#writing a novel really was the last thing keeping me sane huh

[grinchwrapsupreme]

How can i possibly be this bored already im not even unemployed yet

[willow-salix]

Isolation update!

Day 79 of Isolation on Tracy Island and I’ve finally got my phone back from Scott, he forgot to give it to John and then took it to bed and then slept really late and it was all a bit of a panic. Because you know what it’s like when you can't find your phone, right? Yeah, that was me. Coming out of headache delirium at around 4am, mostly because John accidentally kicked me and woke me up, I reached for my phone to check the time and couldnt find it. Instant fear, instant terro , how would I stay connected to the world of out? How could I survive being stuck here with these idiots without being able to talk to sane people that don’t think that having a pie eating contest as a midnight snack is a fine thing to do (Yes, Scott, I’m looking at you).

Phone was nowhere to be seen. I snuck out of bed, headache almost gone and totally unable to sleep any longer after napping almost constantly all day yesterday, and searched John’s side of the bed. No phone. His was there but mine wasn’t. I checked his pockets, unearthing two hairbands, a box of tic tacs, a random piece of something that had a microchip in it, his favorite pen, a comb, a fish hook(?) and a screwed up piece of paper that said ‘Kick me’ on it. No phone.

“Coffee, I need coffee,” I muttered.

“Huh? Wha?” John half sat up, paused and then flopped back down, going straight back to sleep. I guess he wasn't getting up any time soon. Being back on the Island for so long had actually gotten him into something that was vaguely like a normal person's sleep pattern, in the fact that he was actually getting more than three hours a night. It was like his body was thoroughly enjoying the rest and was making the most of it meaning that when he was asleep he stayed that way, a rarity for him since he was so used to listening out for alerts and was usually an extremely light sleeper. We just left him to sleep for as long as he needed.

I tiptoed out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind me and made my way to the kitchen to grab myself some apple juice and a cup of coffee, taking it with me to the lounge.

I stopped in the doorway and actually had to ask myself if I was still asleep, was I dreaming? Why was there an extremely large pizza on the couch? I sniffed the coffee then sipped it. Hot, strong, wet...yep, I was definitely awake and this was definitely coffee. I took a few steps closer and almost jumped out of my skin when the pizza moved, unrolling itself to reveal Gordon.

“Why the heck are you even here?” I had to ask.

He sat up and lifted the corner of his pizza blanket, moving his legs so I could sit beside him.

“You OK?” I settled in next to him, allowing him to steal some of my apple juice while I tucked the blanket over us.

He shrugged, going for my coffee next.

“Did I wake you up?” I asked.

“No, I couldn’t sleep so I got up.”

“And brought a pizza with you?” I stroked the soft blanket. “Where did you even get this, anyway?”

“I saw it advertised on holobook and thought it might be fun.”

I nodded, it was certainly that. I gently bumped his shoulder with my own.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“Just had a lot on my mind I guess. None of us thought that this whole lockdown thing would last so long and it’s starting to get to me.”

“Want to talk about it? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, not really.”

I frowned, this wasn't like our Gordon, he was usually so cheerful, being this quiet and withdrawn wasn’t like him. I nudged him again.

“How about we do something together today, whatever you want.”

“Seriously?” he didn’t look like he believed me. “Anything I want?”

“Yep, anything and I promise I won’t say no.”

He grinned evilly and I suddenly had the worst feeling that I was going to regret this.

“OK, you’re on.”

***

“She’s gonna die out there,” Scott told John a few hours later as they all sat in a row on the beach, watching as Gordon tried to explain to me the basics of how to water ski and I was seriously debating if I needed to take out a life insurance policy to makes sure my house plants were taken care of.

“All you have to do is relax back on your heels, bum on the board, arms down low and let the boat do most of the work. I’m gonna go first so you can see how it’s done.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust Scott not to gun the boat and drown me?”

“Hey! I resent that! I can go slowly if I want to!” he yelled back, overhearing my question.

“Maybe I should drive,” Virgil suggested.

“Yeah, maybe he should,” I agreed. I was seriously regretting this decision. Of all the stupid choices I’d made recently this had to top the list.

“No, I got this,” Scott initiated, climbing into the boat.

“He don’t got this,” Alan muttered, but I tried hard to ignore him.

Gordon made it look easy, as all of them did with 98.7% of everything they did. They did things effortlessly, like it was as natural as breathing. They all had the poise, the balance, the confidence and the upper body strength to do almost anything. Me...not so much.

I tried to follow his instructions, I tried to sit back, relax and keep leaning back as the boat took off, letting it take me, but those instructions didn’t count on the speed freak that was Scott being at the wheel.

“You said you’d go slowly!” I yelled as I struggled to lift my head out of the water, having been yanked forward and deposited face first in the sea.

“That was slow!” he yelled back.

“I meant normal people slow! My kind of slow, not Tracy slow!”

“Is there actually another kind of slow?” Alan asked Virgil, who shrugged, wise boy wasn't getting involved.

I tried four more times, each more disastrous than the others. I went backwards, I tipped sideways, I did what amounted to a summersault and almost knocked myself out with the edge of my board. Headache, welcome back , I can’t lie and say I missed you.

“No! I give up! I am not here for your entertainment!” I screamed at them as they all fell about laughing, Alan almost toppling out of the boat to join me.

I flapped my way over to them, towing myself in on the line, hand over hand as I inched my way closer.

“When I eventually get there you had better all be ready to apologise for laughing at me!” I warned them.

I got closer, slowly but surely and reached for the boat. It shot forward a few paces.

“Very funny, numb nut!” I yelled at Scott who was obviously in one of his evil moods.

John reached out a hand for me and I grabbed on tight. I had a split second to make my decision. I yanked hard, pulling him out of the boat and into the water with an almighty splash.

He spluttered and flailed as he hit the water and vanished for a second before he bobbed back up.

Gordon burst out laughing, finally smiling properly for the first time that day.

John got back in the boat with minimal scowling for him, though he did flick water in my face again, which I deserved.

“Plan B,” Gordon decided, finally sobering enough to talk. His Plan B took the form of a jet ski that he rode beside the boat while he yelled instructions at me.

It took us a few more goes but I eventually managed to get to my feet and stay upright for more than thirty seconds, which we were counting as a win. I gave up my board to Alan and Gordon and dragged myself into the boat, wrapped myself up in a massive towel and called it a day.

I can’t say that I had fun, but I hadn’t done it for me. Sometimes even the most cheerful and happy of us need a little helping hand, they need someone to check on them, to care about them and go out of their way to make them smile. And that’s what you do for family.

((Little announcement. I've loved doing these, but it's been a long time and I'm finding it harder to come up with ideas and finding that it's becoming a chore to write them every day, and it's taking up all my time meaning that my writing time and drawing time is suffering. That's not to say I'm giving up on theses, my aim is to keep going every day until day 100 and after that, I'll post some as and when I am inspired to do so and when I get an idea.

When I started these I didn't know how long lockdown would last but I didn't think it would still be going now. I hope I've brought a little joy with these updates, which was always the intention.

As I said, I won't be stopping completely, if I think fo something or I'm inspired then I'll write it, but I need a break, I've written over 80k so far, which is a good sized novel. Hope you all understand))

[delicioussshame]

I’ve spent so much time in the last month opening the second part of the MoShen thing and staring I decided fuck it, I’m writing part three, maybe it will help. Try getting Shen Qingqiu and Mobei-Jun to talk about sex without intermediaries and see how you like it.

