#i think this was my screensaver on my laptop at one point many years ago ashdjfkl

[izloveshorses]

when girls talk about how men look pretty with blood all over their face,,,,, this is what they mean

[celosiaa]

Hi! I am obsessed with your writing, it is so so endlessly good and you. Are so. Talented. Anyway, please feel free to ignore this, I won’t expect a reply, but prompt idea of someone (probably martin) giving jon a shoulder rub, and it giving jon flashbacks to his kidnapping and him very not being ok. Could take place either soon after the kidnapping, or like in post canon (maybe even with emma?) Again feel free not to reply, just wanted to share and tell you how much I love your work❤️❤️

hi friend!!! thank you so so much for this wonderful prompt!! and your sweet message <3 I apologize that this has taken so long, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! and I hope you’re having a wonderful day!

CW PTSD, flashback, panic attack

Quiet.

Peace of solitude, silence, loneliness has always been a bit of what Martin has missed from his life. He needs it as much as the sun, as much as the breath in his lungs. Sometimes the lingering ache of it all leaves him hurting—hurting over the fact that he shouldn’t want this; he should want to be, not to fade. He should be over this by now.

But, Jon. Jon understands. He understands that need for something you do not want better than just about anyone. So when Martin needs to disappear, or begs for quiet, or takes time to meditate and drift away, Jon always keeps his worry under what he surely thinks to be a careful façade. Martin sees right through it, of course. And loves him all the more for it every time.

Days like this should build up his reserve—the quiet days, where Jon is either gone, or busy, or engrossed in a novel Martin would never dream of picking up. But something about this is off, and Martin knows it.

He knows it by the way that Jon has barely shifted positions at his desk for many hours, other than to unfold and refold his legs under himself. Surely they must be aching—Martin knows they must. So many hours in one place tend to make Jon restless, his muscles cramping and his mind running wild. Sometimes in a good way—Martin is now accustomed to listening to very excited, lightning-fast monologues about whatever Jon had found himself fascinated by that day. But sometimes...sometimes, in other ways as well. Other ways not altogether pleasant.

Martin is certain this is one of the latter type.

From his vantage point in the kitchen, Martin can see the screensaver on Jon’s laptop running across it. Jon is working on nothing at all—has not been working on anything for nearly an hour now, and yet has not moved. It sets Martin’s teeth on edge, this sort of thing. When Jon appears as himself, is present as himself—and yet, not quite. Never quite there, not really. It reminds him of the early days after they had put the world back together, coming up on five years ago now. Days when Jon was drifting…and Martin had never been sure if he would come back.

Stop thinking stop stop

Don’t go there. Not now. Focus.

His head feels heavy with fog when he stands, as it often does—and he makes his way over to Jon, careful to step a bit heavier than usual so as to give some warning of his approach.

“Jon love?” he murmurs, keeping his tone as light as possible, much lighter than he feels. “You alright?”

The tiniest of jumps, barely noticeable. Jon freezes in place for a moment, before attempting to turn his head to look at Martin—and coming to a sudden stop with a groan, and a hand pressed into his shoulder.

“Hmm. Martin.”

His voice is rough from disuse, and he lets out a dry cough as Martin kneels slowly beside him.

“What are you working on?” he asks, trying the gentlest approach he can think of—and trying not to feel affronted when Jon flinches against the fingertips brushed against the back of his arm.

“I-I—erm—I was just…” He trails off as he realizes his laptop is asking him to enter the password again. “Ah. Well. Nothing at all, it seems.”

With a long sigh, Jon tips his head against the back of his chair—or rather, he tries. The motion seems to pull something uncomfortably in his neck, and he hisses painfully as he replaces his hand over the angle between his neck and shoulder.

“Alright, love? Can I help?”

“Ah, it’s—it’s fine, I-I did this to myself, I—”

“Jon.”

“—should get back to work—”

“Jon.”

Something of it seems to cut through his downward spiral, and he manages to meet Martin’s eyes at last—the shadows beneath his eyes outlining the exhausted desperation bubbling just behind them. For what, or who, or when, Martin cannot be sure—but he is sure that he needs to coax Jon out of whatever space he’s found himself in today.

“Does your neck hurt?” he asks, creasing his brows together when Jon attempts to shake his head, and winces instead. “Right, stupid question—how bad is it?”

“It’s fine—it’s nothing, it’s my fault anyway.”

It drives Martin mad how much Jon still wants to blame himself for everything, even the mundane, even things that require none. Especially things that require none. But, instead of putting a voice to this unsolvable frustration, Martin softens for the moment, stretching out a hand to cover Jon’s own where it still rests on the side of his neck.

