I’m reluctant to post any author info here until I gain a bit more traction, but here is a pic from last night while I was printing my full first draft. My 3.5-year-old was doing his usual thing 🤣🤣🤣
(Btw, if we are Tumblr moots and you would like to follow my author page on Instagram, please send me a message!) @jtargaryen18 @lau219 no pressure but you two are the first that I thought of!
Finally, finally, making editing progress! Halfway through the chapter for Bedtime Story so I just need to finish this edit (!) then one more pass (just one!) and then it’s going out.
I think it helped that I was poking about with later chapters. Somehow that seemed to unstick something? Or maybe it reminded me that this fic is all written and all I need to do is tidy it up and stop being so hard on myself and it? Dunno.
Little snippet under the break from my poking about with a much later chapter this morning. Just because it’s Dwalin and Kili and I feel like I never have enough scenes with them! And I think it’s fun. And because I do love this fic, even when the editing is hard.
[[MORE]]“If you’d called out, I wouldn’t have run,” said Kili. “If either of you had—”
Dwalin snorted again.
“I wouldn’t have.”
“You’d have done a bunk,” said Dwalin. “Same as you did from the elves.”
Kili’s mouth fell open. “How do you know about—”
“And that town to the south too,” continued Dwalin. “The one with the tannery. What was it called, Nori?”
“Ramstooth, I think.”
“Ramstooth, Sheepsbottom, fool names Men have for places,” muttered Dwalin. “Got there not even three days after you’d scarpered, near killed the ponies doing it, and Thorin’s barely been back up the mountain since. Too worried about getting snowed in and missing you again.”
Kili hung his head. Ramshorn had been the name of the town. They’d arrived there in the mouth of the lowland winter, and it had seemed perfect—right up until the day Fili had come home from his work in the forest nearby and told Kili to pack up everything.
They’d left in the dead of night, walking for a full week in the falling temperatures, hungry and heartsore, until Fili felt safe enough to stop at another town and ask for work. Then they’d found Riversmouth, and the forge, and made something like friendships, and slowly, slowly, the deep worry line between his big brother’s brows had begun to soften.
“You led us a right merry dance,” said Dwalin. “We’ve been chasing ghosts between here and halfway to the Misty Mountains all winter.”
The shame was burning through him. “I’m sorry,” Kili said. “We were going to write.”
And he’d meant to to. He truly had. He’d started and abandoned dozens of letters, and the ones that he had actually finished and not fed to the fire, there’d always been some good reason not to send them just yet. “I…”
But no excuse would be good enough. Nothing would ever make up for the worry they’d caused.
Dwalin tugged him into his chest, pushing their foreheads together. “Thought I was chasing proper ghosts for a while, lad,” he said, a crack in his voice. “Thought I was. Every hole I dug in that forest, I… Don’t you ever, ever, do that to me again.”
After a year and a month I finished the first draft of my novel 🥹 this is so insane I’m gonna cry.
A small reminder for writers:
Your first draft isn’t supposed to be impressive.
It’s supposed to exist.
Messy sentences.
Scenes that don’t fully work.
Characters still figuring themselves out.
That’s normal.
The real magic usually happens in revision.
Write it first.
Shape it later.
It really was a beautiful night. Summer nights often were, when the Eiffel Tower was kept open earlier into the night- *slams head on desk*
Calliope doesn’t think she remembers much about being normal.
[[MORE]]There’s bits and pieces still rattling around in her brain, when she’s just about to fall asleep. Flashes of a warm bed with a purple comforter, a mug of hot coco spinning in a microwave before being gently pressed into small hands, just hot enough not to burn, cool water stinking of chlorine and summer and joy. But in the harsh light of another interrogation room in another little police station, then only thing she can really remember is how much she hates getting arrested.
“Do you know why you’re here today ma’am?” The officer sitting across the small wooden table asks her, Calliope has seen worse looking cops before, at least the balding was minimal and you could only see the oily noise hairs if he looked down his nose at you for an extended period. Which, considering the respective positions of Calliope and Officer beer gut in training, she had an unfortunately unobstructed view.
“Waiting for a lawyer?” She responded as innocently and sickly sweet as she could manage without puking a little. The officer just grunts and leans back, folding his arms over his chest.