Anyway, all you need to know for part three is that they’ve been fucking long enough to be comfortable around each other.

Now, Shang Qinghua’s pov.

That noise wasn’t Mobei-Jun. The voice was too loud and too high to come from his king.  

Shang Qinghua should have expected this would happen sooner or later. He wrote Mobei-Jun after all. He was also a demon king, like Bing-ge. Men like them have needs and many admirers more than willing to fulfill them. Of course his king isn’t celibate. Just because Shang Qinghua had never bothered to include love interests for him doesn’t mean he has none.  

And if that voice was male, well, Shang Qinghua should have expected that too, considering what happened to his stallion protagonist. Obviously Cucumber-bro fucked everyone up by messing with the story.  

The part of him with no sense of self-preservation, that part Shang Qinghua tried so hard to kill, that part really wonders what’s Mobei-Jun’s type. His king always looks so blank, it’s impossible to know what he likes. What kind of man managed to get through Mobei-Jun’s reserve? Shang Qinghua doesn’t have much presence, especially compared to all the demons roaming around. He can probably open the door to his king’s quarters silently enough not to be heard considering they’re not exactly paying attention.  

The first thing he notices is Mobei-Jun's back, because hello, that is a nice back. Shang Qinghua wants to run his tongue all over those muscles, now would be good.  

The second thing he notices are the white, delicate fingers digging into the meat of Mobei-Jun's shoulders and the slim, just as fair legs framing his hips. Huh. Shang Qinghua would have figured that if Mobei-Jun took a man to bed, he would still be a fighter, someone able to stand his own against him. Those hands belong to a musician or a scholar, maybe. Closer to his than Mobei-Jun's underlings’, without talons or claws or anything but normal, well-trimmed nails.  

The rest of the person is hidden behind Mobei-Jun's obviously bigger body. That’s too bad. It’s not helping Shang Qinghua finding out what his king is into.  

He should really go, shouldn’t he? What he’s doing is wrong, and Mobei-Jun will kill him if he catches him staring like a creeper.  

It’s just really, really hard to stop looking at Mobei-Jun as he keeps thrusting into the person half sitting on his desk, fuck. Shang Qinghua gave reports while Mobei-Jun was sitting at that desk! Hell, he’d sat there once! Now all he’s going to be able to think about when he sees it is how hot it would be to get fucked on it, shit! And that ass! That ass is fiiiine. He likes to think they’re past the stage of their relationship where Mobei-Jun would kill him if he got too close, but he still believes he would get brutally murdered if he tried to slap that ass, no matter how no one sane could resist that kind of temptation. And he still hasn’t seen who he’s giving it too! Just a glimpse at his face would be enough! He could find out who it is from that. He’s good at gathering info, and maybe it’s a named character.  

Before he can convince himself to stop being a worse pervert than Cucumber-bro thinks he is just because he had to write porn to survive, Mobei-Jun crunches slightly to… he’s picking him up! Obviously Mobei-Jun can just pick him some guy and carry him around. He could probably fuck like that without even straining himself.  

Shank Qinghua rues the day he decided to write all his fantasies into one character.  

The move is going to change the angle, so maybe he sees the guy’s face… after he makes sure they can’t see him. There’ll be no point if Mobei-Jun assassinates him.  

Long black hair… Also pretty standard, not much to help identify hi…

His heart sinks into his chest. That can’t… It totally is Cucumber-bro being fucked mindless by Mobei-Jun. Fuck.  

Fuck.

He needs to get out of here now.

______________

He’s been on his peak for two weeks and he still feels like shit. His mind just can’t accept what he saw. If he hadn’t seen him himself, he would have never believed it.

How did they even fall in love? It’s not like Shen Qingqiu has an unfulfilled demon kink. He had Luo Binghe for fuck’s sake! The protagonist! Arguably the hottest man in this whole universe, who is completely crazy for him! He didn’t have to take Mobei-Jun too!

But that must be what happened. Mobei-Jun is loyal to Luo Binghe. He wouldn’t sleep with his beloved husband out of lust, and honestly neither would Shen Qingqiu. If they’re having an affair while Bing-ge is away, they must really care for each other.

Shen Qingqiu and Mobei-Jun.  

Yeah, that happened. Shang Qinghua can’t live in denial forever. He’s just gonna have to deal with the fact that Shen Qingqiu is the demonic ideal and he barely exists for them. He’s not anywhere near as attractive as them all anyway. He should have known he had no chance from the beginning.  

And if that hurts, that’s just Shang Qinghua’s life. He’s the writer. He’s supposed to be outside of the story anyway. And nothing nice ever happened to the original Shang Qinghua, so why would it change for him?  

So he’s just going to have to swallow down the hurt and deal with it.  

Just not yet.  

______________

It takes all he has not to freak out when Mobei-Jun wakes him up one morning. “My king! What are you doing here?” He hasn’t stopped by An Ding Peak to get him in years.

He hadn’t needed to. Shang Qinghua spent most of his time at his or Bing-ge’s castles now.  

He had just needed a break. Everyone needs a break from time to time, okay? Nothing wrong with that.  

As long as you’re not Mobei-Jun, apparently. “You haven’t given me reports in weeks.”

Shang Qinghua can’t meet his king’s eyes. “Apologies, my king. Urgent business kept me on my peak.”  

Mobei-Jun doesn’t have to say a word for Shang Qinghua to understand that he couldn’t care less about his “urgent business.” Great, now he’s feeling guilty for skipping on his duties on top of it all. Great.  

“What’s wrong?”

Shang Qinghua flinches and blinks in astonishment. Did his king just ask him… He raises his head instinctively to look at him, meets his eyes for a second, has a very vivid flash of the last time he saw him and looks down again. “There’s nothing wrong, my king,” he says, trying to control the shaking of his hands.  

“…You’re coming back.” Not a question. Shit.

“Tomorrow, so that I can wrap things up before leaving.”

Mobei-Jun frowns, but allows it.

Shang Qinghua falls face first in his bed the moment he leaves.  

His life is terrible.

______________

“You look terrible.”

Shang Qinghua is going to slap Shen Qingqiu. Watch him. “I’ve been busy.” Why is he even here? Doesn’t he have better things to do, like Mobei-Jun?

“With what.”

“Things on An Ding. There’s always something to take care of.”

Shen Qingqiu shrugs. “There’s nothing especially important going on at the sect right now. Your disciples are used to you being away.”

The last thing he needs right now is being interrogated by Shen Qingqiu. “Why do you care?”

Shen Qingqiu blinks in surprise. “Can’t I visit? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

Because that’s how Shang Qinghua had liked it, thanks. I know what you sound like when you’re getting fucked now! Right now I’m half embarrassed, half jealous as hell and half terrified for all our lives when Luo Binghe finds out you’re cheating on him!

He has to calm down. And, shit, he’s going to have to talk about this, because he’s not kidding about lives being endangered here. If this is what he wants, Shen Qingqiu is going to have to do this properly and tell Bing-ge before he decides only Mobei-Jun’s blood will suffice to soothe his anger. “That’s because I didn’t want to talk to you. You fucked up, Bro.”

Shen Qingqiu obviously wasn’t expecting it. Does he think he covered his tracks too well? When Shang Qinghua just walked on them? “What are you even talking about?”

“Before I left, I went to see Mobei-Jun, and he wasn’t alone.”

Damn it, Shen Qingqiu isn’t catching on. “Who was he with?”

