#i feel like ive sort of staked my claim as someone who writes a lot of fic very fast so i feel bad going slow

[brainrotdotorg]

i think this is probably the happiest ive ever been with harrykim characterization that ive written lmao

[deepwaterwritingprompts]

ooh ask day! are you working on any of your own writing at the moment? what excites you about it? is your writing similar to your prompts in any way? or do the prompts fulfill something else for you?

mainly im working on getting my first novel published, which you can read about HERE. otherwise, the sequel, an adult fiction project, and an urban fantasy type YA about a town called florida. in florida. Florida, florida.

Florida project, working title BORDERLINE, is the most in line with my general prompt vibe here. a little cosmic horror, bent reality, just generally odd.

I never write stuff based off the prompts, but I DO write prompts based off my own stuff, very occasionally. for me, writing prompts is like scales for a musician. keeps my brain well oiled.

*still taking asks, no requests please*

anyway, ive been working on Florida project a lot lately. have an excerpt:

Backpage:

Lin O’Leary was born and raised in the town of Florida, Florida, tucked away into a corner of the state’s forgotten coast. All the locals know Florida is a strange place, rumored to stand on a borderline, where the veil is thin and mysterious forces wander alongside the human population. The daughter of Irish and Mexican immigrants, Lin knows you can only find trouble if you go looking for it, and like the rest of Florida’s residents, lives comfortably alongside the supernatural. This is before Momoko Kasahara disappears into thin air, frightening the town of Florida into a new, ultra-cautious existence. Five years after Momo’s disappearance, Lin is seventeen, a highschool dropout now working at a convenience store, her once vibrant town still plagued by fear. The days drag by, mundane as they come in Florida, occasionally punctuated by unpleasant visits from Bo Kasahara, brother to Momo and full time asshole. Then, one fateful late shift, Lin sees the missing Kasahara twin standing in the aisles, gone as quickly as she appeared. Meanwhile, a stranger arrives from California, claiming to be a paranormal investigator hellbent on uncovering the mysteries of Florida, and suddenly Lin is faced with a choice. Be smart and keep her head down, or dive headlong into the strange mist that so often covers Florida, to rescue Momo Kasahara, and return her town to the way she remembers it.

1. 100% humidity feels like breathing underwater.

L I N

Florida ate Momoko Kasahara on the most miserable day of the year, and washed her down with a thunderstorm. A lot of other important things happened that day, but Momo’s disappearance overshadowed them all. Momo was the coolest girl in our class. She had shiny black hair that ran down to her waist. She liked to wear a different flavor of lip gloss every day of the week, and could sing in Japanese. I was on my way home from the beach when I saw the police cars in her driveway, and her twin brother sitting on the porch, painted purple in the twilight. 

He shook his head, at me, slow, and all the sound seemed to drain out of the world. The flashing police lights distorted his face, as bright white clouds passed too quickly above us. The whole scene drove a stake of wrongness hard into my chest. Sometimes even now, I dream about it. Bo and I watching each other. The dead silence. The purple light. The too white clouds. And Momo, eaten.  For the first time in my life, I was afraid of my own town. 

My name is Lin O’leary. I live in Florida, Florida, a nothing sort of place crammed into an extra forgotten corner of the state’s already forgotten coast. Some days I can forget about Momo, and everything that happened in the hours before she vanished. Heff says I’m good at keeping my eyes closed, even when they’re open. 

I really wish he were right. 

2. Cloudy with a chance of hotdogs (haunted).

J U L I E N

I was standing in front of the worst building I had ever seen. Slab grey and full of sharp edges, additions had been slapped onto every side until it resembled an impossible puzzle piece. The front windows were crowded with signs for cold beer and hot food, but the glass itself was opaque. It was a convenience store from hell, a collection of stationary parts so nonsensical I was worried it might grow a few new alcoves if I blinked. Above the door, an unintelligible sign in complicated neon cursive flashed electric blue. There was a neon clock too, flickering wildly, just striking twelve.

I must have walked halfway across town, and as far I could tell this was the only place that sold food at all, let alone past three in the morning. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. My stomach was a mess, and haunted convenience store hot dogs could only make it worse. I fished my phone out of my pocket, but the little service I had was, like the midnight clock above me, barely clinging to existence, my map application nothing more than a collection of beige squares. There was no one around. The sky was intensely dark, a pitch black blanket of clouds. Water hung thick in the air, the night time street so quiet I could almost hear beads of sweat sliding down my already slick face. No, there was nothing for it. I needed directions. 

The bell above the door made a strange, flat sound as I pressed inside. If the building was weird from the outside, that was nothing to its interior. The shelves, tall and numerous, had been arranged like maze walls. The overhead lights were blinding, stark white, and every other tile on the floor was mismatched. Some were squares of carpet. The only thing really visible from the entrance was the register, a fortress made of dark wood and surrounded by lottery advertisements. Behind the counter, a girl was reading something intently. As I got closer, I saw it was the back of a box of oatmeal.

