#writer in motion

[sashakielman]

Writer in Motion Fall 2022

I’m very pleased to be participating in this Writer in Motion round! Our prompt and my resulting short story follows below. Next up is self and beta editing--I’m very interested in what my partner will have to say! The final piece will be posted on Sunday, October 16, 2022.

The cliffs called her.

She did not fear the heights; she did not fear the sea.

The only thing she feared was that someday, she would not be able to escape the confines of walls and linger out of doors; that she would be trapped, far from the sea she loved, far from the cliffs she called home. 

Nature was her temple, her cathedral. She went through the motions of her daily life, lighting candles, saying prayers, performing courtesies, but as soon as she could escape the boredom of routine and the claustrophobia of a crowded castle, she would. 

Here, she could sit in silence with nothing more expected of her. She could breathe freely, basking in the silence and the solitude, only rocks and waves to keep her company.  

She could imagine herself a scholar, spending hours in the library, studying and learning what she chose to her heart’s content.

She could imagine herself a knight, riding her horse across the world, defending her home with honor and glory. 

She could imagine herself a bird, flying away from her problems, singing across the sea and sky.

She could imagine herself anything than what she was rather than facing the reality she so detested and dreaded.

Here, where the wind and the salt in the air stung her cheeks and turned them red, she could claim her tears were nothing but the result of the environment she so cherished.

It was strange to feel so at home and at peace alone, outside, while she felt so anxious, uncomfortable and alone, surrounded by people. No one else seemed to experience her struggle--at least, those that could understand it--or perhaps they had resigned themselves to their fates in a way she had not.

Her mother’s face was the very picture of frustrated, patient resignation, until the day she died.

She would not die like her mother, weeping in agony, sacrificing her life for the potential of another’s. 

She would ensure it.

With those precious few moments that remained to her at the seaside, she swore a solemn vow to herself. She would always remain true to herself, to what she knew to be the truth of gods and humans, until the day she died. Or she would die trying.

She smiled as she heard the first shouts in the distance through the wind.

“Princess! Princess!”

She sighed, got up and brushed the dirt and sand from her dress, and turned to face them. 

It was perhaps only by virtue of her position that her father allowed her to be trained as well as the finest swordsmasters in the realm. She could ride as well as the horsemasters, speak multiple languages, and debate politics with anyone. 

She was her father’s daughter as much as she was his heir. 

He was the crown. 

She did not want the crown. 

She wanted freedom, to feel the sunlight kiss her face rather than courtiers and their false flattery. 

She was no beauty--that much was evident to all--but nor was she plain, and so that made their words all the more prickling across her freckled skin. 

None of them praised her freckles, nor her hair, also marked by her time out of doors. She would have appreciated them praising her intellect, her curiosity, her kindness. 

Instead, they tried to tell her that her smile was radiant as the sun, that she was a gift to the realm, and on and on in a vain attempt to convince her father they could be trusted, or they should be appointed to his Council, or some other self-serving sort. 

It was all she could do to not roll her eyes at every session. 

Her father never had an answer as to why, if her smile was so radiant and she was such a gift to the realm, that none of the assembled lords ever asked for her to consider marriage with any of their children. 

Marriage was a different sort of freedom, one she both dreaded and desired. She could still yet hold hope that someone, someday, would love her for her true self. 

Before she died, her mother told her that she knew God had someone very special saved for her.

She resisted asking her mother why God was waiting so long to send her this special person. 

Perhaps someday, she would know. Perhaps someday, she would actually meet them. 

Until then, she had to take her destiny into her own hands. 

No one questioned her taking extra food from the kitchens that night. She had been a regular presence there over the years, gossiping with the servants and begging for bread, cheese, and honey when it was the lunar phase of her cycle. 

They might have been surprised to see her in her riding cloak and her training gear, vambraces in place, sword at her side, her bag filled with food and books slung over her shoulder. 

Her jewelry--only that which was most precious to her--was hidden among her possessions, her hair was braided and wrapped under her hood. 

The sea and the wind beckoned to her, calling her away once more, and away she went, her horse galloping in the moonlight. 

She breathed a sigh of relief, a prayer in her heart, and felt freedom caress her skin.

[eclipsedsuns]

spotify users: what is the current title of your daylist and what are the first three songs?

[mashkara45]

[gay-baby-brig]

Still inordinatly salty about that time I said I was so proud of Izzy’s character development and a thousand people jumped on to say "uuuuh cute that you just now noticed how funny and kind he is but there was no character development, he was always like that. Real Izzy fans know."

Sweetheart, babydoll, cute pie, sunchild, I am BEGGING you to understand that character development does not just mean a character who hated pudding in season one changed their mind and learned to love pudding in season two.

Character development also means a character loved pudding in season one and wasn't brave or comfortable enough to show how much they loved it until season two. That is the development of the character.