Why is he so blind? And does he manage to catch everyone while being this obvious? “Do you really need me to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“You.”  

“...And?”

Seriously? “You two were busy, if you know what I mean, and Bro, if you have issues with Luo Binghe don’t drag my king into it! Do you realise your husband is going to kill your lover when he finds out! Are you really so stupid you thought he would never? I just walked in on you both! It could have been anyone!” He slaps the table for good measure, making the tea cups rattle. Better than Shen Qingqiu’s face. If he had done that, he’d have two demon kings after his blood. Hurrah.

Shen Qingqiu stares at him, his face completely blanched for a few minutes, before it becomes so red Shang Qinghua fears he’s cooking from the inside. “That... wasn’t what you’re thinking.”

“Bro, please, I saw plenty. Do you need me to give you details? Because I can. You two were fucking, no mistaking it.”

Shen Qingqiu is hiding behind his fan, but he can’t hide his embarrassment like that. “Well, yes, but...” and the rest of the sentence is inaudible.

“What?”

“It was Binghe’s idea! Which makes it yours, since you’re the one that gave him all those weird kinks! What's wrong with you! What’s the childhood trauma you were projecting there! Couldn’t you have remained a lurker instead of getting delusions of grandeur and writing the world’s shittiest online novel! I hate you so much.”

Okay, so, what? It was Luo Binghe’s idea?

Luo Binghe’s idea!? “Bro, what the fuck? Luo Binghe doesn’t strike me as the sharing type.”  

“Yes, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it.”  

They’re talking about this, are they? Never mind, Shang Qinghua wants to know what happened to his characters, and what kind of plotline is that? “Tell me.”

Even his ears are red. “That’s really not your business.”

Cucumber-bro might have tried to deflect by getting angry at him, but they’ve known each other long enough that he can tell he’s still really, really embarrassed. Too bad. He made his life shit for weeks, causing him to worry he’d have a funeral to attend, he can get over himself for a couple minutes. “Ìt kind of is. As of this moment, it would be the responsible thing for me to go tell Luo Binghe what happened, since he’s everyone’s lord and everything. Who knows how he would react?”

“Don’t do it! He might murder you if he knows you saw me... like that.” Shang Qinghua can almost see the steam coming out of his ears.  

“Then explain.”

“It’s not logical. It’s... weird.”

“That’s nothing new. Bing-ge is never logical when it comes to you. And you’re the one fucking Mobei-Jun, not him.”

Cucumber-bro takes a deep breath. “Luo Binghe is scared I’m going to cheat on him when he’s away, so he... arranged someone to make sure it doesn’t happen.”  

Shang Qinghua’s jaw falls. That really makes no sense. “Bro, he must know you wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s not really that, it’s more like... He doesn’t want me to be lonely and tempted. I told you it wasn’t logical.”

Okay. He can kind of see Bing-ge worrying his husband was alone and sad while he wasn’t with him, but to the point of whoring out his king? “You were right, that’s some kink he’s got.” No one as obsessed as Luo Binghe lets his lover sleep with other people if they don’t get off on it.  

Wait. “Does he watch? Does he participate!? Are you having threesomes with my king!!?”

Cucumber-bro is now crimson, and the lack of denial leaves Shang Qinghua even more jealous than he was a week ago. Shen Qingqiu really overtook all of the wives’ sex lives, did he? When does he sleep? How does he walk!? Does he exude pheromones irresistible to demons? Is all of Luo Binghe’s entourage just waiting for their chance to hit that?  

Talking about his entourage. “Is this common knowledge? Because you’re very bad at hiding it considering I just walked on you.”

“Of course not! Think of Luo Binghe’s reputation!”

“Then hide better!”

Shen Qingqiu snorts, regaining some composure. “You’re an idiot.”

Excuse me? “I’m an idiot? Me? You’re the one who gets fucked on a desk and doesn’t even lock the door!”

Composure: exploded. Shang Qinghua gives himself a point. “Not anyone could have walked in!”

“Yes they could have! I did!”

Shen Qingqiu looks exasperated. “Mobei-Jun’s quarters are shielded and guarded against intruders. You’re just one of the very few people that’s allowed to waltz in.”

That’s right. He always just showed up whenever he felt like it and no one ever said a thing. He just thought he was too insignificant to stop. If Mobei-Jun didn’t want him there, he’d let it known. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“...Bro, can you tell him I know?”

Something passes over Shen Qingqiu’s face. “No. Tell him yourself.”

“Bro! He’s gonna kill me! Forget it, he doesn’t need to know. I’ll just pretend it never happened and walk really loudly when I stop by.”

Shen Qingqiu grabs his shoulders to make him stand still. “Airplane-bro, tell him.”

He whines. “Why?”

Shen Qingqiu is getting impatient. “Do it.” Or else being very much implied.  

Since Shen Qingqiu’s “or else” carries a lot of weight even before he starts throwing his husband’s and his lover’s weight around, Shang Qinghua knows he’s been left no choice. “Fine. Whatever.” He can tell Mobei-Jun he saw him fucking Shen Qingqiu. That’s nothing. Mobei-Jun doesn’t have an embarrassed bone in his body. He’ll probably just be a little bit disgusted, that’s all.  

No problem.  

[sserpente]

A/N: Premiere night! You’re all familiar with Arthur Curry aka Aquaman? Yep, as promised, I’ve officially added him to my list. Enjoy reading, my lovelies!

Words: 1548 Warnings: none

Alone. Alone would be what described you best. You were alone. There was no family left for you to turn to when you were sad, no friends to hang out with when you were feeling lonely… not even a dog that would cuddle with you to dry your tears.

You had always been alone, travelled from foster home to foster home and got bullied for having no parents. No time to make friends, no time to build yourself a life every teenager wished to have. By the time you finally were of age, you had accepted your destiny, your own personal misery.

All you had left now were the waves. Of course it sounded crazy. But the sea—vast, deep, mysterious and downright beautiful—had perhaps been the only thing you had ever considered a real friend. When you rid the waves on your surfboard, you forgot the world around you. You forgot your problems, your loneliness and your sorrows. You felt at ease.

When you had found that tiny island right around the corner of the bay you resided in, you had for once beamed with happiness. Breath-taking waves for you to surf on—all to yourself. You considered it your birthday present. It was the little things that made you happy, after all.

But all that was before a tall, muscly and long-haired man suddenly emerged from the water and turned your whole life upside down.

One thing you loved about your little island was the quiet. It was all yours—there was no one else. Ironic, really, considering you had been dealing with loneliness all your life.

Wading through the water, you wrung out your wet hair and marched towards your beach towel after digging your surfboard into the sand to dry. Then, you sank down on the ground and stretched, enjoying the warm sunbeams on your wet skin. The loud splashing sound you did ignore—probably just another wave breaking against the sharp rocks next to you.

But that was when something—or rather, someone suddenly stepped right in front of you, shielding you from the sun. It got dark. Squinting, you made out a tall, long-haired man with countless tattoos on his body… his muscles proved he was not to be meddled with.

You frowned. Granted, he was hot. But you were in no mood for another stupid pick-up line.

“Can I help you?” You began disinterested.

“You’re scaring the fish.”

Blinking, you sat up. “Excuse me?”

“Your surfing is scaring the fish.”

“Right. I don’t know what drugs you’re dealing with and are obviously high on but I’m not interested.”

