#writing routines

[pennotfound]

Good evening everyone! I'd like to start something new if y'all are up for it.

I'm trying to get myself into the habit of writing every day, even if it's just a little bit. It's part of a lifestyle overhaul of sorts that includes exercising more so I don't fall flat on my face when I go hiking with my sister in the mountains this summer.

Anyhow, feel free to send me daily asks with little DNF prompts. The more simple, the better. Like hand size difference or eating breakfast together. Sfw please although I'm ok with suggestive.

[criphd]

adventures in developing a short term writing routine notes & practices :

[i returned to this ask response from julia @northwindow abt creating a writing routine to help me w this bc it was a rly great answer !]

my working days are sunday, monday, wednesday & thursday (unless im too spoonless to work) so i sort of plan to write & edit on all of them at this point. i might develop a more specific routine where some days i dont write at all &/or maybe days where i'm editing things i've already written.... but this is in development & wld obvs change depending on if i have a deadline imminently.

30 minute free writing time is the least amount i aim for what i write in a day - but it doesn't have to be all at once [bc my capacity to concentrate sometimes does not work for any longer then 10 or so mins !] but i definitely on some days i go for much much longer than that

marking down ideas whenever they strike me & sifting thru them for prompts when i am sititng down to do some actual writing

trying to get some reading done without being so precious about being At My Best illness wise !! its okay to not remember or get all of it in one go/have to return/reread/whatever/ blah blah

working in different places - but mostly just at my desk at home, nd at my desk on campus (i need good chairs!!). but if i get bored i shouldn't forget i can book a study room in the library ! or work in a cafe (this isn't especially easy for me tho but it could be a nice change for a short time)

sending out a draft to one of the lovely ppl who look over things for me before shabbos so i can take a total break whilst its being mulled over by someone else.

writing in response to a quotation / using it as a prompt / if i'm stuck

also i honestly love to eat lunch whilst working.... so eating lunch at my desk whilst my word doc/etc are open :)

i also wanna try :

seeing how many words i can write in 52 minutes & then have a 17 minute break after (hopefully whilst eating a tangerine) ... (i dont kno why i just think it would be right!!!)

[jtargaryen18]

Writing today and listening to classical music which I haven't done in so long...

[aislingstorm]

[rayveneyed]

nanami kento is the kind of man that makes people swoon without even realising it.

he's the kind of man to walk into a luxury store after work, suit jacket folded over one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other -- his blonde hair still mostly perfect from the high-end pomade he uses. he scours the shelves, frowning to himself, while the attendants whisper and giggle amongst themselves near the tills -- an argument over who will be the one to talk to him, because he's intimidatingly pretty.

("just look at him," one whispers. "he's definitely buying something for a girlfriend."

"a wife," another disagrees. "c'mon. he's giving husband vibes."

someone hums. "but i can't see a wedding band."

"his mother, maybe?" says one other. "oh, i love when guys come in shopping for their mother."

"nobody's mother is getting a bouquet of a hundred red roses--")

eventually, one of them is volunteered as a sacrifice -- smiling and sweet as all attendants should be, she clears her throat. the others, crowded around the till, watch the exchange closely. "excuse me, sir. is there anything we could help you with today?"

her mouth is dry and her hands are clammy -- and when he fixes her with those narrow, burning eyes, her throat bobs.

"ah, yes." and his voice is deep and gravelly and drawling, and her stomach turns. she can only imagine what her coworkers are thinking -- hell, she can only imagine what she's thinking. her mind has stopped short. "my girlfriend likes this brand quite a bit. i thought i'd pick her up something..."

disappointment brews in her stomach -- and it's stupid, she knows it's stupid, because obviously a guy like that is taken. and -- she glances down at the roses -- obviously he treats her super fucking well. of course he does, because why wouldn't he? "oh, perfect! do you have anything in mind?"