Ooo the silent treatment, gonna try and make me sweat little boy? She thought with just a tad bit of sadistic glee. Not that it would work, but it was a valiant effort.
Calliope had been simply stopping at a local shithole bar for a drink, it wasn’t her fault that all of her ids were fake, or that the new bouncer was an overeager asshole who looked a little too close at her admittedly cheapest looking drivers license. The resulting argument that had escalated to blows and then police? Now that was her fault actually.
“You wanna explain all of the false identification we found rattling around in that purse you were carrying?” Ah, Officer tough guy had gotten impatient before she did, classic.
“Do you wanna explain why I’m not currently speaking with a lawyer?” The cop was getting more frustrated she could tell
“Lawyers take time, especially seeing how late it is, you understand. Honestly it would save time and grief if you just explained to me what I wanna know, I’m here to figure out the situation, not to get you in trouble.”
“You can explain that to my lawyer” that was the thing that pushed officer stick up ass to the breaking point it seemed, as he stood abruptly, face turning redder by the second.
“Fine, you just wait in here until we get you that lawyer ma’am,” Calliope smiled and waggled her fingers as the middle aged man stomped, god what a child, out of the room.
Hours later and a thin, reedy woman, hastily rubbing sleep from her eyes, walked into the interrogation room, followed shortly by officer attitude.
“Just knock on the door when you two are done in here, you know the drill Ms. Amberline, no cameras, no mics,” he grunted,
“Thank you Officer Payton, I understand,” the door clicked shut, the woman taking a last deep breath to collect herself before turning to face her client.
The one hand to her mouth muffled the shocked noise the lawyer made, while the hand to the base of her neck at her shoulder caused her to crumple to the floor.
Calliope went to work quickly, stripping bother herself and the lawyer before putting Ms. Amberline’s prone form into the uncomfortable uniform she had been handed upon arrival, setting her in the chair and clipping the cold cuffs she had been slapped in around her small wrists.
Now came the fun part, closing her eyes briefly she pictured the lawyer woman in her minds eye, and, with a motion as if she was shaking water off her shoulders, she became her, down to the smallest detail, she slipped into the facade of Ms. Amberline as if it was an old sweater, easily and with comfort. Slipping on the woman’s clothes, Calliope didn’t bother to knock, just walked out of the door. Officer Payton had already fallen into a light doze as he sat waiting in the chair opposite the interrogation room, and didn’t awaken as Calliope slipped out of it, and then the precinct. She barely got a glance as she stopped to explain she was collecting her clients belongings, all of which besides the fake ids (annoying but expected) were handed over without a second thought. It was only minutes later, when Calliope had already managed to slip into a different disguise, that she heard sirens starting to blare as police cruisers sped past her. What fun.
Calliope giggled softly to herself from the inside of a nearby fast food place, cheap vinyl squeaking underneath her as she turned slightly to watch the chaos unfold just across the street.
God she loved small towns.
I look at him and he is probably the most incredible thing in the entire world. And it’s hard to believe he came from me of all people. Because how can something so perfect come from something so entirely broken and damaged. And i feel guilt over it because it is inevitable that i will ruin him as he grows older. Im am so afraid of becoming my parents, and im trying so hard to overcome my own issues for his sake, but i feel as though i am doomed to fail.
The last therapy session i attended was a hard one. It’s probably the first time ive ever cried in a therapist office, this must mean she’s doing a good job, at least i hope. But i feel more fragile now than i have ever felt before. I’m more irritable now, and so much quicker to anger, the exact thing i had been trying to avoid the most.
Will i ever be well enough to raise a happy and healthy son? Or will he grow up to be a copy of myself? Will i ever get over the guilt, and will he ever be able to forgive me?
He’s crying, i’m trying to fill out a report and he’s crying for some reason. He’s been fed, he has a clean nappy, i’m giving him cuddles and bouncing him. I’m trying so hard to focus on what i’m writing but keep making typos and loosing track of where i am in in a sentence.
Without looking i reach for the rattle in front of me, i shake it and it grabs his attention, for a moment he is quiet. For a moment i can think and breathe.
Then he’s crying again, i shake the rattle again, it doesn’t work this time, i’m trying to tune him out without fully dissociating so i can fill out this damn report, but the fog is rapidly closing in. He’s still crying, i shake the rattle continuously hoping it will work. He cries harder, i shake the rattle harder. The more he cries the more aggressive i get with the rattle. I just need to get this done.