The stranger chuckled, almost as if he had expected resistance. He let out a sigh and knelt down to look you in the eye. His expression darkened a little—the inevitable danger radiating off of him fascinated you… and so did the blue of his eyes.

“Listen, doll. You surfers have already scared them away from the bay. Why don’t you just surf there?”

“Oh yeah, have they told you that?” You rolled your eyes. Who the hell did that guy think he was?!

The stranger shrugged. “They have, actually. Now I’m gonna ask you nicely because you’re a lady—get off this island. Please.”

“Are you the owner?”

“Huh?”

“The owner. Of this island. Does it belong to you?”

“No.”

“Then mind your own fucking business.” You spat, lying back down again. Stubbornly, you closed your eyes, attempting to blend him out. Perhaps you had no friends because of your rather brusque attitude. But this island was your only source of happiness. You were not going to let a handsome stranger take that away from you. Especially not on your birthday and not because you were apparently scaring fish.

“Okay. So we’re doing this the hard way where I grab that pretty surfboard of yours and break it in two?”

You were fuming. And the absurd thing was that you actually believed he would be able to make truth to his words. You couldn’t quite tell whether he was trying to tease you on purpose or if he simply was an arsehole. Maybe he was both.

Grunting, you sat up again.

“Listen up, fish guy. You can’t just show up and tell random people to get off islands if you don’t own them. It’s not like I’m pouring oil into the ocean or fishing with live-baits to grill some fish over a bonfire. I’m just surfing. And I’m not gonna let you stop me from the last thing that is keeping me…” Sane, you concluded mutely. Your life story was none of his business either, obviously.

The stranger pouted. “It’s Aquaman, actually.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hmm. You’re charming.” He commented sarcastically and got up, brushing the sand off his hands. “I’ll let you off with a warning. But if you’re back here tomorrow, say goodbye to your damn surfboard.”

And then, just like that, after giving said surfboard a gentle pat, he jumped straight into the water. He had gone within seconds.

For the rest of the day, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get him out of your head. Part of you was tempted to go back to the island tomorrow and see if he would actually go through with his stupid threat… the other wanted to scream at you for even considering such a thing. There was something… off about this guy… which was perhaps why you just couldn’t forget him.

One of your annual birthday traditions was it to buy a cake. There weren’t many occasions you got to treat yourself after all. Besides, you didn’t have the money to do so anyway. The local bakery was small and always smelled of sweet icing—you loved spending time in there and occasionally, buying a cupcake… usually, when you were on your period and craved sugar.

Clearing your throat, you walked up to the clerk behind the counter.

“Hey, um… I’m here to pick up my birthday cake?” You began quietly. Oh, it was so pathetic, wasn’t it? Buying your own cake because there was no one there to celebrate with you… every single year.

“Oh yes, your order from this morning. Your name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Happy birthday, my love. Let me go and fetch it for you.”

“Thanks.” Nodding, you made use of the time and pulled out a couple of bills. Cakes were expensive these days. Lucky for you, birthdays only happened once a year. While you waited, lost in thought, you let your gaze roam through the shop. They had re-decorated. It looked rather pretty.

But you tensed, eyes widening when you suddenly spotted the man sitting at a table in the corner, quietly sipping coffee.

It was fish guy. And he was looking right at you.

Just your luck.

“Thank you!” Relieved, you took the cake the clerk handed you a moment later and in return put the money on the counter.

“Keep the change!” With that, you turned on your heel, attempting to bold the shop. Reckless part of you surging within you or not, the urge to flee was bigger.

“Hey, wait up!” Especially when you heard his deep voice behind you. Oh, great.

Sighing, you stopped.

“What do you want?”

“I see you’ve left the island. Thank you.” Raising your eyebrows, you stared him down.

“I haven’t said anything about not coming back tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he replied darkly. There was something about his voice. Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But it was seriously hot.

You narrowed your eyes at him. You didn’t like the effect this strange man had on your body. Traitor. “Are you done threatening me?”

“I’m not threatening you. But…” He pouted. “There will be consequences if you don’t do what I asked you to.”

“That is the definition of threatening, you moron. Now get out of my way.”

But Aquaman wouldn’t budge an inch. Crossing his arms before his chest, he grinned cheekily as he stepped aside to block the exit.

“So you’re, uh, collecting your own birthday cake?”

“Yes. You got a problem with that?”

He shrugged.

“It’s just a little sad. Don’t you have anyone to celebrate with?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“I see, you don’t.” When you moved, he took another step. And you were slowly starting to freak out. “Join me for a drink at the beach bar down the road. Can’t let a beautiful young woman spend her birthday all alone.”

You blinked. Had he just… asked you out? “What makes you think I would wanna spend time with you? You threatened to break my surfboard!”

Aquaman grinned—smugly this time—and finally stepped aside, holding the door open for you.

“Come on, I’m not that terrible. You got nothing to lose, do you? And you’re not gonna eat the entire cake all alone, or are you? I’m Arthur, by the way.”

Defeated, you shook your head, sighing in the process. “And I am crazy for accepting. My name is (Y/N).”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N). Oh, and happy birthday.”

You only rolled your eyes before following him to the beach bar. At the very least, your special day promised to be interesting, if anything.

A/N: Seriously thinking about writing a Part II.

Guys, if you liked this story, I would appreciate so much if you could support me on KoFi! YOU can help me publish my first novel! It’s easy, it’s anonymous, you can do it from all over the world and it’s just 3€! Your help counts too, I’d appreciate it so much if you helped me fulfil my dream! ♥ ko-fi.com/sserpente  

[juggieheadcoopers-blog]

The scene at Pop's doesn't happen, Jughead gets on the bus to Florida, and Betty tags along? Or some variation of that. Thank you!

Here you go, hope it’s what you were looking for! Enjoy!

Title: Runaways

–

10:53p.m

“Betty, it’s me. I know you deserve more than this rushed, less than eloquent explanation in the back alley of a bus station - I mean, what we’ve gone through together surely warrants a twenty page exposé on what being with you has meant to me or at least some overly dramatic farewell in the parking lot like they do repeatedly in romantic comedies. But this hastily prepared phone call is all I’m able to come up with at the moment, most notably due to the fact that if I saw you in person right now I’d never be able to get on that bus. And I really need to go. Get out of Riverdale and away from the Blossoms and my father’s sins and - well, everything. Just know that I’m not leaving because of you, Betty Cooper. You’ve made these last few months of torturous hell some of the best months of my life. I’ll never forget that. And I’ll never forget how much I - I - I have to go. Bye, Bets.”

5:55a.m

Jughead clutched his beat-up hiking backpack that hung over his shoulder tightly with his gloveless hand, the chilly morning air flushing his cheeks and nose a pale pink that made him look like a young boy again, braving the cold just to play in the snow for a few hours until his mother called him in for dinner. Taking a step into the crowd of bus-goers, he stopped himself short before joining the passengers as they filed their way into their seats, glancing back at the bus depot’s entrance as if waiting for something -or someone- that wasn’t coming.

“Are you getting on or not, kid?” the bus driver asked from the driver’s seat, a tired expression crossing his face as he glanced down at Jughead standing by the open doorway looking unsure of himself as he teetered back and forth from one foot to the other. “The bus leaves the station in five minutes with or without you so I’d make up your mind pretty quick if I were you.”

“I’m coming,” Jughead assured him, although he made no move to prove his point and join the rest of the crowd on the bus.

“You might want to tell your feet that,” the bus driver pointed out. “They look pretty glued to the pavement there.”

