pushed out of the chair, walking back behind Regina’s desk and ignoring Robin’s quiet gasp of surprise that he even dared to move over whatever unspoken barrier he’d just crossed. Regina’s eyebrow shifted again. “What the hell is going on, Gina?” he barked. “The truth this time.”

And just like that, the facade cracked a bit – eyebrows returning to their biologically determined place and glare softening just a bit and for half a second Killian was almost convinced she was going to move her fingers to try and brush towards his left hand before she stopped herself.

“You called Robin,” Regina started. “And told him about The Herald and, well, you couldn’t expect that we wouldn’t do something. We had to do something. He would have wanted…”

“Stop it,” Killian warned, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Regina Mills wasn’t concerned with empty threats. Or ghosts.

She moved again and, that time, she did reach forward, wrapping her fingers around his left forearm and tugging forcefully like she was trying to get him to understand.

“We had to do something,” she repeated. “And it’s not like we’re not without money here. The problem is that the money isn’t in news. We’ve got that covered. There is, however, a staffer spot open in lifestyles.” “Lifestyles!” “Killian, if you interrupt me again, I’m going to cut your keycard in half.” “That doesn’t really mean much to me. And I can’t be official yet, I haven’t filled out a W-4. Nothing’s official until there are taxes involved.” “You’re very frustrating when you’re sarcastic.” “Charming.” “And it’s a defense mechanism,” Robin mumbled.

Killian shrugged. “That too,” he admitted. “Why lifestyles? Honestly. I’m not really qualified to write fluff.” “You’re qualified to write,” Regina said. “And I resent the implication that anything we publish is fluff.” “Is that you or your mom talking? And there’s a story in your lifestyles section today questioning the merits of merlot over other wines.” Regina’s eyes flashed, the mention of Cora having its desired effect and he’d absolutely done it as some kind of glorified defense. If he got her mad he wouldn’t have to talk and he could ignore the idea of what he’d wanted when he got into all of this.

Jaded.

He was jaded and angry and news was all of those with some homicides occasionally thrown in.

“I think what you’re trying to say is that you’re reading the lifestyles section of the site,” Regina said, bypassing any mention of her mother. “Did you click on the story? That’d help with hits.” “I did not,” Killian laughed. “Just skimmed headlines.” “You’re the worst kind of reader.” “Make me pay for content then.” “Don’t say that out loud, that’s like muttering Bloody Mary in the mirror three times. Any mention of the money automatically summons my mother.”

Killian barked out a laugh, leaning against the windows behind him and crossing his arms. Regina smiled. “Ok, Gina, I’ll bite. What am I supposed to be doing here?” “Lifestyles,” she answered, waving a dismissive hand through the air when he rolled his eyes at the repetition. “But not really lifestyles. It’s only going there because it doesn’t really make sense in entertainment and it’s not really sports, although they’ll probably argue with you on that front.” “It is called e-sports,” Robin said, twisting to join the conversation again. “It’s, technically, a sport. A tournament if you want to be specific.” “I thought you said video games,” Killian said. It sounded exactly like the accusation it was. He wanted the truth. And maybe another coffee.

“I did. What I didn’t say because you were too busy throwing a temper tantrum over what section your story would fall under was that the video games are insanely competitive and insanely popular which is why there’s even an interest in stories about them.” “There was no temper tantrum. There was...confusion.” “Temper. Tantrum,” Robin grinned. “It doesn’t matter. I knew you’d take it anyway.” “Because of the aforementioned health benefits?” “No. Because it’s going to be a good story and that’s all you’ve ever really wanted to do.”

Killian licked his lips, tilting his head back until he hit it against a pane of glass and that was good, if it hurt it meant he was actually there, in that office, with the only two people in the entire world who would dare say anything like that to him. It would have been kind of weird if that whole morning had been a dream.

“And trust me,” Robin pressed. “This is a good story. Plus, apparently Henry and Roland are thrilled at the idea of you covering it because they play this game and think you can get them insider info on how to level-up or something.” “And you said I was the old man before,” Killian muttered. “You already told Henry and Roland I was going to do this? That feels like coercion.” “A calculated bargaining technique.” “Ok, so what exactly does this entail? Didn’t you say it was a whole bunch of stories?” Robin nodded. “A year. With benefits. And the potential for job growth. Outside of lifestyles. So, you know, consider all of that. Plus, Rol and Henry are super excited.”

“Why?” “Why are Roland and Henry excited? It’s a super popular game.” “No, no, no,” Killian said. “Why are you guys doing this?” Robin and Regina stared at him like he’d suddenly grown sixteen heads and suggested that the Earth was flat. Or like they’d offered him a year-long gig covering an e-sports whatever he’d never heard of – with benefits – and probably ignored Cora’s objections to even the idea of him setting foot in that downtown office.

And the answer was so obvious it was like it had grown legs and then proceeded to smack each of them in the face.

Because Liam would have wanted us to.

“How come you wore a jacket to a not-real-interview that you didn’t even want to come to?” Regina countered. Killian glared at her.

Because Liam would have wanted me to.

“Fine,” he said, tugging on his hair again. “I’ll probably have to ask Rol and Henry how the game works.”

“They’re banking on that,” Robin smiled. “And you’re sure? I mean, contrary to popular belief we’re not actually forcing you to take a byline. Or benefits.” “You’re really pushing that benefits thing aren’t you?” “It’s a good plan.” “Sure it is,” Killian scoffed. “And, yeah, I’m sure. You already gave me the keycard anyway, seems a waste to have to cut that up or whatever you do to returned keycards.” “Probably cut it up.” “Then, yeah. I’m in. Let’s cover video games like that’s something people do.”

He spent the rest of the day signing paperwork and learning systems and actually reading that merlot story and by the time Killian made it back uptown to the overpriced hotel he was paying for, he all but collapsed on the over-starched sheets.

And he was fairly positive he’d only just shut his eyes when he heard the phone ring, jerking him out of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. Killian reached out blindly, refusing to give credence to the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and he nearly knocked the phone off the nightstand, mumbling a scratchy hello into the receiver.

“Mr. Jones?” a perky voice on the other end asked, as if expecting to find another person in the room registered to Killian Jones.

“Yeah.” That gave the perky voice pause. “Uh,” she stuttered and there was laughter in the background. Killian resisted the urge to groan. Loudly. “There’s a gentleman down here. Says he knows you and you’re expecting him.”

He hadn’t actually opened his eyes yet, but Killian squeezed them tighter anyway and the perky voice might have gasped when he did actually groan at her. He should have figured. If Robin and Regina were plotting, then it only made sense that Will Scarlet was in on it too.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Killian mumbled, finally opening his eyes and immediately regretting that decision. “You can send him up or whatever.” “He, uh, well he says to tell you he would have come up anyway, but he was…” “Doing me a solid,” Killian finished. “Yeah, I bet he was. Thanks.” “Of course.” They were back to perky. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Jones?”

Scarlet was hysterical and Killian would have bet several thousand dollars he absolutely did not have that he was also resting on the lobby desk and possibly clutching his stomach in some kind of dramatic motion that he came up with when he was nineteen.

“No,” Killian said. “Thanks.” “Have a great day!” Not likely. He’d signed all that paperwork and agreed to dinner with Robin and Regina which also meant dinner with Henry and Roland and that meant several hours in some sort of whirlwind video game crash course discussing the rules of some game called Over...something. He should probably remember the name of the game.

And he’d fallen asleep quickly and easily, but only because he was told, in no uncertain terms by Regina, that he had a ten o’clock appointment in Midtown with this video game team that he absolutely, could not miss.

She must have sent Scarlet to make sure he didn’t.

Or...no, it couldn’t have been that. Even Regina wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t trying to drive him insane.

Probably.

Oh, shit that’s totally what was happening.

Will must have sprinted up the stairs or taken the quickest elevator in the history of the world, already knocking on Killian’s door. He groaned, resigning himself to whatever plan for his life was, apparently, being formed without his explicit consent, and managed to grab a shirt off the top of his bag before swinging open the door. Will was mid-knock.

“Hey, Hook,” Will said, a picture of sarcastic chipper nonsense that made Killian clench his fist. “Welcome home.” “You’re an ass,” Killian muttered. Will laughed again, pushing his way into the room with, at least, four different cameras slung over both of his shoulders. So, that was definitely happening.

Will sank onto the corner of the bed, a knowing smile on his face as if he’d just feasted on an entire table of canaries. “Dynamic duo or something,” he said. “I hate that, so don’t use that again.” “I’m only going to use that now,” Killian said, slamming the door behind him.

“Pot and kettle.” “What?” “You called me an ass, which is a great reintroduction after ignoring the city for the last ten years, by the way. So, pot and kettle.” “That’s not how that cliché goes,” Killian pointed out. Will shrugged. “And I saw you at Christmas.”

In retrospect, that was probably when Robin and Regina first started plotting this whole thing – he’d shown up to the Mills family estate in Vermont just a few hours before midnight on Christmas Eve, exhausted with bags under his eyes that were big enough to check, and complained about fewer bylines and a lack of ink and a lack of ads which all circled back to the fewer bylines thing. No one wanted to print the paper if no one wanted to buy the paper.

Will had tried to get him to take some photos, certain if he’d just expand his skill set he’d be more appealing to a wider variety of publishers and printing syndicates.

Killian had not-so-politely refused. And then called Will an ass.

“That doesn’t count,” Will argued. “You were in and out in, like, a day and a half. You’re in this for the long haul now, right?” “Because I’m being plied with an admittedly pretty good benefits plan.”

“C’mon. Don’t be like that. This is going to be fun. You’re telling me you’re not actually interested in professional video game players?” “Only in so much as finding out how they actually make a living.” Will made a face. “You wound me, Hook. This is a cool story. It’s totally in your wheelhouse of interests. Or, you know, it should be.” “Don’t do that,” Killian growled.

Will didn’t back down. And he shouldn’t have been surprised. Regina wasn’t going to put up with any of Killian’s shit, but Scarlet was a close second in being decidedly unamused by any of this. It probably had something to do with living together – answering a CraigsList ad because Hunter didn’t provide housing and Liam had already been sent overseas and Killian wanted out of the shoebox.

The apartment he and Will lived in wasn’t much better, didn’t even have an oven in it, but they were eighteen and it felt like some kind of palace at the time.

It also left Will positive he knew Killian better than anyone.

“Regina thinks you’re up here because you’re wallowing,” Will said, shifting so his half a dozen cameras were resting on the bed as well.

