#it would take me hours to remember a single strophe and i still would be barely able to stammer it out in front of the class

[lorei-writes]

For the writer asks... 2, 25, 49, 71

Hello, hello, and welcome! Thanks for playing with me! <3

2. Where do you get your fic ideas?

I... don't know. I also don't know how to answer this question without making it just a little bit embarrassing, haha. Oh well, embarrassing it is then.

Overall, I'd say it all boils down to the fact that my mind is a really loud place. My thoughts are nearly always racing. I struggle when dealing with outside noise (literal or visual), because it's even m o r e commotion adding to what is on the inside.

There are just a lot of connections being made at a fast pace? Say, I got anxious about my further education. It zapped straight to general future. I zapped to why am I not writing in the moment. It zapped to social media. Somebody posted a meme. I said something about cable ties. (Haha, trytka elektrytka sounds funny in Polish, note that down -- no, please, don't). Did somebody mention a nail? Jesus! Crucifixion! Replacing nails with cable ties. I instantly picture a Roman general performing a makeshift crucifixion with cable ties. Now make it kinky. Now don't make it kinky. "I never understood why you would care, and I dare say I still do not." I need to focus. I want to crochet. What about studying 2 point perspective? I want to translate that song (I've translated two strophes of that song!). I'm anxious, I'm anxious, I'm anxious. What will I do with my life. How will I mange.

"I never understood why you would care, and I dare say I still do not."

I put down that line. At this point I'm screaming on the inside. So I cling to it.

"My current existence is nothing more than an error in the matrix of this world."

Error how? Error why? Tell me, tell me, because I still don't know what I want to say, but the turmoil on the inside hurts too much.

"How come a person can be alive before a day they were even born?"

Remember that horror story you've tried to listen to? Take that. Take what you want. Bingo, you hit a jackpot, now run. Scream until it quiets down. (It took less than 15 minutes to write it down, counting in three breaks).

// Sometimes it's less chaotic and starts right at the 'write the first sentence and see where it takes you' point, but generally, everything is just a jumbled mess of connections that spark something.

25. What’s your favorite part of the writing process (worldbuilding, brainstorming/outlining, writing, editing, etc)?

I love brainstorming, but I must ration it out carefully. If I reach the conclusion too early, I will lose the drive to write it all out...

So, worldbuilding it is! Because I can brainstorm it ahead of time as much as I want, without it influencing my bursts of motivation in any significantly negative way. Heck, it usually gets me fired up.

49. What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

Probably Codependent, Guilty in Spe // Brother & No Visits Policy for the best picture...

However, if I had to choose just one, at the expense of accuracy, it'd probably be A Hundred Days and Nights.

71. Do you spend more time reading or writing?

Definitely writing.

I haven't been much of a reader for years now, both in regards to fanfiction and original fiction. If you consider just works written in English, it gets even worse. If you exclude the mangas I'm following... Yeaah...

On the plus side, that's probably better for my health? Because once I get invested into a story, I cannot put it down until it's over. Last year I finished a certain series in two days. I spent over 35h on reading then. (I squeezed all my sleep, eating and such into the remaining less-than-13-out-of-48h then... And this is a fairly fortunate outcome, since usually it would be nearly impossible to sleep at all).

FanFiction Writing Asks

[01939100284]

writing  samples  for  any  of  u  snoopers  wondering 

i.         ADORN   A    CORONET   OF   OSSEIN  ,    of    inter - braid’d    memory    meeting    upon    almadine    in   resurrection’s    reign.     (    hoary    floe    attempts    to    swallow     apricity     whole  ,   yet   he   persists ,   ink - boned    &    caliginous   ,   a   showdown   ‘twixt   two   winters   /   snowfall’s    final    front  ,   &   again   he   is   reduced   to   cliff - side   shoulders   sharpened   ‘neath   a   faded   pelt   in   ceaseless   sojourn   with   mane   bowed  :    vainglory’s    TOPPLE  FROM    mountainsides  into    alpenglow    /    usurp’d   by   cicatrized   tragedy   &   her    warrior    king  ,     a    mantle    spun    from    hearts    wrung    like    rags.   )    PERMAFROST   passes   over   him    in    a    vulnerose    breath—– - -  be    you    cantillating     antiphons   &    the    AUGUR’D    CARDINAL    of   unpeeling   springtide,    then   i   am    the    deadened    scars   of   scraping    snowflakes  &    ICICLED    poniards  ,   the    sizzling    edges   of    STILLBORN    ASTERISMS ,    the    ABANDONED    cub    galumphing    along     tundras    &     weather’d    war - ground.    the    sanded    fissure  ,    the   bloodied    footprint ,   the   smooth’d    edge    of    saturnine   /   rugose    CATASTROPHE  ,  prepared   for    reality’s    infinite    battlefield.