“Hi,” I said, adjusting the duffel bag that had been crushing my left shoulder for an hour. 

The girl nodded, but didn’t look up. She had thin black hair, pin straight and chin length. Her skin was a warm, golden brown. Her shirt said something in miniscule writing, but my glasses were a little foggy, so I would have had to practically press my face to her chest to read it, which didn’t seem like a great first impression.

“Can you help me? I’m looking for the Fahrenheit Motel. I think it’s supposed to be around here.” 

Finally, she glanced at me. 

“It’s just around the corner. See the glasses store across the street? Go straight past that and make the second left, you’ll run right into it.” 

She pointed out the window, and I realized they were one way. 

“Who built this place?” I asked. 

She shrugged. 

“We’ve had a lot of owners. Everyone adds something new.”

There was something off about her. Like we were talking, but mentally she was still 

reading the box of oatmeal. 

“I’m Julien,” I said, sticking out a hand. She raised her eyebrows before taking it. 

“Lin,” she said, with another small nod. 

Her face was round, but her features were knife sharp. I wondered what she looked like angry. Maybe that was a really weird thing to think. 

Not wanting to ask for a second set of directions, I wandered around the store for thirty minutes before returning to the counter with a gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of seaweed flavored potato chips. 

“I can’t believe you have these. I didn’t think you could find them outside of California.”

Instead of replying, Lin held up the chocolate milk. 

“There’s no fridge in your room at the Fahrenheit. You know that right?”

“I was told on the phone… ” I started.

“There’s a fridge, but it’s in the lobby, communal. Kimmy’ll drink this.” She gave the milk a little shake before scanning it. “Just warning you.”

“Thanks,” I said, as she stuffed my things in a smiling shopping bag. 

I paused on my way out.

“Goodnight,” I said, “Or, good morning I guess.” 

Lin stared at me, then glanced at the box of oatmeal and back. 

“Morning,” she said, with a sigh.

***

I followed Lin’s directions, and wound up at last in front of a long, low building sporting a vacancies sign. Even in low light I could see about a hundred sad looking plastic flamingos had been stuck all over the lawn, the bushes, even the gravel path that led to the front door. I had to pick my way around them on approach. 

There was no one at the front desk. The reception area was lit only by the green blue light coming from an enormous fishtank that didn’t seem to have any fish in it. As I approached the counter, I noticed someone had left the key to my room out for me, next to a scrap of paper bearing the wifi password. I picked up the key, old and brass, then watched the fishtank for a second, before turning around and experiencing heart failure. 

A very old woman with wiry black hair was standing there in her nightgown, arms crossed and frowning at me. She didn’t apologize for nearly sending me to my grave. 

“I’m up. I can check you in properly,” she said, shuffling past me. “I’m Kimmy, but you can call me Miss Kimmy. You got ID?” 

I dug it out of my wallet while she opened a dusty guest book. 

“The reservation is for Julien True,” I said. 

Miss Kimmy glanced at the ID I had just handed her. 

“That’s not what this says.”

“I know. It’s a stage name,” I admitted, “everything else is correct.”

She raised an eyebrow to herself, but didn’t ask any more questions. 

“Now listen,” she said finally, shutting the guest book with a snap. “I’ll be honest, there’s not much to do around here. There’s a bus runs to the state forest during the day, and the beach isn’t going anywhere. If you’re hungry that’s too bad for the most part, unless you feel like walking down to Morton’s.”

“Is that the weird looking building? One way windows?”

“That’s the one. Midnight Morton’s, never closes. This late at night you’ve got Lin at the counter, nice girl.” 

I don’t know what I would have called Lin, but it probably wasn’t ‘nice girl’.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing around for the hallway that led to my room.

I bid Miss Kimmy goodnight and lugged my things to Room 7, at the very end of the dark hall. Inside was simple, but stunningly clean, which I had in no way expected. The bed had a sunken spot in the middle, and there were a lot of paintings of tropical fish on the walls. Home sweet home. I changed into pajamas, and took a huge swig of chocolate milk before glancing at my duffel, still full of equipment. 

It could wait. I was exhausted, sweaty, and more alone than I had ever been in my entire life. 

3. Welcome to my grocery store how may I assist you.

L I N

“I want to drop out of high school,” said Roach. 

We were sprawled out on separate tartan sofas, both angled towards the ancient television. It was after midnight, and the only light in the room was coming from the nature channel.

“No you don’t,” I said. “You’re not even in high school.”

Roach was a weird little girl. Eleven years old, she wore oversized thrift store t-shirts, and big chunky glasses, and cut her own hair. I loved her the most in this world.

