whataboutnousernamelmao

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

I don’t usually post edits on here but here’s an under pressure edit I made of the IMF gang :)

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

It's so exciting to see minor league players get called up to the majors, especially when you start to memorize players from your local team and then you see them on TV and you're like "Oh wow they made it🥹"

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

Jake always thought better in a dance studio.

Part 2 to this post

He knew that for many, the wall of mirrors could be intimidating, but he loved it. Not out of vanity, but because he loved to focus on small details. The shape of his hands. How his toes were pointed. The glint in his eye as he landed right on beat. It all felt so magical to him.

This morning, though, was just a warm-up. Some slow piano medley of Lady Gaga songs played in the background as he rolled his shoulders back. He let the movement flow through his body, shaking off any stiffness he had from sleeping on Javy’s couch.

He was also trying hard not to think about the stranger he texted. He never got the name of the man who gave him the phone (there was a text that called him “Mick,” but there was no chance that was it), less the name of the man on the other side.

He didn’t even know who the other man was. Not even a face he could assign any thoughts to. It was driving him a little crazy, but he tried to focus on other things. 

He caught his best friend’s reflection as he peeked into the room. He wiggled his fingers, saying hello. Jake smiled at him and tossed his head to say, “Get in here.”

Javy opens the door. “What time did you get up?”

Jake shrugged and then went back to his stretching. “Six.”

“So you went back to your place to get some more sleep before coming here?” Javy leaned on the door frame.

“Yup,” He lied. “Sorry about last night. Didn’t feel safe driving home after that bachelorette party bought me some shots.” 

That was another lie. There was no bachelorette party. But he wasn’t going to admit to Javy that he just felt so lonely in his apartment that it made it hard to sleep sometimes.

“It’s no problem, man. You know there’s always space for you on my cushions,” Javy walked over to Jake’s phone that was plugged into the speakers and checked what song was playing. “Huh.”

“If you make fun of my music, so help me God,” Jake said with his eyes shut.

“I’m not saying anything, just wasn’t the music I was expecting you to listen to this morning. Thought you’d be getting in some practice for tonight.”

Jake threw his head back and groaned. “I don’t need practice.”

“You’re just that good?” Javy smirked.

Jake stopped moving and turned to face him. “Want if I don’t want to?”

Javy pushes himself off the wall and starts walking. He pretended to be upset. “But, if you don’t teach a drunk handful of 30-somethings a line dance while stripping down to your underwear, who will?” He placed his hands on Jake’s shoulders and pouted.

Jake loved to line dance. It was one of the classes he taught at the studio to older women who loved to pinch his cheeks and offer to set him up with their grandchildren. When the club found out, they wanted him to teach there too, but with a “sexier” approach.

They had him teach on Thursdays and Sunday nights. He’d admit that sometimes it was really fun. He was able to forget that he was putting on a show for others and was just able to lose himself in the music, but other nights it felt like such a chore.

“Sunday crowds are the worst, and you know that,” Jake huffs.

“I know, which is why I’m gonna help you out of this funk that you’re in,” Javy claps. “Now, come on. Teach me the dance so I can help out tonight.”

- - -

Bradley had never checked his phone this much. After every sip of his cold brew, he would pick it up to check. Natasha had never seen him so impatient. “Who are you waiting for?”

“Huh?” She narrowed her eyes at his phone. “Oh, sorry. It’s just. Have you heard from Mickey at all today?”

Natasha laughed. “Bradshaw, it’s 9 A.M. on a Sunday. There’s no way Mickey is awake right now. And if he is, I’m sure Rueben has him preoccupied,” She smirks behind her coffee mug.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” Bradley puts his phone face down, and awkwardly scrubs his palms on his jeans.

They sat in silence for a moment. He admired the clouds. She stared at him in disbelief.

“So are you going to tell me why you’re acting this way? Or do you just want me to pretend like everything is normal?”

“Preferably the second?”

