#less worried about what happens if i finish the story before hitting my wordcount goal than i was a week ago

[falseroar]

Over 9k words into this murder mystery fic and the body has yet to hit the floor.

This, uh, might not be the short thing I once thought it was going to be.

[kl-writes]

One thousand words a day is too much!

How many times do you have to tell a story before it consumes you and becomes redemption? 1001.

There’s nothing funnier than being told the twentieth “only right way to do something.” Particularly when the only difference is a step there or shifting your weight here. It teaches you things about the world you never had to think about in school, where there really was only one right answer. Supposedly. At least, you could count on there being only one right way to advance. Even the more open-ended arts and literature gave way to easily-graded grammar, symbolism, setting, spelling.

At the same time, there’s nothing worse than someone who is always responsible for when the right thing happens and never responsible for when the wrong thing happens. Even if it’s subjective who’s right or wrong, a three year old can spot that pattern.

When I was eight, I caught a basketball wrong and broke my finger. When I went into the living room of my grandparents’ house to show my parents, my mom asked my dad to set it back in place. I didn’t trust him to do it in a way that wouldn’t hurt, so in my arrogance I set it back myself. So my pinky finger will always be a little bent. Maybe I should wax poetic about how I’d rather hurt myself than trust someone else and get hurt. Or maybe I was a dumb eight year old who knew it would hurt either way, but would rather risk doing it wrong than have an adult do it. I’m almost twenty-five and I still don’t trust the notion of “adults.” “Adults” are awful people.

In middle school, my friend R- and I talked about keeping our middle names secret so that we couldn’t be True Name’d or impersonated. We shared our middle names readily. We worried about our parents, who already knew our middle names. It wasn’t a very good secret.

I would get frustrated with myself in middle school for not having the drive to finish knitting a simple scarf. I made a few bookmarks and coasters. I never considered that maybe the problem was that knitting was boring. These days, I have no issue finishing scarves, so long as the knitting is accompanied by a particularly long and dry class.

I used to plan conversations, sentence by sentence, before I had them. It avoids any freezing-up you might do on the phone, and helps you make it through the conversation. Nowadays, I still hold useless conversations in my head and in my dreams, but I no longer need them. The army’s made me almost too brash.

I hated creative writing lessons in middle school because the teachers always wanted you to write about real life. Nothing was less interesting or more stale and putrid than my life. I think I made up what happened and exaggerated for the assignment. I still dislike that I had to do it, since it bothers me to no end when my mother lies for the sake of a good story. I never had any issue writing or reading fiction, when people knew it was escapism.

I forget the names of second cousins and neglect to ask the names of people I sit across from at lunch for months. I don’t call anyone, and my facebook messages to my sisters are more to show my own excitement for whatever video game or image I’ve found engaging or funny. I dread getting calls, but I don’t despise calls from my Grandma Z- like my mother claims to. I don’t know if she does anymore, my mom isn’t the same person who raised me anymore. That’s a good thing.

I want to connect to people, to scream when I’m mad, to cry when I’m sad, and to spread my joy to those I care about. But I don’t like dealing with problems or obligations that arise from relationships, and I prefer that everything fades away and that I am forgotten. People wouldn’t like “me,” But “I” have a very judgy and spiteful personality. I know better than to sling barbs at others, so I hold my tongue and bury myself ever deeper. Till we’re nothing but pins in a sewing tomato of needles.

They say that Terry Pratchet wrote 400 words a day! Less than what most writing blogs and advice says (1k words, 1.6k if you’re on nanowrimo), but I bet that Pratchett was more prolific than all of them combined! Writing’s a marathon, not a sprint. So that’s why I’m following his sage wisdom, and writing 400 words a month. Absolutely nothing to do with my own lack of discipline, self-imposed sleep deprivation, or general flakiness.