“Yeah, but when I get there, I want to drop out. You did.”

I sighed. 

“You’re smarter than me. You have to finish school and work in a laboratory anywhere but here. Those are the rules.” 

Roach crossed and uncrossed her skinny legs without arguing. I knew she just wanted to hear me say she was smart. 

We continued to watch the nature channel in silence. A documentary on the arctic ocean was playing, which I found devastatingly boring, but Roach was clearly glued to. I could hear dad snoring upstairs, a pleasant sort of nightly white noise, and tuned out completely until Roach clapped an inch from my face. 

“Jeez,” I started, pushing her hands away.

“You were way out there. It’s freaky.”

I had been practicing my zone out since I was Roach’s age. On my best day, I could have an entire conversation without hearing one word the other person said. Call it a life skill.

“You’re doing it again!” said Roach. “Don’t you have work soon?” 

That snapped me out of it. I looked at my watch. 

“Oh, yeah. Thank you.” 

I rolled off the couch as Roach sat back down with a huff. The arctic documentary was ending, and she picked up the changer to scroll through a long list of similar recordings. Roach loved animals, all of them, even fish that ate your insides, and grubs, and parasitic worms. Especially parasitic worms. 

“Don’t stay up too late okay?” I said, tugging gently on her massive ponytail. Roach got dad’s curly, reddish brown hair. I got mom’s.

“Mmhm.”

I glanced in the hall mirror to see if there was any food on my shirt. Then I stepped into the mosquito ridden, muggy Florida night, and headed to my shift.

***

You might be thinking: where does a seventeen year old high school dropout work after midnight? And the thrilling answer is: the grocery store, sort of.

You might be thinking: what? 

But that’s Morton’s. 

The sliding doors opened smoothly for me upon arrival, which was always a good omen. I straightened the newsstand and went to look for Barry.

My manager, a small, Dominican man who loved to party, was in the produce section with a woman I assumed was his latest girlfriend. He was chucking the moldiest vegetables into an open trashcan.

“Our fresh produce is a travesty,” I said. “When was the last time someone bought an eggplant here?”

“I’m thinking of moving the veg,” said Barry, “they don’t like the energy in this corner.”

Barry was constantly moving things around the small labyrinth that was Morton’s. At least once a month he would take an hour long stroll from shelf to shelf, while I wrote down what was going where. I made a new map of the store for every big move.

“What are you guys up to tonight?” I asked, as Barry followed me to the register, bag of moldy vegetables in hand.

“Dancing,” said his date, with an endearing round of jazz hands, as Barry broke into a stationary samba while he gave me a list of stuff to work on. He treated me to his own enthusiastic jazz hands, and a few notes of a Juan Luis Guerra song as he samba’d in the direction of the door. As it swung shut behind them, I let the intense silence of Morton's wash over me. The fluorescent lights hummed gently. The food sat well behaved in slightly crooked rows. I turned my brain down to its lowest setting, and consulted my list.

...

[swimmer963]

Growth mindset or whatever

So there’s a trait I seem to have, best encapsulated by an anecdote: 

I currently sing in a choir with a bunch of my friends. I do this even though I am by no stretch of the imagination a particularly talented singer. Not the point. I love singing, it’s good for my mood and wellbeing, it gives me an endorphin high and makes me feel warm fuzzies for the people I’m singing with. 

Recently, there was an invite for a small-group extra rehearsal, where there was some expectation that you might be the only one on your part. I eagerly volunteered myself even though I *know* from past experience that the last time I did this (I was in a church choir and had to hold a part alone during one sunday service due to an unexpected failure of all the other sopranos to show up), it did not go well and I was basically told to leave the choir by the new director. Singing is great and I wasn’t about to turn down an extra opportunity to sing. 

I also volunteered myself to sing alto, even though I *know* I have a harder time getting my notes if they’re not the highest note in a chord - how am I ever going to improve at this if I don’t practice when I have the chance? 

I ended up having one friend join me on alto, and we showed up early to practice just our part together, and were starting to get it mostly-down while it was just us. Then the rest of the group showed up, and we tried to do a sing-through, and I very quickly had my face shoved in the fact that my sense of relative pitch is *shit* and I was approximately guessing my notes. We went off to do sectionals and practice just with the soprano singer, and I *still* couldn’t get it – my brain was refusing to give me any feedback except ‘???’ about whether I was singing the right note. 

I was feeling stuck, frustrated and self-conscious and humiliated, not knowing how to make progress...and then my friend suggested I sing with my pitch-detection app open (which I’d done while practicing stuff alone but hadn’t pulled out in a group rehearsal before). And suddenly I sang it through 80% correct on the first go, because I had all the *other* skills involved (reading music, quickly self-correcting to match the right note), I just needed a feedback loop to replace “person next to me confidently singing the right note.” No one can stop me from using a pitch app all the time! Maybe it’s cheating but cheating is just strategy! 