“Regina needs to stop gossipping.” “It’s the journalist in her, she can’t help herself. At least you’re not living in the Mills-Locksley household. Imagine all that talking.” “Terrifying.” Will grinned, shoulders shaking slightly with the force of his laughter. “All that support and mutual adult’dom,” he chuckled. “The worst. Plus those kids adding the adorable. It’s just disgusting.”

“No one needs that,” Killian sighed, running a hand over his face and he’d slept for what felt like days, but he was, suddenly, exhausted. “So, dynamic duo’ing, huh? She give you a choice of gigs or you volunteer to follow me around for a year?” “Please, I’m not following you around. I’m following a good story. Although watching you rejoin the human race is some kind of unexpected bonus.” “Did I evolve into another species without realizing it?” Will nodded. “Killian Jones, suddenly very good at coming up with adjectives for blood.” “Lacerations.” “See.” “How come you brought all that gear?” Killian asked. “I thought we were just going to meet with these people. Background or whatever.” “Yeah, but you never know when the mood’s going to strike and we’re going in the middle of a practice. It could be pretty good stuff, actually.” “Practice?” “What part of professional athletes are you not understanding here?” “See,” he shook his head. “That’s just not right. It’s not like they’re burning calories or anything. This is...this is not a real thing.” “I would suggest you don’t tell them that. And then do some basic research in the cab. Because they may not be running sprints, but they’re making money like they’re professional athletes. You know what the base salary for this league is?”

“It’s a league?” “Tournament’s probably a better word, but that’s also a question you should ask the athletes. Killian, did you even listen to a single thing Regina told you?” He hadn’t. He’d listened to what Roland and Henry said about the rules and the character sayings that were, admittedly, just a bit annoying when he heard them several dozen times in the span of a few hours at dinner, but he hadn’t really paid attention to the angle, fairly positive he could, at least, come up with his own in on a story.

“Idiot,” Will muttered, but there was a familiarity in his voice that sent a very specific pang of something down Killian’s spine. “Go shower, you look like shit and you don’t want to offend the sources as soon as they lay eyes on you.” Killian kicked him, blaming old habits or something that didn’t make him feel like he was a teenager. “They’re professional video game players,” he reasoned. “I highly doubt they’ll be offended by much of anything.” “You got to check those assumptions at the door, man.” “What do you know that I don’t?” “Trust me, it’ll be more fun if you just go in ignorant.” “For you maybe,” Killian accused, pushing away from the set of drawers he’d been leaning against. Will hummed in agreement. “Hey, what’s the salary? You said there was a base.” Will grinned like he’d suddenly found another canary he hadn’t stuffed in his face already. “Fifty thousand,” he answered simply. Killian felt his jaw drop slightly and he wished he was still leaning on something. “Yup,” Will said, popping his lips on the syllable. “Seriously, go shower. I wasn’t kidding about you looking like shit.”

Killian wasn’t sure what he expected when he heard professional video game practices, but he was fairly positive a Midtown Irish bar was fairly low on his list of ideas. He glanced skeptically at Will who hadn’t stopped grinning the entire time they made it downtown, even laughing once when Killian started grumbling about tourists in midtown.

“You’re an old man,” Will chuckled, pushing on Killian’s shoulder to move him towards the door of the bar. There were voices coming from inside – screams might have been more appropriate.

Killian swung open the door, closing his eyes when a blast of air conditioning rushed towards them and the screams were actually shouts of something that sounded a bit like triumph.

No one can hide from my sight!

Will was barely staying upright, arm wrapped tightly around his waist when he noticed the look on Killian’s face. He shook his head, not sure what to focus on – every screen sitting on the bar was hooked up to the game, six stools pressed up against the far wall with half a dozen women sitting there, each one wearing headsets and feet propped up on even more stools.

Their fingers were moving a mile a minute on actual keyboards and one of them – a brunette with bright, red streaks in her hair – was yelling at the woman three seats to her right, leaning forward to bark orders. “Don’t move,” she shouted and the other woman, another brunette, rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Belle. Do not move!” “I know how the game works!” “Oh my God, Rubes, shut up,” someone else screamed, kicking at air and Killian hoped she wasn’t aiming for the woman next to her. She didn’t really come close. “Belle knows how to play. We all know how to play.”

Rubes – that couldn't be her name – stuck her tongue out, but she didn’t pull her eyes away from the screen and something must have happened because there was more yelling and more orders shouted and a string of sound effects that came pouring out of the five TV screens above the bar.

“What is happening right now?” Killian whispered, leaning back towards a still-amused Will who already had one of his cameras pointed at the line of women in front of them.

“See, I told you it’d be more fun if you came into this ignorant. You’re going to want to come up with something good if you don’t want me to give Regina this picture of you reacting to that one blonde lady screaming.” “What?” “Phone camera. On silent. Deceptive.”

“No, I don’t care about that. What blonde one?” “The one you’re staring at. Still.” Killian blinked – he had been. He hadn’t even turned towards Will when he asked his initial question, not quite willing to pull his gaze away from the woman a few feet in front of him. There were spots of red on her cheek and a piece of hair flying across her face, moving every time she jerked her forehead and mumbled a string of curses under her breath and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

That wasn’t part of the deal at all.

This wasn’t what he expected at all.

“They were supposed to be professional video game players,” Killian hissed, finally pulling his eyes away and glaring at Will like this was, somehow, his fault.

“They are,” he said slowly. And then he took another picture. “I’ll call this one, lovestruck Killian Jones. It’ll probably win awards.” “Shut up. Why are they…” “Women?” “Shut up,” Killian repeated. “But, well, yeah.” Will stuffed his phone back in his pocket and Killian was glad – until Scarlet used his now-free fist to punch him in the shoulder. “You know they still have opposable thumbs, right? I don’t think gender dictates an innate ability to play video games. And you seem suddenly very interested in your subject matter. Don’t say shut up again, I’m enjoying this way too much.”

“Shoot, shoot, shoot, Emma, God, shoot,” the red-streaked brunette yelled, elbowing the woman next to her and drawing back Killian’s attention.

Her name was Emma.

“Ruby, I know how to play the game,” Emma groaned, smashing a string of buttons. Bomb’s away! “Ha,” she shouted in triumph, punching the air as soon as the shot hit and, according to the sound effects, exploded. “Take that fucking assholes!”

Will laughed, not quite able to turn the sound into a cough or the silence it probably should have been since they’d been lurking in the doorway for the last five minutes. Emma spun at the noise, gaze sharp and shoulders straight and Killian couldn't see anything except how green her eyes were and how blonde her hair was, curling lightly at the ends that were draped over the front of an NYPD t-shirt.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “The restaurant doesn’t open for another couple of hours.” “No, no, we’re not here for the restaurant,” Killian said quickly, elbowing Will when he didn’t stop laughing immediately. “I’m Killian Jones and this is Will Scarlet. We’re here from The Boston... sorry, The Daily Caller. For the story?” Emma twisted her eyebrows. “Was that a question?” “Only in the realm of politeness. You know, ease our way into the conversation.” “Yuh huh.” “Did you not know about the story?” “I knew about the story,” Emma said, just a bit sharper than her original greeting had been. This was not going well. Killian ran his hand through his hair. “Did you say Boston?” “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Force of habit.” “The city of Boston is forcing you to mention it? Are they sponsoring you?” “That was funny. You know you haven’t actually told me your name yet.” “Ruby shouted it two seconds ago.” “First names are only half the story, love,” Killian said and he was an asshole because he was smirking at her and his hand was still stuck halfway through his hair and Emma was staring at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was actually standing there. Neither could he, really.

“Absolutely not your love,” she said, practically snarling out the words. “And my last name is Swan. I’m assuming you need that for the story.” “It does help with quotes when you can identify who’s talking.” “You didn’t give me an answer about Boston.” “Are you always so demanding?” Killian asked. “I feel like I’m the one being interviewed.”

The peanut gallery behind them snickered slightly, headsets pulled to one side so they could hear and Ruby had moved in front of the other brunette she’d been shouting at before. There were three other women – a petite blonde whose feet barely reached the bottom rung of the stool she was sitting on, another blonde with hair that was so light it was nearly white and an auburn-haired woman whose face looked a bit similar to the white-haired blonde and this was all very confusing.

Emma’s eyes were very green.

“When it’s my team, yeah,” Emma said, crossing her arms over her shirt and rocking towards him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. That was, decidedly, dangerous thinking. “Why the Boston sponsorship?” “I used to work for a paper in Boston,” Killian answered. “I only recently started at The Daily Caller.” “How recent is recent?” “More demands, Swan.” She pressed her lips together tightly, rocking back on her heels and Killian regretted that far more than he should have. “You’ve got a nickname thing,” she accused. “That’s weird.” “You’re a professional video game player.” “And?” “And in the realm of weird…” “You know this is a pretty shitty first impression.” “Yeah, I’m getting that,” Killian admitted. “Backtrack?” Emma shrugged. “Ok,” he said, pushing his right hand towards her and that was the first time her eyes had dropped away from his. And landed, quite quickly, on his distinct lack of a left hand. Will made some kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat and the unnamed auburn-haired lady might have gasped.

Killian tried to smile, fairly certain it didn’t work as soon as he saw the look on Emma’s face. “Killian Jones,” he said, twisting his wrist slightly and he didn’t think he imagined the idea of a smile flash across her lips. “Lifestyles writer at The Daily Caller, here to profile your pro video game team for the foreseeable future. I think we can tell some really good stories.”

Emma’s eyebrows shifted, darting up her forehead as she glanced over her shoulder towards her teammates. They all smiled. Ruby nodded towards Killian’s outstretched hand, grimacing in what looked like pain, but might have been some kind of unspoken code.

“I thought we were backtracking, Swan,” Killian continued.

She scoffed, turning back on him and she was all green eyes and the headset was threatening to fall off her head, but she met his gaze straight on and he wanted to know everything about her. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted to do that with someone who wasn’t covered in several different adjectives for blood.

He probably shouldn’t say that out loud.

“See, that nickname again,” she muttered, but she was smiling. Honest to goodness smiling. And her fingers were freezing cold when they brushed across his. “Emma Swan, team captain. And we better tell some goddamn great stories.”

[yoongiandchiminie]

Distance [Jungkook x Reader] Part 1

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 3,468

Genre: Romance, Angst

Warnings: Cursing,

Summary: After being friends with Jungkook for years, you’re finally coming to terms with your on and off feelings about him or so you think. He was a complex man and had been since you were younger. Everyone knew it, but did you know him the way everyone else did? 