"well, actually..."

he ends up buying one of the priciest gift boxes available -- fancy body care and perfume laid out in their signature boxes, decorated with ribbon and dried lavender -- no argument, no fight. he doesn't look for something cheaper, doesn't try to haggle or remove something to decrease the price. he adds, and adds, and adds -- and when she mentions a special offer at the till, a little add on for an extra 2000 yen, he accepts it readily. he inserts a black card into the card machine (of course, a black card), takes the beautifully wrapped bag, and thanks the girls for their services -- and just as he's leaving, his phone rings.

of course he answers the phone with hello, darling. of course he begins to ask his girlfriend about her day, the girls think with some amount of annoyance -- of course. maybe the curse of retail isn't entitled assholes expecting you to wait on hand and foot for them -- maybe it's the handsome men coming in to splurge on their girlfriends while you're painfully single and working for pennies.

[cairafea]

my favourite genre of seventeen is when they're straight up lying

ref:

[yapperingtinaa]

Bubble bath with Sylus.

A little indulgence after yet another tiring day, both clad only in towels as you leaned your back against his broad chest while his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. The soothing warm water engulfing you both under the massive bathtub, the fragrance of the bubbles lingering in the air as Sylus tenderly massaged your aching joints, from your shoulders down to your knees, smiling softly at thought of having to hold you so intimately close like this.

So close, so relaxed and so calm in his arms.

As you glanced over your shoulder to look up at him, a warm smile gracing your lips and the gaze in your eyes -

'She's either rejecting you, scared of you, or... disgusted by you'

- that was once hostile was now filled with pure adoration towards him. A bright loving gaze that made his heart stutter as he watched you scoop up a handful of bubbles before mischievously smudging some on his nose.

"Boop!" Your cheery laughter snapped him out of his daze. The brief flashback of the bittersweet one-sided reunion nearly sent him spiralling into a pit of fear and doubt, but the sound of your joyful voice brought him back to this new reality.

A new reality he vowed to cherish better.

"What a sneaky kitten." Sylus let out a breathy chuckle, his tone teasing yet held a tight-lipped emotions he rather suppress than dwell. "Two can play at that game, sweetie."

In a swift motion, he maneuvered your body around until you were seated on his lap, smirking at your shrieks of surprise before he leaned up to rub his bubbled smudged nose against yours.

"Sylus you-!"

An instantaneous bubble fight was commence, neither both of you back down from playfully smudging soapy bubbles onto each other. The water splashed around the surface of the bathtub, squeals and hearty laughter reverberated in the bathroom.

Such a little indulgence, one Sylus would revel in no matter how childish or silly it was - as long as he's enjoying the moment with you, his dear beloved, he's more than willing to indulge more, together.

[mediumgayitalian]

Will wakes up a little bit stuck and a lot bit hot. It’s just past sunrise, from what he can see out of the mostly-shuttered window, which means he’s just past late. Fuck.

“Nico,” he whispers, trying and failing to delicately free himself, “Nico, un-octopus. I gotta pee.”

He does have to pee. Moreso, he needs to wake up and leave, but if Nico hears so much of a syllable pertaining to his abandonment he will never let go. Ergo. Will has learned some creativity.

“Mmfggh,” groans Nico, maturely. He tightens his arms around Will’s waist and buries his face deeper into the (boiling, suffering, sweating, etc) crook of his neck. “No. Suffer.”

“Nico.”

“Sh.”

“Nico.”

“Sh. I’m sleeping.” Will feels more than sees one eye opening, eyelashes tickling his skin. He can guess at the glare. “Don’t you want me to be well-rested and healthy.”

“Right now I kind of want to flick you, honestly.”

Nico hides a smile along Will’s spine.

“That’s because you’re sick and twisted.”

“Mhm. Get off, di Angelo.”

Nico pouts but, finally, relents: he loosens his hold not enough for Will to roll out but enough that he can actually fill his lungs with enough oxygen to wiggle his way to the edge of the bed. Nico, as soon as Will is not glued to him, huffs and rolls over, smothering himself in Will’s pillow.

“I see how it is,” he complains, muffled. “You don’t want me. Fine. See if I hold you next time you come in here all needy and affectionate.” He shifts just enough to glare, once he’s sure Will is looking. “I’ll close the door in your face.”

