#trying to be a writer

[tilliwriteapine]

Having watched TLOVM in its entirety *twice* now (with a third watch honestly coming in hot because of actually watching the campaign, lmao), I can safely say these are my favorite episodes:

Season 1: Episode 6 "Spark of Rebellion"

Season 2: Episode 8 "Echo Tree"

Season 3: I admit ALL of them fucking SLAP hard (ughhhh), but I guess I had to actually narrow it down to Episode 2 "Prisoners of Ank'Harel" and Episode 12 "Souls in Darkness;". (and 3 and 7 and 8 and - like I said, all of them!)

I admit Season 3 was my favorite. I have two fanfics brewing in my head right now. I'm just waiting to get on my cruise to actually sit and write because I have to take *one more* final today, work my ass off on these class notes for the Winter term, and prepare for said cruise by packing, cleaning, and doing the shit asked of me because it is the Holiday season. Family drama is lit!

*thanks for coming to my random ass Ted talk* Back to studying!

[side-character-syndrome]

I have a TONNNN of POV’s for characters I have written over the years. I get so nervous to have people read them but I’ve decided to start posting some on here since I gotta get used to people reading my writing (as I am currently writing my first novel).

I’m not entirely sure how formatting ends up on tumblr but I’ll try my best. My first one will prob be Luke from JATP but I seriously have so many.

[inkskinned]

please i love you i'm begging you bring back suspension of disbelief bring back trusting the audience like. i cannot handle any more dialogue that sounds like a legal document. "hello, i am here to talk to you about the incident from a few minutes ago, because i feel you might be unwell, and i am invested in your personal wellbeing." "thank you, i am unwell because the incident was hurtful to me due to my childhood, which was bad." I CANT!!!!

do you know how many people are mad that authors use "growled" as a word for "said"? it's just poetics! they do not literally mean "growled," it's just a common replacement for "said with force but in a low tone." it's normal! do you hear me!! help me i love you please let me out of here!!!

[moondrunkmoth]

In the End

In the end there was nothing. Endless nothing. Cal surveyed their new domain of emptiness, and felt content. This is where he wanted to be, what he’d longed for, to slip into the ethereal without even having to try too hard.

Nothing as a concept to corporeal beings is almost impossible to imagine. To exist is to be something, to belong somewhere, perceive it, think of it, wonder if there is more, yearn for understanding. But that was all over for Cal now. Cal could finally just relax in the nothing. 

Cal can you hear me? Cal?

That wasn’t nothing…

Ignore it. Yes. Return to the void. Emptiness without form or need or expectations.

I had a body once, Cal mused to himself, but now it felt a lot like it was down there. As if down there was the bottom of well or the end of an infinitely long corridor and here was somewhere above, or below. ‘Down’ and ‘here’ are constructs Cal didn’t need to worry himself with anyway, this state did not require any understanding. Truly bliss. You could just be, in the comfort of knowing that even that would cease soon.

Oh my god he’s not breathing!

Ignore it.

Breath doesn’t exist here. This is freedom from all those niggling details like breathing, and eating, and shitting. Alone at last. 

Cal had the sensation of something, which was the distinct opposite of the nothing. A minuscule spark on the backdrop of the nothing that was akin to a firework exploding in your face set off Cals synapses. Searing, shattering pain jolted the realm for a second then faded just as instantly. This pissed off Cal. He reached for the nothing again. Whatever limb or organ that was making a bid for attention he didn’t need where he was going. 

Please Cal. Come back to me. Breath! Please breathe…

The feint sound of someone in a panicked pleading sob swam through his consciousness further interrupting the nothing. For fucks sake, thought Cal, leave me. Please. I like it here. I want to stay.

Migraine purple & red hues bled into the void dropping ink-like corrosive tendrils that bounced like lightning on a cloud. With every jolt, pain. Pain, again and again. 

Stop! Shouted Cal. If Cal had a voice, a mouth, or breath, someone might have heard him. If he wasn’t alone in this nothingness, someone might respond. It was no use. The pain was increasing. 

A rhythmic pulsing like hammering anvils brought awareness to what he assumed was his ear drums. With every throb it felt like the void was shrinking. Cal slowly realised the painful purple-red interrupting the vast nothingness, was in fact the underside of his own eyelids.