Maybe it’s a problem when things that bring you joy turn into products. There’s a number attached to everything on the internet these days, and I scrutinize even what little heuristics I can squeeze from my AO3 fics. I used to delete unfinished fics all the time, back in middle school, since I only managed a chapter or two and then got bored and moved on. I shamed myself. I’m better now- I no longer delete fics, since I no longer risk writing anything that long and publishing it. My record word count on any work is 18k, and that one was encyclopedic in nature. Pretty much useless, too, but at least the journey was fun.

It’s far easier to spend money on fancy writing books and fancier typewriters than it is to actually write. That’s why I love my AlphaSmart 3000! It was cheap, so it doesn’t hurt as much that I don’t write on it often! (Plus, I bet it’d survive a nuclear fallout)

I gotta be careful not to send to computer too often, though. Then I start psychoanalyzing the word count, pitifully smaller than all my estimates. Writing may be one task where you want to train to time, not to task. But that’s just the pessimism and lack of ambition speaking! Battery life’s pretty Gucci tho…

The strangest thing of all is that the stories I want to read aren’t the ones I enjoy writing, when everything’s said and done. I love the prep, I love the planning, but actually sitting down and going for it after all that work? That’s a no-go. And seat-of-the-pants writing for me leads to incoherent-to-semicoherent blobs of nothing. Word count ain’t anything. So if I like twists, and mysteries, and all sorts of odds and ends, should I break all conventional wisdom and seek to surprise myself with the ending? Should I produce a murder victim with no murderer? I still think the goose was behind everything in Hot Fuzz, so maybe everything’s reasonable if you do it with style.

I like weighty stories, too, but I loathe to write my own weight.

The best fancy writing book out there is Elements of Style, no shot. Stephen King’s “On Writing” is the worst since 12 year old me was irritated that there was no writing advice, and 12 year old  me skipped the intro where he talked about how the book wasn’t really about how to write. Intros and prologues annoyed me, since I read a lot of pulp fantasy with useless introductions. Eragon got me into the habit of skimming large blocks of text (My apologies to Paolini), so when I read denser stuff I would miss things and have to go back and reread, lest I frustrate myself with the text. Back then, useless introductions and unimportant blocks of text were just things that books had, they weren’t the subject of critique or judgement. So I wonder why I treat my own works with a judgement I never extend to others? It’s all or nothing with me. Either a sentence is perfect, or the entire passage is barely decipherable but free of spelling errors.

Did you know that you could do warm-ups for writing? Just write nonsense, and then when you run out of nonsense the rest of what you write that day will be fine. I don’t know a better way to hit daily wordcount goals and still feel like you’re doing something meaningful.

[limpblotter]

Fly me to the Moon

[Previously…] [Next...] A/N: Usnavi is so turnt and Johan is seeing stars. (two more parts left!) Summary: Frank Sinatra, Fire escapes, late night chitchats over fine wine makes for a Johsnavi aesthetic WordCount: 3298 Taggies: @hell-yes-puns-and-ships The hum of cars still passing through the darken streets filled the already unsettled air. There was always a sound, a passing car, a distant siren, a train rolling past, dog barking, one could go on and on listing off disturbances in the city. But from the comfortable post of a fire escape about three stories high there wasn’t a sound that touched the moment between the two men. All Johan could hear was the deep and steady breathing between gulps of wine coming from Usnavi. He watched as the Dominican man tipped the bottle into his mouth taking a third chug. He placed the bottle down between them and ran a hand down his mouth wiping his wine stained goatee. “Gotta love summer in the city.” The night was cooler, nice August night breeze felt good on Usnavi’s flushed cheeks. It made the drunk in him feel less drunk. The breeze anchored him down to a reality and kept his mind from spinning. “It is quite nice…” Johan agreed, there was nothing in particular he cared for. Nothing he could pinpoint and say that was nice, but the moment felt nice. This felt...nice. He took the bottle and tilted his head back as well. After a long sip he sighed with gusto and pointed. “That a star?” He motioned to the white dot against the dark, opaque sky. It stood out so brilliantly like a certain someone’s laugh that suddenly filled the air. 