“Want to try a little massage?” he asks, pressing a small kiss to Jon’s temple. “Maybe it’ll loosen you up enough to turn your head, at least.”

“Hmm,” is the only reply Jon gives, eyes falling closed against the gentle warmth of Martin’s hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Chuckling lightly, Martin stands behind him and gets to work.

He rests his fingertips lightly on the sides of Jon’s neck at first, being sure to always remain toward the back and away from his scar. Slowly, he begins to work his fingers a bit deeper into the muscle, traveling from the nape of his neck and down, as Jon unbuttons just the top of his shirt and shrugs the material off his shoulders. It warms Martin’s heart immeasurably to see him beginning to relax under his hands. And more importantly, gives him a wonderful idea for how to make this even better.

“One moment, love,” he whispers next to Jon’s ear, pressing another quick kiss to his temple before stepping away to root through his desk for the massage oil he’d been given by a friend. Sure, maybe he’s never used it, but…lavender certainly sounds like a relaxing smell, and god knows that Jon needs as much assistance with that as he can get.

“Alright, here we are.” He uncaps the bottle and holds it in front of Jon for him to smell. “What do you think?”

Jon blinks in surprise at the new smell, then furrows his brows.

“Wh—what is this?”

“Massage oil. I’ve never used it but—well, now’s as good a time as any, right?”

“I-I…I suppose so.”

The hesitance in Jon’s voice sends up warning flags in Martin’s mind at once—and he steps to the side to get a better look at Jon’s face. A bit glazed, vacant, as he turns the bottle of massage oil over and over in his hands.

“Is something wrong?” Martin asks, cocking his head to one side in confusion. “If you don’t like the smell, I won’t use it.”

“No no, it’s not that,” he assures, closing his eyes as if to clear some picture displayed in front of them. “I don’t know. I—erm. You can try it.”

“Jon…”

“Try it, please try it. It—it should be nice.”

For all that he insists, something about this gives Martin pause. Something in his voice, his body language doesn’t sit right at all—

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, setting a gentle hand on his knee as he crouches to his eye level. “What’s going on?”

A few tense moments go by before Jon responds, the knee beneath Martin’s hand beginning to bounce with an all-too-familiar surge of anxiety. Face going ashen, he attempts a strained, awful sort of smile.

“S-sorry, I—sorry, it’s fine, just—ah.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, love—is it the smell that bothered you? Can you tell me what’s happening?

His leg bounces harder, the other one beginning to join it. As he meets Martin’s eyes again, it is with a particular brand of shock and horror that tells Martin he is barely hanging on to his surroundings. It twists as a knife in his gut, pulling at his insides as his new task shifts to keeping Jon with him.

“Alright, love. You’re here with me, okay? Here, take my hand—”

He extends his own trying to pull Jon’s away from the white-knuckle grip on the arm of his chair—and Jon takes a gasping inhale, clutching at his neck in panic.

“Woah woah, Jon—”

“STOP stop stop please stop—”

Reeling from the sudden shouting, Martin pulls his hands away from Jon as if they had been burned, falling backwards from his crouch and onto the floor in alarm. The lavender oil in Jon’s hand skitters away across the floor as it slips from his hold. Pounding, pounding, pounding is Martin’s heart in his chest, adrenaline overpowering his thoughts for a few moments before he can really take action. What had happened? What had he done to make Jon feel so unsafe?

“Mm—ha—ah—”

“Hold on love, hold on,” he soothes, reaching out a hand of comfort, before thinking better of it. “I’ll be back, just hold on.”

Lifting himself as quickly as possible from the floor, Martin strides quickly towards their refrigerator, yanking open the freezer door and grabbing an ice cube for Jon to ground himself with. Or at least, so he hopes.

What happened?

What did I do? Did I say something?

Did I—

Oh.

Oh god, no.

Heart twinging with guilt, he hurries back to his husband’s side, gently slipping the ice cube back into his palm with as little skin contact as possible. If he feels like he’s back there, back with the clown, with unfamiliar hands of plastic and metal touching him, preparing him, readying him for the harvest—then Martin knows even his own familiar hands will be lost among the noise of the others. Interpreted as a threat.

God, Jon. What have I done?

“Here, sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re here with me.”

The words seem unable to reach him in this state—he blinks rapidly, staring into something unseen, unheard—his entire body trembling with adrenaline, fear, anticipation…and god knows what else. Aching, aching is Martin’s chest as he watches it all unfold, knowing that there is nothing to do but wait for the flashback to end and hope his suffering is as brief as possible.

