#but i had lots of fun making my characters and writing this post

[thoughtsthatgounnoticed]

Swept up in Expectations

As an anxious and curious person, I couldn’t help but check every now and then to see what the vibe was for P2 before watching it myself. After all the excitement during the wait between P1 and 2, nothing could have prepared me for the whiplash I felt reading disappointed and equally ecstatic posts from reactions to Eps 5 to 8.

Now that I’ve seen the episodes myself I’m trying to make sense of how I felt so I’m putting the figurative pen to paper and hope anyone as confused as I am can ruminate with me.

To put simply - I think we were all swept up in the excitement of Nic and Luke’s press tour (a whole other can of worms for some) and the many spoilers, speculations, and info from cast interviews during the wait between P1 and 2 that appeared to have been Polin positive. This energy then ballooned our expectations. I personally forgot that although Bridgerton is endearing and fun, it’s ultimately not a BBC or HBO production (I love Bridgerton but it’s no Pulitzer Prize winner in writing). So I think we expected more and are crashing from our collective highs.

Then there’s Polin and Penelope. As someone who didn’t personally enjoy S1 and 2 stories, S3 was going to be one I could truly enjoy and romanticize, and experience that Bridgerton brainrot everyone keeps taking about. Admittedly, it took me listening to some discourse and a second watch to truly appreciate P1. I’ve come away with so much love for Polin and their unfolding love story as well as Pen’s journey. The friends to lovers trope is beautiful, sweet, endearing, romantic, with a lot of history between two people. It had me singing along at the top of my lungs to Taylor Swift in the car even though it’s not my usual type of music. I was swooned and romanced.

But Part 2 was…. rough…. (Ramblings below)

At least after episode 5. It felt like I wasn’t watching the same season. I knew the weight of LW was going to put Penelope through the wringer before we can ultimately move on in peace. I expected the angst, it didn’t bother me, even if it meant seeing the worst of Colin’s anger temporarily.

I think what bothers me is the wasted potential of Polin’s season brought on by unnecessary side plots that could have given more time to Colin, Penelope and Eloise’s complex relationship and individual feelings. It was a season that absolutely needed to flesh out these characters alongside LW’s plot. Instead we got lengthy scenes of side characters with no payoff or stories that could have waited to be told next season. Polin felt like side characters in their own stories, their scenes so cruelly cut between other people’s dramas - I was swooning one second to wondering why we’ve jumped to sideplot A and B, then back to swooning over Polin again (their wedding dance for example 😭).

Then there’s the question of intimacy and how we would have loved to see more - probably brought on by a rumored missing montage. Instead after all the pain, the culmination of intimacy between Polin was the 5 second scene towards the end that looked like one of Anthony or Ben’s random brothel end-of-episode montage scenes in S1. I didn’t need plenty of intimacy scenes, I just wanted there to be growth in their intimacy evolving beyond what they had in Ep 5 and after all that drama.

Part 2 should have focused on how Colin, Penelope and Eloise came to terms with the LW revelation and the aching healing process it took to overcome that because the love they have for one another was stronger. I found myself thinking how in hell they could resolve all of this and it became progressively clear that the resolution was going to feel underwhelming and rushed. Especially, when the last episode alone had another wedding, Colin and Penelope still not communicating, and like 4-5 scenes of Ben and his mistress and their lover. We sat there in complete shock at how we kept going back to those scenes when the season had bigger fish to fry.

Although the show attempted to delve into Colin’s journey post revelation, the process of overcoming his sadness/jealousy was not fleshed out satisfactorily. I’m not saying it isn’t there (the very quick scenes of him looking through Penelope’s letters, listening to her speech at the end, his speech to Cressida, interactions with Kanthony/Eloise etc) but it lacked…something. Maybe it needed just a beat longer, a few more words, a bit more time. I don’t need it to drag, I just needed more within the depth of the scenes. Funnily, some of the side plot scenes lasted longer, which was so evil. Colin deserved a concise arc like Penelope’s. I hope Luke Newton’s back wasn’t hurting from carrying all the weight of Colin’s journey through his delivery and face acting because the writers were not giving him much to work with.

And so, the ending of the season felt odd. On one hand I was happy Polin got their happy ending and in theory their progression made sense, but on the other I felt like the show did a disservice by not taking us carefully and deliberately on that progression journey we wonderfully started in S1 and 2. I will always have ep 1-5 to look back on fondly and I was teary eyed when Colin delivered his ep 8 love speech to Pen. It felt like a glimpse of what we could’ve had and what they did have in P1. However, there’s this feeling of anti-climax that is so palpable given how impactful the press tour was. Am I still walking away from this season loving Polin and enjoying the scenes we did get of them? YES. Am I satisfied with it? NO.

This is 70% an emotional rant that may subside once the excitement dies down. I have thoroughly enjoyed everyone’s input and analysis and may have just been swept up in expectations.

[thealexchen]

thoughts on LIS: Double Exposure?

This is probably gonna be my hottest take in awhile, but: I deeply dislike the idea of an official LiS1 direct sequel game existing. Excluding all my thoughts on the gameplay, story, Max's character, etc. I don't think a game like Double Exposure is necessary.

This isn't a new take either; back in 2020 I made a Reddit post saying I was glad we never got a continuation of Max and Chloe's story, because in order to have a plot, you have to have conflict. And to have conflict means your characters are forced to change or struggle in some way, and I simply wasn't interested in seeing that again. I never even read the comics. As long as Max and Chloe's future existed only in the fanbase's collective imagination and not in an officially licensed game, Pricefield could be as happy as I wanted and I wouldn't have to witness DN or D9's version of canon.

A lot of fans, including myself, are also confused and upset as to where Chloe could be in Double Exposure. Even if Chloe winds up having a surprise role, it would likely be too logistically difficult to write Chloe into one version of the story and not the other. Either way, DE is strongly pointing to Chloe no longer being the deuteragonist. If D9 was going to make a direct sequel with Max and Chloe, I could at least be intrigued by how they might write their dynamic and how they'd use Max's power in new and interesting ways. But instead there's... none of that. Chloe's nowhere to be seen and Max can't time travel anymore.

On a narrative level, Max and Chloe are the heart of the original Life is Strange. They represent the game's central relationship, and their very first interaction (Max saving Chloe's life) kicks off the entire story. Throughout the story, their dynamic advances the plot and mutually motivates their character arcs. You can't have LiS1 without either Max or Chloe; the story simply wouldn't exist without them. Now in DE, they don't even seem to be in each other's lives anymore. It's true, this series is meant to reflect universal feelings and experiences, which could include breakups, but the romantic catharsis of Pricefield as canon soulmates who defied time and space itself to stay together forever is something you can only get from the beauty of fiction. To jab DE's story with a dose of reality and go, "Eh, they grew apart. Shit happens," totally undermines everything the Bae ending stood for.

On a technical level, Max's rewind was an objectively brilliant game mechanic. LiS1 arrived onto the scene after Telltale had paved the way for the resurgence of choice-based, episodic games, but LiS1 totally reinvented the wheel by giving the player the option to go back and weigh each option before continuing, essentially save-scumming in-game. But the right choice was never that easy to determine, and Rewind brilliantly complemented Max's character arc of overcoming her indecision and learning to live with her choices. Not to mention, you could also use Rewind to solve puzzles, instead of the endless fetch quests the later games had. No other LiS game since then has given the player that kind of agency and interactivity. LiS2 had telekinesis, but the player couldn't use it, only Daniel. D9 tried with Backtalk and Empathy, but Max's Rewind was truly the narrative and gameplay jackpot that they haven't been able to recreate since.

So if you take away one half of the central relationship that made the first game so memorable, and the supernatural power/game mechanic that made it so fun to play... why even bring Max back at all? It just feels like D9 threw away their golden opportunity to build upon the major selling points of the first game and are only relying on name recognition of the Life is Strange "brand" and Max Caulfield.

What upsets me most of all about a direct sequel existing is that it proves that Life is Strange, as a series, now stands more for profits than originality. Life is Strange will always be an IP meant to make money for Square, I know that, but back when LiS1 was just a brand new episodic game, it stood out for how different it dared to be. In a landscape saturated with shooters, sexualized female characters, and casual misogyny, LiS1 instead featured a teenage girl in a contemporary setting that took her seriously and made her the hero of her story. Before it was a franchise, LiS wasn't concerned with the bottom dollar; it was a piece of art that just wanted to tell a thoughtful, unique story.

Whether you love it or hate it, Life is Strange 2 was an insanely risky follow-up to Life is Strange that refused to rely on the convenience of a direct sequel because Dontnod stuck to their artistic vision. Meanwhile, all of Deck Nine's games have leaned on the first game's following to generate interest (BtS being a direct prequel, TC bringing back Steph, and Wavelengths expanding on Steph's connection to Chloe, Rachel, and Arcadia Bay). In other words, all of the subsequent LiS games by D9 have played it very, very safe. It's worked like a damn charm because there are still elements I love about each game, but the basic principle is nostalgia-baiting fans. It's just that now, Double Exposure isn't hiding that nostalgia bait at all anymore and prioritizing profits over telling a unique story. It's sad to see that LiS has strayed so far from its risky, daring, original, and unique artistic beginnings.