It was an exhilarating experience and I am 100% going back next time. 

---

Growth mindset is a common phrase in my social circles. I also hear people talk a lot about perfectionism and social anxiety, and the damage done to children when they are praised for inherent traits like intelligence, incorporate "good at X” into their self-image, and end up demoralized and too afraid of failure to try hard things. 

I won’t claim to have none of this problem, but it’s specific to a couple of areas, and I think it’s more of the form “negative updates would hurt a lot” than “I’m afraid to try hard things.” My response to fears like “what if I’m just not smart enough to X?” is a combination of “[shrug] I know I don’t have the raw talent to be a Nobel-prize-winning mathematician, tell me something new” and “well, no one thought I had enough innate musical talent at 11 to learn how to sing, and I sure showed them.” 

Maybe part of this is that for just about everything I’ve done, it’s not important to be the “best”, just to show up and do it at all. I was a nurse, and I didn’t need to be the *best* nurse in order for hospitals and travel agencies to fight over employing me. I’ve done ops work, despite all the skills I’m missing and all the weaknesses I’m trying to compensate for, like sucking at data-entry-type attention to detail. Sometimes I fucked up in embarrassing ways, but I was still an extra person being helpful, in a place where that was desperately needed, and that was enough to get *so much* social validation and reward. 

I do have, I think, a pretty good sense of whether my strengths and weaknesses lie on “innate” traits – where I can improve with relatively little effort. Wrapping my head around abstract systems is easy for me, relative to your average human (if not relative to my current social group). Learning fine motor tasks is not. Just means I needed to proactively hunt down every single opportunity to practice putting in IVs. I eventually did become pretty good, or at least had a reputation for it – maybe just because “jumping on any chance to practice” becomes a *habit* and I was the first to raise my hand if someone needed an IV on a “hard stick”. I was also goddamned stubborn, and would take ages to set up and carefully hunt for that one good vein, and try the max number of allowed sticks even if I didn’t expect to get it [EDIT: if the patient was okay with it, the max number is usually 2 and even very good nurses often can’t get an IV in 2 tries, and I think 80% of my IV prowess came from measures like heat packs and careful positioning that took longer to set up but made it nicer for the patient. Also, I ended up willing to try even when I didn’t expect to get it because like 25-50% of the time I *would* get it.]

(The more relevant question I ask myself for “can I realistically be excellent at X” is whether I will practice it obsessively enough. I could definitely learn programming, I just don’t enjoy it enough to end up getting good – not the way I enjoy writing, where it’s more “good luck stopping me”.) 

There are definitely areas where, looking at the balance of my innate talent, I would decide not to compete – not to show up at all. I’m calibrated enough to know where I’m not wanted, and where getting it perfectly is high-stakes enough that I shouldn’t risk it. I’ve sometimes “decided not to compete” in cases I don’t endorse on reflection, like having intellectual opinions and models of the world – my friends are smarter than me! They have *better* opinions and models!

I also pay attention at all to the social dynamics around this – the places where eagerly volunteering yourself will be taken as a claim that you “think you’re so good”, and you’ll get social punishment if you turn out to be mediocre. (I think there’s a way of navigating this where you make it clear that you *know* you suck, and are sort of earnest and puppydog about it, so no one reads it as you making a status claim.) 

If it was something I wanted badly enough, I suspect I would poke my nose in anyway. I have. I doubt the actually-good singers in the choir I joined at age 14 were very pleased by my showing up and singing the wrong notes next to them. 

Still, they let me get away with it. There are a *lot* of areas where the world has let me get away with trying new things and sucking at them; the only thing actually stopping me is embarrassment and self-consciousness, and man do I feel those sometimes, but I don’t endorse letting it get in my way. I can *act* shameless, even if I don’t always feel that way on the inside. 

(I’m aware that I may just be *lucky* to have had this experience, to have repeatedly found myself in groups that didn’t mock and shun me for having the audacity to make a claim that I could do X. Lucky that I have good enough social perception to play it right, and not look like I think I’m better than them. Lucky that I *do* have enough innate ability in enough areas that my practice usually pays off. Lucky that I’ve landed on things that were *fun* to practice obsessively. Idk.) 

This got really long and I’m not sure what my point is. Maybe just that this feels really core to who I am, and to the extent that I am good at some things as an adult, it’s because I’ve done this over and over and over again. And I wish everyone could feel that way deep down? I wish the world was such that no one was ever punished for loving something they weren’t talented at. 

(Also, if you see me doing a thing badly in public: trust me, I know I suck. I’m doing it anyway.)