Natasha shook her head. The waiter came over with two plates.

“Western omelet?” He placed it in front of Bradley, who thanked him quietly. “And French toast casserole for you, ma’am.”

As he set the plate in front of Natasha, her cheeks heated up. “Thank you.”

He smiled back. “Of course,” He seemed to whisper only to her. He reeled back. “If there’s anything I can get either of you, please let me know.”

Bradley watched him walk away over his shoulder. “So is your big fat crush on this guy the only reason we still come here for brunch? Because I heard Sandy’s on Crystal Street has a great mimosa deal-”

“We’re not going to Sandy’s,” Natasha said pointedly. She stabbed her food. “So what do you need Mickey for?”

Bradley sighed. “Him and Reuben went out last night.”

“Yeah, it was Saturday. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Mickey paid one of the dancers to text me.” 

Natasha laughed loudly. “You’re kidding me. Man, he is so smart sometimes,” Bradley rolled his eyes at her. He cut into his omelet. “How was your private conversation?” She smirked.

He shrugged. “Good?”

“Really selling it there, Bradshaw.”

“I liked it, okay? He-Let me just show you,” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He turned it around and showed her the first picture the cowboy sent. “There he is.”

Natasha’s eyes went wide. “Oh wow, is your phone cracked?” She took the phone in her hands to get a closer look. Bradley looked away. He and Natasha had talked about boys before, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a little bit embarrassed. His head snapped back to her when he heard her snort. “Save a horse?”

Bradley snatched his phone back. “I didn’t tell you to read!”

“Sorry! I had to!” She laughed.

She opened her mouth to say more, but then shut it. Bradley watched her cautiously. “Say it.”

“What?” She stuffed more French toast in her mouth to avoid talking.

“Whatever you’re thinking in your head right now. Clearly, you want to say something.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Natasha finished chewing. “It’s just nice to see you get excited about talking to someone. Feels like the start of you getting over her-”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” He cut her off.

She plopped her fork down. “And that’s why I wasn’t going to say anything in the first place!”

“Besides, it’s obviously not going anywhere. He ghosted me.” He grumbled.

“Have you considered that he was on the clock technically? Had other ‘clients’ to.” She wiggled her eyebrows. Bradley didn’t want to think about that. He liked to think that Stripper Cowboy talked to him and only him that night. That no one else in the club was as interesting to talk to. 

“Nope.” He said confidently, sipping his drink.

Natasha couldn’t stand him. “What’s the move then? You’re waiting for Mickey to wake up, but then what are you going to do?”

Bradley shrugged. “Ask him who the cowboy is.”

“You really think he A: got the cowboy’s name and B: was sober enough to remember it? Are we talking about the same Mickey Garcia?”

Bradley tipped his drink towards her. “Soon to be Fitch-Garcia.”

Natasha shook her head. “Mickey’s gonna want to be first and you know it.”

“Wanna bet on it?”

“Yup.” Natasha stuck out her hand. Bradley shook it.

“They need to settle on a wedding date soon. I’m going to need to get a suit-”

“Don’t change the subject.” Natasha glared at him.

Bradley put his hands up in defense. “Fine. I’m going to ask Mickey where they went out last night. See if maybe I can find something on Instagram about this guy? Maybe reach out and talk to him more. And if I can’t find anything...I guess I’m going to the club,” Natasha was smiling. This was concerning. “What?”

“Nothing. This is just going to be fun, that’s all.” Her tongue poked out devilishly between her teeth.

“You know if you’re having so much fun, why don’t we invite our waiter friend back here, huh? Bob! Oh, Bob!” Bradley raised his voice and started waving his hand. Natasha reached over the table to grab his arm and force it down.

I posted the first chapter to ao3 just now! I'm so excited to see where this story goes and feel inspired to write again. Thank you to everyone who commented on the last post!!