Will rolls his eyes, smiling. He’s late, but he lingers a moment, tracing his fingers across Nico’s spine, his ribs; trailing along the reddened scratches over his shoulders and ignoring Nico’s nooooo leave them leave them as he heals them.

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“I mean it!”

“Right. You meant it yesterday, too, and yet…”

“You seduced me,” Nico says, emphatically. He sits up quickly and catches Will’s hand, staring at him hard and serious — enough so that Will almost believes him, except the corner of his mouth twitches. “You — did some kind of spell fuckery on me, no doubt purchased from your various witchy sources, and all restraint — gone. Poof. And I have restraint in abundance, so obviously it was not my weakness.”

“Obviously,” Will agrees. “Not like you say my name in your sleep and wake up pouting if I so much as breathe near the door. ‘Course not.”

Nico goes pink. “I — do not.”

Will grins. “You do. Sometimes you try and kiss the air where you imagine I am.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Whatever you need to believe, darlin’. It’s not like I’m allergic to lying.”

He leaves Nico sputtering, cackling on his way to the ensuite. It is half the reason he’s dating Nico, honestly. How come Will’s cabin doesn’t get an ensuite? They’ve got like a billion people in there. They need it more than he does.

But, well. Will needs an ensuite to get ready most mornings, because he’s up before the harpies are cleared for the night, so he supposes he will just have to sleep at Nico’s more often than not. Shame. Tragedy, really, because he is just so attached to his twin bed that is not long enough for his legs. Too bad.

“I can hear you rearranging products in there,” Nico calls, still grouchy. “Cut it out.”

Will turns the last tube of hair gel so it is just slightly off-centred from the rest of the products. He smiles around his toothbrush.

“Wouldn’t be such an issue if you didn’t have so much hair shit,” he responds, spitting into the sink.

“You should have more hair products! Look at yourself!”

Will does not. He does not have a sister who continues to look judgementally upon his mess of a head and passive aggressively but lovingly gift him hair supplies for all birthdays. He also does not have time to do his hair. Less people should maim themselves for Will to handle all day, and then maybe he’ll do something with his hair.

“You think my hair is sexy,” Will says, walking back into the main cabin. Nico harrumphs from under the covers, notably not denying it, and stares unabashedly — not that there is much to see, since it’s still pretty dark out — at Will while he changes. Will slips on a scrub top and then walks over and pinches him.

“Ow,” Nico whines, rubbing the spot as if he did not try to hide the stab wound he got sparring from him yesterday. “You hurt me.”

“Mhm. You objectified me.”

“…Only a little!”

Will shakes his head, smiling, and leans down — holding Nico’s wandering hands away from the hem of his shirt, he has places to be and has been distracted enough already — to kiss him. It’s a challenge, pressing his smile to Nico’s pout, but very quickly Nico sighs, eyes fluttering shut, and Will can kiss him properly.

“I’ll come wake you up again around noon if you’re not already up,” he murmurs. “I have to open the infirmary, but then I’m practicing for the rest of the day. You’re coming to my game, right?”

Nico tries to slide his hands up Will’s chest. Will bats his hands away.

“Yes,” he says, mournfully. “I will come watch you hit a ball around with other such interested jocks.”

“Bring your pom-poms,” Will says, cheeky, “and I wouldn’t remiss a matching skirt.”

He pulls away to Nico’s snorting laugh, wiggling his fingers in a wave as he heads to the door. He hears Nico’s quick have fun, goober as he pushes the solid obsidian shut behind him and blows a kiss at the window. He stands on the veranda, stretching, and relaxes with a sigh, staring across the common.

Gods, it is early.

And cold.

He trudges his way to the infirmary, anyway, already anticipating tonight’s koala cuddling.

———

next

[preciousbabyrat]

look I get why people are pointing out that periods syncing up isn't backed by science but this is Dan and Phil. they would find a way. you know this in your heart.

[mischievous-thunder]

What an exciting day for Deadpool! Did he tell his Logan all about it?

