pencils-and-ponies

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget How To Walk

Ghost Stories and Ferry Rides

“You waitin' on the ferry?”

Completely lost in my own thoughts, I had no idea how long the man had been standing in front of me, or how long I'd been staring though him at the ocean. Collecting myself, I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the cab of my truck, loaded down with all of my belongings.

“Yep. Moving to the island today.

The man smiled, turning to look out at the foggy sea with a fondness that could only come from a lifetime of living somewhere. I wasn't exactly sure how old he was, but he definitely wasn't young. With the weathered look of someone who'd spent years on the ocean, he could have been anywhere between 40 and 90, but something about his mannerisms had me leaning closer to 90. Not to mention his clothes, which looked like they'd come straight out of the 40s. There was an almost uncomfortably long silence before he finally said, gravely, “I wouldn't.”

Well that's not ominous at all, I thought to myself, shaking my head a little. 

One old man wouldn't be enough to change my mind about Specter Island, especially with the opportunity I'd been offered, but the negativity caught my interest. Growing up in a small, tourist trap town, I'd seen how locals would sometimes try and scare off newcomers. I'd also seen friendly and welcoming places turn into judgmental rumor mills the longer you stuck around, enough that I preferred the initial distance.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, and pulled off his cap to scratch absentmindedly at a tuft of white hair clinging stubbornly to the top of his otherwise bald head. “Well, I've never been there myself, but people talk. Somethin's not right there. Ever wondered where the name came from?”

“Not particularly. The fog, maybe, now that I'm here.”

He let out a short bark of laughter and leaned against the hood of my truck, gesturing at the horizon. “Nah, can't see her from the mainland anyway. But I've been sailin' these waters for almost three-quarter a century, an' I ain't ever seen anything like what I've seen on her shores.”

“You mean it's haunted?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Now he really had my attention. Ghost stories were common no matter what part of the country you were in, and I'd done my fair share of casual ghost hunting over the years, but I'd never really found anything. The difference here, however, was how the subject came up unprompted. Usually I needed to start asking my own questions to get the conversation started. And while it still could be some sort of scare tactic, I needed to know more.

“What have you seen?”

He gave me a knowing look, and cracked a small smile. “Now, if I tell you, it'll ruin the fun of finding it yourself, won't it.”

“...I guess.”

There was a faint call from the ferry's foghorn, followed by a much louder answer from the mainland lighthouse, and we both looked up to see the ferry fade out of the fog like it too was a ghost. When, I looked back, the man was holding out a hand. His grip was surprisingly firm for his age.

“I should let you go. But if you ever find yourself back on the mainland and want to know more, look me up. Name's Alda- most folks know me.”

“I'll do that. And my name's Nox, by the way.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Nox.”

With that, he turned and headed back toward town, the mist swallowing him up as he went.

Talk about strange.

Once I'd parked my turn and the ferry got underway, I grabbed a heavy coat and headed up to the passenger deck, passing through the interior seating before heading out to the bow. While it was a bit cold for November by Oregon standards, it was nothing compared to the Wisconsin winters I'd grown up with. I wanted to get my first glance at the island the second it came into view. My only company on the bow was a couple of seagulls hitching a ride on the portside railing, but I preferred their impassive stares to the suspicious ones of the few other passengers I'd passed inside. November was firmly in Specter Islands 'off' season, and I had a feeling that they didn't see many unfamiliar faces at this time of the year.

If this job worked out, I wouldn't be an outsider for very long.

There was something alive about this move that I hadn't felt in any of my previous ones. It was something I could actually feel, the same way I could feel the spray from the ocean on my cheeks, or taste the salt on my tongue. Ever since talking to Keith for the first time I'd felt real hope for the first time in years. A faith that this would finally be the one.

I was no stranger to being wrong about that feeling. After the barn I'd grown up riding at my whole childhood had closed, I started looking for a new place to call home the second I could. Although I'd been young, I knew all too well that a career with horses took a lot of time, tears, and plain old hard work, and I'd thrown myself into the first place that would hire me, expecting to find the same standard of treatment to both horses and humans alike at my first job. In reality, I ended up working for a woman who starved her horses and manipulated her students until they no longer questioned why horses kept dying. After leaving there I worked for another woman would could switch from praise to insults so fast it would make your head spin. And my most recent position was at a farm where if the horses themselves didn't kill you, the other staff would.

It was Keith who'd contacted me, this time around, just as I was planning out the logistics of another move and preparing to put in my two week notice. We spent a week just going back and fourth over the details, figuring out in very clear terms what each others expectations were. It was only after several of these impromptu interviews that he actually hired me, which was a complete 180 from my other jobs were I'd been hired on the spot. And while there was a chance that the difference didn't mean anything, it was a chance I was willing to take.