“N-no—Nikola—”

“You’re here with me, Jon. You’re safe.”

“S-stop, don’t—touch me!”

Oh, Jon.

A few more seconds of true unawareness—before a bit of movement from his right pulls Martin’s gaze down towards the hand which holds the ice cube. As he begins to roll it around, Martin prays the sensation of it will be enough of an anchor this time, that this will be the end of it. That nothing will launch him back into the panic, just as his breathing begins to slow.  As a precaution, Martin grabs the small vial of lavender oil from the carpet, shoving it into his pocket and out of sight.

“Jon? You back with me?”

“…mmm,” he hums, after a few moments’ delay. His eyes slip closed as he attempts to control his breathing, still running the ice between his fingers while his entire frame trembles.

“Alright,” Martin murmurs, coming to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “I’m right here. I’m not gonna touch you, but I’m right here.”

Eerie stillness hangs heavy in the space between them, all silence save for the shuddering of Jon’s body against the chair and the scant air moving through his lungs. And oh, how Martin wants to reach for him—but knows of course he cannot, not until it’s passed a bit, not until Jon remembers where he is. When he is. It cracks in Martin’s chest, spidering through his heart and lungs the longer the silence holds.

Come back.

Come back.

Come back.

I’m not going to leave you.

“Mmm,” Jon echoes his earlier hum, leg beginning to bounce again, stocking feet curling into the carpet. “I’m—here. Here.”

“Yes, you’re here. Here with me,” Martin breathes, nearly crying with relief as tears begin to slip down Jon’s face. “Do you know where?”

“Home.”

His voice cracks in the middle, forcing a shuddering inhale; a broken sob of an exhale as at last he leans forward, bracing his head in his hands.

“Martin.”

“I’m here, love. Home with you.”

“I can’t—” He breaks off to inhale sharply. “Can’t feel my legs, Martin, please—”

“Okay, alright, love. Head between your knees—you’re gonna be alright.”

Jon obliges at once, sinking lower, deepening his breaths, following Martin’s careful pattern toward some semblance of calm. Not quite there, and will not be for some time. The knowledge of it sits heavy in the back of Martin’s throat, and he swallows angrily at it. This is his fault; he should have seen this coming, should have spared a single thought for the wellbeing of his husband and now he cannot even comfort him—

A trembling hand suddenly brushes against his arm, searching. Asking for him—searching for his anchor. After all this time…after everything.

Martin can no longer keep the tears back—and does not want to.

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, pulling Jon into his chest at once, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his hair. “I’m here. I’m so sorry, love. So sorry.”

“Martin.”

“You’re safe. I’m here.”

Jon buries his face into the soft knit of Martin’s jumper at his shoulder, slackening so deeply into his hold that Martin nearly topples over.

“I’m safe,” he echoes, muffled. “You’re here.”

[lavenderandsage]

Behind the Scenes - Episode Two

There was darkness at first.

A bleak nothingness if anything.

But then, a slow, sluggish awareness. An ebbing spasm evolving into a stabbing pain in her neck, an achy stiffness in her legs that begged to be stretched out. She blinked, assessing her environment and groaning lowly. She tilted her head back to an upright position and found that she still remained upright against the wall, her lanky legs sprawled out in front of her. Next to her, Jughead slumped over in a heap on his side, his feet pressed up against her thigh and his right bicep used as a pillow. The screensaver on his forgotten laptop changed slide to slide still but remained toppled over in front of him on the floor.

She gasped loudly. It was morning. She didn’t need a watch to tell her she was already late.

The sleeping boy stirred and groaned lowly, pulling his knees into his body and attempting to sit upright. “Oh, god,” he rasped out. “Ow.” He rubbed the back his tender neck.

Sage jumped to her feet hastily, scrambling for her rucksack. “Oh no, I fell asleep. We fell asleep! Son of a bitch! I’m late!” she exclaimed.

Jughead sluggishly looked up at his panicked friend. “I don’t remember falling asleep,” he moaned sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. The last thing he remembered, Sage had fallen asleep beside him and he resorted to typing out a few new paragraphs. He watched as Sage located her jacket and threw it on carelessly and swung her bag over her shoulder.

“Neither do I,” she said, frantically, realizing her feet were bare. “Where are my boots?”

He pointed at the end of his makeshift bed, crawling over and picking it up and tossing her one. “Hey,” he said softly.

She froze as she stood on one leg, hands fumbling to tie up her boot. “What?”

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I can’t be late Jug.” she furiously tugged on her other boot. “I have to go to school and I have a test. It’s part of my agreement with FP. I have to go. Maybe I'll see you around.”