Before I end, I'll say that I can't be too cynical about it all, nor do I want to be. Because I can't deny how much joy this whole series has brought me, too. LiS was what got me into narrative adventure games and pushed the boundaries of what a video game could be. If nothing else, I am truly thrilled that Hannah Telle got the chance to play Max again. D9's always been great at maintaining relationships with their actors, and the casts of their games always have consistently great chemistry. Getting recognized by Erika Mori on my own blog is still unbelievable and speaks to the amazing community that LiS has built. As you can see, I'm still posting and reblogging stuff about Double Exposure. And while I don't see myself buying or playing this game for myself, I know it'll keep all of us talking for awhile, and I still live for a good discussion.

Thank you for asking! And thank you for reading.

[catastrophicalcat]

Catwoman's Love Interests, Ranked

No. 1. Batman. Predictable? Perhaps. Correct choice? Absolutely. They work purrfectly together. I may roll around to write a similar post for Bruce, but from Selina's perspective, he is an equal to her, values her independence, and helps her believe in herself.

(From the double date in Batman (2016) # 37, where Lois is wearing Selina's outfit)

No. 2-10. Selina herself. She is independent! But seriously, one of the things I loved the most from her 90s run was how not romance-focused she was! It was a lot of fun and refreshing to see female main character just not give a fuuuuck about romance.

(Look at her, just slapping this creep away as a squirrel laughs at him! From Catwoman (1993) #30).

No. 11. Christopher Castillo "Blondie". From Selina's adventures in Rome, the Blond was enamoured, charming, and helpful. Also, it wasn't clear if the attraction was truly reciprocal, or if Selina just got a fun vacation boy toy.

(Catwoman, When in Rome #6)

No. 12 Dean Hadley. I am not sure he really qualifies as a love interest, since I don't think that Selina was into him, but at least he died heroically trying to protect her.

(Can't compete with Batman, dies tragically, from Catwoman (2018) # 34)

No. 13 to 20. Selina on her own some more! Can't get enough of this girl on her own! Love the storyline where she unknowingly has a crush on a serial killer in a dog mask. You know what she did when she found out the truth about her crush? That's right, clawed the shit out of him!

(Catwoman (1993) #53. I think this storyline counts as her loving herself than being into this guy - she barely had any qualms about dumping him once she found out; none of that "but maybe I can fix him" for this cat!)

No. 21. The Riddler. Shocking choice, I know! But I'm thinking here of the Lonely City version - Batman is dead, time has passed, he made amends, they found each other. Doesn't work in other continuities, was fun here.

(Catwoman: Lonely City #3. The reveal that Eddie was a coke addict makes SO.MUCH.SENSE).

No. 22. James Thien. I guess he was fine. I didn't like it because her interest into him was really jarring - this was during the post-wedding break-up period when Selina was generally falling apart. But James was neither fish nor fowl. There wasn't enough development for her to be genuinely interested in him, and her interest was portrayed more like genuine interest than a random hook-up.

(Literally, I think that this is all the development there is! And then I don't remember what happened to him. Maybe he also died? That kind of seems to happen to her love interests a lot. Catwoman (2018) #12)

Nos. 22-90. Selina on her own some more! And Eiko. And others. Never enough of Selina being on her own! I also think that Eiko goes somewhere here probably, if not in my earlier "Selina on her own spot" - I just haven't read the New 52 run so I dunno. Other possible contenders in this range:

Onyx (but I don't think they had enough development)

The Trickster (Reddit tells me he's a Catwoman love interest but I don't remember it so it must have been neither good nor bad)

Spark (also new 52, so I dunno).

OK, this is where we get to bottom of the barrel, where unfortunately most other folks are. BTW, what's up with Selina having so many relationships with older mentor figures?

No. 91. Frank Baz. Some mafioso with whom Selina was hanging out in Italy. Ranked so low since he seems like a bad guy, there was a big age difference with her being really young, and he didn't do that much.

No. 91. Slam Bradley Sr. I think that Brubaker did a decent job making the romance between Selina and Slam Sr. work. I like how the run addressed how messy this relationship was, and how Slam was kind of preying on Selina's vulnerable emotional state. (Slam shouldn't have won that argument, but at least it was raised!) But unfortunately this is ranked so low since Slam becomes kind of a chump later on in the run and Selina's relationship with his son makes this very creepy.

(From Catwoman (2001) #17. Their relationship was actually pretty good in the beginning, but quickly got icky...)

No. 92. Wildcat/Ted Grant. I really like the backstory of Selina learning boxing from Wildcat. It's a sweet little bit setting up her eventual super-heroics, plus, Wildcat is awesome! He's a grumpy old man who is respected by everyone, even Batman (whom he also trained). Which is why I hated when Wildcat/Catwoman wrote her to have a crush on him. Gross! Did I mention that he's old?

(Catwoman/Wildcat #3. The art in this book is really 90s)

No. 92. Slam Bradley Jr. I totally get that hot people in costumes would have one night stands on rooftops after adrenaline rush situations. And the poor guy died right after sleeping with Selina! Nonetheless, ranked so low because it's sooo weird since she slept with his dad - which I think he knew - plus I'm pretty sure that their relationship started really antagonistic. Principles before hoes, bro! Also, not his fault but I don't like how he messed up Helena's paternity story some more.

(Catwoman (2001) #61. No idea why Selina tells the dad the story about how she banged his son?)

No. 93. Cat cult person who kidnapped Selina, dressed her up as princess Leia, and tried to marry her. Forgot this dude's name. Considering the stuff he did, he was a pretty nice dude. But - the stuff he did is pretty despicable!

(Catwoman #31. I really hated this storyline, so I feel like he should be lower, but I also really hated Stark and Valmont, so where can it go? Also not sure that kidnapping and forced marriage qualifies as a "love interest"; may rethink including him altogether but I also wanted to emphasize how much I don't like Stark or Valmont).

No. 94. Stark. Criminal who took Selina under his wing when she was still an underage sex worker, and slept with her. He's also a murderer. Pretty gross person overall, really creepy relationship.

(Selina's Big Score)

No. 95. Valmont. I really hate Valmont, OK? I wrote a whole giant post already about how much I hate him!

[yukidragon]

Sunshine in Hell Height Headcanons

It's June 15, which as many of you know from this official profile, that it's Sunny Day Jack's birthday today!

You might also know that it's [Redacted]'s birthday thanks to this ominous picture Sauce shared last year on this day. Funny how these two totally distinct characters share a birthday isn't it? 🤔

Anyway, I was hoping to have written something for this year to celebrate, but like last year my spoons are way too few and far between. I was also hoping to do something self-indulgent for my own birthday, but same lack of spoons halted me there too.

So, until I can stock up on more metaphorical utensils to help me do the stuff I feel like doing, I'm going to celebrate by rambling a little bit about some headcanon details.

Sunshine in Hell differs from the game demos in a number of ways, and one of them is Jack's height. As you might've seen from the profile link, Jack is canonically 6'2", but in my personal headcanon continuity, I decided to make the gentle giant quite a bit taller than that. Because it amuses me, and I struggle with imagining Jack as shorter than Cove Holden.

When deciding how tall to make Jack in my stories, I also decided to do a height chart for him and a few other characters as well. It helps to better imagine characters interacting when you can see how tall they are compared to others.

Yes, I threw in a few extra love interests to the mix, as well as a couple other MCs. I was curious to see how tall Alice would be compared to these her sisters, and I had to throw in their love interests as well.

As an aside, it tickles me that even after I made Jack significantly taller, he's shorter than Bo's horny "Feed Me" form.

For those of you that need the conversion from centimeters to feet and inches, or have trouble reading the image, I'll write them down for easy reference.

Alice: 162 cm / 5'4"

Jack: 198 cm / 6'6"

Shaun: 178 cm / 5'10"

Nick: 173 cm / 5'8"

Ian: 170 cm / 5'7"

Bo: 180 cm / 5'11"

Barbie: 184 cm / 6'0"

Bo "Feed Me" form: 216 cm / 7'1"

Elias: 185 cm / 6'1"

Coraline: 172 cm / 5'8"

As you can see, Shaun, Nick, and Ian stuck with the canon heights in their profiles. It's just Jack who got a height increase because it's what I imagined his height to be from the start, and Sunshine in Hell is basically my headcanons that diverge from the game's canon, so I do what I want. It's also fun to imagine scary yandere Jack towering over every single one of the love interests. It adds to the intimidation factor too despite his gentle giant persona.

Bo and Elias don't have canon heights like the SDJ love interests, so I mostly just did whatever felt right to me for them. Bo's regular height was influenced by the mafia AU picture Sauce drew. It served as a very good height comparison chart all on its own. As you can see, Bo is just tall enough to reach Jack's smile if you don't count the ears and poofy hair.

All credit to the awesome Sauce for their lovely art of course and for feeding my headcanons. As always, I want to link to the SnaccPop Patreon as gratitude for being cool with me using their art in my posts. If you're a a free or paying member, consider checking out an important survey that went up to help guide the team in their future endeavors.

Bo looks so short compared to Jack, doesn't he? In my headcanon land, it's just a matter of perspective, and next to other people Bo is pretty darn tall. Though he's just one teeny tiny inch shorter than his puppy.