“Just give me a few more minutes,” Jughead mumbled, adjusting his grip on the bag with one hand and sliding his ticket into the back pocket of his jeans with the other. “I have to get on that bus.”

“Well you’ve just wasted a full minute and a half in your failed attempt to convince us both of that statement, so whatever epiphany you think you’re going to have just standing there, I’d think of something that could make it happen a little quicker otherwise you’re stuck in this town forever,” the driver warned him, leaning back in his seat and resting his head back on the headrest behind him. “Or at least until the next bus leaves.”

“Come on, Jughead,” he mumbled to himself, the snow beginning to fall lightly on his beanie and the street in front of him. “Just get on the bus. There’s nothing keeping you here.”

“Running away to escape the sins of your father, huh?”

Jughead whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice that had made his heart skip a beat every time he heard it over the past few months, his pulse quickening at the sight of a bundled up Betty Cooper making her way over to him, her pale baby blue scarf wrapped snuggly around her neck and her gray peacoat buttoned all the way up to the tip of the collar.

“That’s a little ‘Huckleberry Finn’ don’t you think?”

“No, if I were following in the footsteps of Huck Finn, I would have faked my own death to escape my family,” Jughead pointed out, his gaze focused intently on the thick letters written on the side of the bus in front of them. “And we already had one teenager try that in this town - didn’t turn out so well remember?”

“Juggie,” Betty breathed, stepping around him so that he was forced to meet her gaze. ”Florida?”

“Yeah, well I hear that listening to the waves and feeling the ocean breeze on your skin does wonders for writer’s block,” Jughead shrugged, his expression hard and distant as he struggled to keep his heart from fluttering the way it always did when he was in her presence. “And considering I’m not writing my novel on Jason Blossom’s murder anymore, I figured a little seaside town in Florida was as good a place for a little inspiration and a fresh start.”

“Alone?” Betty’s voice was small, almost heartbreakingly so, and it took every bit of strength Jughead had left in him to resist scooping her up into his arms and holding onto her forever.

“I’ve been alone for the better part of my life, Bets,” Jughead reminded her, taking a step away from her as he continued to keep his distance. “My mother, Jellybean, now my father - they’ve all left me at some point, one way or another. And I know you were only doing what you thought was right to protect me, but even my friends, who I thought I could trust more than anyone, lied to me. People leave and let you down, it’s the way my life has always gone and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

Jughead felt his eyes begin to prickle with tears and he quickly stepped around Betty, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand and moving to place one foot on the first step leading up to the bus.

“But none of that matters anymore because I’m leaving that all behind. Goodbye Riverdale, goodbye Jughead Jones,” Jughead muttered, turning his back to Betty and grabbing onto the door with his free hand. “And it all starts as soon as I step onto that bus.”

“No,” Betty snapped, her voice ringing out amidst the empty bus station and falling snow blanketing the scene in front of them, causing Jughead to stop dead in his tracks, his foot sliding off the bus and back onto the pavement as he spun back around to face her.

“No?”

“You don’t get to just leave like that,” Betty told him, her eyes dancing wildly as the rage and longing and fear of losing something she had grown to crave more than oxygen over the past few months, began to take over her expression. “Not after everything we’ve been through together. Not after you climbed into my bedroom that day we went to see Polly and you kissed me. Not after everyday since then where you’ve been the one thing keeping me sane through this whole ordeal. Not after you made me fall in love with you!”

The words echoed off the walls of the empty bus depot, lingering in the air for a moment before hitting Jughead hard and fast, causing his heart to stop beating and his eyes to widen in disbelief as he slowly lifted his head to look at her.

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” Betty apologized, her hand flying up to cover her mouth in disbelief as a beautiful pink color began to creep up onto her cheeks at the unexpected declaration. “I’m sorry.”

“You love me?” Jughead breathed, the words so quiet and unlike his own voice that he was sure that it was someone else who had spoken them.

“Yeah, Jug,” Betty assured him, her lips creeping up into a shy smile as she finally said the words that had been lingering in her thoughts for weeks, out loud. “I love you.”

In that moment, amidst the falling snow and the rumbling of the bus awaiting the last of its passengers, Jughead knew without a shadow of a doubt that the next move he made would solidify the fate of their relationship for the rest of time. So without another word, Jughead dropped his backpack onto the snow-covered pavement and took Betty’s face in his hands, her skin cool and smooth and perfect to the touch, and kissed her until all the words and feelings and thoughts that he couldn’t say right then, didn’t need to be said out loud anymore. With that one kiss, Betty got the answer she had been hoping for all along - something more than what could have been expressed through pretty soliloquies or well-thought-out speeches. And that was enough for her.

“Time’s up, kid,” the bus driver announced from the driver’s seat, causing Betty and Jughead to abruptly pull back from their embrace to meet his gaze. “Are you getting on or not?”

“I’m coming with you,” Betty told him, already pushing her way towards the steps leading up to the bus, nearly slipping on the patch of ice on the road and reaching forward to hold onto the side of the vehicle to regain her balance.

“What? Betty, no I can’t ask you to leave everything you’ve known your entire life for me,” Jughead told her, reaching out to take her by the elbow and pulling her gently back towards him. “And I can’t ask you to leave Polly, especially not now.”

“She’s the one who suggested I leave with you,” Betty admitted, pointing to the luggage off to the side of the bus that Jughead hadn’t noticed until that moment, revealing that this was what she had been planning all along.

“You didn’t come here to say goodbye,” Jughead guessed, realization washing over his face as he took in the bus ticket sticking out of her pocket and everything started to make sense to him. “You came here to run away with me.”

“Polly and Jason never got their chance to get out of Riverdale together,” Betty reminded him, taking his wind-bitten hands in hers and stepping forward to close the gap between them. “But maybe we actually have a chance to be happy, away from all the secrets and lies and drama, Jug. I know that as long as I’m with you, I can be happy anywhere. So let’s go be happy.”

“Bets, are you sure?” Jughead wanted to know, his brows drawing together in concern as he glanced up at the annoyed bus driver with uncertainty. “This isn’t a short sleuthing trip across town, this is for good. I don’t plan on coming back for awhile. Maybe not at all.”

“I’m sure that I love you,” Betty assured him, her hands gently grazing his cool skin with the tips of her fingers before resting them comfortably on his cheeks. “And that’s all that matters to me right now.”

He knew that they were going to be deemed certifiably insane by the better half of Riverdale for thinking that two teenagers could survive running away with little to no money and no plan for the future mapped out in front of them, but in that moment, Jughead didn’t care. He didn’t care about the future, or what anyone else said about them, just as long as Betty Cooper was by his side every step of the way.

“Let’s go then,” Jughead announced, taking her hand in his and nodding for her to follow him onto the bus before he changed his mind.

“So that’s what he was waiting for,” the driver noticed, smiling knowingly up at Betty as she passed him on her way to one of the free seats in the back of the bus. “Can’t say I blame you, boy. I would have waited for a girl like her too when I was your age. Never got so lucky, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve waited for her longer than you think,” Jughead admitted, smiling back at Betty as she settled her way onto the plush seating and placed her own backpack on her lap in front of her. “I just hope that my loving her doesn’t ruin her life. I don’t think I could live with myself if that were the case.”

“That’s a chance you’re going to have to take, son,” the driver informed him, glancing up to meet Jughead’s gaze with somber eyes. “Otherwise, you’ll never forgive yourself for letting someone like her slip through your fingers. Trust me, I know all too well.”