[jamerasjournal]

Black people speak two languages. Job interview and AAVE. Question: When I fill out a job application can I still check the box that says bilingual. Does my ability to code switch depending on the setting that I’m in count as a job skill? I am always subconsciously turning down my blackness in an effort to make other people more comfortable. Beyoncé once said, “Got all this money but you’ll never take the country out me.” I felt that. I started kindergarten already knowing how to read and write. And no matter how many times my mama made me practice Hooked on Phonics, my first language will always be Ebonics. Spell Mississippi. M-I crooked letter, crooked letter- I- crooked letter, crooked letter- I- humpback, humpback- I. Okay, but spell it for real this time. M-I crooked letter, crooked letter- I- crooked letter, crooked letter- I- humpback, humpback- I. Did I stutter? I bet my great-great-great-granddaddy had an accent so thick that one sentence sounded like one word. And what’s in that word? Levels upon levels of trauma that you couldn’t even begin to fathom. It’s a slave spiritual sung over plantation fields, the last two letters spun into the cotton in your t-shirt. An apostrophe added cuz If you say one more syllable, you just might get whipped, boy. It’s living in a world where you can’t read the words. Mispronouncing words you don’t even know how to spell. While the rest of the world looks at you like you ain’t got no sense. But tonight, I’m gon’ talk how I wanna talk, cuz that slang is in my bones. And if you don’t like it you can get up out my face. Period. And I don’t wanna hear a nan ‘notha word about me talking “ghetto” when I stand before you with a last name my ancestors wouldn’t even begin to know how to say. And every time I sign my name I’m paying homage to the white family that used to own mine. Our language is one of the only things that can never be taken from me. It’s embedded into generations from long before my time. It’s okay that you don’t understand it, I’m not allowed to speak it to you anyway. Lest you call me uneducated, illiterate, or unprofessional. I must censor myself, brush it under the tongue. That is until you make me angry. Then everybody and they momma gon’ know you got the wrong one. Try me if you want to. I was raised on, “Do I look like Boo Boo the fool?” and “Stop crying ‘fore I give you something to cry about.” And that’s word to my momma. What’s in a word? I see your eyes widen when the African American Vernacular comes bursting out. So foreign to you it sound like a Voodoo spell. Yeah, this how I really be wanting to talk. Fix ya face. I cannot be Afrocentric and Eurocentric at the same time. I do not have the Freedom of Speech if the way I speak determines my intellectual capabilities. I must always accommodate a society that refuses to accommodate me. But you knows what? I’ve gotten real good at talking “white.” But every once in a while, if you listen- I mean real, real good. You can still hear that one crooked letter. The black cracking through like a toothless grin. Yeah. That’s my great granddaddy saying, “Say it with your chest girl.” So if you hear me talking loud it’s cuz I’m finna say something real important. And when I speak, you better listen.

-jamera naquai, CROOKED LETTER

[urlocaltransace]

“ YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME, AND I KNOW WHERE TO LOOK “

(warning: colored flashing lights)

WOOOOOO I FINALLT STARTED EDITING ON ALIGHT MOTION AGAIN!!!!! YAY!!!! WAHOO!!!!!!

anyways I’ve been cooking and serving meals left and right good god

anyways just a lil vanny and greg lore thing :3

[tohellandback99]

Best duo ever. where the boy character walks on a bed of nails and psychological trauma for the lady character with PTSD and superpowers who ISN’T, the villain that needs to be “handled” this time. JUST to be there (to WANT to stay) and actually help but also out of VISCERAL yearning. Is anyone gonna take notes? We can’t have Raul be the only one

Oh and one more thing, the whole other reason why I wrote this; What Kat does? Her? Yeah, This YOUNG TEEN, girl? Right? Right. She deserves to have the complete autonomy that everybody else does. What she does with or without her male “acquaintance” is nobody’s god damn business. Every. Time a female lead is born and treated respectfully true, and with REAL autonomy. The rest of us must swim through the thick chain reaction of misogyny and entitlement over her.

A constant projection of mommy issues and un achievable demands either intentionally or blindly upon every single one female lead character. Who don’t care, or have just missed the point entirely

*facepalm* it never ends, but I know where to spark a new one. 😊 yes

there’s not enough characters like these two and they are EXACTLY as they should be.

Nooo, This take shouldn’t be any more concerning to you than what’s in Father Bests’ basement

(Came back for a minute juuuust to put this in here, it just fits so perfectly. ok, here we are. Edit? What edit? I was not here)

[fandomstars]

Watch Pokemon Concierge!

We need a petition or something to keep it going, it only has four episodes!

Come on people, let’s get that petition going!

[raurquiz]

#remembering #leonardnimoy #actor #writer #director #startrek #spock #themotionpicture #thewrathofkhan #thesearchforspock #thevoyagehome #thefinalfrontier #theundiscoveredcountry #thenextgeneration #transformers #galvatron #darkofthemoon #sentinelprime #fringe #startrek57

[sashakielman]

Writer in Motion: Week 3

This past week was beta editing! A huge thank you to my partner, Steph Whitaker, for her helpful and insightful comments that made this a stronger piece!

The cliffs called to her.

She did not fear the heights; she did not fear the sea.

The only thing she feared was that someday, she would not be able to escape the castle walls’ confines and linger outside. That she would be trapped, far from the swirling sea she loved, far from the soaring cliffs she called home. 