Dear Google Docs,

I think I've loved Jungkook since I was fifteen. Over the last five years, I've fallen in and out if love with him, but I've always loved him nonetheless. Maybe I don't really know what being in love is. Maybe it was because of his admiration of me and feeling appreciated made me care for him more than I truly did. I guess I'll never really know.

I'm here because I didn't really know what else to do. I've always enjoyed writing and that's even how I met him. Through a writing outlet on Facebook back then. He was beautiful. One of the most gorgeous men I've ever seen and maybe that's where the initial lust came into play, but was that all it was? I hope not. He made me happy then. He made me confident in a way I'd never admit. Never to him. He had to have known about one of my crushes on him to a point. I wasn't exactly subtle at my young age.

Jungkook had this terrible habit of disappearing and playing it off as if nothing had ever happened. Acting as if he wasn't gone for three months as we were getting older. I've always had this terrible and irrational fear that everything would be over sooner than expected. Wasting days wasn't something I enjoy and it rather irritated me.

He told me he was lonely today and wanted to feel love. So I told him I loved him. I really did, but he didn't know how I meant it I guess. It went like this; “I think I'm lonely.” “I love you.” “I know you do, but it's not the love I need.” “What?” “You love me in a friend way, I need something more.” I was silent.

When he was telling me about his feelings today, it was the first time in years. Jungkook was a private guy and he always liked to keep it that way. After we spoke about the love thing, he told my friend Maeve and I why his ex-girlfriend broke up with him. They’d always been on and off because I’d heard she was a little bit crazy. Kook said that she approached him about a week ago and said that she knew nothing about him. So he told her to come over one night and they could sit up and talk about his life. His feelings. Then after he told her everything, she broke up with him on that spot. She said he was depressed and she didn’t need to be around that.

He claimed that he wasn’t depressed and she was spitting shit, but who was I to know? As much as I knew about him, it was really not too much. He was a private person. I only knew what he wanted me to know. When I was younger my mouth ran a lot and thus he knew- everything. I was open when it came to him and just couldn’t hide shit. He was always there for my whether it be through skype, xbox, or a phone call.

I've been thinking about that moment all day and that's why I'm here. I cracked and needed somewhere to vent to. As much as I enjoy a paper and pen, Google docs was more accessible to my venting needs. How do I explain to a pen and paper that I love a boy I've only met once in person? I guess the same way I do it here, but a little less pathetic. Nobody could ever find this unless I sent it to them, so I'm safe.

After writing down how I felt, I felt even stupider than I had without doing it. I sighed as I closed my laptop, pushing it off to the side of my bed. I grabbed my Xbox controller and it looked like Jungkook was still online playing Sea of Thieves. We’d been playing earlier all together, but I’d gotten off because I hit a point where I couldn’t contain myself around him. I had this constant fear that I’d say something stupid that would scare him off and the thing that sucked was that he had the same fear. Any form of feelings he could spit out, he kept bottled up.

I grabbed my controller and then my headset, plugging the wire into the prior. I hovered his gamertag for a moment. “JEONKOOKIE”  and hit X, inviting him. It took a moment but he joined into the silence. He never said anything when he joined  party, always waiting for the other to say it.

“Hey.” I lead, coughing after I spoke.

“You hoppin’ on? I’ll invite you.” He had this slight excitement in his voice that made saying no so hard, but I didn’t want to sit here sitting in my own feelings with his voice telling me to raise the sails.

“No, no. I just-” I cleared my throat and he made a small eh noise. I was starting to get flustered just by speaking to him. “I just wanted to tell you that you deserve the world. Even if you have to give it to yourself, you know? Unless you-”

“I know.” he was monotone, but I knew he wasn’t annoyed with me. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Unless yo-”

“I love you, you know that? You’re important to me.” he let out a small chuckled after he spoke and my face burned hot. “What were you saying? Sorry to cut you off.”

“Nothing.” I responded. All I wanted to say was unless you wanted me to give it to you, but that was it. My momentary confidence was gone. Ah fuck. “I’m gonna go.” Without listening for his response, I left the party and threw my controller across the room. All I did was fuck up when it came to him, but it didn’t really matter. Soon we’d go back to not talking constantly and I’d be sad for a week or so, then the feelings would fade away. I knew this for a fact, so why did I constantly fall in love with him? Fuck if I knew.

--

“We should meet up again sometime soon.” He’d said a few days later. The party was silent as it was just the two of us and sometimes it got like that. I didn't particularly like it, but I sat through it in hopes that I could say something to spark a conversation. “I had fun with you guys last time.”

I was on a road trip with Maeve and our other friend Jin, going to see our friend Yoongi for the weekend. We stopped at a rest stop and as we pulled in, I recognized it as the town Jungkook lived in. Naturally, we went to his job to surprise him. Imagine your internet friends showing up during your shitty work day? We thought it would be nice too. Jin had called out his name and we couldn't find him, so we left and decided to call his phone this time.

He didn't pick up, so Jin wrote in the group chat and it turned out he called out of work. Jungkook always had this habit of pushing people off if they came near him, but not this time. He came and met up with us. We waited in Maeve car and I was anxious. I really was. What if he wasn't as excited as me? What if our awkward silences transitioned to real life? My heart stopped as I looked around the parking lot and spotted him. As my obnoxious self would, I honked the moment he stepped into his car and I never thought a smile could make my heart drop.

Jin ran out of the car and the two hugged for a good while, as you do. Other than Maeve, our whole friend group lived around the country from each other. We only got to see each other if we traveled and it was nice to say the least. After Jin had picked him up and spun him with a laugh, Jungkook pulled away and turned his attention towards me. He had this big goofy smile on as his arms snaked around my frame and held me tight. I’d had dreams about this moment and for it to be coming true was eye opening.

I'd always figured Jungkook was someone that took good selfies and was kind of cute in person. He was the most attractive guy that I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. As we sat around eating lunch, Maeve couldn't stop herself from texting me about how fucking hot he was and I just nodded.

“Yeah, that'd be fun. It's just a little far.” I played it off as if him wanting to see me wasn't music to my ears.

“We can meet halfway if you wanna. Six Flags is between us.” I could hear hear him smiling as he dropped anchor in our game. “We could have a fun day there.”

“Are you going on the vacation this Summer? Everyone is going to Namjoon’s to meet his daughter.”

“It's a bit of a stretch, but we could drive down together.”

“It's a twelve hour drive.”

“I like driving.”

“I like- driving. I like driving.” Real smooth. “So you're going to drive here and then we can drive there?”

“Looks like that's the plan, lovely.”

--

Dear Google Docs,

I really think I love him this time. We're driving together to the dumb squad vacation I didn't really want to go on. Being the only girl with them gets to be a little much. Yes, Emma was gonna be there and Claire as well, but ones a baby and the other doesn't like me too much. Emma was always uneasy with me, even if I haven't even met Namjoon in person. She seems sweet, I'll never hold her to the jealousy she felt for me.

So far out of the seven of them, I’d met Jin, Yoongi, Jungkook, and Jimin in person. I'd taken vacations with Jin and Yoongi. I had lunch with Jungkook and I’d spent five minutes with Jimin. It turned out the two of us were at the same anime convention and neither of us knew all weekend until the last day. He’d found the hall I was in and came to give me a big hug and took a selfie with me. It was a little awkward, but it was cute.

Back to the problem at hand. I think I'm going to need to get a second job up until we go away in two months. I need new everything to wear there, especially since we were going to be at a beach. I had to work out and shop, which means  more money than I’m making for a little bit. I guess I'll to job hunting tomorrow before I go to my job now. I hope it's worth it.

--

“Where have you been, Y/N?” Jungkook asked about two weeks later when we finally caught each other on Xbox. He worked the hours of my normal job, so we used to be able to play together right when we got home. Now, after that job I went straight to the night job and didn't get home until his Overwatch team started their nightly skrims. It meant absolutely no time to play with him, but that was alright. It was bound to happen anyways.

“Working a lot, you know me.” I laughed it off and opened up my game. “You ready?”

“Oh, I’ve been ready, baby.”

--

Dear Google Docs,

Today when I opened my group chat I saw a message from Jimin that said I was all talk. I wasn't too sure what I meant, but I knew the group chat with seven tight knit guys and myself wasn't the place to ask. So, when I got on Xbox with Jungkook I did and he said it was because I was a flirt. He went on to say that I've always been like this and mentioned I'd been flirting with him lately. Was I obvious?

We started the conversation as we both set Sea of Thieves to update, but it’s a big patch. He came back for a moment after getting a phone call and said he was going to take a shower. On one hand I hope he forgets about this conversation, but on the other I want to know where this talk could go. So, I’m writing this while waiting to come back.

I also realized I have another fear. What if when we get bored of this game, we go back to not talking as much? I guess I’d really have to wait to find out.

I closed google docs and instead of my laptop, I ended up scrolling through all of my social media as I waited. My anxiety wasn’t as bad as I expected, but I was still a little bit nervous. Also angry. And cold. Fuck. I heard his headset unmute and a quick breath. Luckily, he forgot.

“You know,” he cleared his throat a few minutes later as we sat on the ship, waiting out a storm that would definitely destroy our small ship. “I kinda like the attention you've been giving to me.” I knew he'd been lonely, especially since his ex. “It feels nice.”

“I wish I spoke to you more.” I admitted. “I just always feel like I'm annoying you.”

“You don't annoy me- Just your choices sometimes do.” he muttered, “You never annoy me.”

“The last really annoying thing I did was two years ago.” I responded, dwelling on my poor boy choices. The boys had introduced me to this boy named Kihyun who definitely admired them. In the Facebook writing community they were basically idolized and I just kind of faded along. I'd fallen quickly for Kihyun. He liked me a lot too, I thought. He lived fairly close to me and we even met up twice. He was my first kiss.

It turned out he'd been using me to get to my friends, or so we figured. He had this big thing where he didn't want to date me and played it off. The guys constantly asked if he was talking to other girls and he denied it, but we later found out he was. I see his name pop up sometimes and this little part of me wants to message him and apologize even though I probably didn't do anything wrong. It was a filler arc that went on for too long. Sometimes I still got upset about it and confided in Jin for some reason. Everytime he kind of made me feel bad about it and I got over it quick enough. “He was in my dream last night.” I finished.

“Ew, ugh, don't mention him.” Jungkook scoffed, a disgusted tone to his voice.

“Don't you talk to him? He fucking sucks your d-”

“Just drop it.”