Jughead nodded at the bus driver as if he understood, smiling at him gratefully before making his way down the aisle to join the girl he was going to start a new life with. He knew that he was running away from a lot of demons that Riverdale possessed for him, but he also knew that he was running to something - something better and brighter and with Betty. And that was what finally put his mind at ease as the doors shut behind them and the driver pulled out of the depot as they made their way down the road, and towards new beginnings.

[shemakesmusic-uk]

Getting to Know...

Rachel Ana Dobken.

Asbury Park-based indie-rocker Rachel Ana Dobken has shared the music video for her single, 'Always'. The single is the second from her album, When It Happens To You, which Dobken self-produced and released last year. The video finds Dobken showcasing her musical talents as she hops between guitar and drums in a vintage roller rink.

Self-described as “My Morning Jacket-meets-Lake Street Dive,” Dobken is a talented producer and multi-instrumentalist (guitar, drums, piano, vocals) who studied jazz at Bard College and has a knack for blending indie-rock with soul.

In addition to her solo career, Dobken works closely with famed music photographer Danny Clinch (who photographed the cover art and recorded harmonica for her album) at his Transparent Gallery in Asbury Park. She regularly performs with Clinch and has sat in with national acts such as G. Love, Robert Randolph, Rayland Baxter, Brian Fallon of The Gaslight Anthem, Grahame Lesh, Nicole Atkins, Blind Melon, Tash Neal, and more.

We had a chat with Rachel about the new video, what she's working on at the moment and more. Read the Q&A below.

You've just released the video for your track 'Always'. What was in the inspiration behind the visuals? What was your favourite part making the video?

"Well, the video for me was all about the music, it’s always about the music. It was important that we captured the energy of the song because it is active and vibrant, colorful and bright. There is a lot of movement and for me I wanted this to be about the four of us playing in a room together. The roller rink came second and we kind of just fell into that. My favorite part of making the video was us playing together on the actual day of shooting. I really enjoy the bond and connection that music brings, and to be able to give that love back to my bandmates as the leader means so much to me."

'Always' is from your self-produced and released album When It Happens to You which was released last year. What have you been up to since then? Are you working on any new music/projects?

"I’ve been up to too much! Trying to stay sane and focused in this hustle can be tough but so rewarding when you get through and experience great moments (a great show, a great release, people telling you your work means something to them, connecting with someone on a musical/playing level, etc…). So, I’m still sitting on one unmixed single from the record that I haven’t quite figured out when I want to release. I’m working on tours/booking shows here and there, and I’m sitting on at least another albums’ worth of material. I’ve been going through some tough times (multiple break-ups/endings/changes in my life) that are coming out in powerful songs that I’m feeling really good about. Also, I love to play with other people as a drummer or a guest singer. I want to do more collaborations because that’s where the bonding and magic happens.  I’ve been drumming a lot with another local band, my good friend’s the Cranston Dean Band and we have a killer time. I sit in a lot with legendary blues guitarist Scott Sharrard. I had a gig last month with Leslie Mendleson drumming for her. And, of course, Danny Clinch and I always love to host blues jams at his Transparent Gallery (where I have worked a lot with him). He also sits in with us a lot."

Let's go back to the beginning for a moment...you're a songwriter, producer and multi-instrumentalist. How did you get into music and how important to you is it to be in complete control of all aspects of the creative process?

"For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with music. It’s a love so deep in my bones. When I was 5 my mom gave me a Best of Ed Sullivan Show VHS featuring The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Beach Boys and Four Seasons. I remember the first time I watched it having no hesitation saying, “Yup, that is what I’m going to do with my life.” Growing up, I loved getting lost at record shops and in albums, listening to music for hours on end. I kept to myself a lot, living constantly in my own head, and found so much comfort in relating to the language of musicians (both lyrically and melodically/sonically). It was comforting to hear others thinking the same way I did. Artists like John Mayer, Fiona Apple, Jeff Buckley, Paul Simon- lyrically always really got to me.

"In regards to my “control freak nature” when it comes to the creative process, it is very important for me to be involved in all aspects of creating the work because I have a strong vision of what I hear and see (I am also a visual artist).  But it is certainly a balance. I have to keep myself in check. Let me put it like this - I have a very specific sound and vision, I hear almost everything from parts to tones. I won’t sleep at night unless something is done right, but I know there is magic in letting people in to help you with that, but it IS about finding the right people who you trust personally and musically."

With that we can completely agree! Speaking of your creative process, please take us through the steps you take.

"When it comes to writing a song it typically goes like this: When I have something I need to say, I start hearing things. Melodies and parts— could be a chorus or a verse. Then, typically, I hear lyrics that go with those melodies - could be minutes, hours or even weeks  later. If I’m going through something really emotionally stirring (either good or bad) like I have been lately (which has been intense and painful) I will usually have songs/ideas pouring out of me. So, I'll start by singing whatever I hear quickly into a voice memo on my phone (thank God for 2019 technology), and sometimes I’ll keep hearing parts. So I’ll have a bunch of voice memo’s in a row within like a 20-minute span of time. Other times, it could be months until I hear another part. Then, I'll go back, re-listen, piece parts together and sit down with a guitar to figure out what chords I’m hearing. Then eventually I’ll have an entire form and usually, the last thing I have to figure out are lyrics. Lately, I don’t think I’ve ever had so many songs flying out of me. I don’t even think it’s something you can control, its almost a spiritual or religious thing. Whatever I am feeling manifests in whatever it needs to sound like, I don’t ever (in fact I don’t think I could even try to) to sound like something if I wanted to.

"It’s funny because a lot of times melodies will come to me that I don’t even think about and then months later, when I go through something, it becomes SUPER clear that specific melody was meant for a song about a future moment in time. It’s almost a psychic way of being, it’s fucking crazy. I hate to think I was already thinking up melodies that would apply to a break-up while I was still involved with a person! But I’d be like, “Ok I have no idea what this means yet or where it’s going,” and then future me would start singing it again after going through some SHIT, then boom - there's the lyrics, the parts, and the next thing I know, that's what the song was about. Music is, in my opinion, too powerful and spiritual for us to really grasp and I think at the end of the day I’m just a vessel for this stuff. WILD!!!!"

That is wild!! If there was one thing you could change about the music world today, what would it be and why?

"This is a great question. Ok, I could write a novel on this, but I’ll keep it short to what has been driving me crazy currently.  I think there is so much talent and if there was a better way for talented artists to gain recognition, respect, and fame without having to KILL ourselves over social media, it would be that. Social media has been great for exposure, but also terrible for human interaction and the soul. It makes you think your reality exists within your phone and it simply doesn’t. It’s still about making great music and being a genuine human (which sometimes is the opposite of what social media gives us). I wish it was possible to do this and be successful with all that noise taking over. BUT I guess that’s what separates us, huh? So, having to get beyond the noise is the key to success...

"That and making money. I wish this industry didn’t ask SO much from you with no financial reward because it’s SO hard to do this without putting in at least 40 hours a week and still working to make ends meet. Trying to find time to decompress, sleep, relax, hang out with friends or significant others, still hustle AND make money to support yourself… I wish there was a better solution to this, I’m figuring it out hah!"

When It Happens to You is out now.

[viralhottopics]

George Saunders: what writers really do when they write

A series of instincts, thousands of tiny adjustments, hundreds of drafts What is the mysterious process writers go through to get an idea on to the page?