The job was almost too perfect. Primarily I'd be in charge of herd management- making sure all of the horse were healthy and sound, and caring for them on a daily basis. But in the spring, I'd be doing third shift foal watch, delivering around 15 foals every season. Foaling had been my passion ever since witnessing my first birth almost 13 years ago. Plus, unlike the thoroughbred farm I'd just been working at, there was riding involved as well. Honestly, it would be hard to work at a place like Keith's without sitting on a horse at least once a day.

Specter Island had been build around horses, and was the home to a herd that had been there since the colonial times. Keith's farm, Olsen Performance Horses, had been in his family for generations, watching over the horses and turning into the competition powerhouses that they were today. Horses bred on the island could be found in almost every discipline in the world that wasn't breed specific, but their real calling was ICTHA.

Formed back in the 50s, the International Competitive Trail Horse Association was the ultimate measure of a horses abilities. Taking place over four days, there were three phases of competition- a 30 mile endurance race over the first two days, then an arena course with obstacles such as rings of fire and giant teeter totters, and finally returning to the outdoors with a much shorter trail with both natural and man made obstacles. To really excel a horse needed just the right mix of stamina, agility, and trust in their rider, but trust was the real issue. Even the fastest horse in the would wouldn't walk through fire without the right guidance.

That was where Keith, and his current head trainer, Ellis, were the best. And on the rare years when they weren't named the ICTHA world champions, it was a horse that had once known their hands that did. A Specter Island bred horse or their direct descendants held every title going back to the 70s. It was quite the legacy to uphold.

I just hoped I could live up to their standards.

The call of the foghorn, deafeningly loud now that it was directly behind me, startled me out of my thoughts. The seagulls, however, remained unphased. I listened closely for the answer, and a few seconds later I heard it, closer than expected but with the island still out of sight.

A couple minutes later a beam of light cut through the mist, swinging around to guide us in as the island emerged, dark against the gray horizon. As the ferry slowed its approach to prepare for docking more lights glowed brighter, giving me a vague idea of where town was in relation to the docks. I could imagine the same view on a clear day, with tourists and summer residents everywhere, fishing boats at the docks and people standing on the beaches to watch the ferry come in.

Someday I would see it for real.

[pencils-and-ponies]

Now that I’ve written a couple chapters on the second draft of WFHTW, I’m going to start posting them weekly until I catch up, and maybe bi-weekly after that. Stay tuned!

[pencils-and-ponies]

The worst part about having every equine emergency in We Forget How To Walk based on a true story is that I never seem to run out of things to write about.

[pencils-and-ponies]

Writeblr Intro

Guess since I thought about joining this community I might as well introduce myself.

I currently have two projects, one is Lightless (where the sun goes out and some people get superpowers) and the other is a current unnamed tech-noir detective mystery.

Yo, I’m Snow. Some stuff about me:

>Snow works as a name, and I’m just starting high school. Woohoo.

>Been writing for at least three years by now, mostly short term stuff that hasn’t had much impact on anything that I’m doing now.

>Any pronouns work

>Heavily invested in a ton of games and novels right now

>Sci-fi, tech noir, outrun, and dystopian are my specialties.

What you could find on my page? I’m glad you asked (if you indeed did)!

Polls on what could potentially be added

New ideas and writing styles I’m working on

Discord links!

Stuff from my various fandoms

Current and past projects

Hope to see you around, and I’m super happy to be here!

My discord tag is @Snow#3738 if you need it

[pencils-and-ponies]

new writerblr!

hi, everyone! i realized that i’ve never made an official writerblr and thought i should do that! the community seems pretty fun and engaging and i would love to follow more people and learn about their books! 

my name is jenny. i’m 22, just finished grad school, and am a school counselor. but beyond that, i love all things artistic - drawing, writing, being in musicals, you name it. i also love to read! 

i am currently revising my first novel, the incommunicable past, which is a ya/coming of age novel about a girl named allison who wants to create a youtube show based on the book my antonia. the story follows her journey as she creates the show, builds friendships, and discovers previously unknown things about herself. if you click the link, it will show you everything i’ve said about it on my main blog.

i like to write fanfiction as well, mostly as a way to forget about my book for a while and just write something fun and light-hearted, if any of you are interested in seeing my writing style. 

lastly, i have an idea for a second novel, which will, of course, feature an asexual, anxious character (or two… or three), and i’m excited to develop the plot a little bit and see what happens. 

feel free to interact with me! i’m not exactly sure how a writerblr works but i’m interested to see how this goes. 