--

Dear Google Docs,

Today I realized how different Jungkook had become after her. He gets angry easier. She texted him while we were talking yesterday and I could hear his attitude sinking. She wanted him to look for a makeup brush she thought she left there and he asked to know what it looked like. She got mad that he “never can do anything she asks” and he just got angry. He swore every minute and just bitched and bitched.  I felt bad, but what could I do? He got off right after that.

I'm worried.

--

I woke up at a good morning text today from Jungkook. It had a heart next to it and I couldn’t help but to find myself blushing at the thought that he thought of me. I’d gotten messages like this from him before, but it almost felt different. Whenever we went through our periods of talking he as like this. Maybe it was because he knew I thought that I annoyed him all of the time and he did this to ease me.

--

Dear Google Docs,

I think this document is so important to me because it's mine. Normally I'll vent on my private social medias, but my friends still can see my posts along with people I've never spoken to that may follow me. I was always fine with that, but I've felt kind of embarrassed about this Jungkook issue. Was it just in my head? Any friend I've spoken about this with thinks he has feelings to me but they don't- well, know him.

Kookie likes to fuck around. He was one of the sweetest guys I knew but he loved attention and loved being able to say he had someone wrapped around his fingertips. Kinda fucked up. It seems he was a little different now after her. To my knowledge, he wasn't truly about that anymore, but what did I know?

--

We haven't truly spoke in days at this point. Between us both working and whatever was going on with him it was rare that we even exchanged messages. It wasn't exactly hurting me, but more so leaving me in a state of confusion. Did he care the way I did or were they pity messages? All I knew was that I needed my anxiety to stop fucking around with me and let me continue normally. I didn't need this cloud surrounding me and bringing me down. I just had to work and focus.

--

I’d woken up to a message from him this morning that read, “Summer is only a month away.” It was sent at 4:33 in the morning. Why was he thinking about that so early? I went to work and the message didn't leave my head. I’d forgotten to respond to him in my rush and got another message an hour later that read, “I’ll plan everything, don’t worry. I’ll pick you up and it’ll be smooth sailing, baby.” Yeah. Real smooth.

--

Dear Google Docs,

He messaged me “You know what man. You haven't asked me to be a pirate in a while. I'm starting to feel some type of way.”  What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I asked 2 days ago and his replies have been scarce so I decided I shouldn't ask anymore. I didn't want to be annoying and I told him that. His response was “Never. I always want you to annoy me about being a pirate.” My heart fluttered, but I couldn't bring myself to respond with something cute so instead I said “Are you sure?” What a fucking idiot.

--

“I'm glad we have this game.” Jungkook sounded like he was smiling a week before we went away at 1 am. “I always wanna play with you but-”

“But?” I could feel my voice slipping as my eye drooped. I was exhausted, but I couldn't turn down an invite from him.

“You just play shitty games, Y/N.” he laughed hearing my breath stop for a second. I was so tired I couldn't even think of a retort in the moment. “Turn a little more west.”

I listened as I steered the ship while he basically did everything else. “I can't believe I have to drive for 12 hours in a week.” I sighed, dreading the journey. The longest car ride I'd been on was 9 hours and I hadn't even been the one driving.

“But you'll have me.” he basically sang. I was caught off guard by the cuteness of it and cleared my throat. “Back and forth, you'll have me.”

“Are you gonna talk to me though?” I joked with him. “You can't leave me on read or unopened if we're both in the car.”

“Well, we won't be texting, first off.” he almost sounded offended but, I think it was fake. “Maybe I'll be breathless if I stare at you for too long, gorgeous, but that's it. The only thing keeping us from talking.”

“Shut up.”

--

I'm leaving tomorrow for this vacation. I quit my second job, I bought clothes, and I'm excited. Being with all of my close friends for a week sounds like the break I deserve. So, I decided the best way to spend my night was to play some good ole Xbox. Jungkook happened to be on, but his attitude was different. He was normal Kook, but he just kinda kept yelling and was getting frustrated easier than normal. Nothing too serious, but he was being an ass.

“Why are you so mean today?”

“She came over yesterday and slept over and had sex with me so I'm kinda heartbroken.”

“Ah.”

“You know, even though I'm not enjoying my day, I'm enjoying my time with you.”

“Heart heart.”

“Heart heart.”

--

Dear Google Docs,

I don't think I can love him the way I want to.

A/N - hello and welcome to my sadness!! I hope you enjoyed & please let me know what you think in replies or messages! I’m super nervous about this story bc it’s very personal and i highkey need to know what everyone thinks before i continue writing. it’s gonna get a lot worse from here, boys. i can tell you that. heart heart xx

[prettyloudpracticeblog]

It’s taken me until recently to realize that I equate ease with skill, and the accompanying inverse belief is that lack of ease is lack of skill. I used to be really good at writing. It used to come easily to me, like a lot of things, and these days I find it’s not as easy to write as I found it to be in high school. I cast too heavy of a judgement upon myself and everything that I do, at worst to the point of convincing myself it’s not worth trying the thing or anything at all. So it comes with great courage and energy that I get this blog post written

This blogging experience has continued the theme of the past week. I was concerned about writers block so I tried to freewrite in a stream of consciousness style with my eyes closed. I felt confident I would be able to interpret and edit my babblings later, but when I peeked to check how much I had written…

There was nothing on the page.

Ok, cool, not surprised, I must not have clicked on the page to place my cursor there, oops.I clicked in the Google Doc and the cursor blinked. I closed my eyes and tried to capture my thoughts succinctly and accurately as they flowed- rather, dribbled. But only at first. I found myself capturing ideas and feelings and reflections and a nice starting point to build a nice internet essay. After a couple minutes I peeked to see…

>What do i want to write

>A blog summarizing my twitch experiencee so far

Hwat.

It turns out that the touch pad on my new laptop is super, well, touchy. The fleshy pads at the base of my thumbs keep touching the upper corners of the track pad and causing the cursor to leap up the page. I suppose I must have used the backspace key at some point while my eyes were closed because the accidental highlighting of a longass paragraph like this is the only explanation.

I sighed. This wasn’t worse than anything I’d survived this week.

Like When I set up my gear to get everything balanced on the soundboard, only to discover that the soundboard’s software is all screwy, making it incompatible with my new computer.

When the camera got knocked out of place cuz I’m a goofball and have many much hair

When the internet went out hallfway through my program, or i started dropping more frames the louder I got

When my back started to ache because my chair was too tall and my keyboard was too low

When my new schedule gave me a busier morning than I anticipated and I returned home in the same moment I was supposed to go live, with my piano in my trunk and a mighty rumble in my stomach

When i got a new follower and came to realize mid-stream that i left the alert box behind the second mini camera i added last minute before going live, so when i hear the new follower alert sound for the first time ever I have no fucking clue what just happened

So many things went wrong and that’s not even considering frustrations that I had within practice itself

Yesterday when the stream started dropping over half the frames and I decided to call it for the day, I was really relieved to have time to get something to eat and clean up my warzone of a room. It’s a huge point of shame for me that I’m almost 27 and struggle to keep or get my room clean when it’s cluttered in an immobilizing way. I had to tiptoe around my own belongings, and this morning it was a bitch to set up the boom mic stand that I clip my webcam to because of the scarcity of clear floor. But I also felt bad because I was taking attention and energy away from what I had originally intended to invest it in. I felt like I wasn’t trying hard enough.

I write a lot about mental health, in the music within our current repertoires a band as well as new stuff I’ve written which needs further realization and practice. A lot of what we play right now is about being in the thick of the struggle, being weighed down by the symptoms of depression and anxiety. But I’ve come recently to explore the idea of one’s thoughts influencing and even creating one’s own reality. I’ve been thinking that perhaps, instead of fixating my musical thoughts on [how much it sucks to not be able to choose between all the pressing matters I need to spend my last spoon on], I should write some songs about growth. About making mistakes. About parenting myself. About doing the work to mentally defrag my brain. About setting goals as well as setting boundaries. I won’t grow from a “woe is me” attitude, and I won’t grow if I believe I’m not cut out for this either

I’m doing my absolute best to stay positive in spite of all the challenges, but it’s only going well because I’m in the mindset that I’m learning and doing my best and i’m staying active and not wasting time that I truly can spare towards my endeavors. People I meet who WORK in music are ALWAYS working; from what I’ve seen and been told, the successful ones never slow down and never stop. Always gigging, always promoting, always posting and practicing and writing and dreaming and planning and I feel like I’m not cut out for it sometimes because I have to have time to slow down dude.

Or do I just think I need to have down time?

How does an individual KNOW when they’re trying their best? How do you know you’re seeing someone try their best and truly giving all they’ve got? You can never know how much another person has to give, but I’m finding it surprisingly hard to evaluate whether I’ve done a noteworthy, worthwhile amount of work or not, whether I’ve earned a break or not, whether I actually need a break or just feel like doing things I like.

But music is the thing I like. I love playing and practicing and teaching and learning and writing. And I love it when people see what I’m doing and interact with me and my Internet endeavors. I love it when people connect to my music because they can relate. And that’s why I want people to listen to my music, because of a connection and appreciation. I find it hard to keep a social media presence as a musician because, with the ways our social platforms are saturating and evolving. I kind of NEED people to care; if they don’t go out of their way to wonder about me and manually check all my posts, the way to get through to fans with news (eg, of a show) is through a monetary investment in an advertising boost, or through posting every single day on their personal accounts, spamming groups, and direct messaging.

I fear that people will begin to tire of me if I post too much. I fear they will believe I only see them as valuable to the point where they benefit my music career. I fear being perceived as two faced, shallow, or insincere. I fear being tuned out because I only ever post about one thing.

But one thing I’ve learned about fear is that it only ever eats at your insides and doesn’t nurture, doesn’t help you grow. Being afraid to share my story and be present with my music is one of many mistakes I’m growing past this year. I’ve already grown in my problem solving abilities on this project so far, and it’s because I’m coming to accept myself as I am instead of holding myself back because of “unreadiness” or “imperfection.”

Nothing is ever going to be perfect. Why expect yourself to be perfect? Why expect your work to be perfect? The flaws serve a purpose: to show you where and how to grow. I’m reviewing the footage from the past few days and coming to some awesome realizations about myself as a pianist BECAUSE I can see the signs pointing me in the direction of growth. I will be successful if I continue to meet myself where I am, set realistic goals and workloads, and keep writing about it.

I appreciate you reading all of my thoughts. I appreciate you accompanying me on this journey. With each passing week there will be more and more for me to share with you, and it means the world to me to not be alone. Keep working hard, I’ll see you next week.

