#writing hell

[kittynugg]

guess who wrote another fanfiction!!?!?!?? THIS GUY

this one's going on tumblr first since it's a first draft, i'll throw it on my ao3 after i've refined it some (because as far as i know thats what talented writers on here do)

so make some noise if you like it because i might have ideas for more chapters who knows (im gonna write them regardless)

Just Say No

words: 1,947 not counting the little intro i wrote out rq

this is based right when ford's telling stan to fuck off in atots!!

also dont fucking tag this as ship.

"There's only one journal left," Stanford said as he walked up to Stan, the first journal–the first record of his eight-year folly–clutched in both hands. He handed it to him. "And you are the only person I can trust to take it."

He looked Stan in the face, his twin's eyes reflecting a fraction of the tiredness in his. His brows furrowed and he spoke. "I have something to ask of you. Remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?"

And Stan's eyes widened slightly, and he smiled. This was a good sign.

"Take this book," he gestured behind him with his thumb. "Get on a boat," his arms flew upward emphatically. "And sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the Earth!"

Stan's expression faltered. This was a bad sign. Ford turned around and paced toward the portal.

"Bury it where no one can find it!" He swiped a hand downward, then folded his arms behind his back.

“..Uh, no.”

A word and a vocable. The last ones he expected to leave Stan’s mouth in that moment as padded over to hand the journal back to him. In his shock, Ford took it, running his thumb over the textured, tattered binding. 

The room felt colder. And it wasn’t the harsh winter. 

“..No?” He quoted, and his reflection in the gold six-fingered hand on the cover glared angrily back at him. Then he looked back up at Stan. His twin’s lips were pursed and his shoulders were relaxed. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Stanley, just as Ford remembered, was not taking this seriously. It was clear he heard the anger in Ford’s tone but either didn’t care whatsoever about the fate of the universe or (the more likely answer) was being an insufferable mule for no reason. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “I mean fuck that shit.”

Ford’s jaw dropped a little. Instead of lashing out like his dear old abusive Pa had taught him, and like he so desperately wanted to, he handed the journal back to Stan. He did not take it and pushed it back toward him with a single calloused finger. “You can’t just say no, this is– this is the fate of the universe. Take the journal.”

“I can say it, and I’m sayin’ it again. No.” Now Stan was grinning. Like he always used to when they were kids when he knew he was getting to him. Unfortunately for Stanford this got to him even more than just the petulant refusal. “I’d do anything for you, Sixer, except for this one thing.” He folded his arms as Ford’s jaw clenched.

Fascinating. His brother was just as much of a miserable prick as he thought. Even after being allowed years to pull himself together. It was truly astounding. 

Those observations came out verbally, just in a more crass way than Ford expected. “Stop being an asshole and take the book.” He was not one to swear– he just.. Wasn’t quite prepared for this. Stan was supposed to say “okay, Ford! I’ll leave and never come back!” and take the journal and leave. Such a simple directive!

“Name calling, really?” Stan placed his hands on his hips, his smile widening and the fire behind his eyes burning just a little brighter. “You’re gonna just do name calling?” He was having fun with this! Ford knew it!

He turned around to avoid looking at that smug face. “I’m not calling names, alright? I’m just stating facts. And the fact is–you’re an asshole.” Because he was! This was supposed to be a no-brainer. Take journal. Leave. Sail ocean. Bury journal. Dimension is safe.

What was so difficult about that?

“You’re the one who called me all the way up to this cold-ass state just to say ‘hey, fuck off!’” Stanley uttered that completely incorrect quote in a slightly higher voice, doing air-quotes with his fingers and rolling his eyes. His words had this.. Melancholy edge. Almost like the whole sentence hurt to say. “Maybe I’d’a done it if you acted like you wanted to see me at least..”

“..maybe sat down for coffee..”

“..talked..”

“It’s been a while, yanno?”

Well, now Ford made sure he wasn’t facing Stan for a different reason, because he was sure his expression had pinched into one of guilt and “ooh. I’m the asshole” and he refused to let Stan feel as if he was in the right for flippantly denying his one chance to be good. To make up for the years he could have spent studying in a liveable dorm room without insects crawling over his books that Stan ruined when he made the decision to– he should be saying this out loud. That would make a good argument.