             &    know   it   is   me   when   i    am    station’d    upon    the    corpses   of   the   felled    /    when   i   stand   with   the   pithed   spine   of    victory    in   my   fist.    (    until   i   too   suffer    my    fall  :    hark   for    the    atrophied    opuscule   of    a    spear’d    nightingale    &    the   silenc’d   foot - falls   upon    GLORY’S   worn   iter.    but   for   now   i   am   still   a   cub   who   has   adopted   the   roar   of   the   pride   /   of    the    war -  weaned   /   of  HURRICANE’S   UNENDING   FURY  ,  the   screaming   damnation   of   angels.     )

      FOR   IF   I   AM   not   strong   then   i   am   moribund   ;    if   i   am    not      creation      then   i   am    HEADLESS   WAR.    if   i    am    not    solid    then    i   am    DRUXY /  aperture.    there   is   no   room    for    the    opened    arms   of    home   &   security ,    for  neottious   embraces    &    the    smell    of    rosewater.   instead   i   nidify  upon   the   lone   points    of    MOUNTAIN - CRESTS  where    betrayal    does    not    reach    &    the    rasp’d    wind    genuflects    to    the    eagle’s   say.       “IT   WOULD   BE   IDEAL to   be    remembered   by   everyone    &    positively.  as   i’m   sure   you’ve   learned    from    experience  ,   that   is   ALMOST   IMPOSSIBLE.”     seasonal   simper   to   crinkle   at   the   cut    of    lip,    wrought   from   the   salt   of   ocean’s   squall   ;   a   belladonna  dressed   in   candied   saccharine   ,   a   viper   sheathing   its   fang.   o  ,   child   of   kerosene  ,   a   single   match   /   flame’s   breadth   from   ERUPTING.      i   am   more   than   my   islanded   tragedy   /    the   saltwater   funerals    that    desiccates    commissure.         I   AM   THE   OPULENT   WAR   DRUM   THAT   ANNOUNCES   AN   ERA.

ii.       TAKE   HASTENED   STEPS    upon    reddened    verglas  ,   mark’d   with    exsiccated    bloodstreams     /    ROSE - HEDGED   DREAMS    of    fallen   /  vagient    fantassins  —– – -  rosen   future   gone   sallow  ,    rosen   future   gone   vacive  ,   their    final    phantasms    expos’d    through    holes   in  SAPWOOD.        yet    there   is   no   time    for    reflection    upon    deracinat’d   swevens  ,    of    dreams    whose    lining    is     edged    with    ink - scumbled    battles   &    the    serrate    nib    that    etched    upon    gloaming  —– - -  -   whom    i   have   confused    with    my   sword       time   &   time      again   ,    &    i    slit    the     hours     by      bleeding     lanced    heart    /     icarus’    hymn    upon    parchment   only    to     die    in    the     noyade     of    reneged   promises.     &     i    watched    (  with   turned   cheek  ,   for   without   a   glance   i   am   still   fixated   &    watching   )   as    a    lover’s   ichor   imbrued    the    INKWELLS   ,    witnessed    as    it    sous’d     smoldering     revolution    by    final    breath    that    served    only    as    a    reminder    to    the    september    i    turned    my    back    on    /    MOURN’D   in    my    silent    sable.     loss  ,   intertwined   with    the    penumbra  ,   my   baltering   half - dream   ,   &    by    moonlight’s    calling   ,   the    waiting    awakens    again    in    wolfish    nocturnes    /    lupine   sorrows   ,   &    closes    abruptly    with    aubades    orchestrated    by   birdsong.

           i   counted    the    days    adumbrated   by   cannonade   &    the    bodies      BLISTERED      by     nightfall  ,    &    stopped    only   when    the    constellations    were    seized   with   an    unthinkable   name  in    their    inhuman    frore ,     withered    now    only   to    ruminating    grief    /     relegated    only    to    numbering    my    scars    by   candlelight   when   the   world   sleeps.      (   then    i    extinguished   them    one   by   one   like   a   candle    only    to    burn    my   fingertips   upon    the   flame ,    &    realize   that   they   never   fade   by   command   ,  only   self  -  destruction.    )

       YET   ,   AGAIN   ,    breaks    between    conversation    offers    little    respite    to    water    your    TRAGEDY   &    root    it    in    the    catacombs    of    your    pneuma    /    to    ruminate    upon   a    blighted    &    nepheloid    elysium.     his    palms    are     sullied    with    fragmented    stems    /    vulnerose    petals    as    he    tears   through    gardens    in    desperation   ,    &    the    crow    sits    upon    his    ribs    &    shakes    out    its    wings.     (    underlined    by    the    dolorous   strophe     plucked    by     grief’s    hand   ,   the    elegiac    lament    played    upon    dusk’s    lyre    as    loss     indurates    the    WORMWOOD ,    the    choir   of   the    seraph    again    beckoning    for    the    return    of   tired    spirit.   )          the    thought’s    journey    only    deepens     learned    stoicism    &    ERECTED    CITADEL  ,      a     nightmarish    residue   that   cannot     be    absterged as   it   is    a   tapestry    sewn    from    umbrage    that   hangs    from    my   bones    like    a    swinging     noose   :    THE    HABILIMENTS   OF     THE    WEARY    TRAVELER.        “I   AM    FAR   FROM   IDEALISTIC.”     the    only    option    is   to   go   forward    &    lacerate    yourself    upon    thorns    &    naked    /   clawing    bough   ,    that    is    all    he   knows    :   dip    your    ankles    in    the    waves    &    wage    battle    with    the    rip   tide   ,    &    fight    against    time’s    clepsydra    with    his    mortal    hands.      “THOSE   WHO   ARE   SPURNED   now   for   having   a  different   voice  are    the    ones   venerated    in   textbooks.”