[pencils-and-ponies]

calling all writeblrs!

i’m looking for new writeblrs to follow! just like and reblog this post and i’ll be sure to check out your blog and drop a follow.

being an upcoming writeblr myself, i’d really appreciate a follow back, but you don’t have to! 

[pencils-and-ponies]

if you relate to having an idea for a story for 4 to 8 years with almost zero progress towards actually writing it down, clap your hands

[pencils-and-ponies]

CHAPTER FOUR

Warnings- healing injury description, medical description

After several more minutes of riding, we finally arrived at the farm proper, the buildings riding out of the fog like shadows. First was the house, a fairly large, white, two story building that looked to be at least 100 years old- or at least half of it was. Near that was the barn, half concrete and half wood, weathered to a light purple-gray by the salt. It looked cozy and inviting, large enough to hold at least 25 horses. Opposite the barn on the other side of the driveway was an arena, sunken halfway into the ground to protect it from the wind. Farther to the right was a fourth building, the open door revealing to to be a mix of hay storage, machine shop, and tool room In all honesty, it was just like I pictured it.

“It's not much,” Keith said, scratching the back of his neck modestly. “I modified some of it when I took over, but most of this is my mom's design. We're not as high-tech as some of the top farms, but we make up for it in personality. And results.”

“I love it. Where do we start?'

Grinning, Keith pulled out a remote from his jacket pocket and hit a button, opening one of the barn doors and riding in.

The left side of the barn was just stalls, 15 in a row. The other side had three wash racks and three doors that I guess lead to a feed room, tack room, and maybe a bathroom. Between that and 10 more stalls was a staircase leading up to the loft. Keith dismounted and lead Vaughn into the first wash rack, pulling off his bridle and putting his halter back on. I did the same with Bronson.

“This is where we spend most of our time,” Keith said, putting his horse in cross ties before stripping the saddle. I followed suit, taking the time to brush away the sweat marks and feel each of Bronson's legs for heat, just in case. “You can leave him there for a bit while you meet everyone else. I left them in so it's easier.”

He lead me through the nearest door first to put our tack away. The tack room was small, maybe 12'x12', but every inch of space was utilized. The wall directly across from the door held saddles- many of them trophies from previous competitions- each assigned to at least one horse. The wall to the left was all bridles, also assigned to a specific horse. To the right was assorted bits of odds and ends, different training equipment and disassembled bridles. And the wall against the door was filled with pictures, all of different horses and from all aspects of training and showing. There were even ribbons hanging from the ceiling. Lots of them.

“Everything is labeled, everyone has their own assigned tack. We refit saddled every couple months, and obviously we try to avoid getting out two horses that share the same saddle, but the doesn't stop Ellis from riding bareback if it happens. Hell, sometimes I think he does it on purpose.”

“I grew up riding bareback. Sometimes it's weird riding in a saddle, to be honest.”

Keith laughed. “You're welcome to it, but you might change your mind after 25 miles straight.”

“Well, I certainly wasn't doing short distance arena rides at my trail barn.”

Shaking his head, Keith lead me back out and opened the next door. This was the feed room, with metal trash cans holding grain along the right wall, and unopened bags stacked on the right. Straight was a shelf holding different supplements, several buckets, and a chart listing what each horse got in the morning and in the evening. It was simple to follow, easy to read, and I felt that if I had to, I could feed every single horse in the barn without any extra instructions from Keith. That was likely his intent.

“Feed room, pretty simple. I try to get grain every two weeks and order enough to last three, just in case there's difficulty shipping it in. Each pallet holds a weeks worth, same with the cans, and we empty them in order so nothing sits too long. And every six weeks or so I can skip an order, use up the leftovers. I've only ran out entirely a couple times, and that was from storms that kept the ferries from running. Only for a couple days though. If it ever does happen, we can feed extra hay in the meantime.”

“Do you have to ship in hay too?”

“No, we bale it here. I hire a crew every summer to put it up for us. My mother used to just make us do it ourselves, but no more! I have better things to do.” And he turned again, opening the third door. This room was smaller, about a quarter of the size and with a second door along the back wall. “Bathroom and medical stuff. I'm sure you know how to use it all, so,” and here he paused, leaning an arm against the wall. “Don't let Ellis… he'll need to see it, before he trusts you with some of the bigger stuff. He's… well. Marie made some pretty big mistakes, and he's damn protective of his horses.”

I could understand that, if it did feel a bit demeaning. I was yet to even talk to the man, but from what Keith had told me about him, I had a feeling he'd seen some shit. Maybe not quite what I had, but similar.

“I get the feeling,” I said. “I'm sure I'll have the chance to prove myself, in time.”