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but the irony of Nico calling Max unprofessional is sending me so bad like sir there's an entire garage full of people, who were literally in the trenches trying to survive the Brocedes fallout while just doing their jobs, who might have a few things to say about your (& Lewis') level of professionalism at that time 😭✋️

[wanologic]

Danny wakes up. It feels different now that he’s older. Now that he’s both more and less than he was. He starts mornings out floaty, his edges indistinct, bleeding into his surroundings. He’s hyper-aware of the tentative strings connecting him to life, the blood pumping sluggishly through his veins, the breath expanding the lungs within his chest. 

He yawns. A stretch.

His brain feels like an old computer booting up, each process coming online in a slow, methodical order. Neurons firing, electric pulses traveling up and down the webbed network of sinew tangled through his skeleton. He feels the pressure of atmosphere on his skin, the floor under his feet.

It’s weird. Not uncomfortable, just strange. It’s been years, but it’s never been easy to come to terms with the new awareness of his physicality, the control he could exert over its expression and shape. What once was instinctual, settled, now flows through his fingers like water, rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest. He would say that he’s just tired, that he’s never been a morning person, but the simmer of dawn and the infinite thrumming energy beneath his skin beg to differ.

He makes his way to the bathroom. He might have walked, but probably not, he can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. There are only friends here. He’s safe. Home.

The routine of the morning is grounding. Always the same. Jazz says it should help. That it can all become instinctual again, through enough repetition. Danny isn’t so sure.

He takes his time putting together his outfit, picking accessories and being mindful of the way it all fits against him. His body might be a projection, something just to the left of real, but clothes are normal, socks, rings, a watch. He can feel normal like this. 

Another stretch. 

He wants to scream.

He makes his way down to the shared living space. He’s grateful that he’s not crammed into a tiny apartment with strangers, that he’s allowed both the time and space to be what he is. Sam’s parents may not be the most accommodating, but this is worth every glare and snide, underhanded comment he’s had to put up with for the better part of the past decade.

He knows what comes next, but his stomach rolls in his gut. He should have something solid, go through the remaining motions of self-care, even if it’s a bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. 

He grimaces and grabs a less-than-pleasant nutritional shake from the fridge. They’re supposed to be back up, an addition-to rather than in-replacement-of, but it’s early and he can’t bring himself to care. He finds himself on the roof, with the chilled bite of the morning and the chalky pseudo-chocolate flavor of his breakfast on his tongue.

He longs to shed this husk, to leave the weight of his flesh behind and see what the sunrise looks like from ten thousand feet. But it’s a Tuesday and he has an 8am. He wants equally to be the college student he is, to sit with his peers and bring numbers to their algorithmic conclusions—to describe the world around him in a way that makes sense, in a way that’s objectively true. One day he might even be able to describe what happened to him in a neat little equation. 

He breathes in and out, feeling heavy in his body. This is nice too, he supposes. He shuts his eyes and feels the brunt of the morning sun peek over the neighboring apartment complex. When he hears his friends shuffling about in their own morning fugue states, he sinks back inside. 

Tucker just about jumps out of his skin when he turns around, eyes half closed, to see Danny dressed and ready, silent, and much too close behind him.

Laughter peels through the house as Danny is chased through the halls and somehow he feels human.

[andypantsx3]

i am so tired. can we normalize knowing what plagiarism is and not rewrite another fic author's plots wholesale/entirely scene for scene :'(

[hyakunana]

Heart hands...?

[randomwriteronline]

btw still not over @crystaltoa 's whole post on narrative and destiny and bionicle characters being aware they're characters but not in a common fourth wall breaking way. Random thinks too hard two electric boogaloo

Like. The Matoran Universe is a fictional universe within the already fictional universe of Bionicle. Like the more realized version of a book in a book. It's a completely artificial manufactured cosmos where essentially nothing is real - most elements are replaced by protodermis, animals and plants are produced, the inhabitants are engineered and built via assembly lines, their sapience was installed post-completion - and the awareness of this is None. Like Crystal mentions in the original post, the characters know they're following Destiny like it's the rough draft of a play and they're actors of the Commedia dell'Arte, taking on certain archetypical roles and adhering more or less closely to their traits and clichés, but that's where the self-awareness ends because to them this is a performance of life, not a pantomime. The nature of the Matoran Universe naturally prevents any knowledge of or contact with the wider "real" universe, so they remain ignorant to how fictitious their existence is and continue to perceive their own reality as the only possible one (ITS THE FUCKING CAVE AGAIN).