With the mention of FB, Jug’s mouth instantly went dry. He nodded numbly, and before he could get another word out, she dashed out the door.

With a heavy sigh, he closed his laptop shut and got up and began to get ready for another mundane day at Riverdale High School.

For Sage, school didn’t hold much of anything. She didn’t get good grades and she didn’t like being forced to learn. It was simply an obligation and a bargaining chip. Either way, she found herself sitting at the Serpent’s table, munching loudly on an apple, when Sweet Pea and his best pal Fangs, plopped down beside her.

Both boys had food piled high on their trays and wasted no time digging in.

“You end up getting your beauty rest?” Sweet Pea asked through a mouthful.

Sage shook her head. “Not really. It sucks, cause I have a test in English today, that I’m totally going to fail.”

“Skip it.” Sweet Pea suggested, eyeing the table of people across the cafeteria.

Southside High had always been a mixed bag of colorful people. Southside had a strong reputation for drugs, gangs, and thieves which naturally begat, chaos. Anybody born of Southside usually stayed in Southside. Instead of being ashamed of it, most of the people were proud of their heritage. They embraced it and wore it as a badge of honor. For years past, the Serpent's had run the town, but as of late, new threats were encroaching on their territory, and the Serpents were weakened by the events of late. The rope was fraying, strand by strand.

“Stupid ghoulish fiends.” Fangs muttered, catching Sweet Pea’s glance.

“Does FP still have you tailing them?” Sage questioned.

Fangs nodded. “Yea, but so far, I don’t have much on them. I don’t know who or where they’re getting the heroin from. I just know that everyone wants what they have lately, not what we’re offering.”

Sweet Pea’s eyes clouded over, his fist curling angrily on the table in front of him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sage said to diffuse Sweet Pea, swiping a fry off of Fang’s plate. “We always do. Hey, how’d you make out with the new girl, Sweets?”

Sweet Pea’s face lightened up immediately and he grinned wide, pushing his tray with his half eaten food over to Sage. “Swing and a miss. Toni said that she’s -and I quote, “more into girls.”

Sage and Fangs laughed boisterously. At the same time, Toni made her way over from the cafe line and plopped down with her tray and a pile of books. She looked between them bewildered when Fangs and Sage doubled over in another fit of laughter.

Sweet Pea shook his head. “Ignore them,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Toni, these are my friends, Fangs, and Sage.”

Toni smiled warmly. “Nice to meet you both. I think I saw both of you last night actually. I was there with my grandfather. Can anyone tell me why we’ve been having parties at the Twilight Drive-In of all places?”

“Ah, it’s just been our spot lately. We do a lot of deals there and it’s town property but the town’s given up on it finally. Sheriff Keller has bigger things on his plate, especially now.” Fangs explained.

That was true, but there was more to that statement which Fangs neglected to expand on. An outsider had paid the Serpents good money to trash the local spot, thereby decreasing the value of the land. Decreased value meant it could be purchased at a lower price. It was a win for everyone, except anyone that loved the drive-in.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

“Toni, we’ll see you at White Wyrm after school? ” asked Sage. She liked Toni immediately.

A smile graced Toni’s lips. “I’ll be there.”

As promised, the four of them sat in a back booth at the Whyte Wyrm.

It was a large, grungy place, with bad lighting and a constant reek of liquor and beer, but it was home for so many of the Serpents.

“So, when exactly did you complete the Serpent’s Dance?” Fangs asked curiously, leaning in. “And how did I miss that?”

“Oh god, Fangs,” groaned Sage.

Toni rolled her eyes. “You mean that outdated and sexist tradition? Back in the summer, like the end of June,” she replied bitterly.

“We’ve all had to do it.” shrugged Sage, although she agreed with Toni.

“Not the boys.” Sweet Pea smirked, flashing a row of his perfect white teeth

“Misogyny dies hard.” murmured Toni, annoyed.

“Seriously, how did we miss that?” Fangs wondered aloud.

“That must have been when we were on that run, dropping off stuff for the Blossom boy to pick up.” Sweet Pea reminded him.

Sage’s ears instantly perked up. She remembered the boy, whose hair reminded her of the red licorice that she used to steal from the Penny Store. He had found his way to the Whyte Wyrm and asked for fast cash. It came at a cost of course, but he was willing to pay.

Did he know it would cost his life?

“Who are you?” Sage asked him from the wooden steps she was sitting on.

“I’m here to see FP,” he stated with false confidence as if he had rehearsed it prior.