An alarming sensation of feeling like he was going to burst like a balloon was his lungs taking their first full breath. His throat felt on fire as he exhaled. Somewhere in his periphery the sobbing desperation had turned into sobbing relief. 

There were hands now on his face. Someone was speaking. He couldn’t make out the words. 

Cal flickered his eyes open a fraction & blinding light immediately caused them to screw shut. This is definitely not nothing, Cal thought. He tried opening his eyes again, squinting through his eyelashes. A familiar face looked back, tears streaking down their cheeks, a smile that was closer to a grimace. Whatever part of the brain does a systems check came to the conclusion that everything hurts and this really fucking sucks. 

“It’s ok Cal, you’re going to be ok. You’ve been in an accident. Don’t try to move, ok.”

That was the day Cal realised, all he really wanted his whole life was to die.

He’d never tried to make it happen, he’d never really realised that’s what he wanted. He’d just never tried too hard to live. In fact the only thing he’d ever tried to do wholeheartedly was to meet death when it finally came.

Cal sat, in pain from his recovering injuries, sipping coffee, reflecting on his brief time at the end of it all. The temptation to return to a state of relief from life was ever present. The rapture he felt at the end compared to no drug or substance he’d ever experienced. He got a taste of something forbidden, secret, and a voice that wasn’t quite his own was coaxing him back to that beyond. It would be so easy to go back there, the voice purred, and this time stay there. The voice had been there all along, Cal realised, whispering and insidious. This was the first time it was clear, distinct. A veil had been lifted on a nefarious hitchhiker in his unconscious who’s only goal was to get back to the sweet nothingness.

Cal could feel organs he never even considered before, because they hurt. Cal took another sip of his coffee. Noted how he felt his limb move, the weight of the mug enclosed in five digits, the pressure and warmth in his fingertips. How the temperature felt as he swallowed and traveled down his oesophagus & left a bitter taste on his tongue. Bringing the mug away from his lips he inhaled the scent & watched steam that swirled upwards. It’s funny, drinking coffee never felt this vivid before. Existing had somehow gone from grey to colour, and this dark hitchhiker stood out more than ever on a technicolour backdrop. He decided this entity was unwelcome.

And that was the day Cal decided, he really wanted to live his whole life.

[gunpowdercarousel]

I don't need therapy I need rabid gay people freaking out in my inbox

[divorcedwife]

people are always slandering historians for saying reasonable things like "some things that seem romantic to us were platonic in the context of the times", when there's so many evil historians you actually have to look out for. number 1 : the closet royalist

[dawalqamr]

Whenever someone asks me, 'What is your dream?', I panic and fumble and stutter and then maybe answer with some lame-ass but funny take.. and that's that..

Because accepting the truth out in open is way more difficult for me.

I mean, how do I even say that all I ever dream of is being a writer worthy enough that someone somewhere wants to take my (their) book to a cafe so they can read it with all the love it deserves.

Because that's what I do with the books I love. And I would probably break into a million pieces if that ever happened with my book.

But what if I'm not good enough? Even worse, what if I'm just a mediocre writer?! The horror!

Which is also why I never write! You don't fail if you don't try, amiright 🤷🏻‍♀️🤣

[ryemiffie]

Guys.. Stan canonically writes fanfiction, presumably posting it to ao3.. I bet that man has got the ultimate author's curse notes

"Sorry I'm late to update guys! Got arrested by the federal government for stealing materials from them to rebuild an interdimensional portal to save my long lost twin brother! But hopefully things will be more consistent now that I'm done saving him!"

"My bad for this being so rushed, currently living through the literal apacolypse!"

"Didn't mean for this too take so long y'all, had to reread the whole fic to refresh my memory after getting my brain wiped to kill the demon who used to date my brother, y'all know how it is!"

[star-struck09]

Do you think of me as often as I think of you?

[poirott]

Columbo / Murder, She Wrote crossover (fanmade)

Lt. Columbo (Peter Falk) and Jessica Fletcher (Angela Lansbury) becoming besties and solving cases together ♥

[gay-david-tennant]

and

EDIT:

sure why not:

tags via @littleredplanetnumberfour

EDIT 2:

someone asked for a sag-aftra one:

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon has been in some truly miserable conditions. He's been under fire while the hot desert sun beat down on him, he's been pushed, bloody and broken, through boot camp. But, in this moment, he can't think of anything more soul-crushing than the mall on a Sunday afternoon.