Keep this in mind for later.

Now back to Destiny. MU beings seem to have a tendency to conflate or heavily associate it with Mata Nui ("the will of Mata Nui" being used as a synonym for it, the Order of Mata Nui working to ensure it), to the point where it would be fair to assume that the two are one and the same, or that at least Mata Nui has some agency on Destiny; however, while it's true that Mata Nui is heavily tied to Destiny to the point of seeming its incarnation, he just as submitted to it as the rest of the MU beings are, if not possibly more.

In the narrative of Destiny, Mata Nui is at once playing both the Objective and the Ultimate Hero - not in the sense that he's the platonic ideal of the role, but that at the end of the day he is the proper main character, if not the ONLY proper character for it. The concept of Destiny with a capital D is after all a creation of the Great Beings, whose principal concern and endgame is eventually* healing Spherus Magna: since Mata Nui is made for this specific purpose, Destiny exists to ensure he actually follows through with it; since Mata Nui needs to be functional in order to succeed, the narrative of Destiny converges around him and works to compel the MU beings towards keeping him alive. Thus, as mentioned, he is both hero and objective, protagonist and macguffin.

*dont fuckin talk to me abt the great beings and how they provoked the entire plot of bionicle through their tendency towards inaction and apathy. perhaps ill elaborate one day but the jist of it is that i need to bite them in the ass

This duality intrinsic to his character is made explicit by the constant if sometimes faint separation between his soul/spirit/essence ("him" proper) and his body (a "thing" he only inhabits) - causing him to oscillate between being a person and being an object, with the latter often winning over the former especially while he was commanding the Great Spirit Robot. His exile from this incarnation of fiction into the "real" world doesn't unshackle him from the narrative, which is too far above him from him to be escaped just like that, but it does allow him to take a detour outside of it and come into his own self in a way he's been unable to experience until now - because he hasn't exactly been a character at all, let alone an active player. He is first and foremost a tool, a means to an end; he's less reciting/living a part and more doing the job he's been built to do, and this singleminded and utilitarian approach to his identity seems to have been at least part of the problem in how effectively he could perform his task as it prevented him from noticing the problems which then led into the main conflict of Bionicle. By being forcefully exiled from fiction and having to become "real" he finally surpasses this obstacle and gains the mindset and skillset of a proper protagonist, finally realizing his heroic potential to a point where he can put it in practice.

Teridax, on the other hand.

Crystal has said it before because it is true and correct and right, so it's worth saying again: Teridax loves being the Villain. He's enamored with the role to such a disgusting degree that he essentially hoarded it for himself the moment he found out it was an option and nearly everybody else had to be declassed to Lackey or Antagonist in comparison. It's more than a role or a calling - it's a lifestyle. He makes it his whole personality and reason of being, completely abandoning his original purpose as a Makuta (in direct contrast with Mata Nui, who instead focused exclusively on his purpose at the cost of neglecting his role). He revels in the clichés, the monologues, the manipulation, the cruelty, the ominous laughs, the stark shadows, the drama and theatricality of it all. He likes it so much that it literally makes him stupid.

Teridax runs The Plan in tandem with Destiny in order to usurp it, replacing it with his own design in the same way he aims to replace Mata Nui with himself in the role of Great Spirit. In his mind, these are equivalent pairs: Mata Nui coincides with Destiny just like Teridax coincides with The Plan, so by replacing one you replace both, and he gains power not just over the universe but over the story itself.