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

fanfic writers what font do you write in

i know on ao3 it's all in verdana but when you're drafting the fic in word or docs or whatever

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

I know he knows 😣👀

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

Bradley loved House Hunters.

He liked watching couples discuss countertops, argue their budgets, and imagine their kids running around in the backyard. He wondered what that would be like. Finding a space with someone else, thinking about a future together. After five and a half episodes, half a bottle of wine, and a slice of chocolate cake, he was getting too sappy and decided to call it a night.

He turned the TV off and grabbed his bottle of wine. As he shut the door to the fridge, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Mickey had texted him. Bradley was used to getting silly drunken texts from Mickey and Rueben when they would go out. He knew that they did it as a way to encourage him to come out with them, but he rather enjoyed just sitting back and observing through the typos.

When he opened the message, he was met with a selfie. Not of Mickey or Rueben, but of a sexy cowboy wearing a vest with no shirt to show off his chiseled abs. He was wearing a cowboy hat and had a toothpick hanging loose from his pink lips that were framed by stubble. The text below it was one line. 

“Howdy, darling. Wish you were here;)”

Bradley dropped his phone. Full on, lost control of his grip. His phone hit the floor with a thud, cracking the corner of the screen.

“Shit,” He whispered as if someone else was in the house. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He picked the phone up and the cowboy was still there. Now a new crack decorated his face, but it didn’t change the fact that he was very attractive. Mickey knew what he was doing. He purposely went out of his way to find Bradley’s dream man to try and make him regret not coming out. And while Bradley did wish he was there to see the cowboy in person, it wasn’t enough to make the whole trip worth it.

“Very funny Mick. You two stay safe tonight.”

He turned off the light in the kitchen and headed to the bathroom. As he started to brush his teeth, his phone buzzed again.

“Hey, sorry but this isn’t your friend.”

A picture came through. It was the cowboy again. The camera was closer to his face, really making out only the bridge of his nose and his eyes. His gorgeous...green eyes? Bradley couldn’t tell because it was too dark in whatever club they were at. Whatever color they were though, Bradley could get use to staring at them.

“He paid the price of a dance for me to just text you. I’ll admit it is a little odd, but I’m not going to turn down an offer.”

Bradley tipped his head back and groaned.

“Sorry I love Mickey, but I’ll admit sometimes his ideas are insane.

So you’re a stripper?”

“Dancer.”

“An exotic one.”

There was a pause between responses. Bradley spat his toothpaste out.

“On the weekends, yes.”

Bradley chuckled weakly.

“And is this outfit a regular thing?”

In the back of his head, he was really hoping the answer was yes. What was he saying? He was never going to meet this guy so what did it matter what he wore?

“That depends...You like it?”

Then again, he was never going to meet this guy...so a little flirting wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ll admit it makes me want to save a horse.”

He hit send before he realized that half a bottle of wine had gotten to him. He rubbed his eye. “Stupid,” He muttered to himself.

While flirting was never his strong suit, he had been out of practice. His two-year-long relationship meant he wasn’t hitting on anyone new. And six months after the breakup, he was still rediscovering what it meant to flirt in your 30s. Especially with men. 

A ping from his phone dragged him out of his thoughts. He cringed at the cracked screen as he read the message.

“Then come and ride this cowboy baby;)”

Bradley’s face turned red. He couldn’t believe he was flirting with a stripper on Mickey’s phone. But then he remembered that Mickey had paid this man to talk to him. None of this was real. It was just a business transaction. His flame started to go out.

Another ping.

“Well you got to see me and my outfit. How about I get a peek at you?”

Bradley suddenly felt self-conscious. While he was fairly certain he’d never speak to Stripper Cowboy ever again, he still wanted to make a good impression. He sat up a little bit in bed, and took a selfie from somewhat of a high angle, capturing his face and his white tank top.

He stared at the alarm clock on his bedside table. He should go to sleep. And maybe he’ll wake up and realize that Stripper Cowboy was a figment of his imagination. That this was all just some weird dream to encourage him to start dating again.

