#just send your post out into the ether and hope for anyone to acknowledge your existance like the rest of us

[magicalflyingcow]

Is it just me or does anyone else also refuse to even look at blazed posts? Like that's just basically an ad right? Like maybe you aren't trying to sell something, but sometimes they are? And even if not, why you paying money to shove this post in my face? Stop it.

[acatalystrising]

As fellow member of the Church of Boba Fett ♥ May I please have anything for the song 'Sunflower' - Post Malone.

Can be of Boba, can be anyone. No context (even tho I break this rule a lot lmao), any style, any pair, can be a wip, or just write it as you feel it, hear it, vibe to it. Anything. Go! ♥

*casually vibes* ♥

GAAHH my Boba bestie this took far too long to answer, and I am SO sorry you had to wait! Just had a death in the family so I had to take some time away to process. But I’m back with a lovely one shot that I had a blast writing!

The Church of Boba Fett needs as much content of our beloved green tin can man as possible, and I hope this was worth the wait 💚🖤

Boba Fett knew you wanted him.

It wasn’t a matter of an overly inflated ego on his part or a lack of obvious flirtation on yours. To put it simply, you were pure sunlight, something brilliant and blazing in his often bloodstained world of crime and order. Something untarnished by the very violence he’d been born into.

The violence he’d committed.

It wasn’t even so simple to say he didn’t deserve you. Yes, that would be true, however dramatic a statement in his opinion, but there was something else. Something that itched in the back of his brain even as he watched you from atop his throne, seated near the back of the room, engaged in conversation with several people who, from his perspective, would easily kill you for the right price.

He cared for you, truly, truly cared. And Boba knew that logically, the best way to protect you was either to send you away, or claim you as his own. None would dare lay a finger on you if you were his. He’d ensure it.

But still, he hesitated.

At the end of the day, it was a simple truth. A manacle over the proverbial ankle, truths clamping down to tight they might as well have choked him.

You were fiery, passionate. Full of vigor and sparks, so capable. But you were also innocent. Untouched by the bloodshed he knew like breathing. And he could not, in good conscience, pull you into a world you were never meant to be a part of.

He sighed, his breath hot and weighty on his lips. His armor suddenly felt too heavy on his chest. Even heavier as the hours bled to the evening, visitors finally slipping out of the throne room for the evening. But not you - as stubborn as Fennec in so many ways, who made her point quite painfully made via a raised eyebrow, followed by a smirk, then her final wink as she left the room.

Boba was very grateful for his helmet when you stood, shyly ambling toward his throne under the guise of cleaning, nimble fingers picking up pieces of trash that littered the ground. For some reason it made him angry. You were too pretty to lower yourself so.

Damn it. He was too attached.

“Don’t worry about that, mesh’la.” His voice cut through the room, tone a tad harsher than he’d intended. “Leave it for the droids.”

You blinked, finally looking up at him, then glancing away in an unsuccessful attempt to hide your blush. Stars, you were like a sunflower. Radiant, ethereal, and too perfect for his broken hands to sully.

“Okay,” you dipped your head in acknowledgment, still hovering on no move feet, as if waiting for something. Disguising with with a nervous dusting of the throne’s steps.

Words hovered unspoken, thick as the tension in the air. Worry wove into your brows like a sudden change of weather, tension of an oncoming storm. Did you think he wasn’t interested? How could he let you down easy? Tell you that he was interested, but…

But, what?

Kriffing damn it. Boba Fett was afraid. Afraid of hurting you, of marring your sunshine. Of not being good enough for you.

“Well, it’s getting late. If you need anything, just let me know.” You dipped your head in a goodbye that came across too hasty, clothing rustling as you went to flee.

The sight made everything in Boba revolt.

“Wait.” The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself. You spun on your heels, expression undeniably hopeful. Oh gods, this was too much. “We need to talk, little one.”

You blushed at the moniker, but swallowed hard as you approached.