You bet your sweet bippy Barbie takes smug satisfaction in that one inch height superiority. Bo talks so big as a big bad alpha dog, but the puppy he's trying to dominate is just a bit bigger and badder than he ever expected.

Of course, Bo gets to turn it right back around on Barbie with his monster sized "Feed Me" form. Like werewolves that become huge compared to their human selves, when Bo's inner beast comes out to play, he adds on quite a lot of height and muscle. He towers over even Jack! Still, even when super sized, he's no match for Barbie.

As you can see, despite being the eldest child, Alice is shorter than her two younger sisters, especially Barbie! They got more of their dad's height genes, while Alice took more after their mom in that department. Barbie and Coraline are quite a bit taller than average, a fact that Barbie revels in, and Coraline can find a little awkward sometimes, especially during moments of weakness. It can be hard to help someone stand back up and walk when they're much taller than you are after all. It leads to some embarrassing moments for poor Coraline.

On that same note of surprisingly tall people with chronic illnesses, I thought it would be interesting if Elias would have been a very tall man if not for his illness. There's no canon height for him and he's floating with Jack and Bo in the Christmas picture, so it's hard to go with a comparative height. So, I went with what felt narratively interesting to me. With his legs being twisted, and him being hunched over with a cane, he probably appeared shorter than he actually was. It's hard to see his exact height with his lower half ghostly and indistinct as well. It's only when he actually bothers to give himself legs and stand with both feet planted firmly on the ground that he can show off just how tall he really is.

While I'm on the topic of height, I wonder if one of Ian's insecurities was his height. Some men have issues if they're shorter than their peers, and Ian is the shortest of the love interests. I can imagine it certainly didn't help if he was bullied for being short along with his general "nerdy" appearance back in school.

Still, Ian has nothing to complain about at the height he's at as a fully grown adult. Even if the other love interests are taller than he is, Ian is still above average for men in the US. He's just got the misfortune of being the shortest guy in a group of very tall people. At least he doesn't have to worry about taking the bottom spot in the height chart like Alice.

Yes, Alice is a bit self-conscious about being so short compared to her peers, even if technically she's also above average height for a woman in the US. She feels especially tiny when standing next to Jack.

Though, admittedly, Alice does find it very nice to feel tiny and delicate when Jack sweeps her up into his arms. It makes her feel less self-conscious about how chubby she is when her big strong giant of a boyfriend can carry her around so easily. Once she gets over the initial fear that he might drop her, she'll soon look forward to being whisked away by her silly clown.

Oh, and if you're wondering about Mary's height... I'm still debating if I want her to be around Alice's height or a little taller. She had the same eye color in both lives due to the eyes being windows to the soul, but there were other physical differences due to different parents introducing different genetics. I need to ruminate on that fine of detail more and see what feels more interesting to me narratively.

Though even if Mary was as tall as Barbie, she'll still be short enough for Joseph to sweep into her arms since he's just as much of a giant now as he was then. Not that it would stop him from trying even if his sunshine was bigger than him. Nothing will stop Joseph/Jack from showing his love for his sunshine!

I think I'll wrap things up on that fluffy note. I hope y'all enjoyed me going off on a headcanon ramble after such a long time. With any luck, I'll be able to get to answering some asks soon. Thanks for reading!

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur @kurokrisps

[goodluckclove]

Are You a Writer That Isn't Writing? Join Me Inside My Blanket Fort!

Hi! Welcome! It's so good to see you. i've just been hanging out here, kind of listening to my favorite podcast and drinking some green tea. I have another bottle here - do you want to try? It has lemon in it. It's sweet, but not too sweet. Just like I like it.

Yeah, so I might need to introduce myself. My name is Clover, but you can call me Clove. I've been a write for fifteen years and I've finished fourteen novels. I published one and I'm working on the sequel. I've written and produced plays, published short stories, and even worked as a copywriter and ghostwriter. That wasn't very fun. Actually, the writing was fun, but they brough in AI right at the end - it's a long story. Anyways, what I mean to say is that you could consider me a working writer. If you go through my blog I post a lot of snippets from what I'm working on. You can even Google my old pen name "Miranda Seaver" and find some columns and stories and I think a short play I had some strangers do over Facebook.

I'm not saying this to brag. I'm saying this because I've been doing this for a long time and I want you to have context to the work I've done as we keep talking to each other. If you read what I write and you don't like it, maybe you can decide that I have no idea what I'm talking about. That's fine. We can still be friends!

Okay, so you're probably here because you're having trouble writing. Either that or you just can't resist the allure of a blanket fort - that makes sense too. But assuming you're unable to write for some reason, I just wanted to speak to you in private. Because I know it's hard. I know it's disillusioning. And though there's this weird perception online that writers are supposed to hate writing, I personally believe the situation is a lot more nuanced than that.

Maybe you're scared. Or you're tired. Or the whole act of sitting down and writing feels so big and clumsy and unwieldy as it bounces around your head that you don't know what to do with it. The weight of it doesn't feel right. It happens - it happens to me too sometimes, and it never feels good. But it's a natural part of the creative process and it's more of a slight mishandling rather than massive sin or flaw of character.

It might not help that there's so much advice online, isn't there? It seems all these people have a set guide to how to do literally everything. There's some sort of odd binary to the creative process that some make it seem as if writers innately fall under. You're either a pantser that never outlines, or a plotter that only structures. Every draft has have a specific focus, and you must follow an arc to achieve any specific goal in your character or plot.

That's a lot! Isn't that a lot? I've been talking to a lot of new writers on here who find all of that information - especially the information that conflicts (A lot of them) to be deeply intimidating. If not intimidating, then just slightly...off. Potentially enough to make the act of opening a word processor and slamming out a few hundred words to not really seem like that much fun anymore.

See, there are useful writing resources on tumblr. People with unique experiences sharing their specific information in a public space where writers can benefit from it. How would a certain mobility aid impact a person's life? What are the physical ramifications of training on a sword? Look at this picture of some sickass gems of different colors! These are all super cool things that I find incredibly useful for both current and future reference.

On the other hand, the guides that speak structurally to writing? That try and tell you the exact steps to follow in order to achieve a certain result? A lot of them end their posts by plugging their ko-fi but don't actually show any of their own personal writing? They don't necessarily have the answers.

If you read some prompt list and it inspires you, that's cool and great! Our brains think of a lot of really innovative things based on the smallest spark of input and that's a truly incredible thing. But if you read someone who makes a list of ways to show a certain emotion and you're left confused and discouraged - consider that they're wrong. Or not wrong, not really. They just don't have the right story.

For other forms of writing advice, maybe they're right - only not in a genre you want to write in. That's the weird thing about all these writing blogs that don't actually say what they write or read. If I was looking for writing advice, I wouldn't go to someone who specializes in reading and writing political thrillers or mysteries. They're valid genres, just not what I specifically do.

You just can't make grand blanket statements about this kind of thing, and that's an unpleasant truth I think we all need to hear.

Every writing rule has been broken successfully. The Dharma Bums, and frankly anything else Jack Kerouac has ever written, has truly no plot. American Psycho chains you to a truly reprehensible protagonist. Naked Lunch was written in one long chunk that was then cut up and rearranged, and then that nonsense was published. If On a Winter's Night a Traveler takes YOU (literally you - half the narrative is written in second person) and sends you on a wild goose chase where every other chapter is a different book. Kurt Vonnegut has a literal self insert of himself that shows up as a side character in Breakfast of Champions and then takes role in the lead cast in Timequake. Read a Chuck Palahinuik book and he will lie to you three time at least. Read House of Leaves and you'll feel like you're wandering a contemporary art gallery. I can't fucking get past the first 60 pages of Ulysses but I've been TRYING for YEARS because the prose is BEAUTIFUL.

I'm rambling. What I mean to say is that - you know Monet? Manet? Degas and Renoir, and all the other painters of the Impressionist era? They make the kind of paintings you probably think of if I ask you to imagine a painting you'd find in an art museum. They're respected - idolized, even. People will dedicate their lives to painting in honor to the legacy of Impressionism.

This would be a great surprise to early Impressionists, who were mocked mercilessly for their work. The name itself - Impressionism - was a reclaimed dig at how their art style was an impression of actual art. The road for it to even be CONSIDERED art, much less respected AS art, was a long one.

I'm rambling again, aren't I? I had a lot of this green tea. I just hate to hear so many people refuse to develop the ideas in their heads for one reason or the other. Or, even worse, they circle the brainstorming stage over and over again, far past the point of usefulness. I agree that some people function better with some form of an outline. I outline in my own way, through short form bullet points or taking space to storyboard in my head to music. It can help! But even if you work better with structure, there's a good chance that you don't need that much structure.

You can't fail here. You truly can't, I promise you. If you finish listening to me and you crawl out of the blanket fort and write two paragraphs, nothing bad will happen. If it's not the strongest thing you've ever written, that's okay. We're writers, aren't we? If you write something that you don't like, you aren't a fraud. You aren't weak. You aren't a hack. You haven't failed. You don't lack creativity or imagination or motivation.

Here's the truth: If you write something you don't like, you're a writer who wrote something you don't like. It doesn't mean you're bad. It doesn't even mean the writing is objectively bad. That's it.