[blueraith]

I’ve been without internet for the day

It’s been pure torture. I don’t know how I’ve survived. Thankfully, I had the foresight to keep my Spotify library downloaded on my phone for cases just like these. Otherwise I would be writing in complete silence. Which is torture for me. I also couldn’t work on my current works because it’s all on Google Drive. In hindsight, this was not a smart move. Oh well. I’m unlikely to change that because of how convenient Google Docs are. I could have also used my mobile data to access it too and typed with my bluetooth keyboard, but that’s a lot of work. My bluetooth keyboard is at the top of my closet, and I’d have to reach for it, dig out a mini-HDMI to HDMI adapter to plug my phone into my computer and that would require digging into my Box of Mysterious and Miscellaneous Wires.

Meh.

Instead I decided to work with my original characters. Wrote about my MC coming out and being accepted because I’m interested in writing a YA story where the family isn’t dead/abusive/negligent/stupid. Was nice.

I’m going to look at a car tomorrow. If all goes well, I could be coming out to my family as early as two weeks from now. That won’t be nice.

Is it odd that I’m ready to get this shit over with, yet am also completely fucking ready to just hide and forget about all this? It’s very irritating. I am going to get this done. There’s a huge part of me that wants to come out, wants to let the chips fall where they may, and just move the fuck on. A smaller part wants things to stay as they are. Wants to keep the peace. To just pretend that I’m not constantly miserable like this. To keep this fragile relationship with my family and not rock the boat.

But then I’d be a huge fucking hypocrite, because I just had my MC receive a long ass speech about how family doesn’t deserve to abuse their positions and hurt you because they know that they can. That you shouldn’t live your life to make other people happy, no matter how close they are to you. That you shouldn’t hide who you are because the people who would want you to do that doesn’t deserve your time and energy. That sometimes, if family hurts you, you would be perfectly in the right to cut them out because it is shameful to use your position of power in somebody’s life to cut them down.

I believe that family is a powerful thing. It develops us all for better or for worse in long lasting ways. I dislike how YA fiction ignores that. Because when you cut out these people from your plots, or if you make them awful, you’re ignoring huge swaths of kids who will never have healthy relationships with their own families. Personally, it was never cathartic to read about how shitty somebody’s family life was. All it reminded me of was my own. YA books weren’t escapism for me because of how often I was reminded that I had a shitty family and that it was never going to get better. Thank you. I recognized that for myself at a young age. Don’t need anyone to remind me of it, so lay off a little please? No? Well, fuck you too.

Eh. If I ever finish this shit, it’s going to actually have a subplot of acceptance. You don’t need shitty family dynamics to create drama. You can have doubt, you can have tension, you can have dysfunction. But none of that needs to be permanent. Perhaps this is why fanfiction always seems to shit on parent figures. They don’t know how to write any different because they certainly don’t read about it often. I assume family members apologize and talk to one another about problems in real life, right? I wouldn’t really know, but I assume this happens for normal people. If it doesn’t, then we’re all far more fucked up as a society than I ever really feared. I don’t get why people feel the need to pretend this is the default in fiction. Perhaps to vindicate angsty teenagers with better homelives than they could even imagine but like to pretend their lives suck? I mean, I understand that problems are relative. But when I imagine the folks that actively enjoy reveling in how horrible a character’s parents are, I imagine that they haven’t truly lived it. Because it’s not all that fun. It’s kind of the worst. I don’t feel righteous anger when I read about it. I feel a deep rooted, sharp pain right in the chest. And then I have to put the book down for a while and possibly not ever get back to it.

I have a desire to fix YA the same way I fix fanfiction. If you can’t find something you want to read, write it yourself. It’s a looooonnnnggg term goal. I can’t say I’ll forget about this the same way I forget about other stuff. A lot of my fanfiction, over the years, have gone on hiatus because of my ADHD and depression. This is the one storyline I’ve never been able to drop. I’ve world built around it. Named characters. Contemplated their role to the over arching plot. Have actually thought about the plot long term. I’ve been at this for years. I don’t have a lot in terms of actual pages because sitting down and typing is actually rather hard for me to do for any long span of time. But it’s all there. Maybe one day I’ll actually finish it.

[tango-uniformed]

Tango first 5000 words

August, 2018

5:00 PM

Amtrak en route from Baltimore MD to Greenville SC

Vivienne Bastian considered himself a fan of public transportation. He knew how to drive, but rarely did so, preferring to walk when he could or take the metro or the bus when he couldn't. He disliked riding bicycles; he had tried to get into it in college but after nearly swerving into traffic and getting hit by a dump truck, he'd given up on all that. The best kind of public transportation was riding the train. Especially long train rides. He liked to sit by the window and watch the landscape change. He liked talking to the strangers who he would never see again. It was all so terribly romantic. He fancied himself a character from one of those black and white noir movies, one of those reporters who talked like Humphrey Bogart and got into trouble and solved the mystery and saved the day.

Those guys always carried around old fashioned recording equipment and talked into it as they moved the story from act to act. It would be interesting if he started to do that, to move his own story along as he moved through it. Or, he thought, he could be like Dale Cooper and treat his recording equipment like a friend or co-worker and act like he was bouncing ideas off of it. Was that strange? It wasn't strange, was it?

To do something like that, of course, he would have to have access to the recording equipment on his phone. And the ability to speak without his uptight, insane brother ranting at him on the phone from hundreds of miles away.

"I think you've really lost it," his brother was saying in his nasally faux-New Englander voice which was an affectation he had picked up to get him further along in his career. "You pick up and leave in the middle of the night and get on a train to Tennessee of all places? I mean, I know you don't have a job to worry about, but you're an adult, you can't just abandon all your responsibilities like that. Are you having a nervous breakdown?"

"I have a job, Will," Viv said, for the thousandth time. He was sitting comfortably by himself on the train. There weren’t many passengers at, despite the fact that it was early summer and the schools were still out. "I make things and people pay me for it."

"On the internet," Will said derisively.

Viv smiled and imagined how much better life would be if he had been smart enough to not call this prissy sad sack of a man in the first place. Once Will knew where he was, it was only a matter of time before he bypassed his self-imposed oath to never talk to their parents again, and then go snitch.

"I think you're having a nervous breakdown because the theater fired you."

"That was a year ago and I am not having a nervous breakdown, you're totally projecting." Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown bother to pack a week's worth of clothes that were all planned out, outfit by outfit? Viv had even researched the weather in Chattanooga and packed accordingly. Supposedly it was pretty humid there. Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown call a friend to take care of their plants for a week? Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown even call their brother to let him know they were ok? No, no, and no. If anyone was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it was his recently divorced brother. "I told you that I'm just trying to find Christian, I'm following the clues he left me and--"

"--You're living in an insane fantasy world--"

"--since it's clear he's tracking his old buddies down, the closest one was Virgil Osborn, who went back to his hometown in Tennessee after the service." Talking to Will was like talking to a sea-urchin. Every little thing made him spiky and defensive. Impossible. He was worse than Dad.

He was only  an hour away from Greenville. Once he got there, he planned on renting a hotel for the night. He'd put the final touches on the episode-- the first episode of a series, he hoped-- and then upload it. That would really set the whole thing into motion. It was what would make it real. Once he put his intentions out there, into the universe and into the public, there was no going back. He'd have to follow through.

The only thing Viv knew about Greenville was that they had a big theater that Hamilton would be coming to later in the year. He hoped that meant they were ok with gay black people. He anticipated it being more accepting than Jeptha, the Eastern Tennessee town of 2000 he was on his way towards the next day.

Will was still ranting at him. Viv tuned back in. "Christian isn't missing. Christian is never missing, or hurt, or in trouble, or what have you. He's just him. He ran away. Again. He'll turn up when he wants to turn up. He's the only one of us who gets away with everything, and you're a fool for falling for his bullshit again. It's like you're the youngest brother or something, instead of us all being born at the same time."

"If you read the Google Docs he left--"

"--You mean his obviously PTSD fueled manifestos--"

"--There's all this shit about what happened in Kandahar, with him and Blue and the others before they all got discharged. And I think-- I mean, I'm guessing-- there was some kind of cover up that goes back to the OVA. Or the OVA found out about it through a military leak, I don't know. Christian must have thought it was a big deal, so when Osborn and Jankowski turn up dead a few months ago, he freaked out and thought this big conspiracy was behind it. And yeah, after reading it, I'm inclined to think so too." Viv took a big gulp of the canned Starbucks Frappuccino he had bought at the last stop. He needed the caffeine. He wondered if he could vape on the train. He hadn't seen any signs saying that he couldn't. Would it set off the fire alarms or something? He took his Juul out of his pants pocket and looked around for any attendants or other passengers who looked like they would complain.

"Yeah, PTSD fueled manifestos," Will said dryly. "The OVA only deals with magic. Why would he think they care about some idiots who got drunk in Afghanistan one night and only narrowly avoided getting court-martialed?"

The only passenger nearby was a middle aged white lady who looked like she had taken about a hundred valium. Viv surreptitiously took a drag on his electronic cigarette. The pod he was using was green apple flavored. He felt his nerves immediately calm and hoped that he wasn't addicted to nicotine. That couldn't happen with vapes, right? He exhaled and fanned the air a little bit as he kept talking, in a more lowered voice. "Did he tell you what happened in Kandahar?"

"He told me what he thought happened."

"With the, the black slime that started moving up from his fingernails and the way he couldn't remember any of it?" Viv thought about his own fingernails and felt the need to take another drag from his vape.

Will was silent.

"You still there?"

"Why didn't you go to Boston to see Blue if you think Christian's army buddies are showing up dead?" Will asked, staunchly changing the subject away from dissociative periods and black slime. He never liked to talk about it. Not even when it was right there in front of him affecting him. "If there really was a pattern and Osborn and Jankowski's deaths are connected, wouldn't he be next? Or wouldn't Christian have gone to him first since he's so close?"

The few times that Viv met Blue had been deeply uncomfortable since he had introduced himself under the assumption that Christian was dating him. Which was ridiculous in retrospect, since Christian had never dated anybody. But Blue had a variance that allowed him to control his own heart rate, so at least it had been fun to trick his mother into thinking the guy had fallen over dead at her table.

"There wasn't as much on him," Viv said lamely. "Just some articles from 2015 when that girl tried to rob the place he was working at and put him in the ICU for 3 days."

"I forgot about that."