Of course, as explained above, this is completely wrong: while he can and does run The Plan as parallel to Destiny in a way that makes them effectively overlap, and he does succeed in gaining Mata Nui's power, he remains a character subjugated by a narrative which is completely out of reach for him and continues to influence how the consequences of his actions will ultimately play out. This is immediately obvious to the reader the second he decides to get rid of all his problems by shooting them into space, completely unaware of the fact that the narrative has already made it so that Mata Nui will have the means to reach his objective, get another physical form, and eventually find a replacement for the body he needed for his quest, rendering the Great Spirit Robot mostly obsolete (which will be part of the reason why, again in tandem with Teridax's need for gratuitous cruelty, it will eventually be bested by the technically much worse Prototype Robot), all while Teridax is too busy learning the commands and terrifying his blood cells to realize his genius idea is going to get back at him and curbstomp him into the surface of a moon in roughly a couple of weeks.

But there's more!

Because the Great Spirit Robot is in and of itself a sort of physical manifestation of fiction as the container of the fictional Matoran Universe, it's effectively the most gargantuan vessel of Destiny available in the Bionicle Universe. As such, it is intrisically tied to the rule that dominates both of the stories centered around it: in Destiny's case, that Mata Nui will always succeed; in Bionicle (a story for kids)'s case, that the Villain will always fall to the Hero.

Teridax proudly, confidently and without doubt turns himself into the embodiment of his inevitable defeat.

[librarycards]

pls ignore this is its too weird or too much labor, but i was wondering if you maybe had any tips or resources for ppl who have creative desires like writing but brain fog and fatigue tends to get in the way?

i do! it may not work for you bc people have very random/unexpected ways of dealing with this, but it's *very* common and there is hope :) [i think a lot of this is applicable across form, but i'm using "writing" here because it's what i'm familiar with]

one way is to be strategic about timing: this includes thinking about when you're least foggy/have the most energy, and/or the most "downtime" where there isn't anything in particular you need to do. many people wake up early so that they have alone time before their responsibilities. some people stay up late to write. i tend to do my daily writing (which I elucidate on below) in the evenings, around 7-10pm. whatever works, works!

relatedly: scheduling/routine is, for me, critical. i think it is for a lot of creative ppl. I write every day, in multiple ways: i keep a journal - i've done this since i was like 12, so it's as ingrained as brushing my teeth and i don't really think about it - and also work on some aspect of my current longest project [so, for the last 4 years, it's been the aforementioned second novel; for the 4ish years before that, it was Failure to Comply. i write other stuff during the daytime, of course, because writing is also my job(s). but if you're looking to establish a consistent creative practice, you don't need to be aiming for a certain hour or word count.

Instead: Aim for consistency and progress. Not perfection, not a "muse," not magic. There is no shame in making something that doesn't seem good, or that you end up deleting. in this particular instance, "perfect is the enemy of good" is 10000% true, and i think especially applicable to people who already experience external + internalized ableist ideologies on a daily basis. your art, regardless of what it is, should be a space where you get to make mistakes, change your mind, and learn new things. it should be something you can come to when you're tired, unsure, confused, scared, etc, even if it means just keysmashing and then closing your notes app for the day.

for me, having a daily practice, regardless of anything, means embracing the days where i write only one word and then despair, as well as the days i write pages. when i feel most depressed, in a very clinicized sense, i try to move from "everything i make now is going to be shitty :(" to "everything i make now is going to be shitty :)", not because i'm happy about it, but because....that's simply part of creating. everything is a bodily function. if you're not feeling good, maybe your poop will look weird. so too with writing. but you still do it. it can be mechanical. but it'll happen, and by doing it consistently, you give yourself the *opportunity* to locate insight hitherto buried, to have an idea creep up on your tiredself.

i guess in sum I'd say that the healthiest thing i ever did for my writing is something tantamount to body neutrality, which has also been an immensely positive addition to my set of frameworks for physical embodimindment. creative neutrality, i guess. this doesn't mean i don't tie my ego and personhood to work/productivity/quality. i mean, i totally do, and it sucks, but there we are. but it also means that i place that in a corner that does not touch my desire to chip away at something big, regularly. i make time every day to summon the urgency of whatever i'm working on, not because i'm proud of it at that moment, but because i want to give it another opportunity to give me something cool.

tl:dr: give yourself the gift of consistency and time, and don't be scared of making stuff that isn't good, or gets deleted, or doesn't make sense. write from wherever you want, physically, mentally, spiritually. give it the opportunity & even the expectation to happen and then work from there.