“Nah, man, that’s a plane.” Usnavi stared at the same dot and watched it move by. His eyes glanced over just barely catching Johan’s disappointed frown. The way his lower lip jutted out…”My abuela Claudia…” He began speaking in a tender voice, eyes closed for a moment. Grief still stung when he spoke her name out loud. “She use to complain how you couldn’t see the stars here...one night she swore she saw some…” It was near impossible to see stars in the city but Claudia saw the beauty in so many things everyone took for granted. Usnavi believed she saw her stars that night. 

“Did you see stars?” Johan’s frown curved up into a smile watching as Usnavi’s expressions changed so rapidly. Thanks to the wine no doubt. 

“I saw hella stars when she told me she won the lotto that night” He smirked, “And gave me ⅓ of it.” 

“Wow, really?” That was genuine surprise. Someone who won the lotto and got some money off it, why was Usnavi trapped at a corner store? “What happened to the money?” “Well…” Usnavi ran a hand down the back of his neck. “Abuela passed away the next day...that afternoon actually… with her share of the money I did the good she would have wanted to do. Gave some to Benny to help him out while he looked for a job, to the Rosarios to help them while they got Nina back to school. Helped Daniella so she could co-sign Vanessa’s apartment, and Carla for the salon. Gave some to the Piragua man who passes by here and--” “What’s...Pear-a-wah?” Johan tried to pronounce the words but they came out sounding like an alien language to Usnavi. “Oh...Piragua (PEE-AR-GOO-WHA)” He repeated slower just for him, Johan absorbed the sound and mouthed it to himself. Usnavi turned away feeling the heat from the wine stain his cheeks...of course just the wine. “It's shaved ice.” “Oh that’s neat.” 

“Yeah...gave everyone some money to help them out...even commissioned Sonny’s dumb boyfriend to paint some pieces for me...Everyone that abuela ever cared about...I know she’d want to help them even just a little.” Usnavi felt a hollow ache in his chest. Nothing he didn’t know how to manage. Johan looked back up at the bleak sky. The plane had long crossed the sky and left not a single shred of light. “Your ab..abuela sounds really nice. I would have loved to meet her.” “She would have loved you.” He answered immediately, no doubt about it. “She was a great judge of character. She would have loved you more than I…” His mouth suddenly felt try, he wanted to reach for the wine but he had to finish his sentence somehow. “Than I could even imagine.” Nice save by De La Vega. 

His tall Californian friend didn’t seem to notice, much to Usnavi’s approval, and nodded. “So what about the other thirds of the money?” 

“I put Sonny’s away in a savings account, hopefully he won’t do nothin’ stupid...he probably won’t. Sonny is a lot of things but he’s a good kid with a good head on his shoulders.” Usnavi couldn’t take any credit for that. Sonny was always a sweet kid who’s only real drive was to help his hood and more importantly the people in it. “Mine...I paid off the store debts, I own it now…” It felt good to own the store officially. “The rest I still got...sitting around... “ Though Benny might have been wry of Johan getting all this information about money...Usnavi didn’t feel an ounce of stress. He didn’t think Johan cared about the money. Another moment of silence feel on them. “Sounds like you have everything figured out…” Which was more than Johan ever had his whole life.

 “...well I spent my life making a list of goals and cross them off as they come along…sooner or later there won’t be anything left to cross out...I’m not looking forward for that.” Usnavi always thought he would be living his life according to his parents, work until he died. But after all that's happened, all the changes he was afraid his list wasn’t long enough to keep him going. He was terrified of the unknown.  

Both men went reaching for the bottle, looking away unsure what to say. Both had been internalizing their worries because neither wanted to ruin this moment. Their hands met at the neck of the bottle and with much delay, they turned, eyes on their brushing fingers. Johan slowly turned his hand, palm up, as if offering his hand to Usnavi. However, the action of his hand moving made the skittish Hispanic pull back fast. 