Nature was her temple, her cathedral. She went through the motions of her daily life, lighting candles, saying prayers, performing courtesies, but as soon as she could escape the boredom of routine and the claustrophobia of a crowded castle, she would. 

Here, she could sit in silence with nothing more expected of her. She could breathe freely, basking in the quiet and the solitude, only rocks and birds to keep her company. Few in the castle dared come so close to the cliff’s edge. She could sit and dangle her bare feet over the water, if she so chose. 

She could imagine herself a knight, riding her horse across the world, defending her home with honor and glory. 

She could imagine herself a bird, flying away from her inheritance, singing across the sea and sky.

She could imagine herself anything than what she was rather than facing the reality she so detested and dreaded.

Here, where the wind and the salt in the air stung her cheeks and turned them red, she could claim her tears were nothing but the result of the environment she so cherished.

It was strange to feel so at home and at peace alone, outside, while she felt so anxious, uncomfortable and alone, surrounded by servants and nobility. No one else seemed to experience her struggle--or perhaps they had resigned themselves to their fates in a way she had not.

Her mother was the very picture of frustrated, patient resignation, until the day she died.

She would not die like her mother, weeping in agony, sacrificing her life for the potential of another’s. 

She would ensure it. She had known that in her soul since her mother died.

With those precious few moments that remained to her at the seaside, she swore a solemn vow to herself, with nature as her witness. She would always remain true to herself, to what she knew to be the truth of gods and humans, until the day she died. Or she would die trying.

She smiled, eyes closed.  A soft breeze stirred her auburn hair in the sunlight as she heard the first worried shouts in the distance.

“Princess! Princess!”

She sighed, got up and brushed the dirt and sand from her dress, and turned to face them. 

“I bring a message from your father, princess,” the lead lady in waiting said, breathing heavily.

It was perhaps only by virtue of her position that her father allowed her to be trained as well as the finest swordsmasters in the realm. She could ride as well as the squires, speak multiple languages, and debate politics with anyone. 

She was her father’s daughter as much as she was his heir. 

He embraced the crown and his duty to their people, but she did not want the crown, or the weight of responsibility it brought with it. 

She wanted freedom, to feel the sunlight kiss her face rather than courtiers and their false flattery. 

She was no beauty—that much was evident to all—but nor was she plain, and so that made their words all the more prickling across her freckled skin. 

None of them praised her freckles, nor her unstyled long hair, also marked by her time out of doors. She would have appreciated them praising her intellect, her curiosity, her kindness. 

Instead, they tried to tell her that her smile was radiant as the sun, that she was a gift to the realm, and on and on in vain attempts to convince her father they could be trusted, or they should be appointed to his Council. 

It was all she could do to not roll her eyes at every session. 

Her father never had an answer to why, if her smile was so radiant and she was such a gift to the realm, that none of the assembled lords ever asked for her to consider marriage with any of their children. 

Marriage was a different sort of freedom, one she both dreaded and desired. She could still yet hold hope that someone, someday, would love her for her true self. 

Before she died, her mother told her God had someone very special saved for her.

She resisted asking her mother why God was waiting so long to send her that special person. 

Perhaps someday, she would know. Perhaps someday, she would actually meet them. 

Until then, she had to take her destiny into her own hands before it would be too late to escape her fate.

No one questioned her sneaking extra food from the kitchens that night. She had been a regular presence there over the years, gossiping with the servants and asking for bread, cheese, and honey when it was the lunar phase of her cycle. 

They might have been surprised to see her in her riding cloak and training gear, vambraces in place, sword at her side, her bag filled with food and books slung over her shoulder. The princess usually dressed simply when she visited the kitchens, and she would not drag in mud from the training yard. 

Her jewelry--only that which was most precious to her--was hidden among her possessions. Her hair was braided and wrapped under her hood. 

The sea and the wind beckoned to her as she stepped into the night’s darkness, calling her away once more. Both she and her horse were silent as she placed the saddle, before they escaped the palace’s confining walls, galloping away in the moonlight. 

She breathed a sigh of relief, a prayer in her heart, and felt freedom caress her skin. 

The wild breeze rising from the seaside cliffs welcomed her home. She would be free to be the person she was always meant to be.

[cosmicbirch8]

[filmcourage]

How Writing Animation Differs From Live Action - Andy Guerdat

Watch the video interview on Youtube here.

[chelshiart]

Sleep mode - ACTIVATED

[ID: An animated GIF featuring Murderbot 2.0 and ART. In the feed, MB 2.0 sleeps in a magenta cradle of it's own creation, and ART, depicted as a blue bubbling glitch effect, gently rocks the cradle back and forth. /end ID]

---

dropped this into the mb discord a couple weeks back, and finally bringing it here!

OH and if ya'll want to see more ART and MB 2.0 feels, check out this fantastic fic by CompletelyDifferent on Ao3 -- it's so compelling and well-written!! Highly recomend!

[jacob-blogs]

No shade but the way some 50,000 word fanfics can really be skimmed by just reading the first sentence of every paragraph... Werk

[qqueenofhades]

Hmm, yes. I think this "what happened to Fivan in s2" fic is definitely going to happen.

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

I knew Micah wasn’t a great guy but I was a fool to think he had any redeeming traits.