All of a sudden he shouts, loud and frustrated, it sounds feral, it makes me instantly pause. It’s a sound i’m much too familiar with, i recognise my own anger in him, and it worries me. I stop shaking the rattle and he swats it out of my hand. Fuck. I look at him, shock and guilt followed by a suffocating numbness. What am I doing?
He’s not crying any more, just frustratedly trying to wriggle free from me. I put him down on his mat on the floor, and he instantly begins to cry again. What does he want? I don’t understand!
I kind of just sit there, watching him fuss about, i know i need to do something but i don’t know what, i can’t move. I’m stuck just watching him like that, feeling utterly helpless. I don’t know for how long.
“What’s his problem?” I snap out of my daze and look up. He’s finally finished his shower.
“I don’t know, he’s been fussing ever since you left”.
“Do you want me to make him a bottle?”
“No. I need you to take him. Please, please get him away from me.”
He frowns and picks up our son, still wet from the shower, steam wafting off his skin, long hair slicked back. He still looks like a sex god, despite gaining some weight around his hips and middle, and once upon a time such a sight would have had me mad with lust. But now i feel nothing. Maybe slightly relieved, now that he was holding the baby.
When was the last time i showered? Or even brushed my hair?
He’s stopped crying now, and i stare at him, completely content in his father’s arms, chewing away at his hand. I guess he must be teething, he really shouldn’t be yet, but he’s ahead in all his other milestones so why the heck not.
I get up without a word, and i feel their eyes tracking me as i leave for the kitchen. I don’t know why i’m here. I stare at the sink, used bottles and breastpumps sitting on the side. I want to smash my skull into the kitchen cupboard, repeatedly. It’s at perfect eye level. Maybe if i hit my head hard enough it might clear up a bit and actually start working.
Instead, i stand there, completely motionless. What is it i was trying to do again? What am i doing here? I splash my face with some cold water from the tap. Arms wrap around me from behind and i fight off the urge to flinch. A warm damp chest presses against my rigid back, I let it happen.
“He was just tired. I’ve got him asleep on the couch.”
I sigh. Of course. I should’ve known.
“You should get some rest”, he tells me quietly. I shrug him off, there are things I need to do. Things i’ll probably not end up getting to do, because of the baby, or because I’ll get stuck staring at an empty corner of the room for a few hours again. But at least the intention to get something done is there, I suppose.
He’ll get home later this afternoon and realise, once again, that I haven’t really accomplished anything at all. He’ll pretend to understand, pretend not to be disappointed that i’ve not got anything planned for dinner, and he’ll make himself some 2 minute noodles and hop on the game for the rest of the night.
“I need to pump”, i reply. I start mindlessly rinsing the pump i used earlier that morning, before either of them had even woken up. I feel him shift in place behind me.
“Can you make sure to eat something at least”, he pleads with me quietly. I nod, not looking back at him.
It hurts me probably just as much as it hurts him, and I wonder, is this how things are doomed to be for the rest of our lives? I also know it’s my fault.
I don’t know how to fix it.
Red of tooth and claw
Eyes sharp
Gaping maw
Nothing touches me.
Nothing satisfies me.
Nothing owns me.
I hunt to the drumbeat of an empty stomach
Ever aching, ever quaking, ever breaking all that
slips between my lips in miles, gallons, tons.
All that was would never be enough.
All that is turns to all that was.
All that will be won’t.
That is my hunger.
Vast.
Reckless.
Unflinching.
So why?
When I meet your eye?
Do I feel?
small?
and
full?
“Gasp!”
I’m startled awake. By a fleeting memory that proves to be as quick as a river as it carries away fading feelings of constraint, an emotion I can’t quite name, and fear….
Huh?
Of all the emotions to be leaving me in this moment that I realize I am completely and utterly a blank slate; fear Is leaving me? For some reason, that doesn’t seem quite right.
But I’m unable to hold on to that confusion to inquire of my own state of being.
At least in relation to my own mental state and ego.
I view my surroundings to find myself engulfed in a blanket of darkness and held in a field of green.