“I…”

“You don’t have to do this.” You cut him off with surprising bravado, hands clenched at your sides until they were shaking. “You don’t have to let me down easy. I’m not stupid, neither are you. Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done: letting me work here, protecting me, giving me a chance to get back on my feet. Nothing has to change. I’m…used to it.”

Boba blinked behind his helmet, shock rippling through him like a tidal wave. Stars, she was more perceptive than he thought. There was a strength to her he hadn’t previously seen, and also…an old wound. Maker, he’d been a kriffing jerk.

“What,” he kept his tone soft, lacking the harsh edge it normally carried. “Are you used to?”

It was your turn to blink. Clearly, you weren’t expecting the question.

“I…” you nervously crossed your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I’m…used to…being ignored. People don’t look at me and see someone worth pursuing. Just,” you looked up, meeting his unseen gaze, “well, just someone who is useful. And that’s okay, you know. I’m happy here, truly, and I don’t need anything else other than-“

“Easy there,” he gently interrupted your rambling, the words softer than even he thought possible. You blinked again, but pointedly refused to meet his gaze. “Look at me, sweet girl.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you obeyed, and something in him constricted in pain when he saw the tears forming in your eyes. Boba chose his next words carefully.

“I‘ve never ignored you. Always noticed your smile.” He removed his helmet with a sigh, meeting your gaze with his own. “You deserve someone as bright and lovely as you - someone who can usher you into new depths of love and happiness. I’m broken, scarred, a killer…”

“You think that would stop me?” Your voice was surprisingly strong despite the tear that slipped down your cheek. “You think I haven’t already thought of that? Boba…I know who you are. What you are. And that’s why…I find you so endearing. Why I want to be with you.”

You thought him endearing? Boba could barely believe it, if not for the sincerity in your tone. He fell silent, pondering your words, and you stood there, braving his silence, wiping the tear away with a trembling finger.

Finally, at long last, Boba caved. He couldn’t hold back any longer, or deny you what he felt you both knew to be true. And he’d left you waiting long enough.

“Come here, little one,” he held out an arm like a white flag, and you didn’t hesitate to approach. He guided you onto his lap, holding you close against his chest, and felt you relax against him. “This okay?”

You nodded eagerly, curling closer, fingers clutching the fabric at his shoulder.

“I want you, mesh’la.” His voice was a low rumble as he caressed your cheek, making you shiver. “If you’ll have me.”

“I want you too,” your affirmation was like a song in his ears. “I want to be yours. Only yours.”

“Then you will be mine, little sunflower.” He ran a hand though your hair, then your jaw, fingertips lingering on your chin and lifting your lips to his. “Always.”

[hecohansen31]

Ok imagine: (part 1) you're friend with Michael on a website created for shy people, who don't post any picture and hide their identity to not be bother and one day, because you really like each other, you decide to meet in person. But when you see him, tall, blond, handsome, you can believe he is the lonely boy, bullied by his neighbors and who never even kissed someone. You think he is lying, pranking you and you run away before he could see you.

(A/N): Hello there, lovely!

I am rather sorry for posting this rather earlier and I swear that with tomorrow, I’ll have almost finished all my asks, which is... marvelous, hence I can focus on new writing projects and the beautiful asks you sent on my way!

(If you have more outside of CF’s character, continue to send, also I would love some Xavier’s ones, if you have some!).

With this being said, I hope you’ll enjoy this, I loved this idea, because a while ago, I had a similar, but never got around to write so it was nice to finally do!

Have a nice day, sweetie!

WARNINGS: Body Issues, Self-Consciousness, Depressive Thoughts.

You weren’t exactly self-conscious about your body.

But if you could have worn a paper bag onto your head, you would have gladly chosen to do so.

And not only as fashion statement.

You didn’t remember exactly where your self-consciousness had begun.

Some part of you wondered, whether it had always stuck with you.

Your friends had introduced you to “Faceless” a new social network where people could upload mostly status and quotes, without the need of an image to represent them, being indeed “faceless”.