“What does a Northsider want with the Serpent King?” she mused, standing up to circle around him. He was taller than her and watched her move slowly until still stopped into the front of him, sizing him up.

Fear and doubt flickered momentarily in his eyes before it was replaced with determination. “I need money and you need runners that don’t look like petty riff rats. I’m here to talk with FP.”

She gnawed on her lip for a moment, slightly impressed.

“Sage, inside. I’ll take care of this.” a voice from behind her boomed with authority. She turned to see the Serpent King himself, standing in the doorway.

“Jason Blossom…” his name rolled off FP’s tongue like honey before he greeted him with a sly smile.

“Let’s talk, boy.”

“Sage!”

She blinked coming back to reality. “Huh, what?” she stuttered, looking up from her drink.

“I asked you if you’re doing the drop with me tonight, or if you’re gonna sneak off to see Jughead again,” repeated Sweet Pea, with a raised eyebrow.

Her mouth dropped open slightly, but she couldn’t come up with a defense.

“Yea,” he continued, running the pad of his finger along the rim of his glass. “I saw you last night.”

“FP’s son?” questioned Toni. “You know him?”

“We all do.” shrugged Sage. “In one way or another.”

“I don’t get it. Where is he? Why isn’t he with the Serpents?”

Fangs leaned forward, folding his arms on to the table “He stays on Northside territory now. It’s kinda a sore spot.”

Sweet Pea made a noise of disgust under his breath. “Traitor.”

Fangs continued, “Things around here have been… tough lately. Gladys moved up to Toledo almost a year ago after FP lost his job and when on a drinking binge. Rumor has it, she started up her own business and it could very well be an extension of the Serpents.” he whispered in a hushed voice.

“But Serpents don’t abandon their own…” Toni trailed off.

“And nobody knows if that’s true,” added Sage.

Fangs shrugged. “I don’t know. Tall Boy and Mustang have been stepping in a lot with these new threats popping up.”

Toni fiddled and ripped her napkin in tiny pieces, scattering them across the table. “Think Jughead will eventually join us?”

“That prick?” scoffed Sweet Pea.

“Hey,” Sage’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowed in a tight glare at him, “Say whatever you want, if he chooses, he’s next in line to lead this club.”

“If he wants it, and he’s made it clear… he doesn’t.” Fangs resolved.

Silence fell among them for a moment.

“To answer your question, Sweet Pea.” Sage piped up, softer this time. “Yea, I’ve got your six on the run tonight.”

Sweet Pea nodded curtly, still sour at the mention of the long-lost Serpent Prince. “Good.”

Sage hated that Fangs was right. Absolutely hated it. Jughead had no interest or intention in getting tangled up in the gang. In fact, since his mother and sister had left, he’d become more brooding and introverted than ever, almost a shell of himself. A tumbleweed, blowing from one side of the town to the next.

Her mind drifted again to the night before. Up until last night, she hadn’t seen him in months. It was so good to see him again. Like a breath of fresh air after inhaling stagnant polluted water.

The long summer months with the Serpents had kept her busy and working long hours. All the while, Jug stayed close to his Northsider friends, buried behind a book, a laptop or a milkshake.

As much as she knew he was never too far away, and as much as she missed her friend, it didn’t change anything. He didn’t want the life she needed and he moreover, he didn’t understand why she needed it. She didn’t understand why he was reluctant to be a part of something that was his destiny and flat out denied it.

But what Sage didn’t know, was how true Jughead’s words from the night before would be.

The worst was yet to come.

Author’s Note: All mistakes are mine. I have other chapters posted on Wattpad and Fanfiction but am slowly re-writing it as I work on sharpening my writing skills.  So don’t mind me! 

In the meantime, two fanfictions I’ve really been enjoying/obsessing over/binging are @rivendell101 ‘s Focal Point (4 part WIP) and @princesweetpea ‘s I Found. Go give those a read and send some love.  And send me some good reads to dive into too! Thank you! 

[podcake]

Podcasts & Style/Substance

I must share to you readers that I am in the middle of a very much expected but somewhat rough decision at the moment. After about six or more years of having the same black Toshiba laptop that has stored information from middle school crossover fanfiction to job resumes to questionable png files, I’m afraid it has officially kicked the bucket or at least fallen into some kind of cybernetic limbo. 

After one faithful day when it gave itself one less kick to grant me the privilege of finishing Miss Koboyashi’s Dragon Maid and was forced onto an infinite black screen for all eternity, it dawned on me that my little pal that has been my partner in blogging for years just couldn’t pull through the strength anymore. 