A flourishing forest of tall and verbose pine tree’s sprawled out from either side of me as a dirt trail seemed to lead on ahead of me. Leading to what appeared to be a small dimly lit town.
The air, my surroundings, this town, and my own identity seem to be clouded in a thick haze that I seem to be directly in the middle of. Where the edges of this fog ends and meets reality feel distant yet just out of reach.
“Well…. The only thing to go on seems to this eerie town in the distance. I guess my best bet is to start there.” I say as I ease myself to my feet and start my short but hopefully enlightening journey towards the dimly cast town.
“My fear might have been stolen away…. But the lack of sound here feels…. Off.” I state to no one but the night sky as my eyes search for dollops of light in this world overshadowed by darkness.
I finished a draft, and to the word count that I wanted. 30k. I’m not sure when i’ll work on it again, there’s so much more to add to it. :) For now, i’m happy i simply finished it.
Tagged by @that-wildwolf (thank you! 💜), and I spend so little time here these days that I don’t even know whom to tag 😅 If you haven’t done this recently/ don’t have a tag for this pending and would like to participate, consider yourself tagged please?
The mirrors curved very slightly at the edges, subtly distorting reflections, forcing you to face a version of yourself that was almost accurate. Almost.
Helbar chose to ignore the reflections. He looked at the two chairs at the center of the room, the small table between them bearing a water jug and a bowl of bitter herbs. This set-up was meant to encourage purity of attention, or so the instructions in his briefing document had said. He glanced at the ceiling, painted with the Great God’s eye surrounded by concentric circles of text in script so fine it was illegible from this distance, not that he didn’t know what it said: the Litany of Proper Thought, in its entirety. One hundred and forty-seven verses.
The rooms that i make are cozy and bespoke
Each item gathered in time and with care
My palms sweat as i greet you and go to open the door
Rarely have i finished before i let you in
But as you live i see your patterns
I see you change
I see items wear or become obsolete
And i adapt
The desk gathers dust so i replace it with a couch
The drawers sigh with use so i oil them regularly
The bags under your eyes lighten with the arrival of a new mattress
But when you leave
My adjustments would be baseless
And i love you
These things of mine are for you
are yours
are of you
Redecorating would be death
So instead the room will sit
No matter how long
I can always rearrange when you get back
If you want to come back itll be the same
I promise
Please come back
Brain farting while writing is so f*cking annoying.
Normal words, not character names or world building details.
I literally forgot how to spell [ exceptional ] in the middle of writing a paragraph.
Wtf is that about?
The characters that I see in my head
The characters that make it into the first draft
©️2024
Ship type: M/M
The Stories of the fallen are rarely spoken. I should be used to it by now but scenes like this will never get easier.
Shimon (the commander) & Aizen
The commander sighed looking over the field of rotting corpses of the massacred prisoners. Those who were his comrades in the war against those demons, strung from the trees like a twisted welcome home party. Or maybe it was a warning. They had overstepped when they had declared war against their own world. Their voices silenced before they could escape their torment.
A sickening sight nonetheless.
“Damn Monsters… All of them…”
He turned back to his squad.
“The 5 of you canvas the area. Look for anything of use in determining what the hell happened here. The rest start retrieving the bodies. Their families deserve closure after the months they’ve been gone.”
The soldiers nod before setting off to work on their respective tasks. He assisted with carrying The bodies down from the trees with the greatest care and respect. Unlike others, his men were treated like family in his eyes but he never shed a tear for them. They died defending humanity and that should be respected with pride and vengeance, not tears.
A few moments later his squad called for him.
“COMMANDER, WE FOUND SOMETHING!”
He dropped down from the tree with another body cradled within his arms. He gently laid the man in the grass before acknowledging them.
“Show me.”
The men lead him to a large hole In the ground. Besides it were 3 very small holes and a splatter of red crystals and dried blood. His eyes widened when a theory crossed his mind.
Those crystals Were unmistakable.
“DAMN THOSE DEMONIC BASTARDS. THERE’S ONLY ONE THING THAT COULD HAVE CAUSED THIS. THAT BLOODY PRINCE HUNTED THOSE WHO ESCAPED FOR SPORT.”
He sighed trying not to let his emotions get out of control. He grabbed a spear from a soldier and stabbed it into the three holes.