Writers tend to be dramatic. I know I am. I laid on the couch for an hour trying to wrestle with act three of my newest book, and as my wife tried to talk me through it I slowly sank off the couch and onto the floor. Much as a slug would. If you ever get into that mindset, that's just a thing that happens when you're an artist. I think in the Hemmingway days writers would drink or smoke until they had the strength to try again.

We've seen how that turns out though. So welcome to the new era of writers who - though occasionally neurotic - try again at some point. And everyone is welcome. As I said already, there are no real rules or guides to the structure of writing, only ideas. And if you don't like the idea, you can look or think of another one.

And you can think of another one. Assuming you don't just have a drastically unrealistic perception of how much societal clout you can achieve by saying you're a writer (Answer: nearly none), you clearly want to tell a story. I haven't met a single person with that dream that has it based on nothing. The situation is so much more vast and complicated than the internet will try to make it out to be. Did you see some variation of the Apple Test and decide that your Aphantasia means you can never be a writer? Consider reading up on the Aphantasia Network to get a better look at the condition and learn more about what it means for you. Imagination is nuanced and it is absolutely not limited to Overall Apple Clarity!

Okay, that's all I have to say. I just want to see more people here putting their ideas to paper because a lot of them are really good and interesting, and they deserve to be seen. The feeling of writing your story is so much more complex and rich than just thinking about it, I promise. I know you can do it.

Okay okay. I have to pee. This was a long talk! I'm going to scoot past you in the fort now, but I think before you go on with your day you should maybe check out a video I think you'd like.

Have a nice day, Friend!

oh and this too.

yeah nice

[cheri-2047]

Hello! I hope im doing this right hehe,,,

Can i request for a Lyney x fempainter!reader who's also a tsundere? Reader also has a soft spot for flowers :3 tysm in advanced!!!!

i have such a big Lyney brainrot sm to the point that my parents call him my boyfriend 😭

ANYWAYS. IVE been wanting to feed The lyney x reader tag cause I love my husband. thank u for the req btw !!

sorry if I made the reader a bit like,,, too much (??) my bad if I did

“Roses for you!”

TAGS: fluff ! CHARACTERS: Lyney, Rosseland, Mentions of Charlotte,

Poof

you were painting peacefully, while Lyney was out on a mission. Lately you had been running out of inspiration, so sometimes you would get his cat Rosseland to pose for you.

“guess who~”

Someone covered your eyes, appearing out of nowhere.

“you’re back early” you smiled, before the man who appeared behind you covered your eyes tighter

“You didn’t guess”

“ugh you- I mean my wonderful and amazing boyfriend, the one and only, the greatest man in Teyvat, Lyney!” You said sarcastically, Lyney chuckled as he felt you rolling your eyes.

“oh come on now! Don’t you want to see something cool?” “look Lyney- I’m- ah rosseland no go back!” you felt the cat rub against your leg, you got tickled a bit.

lyney chuckled at the sight, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, causing you to get tickled more

“ah-lyney” you laughed “stop!!”

He chuckled before letting go of your eyes

“tada!”

and just like that, your canvas was gone. “hey where did you-“

when you looked back, you saw him holding a bouquet of rainbow roses. You blushed

“why did you…”

“you said you were running out of inspo right?”

you nod

“and you know how I’ve been in a lot of missions lately right?”

you nod

“well I.. charlotte told me in a mission that rainbow roses signify romance and passion. And well… I got reminded of you”

you blushed, averting your gaze

“they’re fresh too! I Just picked them”

he smiled, sitting on a chair behind you and hugging you from behind.

“wait..picked them?”

“mmhm, I grew them myself.”

you were shocked, you didn’t even know that he had been growing flowers for you.

“just like my love has grown for you”

AND THAT WAS IT. That was the last straw, at this point you were a flustered mess and you didn’t know how to thank him. Let alone even look at him.

“Tsk…you shouldn’t have-“

“No- no buts! I wanted to, I love you”

he smiled, holding your chin to make you face him. He laughed, “my you’re so cute like this!” “shh!!” You crossed your arms, as your lover planted a kiss on your lips.

He moved the chair next to you and with a snap, the canvas re appeared and the roses in a vase in front of it

“can I Watch?”

you nod, and he lays his head on your shoulder as you start to sketch.

“your art is so pretty… I’ll never understand how you do it so well…” he mumbled as Rosseland hops into his lap. and just nuzzles against him a lot.

“I think rosseland agrees as well” he smiles. Looking up to see you for a bit

“still speechless Mon ange?” He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I love you”

A/B: aaaaand that’s a wrap. I might draw this honestly HAHAHAHAH sorry it’s kinda short, I just kinda did whatever here. Also sorry if the French terms of endearments are wrong, I just searched it up. Anyways mon Ange is my Angel :>>> I had fun writing this WAAH I love Lyney so much (this is my second lyney post of the day…) btw, good luck on your art journey !!

btw… my Masterlist issue isn’t fixed yet, if anyone can comment how to fix it that would be a great help, thank you !! (And also comments to improve are also appreciated, anything about capitalization and grammar and stuff I know, I’m writing for fun so I don’t pay much attention to that HAHHAHA)

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Hi! That talk ab what does and doesn't fit in ur personal canon (idk if that's the right word for it?) made me realize that I don't think I've ever seen you talk about Sandy on here! I lowkey forgot she was a character lmao. Where does she fit for you? (Does she fit? And if she does, could u give us some hcs on what you think her relationship with Soda was like?)

HI! Omg ok, this might be kind of long because I have LOTS of thoughts!

So in my head I have two sort of versions of my personal canon, and one is what I think actually would align with canon, and one is what I wish/gaslight myself into believing would work in canon.

I will say that I don't like Sandy as a character- but then again, as readers we're not supposed to. That said, I think she's an important character, and the fandom trashes and discredits her without really thinking about a) what she adds to the story, b) how realistic and common her plight of an unplanned teenage pregnancy that occured out of wedlock in the 60s was and what the consequences for her would be, c) keeping the last point in mind, how decent of her it was to not lie to Soda about the kid being his and to not accept his proposal when he insisted he didn't care (keep in mind that canonically Soda was so in love he was willing to marry her anyway). In a sense it can be argued that Sandy saved Soda in a way, or at least saved his future. I'm not saying she's a great person, of course she isn't but she cared enough about Soda to tell him the truth and not to trap him in a marriage with a baby that wasn't his when that was an option and her alternatives weren't great (the book says she went to stay with an aunt in Kansas or something- whether you believe thats actually where she ended up or not is up to you, personally I think it's likely she ended up in a religious led birthing house where she gave birth and the baby was taken away from her and adopted out, or alternatively kept her baby and lived as a social pariah while her child was looked down on for being a bastard) . I think too that it's important to keep in mind that Ponyboy's narration- PARTICULARLY about his views and portrayal of Soda- is biased. Ponyboy is fourteen. He and Soda are close, and he knew Soda loved Sandy but he clearly didn't have a good understanding of their relationship (for all we know, Soda and Sandy could have been going through a rough patch) and Soda may have loved her but might not have been a great boyfriend (we know Ponyboy puts him on a pedestal). Again, I'm not trying to excuse cheating, but Sandy is a character who was in a really tough situation and did the best she could considering, and I think people like to hate on her because they like to pretend that teen pregnancy isn't a real and prevalent issue in underprivelidged communities (and because Hinton's writing shows a lot of internalized misogyny but that's a rant for a different post) because it takes some of the 'fun' out of the greaser world- but Sandy is an important character because she forces readers to acknowledge that hard truth, and sit with it, and be uncomfortable, even if they hate her. It's interesting too, because Steve says that Sandy either had to go to kansas and dissapear or get married and her parents wouldn't let her marry a seventeen year old kid. But Sandy herself was a seventeen year old kid. Yes, it's good Soda didn't end up marrying her, but it's bleak that that was even considered as an option for her. Marriage at seventeen- even if she (and her parents) did accept Soda is a huge commitment, and likely would have ended with them resnting each other and living life barely making ends meet. To me, it's likely had Soda and Sandy ended up together, that they would have turned into Two-bit's parents (one ran off, one working to death) or Steve's (cyclically resentful, violent, and remorseful by turns). To me, the whole Sandy situation was a shallow echo of showing cycles of poverty and abuse in a novel that is so preoccupied with conflicts taking place in the moment. So yeah, I don't particularly like Sandy, but I think she is an incredibly important character in the novel, and I wish we'd got at least one scene with her actually present- then again, hearing about the whole issue through Ponyboy who hears it secondhand is an important framing device for how we see and interpret her character, and an interesting narrative choice. (Rant over lol)

In my fun little universe that I wish was canon, Stevepop is a thing, but Soda only realizes his feelings for Steve once his relationship with Sandy ends. In this universe, things go down the same way, but Sandy was never as interested in Soda as she feels she SHOULD have been, so she tried to force herself to like him and it just didn't work, and she ended up cheating as a way to ensure things would end and she'd have a good excuse, because Soda was always willing to talk through fights and if she broke up with him without a reason people would think she was crazy. At the time, Steve and Evie were an item, butweren't actually into each other (I will push my Steve and Evie as each others beards agenda until the day I die, because Steve is gay and Evie is aroace even though she didn't have terminology for that in the 60s, and they cared about each other.) ANYWAY in my canon, Sandy goes to Kansas and Steve and Soda figure their shit out, and Evie is so happy for Steve and offers to keep fake dating him so he and Soda can avoid suspicion, but Steve says no thanks so they stage a super elaborate breakup mid class one day because neither of them studied for the history test and this was as good a strategy as any to get out of it. Once Evie storms out of the class in fake tears, she calls Sandy (because that girl is still her friend and Evie doesn't turn her back on friends) and find out Sandy had a miscarriage, but she's found a job as a hairdresser in Kansas and she doesn't want to return to Tulsa and the rumours she know will follow her around, but she's as happy as she can be given the circumstances. Evie gives her updates on the town gossip, and promises to visit if she gets a chance. Sandy doesn't ask about Soda and Evie doesn't bring him up, and there's a silent consensus that they never will. Meanwhile, Soda hardly thinks about her at all anymore except with an occasional bittersweet smile that Steve knwos from a mile away and also knows how to distract Soda so that he isn't think of hher anymore. In the end, Sandy is just someone Soda used to know, and Soda is a stranger Sandy met once. The end.