“...” Johan stared at his empty hand and sighed, he wrapped his fingers around the bottle and stared down at the drink. “Vanessa…” He began without thinking, his mind absently wondering if there was something between them. Johan noticed how they danced, laughed, smiled, history no doubt. Perhaps more than he imagined. Usnavi turned his head waiting for Johan to finish, all eyes on him now that he mentioned Vaness. No turning back now, “you and here seem close, after all you helped her out and stuff…” He sipped feeling absolutely idiotic for even mentioning that. Who cared? He shouldn’t have cared but his drunks words were slipping out of his mouth before his brain could edit. 

“Oh...yeah…” He smiled a bit, a sad tinge to his face. “Vanessa and I...we had a thing.” Johan knew it. Now with his confirmation Johan was no longer as happy, there was a small v shaped wrinkle forming between his furrowed brows. “But I ended it.” Usnavi looked out at the street. Johan’s face eased, he looked over at Usnavi and felt guilty for bringing it up. He looked heartbroken. “I mean, I had to, after our second date I realized we…” He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on the top of his knees. “She’s on her way, making big strides, the world is in her eyes...she’s outgrown the barrio and sooner or later she’d outgrow me. I saved us the trouble of her feeling like I was holding her back.” He’d never forgive himself if he kept Vanessa from going as far as she wanted. “I’m a streetlight stuck to my island.” 

Shame washed over Usnavi’s face. “I envy you.” Johan spoke softly. “I mean...you know where you belong. You know you belong here and this is home. Me? I’ve been moving around looking for somewhere to settle. Every time I get close something...something in me changes and I’m back on my feet.” Johan slowly started to open up and once he did the drunk floodgates overflowed. “My parents were not conventional. They were hippies who thought home was anywhere they could make a canopy in. I never had a home like this, people I’ve known all my life, a neighborhood. It's been my parents, my sister and whatever ratty creature wandered into my sleeping bag that night.” Johan laughed bitterly at the memories of his strange upbringing. Yes, they had their charming quirky moments but he wondered if perhaps… they made him the way he was. 

“Hey…” Usnavi smiled weakly, he had ruined the mood. As always he never knew who to socialize normally. Damn, what would he give to be the life of the party. “Hippie parents sound cool.” 

“If you think being biracial during the 80s is ‘cool’ having parents who were hippies were even ‘cooler’” Johan’s voice was lined with sarcasm. Bitter, bitter sarcasm. “There was bullying, trouble fitting in, I learned fast to just put myself above everyone. If they made fun of me, just brush it off...then as soon as high school was over I ran. Kept moving.” “So what made you come back?” “ … Sister, Family…” He shrugged a bit, “I look at my sister and realize how normal she managed to build her life...normal within her capacity but normal enough. House, kids, husband. Stable and it looks nice.” Johan thought he wanted that too but once he started to get comfortable the itch to leave again would hit. Something would scare him back out and it was back to another country. 

“It’s nice. Take it from me...knowing no matter how far you go there is a home waiting for you..” Usnavi never thought of looking at his life like that. He could go anywhere and know his home, his island, was still in the back of his mind waiting for him. “You’ll find a reason to settle down...it's only a matter of time.”

 “Settling down sounds so boring at the same time...it sounds so...typical. Are people really meant to be settled with one other person? For their lifetime? Isn’t that a commercial ideal put out by hallmark consumerism looking to make a quick buck on heart throb moments that don’t even last...then funnel capitalism in the divorce business when it all goes to shit?” Johan rolled his eyes, the idea of being dedicated to someone sounded more like prisoner. 