But he needs new jeans. So here he is.

It's just a quick mission, he tells himself as he slips through the doors of a department store. In and out. He could always order them online, but then he'd have to put his name and address on some little internet form, and he doesn't trust it. This, torturous though it is, feels safer.

It's too bright, too crowded, too loud. But he knows where he's going, so he keeps his head down and pushes through.

"Excuse me, sir!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, there you are, stepping away from your spot near the cosmetics section and directly into his path.

He stares down at you, studying you quickly. He sees your eyes, wide and bright, and a nametag pinned to your blouse. You look a little sheepish at approaching him so directly, but you don't back down.

"I was wondering if I could interest you in purchasing a new fragrance?"

To Simon, it's a bizarre question -- he doesn't wear "a fragrance," he wears deodorant and aftershave at best. He's already not having a good time, so he scoffs a little and says, "Don't need one."

"Are you sure? I could show you some of the trendiest colognes for men, or if you have a wife or a girlfriend, perhaps a nice new perfume for her?"

He glances around the area, seeing a number of counters, some with makeup, others with skincare, then yours with all the fancy glass bottles of perfume. When he looks back at you, you're still gazing up at him, wearing a smile that doesn't fully reach your eyes.

"They forcing you to sell this shit?" he asks.

"What? No? This is my job," you tell him, a bit of your smile fading.

"Yeah, well, you look like you're doing it at gunpoint."

You hesitate, do a quick glance around, then lower your voice to say, "I've got to meet my quota is all."

He smirks, and asks, "That so?"

"Yeah. I haven't been meeting my sales goals, and I need the commission, you know? I'm not trying to be pushy, I just ... I've got the quota."

He's not sure exactly what possesses him to continue the conversation. All he wanted to do was buy a few pairs of jeans and go back home, but now here you are, looking all hopeful, and something in him tells him that he shouldn't just walk away.

"What do you wear then?" he asks.

He doesn't know where the question comes from, but you're already smiling again, more genuinely this time, and you move to the counter. You pull out a sample bottle, plain glass with a simple white label, and slide it over to him.

"For your wife?"

He doesn't answer, instead watching as you spray the perfume on a strip of paper and hand it out to him. When he takes it and lifts it to his nose, it's almost overwhelming -- he'd noticed the scent on you when you stepped in front of him, something warm and sweet, but smelling it like this ... it's like you, concentrated.

"I'll take it."

You let out a sigh of relief, getting a new box of the perfume out and packaging it up for him before ringing him up. When you give him back his change, he lets his fingers ghost over your palm as he picks it up -- not enough for you to notice, but enough that he certainly does.

Back home, he takes the perfume out of its box and sets it on his dresser. He doesn't know what to do with it, and he doesn't have anyone to give it to. And when he sprays just a little bit on his pillow, he tells himself that it's only because he doesn't want it to go to waste.

[fairydrowning]

"Days will pass, and you'll abandon things you were addicted to, and leave someone, and cancel a dream, and finally, accept a reality."

– Nizar Qabbani

[histerek]

Stiles: [sobbing bc he can’t save the puppy* who is going to FREEZE in the cold]

Claudia and John, who know this is absolutely NOT a dog: [trying to wrestle the pup out of Stiles’ deceptively strong three-year-old grip]

*Derek, not a puppy but a wolf cub who is admittedly tiny for his age: [head empty no thoughts, enjoying the scent and warmth of Stiles’ scarf]

Talia, watching this all go down behind a tree: [plotting how to save her son for the FIFTH TIME THIS SKI SEASON who she’s beginning to suspect doesn’t want to be saved]

[lazylittledragon]

mombin pt 9!! it's been too long i'm sorry

(1)(2)(3)(4)(5)(6)(7)(8)

[mtmcguire]

I’m not the pheasant plucker …

Well this is the week that was and was it a bit of a week? Oh yes it was. Also you’ll notice it’s not the weekend. I’m not sure how much I should say about some of this stuff so this one’s going under the radar. Bit of a mix of news this week. Good, bad, funny and sad. Such is life. Right. On we go. Stall at the ready, I was about to do a three day stint selling books at the St Edmundsbury…