[crescentfool]

i love ryomina

no but seriously. even when i’m thinking about other things that captivate my interest, i find myself coming back to them and feeling like i fell down three whole flights of staircases every time i do. they are one of my favorite pairs in media and are very special to me.

it’s the way that ryoji and minato’s lives are inevitably intertwined with each other due to the circumstances 10 years ago on the moonlight bridge. without no minato, there is no ryoji. minato as he is today is because of ryoji. they have irreparably affected each other’s lives that you cannot discuss one without bringing up the other one.

ryoji mochizuki, who is death, pharos, thanatos, nyx avatar, the man of many names and identities, is the perfect summation of p3′s messages and themes.

minato arisato, the wildcard and protagonist, who has boundless kindness in his actions despite the unfortunate cards handed to him.

the two of them complement each other and tell a beautiful story from start to finish.

minato’s personas capture this perfectly. he awakens to orpheus, who’s flames burns bright, is snuffed out by thanatos during the encounter against the arcana magician. a visual precursor of the idea that ryoji stole from the life that minato could have had.

it’s the way that over the course of the game as minato interacts with pharos, talking throughout the dark hour, forging a bond that cannot be broken, that allows ryoji to exist. minato humanizes death.

november. the bells toll, calling the appriser. and yet, it’s peaceful... quiet, and full of life. ryoji, who breaks free from death’s chains, refusing his role, is given the chance to live for a month. to make the most of the humanity that minato has given him over those ten years. and what a life he lived. ryoji’s life is a reflection of what minato’s life could have been like in another universe.

it is the way the two of them are reflections of each other. ryoji with his hair down is just like minato. they are both stubbornly committed to choosing to be kind, to love life, yet are chained down by the cards the narrative dealt them with. they finish each other’s sentences, knowing each other intimately in a way no one else does.

how is that, a boy who lived for only one month, profoundly changes the course of the narrative? he is simultaneously relevant and irrelevant. blink, and you miss it, the beautiful life that he led.

ryoji is horrified at the revelations of being the appriser. he who so desperately wished to forget that his existence was meant to bring the end to all life, was unable to escape the inevitability of death. in a non-human way, of course. he becomes remorseful. a shadow of his brief time as a human who was enamored by the small beautiful things that life had to offer.

he is swallowed by grief. grief knowing that his very existence will take away not only minato’s life, but everyone else’s. the very thing that ryoji loved- life, fundamentally went against the role he was born for- to be the harbinger of death. and unable to grapple with this sadness he believes that the best thing for minato to do is to kill him, so that SEES can live in bliss not knowing about their inevitable end.

SEES is left rattled, calling into question what the meaning of life is and what they do when faced against the inevitability of death.

and!!! minato chooses!! for ryoji to live!! even in spite of what ryoji is MEANT to embody, minato still stubbornly chooses to defy death itself! and if that’s not cool i don’t know what is!! minato wants everyone to have the chance to live!!

so he climbs. he ascends tartarus, to meet ryoji, again, who is now the nyx avatar. and i just think there’s something so so beautiful about being able to use messiah, minato’s ultimate persona, against nyx avatar.

messiah, being the fusion of orpheus and thanatos is peak ryomina to me. because ryoji and minato have established an unbreakable bond from having been entwined for 10 years, minato still has a piece of death with him, and by proxy!! ryoji is able to defy and rebel against nyx trying to bring the fall! and i think that’s fucking cool shit if you ask me!

even when all of the arcanas have been gone through, it’s still not enough to stop the fall. and yet. minato knows. in the way that ryoji was sealed in minato 10 years ago by aigis... minato becomes the great seal so that everyone can live. it comes full circle.

march rolls around. he fulfills his promise to SEES on graduation day. minato dies from exhaustion. but goddamn does his sacrifice make me weep- he’s had such, such a tiring journey. he’s been through so many things because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. but at the end of it all, he’s reunited with ryoji in death.

and i think this is why ryomina continues to evoke so much emotions for me, to this day. the relationship that they have embodies so much of persona 3′s messages and themes that it makes me feel like a microwave with nothing running in it.

p3′s message is very hopeful, for me. my favorite takeaway from it is that even if death is inevitable, appreciating the life that we were given and choosing to live as best as we can with kindness (even if we can’t feasibly do everything), is just? really nice? and you see this manifest in both ryoji and minato’s personalities and what they do for the other characters.

ryomina just feels so distinct to me, the flavor that their relationship ties back to my favorite takeaways from this game and im just!!  god!! i love you minato arisato! i love you ryoji mochizuki! im so glad that i could meet them! i’m happy that they changed my life! they made me want to appreciate the connections in life even if they were fleeting! they made me!! want to pay attention to the good moments in life and cherish them!

i love ryomina so much!!! i’m so glad that these two could bring so much joy into my life! and i hope that others can have this joy too! 💛💙

[raiiny-bay]

my favorite edits - 2023 edition 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9

[boxwinebaddie]

an uncle nina check in <3

hi team! thanks for sticking around! i know my blog isn't always the most exciting and enriching place in the world in terms of content, but i am very /content/ to have you all here. <3333

i promise, oddly enough, i have A TON of inspiration and ideas for all my weird styles ( if you're curious about anything please lmk! i've been trying to flesh out my aus out lately ), i've just been in a major bummer depression era lately, so it's hard for me to get my asks done and i'm having a hard time committing to finishing my writing. :<

i think it's because of stress and my bipolar, but i am trying to get back on the horse! ( are we all laughing at the idea of me trying to get on a horse? i'd start crying help city girl fail moment for me ) yeehaw!

and while, unfortunately due to the instability ( fabulous legendary iconery ) of my pretty girl popstar personality, i do not know whether i will be answering almost no questions or one million, regardless of that, i just wanted to let you know, i'm still here, still kicking my feet, twirling my hair, cooking...i'm just really trying not to force myself to put out anything i don't like...and only do what makes me truly happy.

however, nothing, my dear sweet e-darlings...

makes me happier than coming home to all of you. <333

so thank you for flooding even the darkest corners of my life with bright light, supporting my phantom fics and being wonderful,

uncle nina xx

[space-spring]

[sparky-is-spiders]

Hi! I’m here suffering from lack of good Archivist!Sasha content as well 😭 On that note, do you have any fic on that topic you would recommend? Or just good Sasha fics in general, (or Jonsasha, if that’s your cup of tea)? Thank you in advance 😊

Tragically, I think there is a general dearth of good Archivist!Sasha content (and just about none of it Jonsasha content, as far as I can tell (and not only is Jonsasha my cup of tea, but the ONLY thing standing between it and the #1 OTP spot (currently occupied by JE) is the fact that the Jonsasha that I desperately crave exists in my brain and nowhere else)). Admittedly, I haven't looked very far into her tag yet (I should rectify that at some point tbh) but I've dug around the Jonsasha tag when I first got into it, and I know at least one fic where Sasha drifts towards Beholding through an interest in office gossip.

In terms of Jonsasha Ao3 has:

This very good Sasha lives fic where Jon shows up to Georgie's with an unconscious Sasha and everyone involved is very confused.

These two fics are cute also. The former is by @/suttttton and is them getting together, the latter is established Jonsasha from @/dickwheelie.

Eyevatar Sasha might actually be thinner on the ground (outside of fix-its where she solves everything and her canon reckless curiosity is completely ignored). Ao3 has:

This fic, which is Jongerry with outsider PoV Sasha. Just barely has the implication that she might be shifting towards the Eye (via prying into the lives of her coworkers) but gets a mention through sheer force of Excellent Sasha Characterization. I read this and I feel like I'm reading a fic from a Sasha Understander.

There's also this fic, which looks very promising but which I haven't actually gotten the chance to read yet, so I can't speak to its quality.

Unfortunately I've only gotten into Sasha fairly recently (especially as compared to Jon, who my brain latched onto in a deathgrip from the start), so I haven't gone through her tag yet. A scroll through the Archivist!Sasha or Beholding Avatar!Sasha tags pulls up a lot of fix-it and J//mart, which isn't really what I'm looking for from the concept. I'm sure there's more out there, and if/when I find them I'll come back to this ask probably, but I lucked into Reverse Nighthawks (I was on a Jongerry kick).

