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[themadmadammorrissey]

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[themadmadammorrissey]

HEY YOU!

Yes you!!!!

It’s been a while since I’ve been on writeblr and I need new active writeblrs. If you are a writer and fall into any of these categories you should totally follow me then reblog this, so I can follow you

You write often

You rarely write

You post oc prompts

You post writing advice

You’re lgbtq or write lgbtq content

You’re ADHD or autistic

You like or write scifi

You like or write dystopias

You like or write morally grey characters

You reblog content from other writers

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #?

“Good to finally meet you, Mr. Black,” the blonde droid man said, smiling widely.

“It’s Captain,” Sevon snapped, tightening his arm around my waist.

“Oh, sorry, sir. I must have forgotten. I assumed she,” the man gestured to me. “-was the captain. You know, because of the hat.”

“Ah, well.” Sevon took the Captain’s hat back and put it on. “This is my partner, Regulus Solomon.”

“Nice to meet you, miss.” The man shook my hand. “I’m the new Doctor on board. Arthur Hubbard”

I shifted uncomfortably.

“Perhaps I didn't make myself clear enough. Regulus is a man.”

The droid doctor’s eyes widened. “Oh my, I’m terribly sorry. I just assumed…” he trailed off.

“Never assume, always ask. I thought you would have known better,” Sevon said in a scathing tone.

“Oh, er.”

I rubbed Sevon’s back for a second and he relaxed slightly. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just been a long day. Would you like to join us for some drinks?” Sevon smiled, though I could tell it was quite fake. 

“Of course, how could I refuse.”

Sevon led us to the Starship’s bar where the robot bartender served a few human women.

“Good evening, George. We’ll have-” Sevon looked at me and I nodded. “Two glasses of white wine.”

“Evenin’, Captain. The private table again tonight?”

Sevon smirked knowingly, placing a hand on my ass. “Not tonight. Well, take the round table in the middle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now then,” Sevon turned to Arthur Hubbard. “Shall we?”

“Indeed.”

We made our way to the round table in the middle of the floor.

“I hope this isn’t rude, but I’ve noticed Regulus doesn't speak,” Dr. Hubbard said.

Sevon smiled affectionately at me, the first real smile all day.  He looked at me and I nodded.“He’s selectively mute.”

“Oh, of course. I assumed he was autistic or something.”

“He is.” Sevon said flatly.

I zoned out for a while, sipping my wine and thinking about tomorrow. Sevon had promised to take me somewhere special. 

“He does look quite young. Is he legal?”

Sevon squeezed my hand. “Are you suggesting that I’m dating a minor?”

“Good heavens no, it just kind of slipped out.”

I massaged Sevon’s shoulder for a second, relaxing him.

“He’s twenty, for a matter of fact.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Hmm?” 

“You.”

I nodded. “Mmhmm.” 

He stroked my cheek, then caught himself and pulled away.

“Well, I’d better be getting to bed.” Dr. Hubbard declared, standing up. “Good night, Captain. Good night, Mr. Solomon.”

I nodded towards him, smiling shyly.

“I’d better get you to bed, Reg.”

I yawned, leaning against him.

“Oh, babe, you can’t go to sleep here.” He scooped me up and carried me to the Captain’s quarters of the Starship Artemis. He laid me down on the bed, crawling in next to me.

“I love you,” I murmured, cuddling into his chest.

“I love you too, Reggie. My little prince.” He kissed my nose, holding me close. 

[themadmadammorrissey]

Inactivity

Hey everybody

Sorry about the lack of posts for a while.

My depression's been really bad.

Hoping to get back into it. Looking for support.

[themadmadammorrissey]

Being queer in this modern world can be a struggle.

Please be kind. You never know how much someone is hurting.

[themadmadammorrissey]

[themadmadammorrissey]

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #11

Ramone lit a cigarette, leaning against the car window. He'd left his shoe-box apartment a few minutes before after a fight with his girlfriend. It had been one of their nastier fights and he needed some fresh air. That's why he'd come to the park. He'd scribble out his feelings in the journal his therapist gave him, like he always did. He'd sit on the abandoned swings, taking in the moonlight and smiling at the stars.

He opened the car door, swinging his legs out with the cigarette clenched in his yellowing teeth. He hopped out, taking long strides as he made his way to the park bench where he always sat, by the pond. That's where he'd done some of his best writing. Not creative writing per say, but little love poems to the man he wanted to be. A man with a beautiful loving wife and two wonderful children. A man who was strong of heart and mind. A man who had a steady job. He'd also write about his day and the scenery. The park was beautiful at night. He could almost imagine fairies popping up between the flowers and dancing on the lake.

He pulled out the journal and a pencil and started his night-time rant. He started with how his day had gone, then what the fight was about. Then he made a list that would change his fate.

[themadmadammorrissey]

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #10

It was the summer I lost my virginity when I met Paul. Of course, he’s the one I’d slept with after only knowing him for about an hour. I knew I’d fucked up the next morning.

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #9

I remember the night I first met Ted. I was a bold 21-year-old at the bar wearing a red mini-dress and black-leather knee-highs and he was a flirty 25-year-old in a navy suit that matched his eyes. He’d bought me a few drinks and we talked. He was like no other man in that bar; respectful, sweet, not looking to get in my pants. At that moment, I thought he was the one.

Now, looking at the body on the bathroom floor and the blood on my husband’s hands, I knew he was the one. I smiled at him and he smiled back, crookedly. I wanted him at that moment. Needed him deep down in my soul. He was my other half.

[themadmadammorrissey]

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #8

It was a particularly hot summer when they came. In their beat-up green minibus, stirring up a mess of trouble they had no intention of cleaning up. I’d just turned sixteen, though being young didn’t stop me from knowing when trouble was brewing. Mama warned me to stay away from the new kids and, of course, I didn’t listen. I knew how to handle myself and I’d skedaddle if there was any hint of real dangerous trouble. Like a gun-fight, not just shoplifting. We’ve all done that, right?

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #7

Apollo pulled the cigarette out of the almost empty box, leaning against the dirty

green dumpster in the alleyway. He lit it up and took a drawn out puff, greedily inhaling the scent that fueled his dark soul. He wiped his hands on his already stained blue jeans, then tucking his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. His eyes were coated with a thin layer of black eyeliner and his lips were lightly glossed.

The click of high-heeled footsteps echoed down the alleyway and he clenched the cigarette in his teeth. A tall slender tattooed woman strutted into view, pausing in front of Apollo.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled, placing a long nailed-hand on her hip. She wore a white tank top, jean shorts, and clunky pink pumps. Her lips were overdrawn with smudged red lipstick paired with a messy smokey eye and fake eyelashes. Her hair, which was an unnatural shade of blonde, was tied in a messy bun. She had a tattoo of a red heart on the left side of her stomach.

[themadmadammorrissey]

#unlearning

[themadmadammorrissey]

Writing Spurt #6

Way back when we lived in a tenement of a townhouse, with our hair all slicked back and greasy, listening to David Bowie under the bridge in our beat up Ford and writing dirty words on the overpass, we were happy in a messed up sorta way. Blaise worked at the Mini Mart on fifth with Marsha, who he had a huge crush on. I was in 9th grade and Mama was rarely home. Papa had been dead seven years by that time and Mama was relying heavily on her depression medication. Blaise had to babysit me and baby Robbie most of the time. Blaise and I were Papa’s only sons, while baby Robbie was the product of a Mama’s most recent boyfriend, James. James was black like Marsha, but nobody really cared.

[themadmadammorrissey]

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