“At least it looks like they injured the bastard before they died. It’s the most we’ve ever been able to do in the 5 years since the war started.”
He started to collect the crystallized blood from the grass and placed them in a pouch on his belt.
“At least they’ve done one last service for humanity.”
The squad was preparing to return the fallen back where they belong when the commander caught a gleam of gold from the hole. He slid down within it and found a small red journal with golden corners sticking out from the loose earth.
It was an object he was all too familiar with. His emotional walls started to slip as he opened the book. What he saw finally brought tears to his eyes.
‘This Journal belongs to Aizen Gomen.’
The pages were distorted by blood that had stained them. His greatest fear was realized when he was climbing from the hole and his hands grasped at the blood ridden earth. It flaked down over him and he looked around the hole again. With the new perspective, he finally saw that the place was splattered in it.
He quickly pulled himself out before panting on his hands and knees with the book clenched under him. The soldiers had never seen their commander lose It like he was right now. They watched and tried to help as his breathing quickened in a panic.
He did his best to collect himself when the realization that they could still be in danger finally hit him. He got up, placed the journal in his pouch and drank the water that was brought for him before giving the command.
“Take our brothers, it’s time to go home. Be vigilant. The enemy could still be lurking.”
*
The trek back to the village was unsettling to say the least. Paranoia was overwhelming. Walking through the forests and mountains with several bodies was like ringing the dinner bell to anything in a 10 mile radius. The beasts live for blood and corpses are an easy meal but many wouldn’t hesitate to kill if given the chance.
As the sun began to set the group quickly found shelter under an over hang in the mountain. They set up camp against the 3 walls. A large fire burnt in front of them, the bodies lay in circles of iron and salt. The borders of the camp were reinforced with many layers of the mixture.
Even though the group was on edge, the commander had a reputation. He’s never lost anyone during a mission camp. Nobody knew what happened when he disappeared into the forest but when he returned they were assured no evil remained.
After the commander finished his patrols he came back and sat on a ledge with the fire to his back. He took the journal from his pouch and held it tightly for a moment before opening it to the first page. As long as he didn’t have anyone to immediate report to he might as well read it from the Beginning. The only keepsake of another beloved Commander.
The Journal seemed to start at the beginning of their training Around the age of 16.
‘So I figured If I’m gonna be the Greatest Commander of all the Saviors I figure I should write down my story for all to hear for generations when I’m finally a legend.
Hmmm… Where to begin?
Well the beginning I suppose.
I was born an only child to a farming family just outside of the small village of Ohlark. I know, people don’t really think much Of the 3rd smallest of the 7 villages. Just a bunch of dirty farmers right? Well without us most of you would starve so don’t speak.
When I was little my parents would warn me of the monsters and spirits of the forests outside the village. We were taught never to stay out after dusk or we could risk getting snatched. I was terrified when I was first told about them but then I was told of the Saviors, the protectors of humanity. It made me feel safe to know that there would always be people to keep us safe. I admired them greatly.
I probably shouldn’t mention this next part but when I am at the top then who’s gonna care?
One day I was tending to the crops and I accidentally came across a small forest spirit. It looked like some sort of fluffy rodent and it wasn’t nearly as scary as I’d been led to believe.
The small creature seemed to be digging at the roots of a vegetable so… I might have helped it out a bit. It was startled by me and ran off so I left the vegetable out and watched from afar. It could have even been considered cute.
Eventually I bonded more with the little guy and it brought some friends. I would sit on the edge of the forest and feed them. Eventually some even got comfortable enough to allow me to touch them. It’s interesting because when they become startled you phase right through them but with trust you can actually touch them.
Not all spirits are evil but I’d never admit it to anyone in the village. I’d be labeled as insane or even worse… A magic user. I don’t want to be known as evil like that. So don’t tell just yet anyone ok?
Anyway today is my first official day of training so I better get to it.’
The Commander looked over the entry with heartbreak, sympathy and a fondness reading the story.
He closed the book and placed it back in his pouch as the men retired to bed. He would watch over them throughout most of the night until another takes over.
(This is just a first draft and was written as an outline for a 40+ route visual novel game. Story, characters and art owned by me. Not for use by anyone else. Don’t feed to Ai.)