Dating? Who said anything about dating? This is a paid interaction. But if it’s purely business, why is he asking for a picture of Bradley? Clearly, there must be-

“You don’t want to see me right now. I just got in bed and I look like a mess.”

“Already in bed? Just waiting for me to join you?”

“Sure would make it more fun.”

“Oh really? And what would we be doing that’s so fun?”

Bradley’s cheeks were burning up.

“Saving a horse ;)”

It worked last time. He figured there was no harm in reusing the line.

Three dots appeared. And then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared.

Bradley sighed. He didn’t have to wake up to realize it was all a dream. It was too good from the beginning. He ran his thumb over the cracked screen before putting his phone on the charger and putting it down.

He turned on his side, and tried his hardest to not think about Stripper Cowboy, and all the horses they would’ve saved.

- - -

Jake was texting when the phone in his hand suddenly turned black. His heart sank.

“Seresin! What are you sitting around for?” One of the other dancers, Javy, shouted.

Jake quickly rose from his seat in the back room. “For your information,” He waved the phone. “I was working.”

“Recording for your OnlyFans doesn’t count,” Javy rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have an OnlyFans!” Jake smirked. “Why? You think I should start one?”

Javy gave him a friendly nudge. “Just get back out there.”

Jake emerged back into the club. He searched the building for the man whose phone he was holding. He found him and the other man he was with (Boyfriend maybe? Jake didn’t want to assume. He found out the hard way you can never be too sure) dancing together.

He shoved by some tipsy patrons until he was in front of them. He handed the phone back. “Here you go.”

The man with the phone gasped. “It’s the cowboy!” He took the phone back. “How did it go?”

Fantastic. Great. Odd, but exciting. He wanted more.

“It was alright. Your phone died, though, so it was cut short.”

“I keep telling you to charge it before we go out, hun,” The other man said.

“Yes, yes, I hear you,” He pocketed the phone. “Thank you so much for texting him. He’s been a little bit of a mess with his whole breakup and everything. So I’m sure he really appreciated the messages you sent,” He gives a poorly attempted wink.

Jake felt oddly guilty. He had a great time talking to the stranger (even for such a short amount of time), but couldn’t help feeling like he had taken advantage of him in some way.

“Do you think I could maybe get his-”

Everyone began cheering and screaming as the next song started. The man grabbed Jake’s hand. “I. Love. This. One! Babe, come on!” He let go of Jake’s hand to grab his boyfriend’s and began to move to the center of the floor. “Thanks, cowboy!” He called over his shoulder.

Jake sighed and gave a small wave. “Anytime, partner.”

-

-

Would people read more if I wrote more?👀

Edit: I wrote more and I'm starting to post them to ao3. Thanks for the love!

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

Top Gun: The Gay Agenda (A Goose’s Lament)🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

1986, Miramar, California.

Nick "Goose" Bradshaw was a patient man. A devoted husband. A loving father. A steady RIO. A rock. But as he sat in the locker room, towel around his neck, while Pete "Maverick" Mitchell ranted in full, barely-repressed-gay-glory about one Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Goose realized something truly chilling:

He was going to die surrounded by idiots.

"—and he's got these stupid, pretty blue eyes, Goose. Like—like oceans. Judgy, Arctic oceans. And his jaw? What the hell? It's like Michelangelo carved it himself. It's infuriating. He’s got these annoyingly capable hands and this silky, mocking voice like a villainous opera ghost, and he—he thinks he’s better than me just because he’s tall and broad and slim and hot! And don’t get me started on that beauty mark—I wanna punch his stupid angel face and kiss it at the same time and that’s messed up, right?!"

Goose stared at his best friend for a long, harrowed moment. “Mav.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart. You're in love with Iceman.”

Maverick blinked at him.

Goose turned, stood, and walked directly out of the locker room to call his wife.