It could have alarmed your “stranger-danger” sense, but your friends always used it as a way to facelessly make fun of somebody, resulting in it being an extremely mean place.

Except for you and Michael.

You had met Michael after you had discovered you liked the same artist.

You had published some of his art, resulting in Michael commenting about how he had recently visited an exhibition of his, which he had loved, and asked if he could share of the photos he had made there, with you.

You hadn’t minded, although you had been ready to block him if he even thought about sending you dick pics, which he didn’t, sending you the exhibition’s photos indeed, and you couldn’t help but appreciate the sweet gesture.

From then on, you couldn’t help but feel like there were more and more things that linked you two together.

Most importantly your self-consciousness.

Michael admitted that he had discovered “Faceless” on his own, meanwhile he was skimming through the internet and had been rather pleased to discover that he didn’t have to show his face and show himself around to talk with people.

He didn’t feel in the slightest confident because of his grandma, who had kept him segregated at home, till her own evilness had gotten to her and she had died from some lung malfunction due to the perpetrated use of cigarettes she had done.

She had died screaming at her nephew and Michael had never been able to forgive himself, thinking that he had been the one who had killed her.

Thankfully after this bad experience he had been able to move on, being moved to a new house and meeting Mrs Mead, who took care of him lovingly and brought him to exhibitions and galleries, since he didn’t mind in the slightest the painter life, although “he wasn’t very talented” according to him.

He used “Faceless” also to publish his sketches and you had eventually gotten him to submit his art to a context for unexperienced artists.

“It isn’t even that good” he had written to you, after he had submitted.

And guess what… HE HAD WON.

In the end, time had come, and after you had exchanged phone numbers, you had thought about seeing each other in person, since you didn’t live far.

You felt extremely nervous but the possibility of finally meeting Michael, somebody who understood you and cherished your fidgety and self-conscious personality, made you extremely excited and daring.

You were still scared that he might end up being some kind predator, hence you had suggested to meet at a park, in order for it to be full of people, but also somehow private and they would both be wearing something that could make them stand-out.

Him a yellow shirt, and you a polka dotted dress.

Since you were anxious and excited, you ended up being a few minutes early and examined the elegant place, watching through your lashes anybody that came down from your avenue, meanwhile you tried to fake being absorbed in the book you were reading, although nothing would make your mind stick to it.

In the end, something yellowy caught your eyes, but it was just a young boy going around with his parents, who raised him slightly off the ground, to make him giggle.

A truly adorable scene that got you distracted enough that when an older boy with a yellow shirt passed in front of you, you didn’t stop him.

But immediately your gaze was fixed onto him, and you were unable to stop yourself from staring at the gorgeous angel in it: he was desperately handsome, in an ethereal way, almost shy to his own light, made by his golden curls, decorating perfectly and styled around his face.

His pretty eyes held some kind of shyness to them, and insecurity brought them to shine duller, in a greyer shade of ocean, still appreciable but you couldn’t help but wonder what they would be like at it brightest.

They had to be stars, shining in a dark sky.

He was the kind of guy that you would see outside and take a good look, dumbfounded, but then you would turn away, knowing he was waaaayyyy out of your league, hence it got you even more depressed than usual.

But the fact that he was wearing a yellow shirt made you ogle at him even more, trying to make some sense into what you were seeing: was there a possibility that that handsome boy was your Michael?

The shy and not confident Michael, who thought he looked like Frankenstein’s creature and didn’t like going out, since everybody made fun of the way he walked, talked and even looked with gangly arms and clumsy legs.

But that boy was in no way any of those things: he was a classically handsome man, a Michalangelo’s human carved statue and with an androgynous shape that brought interest and uniqueness to him.

A truly masterpiece.

… that didn’t match with the image of Michael you had been given.

You, at first, thought it was just somebody with a very yellow shirt, not your Michael, but then you had seen him look around, almost as if he was waiting for somebody and this got to you.

It was truly Michael.

But not your Michael.

Not the one you had known through internet.