Usnavi chuckled a bit. He began to find Johan’s weird rambles adorable. He could listen to him blab for hours even if he had no clue what he was going on about. Johan joined in with Usnavi’s chuckling and laughed lightly. “Shame, Daniela was looking at you like she wanted to snatch you up.” “Oh, is that so?” Johan arched his eyebrow and snickered a bit more. “Shame she’s not my type.” 

“You have a type?” He rolled his eyes, “Lemme guess Cali-girl?” “Ooo far from it.” Johan shook his head, “try again.” “European? Thats gross I heard they don’t shave their pits, asco!” He wrinkled his nose, he was being somewhat serious. 

Johan only laughed harder. “That is a terrible stereotype.” Johan shook his head, “My type is a less of a type and more of a combination of traits.” “Anja, so like a build your own girlfriend.” “Or boyfriend.” He answered without skipping a beat. Too bad Usnavi’s heart skipped three. “My type is someone...different. Someone who makes me feel different but normal. All my life has been an adventure with no one to share it with. Someone who can make any place feel like…” He turned his head a little realizing Usnavi had been staring at Johan this whole time. “Home.” 

Usnavi clutched the wine to his chest, his eyes glued on Johan’s. They were half lidded, puppy like eyes. The way the light hit his eye was like a star breaking through a dark sky. Johan had stars in his reflective eyes, Usnavi was getting lost in them ...that was until he saw his own reflection in his eyes. Scrappy, scraggy, withered, tired, anxious storekeeper with nothing going for him other than a debt free living and a bank account that wasn’t dismal. What chance in hell did he have with Johan...why did he even want a chance? Even if Usnavi humored the idea he was interested in men, why someone like Johan? He was basically like Vanessa, a restless, traveling soul who was going to take on the world. A constant changing variable to Usnavi’s permanent constant.

 He broke the gaze first, looking down with a sigh. “It's late.” Silence, this time it hung heavy...it was unsettling now. 

A car came by and parked in front of the building. The door opened as the driver walked out to have a smoke. His radio, somewhat low, carried the music up to the boys on the fire escape. A tune, Johan had recently recognized. “Sinatra.” He smiled a bit, Usnavi arching his eyebrow. “Sinatra is playing.” 

“Huh…” Usnavi closed his eyes and focused on the low, retro tune. “You’re right. My parents, when they first came to this country, were nuts about him.” 

“He’s got a way of making things sound snazzy” Johan started to snap a bit, “Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on A-Jupiter or Mars” He sang in time with the low music. “In other words, hold my hand.” He offered his hand to Usnavi. Melting in the moment of being somewhat serenaded he placed his hand in Johan’s large hand. Johan clasped it tight and pulled Usnavi a bit closer, “In other words, baby, kiss me.” He purred and Usnavi’s mind fried.  Would he? 

Johan could almost smelled his nerves and pulled Usnavi’s hand to his lips and placed the softest kiss on the back of his hand. Usnavi would have run for the hills but he was frozen to his spot here. The music kept playing for a while and Johan hummed along. His hand still holding Usnavi’s. It felt...right. Usnavi wasn’t sure what this was, this ease that glossed over his near constant anxiousness. He for the first time in a long time felt like the store didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered, what mattered was how warm he felt. How nice it felt having someone’s strong hand hold his with so much security. This fire escape could collapse right now, which was possible given the decades of rust he collected, and he felt safe. He felt like…

Usnavi whispered to himself, ”Fireworks…” He blushed a bit as the music came to its crescendo end and Johan finished belting out the last few lyrics. “Fill my heart with song! And let me sing forever more. You are all I long for, all I worship and adore. In other words!” He smiled brightly at Usnavi, the reflection in his eyes didn’t seem so bad. Usnavi didn’t look tired, he looked...alive. “In other words��� Usnavi sang back at Johan to his surprise. “In other words!” Johan leaned in a bit, raising his voice to the starless, night sky. “I love youuuuuuu!” They dragged out the last line together. Usnavi’s heart was a wreck, even if it was just in a song, he barely heard those three words from anyone. Family or friends. He leaned back in laughter, his hand squeezing Johan’s as he let out peels of carefree giggles. “Fags.” The driver got back in his car having watched them the whole time, unimpressed. The car took off but not before Usnavi got to his feet and leaned against the fire escape. “Say it to my face maldito hijo de puta!” He spat, growling at the car as he drove off. “Like he hasn’t seen two guys enjoying a goddamn song.” Usnavi flipped off the night and turned to Johan’s side. 