1

Many years ago, during a visit to Washington DC, my wifes cousin pointed out to us a crypt on a hill and mentioned that, in 1862, while Abraham Lincoln was president, his beloved son, Willie, died, and was temporarily interred in that crypt, and that the grief-stricken Lincoln had, according to the newspapers of the day, entered the crypt on several occasions to hold the boys body. An image spontaneously leapt into my mind a melding of the Lincoln Memorial and the Piet. I carried that image around for the next 20-odd years, too scared to try something that seemed so profound, and then finally, in 2012, noticing that I wasnt getting any younger, not wanting to be the guy whose own gravestone would read Afraid to Embark on Scary Artistic Project He Desperately Longed to Attempt, decided to take a run at it, in exploratory fashion, no commitments. My novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, is the result of that attempt, and now I find myself in the familiar writerly fix of trying to talk about that process as if I were in control of it.

We often discuss art this way: the artist had something he wanted to express, and then he just, you know expressed it. We buy into some version of the intentional fallacy: the notion that art is about having a clear-cut intention and then confidently executing same.

The actual process, in my experience, is much more mysterious and more of a pain in the ass to discuss truthfully.

2

A guy (Stan) constructs a model railroad town in his basement. Stan acquires a small hobo, places him under a plastic railroad bridge, near that fake campfire, then notices hes arranged his hobo into a certain posture the hobo seems to be gazing back at the town. Why is he looking over there? At that little blue Victorian house? Stan notes a plastic woman in the window, then turns her a little, so shes gazing out. Over at the railroad bridge, actually. Huh. Suddenly, Stan has made a love story. Oh, why cant they be together? If only Little Jack would just go home. To his wife. To Linda.

What did Stan (the artist) just do? Well, first, surveying his little domain, he noticed which way his hobo was looking. Then he chose to change that little universe, by turning the plastic woman. Now, Stan didnt exactly decide to turn her. It might be more accurate to say that it occurred to him to do so; in a split-second, with no accompanying language, except maybe a very quiet internal Yes.

He just liked it better that way, for reasons he couldnt articulate, and before hed had the time or inclination to articulate them.

An artist works outside the realm of strict logic. Simply knowing ones intention and then executing it does not make good art. Artists know this. According to Donald Barthelme: The writer is that person who, embarking upon her task, does not know what to do. Gerald Stern put it this way: If you start out to write a poem about two dogs fucking, and you write a poem about two dogs fucking then you wrote a poem about two dogs fucking. Einstein, always the smarty-pants, outdid them both: No worthy problem is ever solved in the plane of its original conception.

How, then, to proceed? My method is: I imagine a meter mounted in my forehead, with P on this side (Positive) and N on this side (Negative). I try to read what Ive written uninflectedly, the way a first-time reader might (without hope and without despair). Wheres the needle? Accept the result without whining. Then edit, so as to move the needle into the P zone. Enact a repetitive, obsessive, iterative application of preference: watch the needle, adjust the prose, watch the needle, adjust the prose (rinse, lather, repeat), through (sometimes) hundreds of drafts. Like a cruise ship slowly turning, the story will start to alter course via those thousands of incremental adjustments.

The artist, in this model, is like the optometrist, always asking: Is it better like this? Or like this?

The interesting thing, in my experience, is that the result of this laborious and slightly obsessive process is a story that is better than I am in real life funnier, kinder, less full of crap, more empathetic, with a clearer sense of virtue, both wiser and more entertaining.

And what a pleasure that is; to be, on the page, less of a dope than usual.

3

Revising by the method described is a form of increasing the ambient intelligence of a piece of writing. This, in turn, communicates a sense of respect for your reader. As text is revised, it becomes more specific and embodied in the particular. It becomes more sane. It becomes less hyperbolic, sentimental, and misleading. It loses its ability to create a propagandistic fog. Falsehoods get squeezed out of it, lazy assertions stand up, naked and blushing, and rush out of the room.

Is any of this relevant to our current political moment?

Hoo, boy.

When I write, Bob was an asshole, and then, feeling this perhaps somewhat lacking in specificity, revise it to read, Bob snapped impatiently at the barista, then ask myself, seeking yet more specificity, why Bob might have done that, and revise to, Bob snapped impatiently at the young barista, who reminded him of his dead wife, and then pause and add, who he missed so much, especially now, at Christmas, I didnt make that series of changes because I wanted the story to be more compassionate. I did it because I wanted it to be less lame.

But it is more compassionate. Bob has gone from pure asshole to grieving widower, so overcome with grief that he has behaved ungraciously to a young person, to whom, normally, he would have been nice. Bob has changed. He started out a cartoon, on which we could heap scorn, but now he is closer to me, on a different day.

How was this done? Via pursuit of specificity. I turned my attention to Bob and, under the pressure of trying not to suck, my prose moved in the direction of specificity, and in the process my gaze became more loving toward him (ie, more gentle, nuanced, complex), and you, dear reader, witnessing my gaze become more loving, might have found your own gaze becoming slightly more loving, and together (the two of us, assisted by that imaginary grouch) reminded ourselves that it is possible for ones gaze to become more loving.

Or we could just stick with Bob was an asshole, and post it, and wait for the likes, and for the pro-Bob forces to rally, and the anti-barista trolls to anonymously weigh in but, meanwhile, theres poor Bob, grieving and misunderstood, and theres our poor abused barista, feeling crappy and not exactly knowing why, incrementally more convinced that the world is irrationally cruel.

Illustration by Yann Kebbi for Review

4

What does an artist do, mostly? She tweaks that which shes already done. There are those moments when we sit before a blank page, but mostly were adjusting that which is already there. The writer revises, the painter touches up, the director edits, the musician overdubs. I write, Jane came into the room and sat down on the blue couch, read that, wince, cross out came into the room and down and blue (Why does she have to come into the room? Can someone sit UP on a couch? Why do we care if its blue?) and the sentence becomes Jane sat on the couch and suddenly, its better (Hemingwayesque, even!), although why is it meaningful for Jane to sit on a couch? Do we really need that? And soon we have arrived, simply, at Jane, which at least doesnt suck, and has the virtue of brevity.

But why did I make those changes? On what basis?

On the basis that, if its better this new way for me, over here, now, it will be better for you, later, over there, when you read it. When I pull on this rope here, you lurch forward over there.

This is a hopeful notion, because it implies that our minds are built on common architecture that whatever is present in me might also be present in you. I might be a 19th-century Russian count, you a part-time Walmart clerk in 2017, in Boise, Idaho, but when you start crying at the end of my (Tolstoys) story Master and Man, you have proved that we have something in common, communicable across language and miles and time, and despite the fact that one of us is dead.

Another reason youre crying: youve just realised that Tolstoy thought well of you he believed that his own notions about life here on earth would be discernible to you, and would move you.

Tolstoy imagined you generously, you rose to the occasion.

We often think that the empathetic function in fiction is accomplished via the writers relation to his characters, but its also accomplished via the writers relation to his reader. You make a rarefied place (rarefied in language, in form; perfected in many inarticulable beauties the way two scenes abut; a certain formal device that self-escalates; the perfect place at which a chapter cuts off); and then welcome the reader in. She cant believe that you believe in her that much; that you are so confident that the subtle nuances of the place will speak to her; she is flattered. And they do speak to her. This mode of revision, then, is ultimately about imagining that your reader is as humane, bright, witty, experienced and well intentioned as you, and that, to communicate intimately with her, you have to maintain the state, through revision, of generously imagining her. You revise your reader up, in your imagination, with every pass. You keep saying to yourself: No, shes smarter than that. Dont dishonour her with that lazy prose or that easy notion.