"Yeah." The vapor around Viv looked a little thick. He kept waving it away and glancing around for employees. "Anyway. I don't know. It'll be interesting, an interesting story. I think people will like it."

"Don't you mean 'I think I'll find my missing brother'?" Will asked, and laughed cruelly. He laughed through his nose for some reason. Nobody else in the family laughed through their nose.

Viv wanted to put a knife into this particular brother and then twist it. "How's Emmy?" he asked.

That took all the pompousness right out of him. "Good. Almost walking," Will said, deflated. "I had her this weekend. I have to see Jennifer's attorney to finalize custody next Friday."

Hopefully that meant Jennifer would be getting more custody of Emily than Will was. His brother's ex wife was fun, attentive, and thoughtful in a corn-fed Midwesterner kind of way. She didn't need to be subjected to the dysfunctions of the Bastian family any more than she needed to be. And the baby definitely didn't need to be around any of them.

"That sucks," Viv said, as fakely as possible. "I guess I'll have to go over to your-- I mean to Jennifer's house the next time I want to babysit my niece. I'll send you pictures of her."

Without so much as a 'fuck you', Will hung up.

Viv shook his head. So dramatic. It was sad that he had to punch below the belt like that, but sometimes Will forced his hand. At least Christian never mocked him.

The last time he had seen Christian was almost a month previously. He had shown up at Viv's apartment in the middle of the night without warning, soaked with sweat and ranting about how they-- the Bastian triplets-- were not safe. That was when he had shared the Google documents with Vivienne. It was nearly 3 gigabytes of information, most of it incomprehensible. It was not the first time he had shown up out of nowhere like that, but it was the first time that he had proof to back up his claims. Most of Christian's collection of documents were information accessible from the public-- articles, screenshots from twitter, videoclips, even basic information from Wikipedia. But some of it was from the Office of Variant Affairs, as well as from the military and looked...official. He wouldn't answer any of his brother's questions, he was too amped up, just repeating that they weren't safe. By the time Viv had gotten him to de-escalate, Christian had determined that he had to go. He said that he was off to Tennessee, where Osborn had died 4 months ago, and left.

Still, Viv had not reported his brother missing. Nor had Will. Nor had their parents-- not that Christian had any contact with them recently. But surely they knew. There was no way that they were going about their lives unaware that nobody had seen one of their sons for an entire month, could they?

He had heard that if someone was missing over 30 days, they weren’t really missing any more. That was when you were supposed to send the authorities their dental records. Viv had no intention of doing that either. He knew his brother wasn’t dead, Christian was too….Christian for that. He had just Gone Girl-ed himself for whatever reason and was probably in trouble.

So he hadn’t filed a missing persons report. And he wouldn’t.

It wasn't because he didn't trust the cops to find Christian. It was because he wanted to find him himself. It was a better story that way.

Contemplating this, Viv took another long drag from his vape and exhaled.

And just like that, the smoke alarm went off.

********

ETN.ORG

APRIL 15 2018

JEPTHA MAN FOUND DEAD AT STILLWATER MOTEL DIED OF DRUG OVERDOSE

Shelly Asburn

JEPTHA-  A 32 year old man who died earlier this week at the Stillwater Motel overdosed on drugs, says county medical examiner.

Virgil Alexander Osborn, of Jeptha, Tenn. was found the morning of April 13 in a car in the motel's parking lot, according to county medical examiner, Jerry Xi, who conducted the man's April 14 autopsy. The car, parked in the westward lot, was running, Xi wrote in his report, and the heat was on high.

The toxicology report has not been released. Autopsy reports show Osborn's manner of death was accidental.

County Sheriff's Office deputies found Osborn dead inside the vehicle just after 8:00 am after responding to the motel for a medical call.

Sheriff Brian Craddock had previously said foul play was not suspected in the death.

Reach Shelly Asburn at Shasburn(at)ETN.com and follow her on twitter (at)ShellyAsburnETN

*******

August, 2018

7:45 PM

Greenville, SC

The hotel Viv checked into after disembarking the train (thoroughly humiliated and publicly shamed by an attendant for vaping) was actually pretty nice. Greenville wasn't the pit of despair he had imagined it to be. It was located on a river, which he had walked next to while scoping out the big theater, the Peace Center. The place wasn't like Baltimore, but it was pretty good for the South.

Well, for what he imagined the South to be like. He had never been down there, unless you counted trips to Miami to visit his father's sister. The rest of his extended family all lived in Cuba (his father's family) or Haiti (his mother's). Between that and Viv's own dismissal of every part of the United States that wasn't California, Florida, or located above Maryland and below Maine, he didn't have much room in his heart for travel.

But Greenville was very nice. If he had more time there, he could see himself maybe going to a play and checking out some of the local restaurants. He did not have time. The bus that would drive him to Chattanooga was leaving at 8:00 in the morning, so all he could do was wind down in his hotel room.

He reclined on the bed, wearing the terrycloth robe that came with the room. The bed was comfortable, more comfortable than the one he had at home. Hotel beds always were. Viv had his headphones on and his laptop perched on top of his round stomach, carefully finalizing his edits of episode 50 of his podcast, "Slack". It was a...variety show. Most of the time he just talked about music and invited guest speakers to discuss politics or pop culture with him. Sometimes he did some investigative journalism-- mostly having to do with the arts scene or true crime. He really hadn't found his niche, but had enough listeners to scrape together barely enough to live by on Patreon. Sure, it wasn't the same as when he had been in charge of sound design at the Owensby, but it was enough.

Plus, he was his boss and could do whatever he wanted now. He had total creative control. That's what counted.

If Viv thought too hard about what Will said about him finally having a nervous breakdown over being fired, he actually would have a nervous breakdown, so he focused on work. The sound of his own voice was already starting to irritate him. He sounded very Maryland and very gay, neither of which were affectations.

"I'll keep you guys updated on this story as it unfolds," his recorded voice from 3 days ago was saying. "And for Patrons of a $10 level or more, I'll be uploading some of the documents my brother left for me-- the ones I feel safe doing so with that is." Viv rolled his own eyes at himself and tugged off his headphones.

For a few minutes he blindly surfed the internet until he found himself watching a video of a squirrel getting stuck in a bagpipe for no reason. He exited Google Chrome.

He used the remote to turn on the tv. Whoever had stayed in the room before him had left the channel on Fox News, which was like kryptonite for Viv. He stared at it for a moment, transfixed in horror. A Republican Representative from Indiana was talking, clearly begging for her seat as mid-terms approached.

"I'm just saying," she told the camera, all big teeth and dead black eyes. "There are people out there who have the inherent ability to kill others using nothing but their minds, and the OVA does nothing to regulate this. Sure, these school shootings get a ton of press, but what about the guy who goes postal and snaps his wife's neck telekinetically? What about the people who can create fires just by blinking? Shouldn't everyone else have the right to protect themselves using firearms?"

An image of his father, who had walked with a cane since the age of 35 after his left leg was irreparably mangled by gunfire during his service came to Viv's mind. He shook himself from his trance and flipped the channel to Real Housewives of Orange County.

He exited out of the sound editing software on his laptop and pulled up Christian's Google docs, scanning through them to see if anything new caught his eye. So far, he had only organized them into sections. One section pertained only to Tennessee and Virgil Osborn. Another contained information about Monty Jankowski's death in California. One section was about Blue. One was just for Christian-- for some reason, his discharge papers and medical records were all scanned in there, although there was nothing out of the ordinary there. But Christian had also included his report cards from Elementary school, as well as notes from 2008 when he had been forced to see a therapist. Then there were miscellaneous bits and bobs of information. There were emails Christian had exchanged with thauma-slurry distilling factories from some big company, Proverge. There were old scanned paper documents in Russian that Viv couldn't make heads or tails of. Academic studies from the OVA's disease prevention branch coupled with Wikipedia pages on biological warfare. Every single episode of his podcast. A video of their mother playing the piano at a concert in Germany during the 1980's. A photograph of their father when he was young, surrounded by smiling people. Will's medical records. A copy of Jennifer's sonogram when she was pregnant with Emily. A copy of the pink slip Viv had received when he got fired.

How did an ex-military chump turned security consultant like Christian get his hands on all this?

He clicked on Osborn's files and rapidly began going through them again, preparing himself for the next day. The toxicology report had not been released yet, but Christian's notes emphasized that he had died overdosing a methamphetamine-fentanyl speedball. Since Christian seemed to know everything these days, Viv believed him. His brother had even narrowed down Osborn's dealer from blurry convenience store camera footage; a tall young woman called Arlene Kennelly who was involved in the local criminal organization.

The puzzle pieces were all there but it was up to him to put them together. He was less good at detective work than he had once assumed, and it frustrated him. He clicked out of Osborn's files.

Viv watched the video of his mother playing the piano, hoping that it would calm him down. It was from before she had triplets, and she was beautiful and happy. She was a better pianist than anyone he had ever paid to see, it was no wonder that she had gone all over the world when she was in her 20's. In the video, Maya Bastian (for some strange reason, Viv's father had taken her name and let go of his name, Perez) played the solo piano part of Rhapsody in Blue in front of a crowd of people in uniform. Her hair hid her face from the camera.

Hearing her play made him feel a little bit better. It reminded him of being a kid, when she was teaching him and his brothers. It made him think of the way she would guide his hands on the keyboard, and the way that everything seemed right in those moments.

It made him feel better but not better enough to forget that at one point Christian had rooted through his garbage like a psychotic raccoon in order to retrieve his pink slip.

Thinking about that made him feel itchy. He snapped his laptop shut and grabbed the room service menu, eyeing the mac and cheese. Food was good. Food would make him feel better, along with a hot shower. He had another long drive in the morning, to a probably terrible little town that nobody had heard of. Viv needed his rest.

I AM NOT TORTURING MYSELF BY WRITING VIV BEING ANNOYING FOREVER JUST PRETEND IM WRITING THINGS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANT AND I'LL FILL IT IN LATER I GUESS. I’M JUST GOING TO SKIP AROUND.

********

ROBERT RAPHAEL KENNELLY

Booking Number: ########

Booking on: 05/26/2010

County: Hamilton

Date Of Birth: 01/15/1989

Charges 1. Violation Description: FELONY POSSESSION SCH II CS

Bond Amount: $50,000

********

In his dream, Viv looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom of his childhood home and saw that he was 7 again. The child version of him was fatter than he was at 32, and wore his hair in a little afro because his mother thought it was cute. He wore a t shirt with a dinosaur on it and red sneakers. But Viv was only looking at his face. His child-self's face. He was unable to look away, or even break the gaze from his own big brown eyes.