That night, at the Bradshaw’s house, Carole, radiant queen of his universe, cackled like a banshee as Goose paced.

“I’m telling you, babe,” Goose moaned, massaging his temples. “It’s mutual. I overheard Iceman call him a ‘stupid green-eyed cutie.’ That’s not combat language, Carole, that’s foreplay!”

Carole nearly dropped the baby.

“I have spent weeks, WEEKS, keeping those two from killing each other or accidentally making out on the flight deck! And now? Now I have to make sure I knock before entering the locker room or I’ll walk in on Maverick’s legs around Iceman’s waist again! There were noises, Carole. Noises. I need hazard pay.”

But for all his complaints and grumblings, Goose was happy for his friends. And for himself, because, at last, he could put an end to the saga of emotionally repressed gay pilots.

He must have suspected this wasn't the case.

Goose never thought he’d be grateful for witnessing one emotionally-repressed Navy homoerotic slow burn resolve into a marriage, but the peace that settled after Ice and Mav tied the knot was glorious. Until…

The Phone Call.

“Hey, Dad?” Bradley’s voice, now grown and inflected with slight frustration, echoed through the line.

Goose smiled warmly. “Hey, kiddo. How’s flight school?”

“Fine. Mostly. Except this one guy—Jake Seresin. Ugh. He’s got these stupid pretty green eyes and this smug beautiful smile and he talks in this Texas drawl like he’s hot or something—he’s got dimples, Dad. Dimples. I swear, I wanna punch his annoyingly handsome face right in the—"

Goose froze. The coffee cup slipped from his hand in slow motion.

“Carole,” he whispered, handing over the phone like it was a live grenade. “Talk to your son about his OBVIOUS crush for Seresin. I—I can’t go through this again.”

On the other end: “WHAT?! It’s not a crush! I don’t even like him! He thinks he’s so slick just because he—he flies like he was born in a cockpit and he’s always—NO, MOM, STOP LAUGHING—this is serious!”

Goose was already on the other line, calling Iceman and Maverick.

“You DID this to him!”

Goose’s furious screech could probably be heard from orbit.

Maverick’s laughter came in unholy wheezing bursts, while he tried to say: “Technically, Goose, we never corrupted him. He’s just… following in our flightpath.”

“YOU TAUGHT HIM TO CRASH INTO GAY FEELINGS AT MACH THREE!”

Maverick wheezed, “I’m so proud of the kid. He’s even ranting like me!”

Iceman took the phone. “Hi, Goose.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi Goose’ me, Ice Prince of Gay Pining! This is your fault too!”

Iceman reply, calm and dry. “We accept full responsibility for corrupting your son. We’ll send a fruit basket. And tissues.”

“You cursed my bloodline with emotionally constipated, pilot-loving disaster men! You infected my son with your drama! Now he's as emotionally constipated as you two assholes”

Maverick gasped. “Goose. Goose. Did you just say that out loud?! Honey!”

“DON’T 'HONEY' ME, DEAR. I HATE YOU BOTH. I WANT NEW FRIENDS.”

“You’ll never do better,” Ice said serenely.

Carole could be heard in the background, howling.

Goose thought it couldn't get worse.

Until it did. Until it happened.

The Closet Incident

A week later, Goose received a call from Admiral Ron "Slider" Kerner. Current CO of NAS Pensacola. Goose braced for a tragedy.

“Hey, Goose. Slider here.”

Goose immediately felt dread.

“You're not going to like this, but—well—I just found Bradley and….”

Silence.

And then…

Goose isn't sure he heard correctly, but he swears something sounded like a dog choking on a bone. Was Slider choking?

“Bradshaw!” Slider chortled. “You’re not gonna believe this—I just caught your Gosling and Seresin in a storage closet. Doing things. Noises, Nick. NOISES”

Goose blue screen. He must have misheard Slider. He prayed he did.

