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OKAY BUT KILL ME. ACTUALLY KILL ME

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my favorite kind of character is the kind who deep in their soul is constantly screaming LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME and outwardly expressing literally anything else

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approaching the wip carefully from the side like a skittish animal. speaking in a low, gentle voice so it doesn’t run away

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it has been years and this still remains the most meaningful advice i have ever read. every time i'm editing my own writing and getting really fed up with it, i stop bashing my face in and just think about this. "You hate the most valuable thing about your art." my writing is supposed to read like i wrote it! because i did! i should be happy to have my own voice and style! ugh thank you forever to this tweet fr

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Mr President

Going out in the garden with my cat on his leash, keeping an eye on him while he explores this big unknown, feels a bit like I'm a bodyguard to the president.

I stand there, solemnly with my hands crossed in front of me, spray bottle in hand, keeping an eye out for any threats. Namely, one of the neighbour's cats who loves to rough up the other neighbourhood cats.

Not on my watch, terrorist.

Mr President, in the meantime, is ferreting about; chasing after leaves blowing away on the wind, nibbling on things he's not supposed to nibble on, modelling on the bin fishing for compliments from passersby - or doing his best impression of a groundhog - and looking out over the street.

He feels he's protecting his turf, keeping an eye out for any intruders, marking the fence with his scent. Luckily for him, his secret forces help him enforce order while he pretends to be lord of the garden.

The biggest terrorist on our wanted list has just jumped onto the neighbour's fence and immediately spots our head of state. He lowers down, prowling on the fence.

"Target one in sight, Mr President," I say, pressing a finger to my ear. Mr President is distracted by an overflying gull.

Target one keeps sneaking closer. It's like we're playing Red Light Green Light, like he's Boo from Mario, or in a more creepy way, the angels from Doctor Who. Every time I look over my shoulder, he's inched a little bit closer and doesn't move when my gaze lands on him.

Target two has joined his partner in crime from the streetside and they are slowly surrounding us. Mr President is still blissfully unaware.

I raise my spray bottle. "I'm armed," I warn them. Target one gives a soft meow.

I take aim. Squeeze. Spritz a little water towards Target one as a warning shot. The strong wind immediately blows the spray of water back in my own face. I resign from the force.

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the five stages of grief: writer's edition

denial: "this draft is amazing. no need for edits. it’s practically perfect as is." you’re so confident that you close the document for the day, smiling like you’ve just discovered the next great american novel (or swedish, or british, whatever). plot hole? who is she?

anger: "why did i ever think this was good? this is garbage. i am garbage. my characters are flat, my dialogue is cringe, and my prose sounds like a robot swallowed a thesaurus and threw up on the page." rage-quit the doc and go aggressively scroll pinterest for "writing inspiration" that you will never use.

bargaining: "if i fix this one scene, the whole thing will click into place. i just need to write one more subplot, maybe five more chapters, a quick rewrite of the entire ending, and then it'll be fine. totally manageable." queue up 17 youtube videos on "how to fix your plot" that you play in the background while staring at your ceiling.

depression: "i will never finish this book. it’s doomed. i’m doomed. why do i even write? who let me have ideas?!" lay dramatically on your bed, considering taking up knitting or rock collecting instead. cry a little over how your characters deserve a better writer.

acceptance: "this is the best i can do right now, and that’s okay. i’ll take a break, come back with fresh eyes, and remember why i love this stupid, broken story." suddenly, your MC whispers something brilliant, and you're like wait… maybe i'm a genius after all.

and the cycle begins again. writing is a joy.

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i love doing apologism for fictional characters. yes he killed people and ruined everything but thats ok bc i like him and hes my little baby. so who cares

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the author's barely disguised longing for a kinder world

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sometimes i go back and reread what i wrote a while ago & i'm like

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