Chapter 1
A nine-year-old 9, Freya, runs of into the park with a worn and well-loved safari hat and a small pink butterfly net. Freya skips to the edge of a bushy area and impatiently waits for Emilia.
While Freya waits, a group of five eleven-year-olds ambles up to her. With her brother Leo leading them over.
“Well, well, well. Look at the little baby who still believes in fairies.” Leo mocks as if he’s an intimidating bad boy to impress his friends.
“Yea someone’s certainly delulu.”
“Too stupid to realise that little bug people don’t exists.”
“Yea, so stupid.” Benson the shyest of the group, half-hearted mummers.
“Yea, a stupid baby with her stupid fairy net.”
They laughed in Freya bright red and teary-eyed face.
“Stop that right now, or I’m going to tell mum.”
“Ung, you’re such a snitch Freya.”
Leo and his friends stalked off.
Freya sniffles upset as her best friend, Nava, walk up with a kidizoom camera bag and her own blue butterfly net.
A smile overtakes Freya’s face as she grabs Nava’s hand and pulls her into her bushes and begin fairy hunting. Freya would complain that each ladybug, dragonfly and butterfly was not a fairy while and let them go before Navo can take a phone. Nava would get her camera out and take a photo of each of her catches.
Nava noted that Freya caught a beautiful purple and orange butterfly.
“Wait, wait, wait. Let me get a picture of it first.”
“It’s just a butterfly, not even a pixie.”
Freya released the butterfly before Nava could get her camera back out.
“FREYA.”
“What?”
Freya has already gone back to looking under bushes.
“I wanted to take a picture of it.”
“It was just a butterfly, only fairies are worth catching.”
“Everybody’s right, you are crazy. There are no such thing as fairy’s.”
“They do exist, they do.”
“Then you’re a horrible person, catching fairy is an evil action.”
Nava storms off, furious.
Freya sniffles as a black and purple enters her butterfly net.
“Hello Fair-Huntress I am Hawkmoth and I will grant you the power to hunt the fairy’s you seek to hunt in exchange for Ladybug’s and Chat Noir’s miraculous.”
“Yes, Hawkmoth.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Alex and Nathaniel talked as Alex used a series of cement staircases and banisters as a makeshift skate park. Nathaniel checked a book and redrew parts of a scene where the villain of the week, cuffed and put into the police car. The heroes are depicted celebrating. Nathaniel has a frustrated face, dissatisfied with his work.
“Ung.” He lightly hit his face with his notepad.
“Your still stuck? This is what the fourth time your redrawn the same scene?”
Alex bobbed to the beat and smoothly twisted to skate backwards in front of Nathaniel.
“Sixth time actually.”
“Just come back to it latter.”
“I know but I have this really good idea for the lighting and angle that I can’t risk forgetting.”
Alex stops skating and terns to face Nathaniel.
“Then write it down.”
“I don’t know how, you know I’m shit with my words.”
Alex goes to speak but is interrupted by loud screams. A fairy-ified Leo, with orange butterfly wings, flies past pursued by Nava dramatically transformed into a safari guide looking fairy hunter.
Alex opens her phone to the ladybug blog and Nathaniel scopes his seche paid and supplies into his bag. When fair-huntress, in a Safai guide theme outfit with multiple nets and jars, four jars filled with faires with many different bug wings.
What writers actually need during the first-draft stage
Instead of critiques, what writers really need while writing their first draft is:
Motivation: Encouragement to keep at it, day after day, even though you’re writing crap and you have no idea if it’ll ever be any good.
Accountability: Knowing someone else is paying attention can help you keep going even when it’s hard.
Companionship: Friendships with other writers ensure you don’t feel like the only one struggling with the same difficulties.
Permission: Reminders that it’s perfectly normal to write badly and inconsistently—so long as we persist.
mind game exhibit A:
i have to make myself finish handwriting the full scene before i type any of it up because, if i type it up before im finished, my lizard brain enters an editing dark hole, and the drafting comes to a dead stop.
* * *
the longer i can hold off on typing it up the better, actually.
there is a direct correlation between me staying pen to page and drafting forward versus me on a computer stalling my own progress.
it’s tempting, for me, to want to the words typed up. a feeling of “i did it” that I don’t quite get from the handwritten page. i think its bc of the bastard word count dopamine i get from the software.