But god every day I wish that I could write romance and/or longfic, because about a year ago I read a Jonmichael fic that, when discussing alternate universes (where Jon ended the world) it's revealed that he once did an apocalypse out of love for his Archivist, Sasha James. And it was one (1) single line, but it struck me so hard because god. A perfect concept I think. The potential dynamics of Archivist!Sasha/Assistant!Jon are enthralling to me. Jon destroying the world (or helping her destroy the world? Cute date night I think: bringing about armageddon with your eldritch monster partner) for Sasha... anyway mostly I mentioned that one because My God if I have to live with that tantalizing AU rotating in the background of my mind 24/7 so do the rest of you.

[erabundus]

good morning, i love ren wanderer scaramouche kunikuzushi balladeer kabukimono hat guy very much.

[queenlucythevaliant]

A Liturgy of Surviving

Scarlett always wanted to be like her mother, and maybe in another world she could have been. If the war never happened, she could have grown softer instead of sharper. She could have curbed her temper, married well, and been received in respectable homes all her days. Maybe, if it hadn’t been for the war, Scarlett O’Hara could have lived out her days in genteel artifice, just like Ellen before her.

Maybe. Maybe not. If you asked her, Scarlett would say that the question was irrelevant. “God’s nightgown!” she would exclaim. “Don’t ask me what could have been. The war happened and that’s that.”

          I won’t think about that now.  

The day after Scarlett’s world ended, she swore an oath that she would never be hungry again. 

She woke in pain. Her muscles ached and her joints creaked. She was nineteen, but she felt like she had a hundred years weighing her body down. Morning light slanted through the window and her head ached with the moonshine liquor that she’d downed the night before. From another room, she heard an infant crying. 

She passed through the dining room without eating, pausing only briefly beside her grief-ravaged father. She found Pork on the porch shelling nuts. The sun was up. Scarlett O'Hara drew herself tall and began to marshal her troops. 

Melly and her sisters were still infirm, so they were useless for now. Mammy could tend them, and Pork and Prissy were to round up the livestock. Dilcey to Macintosh, herself to Twelve Oaks; perhaps they’d find food. Yes, I know. I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Now get going. 

Those days as the war staggered to its end were some of the longest of her life. In between them, Scarlett would collapse into bed and rub the welts on her feet with clumsy fingers. Sometimes she’d picture Ellen and all her gentle admonitions to kindness and refinement, and she’d say aloud to the walls, “What happened to me? What am I doing?”

She didn’t dwell on the question, but somehow, she always knew the answer. “I’m doing what I must,” she would answer herself. “I’m surviving.”

People didn’t talk back to Scarlett anymore. They were all afraid of her sharp tongue, of the new person who walked in her body. This Scarlett bullied and cajoled until everyone obeyed her, and inevitably her orders were to work. She was all edges; any softness that she’d once possessed had been sanded away splitting rails and picking cotton. Good, she thought. Let them fear me, if it keeps us all standing. 

          I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

Scarlett was sixteen when the war began: sixteen in green muslin, fearless and unencumbered. She had her mother’s slim waist and her father’s square jaw, but her clear green eyes were her own.

She was sixteen when she married Charles Hamilton and lost him, seventeen when she bore his child and draped herself in black crepe. She got Melly and Wade in the bargain, but she didn’t want either of them. She wanted Ashley. She wanted to dance! She wanted, she wanted. She wanted Scarlett O’Hara back. 

At nineteen years old, Scarlett survived the destruction of her whole world. She could have cried for the loss of her girlhood, for her old self long gone with the soft hands and dancing slippers, but what good would it have done? Curled up in her childhood bed at Tara, Scarlett didn’t cry. Instead, she folded in on herself, knees tucked up to her chest, and tried not to feel her muscles aching. She would have to get up again tomorrow, no matter how badly her shoulders still hurt.

She had strong shoulders, Scarlett O’Hara. That was maybe the most important thing about her. At any time, at any age, her shoulders could bear whatever they were given. “I’m surviving,” she would say each morning when she rose. A stranger’s freckled face greeted her in the mirror, but Scarlett only squared her small thin shoulders, breathed in, took one step and then another.

          Tomorrow, when I can stand it.

Calluses form like this: repeated pressure or friction is applied to the skin, most often of the hand or the foot. The outer layer, which is made of dead cells, begins to be retained rather than flaking off normally. The dead cells accumulate, forming hard layers sometimes hundreds of cells thick. 

They form like this: you use your skin. The shell of hardness around it slowly thickens. 

          I can stand anything now. 

The day after Rhett left, Scarlett packed up Wade and Ella and she once again drove the long road home to Tara. She pushed her way past Suellen at the threshold, exchanged brief pleasantries with Will, and then fell into her old bed as she’d done so many times before.

The next morning found Scarlett basking in the slanting yellow light that struck the porch from the east. Her eyes were fixed on the fields beyond and there was a devilish look on her face. 

When Rhett came back—and he would come back, he had promised he would—he would find her here at Tara, where she was strongest. “He liked when I was strong,” Scarlett said to herself. That was something she’d always known, for all that she’d been blind to the true dimensions of it.

Day after day, Scarlett rose and moved through Tara’s halls. She ate her breakfasts in the place where she’d faced down the Yankee army, sorted through figures where she’d once debated with Melanie over whether they ought to risk sending Pork out on the horse to look for food. Twenty times a day, she walked past the place at the base of the stairs where she’d shot her deserter dead. Here, in these halls, she had made her greatest stands.

She’d stood more rigidly then, threadbare and starving and uncertain. She’d come to the end of herself, only to find that she had wells of strength hidden deeper than she knew. Her hands were calloused and dirty. What else could she do?

          I’ll never be hungry again.

It’s easy to view Scarlett as hard and amoral. Even those closest to her would not have contested that characterization. Perhaps Melly would have argued, but then, Melly always saw the good in everyone. Scarlett killed and she stole and she schemed and she cheated, and she did it all in cold blood. What a selfish, conniving bitch, you might say.

It’s easy to forget Scarlett’s compassion. When she beat that poor horse to keep it trudging the long road home to Tara, she regretted hurting a tired animal. Her concern for Melanie, her friendship for Will Benteen, her joy when Rhett made her laugh: these were all true and genuine.

Didn’t Scarlett love her father and mother? Didn’t she grieve to see her friends and neighbors ruined by war? Scarlett O’Hara risked her life to save Charlie’s sword for Wade to inherit, and she built her mills for him and Ella both.

None of this negates the ruthless things she did in the name of survival, but it does begin to explain them. Scarlett made herself hard when hard was what she needed to be. She determined to live without reservation, without softness and with little kindness. Rhett called her cruel, and maybe he was right. But Melly also called her sacrificial and devoted, and maybe she was right too. 

          No, nor any of my kin.

On that road home to Tara, Scarlett once said, “If the horse is dead, I will curse God and die too.” Someone in the Bible had done just that—cursed God and died. Scarlett remembered feeling like that person, a despair of Biblical magnitude.

But the horse was alive, and so Scarlett did not die. Later, she thanked God that her knees still had the strength to support her, that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. Scarlett was not Job’s wife, nor even Job himself. She was Rahab, who escaped the destruction of Jericho, who saved her whole household and survived.

“What a fast trick,” said the Old Guard when she stole Frank Kennedy away from Suellen. No, Scarlett could never be Job. She was Jacob, the trickster and supplanter.

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load.

Scarlett was easily provoked into courage; that was one of the first things that Rhett learned about her. A few insults, a pointed comment, and Scarlett lifted her chin and flounced off to prove just how brave she could be. She shed her crepe years early, and to Halifax with anyone who objected.

Rhett did that same thing to her on the awful day that Atlanta burned. He insulted her and laughed at her, and when Scarlett spat, “I’m not afraid,” it was true. Her hands, which had moments ago been shaking too badly to hold anything, were steady now, and anger had crowded all the fear out of her voice.

Rhett kept needling her all the way out of the city, until they reached the Rough and Ready where he left her. The banter kept her sharp. As long as her eyes were flashing in indignation, she hardly noticed the fire.

Even after Rhett left, his jabs stayed with her. “What would Rhett say if he knew I couldn’t do this?” spurred her back into action more times than she would ever admit. It was a petty kind of courage, and it felt smaller than the great, soaring motivation that came with thoughts of Tara, of the O’Hara name and Irish pride and red earth, but sometimes petty courage was enough to bridge the gap between strength and exhaustion.

He gave her something to hold onto, something to ground her, and even Rhett only halfway understood what that meant. I want you at your best, he never told her, but he pulled her into it by taffeta ribbons and witticisms. As the years rolled by, she rose to meet him. They swapped sharp words and insults, him always claiming to know her and her shouting, “You don’t know half!”

One day on the jostling ride out to her mills, Scarlett told Rhett about the fire that the Yankees set in Tara’s kitchen. “I’m not afraid of fire anymore,” she declared with something like pride, and Rhett remembered goading her past the flames the night Atlanta burned. “I beat it out with my skirts, and then Melly had to beat me out when my back caught,” she went on. “Now I’m not afraid of anything but hunger.”

I don’t want you to fear anything in all the world, Rhett didn’t say. Once they were married, he laughed at her appetite and teased her, “Don’t scrape the plate, Scarlett. I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen.”

           No matter, ‘twill never be light.  

After the war, Rhett had his millions. Ashley had his honor. Melly had the Association for the Beatification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead. Scarlett held a ball of red clay in her fist and whispered, “I have this.”