“Maybe I’d be more willing to have coffee with you if you didn’t ruin my li-” he was cut off by a shrieked mockery of his own voice.

“WAAAAAAAAAAH!! MY SCIENCE FAIR EXPEWIMENT!!” Stan stomped a foot forward and balled his hands into fists. “IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, FORD. CRY ABOUT IT.”

His shout echoed against the concrete walls of the spacious basement for a few moments, and when it died down they were left staring at each other in shock. Ford’s shoulders were hunched all the way up to his ears. Stan stepped back and tapped his fingertips together.

The silence stretched on.

And on.

Until Ford spoke up.

“..But Dad said–”

This time Stan interrupted him in a small, almost broken voice, staring down at his feet. “Dad’s a fucking liar.” Ford hated Stan because of an accident.

No, Dad made him hate Stan because of an accident. Of course, all this time.. He was just– that was the only reason he kept them in the first place. Because maybe one day one of them would be useful. And when the prospect of “use” faded, well..

His right eye twinged. He was taught how disposable human beings were. He was taught very well.

And yet, a feeling in his gut, or his heart or wherever told him that this was it. His deus ex machina.

Absolutely not. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He chose to fight the narrative.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you did it. And.. brushed it off like it was nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair and started to pace. “You could have told me and I could have fixed it, then I’d have been accepted and I wouldn’t be here right now.”

The narrative, of course, didn’t like that one bit and fought back. Stan tightly folded his arms over his chest. “I didn’t want to be alone, it’s not– come on! You- you were seventeen too, you know what it’s like! “Bein’ scared, thinkin’ about the future.. Wondering if you’ll ever get a break– You’ve gotta know what I’m talking about.” He looked at his twin. 

Ford saw the eyes of a puppy looking up at the bottom of his master’s boot. The eyes he remembered from the night Pa kicked him out. The eyes he avoided for a very long time, and yet the ones he saw in the mirror every night.

“I don’t,” he said, and Stan’s shoulders slumped. “My future was planned out for me. I didn’t have a choice, the first thing Dad did after I stopped–” He paused mid-step, then his foot slowly fell to the ground back into rhythm. “..after I got a good night’s rest, the first thing he did was pressure me to find a new college to go to.”

Stan huffed a sigh. “Yeah.. that’s rough. I remember my first night after that, heh, cried my damn eyes out.” There was no humor in his chuckle, and no joy in his smile. Only a hollow, empty feeling that was definitely another blow from the narrative.

“I, um.. Also.. cried,” Ford admitted with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tally that up– narrative, one. Ford, zilch. 

“You did?” For some reason or other, his twin’s eyes widened. Like his own twin wouldn’t miss him.

Ford is crying. Ma holds him, and he can feel the way her shoulders hitch every now and then. It makes him feel worse, like her crying is his fault. He heaves his sobs into her chest anyway. It’s all he can do.

He can’t go back to that empty room.

It takes a while, but he can eventually breathe again. Just enough to pull away and look up at her, eyes wide and glasses pushed up to his forehead, and ask, “Ma.. Is- Is Stanley gonna be okay? Please tell me he’s going to be okay!” His voice comes out louder, more desperate than he’d hoped, but Ma manages a smile through her own tears.

“You don’t need a psychic to tell you that, hun..” she says. “He’s gonna be just fine, he’s not as useless as your Pa always tells the two a’you.”

Summoned like the demon he must be, Pa walks into the room. “Your brother? He’s probably already out selling drugs. Don’t bullshit him, Caryn.” He sits down and picks up his newspaper as if he didn’t just say that, and Ma’s hold on him loosens.

He cries harder.

Back in the real world and not Sad Flashback World, Ford made a point to keep his eyes wide open to prevent the tears stinging in them from falling. “..A little, yes,” he muttered casually with a shrug. “But I got over it.” He folded his arms behind his back.

“You’re still a shit liar, wow,” snickered his twin. “So you.. you’re sayin’ you missed me, right?” There was that puppy look again, except even more hopeful.

Ford looked up, cursed the narrative under his breath, and nodded.

You win this round.