And in revising your reader up, you revise yourself up too.

5

I had written short stories by this method for the last 20 years, always assuming that an entirely new method (more planning, more overt intention, big messy charts, elaborate systems of numerology underlying the letters in the characters names, say) would be required for a novel. But, no. My novel proceeded by essentially the same principles as my stories always have: somehow get to the writing desk, read what youve got so far, watch that forehead needle, adjust accordingly. The whole thing was being done on a slightly larger frame, admittedly, but there was a moment when I finally realised that, if one is going to do something artistically intense at 55 years old, he is probably going to use the same skills hes been obsessively honing all of those years; the trick might be to destabilise oneself enough that the skills come to the table fresh-eyed and a little confused. A bandleader used to working with three accordionists is granted a symphony orchestra; what hes been developing all of those years, he may find, runs deeper than mere instrumentation his take on melody and harmony should be transferable to this new group, and he might even find himself looking anew at himself, so to speak: reinvigorated by his own sudden strangeness in that new domain.

It was as if, over the years, Id become adept at setting up tents and then a very large tent showed up: bigger frame, more fabric, same procedure. Or, to be more precise (yet stay within my temporary housing motif): it was as if Id spent my life designing custom yurts and then got a commission to build a mansion. At first I thought Not sure I can do that. But then it occurred to me that a mansion of sorts might be constructed from a series of connected yurts each small unit built by the usual rules of construction, their interconnection creating new opportunities for beauty.

6

Any work of art quickly reveals itself to be a linked system of problems. A book has personality, and personality, as anyone burdened with one will attest, is a mixed blessing. This guy has great energy but never sits still. This girl is sensitive maybe too much; she weeps when the wrong type of pasta is served. Almost from the first paragraph, the writer becomes aware that a works strengths and weaknesses are bound together, and that, sadly, his great idea has baggage.

For example: I loved the idea of Lincoln, alone at night in the graveyard. But how is a novel made from one guy in a graveyard at night? Unless we want to write a 300-page monologue in the voice of Lincoln (Four score and seven minutes ago, I did enter this ghastly place) or inject a really long-winded and omniscient gravedigger into the book (we dont, trust me, I tried), we need some other presences there in the graveyard. Is this a problem? Well, it sure felt like one, back in 2012. But, as new age gurus are always assuring us, a problem is actually an opportunity. In art, this is true. The reader will sense the impending problem at about the same moment the writer does, and part of what we call artistic satisfaction is the readers feeling that just the right cavalry has arrived, at just the right moment. Another wave of artistic satisfaction occurs if she feels that the cavalry is not only arriving efficiently, but is a cool, interesting cavalry, ie, is an opportunity for added fun/beauty a broadening-out of the aesthetic terms.

In this case, the solution was pretty simple contained, joke-like, in the very statement of the problem (Who else might be in a graveyard late at night?).

I remembered an earlier, abandoned novel, set in a New York State graveyard that featured wait for it talking ghosts. I also remembered a conversation with a brilliant former student of mine, who said that if I ever wrote a novel, it should be a series of monologues, as in a story of mine called Four Institutional Monologues.

So: the book would be narrated by a group of monologuing ghosts stuck in that graveyard.

And suddenly what was a problem really did become an opportunity: someone who loves doing voices, and thinking about death, now had the opportunity to spend four years trying to make a group of talking ghosts be charming, spooky, substantial, moving, and, well, human.

There is something wonderful in feeling the presence of the writer within you, of something wilful that seems to have a plan George Saunders. Photograph: Tim Knox for the Guardian

7

A work of fiction can be understood as a three-beat movement: a juggler gathers bowling pins; throws them in the air; catches them. This intuitive approach Ive been discussing is most essential, I think, during the first phase: the gathering of the pins. This gathering phase really is: conjuring up the pins. Somehow the best pins are the ones made inadvertently, through this system of radical, iterative preference Ive described. Concentrating on the line-to-line sound of the prose, or some matter of internal logic, or describing a certain swath of nature in the most evocative way (that is, by doing whatever gives us delight, and about which we have a strong opinion), we suddenly find that weve made a pin. Which pin? Better not to name it. To name it is to reduce it. Often pin exists simply as some form of imperative, or a thing about which were curious; a threat, a promise, a pattern, a vow we feel must soon be broken. Scrooge says it would be best if Tiny Tim died and eliminated the surplus population; Romeo loves Juliet; Akaky Akakievich needs a new overcoat; Gatsby really wants Daisy. (The colour grey keeps showing up; everything that occurs in the story does so in pairs.)

Then: up go the pins. The reader knows they are up there and waits for them to come down and be caught. If they dont come down (Romeo decides not to date Juliet after all, but to go to law school; the weather in St Petersburg suddenly gets tropical, and the overcoat will not be needed; Gatsby sours on Daisy, falls for Betty; the writer seems to have forgotten about his grey motif) the reader cries foul, and her forehead needle plummets into the N zone and she throws down the book and wanders away to get on to Facebook, or rob a store.

The writer, having tossed up some suitably interesting pins, knows they have to come down, and, in my experience, the greatest pleasure in writing fiction is when they come down in a surprising way that conveys more and better meaning than youd had any idea was possible. One of the new pleasures I experienced writing this, my first novel, was simply that the pins were more numerous, stayed in the air longer, and landed in ways that were more unforeseen and complexly instructive to me than has happened in shorter works.

Without giving anything away, let me say this: I made a bunch of ghosts. They were sort of cynical; they were stuck in this realm, called the bardo (from the Tibetan notion of a sort of transitional purgatory between rebirths), stuck because theyd been unhappy or unsatisfied in life. The greatest part of their penance is that they feel utterly inessential incapable of influencing the living. Enter Willie Lincoln, just dead, in imminent danger (children dont fare well in that realm). In the last third of the book, the bowling pins started raining down. Certain decisions Id made early on forced certain actions to fulfilment. The rules of the universe created certain compulsions, as did the formal and structural conventions Id put in motion. Slowly, without any volition from me (I was, always, focused on my forehead needle), the characters started to do certain things, each on his or her own, the sum total of which resulted, in the end, in a broad, cooperative pattern that seemed to be arguing for what Id call a viral theory of goodness. All of these imaginary beings started working together, without me having decided they should do so (each simply doing that which produced the best prose), and they were, it seemed, working together to save young Willie Lincoln, in a complex pattern seemingly being dictated from elsewhere. (It wasnt me, it was them.)

Something like this had happened in stories before, but never on this scale, and never so unrelated to my intention. It was a beautiful, mysterious experience and I find myself craving it while, at the same time, flinching at the thousands of hours of work it will take to set such a machine in motion again.

Why do I feel this to be a hopeful thing? The way this pattern thrillingly completed itself? It may just be almost surely is a feature of the brain, the byproduct of any rigorous, iterative engagement in a thought system. But there is something wonderful in watching a figure emerge from the stone unsummoned, feeling the presence of something within you, the writer, and also beyond you something consistent, wilful, and benevolent, that seems to have a plan, which seems to be: to lead you to your own higher ground.

Lincoln in the Bardo is published by Bloomsbury. To order a copy for 14.24 (RRP 18.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99.

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from George Saunders: what writers really do when they write