And in his dream his nose and mouth were covered with thick black slime.

*********

US ARMY DD214 PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT

BASTIAN, CHRISTIAN MATEO   #########   ########

ARMY RA                                 #########   02 SEPT 2007

#########                                 MARYLAND  30 MAY 1986  

OTH                                          ##########  ##########

#########                                ##########  ##########

#########                             ##########   #########

#########                            ##########  #########     

AFGHANISTAN 02 SEPT 07-- 13 JAN 08

                          #############       

*******

August, 2018

8:00 AM

Stillwater Motel, Jeptha, TN

There was no free continental breakfast at the Stillwater, but the woman at the front desk noticed how dead on his feet Viv looked, and made him a fresh pot of coffee. She even poured it for him and seemed to want to sit and chat as he drank it. Her name tag read "Beth". She was exactly what Viv imagined when he thought of someone who would work at a crappy motel in Appalachia. A white woman in her 50's with a weathered face, badly bleached hair, and a big smile that he couldn't quite let himself trust. Her features were slightly abnormal in the way that people who were exposed to certain kinds of magic became. Sharp teeth, big ears. Her sandpapery skin was mottled green on her neck and hands, as if she was permanently bruised. As if she was rotting.

"What you here for?" she asked him as he took his first sip of coffee. It was surprisingly good. She had added two creams and two sugars just like he had asked. Underneath her accent was the distinct lisp that anyone whose mouth and teeth were affected by magic got. "The only thing 'round here for visitors to do is hunt, and the season don't start for months."

Did he look like the kind of guy who went blowing holes in defenseless animals? He was wearing dark wash jeans, sneakers, a black t shirt and a light grey hoodie over it; his 'dressed down' look. He was trying to keep any hint at flamboyancy out of his voice. Was he that good at acting or was this lady making fun of him?

“Well,” said Viv, thinking wildly as he drank his excellent coffee. He might as well try to find the girl who sold Osborn the drugs that killed him. Waving a picture of Christian and asking if anyone had seen him seemed less effective, more disastrous. He would save that for further along in this particular excursion, when he had some solid ground to base his assumptions on. “Well. I’m looking up my friend who I met on the internet.”

“Ah,” said the desk woman, Beth. She smelled like tobacco. “How millenial.”

He decided to just go for it. This was a town of 2000, after all. The chance that any given person he talked to knew someone who he actually needed to talk to was phenomenal. “Do you know an Arlene Kennelly?”

“I know some Kennellys. Not sure about an Arlene,” said Beth. She unfolded a local newspaper, appearing uninterested. “There’s a whole hive of Kennellys around here.” For a second she looked up and made eye contact with Viv, just long enough to be meaningful. “Not sure ‘bout your friend, but my mama wouldn’t let me play with nobody from that family when I was coming up.”

What the fuck did that mean.

Viv backtracked. “My friend is very nice,” he said, knowing for a fact that that was not true. Well, he was guessing it was true. The woman he was looking for didn’t have anything in Christian’s collection, as far as he knew, and cursory google search of her name had brought up no arrest records. On the other hand, it was clear that she was a drug dealer partially responsible for the death of Virgil Osborn, and, according to Christian, involved with the whole plot. “Thanks for the information, though. And the coffee.”

“Anytime, sugar.”

He retreated to his room to get ready for the day and to make sense of what the desk woman had meant. Since he planned on staying in the area for more than a few nights, he didn’t want to piss any service employees off. Hopefully she would make him coffee again tomorrow, and maybe they would talk again and he would bounce some things off of her local knowledge.

In Viv’s room was the following: all he had packed since he got on the train to come south. 7 outfits. His pajamas. 2 pairs of shoes. Toiletries. His laptop, his headphones, and the cords for both of those objects. Nothing else. It made him feel like he was a foreign journalist in Malaysia or something. Living rough.

As he paused to grab his phone charger, he caught a glimpse of himself in the old mirror that hung above the room’s dresser. It was something that had been bought in the 80’s or 90’s, with a yellowing trim and warped face. Viv usually avoided looking at himself in mirrors, for a myriad of reasons, but he decided to right then. He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes like he had not slept. His skin looked dry. He was not smiling, not excited.

There was nothing to be done about it.

********

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center

8700 Beverly Blvd

Los Angeles, CA

90048

###-###-####

######@##########

March 17, 2005

Levi Monday

############

############

Los Angeles, California, 661

Dear Mr. Monday,

Our repeated attempts to collect the balance due on your mother's account which you cosigned for have been ignored. Your account has been referred to an outside collection agency, ####### Collection Agency Services. In order to prevent negative marks on your credit history, we suggest you contact us immediately to make a payment. We accept MasterCard, VISA, and Discover.

If your payment is already on its way, we thank you and ask that you please disregard this notice. If not, we would appreciate receipt of your payment as soon as possible. If you are unable to make payment in full due to financial difficulties, a reasonable payment plan is available so you can satisfy your obligation and keep your account in good standing. If you would like to further discuss the details of your account, please do not hesitate to call patient billing at ###-###-####.

Sincerely,

Patient Billing

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center         

**********

August, 2018

11:30 AM

Main Street, Jeptha, TN

At least the weather was nice.

That was the only good thing Viv could say about this small town, after wandering around it all morning. It was balmy outside. Not too hot, not too windy, barely humid at all. A moderate summer day. Pleasant. He had been expecting more heat, but really, it was not much different than it was back home.

“Ok,” he said, speaking into the recorder on his phone and hoping that he came off as more of a ‘Dale Cooper’ than an insane man who was talking to himself. He thought about naming his imaginary audience. Who could be his Diane? He liked the name ‘Francis’ but was leaning towards the more classic ‘Dear Listeners’. “It’s been hours now and I haven’t learned anything apart from everyone in this town knows a Kennelly or two. I just haven’t found the one I’m looking for. Getting frustrated. I feel like I did when I was canvassing in college.”

He was sitting on a bench in the downtown area of Jeptha. If you could call it a downtown area. There were a few little stores lining Main Street-- a hardware store, a diner, a pawn shop and the like-- but nothing of any real interest and nothing that would lure in tourists. The whole place was run down. From what he could tell, most of the town’s jobs came from a nearby factory, the boiled cabbage like fumes of which he could smell and were making him ill. It was a place that would have made him sad, if he had sat down and thought about it. But Viv only had room in his mind for his purpose there and shoved any contemplative thoughts to the back of his mind for later, when he would need them for adding flavor to his story.

“Thinking about getting lunch,” he said into his phone. A stretched-out looking teenage boy wearing a Black Sabbath shirt walked by him and made eye contact. Viv didn’t look away from him. He wasn’t scared of any redneck high schooler, variant or not. “There’s a Bojangles near the motel. And there’s a diner. I don’t know, it looks like some local flavor. Maybe I can ask around in there. And there’s probably pie, that’s always a plus.”

[robbiefarlow-sidequestfitne-blog]

New Post has been published on Side Quest Fitness

New Post has been published on http://sidequestfitness.com/9-keys-to-make-your-writing-great/

How to Fuck Up Some Commas: Or, The 9 Keys You Need to Make Your Writing Great

170.

No, that’s not the number of video games I’ve beaten in my life. And it sure as hell isn’t the number of women I slept with before my wife (that was less than 10).

It’s the number of articles I’ve written over a two year period on my site, and across the Internet on sites like:

Roman Fitness Systems

BroBible

MyProtein

AskMen

J Max Fitness

Listen, Money Matters

That doesn’t count all the ghostwriting, emails, e-books, and social media posts I’ve written either.

I’m not writing this as some form of public masturbation about what I’ve accomplished (okay, fine, maybe there’s a little jerking off going on).

What spurred these thoughts are the handful of emails and messages from random people I’ve received in the last few weeks/months asking about writing. Most of these coming from people new to the world of online fitness.

This article serves two purposes then: 1) it’s a bit of a reflective piece for myself, and 2) it’s a piece I can now use when someone asks me about writing or content creation on the Internet.

So to the young bucks who’ve asked me about writing, here’s what you need to know about getting better as an Internet scribe.

  Copyright: Image by StockUnlimited

Do the Work

How do you improve at anything?

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

It’s how you get stronger in the gym, how you get better at guitar, and it’s how you improve as a writer. The more you write, the more opportunities you have to improve. And that’s why if you’re an aspiring scrivener, you need to write every day.

Writing every day doesn’t mean you have to publish every day. But unless you completely excommunicate yourself from social media, you’re gonna write something. And as Tim Ferriss has said before:

“How you do one thing, is how you do everything.”

It took me a little while to learn this; and by little while, I mean one soul-burning John Romaniello “goddamn it” look before I realized that everything I write — Tweets; Facebook Posts/Comments; Instagram posts; Text Messages; Emails; FB Messenger conversations — should be treated with the same care and diligence I’d give any article.

There’s another reason why you need to write every day. The online world is saturated with content. And the way you make yourself stand out is to be really fucking good. Not mediocre; not so-so; not worthy of a gentleman’s C.

No. You need have to be better.

And if you want to be better, you have to put in the work.

The simple act of writing every day, and paying attention to what you write—no matter the medium—generates awareness to how you write. And like the awareness that comes from tracking calories, you begin to deconstruct your own writing to see where you suck.

From there, you’re able to improve and get better. Because if you’re not getting better, you’re dying.

Vomit is Better Than Perfection

Some things write themselves.

You know it. You write it. Edit a bit. And, “voila!”, you’re done. But the deep shit—the words you bleed onto the page—sometimes need to come out in whatever way possible.

And if what comes out at first is incoherent babble, that’s okay—the first draft is supposed to suck. Everything sucks the first time.

Don’t try and be perfect. Let your sentences sound like the ramblings of a drunken madman teetering down Bourbon Street. That’s okay. Because you’re getting it out.

Most of the time, that’s the hardest part: getting it out. Your brain wants you to make it perfect; your soul needs to exude it; and your hands are sitting there stuck in the middle trying to placate both parties.

So nothing happens. You stare at a blank screen and tell yourself this is impossible.

Hemingway put it best:

Write drunk. Edit sober.

Let your soul bare itself however it sees fit. Then let your brain clean up its mess and make it sound better. Whatever you do, get the words down. Then go back and clean up the vomit.

The Building Blocks  

Ultimately, writing is a lot like playing with LEGOs.

As a kid, I never claimed the rank of master builder. I pretty much built towers to see how high I could take them before I had my action figures demolish them.