He sat a bit closer, automatically putting his hand back in Johan’s. Where, without questioning it, Johan took it back and held it. “It is getting late...I better head back to the hotel before my sister decides to call the police.” Johan sighed. “You can stay, I can take the policia.” Usnavi was riding the high of his machismo bravado.

“Seeing how things are these days, I rather you not.” He squeezed Usnavi’s hand, melting away his agitated testosterone. “I’ll call a cab.” Johan pulled out his phone with is free hand but Usnavi shook his head. 

“I got you.” Usnavi pulled out his phone instead and dialed a number. He spoke Spanish into the phone and in a matter of minutes a black car came by and parked in front of the apartment. “Some of the other taxi drivers that worked for the Rosarios picked up another company, I call in favors once or twice. You won’t have to pay.” “Aw...Usnavi you shouldn’t have.” Johan said his name again and just like the first time, his heart sputtered like a stalling car. “Thanks for inviting me.” He slowly released his hand, his fingers aching. 

Usnavi looked down at his hand and nodded, “I wanted to see you again.” And again, and again. 

“I won’t be in New York for too long. I’m glad I got to see you tonight. I had fun, dancing with you was...a trip.” “Was that a joke about how we almost tripped because I’m a lot better at dancing when I’m not drunk.” Usnavi smirked, he watched as Johan hesitantly went to the fire escape ladder and held onto the bars. “Text me when you get to your hotel safe.” Usnavi leaned over the ladder, looking down at Johan. Strange, the man was tall so Usnavi didn’t think he’d have a chance to look down at him. 

“Will do.” Johan looked up at Usnavi, his eyes still glistening. “Adios.” “Adios.” Usnavi repeated with a nod. He watched his special guest scale down the ladder, muffling a laugh when he tripped over the last bar and nearly fell on his ass. Johan turned around making sure that Usnavi hadn’t seen that. They exchanged parting glances and soon Johan was in the car and driving away. 

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet. Johan was pretty tipsy, his mind spinning now. He replayed the last few moments with Usnavi. The sound of his laugh, holding his hand, the smile, the look in his eyes...all to that Frank Sinatra song. “In other words…” He hummed to himself. 

Johan barely remembered getting to the hotel. He didn’t remember remember the elevator trip or what his sister said when she saw him come in, smiling like there was no tomorrow. The last thing he remembered before he drifted into a drunk induce sleep was texting Usnavi. 

/Johan: I’m home, safe and sound. 

Usnavi: Good, now I can sleep easy. 

Johan: Were you going to stay up thinking about me? 

Usnavi: I don’t think I can stop thinking about you. /

Johan closed his eyes unsure what to say. What he knew was it made him smile, he held his phone to his chest. His heart pounding against his ribs, he was being thought of... His phone buzzed again, he opened one eye and realized Usnavi had messaged him again. And again /Usnavi: sorry thatwasweird. And it buzzed again. 

Usnavi: I don’t know...like...I’m not like this!

Usnavi: seriously I don’t know why I said that /

Johan quickly responded before Usnavi worried himself to death.

/Johan: I don’t think I’ll get that song out of my head tonight or any night. Goodnight Usnavi /

/Usnavi: Gnight. /

“Crap” He sighed, putting his phone aside. He hug the pillow to his chest as a nervous smile slowly made it's way across his face. “I /do/ like him” He buried his face into the pillow and felt the rush of blood stain his face.