Maybe it was stupid but the fact that he was gorgeous made you uneasy.

It almost felt like you were being played a cruel joke by Michael.

Maybe he had just wanted to gain your confidence then to break your heart, making fun of you, some people did that, although it seemed disturbed.

And you just felt extremely uneasy, enough that you just picked up your book and moved away, before he could glance at your polka dot dress, as you tried not to let your waterworks open in that moment, worried that it would make you seem even more an idiot, and when you were behind the walls of your house, you crouched to the ground.

Your view became hazy for your tears, and before you knew it, you were clutching your chest in a fetal position, unknowing of what the hell was going on, trying to make sense, in how cruel the Destiny had been.

It had given you finally somebody who understood you and cherished you for all your fears and insecurities, and then he had taken him away in such a horrible and embarrassing way.

You couldn’t help but feel grateful that he hadn’t noticed you, since it meant that he wouldn’t have to witness your embarrassing form.

You would stay faceless, but you were a bit glad to have known such an angelic face.

… although you would never be worth of it.

After you felt a bit better, since your stomach basically grumbled back to life, you brought yourself out of your miserable self-pity and onto the kitchen table and there you had left your bag, probably after you had smashed it onto table, in your mental breakdown.

Something inside it was ringing, probably your phone.

You had expected it to be your friend who had known about your little “blind date”, and was worried sick about you meeting a stranger on the internet:

“What if he tries to kidnap you, (Y/N), haven’t you thought about it?”.

“You seriously think that there would be anyone interested in kidnapping me?”.

But it wasn’t your friend: it was Michael.

You let your phone ring, till it got exhausted and your screen showed you a few of the many messages Michael had sent you, which you looked into from the preview, in order not to give away the fact that you had read them.

The first ones were nervous and shy, asking you whether you had found the right spot and were already waiting by him, or if you were some minutes late.

“… if you are late, don’t worry, I just thought I’d come here early”.

“I am nervous, I honestly am scared to meet you in real life”.

“Hey (Y/N), you are coming, right?”.

“Did you have some problem at home?”.

“Hey… aren’t you coming?”.

“Gosh, (Y/N), I am honestly worried… did something happen to you? Please call me!”.

And then he had started calling you indeed, almost frantically, and you were pretty sure that you would find something in your voicemail, but you didn’t check it, and eventually just let your phone ring.

Till you had enough, and you finally replied.

“Won’t you leave me alone?” you sputtered, knowing that it was just a stupid cruel joke, made by an ignorant jock.

“Oh, thank God, (N/N) you replied!” he didn’t seem to acknowledge in the slightest your tone, just happy as a puppy waggling his tail at his owner “… I was getting worried honestly… did something happen this morning? We can reschedule…”.

“I did come today” you felt an uncomfortable silence go through you, but you didn’t let it affect you, pushing yourself further “… and I freaking saw you, Michael, you are certainly not an ugly ducking”.

“Oh, then if you saw me… why didn’t you…”.

“Why don’t you do us all favor and drop this act?” your voice was harsh, your mood quickly swinging from sadness to rage “… I know that you had quite the fun, convincing somebody that you were nothing but an ugly nerd, to make them believe and confide you, just to make fun of them when you finally met them face to face”.

The other line was silent, before a slight hiccup was heard.

“I don’t know what you are talking about (N/N), I honestly had no ulterior intentions than to meet you, face to face” his voice was a rollercoaster of emotions, swinging from calm to whiny and then full-blown teary “… I honestly would never ever make fun of you, you have to believe me”.

“I am barely a five, on a scale from one to ten, Michael…” you mumbled, calming a tiny bit down, mostly because Michael’s voice seemed damnably honest, but you knew better than to trust easily people “… and you are a freaking eleven… so I think that it is better for us to never see us again”.

“No, no wait… (N/N)… if I did something… I am sorry, but please don’t…” his voice right now was extremely sad, and you were absolutely sure that he had started crying “… you are one of the few people with whom I can be myself and seriously the sole thought of you leaving me, make me sick…”.