“Silly question, but yes. I missed you.” Oh, ew, he actually felt lighter after saying that. “..and I still do.” To stop his lip from quivering he bit it, his eyes darting aside, and he slapped a hand to his face. “Fine! Fine, I’ll say it!” He opened up his coat and whipped the journal out. “Perhaps part of me wishes this wasn’t the only way, okay!? But- But it is!” His arm jutted out toward Stan, pushing the journal into his chest. “Stop making me feel unwanted emotions and take it! We can be pen pals if you must–”

Stan took the journal and hurled it across the room, the book landing with a thud and a burst of dust. Ford gave him a bewildered look. Instead of acknowledging it whatsoever, he tightly wrapped his arms around his twin.

Who.. did not reciprocate and just stiffly stood there like a scarecrow.

“..What– what are you–”

He was shushed. Shushed! Like an animal! But then Stan went all tense again. In a slow tone, like someone, again, confronting a wild animal, he spoke. “Ford, when’s the last time you ate?” Hm, he may have been a little on the skinny side. When was the last time he..

It took him a moment of hard thinking, but he pulled an answer from the recesses of his memory. “Tuesday, why?” Today was Wednesday. That wasn’t too bad.

“Last Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“..No wonder you can’t fucking think clearly!” Stan pulled away with the same expression Mom would get when they’d skip lunch because they were too busy doing something stupid outside. “Bet you haven’t slept since then, either!”

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “Yes I ha– wait, could you hug me again?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Stan mumbled, complying, and then Ford continued.

“Anyway– Yes I have! I slept for an hour yesterday and I’ve got the wounds to prove it!” He pointed to his arm with a disgruntled huff, and Stan’s expression became that of a fish out of water. His eyes practically popping out of his face, his mouth agape.

“..what,” whispered his twin after a second of opening and closing his mouth like an idiot. “Wounds? Ford, have you been–”

Realizing his mistake, he threw his arms around Stan and squeezed as tightly as he could. Until Stan started to wheeze. “It isn’t important!” A shrill chuckle escaped him. “Brotherly love is, though! Come here!”

“Are you just tryna change the subject or do you mean that?” A chin rested on Ford’s shoulder.

Ford whispered, “..a little bit of both,” and couldn’t fight the smile off his face when Stan’s hold on him tightened. To Hell with the narrative, this was his choice. His deus ex machina. 

And.. maybe he needed it more than he thought.

“We’re talking about the wounds later, though.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

[vroomian]

Puts on my clown shoes and red nose sadly: so I think bbp is gonna need at least one more chapter.

[souptastical]

making a rewrite to a longfic you wrote 3 years ago is fun until you have to consult the original like its wikipedia every 10 minutes

[freesidexjunkie]

[kitcats-1-braincell]

Having an au is super fun but holy fucking shit my motivation goes on a roller coaster because of it 😭😭

[adeadlightbulbuwu]

I've fallen onto the dark side

[porgthespacepenguin]

65k written (+7.5k of missing scenes): my giant Qcard WIP is finally nearing the 40% mark. Not quite yet, but getting there.

I'll open a beer when I hit 50%. And then I'll cry, because I'll still have 50% to write.

[creatuesfromthedeep]

Nobody ever tells you the worst part about actually writing something is that, at a certain point, you become obsessed with literary analysis of your own writing and this becomes a new way to procrastinate writing New Things

[allpplareequal]

Tumblr Dumbass episode 4:

[kittynugg]

hi i wrote some stangst

forgst

words: 1,737

p.s: REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!! credit to my pal @empressofsamoyeds (soorry for the tag) for the idea! ALSO DO NOT TAG THIS AS SHIP CONTENT. THIS IS NOT FOR YOU IF YOU SHIP THEM.

Stan stepped out of the shower, shuddering as the cold air hit his skin. Like every other time he showered he was quick to towel himself off and get dressed in the first clothes he could get his hands on. So.. the clothes he’d been wearing for the past month, now? They smelled. He’d have to do something about that sooner or later.

The mirror was fogged up as he tied up his damp hair, but he could still see just enough of what he was doing to get it done. 

He stared at his blurry reflection. When he reached to wipe the condensation off of the surface he hesitated, his expression somehow going more blank than that numbness he’d been used to for years. That was.. Funny. He kinda looked like Ford with his hair up like that and the mirror all foggy.

No, he really looked like him.

That familiar empty feeling washed over him as he looked into the mirror, his brain filling in the blanks made by the distorted surface. A pair of glasses. A coat. The haunted look of a guy who’d seen things that shouldn’t even be possible in his eyes.