It was an old, busted thing by now-touch pad now replaced by a wireless mouse, brown-gray dust permanently caked onto the screen and in between the keyboard from lord knows wear, a severe lag that regularly musters an effort to keep my video files and word documents secure as I mindlessly surf the internet, and a battery that kept my computer at a pathetic half way point that threatened to undo all of my current progress if a passing dog were to trip the wire at the slightest. 

Little Tobi (as I called them) was a good friend and I will dearly miss them and the disposable information I will lose from letting it rot in the bottom of my bed for now. I write this now from my mother’s laptop as I secretly plan out my next move. 

The likely preceding from here is that I have plans to buy a new laptop to continue my work, to which you are entirely right. I am already aware that the simple black Toshiba with its decent screen size and functional keyboard are all I need for a few extra years of blogging and book pitches, but it’s so…boring. 

Beyond my desktop customization, there’s not much to old Tobi that really sparked the imagination of what kind of person I am and what business I have with a laptop from the get-go. To any passerby I could easily be an accountant or an overworked college student grinding through an essay. 

It’s a bland but perfectly usable piece of machinery that has done me no wrong for years, and yet I find myself eager to pursue something different. Something more pink.

I am set for my next laptop to be a pink one and my itchy buying finger might just make that happen before the summer ends. And my strong, personal desire for every item within my reach to be pink-or something related to pink-tends to skew my idea about features and actual quality. 

My sights have been set on a smaller computer with less memory and detachable keyboard for about a week and I am so very close to just finalizing the deal without anyone else’s input because…it’s pink. And I like pink.

This got me thinking about how we as content creators and consumers tend to be divided over what we perceive as genuine quality in our media. Specifically targeting podcasts, I do believe the concept of style and substance is a very common recurrence we come across and I have mentioned it at least vaguely in most of my reviews and other articles. 

The term “style vs substance” tends to have a fairly flexible meaning behind it that can pertain to multiple aspects at once. This contrast can come to mind when dealing with everyday obstacles and personal preferences over pretty much anything, though let’s talk about how it pertains to audio fiction since I know that’s what you’re here for.

Substance has to mainly deal with the idea of something’s overall depth and purpose. Substance aims to tell you one thing or multiple things and provide it in such a way that the idea can’t be muddled or misinterpreted. Be it an Aesop or a specific type of theme or message, substance is meant to leave an impression in more of the practical variety.

Style is much different. Style can be easily defined as to how something is done or presented in a way that is distinctly unique. Style aims to be eye-catching, interesting, or to generally appeal to a certain type of aesthetic choice. It wants to look good or cool or scary or weird and will go by any stretch of the imagination to fulfill that.

A story that relies too heavily on substance will certainly have a focal point and a clear narrative that is easy to digest, but it will be at the risk of being unremarkable. It will not stick with a listener if an audio drama has a very clean cut story and characters that all fit predetermined roles but no real flair of individuality that makes its whole plot really ring any bells besides the ones set to a very specific tune. 

On the flip side of this coin, too much style can provide an entirely different dilemma. This creates the situation in a which a show is rich in pretty little details and nice music and the occasional wit, but it will ultimately be as compelling as a screensaver. These stories don’t exist in the realm of being genuinely deep or progressive but rather to just to give off a unique vibe, which can make it rather hollow in everything else. 

In my last article, I did go on about my irritation with podcasts that don’t cater to a story and care more about being quirky for quirky’s sake, namely about the over saturation of the “fake radio show” format that is hopefully being reworked by The Bridge as we speak, but that’s a topic I’ve ragged on enough one March ago.

And despite this, I am lucky enough to be invested in a type of medium that seems to have this style and substance balance pretty well figured out. 

Not everyone is a winner in this department, though I am confident in my belief that many podcast writers know that their vision is not complete without a purpose and that this purpose can stay relevant with just the right amount of tasteful flourish. 

As this is a fairly open-ended topic, there is more than one way to manage this balance. For example, I believe a show is capable of being more heavy on substance while still having a style because the aesthetic of choice was minimalist to begin with. Titles that comes to mind is The Bright Sessions, Wolf 359, and the newest show I’ve gotten around to simply titled OAKPODCAST. 

I won’t go into much detail about each one though all of them do cater more to providing substance over style in a way that works. They are known best for their character focus, engaging dialogue and some occasional thoughtful narration, and mostly realistic portrayal of its setting even though they will occasionally lean heavily on otherworldly elements to show the setting is not as normal as it appears. 