But you can build some amazing shit out of LEGOs. And words are kind of like LEGOs. (And yes, you can choke on both.)

When you write a sentence and break it down—not only grammatically but visually (or how it flows when you read it)—you’ll begin to see how you can alter the structure, meaning, and cadence of a sentence with punctuation or changes in vocabulary.

Take the sentence below that I pulled from my first draft:

There are hard rules about grammar. And you need to know the rules—master them, actually—before you can break them.

If you look at this sentence as LEGOs, and punctuation and vocabulary as LEGO pieces, you’ll begin to see how you can add or change certain pieces that change the sentence completely.

Add a comma after the word “and,” and it adds a slight pause and emphasis for needing to know the rules:

There are hard rules about grammar. And, you need to know the rules—master them, actually—before you can break them.

You could also replace the em dash with parenthesis, which makes the words “master them, actually” more like an aside. But parentheticals only work when you’re able to remove the words within them without jacking up the sentence. In this case, it does; but to me, it loses a bit of oomph.

There are hard rules about grammar. And you need to know the rules (master them, actually) before you can break them.

There are hard rules about grammar. And you need to know the rules before you can break them.

Those small tweaks to punctuation change how you read the words in your mind or out loud. And if you wanted to change the cadence of the sentence, you could do so by adding a few more periods.

There are hard rules about grammar. And you need to know the rules. Master them, actually. Before you can break the rules.

(“them” needed to be changed to “the rules,” otherwise, that would have been a sentence fragment)

I don’t proclaim to be a grammar master. I’m still learning. But, I am experimenting with how to structure sentences, and when, what, and where the right punctuation should go to change the rhythm, emphasis, or spirit of a sentence.

Like the LEGO towers that my action figures shattered in my youth, sometimes a laconic sentence is more useful:

Master the hard rules of grammar, before you break them.

Read a Book, Read a Book, Read a Motherfucking Book

Before 2016, I’d read a total of 25, maybe 30 books. Last year, I read 27.

And besides the fact that many of those 27 books inspired articles or emails, the biggest lesson I learned from reading more books is that it makes you a better writer. Why?

If for no other reason than it’s research. Sure, you’re learning new ways to improve yourself or your business or diving deep into an exciting world full of interesting characters, but more than that, it allows me—as a writer—to see how the best wordsmiths craft their work.

How do they create tension and mood within their writing?

Why did they choose to use an em dash and not a comma?

When, how, or why did they change cadence, and how did that change impact me?

What words do these authors use that will expand my 6th-grade lexicon?

I love reading now. It’s the first thing I do every day. And it’s the one thing I feel—next to writing every day—that’s improved my skills the most.

Write By Hand

(Confession: I wrote this entire section on my phone while on the subway in NYC.)

Listen, I’ll be the first to admit, my penmanship is grotesque. Doctors have better handwriting than I do. Still, something happens when you write by hand.

Over the last decade, a few studies have even shown that there’s a clear distinction between writing by hand or on a keyboard. For instance, one study showed that the brains of children “lit up” when asked to write a word by hand vs using a computer. And some doctors believe that as you age, it’s better to write by hand because it improves motor skills, memory, and acts as a good cognitive activity as you age.

I can read the science and I can agree with most of it. But, for me, writing by hand—even the simple act of taking notes while listening to a podcast or reading an article—spurs something more visceral and taps into a creative vein in my mind that writing in Google Docs or iNotes can’t.

That doesn’t mean I write every word of an email, an article, or social media post by hand. 65-70% of what I write is done electronically. But the stuff that burns, that scratches at my soul, and threatens to haunt me if I don’t put it down, comes out on paper.

Where a word processor has distractions like a toolbar or even the ability for you to open another tab and check Facebook/email, what you write on paper stabs you in the eyes—forcing you to examine and come to terms with what’s on the page.

You can erase it and change it, sure. But the remnants of it—the shadow of your erasures or the strike through of your pen—stare back at you and remind you that those are words you wrote; words you believe.

There’s a cathartic connection—a bleeding—that happens when your mind connects with your hand; you struggle less and write more truthfully.

The Best Form of Flattery

Imitation does not mean plagiarization.

Do. Not. Steal.

That’s wrong, and if you do it, you’re a douche-canoe. 

(Douche-canoe is something my friend Aadam says all the time—yes, he has two A’s in his name, that’s not a spelling error. And though I could have made you think I invented the funny word “douche-canoe,” I did not. Aadam did. See, I’m giving him credit and not stealing it.)

When I taught myself how to play the guitar, the first songs I played weren’t my own. I played everyone else’s. And when I did decide to write my first song(s), I imitated the chord progressions from the artists I was listening to at the time. (Thanks, Howie Day.)

But that’s how everyone who picks up a guitar starts their career.

You play Bob Dylan, Deep Purple, Hootie and the Blowfish, and once you’ve nailed the basic chord progressions of your favorite songs, then you’re more likely to experiment and find your voice and create your own music.

And in a lot of ways, that’s what I’ve done as a writer. Writers that I admire and find extremely engaging have been the ones I’ve tried to imitate. Not because I want to be them. But because I needed to play their chords to find my voice.

That’s one of the first things I’ve told anyone who has asked me for writing advice:

“take something you want to write, and write it as if your favorite author wrote it.”

Examine how they use and shape words. And then try and play their song.

But please, don’t steal. There’s a difference between stealing and imitating.

How to Unblock Writer’s Block

This is the 2nd time, and it won’t be the last, that I’ve mentioned Roman in this article. And it might sound like I’m sucking his dick a little bit (I am), but without Roman, there is no Side Quest Fitness; and really there’s no Robbie Farlow as I stand now.

But when it comes to writing, Roman knows his shit. And he often posts tidbits about the (or his) writing process on Facebook or Instagram. When he does, it’s fucking gold; and I hoard it in a secret folder on my phone.

For instance, this is is a screenshot of a comment he left my friend Aadam Ali when Aadam was struggling with writer’s block.

“So Robbie, what do you do when you have writer’s block?”

My usual response to this question is that I throw on some Dashboard, cast myself on the floor, and scream the lyrics to the heavens while I beseech my muse to return. I’m like half joking when I say that. (Half.)

The other half involves one or two of the following, and these are usually what I recommend others do as well:

Masturbate

Take a walk

Listen to a podcast

Read

Write something other than fitness

Film yourself speaking about what you’re trying to write. Walk around your room with a camera on and just record yourself talking about what you want to say.

Drink whiskey

Play video games

Learn a new song on the guitar

Take a shower

Sing This Bitter Pill as loud as possible

Writer’s block, for me, is usually a sign that I’m fighting something I should be writing. Or that I’m trying to make it “perfect,” instead of vomiting my soul on the page.

Writing What You Know

Before I ever decided to become a trainer or even launch my coaching business, I read articles by the giants in the industry. And these guys are smart. Like, the best of the best. But I’m no Tony Gentilcore, Dean Somerset, Dan John, or Ben Bruno.

Those guys dive deep into the science behind how the body works while you lift. But, me?

I love reading anything written by the best of the best, and (for the most part) I understand the super-sciency terminology they use.

But my friends who first came to me and asked about getting in shape, probably don’t. And the clients I work with don’t really care about the science either. What they want are the exercises that help them feel better, move better, and look better naked.

And it’s my job to take the knowledge I have, and that I continue to seek, and add a bit of a nerdtastic flare to it—providing my readers and clients with a frame of reference they connect with, be it video games, comics, Star Wars, or sports.

Those four things above are what I know. They are who I am; and the lens through which I view the world around me.

I don’t know everything about kinesiology. But, I do know how to connect diet to Indiana Jones, motivation to Lord of the Rings, leadership to Call of Duty, and pretty much everything else to Star Wars or my love for UNC basketball.

So that’s what I’m gonna write about. Oh, and Buffy.

It’s Not the Tool, It’s How You Use It

Before I joined the Roman Fitness Systems Mastermind, I remember having a long conversation with Tanner Baze about how we hated reading sales copy. We felt dirty. Icky.

Like the words we were reading were written by He Who Shall Not Be Named himself.

God, were we stupid.

We were looking at copywriting all wrong. Or, at least, I was (I don’t know about ole dtbaze).

Because the truth is, all writing is copywriting.

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Rothfuss, King, Shakespeare, every single author who has ever written a story or a screenplay, was, essentially, writing sales copy.

Copywriting—in the sales realm—has one primary goal: to get you to buy whatever product the ad is selling. 

And if it’s good copy, each word will sell you on reading the next line in the sales ad until you buy.

Oh, shit. That’s exactly what good authors do as well.

Each line sales you on reading the next line. Why else would you read a gigantic 1,200-page book if you weren’t buying each line and spending the only currency you can’t get back: time.

And of course there’s bad, smarmy, snake-oily sales copy out there that makes a ton of money selling bullshit.

But hey, someone made a gazillion dollars writing Twilight fan fiction that then became a best-selling series and Hollywood film franchise. So sometimes evil wins. And yes, you can use the power of words in 50 different shades of evil to sell bullshit.

Or, you can learn to harness the power and use it for good. And that’s what a good writer, or copywriter, would do: use words for the betterment of humanity.

The Penis Pen is Mightier

Truth is: I’ve always been a writer.

I wrote my first story on a piece of cardboard I pulled from a trash bin. It wasn’t very good. It sounded like a five-year-old wrote it. Because a five-year-old did write it.

But I stopped writing around the time I got a Nintendo. And only picked the pen back up when I fell in love with poetry as a teen.

My years as a poet ended when a few friends accused me of being a bit too emo (whatever the fuck that means). And from that point, the only writing I engaged in were the mandatory papers I had to write in high school or college.

Secretly, though, I missed writing.

I may never be a Hemingway. Or a Strauss. And I sure as hell won’t ever be a Shakespeare. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t, or shouldn’t write.

Writing every day for two years has improved my quality of life.

I don’t wake up and despise the morning anymore. My thoughts are more clear. I’ve taken more stock into what I think and believe because I’ve been forced to write them down and confront those words face-to-face.

And, above all, I’ve found something that’s galvanized my soul and that I’m driven to improve upon every, single, day.

So if you’re an aspiring writer, whether you want to write fitness blogs, short stories, or a novel. Do one thing, and one thing only—write.

Write like a motherfucker. Then, continually look for ways to improve. Study the authors you read and imitate their style. Treat every word you write on social, in text messages, or in your journal as if it were being published in The New York Times.

And as the great Romaniello once said:

Don’t let the idea of “what your writing may become” interfere with the process of actually writing it.