“I am sorry, Michael, but it is better for both of us, with time, you’ll come around”.

You didn’t want to be hurt.

Even if this wasn’t a joke, Michael was too good for you and eventually he would grow out of a crush on a stranger he had idealized, and to make it even more clear, you chose to send him a photo of you, mostly because you thought that once he saw you, as the mess you were, he would have finally understood.

You then decided to switch off your phone to sleep a bit peacefully, something that might help with your broken heart, but you couldn’t help but keep on replaying that morning meeting, although it always ended up badly: Michael would reveal himself to be a pompous prick and you would end up humiliated in a corner.

When you had woken up, mostly because your roommate had come back home, you had switched on your phone remembering about your friend’s worry, but it wasn’t any message of hers that caught your eyes, it was instead… Michael’s reply to your picture.

One of your favorites, because you smiled brightly and the dress you had chosen made you definitely feel pretty, but you didn’t think that it would even come close to Michael’s beauty.

Still he had replied that you looked gorgeous and that maybe the true reason why you hadn’t wanted to meet him was due to him not being enough for you.

And he had heartbreakingly replied, with a last message, that he wouldn’t have bothered you in the slightest.

The thought of it made you slightly sad, but you were resolute.

Your new week without your “best friend” ended up being extremely difficult, at first you were confident you wouldn’t be missing him too much, but you had had to delete the “Faceless” app from your phone in order not to check it continuously, alongside having to push the laptop away from you.

Your anxieties still didn’t go away, but you were able to reach some kind of balance on the second week, unlike Michael, who had tried to send you some messages, mostly to check in on you.

You never answered, because they reminded you of what it might have happened, had you seriously met.

But it still made you nostalgic, you were completely unable to feel like you had somebody who understood you, who you could talk with no judgement.

It almost made you feel like you might have overreacted the entire thing, almost as if the thought of risking it with Michael might have made it all worth it, had you succeeded in your whole plan.

But maybe… as life had proven you many times, you might have ended up with one more reason to hide yourself from the world.

That morning you had been out for some grocery shopping, and meanwhile you were moving in the street from the little supermarket to pick up some food, to the florist’s shop so that you would be able to have some flower to brighten your dark days.

But as you were coming inside, you saw a movement, and turned around, but soon found a pair of unknown arms around you, startling you enough that you couldn’t help but sigh and try to push yourself away, thinking it was some kind of way to run.

But your mysterious assaulter ended up revealing himself to be a blond angel, you knew all too well: Michael.

He immediately realized your discomfort and he distanced himself slightly, blushing awkwardly and standing there with a hand onto his arm, looking down, before he muttered a shy “hello”.

You couldn’t help but be embarrassed a bit by the entire scene, although your heart roared at knowing that Michael had wanted to make you receive such a genuine reaction, something that convinced that maybe… just maybe… he hadn’t meant anything.

And that somehow… he liked for what he had seen and known.

“… I am sorry, I know that you said that you didn’t want us to meet each other again, but I just… I just felt the need to finally meet you… and hug you… but…” he twirled one of his blond curls between his fingers “…you must think I am a psycho”.

“Just a bit” you replied, softly, trying to make some sense in what was going through your brain “… I honestly have to say I have overreacted a bit… I have missed you in these days…”.

“I have missed you, too” he replied gingerly, meanwhile he went to kiss a bit sloppily your cheeks, making you laugh a bit, at his enthusiasm “… I was hoping that we would be able to finally meet each other… I prayed for it each day…”.

You blushed at his eagerness, and at the fact that it was what you had thought all the time you had spent away.

“I…” you didn’t know what to say anymore, and just stared at Michael’s pretty eyes, thinking that maybe… for one day… it was good to try things, to risk it all “…think that maybe we have closed one door, but we might start again, face to face, instead of ‘faceless’ “.

Michael giggled at his corny humor, and meanwhile you offered a hand for him to hold, he guided you in another soft hug.