It took him a while to tear his attention away, maybe a couple of minutes, but once he did he rubbed the sting out of his eyes and left the bathroom. His “walk” had become more of a trudge in the past few weeks. He did whatever that was down the hall. Something about almost seeing his face made his feet even heavier, made the decision to get up that morning even more regrettable.

But it also gave him this weird resolve to keep going.

Maybe if he didn’t kill himself he could actually see that face. Alive, safe, maybe even happy. 

He kicked open the door to the office or study he was staying in, announcing in a sitcom-y voice, “honey, I’m home!” Then he put his hands on his hips with a distant grin. “Oh, wait! I don’t have a wife! Or a husband! I’m all alone and nobody fuckin’ loves me because the only person who ever did is god-knows-where!” An unhinged laugh bubbled up in his chest.

“..Anyway,” he flattened after finishing his manic display, then collapsed face-first into the couch he’d been ‘sleeping’ on. Nice couch. Felt like the only thing in the world that actually supported him. “But it’s an inanimate object,” Ford would say, not getting the joke. 

And then he’d say something like.. “You’re an inanimate object, nerd.” Then Ford would tell him that was wrong and that he wasn’t making any sense. Stan would just laugh at him.

Back in the real world, he shifted on the cushions to make himself comfortable. He knew just how bad the idea was. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get up. Right now, he just couldn’t force himself to care. Whenever he was up, he’d be up. Wasn’t like anything was waiting for him. Ford actually wasn’t on the other side of that portal, facing whatever it was that had him terrified enough to speak to him again. 

Everything was fine. Great, even! So great that he didn’t want to think about it anymore. He heaved a muffled sigh into the couch, knowing that if he pulled his face away from it now it’d be stained with tears. Now he was fucking crying.

Pa would tell him to man up and do something about it. When he tried, his arms wouldn’t move to push him up and his legs only shifted into a more comfortable position. The couch was warm. The basement was so, so cold.

Get up.

He tried again. This time he was too lazy to move at all.

Repeating the command didn’t work. Get up.

Just get up. You need to get up so you can work on the portal so you can get Ford back so you won’t have a reason to cry anymore. Come on, this is the first step. The first step is always the hardest. Up up up. Please.

Instead of listening, his body just sighed again. Then he folded his arms under his forehead to put some space between his face and the couch and shut his eyes.

----

Eventually, he found himself blearily waking up with half of his body hanging on the couch and the rest on the floor. The very first thing that caught his eye was the light from the window glinting against Ford’s glasses, abandoned on the table where he could be reminded of why he was still kicking every time he woke up.

He peeled himself off the hardwood floor with a grunt and stood there for a moment as his shitty excuse for a brain sputtered and revved like his car when he tried to start it. He’d have to do something about that sooner or later.

…

Ford. Right.

A hesitant hand reached toward the glasses, and he turned them in his hand. The lenses were smudged. Ford never let his glasses get smudged. Always crystal clear or it was like he didn’t have them at all, they had to be perfect. He wondered if Ford still carried a spare on him. If he didn’t.. Shit, Stan couldn’t even imagine that. Not just being sucked into whatever nightmare he was so worried about but having to deal with it blind.

The thought of Ford, his brother, of all the people on this Earth (or.. outside of it), going through that made him sick. Maybe he should eat sometime today. Slice of toast might settle his stomach down for a bit. 

He stared down at the spectacles in his hand and shook his head, then wiped them on his shirt. Lifting them up to the window shone enough light through the lenses for him to see that they were still smudged, just.. Spread around. His shirt was dirty.

Typical, he just made it worse. A look was cast around the room, nearly untouched in the month he’d been there.  “Just fuckin’ poetic,” he whispered to himself if only to test if he even had it in him to talk. “It’s just like my life.” His eyes narrowed at the glasses. “..In a way.”

Barely resisting the urge to throw the damn thing, he set the glasses back on the table and looked toward the door. He should get to work.

He picked up the glasses again, leaving the room with the gait of someone wading in cement. 

It was the same autopilot he’d been on for ages that led him back into the bathroom. When he slipped the glasses onto his face, his vision actually cleared a little. Maybe he should look into getting an eye test sometime. 