These shows are abundant in the substance category because its ideas are meant to be narrowed down to a few very specific idea pertaining to whatever arc or character they may focusing on. And yet they are still memorable because they exist in a world that is just different enough from our own that we’d like to learn more about it.

Shows that play more into style than substance can be equally engaging. Ones that come to mind are Hadron Gospel Hour and The Meat Blockade, two very different shows that are dedicated to strong stylistic choices that don’t interfere with its narrative. 

Be it Gospel Hour with its love for dimensional travel and ideas directly inspired from seventies and eighties pop culture or The Meat Blockade’s ideas drawn from the likes of Kafkaesque and surreal humor and just the right touch of Broadway, it’s clear where the focus is meant to be without it being a deal breaker on where the story lies in all this. Thus the strange decisions work as a service to the story rather than it being treated as a lesser priority. 

Going back to the Broadway thing, I wasn’t kidding. The Meat Blockade has an entire, roughly four minute segment in their fifth episode where a group of anthropomorphic frogs break out in a music number…and it works really well because it’s ultimately an exposition song that describes their current situation, the hidden lore about the setting, some hints of foreshadow, and nicely transitions into the next scene and leaves on a cliff hanger for episode six.

It’s such a strange choice editing and writing wise and I’m choosing to provide this as an example because it’s a damn excellent way to establish creativity and tasteful zaniness that still works to inform.

But it is also possible to have a fifty-fifty situation going on where the style and the substance coexist so well that one cannot exist without the other.

Our Fair City comes to mind where it’s richly described dystopian world and unique characters are used to explore more in-depth themes and still have one single tale to tell, or, multiple branching tales. 

The same can apply to Greater Boston with just a touch more realism thrown into the mix, creating a fairly stylish and satisfying audio drama about life in a fictionalized version of a real city.

The key here is that the world and its rules play a part in why the characters act the way they do which lets it be equal parts distinct and fulfilling as a story.

Without these aesthetic decisions in mind, some of these shows simply wouldn’t be what they are while the same can apply the substance latent shows who wouldn’t be the same without their choice of character interaction and treatment of specific themes. 

Some are far more likely to lean more towards one than the other but that’s because it’s not a necessity for The Bright Sessions to have a jazzy backtrack and it’s not expected for The Meat Blockade to have a long and detailed monologue about Berenger’s relationship with his girlfriend. 

But that’s the interesting thing about the style and substance equation-it can be switched around as many times as necessary to fit a story’s current narrative. Maybe one day we learn the tragic backstory of a single gag character, maybe one day there will be a stretch of retro-funk music played over a straight faced hero’s inner thoughts. 

It’s when these ideas are of service to the stakes and a characters’ all around presence that the script can be flipped and deliver a much needed change of tone that keeps the listener on their toes.

This won’t only be impressive on a sound design and editing standpoint, but also establish some diversity in the writing style to keep the story varied and interesting. 

Whatever the balance may be, it must be one that lets the story flourish in a way that feels authentic and natural. A concept is only as strong as the effort going into it. 

Don’t allow a story to be expressed in a distinct way then it won’t be remembered but let flair and pizzazz be too much of a focus and your final product will come off as meaningless fluff. 

Let your world building and natural need for sparkle be the thing that draws in the viewer rather than isolate them from the goings on of what is especially important. 

Don’t let characters fade into oblivion from a need to make a story easy to understand, let them be factors and active players, not mouthpieces and exposition machines. 

And if one certain element speaks to your project more than the other, that is entirely understandable. Certain plots are better seen through a substance perspective than a stylish one and some ideas are best seen with stylish decisions being a priority with substance being a smaller part of the equation.

I suppose you could say it’s less a case of style vs substance than it is style/substance or substance/style-it’s a balancing act that comes with compromise and patience rather, not just a case of right and wrong.

So thus my decision about what new laptop I should get to replace my old one is less a choice of a functional laptop or a pink laptop, but rather settling on a functional pink laptop.

[hittingthebooks]

[march study challenge] • 05/03/17

Day 5: studyblrs get real

I’ve been looking forward to this one for a while now, because I am nowhere near the picture-perfect accounts with clean uncluttered desks and white backgrounds and neat handwritten notes with every title written in flawless calligraphy. It’s a shame because the studyblr community sort of conditions you into thinking that you need to have an aesthetic or you won’t get notes, and then that means we have an unrealistic view of what studying should really be. This is something I wrote in my very first post:

“I realised I wasn’t cut out to be one of those cool minimalist bloggers that used mildliners to highlight every second line of their aesthetic study notes. So I reckon my posts will lean towards the study end of things, but this probably won’t be Scandinavian stationery and pastel-coloured calligraphy. If it does turn out like that, I’ll cry a little inside. This, for me, is an online journal to document how I go this year. I want a place to keep it real, to post things that I learn and to see how I’ve grown over my final year of school.”