“Well then it’s nice to meet you, I am Michael”.

[leoxrobertson]

Opportunity for Writers!...?

My good Goodreads friend Arthur Graham asked me the following:

“Any good throwaway ideas for a book, like something you definitely won't be writing yourself? Also, can you write it for me?”

This is how I responded:

As usual, I started off trying to out-wit your response (“So essentially you want another book written that no one asked for/ will read?” was the best I came up with) but ended up settling on making a sobering point instead!

I’ll blog-post this also to maximise readership because as far as my experience goes, this is what I advise:

Any writer reading this should go sit down and write me a story called “The Acorn.” It’s as good a stimulus as any other. Calling it “The Acorn”, by the way, is non-negotiable. I’m a writer. I have convictions.

Writers have one week to do it. If the week passes and the story’s not done, bye bye. Oh, your kid, your dog, the connection wasn’t good, the idea didn’t come—do I give a shit? Bouncers outside Glasgow nightclubs told me the following when they spotted that I was clearly too drunk to let inside: “Try somewhere else.” (I say this to the writers, and it has the same implication: it won’t work here or elsewhere.)

If they write the story, they should then not just send me that story and think I should be thankful to have used any of their time at all, start blogging about it, ask me and others to like rate comment subscribe, no: that seems professional, but it isn’t.

They should wait a week, take another look at the story, see that it probably sucks, edit it if it’s salvageable OR write me a second story titled “The Acorn.” They should keep writing stories titled “The Acorn” until they have written the best thing they’ve ever written in their entire lives, just because some guy on the internet told them to!

Welcome to the creative process. Isn’t this how themed anthologies are formed? Isn’t writing more about grit, persistence, work, perspiration, than it is inspiration? Yes. Does a writer need to be an insufferable ponce in order to get a few words on the page? Talking about what she does, why she does it, what type of fucking pencil she uses, the difference she’s making? Absolutely not. Just get it done. Feed the muse anything and sit patiently awaiting what she gifts you (this is not poncery because it’s how the process actually works.)

Once you’ve spent a good deal of time discovering these stories inside you/ in the ether, about acorns, you realise, wow, so I could sit down any day and discover a story about anything?! Now you understand the importance of writing everyday. Now you’re hooked. Now you must. Now you are a writer. Because anyone can write a million-word novel without any restrictions on time or quality. Anyone can write A story titled “The Acorn” (I was going to say “a story about an acorn”, but it doesn’t have to be), but few have the tenacity to write five, ten, fifty, and pick the best. There’s no guarantee, even, that after fifty, any of them are good. (Unlikely, but possible.) Writers acknowledge this uncertainty, and write in spite of it. No one is asking us to do this, so we must impose the constraints on ourselves and take them seriously. Good writing loves constraints.

Okay so from here on out I start making up statistics to make my point. The statistics might even contradict each other, but this is a work of fiction: the point is the point.

For this anthology to exist, out of 10000000000 writers on this site, I’d need about 1000 to read this. That already disqualifies the project, but let’s assume they do.

Out of 1M words that get written for this project, we end up with 50k worth reading. This sounds wasteful, but it makes sense: we don’t know who’s writing what or why. 50k is miraculous. This is how we get it.

500 like this answer/post. 100 send me something. Pretty much all of them think I’m joking about them having to write even more than one story. I accept this not only because I have to, but because developing the abilities of writers as a result of this project is just a nice effect it could possibly have, but it’s not the goal. It’s a numbers game. I reckon 10/100 stories are good: I either get these from ten authors who’ve written ten stories or from a hundred authors who wrote just one each. What do I care? Despite how much writers complain about rejection, they do the bulk of the work themselves.

Of 100 authors, 50 send me something great. 10 send me something transcendent.

I encourage the 50 who were shortlisted. I’m sure I would love to sit and provide them detailed edits, find gentle, personalised ways to tell them to keep going, but who has the time? I’ll send them what I come up with. I don’t have to.