Her father built Tara from nothing and he loved those acres like they could love him back. He had come to Georgia a poor immigrant boy and he had won that red earth. Whatever Gerald could do, his daughter could do too: of this she was certain. This land, this firm red clay on which she stood, was both her battlefield and her prize; her birthright and her hallowed ground. She gripped it tight with all the passion of a lover. She longed for its rolling fields on cold nights in Atlanta, sleeping beside Frank Kennedy.

“Yes, I have this,” and she let the dirt run between her fingers and lodge beneath her nails. Melly had Ashley and Ashley his senseless honor. Scarlett had Tara.

          I’ve still got this.

When she rode out in her buggy with her lap robe pulled up to her bosom, Scarlett heard how people whispered. She felt indignant about it the first time, and the second time she worried what Ellen would have thought. The third time, she decided not to care.

She still complained to Rhett about the whispering as he was holding the reins one afternoon. He didn’t laugh at her, just looked sideways from the road with his dark eyes and nodded like he understood. “Be different and be damned!” Rhett said, and his tone was like a soldier who’d heard the bugle. It was so strange, how Scarlett could tell him all the worst things about her and he would always answer back like they were medals instead of secret shames. 

Most of the city was in mourning, but Scarlett wore colors. She pilfered the store’s inventory in search of bright green, washed and mended her curtain dress as many times as it would stand, and when the money came she wore gowns of emerald, blush, indigo, and scarlet. Let them stare, she thought. See if I care.

At twenty-two, Scarlett rode up to Pittypat’s in the evenings, long after Frank had come home from the store, and she felt condemned. To the well-bred folks of Atlanta, she was as bad as a Scallawag. But sometimes, when she was alone, Scarlett ran her hands beneath the lap robe and hoped that Rhett was wrong about children and grandchildren, that the child she was carrying would understand one day. I hope you’re nothing like Frank, she thought. I hope you have shoulders like mine.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

“It’s no use, Scarlett. You can’t scrub out the past,” said Rhett when at last he came to Tara. “You can’t take back the last ten years, no matter how you’ve come — to appreciate my charms.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Scarlett snapped. “There’s never any going back. Not ever. But Rhett—” she reached for his hand. “I love you, and at last we understand each other. We can build something out of that.”

They argued about it until Rhett left again, fuming and bitter, his Panama hat pulled low over his face. Scarlett made an unannounced visit to Charleston the next month. “I was thinking,” she suggested, “That we might sell the Peachtree Street house.”

Scarlett knew all the words for making men love her, so long as she understood what it was that they wanted. The Tarleton twins had wanted merry excitement; Charles had wanted to feel important and Frank had wanted to feel like a strong, successful man. Ashley had wanted someone braver and better than he was, and he’d found it in Melanie without having to risk himself on Scarlett. Scarlett had never understood what it was Rhett wanted, but she did now. Why, it’s always been my love he wants! So Scarlett spoke the right words, and this time she meant them.

“You were right when you said that we’re alike. Only—you’ve always known about me, whereas I’m just starting to know you. Will you tell me about that knife fight in California again? About the sail boat you won at cards?”

“You know those stories,” clipped Rhett. “You don’t need to hear them again.” So Scarlett went downstairs and pried the stories out of his mother instead.

The house on Peachtree Street sold within the month, snatched up by some Carpetbagger who wanted it for a hotel. Rhett traveled to Mexico, and returned to find Scarlett back at Tara preparing for spring planting.

“What do the women wear in Mexico?” she asked him, leaning on the porch railing in the slanting light. “What is your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?”

Rhett indulged her in brief, but then abruptly he chuckled and shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, you little minx.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Of course you do.”

           Tomorrow, oh tomorrow!

The clay soil of Georgia is red from iron oxides. It’s red the way rust is red, the way blood is red. If a blister splits open and your blood falls on the ground, that iron-red soil will just swallow it up. You can bleed and bleed, and the stuff in your blood will always be one with the stuff of the soil.

When cotton and vegetables sprout from the ground, it’s easy to believe they grew from your very own blood, and that your own sweat and tears watered them.

           Never look back.  

“We women were soldiers too,” Melanie said once. Scarlett didn’t respect her yet—at least, not consistently—but this might have been one of the moments where she first looked at Melly and thought not that her heart was soft and timid, but that it was a sword.

“We never expected to be – or at least I didn’t.” She looked around the circle of ladies, at India and Fanny, until her eyes came to rest on Scarlett at last. “We were children then. We all imagined the world far simpler than it was.”

Melly, India, Fanny, Scarlett. These women had all been girls together. They knew one another at seven, twelve, fifteen, swaddled in silks and trying to seem more grown-up than their playmates. They’d competed for beaus and Scarlett had mostly won, except where Ashley Wilkes was concerned. They had lived through the war together. Now, Scarlett sat among them on Melly’s front porch and tried to remember if she’d ever in her life felt like one of them.

For Christmas, Melanie gave Scarlett a small book of poetry. Scarlett never read it, except for the one verse which Melly had marked with a green ribbon. She bit back the urge to sigh when she undid the wrapping, but Melly pointed out the bookmark and said, “This one made me think of you, dear.”

Scarlett didn’t like to think of it now, but once she’d been sixteen in green muslin, confident that dimples and a clear complexion were the only weapons she’d ever need. She had been a child, but that child had not died when Atlanta burned. The belle of Clayton County was not in the grave with all the boys who’d never come riding home from war. Scarlett was alive. She was right here.

“What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost/ Or a dead man's voice but a distant and vain affirmation/Like dream words most? / Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women. / I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair/ And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of leaves on your shoulders/ And a leaf on your hair—"

Scarlett came home from her mills in the gray evening and she made her way back to the Wilkes’s ramshackle front porch. She left her buggy feeling condemned and she sat with the other ladies feeling alienated, but all the same she couldn’t bring herself not to go. The war was over, and these were the survivors. They were through fighting, hung up on glory, but Scarlett still hadn’t holstered her guns. 

“We were soldiers,” said Melanie, and in her heart Scarlett added, “Some of us still are.”

           I won’t let them lick me.

Supposing that Ashley had married her. Perhaps the sight of her in green makes him brave enough to shed his veneer of honor and say, “Yes, you’re right, I can’t live without you.” It’s a minor scandal when he casts Melanie off in her favor, but not for long. The war is beginning and besides, good men have made themselves fools for Scarlett O’Hara before. By the time the soldiers march away, the scandal is all but forgotten in favor of the fine figure they cut as they embrace at the depot: Ashley so brave in his uniform, his young wife radiant as she clutches him.

Ashley sends her long, meandering letters full of philosophical musings. Scarlett reads them uncomprehending and sends back missives full of I love yous. She kisses them when she mails them, sometimes with a Hail Mary for her husband’s safety.

Rhett doesn’t notice this Scarlett at Twelve Oaks, and so he’s caught off guard when he hears the young Mrs. Wilkes say something blunt and scathing at the Bazaar. He chuckles to himself in delight and later he asks her to dance, and of course Scarlett simpers and agrees, and it’s a merry night. But Rhett doesn’t come back to Atlanta for the rest of the war.

This Scarlett leaves for Macon with the rest of the women when the Yankees come to Atlanta; after all, she has no Melly to keep her in the city during the siege. She takes Ashley’s child with her, and it’s in Macon that he finds her after the war. He waxes poetic about the Old Days, the Horrors of War and Götterdämmerungs and the like. He looks at her with sad, tired eyes and Scarlett says yes, I heard you the first time. But what are we going to do?

Twelve Oaks is razed. They go to Tara. Ashley tries his hand at farming, but it’s Scarlett who manages to pick and plant and organize while Ashley’s fumbling attempts at working with his hands yield scant success. His heart isn’t in it, which infuriates Scarlett. C’mon, get up and fight! She looks into the tired face of the man she loved so ruinously at sixteen and wonders what she ever thought was so noble about him.

When taxes come due there’s no way to pay. What’s more, Ashley doesn’t even try. It’s here that Scarlett breaks with her husband. Between Ashley and Tara, it’s Tara every time.

So Scarlett bullies her husband into calling old debts in from a few impoverished friends and when that isn’t enough, she goes to see the tax assessor dressed in green velvet and makes some very personal insinuations about Mr. Jonas Wilkerson. From there, Scarlett bullies her one-time-beloved and does as she pleases, and Ashley has to live with the fact that it’s his wife who provides for the family. In every world, it is Scarlett O’Hara who keeps Ashley Wilkes alive after the war.

His pride lays down in the dirt and dies. Scarlett Wilkes shakes her head bitterly and plants more seed in her red, red earth.   

Supposing Scarlett could have imagined all this. What do you think she would say? Perhaps in her youth she would have cherished the idea, but the hard-eyed Scarlett who emerged after the war would have only leveled her small shoulders and said, “What does it matter what would have happened? I’ll think about it later.”

           There but for a lot of gumption am I.

The day after Bonnie died, Scarlett called for the buggy and went to her store. Rhett took this as proof that Scarlett had never really loved the little girl, that she was devoid of maternal affection as he’d always suspected, but Scarlett was grieving in her own way. She threw out two uncut bolts of blue velvet: expensive fabric over which she’d have upbraided a clerk to hell and back if he’d wasted even a few inches. 