I have to shamefully say that I’m not really upholding my aforementioned promise to keep it real on this blog, so I hope that the following list makes up for it:

All my photos are 100% staged!!!!! Need I say anything else? This seems blatantly obvious, but in case you didn’t realise the first time, I’ll say it again: they’re all staged! While I own all the things featured in my photos, they’re never actually arranged neatly and artistically when I’m working! Seriously, do people really study with their pastel highlighters in colour order, their sweater just artfully draped over their notes and their laptop open to the nice clock screensaver thing? I mean sometimes I study on my bed with my notes spread out over my sheets because I’m lazy and my bed is comfy, but even then it looks nothing like it does in my photos.

I do digital notes, which are strangely underrepresented on the study side of tumblr - seriously, you all have laptops, I’m sure you make digital notes too, even if they’re just the first draft! I know that it’s been proven that you study and memorise better with notes you’ve actually handwritten, but I am honestly lucky enough to get away with light studying and little notes/little rewriting of notes (which saves so much time) because I grasp concepts really quickly and have a good memory and understanding, to the point where I really only need to hear something once in class (without writing it in class!) and commit it to memory for good (and trust me, I try not to take this for granted because I know how many people would kill for it! Although it comes with its downsides - I don’t really know how to study) anyway, I decided to make this my picture for today because the whole idea of it goes against what the studyblr community thinks looks nice. No calligraphy, no cute dividers, no Japanese stationery.

I’m not put-together at all, I’m sometimes so disorganised that I lose things on my own desk, my school bag is a mess of paper and right now I’m dealing with exam stress in the worst possible way. The panic attacks and breakdowns have happened so frequently that I’ve lost count - I had chemistry last Friday and literally cried in the exam room, facing my paper. Trust me, if there is anything more mortifying than crying at school, it is crying in the middle of the exam room while everyone stares at you.

I don’t own any mildliners OR muji pens - this one is pretty self-explanatory, but yep you read that right, I don’t own a single one! I try not to buy myself expensive or unnecessary stationery (if you see anything expensive in my original content, those are usually gifts from friends!) The way I see it, all I need are a couple of good quality pens for notes and essays and that’s it. I save my money for bigger and better things, like a holiday after graduating this year and (!!!) university fees (omg I’m not ready for uni next year at all!)

I start assignments the night before - okay, so I’ve honestly improved on this one and this year I haven’t started anything the night before (maybe 2 nights before?) but a few years ago this was a serious issue for me. I’ve never needed to pull an all-nighter because I can work fast and efficiently when I have to, but once I started writing a speech way too late and then got too tired and went to bed at around 1:30am. Worst mistake of my life - I woke up, tried working on it before school and during my free period, and ended up finishing it in the 20 minute recess break before my speech was due. Not my finest moment, but hey I learned a lesson and I’ve never done anything like that since.

I have terrible sleep patterns. I consistently go to bed at 11:30-12 or even later, either because I’m procrastinating watching beauty YouTubers (yes I procrastinate! shock horror) or trying to fit in some last minute study or just because I fell asleep at my table, and then I wake up at 6 completely unsatisfied with my sleep. I’m so tired that I have constant dark circles and pimples, and I can’t survive a whole day without at least a double shot of coffee otherwise I’ll be nodding off during the day and taking a massive nap when I get home. I’m starting to think maybe the Spanish were right about siestas...

I’ve gained weight and I’m not proud of it. After being underweight my whole life, I’ve finally made it onto the cusp of the “healthy weight” BMI mark - which I understand is nothing to be ashamed of and is honestly a healthy thing (hence why they call it healthy weight), but it feels so ungratifying. Thanks to the demands of school, I’m not exercising as frequently as I used to (only once a week compared to three times a week before!) and to make matters worse, this year has been so hard on me emotionally and mentally that I just keep eating junk food for comfort. I don’t think I could even count how many times I’ve turned to ice cream (Häagen-Dazs salted caramel you are my saviour) or chocolate (I bought $12 worth of chocolate last week after a panic attack!) I’ve never had kale or a green smoothie or an açaí bowl in my life, I’m just not one of those people.

It is 9pm on a school night and I have not showered or eaten dinner. I just randomly felt like putting this one in as I finished this post just to further illustrate my point about how disorganised I am. As you can tell, I am clearly winning at life. But hey, character building right? Now I’m off to eat some cold leftovers, go me.