70 of the ones who didn’t get accepted send me bitter, angry retorts. But I’m a writer: it’ll take more than that to sully the experience. I can’t let it have me sitting around writing stories about narcissistic idiots just because they’re the majority. (Anymore!) Characters should be original, special, interesting. I’ll give these people no further attention. They don’t deserve it.

3 of the ones who didn’t get in thank me for my time and say they’ll read and promote what we end up making. I encouraged 50 in the hopes of catching these 3 writers in my encouragement net. These are writers who were almost there and will make it next time. Or the time after. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. Providing the next rounds of rejections don’t break them. They might.

I send edits to the remaining 10. If these anthologies take off, I’ll have the right to be a bit more strict about what I accept, and won’t accept anything that even needs editing. A few fight me on the edits. Sometimes that’s what writers do, sometimes it isn’t. We must have convictions without being dickheads.

I make us a book. We get disheartened because it takes six months longer than we expected, but it gets done eventually. Writers are patient.

Of the 10 who sent stories, 7 get as far as telling their friends and family, though I begged all of them to do it. Why am I the one doing the begging? This is as much their opportunity as it is mine. Whatever: I accept it. Someone has to do it. At least if it’s me, I know it’ll get done.

The 3 others, despite me having informed them of the competition they eliminated, are too shy, don’t want to bother anyone—and they won’t. 5 of them thank me for my hard work. 4 get actively involved in marketing.

Would I have a story in this book? Interesting question. If I decided “yes”, I would write and write until I had a story whose quality I felt was undeniable and then send it to those other writers to see if they agreed. I think the point is, if I decided “yes”, I would do anything to make it happen; if I decided “no”, I would do something else.

3 of us go on a tour. We are The Acorn. Who’s to say this doesn’t turn out to create a wonderful book anyway? Still doesn’t mean it will sell, necessarily. We just have to decide whether or not that was really the goal. If it doesn’t sell. It might! You might say that’s what makes it exciting. I say, you might as well see it that way, because either way, that’s how it is. A writer would choose to see it as exciting, just as a committed partner might choose to stay with their loved one, year after year, after the initial spark of ignition has faded and now she must decide, year after year, if it’s worth continuing to stoke the engine. Half of all marriages fail? I would’ve thought 90%. But that’s no slight on marriage. If anything it’s a testament to the robustness of marriage, because whether or not you’re intelligent, you can make it work—sometimes.

If we get frustrated, we just need to remember our pretty cool origin story. G asked R for a writing idea. What they did next will shock you.

Assuming 1000 people who are prone to calling themselves writers read this:

You think I’m not serious? PM me for an email address to which you will send your acorn stories. This single step of active participation has eliminated 90% of the writers. (Writers aren’t lazy, don’t make excuses, but most of the ones who call themselves “writers” do, are.) Those of you who get in touch, you have one year’s worth of weeks to write a great acorn story.

You won’t. You might not participate because you don’t know who I am: fair enough. You might succeed elsewhere, but if you haven’t participated because all of this sounds like too much hard work, I doubt it. If you are inclined to retorting bitterly and angrily to rejection—either through an email you actually send to an editor, or one you just write in your head—it’s either out of confusion, because you don’t know about the above process (if so, I hope this helped—keep at it, mate! Be one of the 3 this encouragement reaches!); or you do know about it, and you know you’re the one holding yourself back. I thought you were passionate about this. So did you.

Don’t get in touch just to tell me this was useful. That’s why I wrote it. Go write something else. In so doing, help me to survive with very little indication that I’m making a difference, let alone a positive one. Writers need this training. Also, I stopped caring what people thought about me long ago. I think that’s dangerous and exciting. Stating it outright might make me sound unlikeable. It might qualify as “telling.” But you’re a writer in my flock: we respect one another. You assume I was aware of these writing principles a priori and decided to go against them; you realise it would be inappropriate to point them out.

I’m away to write something else. Excuse me. After that, I’m gonna play Zelda: Breath of the Wild, until my eyeballs melt, as is my wont, after the work is done.