“Say again?”. Please, PLEASE, tell me I heard wrong. Goose was at his wits' end, and he was sure this was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Trauma response. A form of PTSD. That must be it.

Instead: “Bradley and Jake. Storage closet. Caught them mid-thrust. Jake saluted me while still having your son inside him. Just thought you’d want the full picture, Admiral Dad.”

Goose screamed into a pillow for eleven minutes and then started therapy.

He was absolutely billing Iceman and Maverick.

After Slider's call (which the entire Top Gun '86 class knew about, thanks to Slider and Maverick), Goose was confident nothing worse could happen. Sure, the call he had with Bradley where they discussed guidelines for proper conduct regarding storage closets use in the Navy was awkward, but now everything was back to normal...sort of.

And then it happened again. On an ordinary day, a bomb landed on Admiral Nick "Goose" Bradshaw's desk.

In the form of a letter.

Dear Admiral Bradshaw,

Please accept my formal apology for the incident in the supply closet. While our timing was… unprofessional, my feelings for Bradley are entirely sincere.

I'd like to take this opportunity to officially ask for your blessing to have a relationship with your son (even though we've already had sex—again, sorry for the inconvenience—and we've done other things).

I really care about Bradley; he's perfect. I want you to know that I will always treat Bradley like the prince he is, because I'm sure your son is becoming my world.

I promise to always be the best version of myself for your son, because that's what he deserves. He makes me want to be better. To fly better. He's my wingman. And I will always take care of his wing.

Also, Bradley told me that you're close to Admiral Kerner (and I must confess that you and your friends intimidate me), so could you ask him to stop making faces and sounds every time he sees me? I'm worried he'll die of suffocation from laughing so much.

Respectfully,

Jake “Hangman” Seresin.

Goose practically ran the entire way home. Read the letter to Carole. Then together, they called Maverick and Iceman and read it again.

As Carole read the letter (and cried with laughter) Goose stared off into space like a man haunted by the ghosts of his past and Maverick could practically be heard on the floor laughing (gasping for air) Iceman, always composed and serene, said: “I like him. He asked permission. Good manners.”

Goose, finally out of his trance, said, "Iceman, you're paying for my therapy forever, man. This is worse than when I had to listen to you read poetry to Maverick while we were on the USS Enterprise.”

Iceman: “Fair.”

And so Admiral Goose Bradshaw carried on, wiser, wearier, and only mildly traumatized. He had survived the IceMav saga, and now the BradleyJake operation was well underway.

Sometimes, he looked up at the stars, wondering if future Bradshaws would continue this glittering, chaotic legacy of falling for their cocky flyboy nemesis.

He prayed not.

But just in case?

He increased the Navy’s mental health budget.

And added “Emotional Disaster Preparedness” to flight school training.

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

I know I just posted this, but imagine if they just had Amazon Alexas everywhere and it drove Alexei crazy

Walker: Alexa, what’s the time?

Alexei, two rooms over: IT’S 3:45 MY FRIEND!

Ava: Alexa, skip song.

Alexei: I DON’T HAVE ACCESS TO THE MUSIC

If avengers tower has JARVIS/FRIDAY, can the watchtower have a disembodied robot voice? But instead of being helpful it’s just as snarky as they are and ultimately useless. Taking suggestions for names now

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

If avengers tower has JARVIS/FRIDAY, can the watchtower have a disembodied robot voice? But instead of being helpful it’s just as snarky as they are and ultimately useless. Taking suggestions for names now

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

I want a thunderbolts edit/animation to this song so bad

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

[whataboutnousernamelmao]

THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!

14 MONTHS? You’re saying there’s 14 months between the end of Thunderbolts and the end credit scene?? 14 whole months for fanfic writers to use as their sandbox to write the best new avengers tower fics they got.

I will say I was a little disappointed with his abrupt it ended because I wanted to see more of them all together at the end (Bob reading the creative act: a way of being at the end made me scream), but now there’s so much space for authors to roam.