It was true that Scarlett had never wanted any of her children when she’d carried them. She had not felt joy or love or any of the feelings that other women described when first she saw them. What she did feel, in the moments after Dr. Meade placed each child in her arms, was a fierce surge of protectiveness. She was certain that she would work and sacrifice and even die for her children, if need be. They were her blood, her flesh, her kin.

Scarlett had hated pregnancy each time it happened to her. She hated feeling large and lumbering, hated the way that her tiny waist bloated and grew until even her modified dresses didn’t fit right. She hated the inconvenience of morning sickness, the limitations on what she could do, the necessity of seclusion as delivery drew near. It was nine months of hardship and frustration capped off with many long minutes of excruciating pain. 

Bonnie had died in an instant. She’d been flying towards the hurdle and then, half a breath later, she’d been gone. Standing in the back of the store with two bolts of blue velvet before her, Scarlett swallowed back tears that Rhett would never see. It wasn’t right that a child who’d taken her so much time and effort to bring into the world could be gone from it so quickly. 

When she returned to the house a few hours later, Rhett had locked himself in the bedroom with Bonnie’s tiny body. Scarlett paused for a moment outside the door, but then she squared her shoulders and kept walking. 

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. 

Scarlett had a habit of humming “My Old Kentucky Home” while she worked. Splitting wood, planting and picking cotton, driving between her mills, keeping the books—even sewing. The song was a thoughtless thing, an instinctual thing. She hummed it the same way a person might worry lips between teeth or tear at nails. 

She repeated the words again and again until her heart pulsed to their rhythm. Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it. Tomorrow, tomorrow. No matter, ‘twill never be light. I’ll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my kin. I’ll never be hungry again. They were a mantra: something to hold onto when the whole breadth of her world had narrowed to a single point. A refrain. A liturgy of surviving.

          Just a few more steps

Rhett loved Scarlett and it was terrifying. He feared that she would treat him like one of her country beaus: a lovely toy to play with and to tear to ribbons when she was done. He was afraid, so he hid his heart behind his impressive poker face and said “I want you” instead of “I love you.” He called her “pet” instead of “sweetheart.”

Scarlett loved Rhett and it was slow. He brought her bonnets and bonbons and Scarlett thought, “Why, it’s almost like I was in love with him!” He came to help her the day Atlanta burned, and Scarlett thought that she’d like to stay in his arms forever. When he chauffeured her to the mills, she thought that he was the only person in the world to whom she could tell the truth.

"You never told me you loved me, you know," Scarlett said the next time she visited Charleston. "I never knew. That's not to say you were wrong about me - about what I would have done if you had said something. But you should have been brave enough to risk it all the same."

Rhett closed his eyes for a moment and his mask slipped away. It was doing that more and more these days.

"But I did tell you — once."

"I think I would have remembered that," said Scarlett, pursing her lips.

"Ah. ‘It is far off; and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants.’ I suppose my humble confession was the least of your worries that day."

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"The day Atlanta burned, my dear."

After a long moment, Scarlett gave a little gasp which turned into a sigh as it ended. "Oh. That's right, you did then, didn't you?" She shook her head. "Rhett, I do believe you have the worst timing of any person I know."

          As God is my witness

The day she married Charles, she wore Ellen’s cream-colored silk gown, aired out in a hurry from the chest where it had been sitting since the O’Haras married back in 1846. She couldn’t breathe for how tight her laces were —sixteen inches, like Ellen’s waist was when the dress was purchased— and perhaps that was a good thing. Scarlett was light-headed throughout the ceremony and she scarcely remembered it afterwards. 

The day she decided to have Frank, it was raining hard. Scarlett left the jail in sodden velvet and was grateful for the drops falling on her cheeks to disguise the tears. It was sunny the day of the wedding, but she scarcely noticed that. Afterwards, when she thought of marrying Frank, Scarlett would always remember the rain. 

There was a fine mist over everything the day she got Rhett back for good. Scarlett was wearing her work clothes when he came riding up to Tara; she’d been walking the cotton fields that day, overseeing the progress of the crop. They were both a little damp when he kissed her.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

O’Haras and Robillards had always known how to dig their nails in, and by God, Scarlett was both. Her namesakes had long ago fought for their own plots of Irish earth; had survived and died and been hanged fighting to hold onto it. All Scarlett’s forebears, her folk, had left crescent-moon imprints on all that was theirs when it was finally pried from her hands. Scarlett gripped her little ball of clay and felt her nails dig into the heels of her hands.

She was her father’s hot-tempered daughter, but she had her mother’s steel-hewn spine. All the years of her life, she never saw Ellen Robillard O’Hara rest her back against a chair.  When Scarlett’s own time came, she held herself every bit as straight as her mother: she didn’t rest or lean, just stood and stood.

Maybe this is what she was always made for. Her green eyes weren’t for charming young men, they were for seeing dresses in curtains. Her hands were never supposed to be soft; they were meant for digging in the red dirt. Even her lips—Rhett was wrong, they weren’t meant for kissing. Scarlett’s lips were as sharp as the words that she spoke when she wasn’t afraid what anyone thought. They were meant to draw blood.

She had been sharp all her life, even when her edges were carefully concealed in layers of satin. Scarlett was not made to be soft; her core held no gentleness. She could not pretend otherwise. All she could do was stand straight, and hold up her tired old shoulders like they were the strongest thing in the world.

           I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

One day, at the Butler home in Charleston, Rhett taught Scarlett how to play poker, and subsequently how to cheat. They were still playing hours later, counting cards and hiding them in sleeves and making all kinds of ridiculous bets on losing hands. Just as she was taking off her right earbob to call, the thought rose to Scarlett’s mind unbidden: “What on earth are we doing here?” And just as quickly, there was the answer. “We’re living.”

At the end of this most recent road home, weary and damp from running through the fog, Scarlett found her way back into Rhett’s arms. In the evenings she listened to his stories and witticisms, and late at night she listened to the sound of his breathing. I will not speak of undying glory, she thought. Rhett was still here, and so was she. They were both still here.

Scarlett took off her left earbob too, for good measure. “I’ll raise you,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this hand.” There was still an ace hidden up her sleeve, but if Rhett noticed it he didn’t say anything. 

They survived together. They built something new. There is always profit to be made in building things, and these two were nothing if not industrious.

           After all, tomorrow is another day.

[orcelito]

Ok though its actually kinda nice to see some of my earliest rps... 15 year old me just having fun 🥺🥺🥺

Might go digging more later. Don't rly feel like getting That into it tonight lol

[tanoraqui]

A steady breeze carried both fresh air and the sounds of Tirion into Arafinwë’s study, blocked not at all by the low palace walls and the wide plaza between them and the city proper, and he welcomed both. He’d reviewed and signed all the paperwork he needed to sign by noon, but the late summer was hot here in the hills of the Calacirya, and if he admitted to being free, his brother would no doubt rope him into whatever last-minute scrambles were happening for the Festival of Stars next week. And if Nolofinwë didn’t, Lalwendë definitely would. He didn’t mind, really - he’d start lending a hand tomorrow, when the scramble started to reach a fever pitch. But surely he could spend one more lazy afternoon with the latest journal from Tirion University’s agricultural department?

The susurrus of a bustling city rose and fell, and rose again with increasingly loud cheers. Arafinwë paid it little mind, attention focused on an article about novel soil combinations, even as the cheers approached the palace - one of the guilds was no doubt unveiling an illicit sneak peek of their parade float, hoping to drum up early support in the public-voted contests. It was explicitly against the rules and it happened every year. 

Then someone ran into the courtyard directly below his window, shouting, “The Crown Prince has arrived early, with his whole family! We need all those bedrooms turned out now!”

Arafinwë dropped the journal in his lap (page carefully held) and thunked his head against the back of his chair. Fëanáro, why. So much for his one more afternoon of peace - so much for the next two weeks of peace, with Fëanáro...

...still in Mandos, along with (almost) all his sons and, more recently, his only grandson, and Nerdanel hadn’t been to Tirion since the late First Age. It was 2,344 years into the Second Age, now. A stand by the door held a sheathed sword, which fortunately he hadn’t needed to draw in millennia; the shelves were decorated with not just artwork from throughout Eldamar but relics from Beleriand, souvenirs from Númenor. Arafinwë, not his father, was the High King of the Noldor in Tirion-upon-Túna. And the Crown Prince now riding up the hill to the palace, leading what sounded like half the city in an impromptu celebratory parade, was his eldest son, Findarato, called Finrod since his sojourn in Middle Earth, in company with his wife Amarië and their five daughters, Arafinwë’s granddaughters, Nolórë, Mínakánis, Satarissë, Tinúviel, and Maranwiel.

Unless they’d had yet another in their time away, without telling anyone except perhaps the distant Avari they’d been visiting. It wouldn’t be the first time.

(It would not, it occurred to Arafinwë, have been the first time for Fëanáro and Nerdanel to have done that, either. Minus the Avari, of course.)

Finrod and Amarië’s voices rose in song together, quickly joined by their daughters and half the crowd. Tinúviel, true to her name, was precocious in the skill of her singing voice. 

Arafinwë kept staring at the ceiling for a few more quiet minutes, agricultural journal forgotten in his lap, and thought about the nature of reprises.