He put up a finger and spoke in his best Ford impression, “I may be a little bookworm, but I know what I’m talking about!” The sheer accuracy of the voice made him chuckle. He sounded just like him!

When he found himself staring at his reflection again, his other hand reached for the shower. The knob creaked as he turned it to the highest temperature and he watched absently as the mirror fogged up again.

Hair was up. Glasses were on.

They really were twins..

His shoulders drooped, and after a few seconds of careful consideration he spoke up. “Hey, Poindexter.” No, that wasn’t right. Say his name. “..Ford.” 

Another pause. Then he folded his arms behind his back and spoke in that impression again. “Stanley,” he greeted himself under his breath. Something about it, something about hearing Ford’s voice and– and almost seeing his face was..

It hurt.

But it felt good. The kind of hurt that he couldn’t help but reach for, like the burn of alcohol or a cigarette. Speaking of which, he was running out. He’d have to do something about that sooner or later. Not now. He was busy right now.

“I’m, uh..” his fingertips tapped together in a subconscious tic. “Still trying to get you back, Ford.” A smile spread across his face and he gestured behind him with his thumb. “I’ve been reading your textbooks, yanno, it’s actually startin’ to make sense. It’s not as fancy and sophisticated as you had it but it’s something to show for all the work I’ve been puttin’ in..”

Arms made their way behind his back again and he straightened his posture a little. “My idiot brother, learning physics..” A wistful sigh from “Ford”. “And it only took the worst tragedy of your life to finally kickstart it.” His expression softened, and he moved to place his hand on a shoulder that wasn’t there. His fingers twitched. “You know I’m proud of you, right? Not everyone would go through this much effort for.. Anyone, really.”

He needed to hear that. From the real Ford. This was good enough for now.

“I know, yeah.. I just– I hope you’re still out there. If you’re dead, or.. worse, I don’t know what I’d do with myself, Ford. I don’t know what I’d fucking do, and–” he took in a sharp breath, running a hand down the side of his face. His nails dug into the skin. “And I’m really scared to think about it.”

Silence.

His voice cracked when he spoke again. “..I’m scared, Ford.” The glasses over his eyes and the fog fading from the mirror left him with nothing. Nothing. A reminder of just how little he had. That was it.

And Ford offered no response.

Tears dirtied the lenses of the glasses even more, so he took them off and swiped at his eyes. He set them on the rim of the sink. This was stupid. All of this was stupid. Why was he still here? Why was he still holding on?

His legs wobbled underneath him and he just.. sat on the floor and gave in. With a shaky breath, he gave his tears a moment to fall and murmured into his knees, “because you’re my brother.”

It took him a few minutes. Maybe half an hour. But eventually, Stan pushed himself up and retrieved Ford’s glasses. He rinsed them in the sink to clean the dried tears off of them and only stopped when they were spotless. Crystal clear. The way Ford liked them.

Turning to leave, he muttered, “Love you, bro.”

“I love you too, Stanley. I’m sorry for everything.”

..He already forgave him.

(note: might be a part two with ford if im feeling brave)

[vroomian]

not to jinx myself, but i've actually made some progress on bfiasc ch 14. yrz is not having a good time, tho.

[sincerely-a-walking-corpse]

I do not want to write a short story!

I want to worldbuild until my fingers fall off and generate twenty seven new plotlines I'll never turn into books while I'm at it!!!!

[freesidexjunkie]

okay but i did just finish the Big Overall Plotting for my solavellan fic and i was so proud that i made some Nice Bones to hang the meat of the story on and then i remembered I have to now make the meat to hang on the bones and im in despair

[ikemenomegas]

i feel like i need to both apologize to you all and thank you, because the lot of you read... a lot of first drafts, or second drafts, or third drafts, and every time I read back what I wrote I'm not satisfied with it. I think this is a good thing, it lets me make notes on future self-polishing, and I am proud of finishing pieces so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do that. But... no one will ever see something that is "finished" only something that is done, so thanks everyone who reads anything I write for being the eyes that see what is "done" and forgives me for leaving it where it lies

[writingpotathoes]

When you are in the middle of writing one book and a second, third and the gazillionth idea takes over your brain:

[namorian]

the witch’s curse of wanting to improve your writing on like a technical level but the world of writing advice is full of fucking ghouls