“Oh, I can guarantee that, unfortunately. But upstairs first.”

The steps lead up to the loft, which was split unevenly in half. The left side, the larger half, was all hay storage, and still about a quarter full. To the right was a solid wall and a door.

“This is Ellis's apartment. I offered him a room in the house, but he wanted to be out here with the horses. My mother had it built years ago when we needed to hire a trainer. That was before I was born. Once I took over he retired, and it was empty until Ellis came back.”

“How old is this barn then?”

“Oh, sixty years? The original was destroyed during Hurricane Edna in '54”

“It's looking pretty good for sixty.”

“I've done a lot up upkeep, constantly renovating and repairing,” Keith said, heading back down the stairs. “We haven't had a big storm in decades, but even the little ones can pack quite a punch. Keeps us on our toes.”

He turned right at the foot of the stairs and stopped in front of the first stall. The horse inside was named Holly, according to the stall sign. The tall bay mare was staring out the window and didn't even seem to notice us. Right away I saw the shaved patch on her neck, right over the jugular vein, and that almost her entire mane had been shaved off, the exception being the last several inches where her neck joined with her withers. She now sported a tiny mohawk no more than three inches long.

“This was one of Marie's fuckups,” Keith said with a hint of darkness I hadn't expected from him, clicking his tongue to catch the mare's attention. The mare pricked her ears and turned around to greet us. I couldn't help but gasp as I saw the left side of her neck.

Seven large but healing vertical cuts ran down her neck, like someone had taken a knife and repeatedly sliced her open The largest one was as long as my hand, and about an inch wide. They weren't recent- all seven were filled in with pink granulation tissue, the bridge for new skin to grow over top of. While this was my first time seeing it in person, I knew exactly what had happened.

While ugly, those seven cuts actually had been caused by a knife. They'd also saved her life. Clostridial Myonecrosis, or gas gangrene, was a bacterial infection in the muscle caused by giving an injection improperly. The bacteria thrive on muscle tissue and produce toxins in the form of a gas as they multiply. Opening up the injection site allows the toxins to escape and oxygen to enter the wound, killing off the bacteria. It was rare, deadly, and also preventable.

“Banamine?” I asked, reaching out to Holly as she came closer. The mare eyed me suspiciously for a moment, and then booped her nose against my hand in greeting. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Keith first raise an eyebrow, and then nod slowly.

“You got it. Holly was colicking, Ellis and I were both out on the training trail when Marie told us what was happening. Ellis told her to give banamine IV, or orally if she couldn't hit a vein. We got back to find her neck blown up, and you can see the rest.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Ellis is one of the calmest people I know. I mean I've see him get kicked full force in the leg without swearing. But when he found Holly like that, and when Marie lied about where she gave the injection, he yelled at her for ten minutes straight. Honestly, it was impressive. And he was right to do it.”

“That wasn't your first incident with her, was it.”

“No. It wasn't.” He stared at Holly for a bit, and then nodded in the direction on the door we came in. “She's not ready to get turned out yet, but she can go out for short rides or be handwalked whenever you have the time. She needs to be kept in some sort of shape, she's three months pregnant.”

“You ride your broodmares then?”

“Yep, up until they tell us they're done with it. Usually they stay in training and step down gradually, but Holly is mostly retired. Broke to the nines, but she hurt her stifle a couple years back. It's fully healed, but I decided not to push her. She'd had it tough enough.” Holly walked up to me again, and blew gently in my face before returning to the window. “I sold her several years ago. She got passed around to a few bad homes before ending back here. The fact that she even acknowledged you is pretty cool.” Keith smiled again and continued on to the next stall. “I shouldn't be too surprised though. Bronson let you ride him.”

“Let me?” That wasn't exactly a phrase I liked. “You say that like you expected me to get thrown off.”

“No, he'd never do that. He's just my expert judge of character. If someone makes him nervous, there's a reason. But you, it was almost like he knew you already.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Bronson, who appeared to have fallen asleep in the wash rack. “I feel honored.”

“You should.” Keith stopped in front of the next stall, where another bay mare stood with her left hind leg cocked. Pain was obvious in her face, and it was easy to tell that she was severely lacking muscle in her hind end. “This is Bella, fuckup number two.”

“What happened to her?” As she heard us, Bella lifted her head and hobbled over. While she was able to bear weight on the injured leg, it was a slow, painful walk, only stepping on the toe, as opposed to the whole foot.

“She stepped on a nail while on trail with Marie,” Keith said, opening the stall door and clipping a chain across the opening so Bella could stick her head out. Unlike Holly, Bella seemed to be starving for affection, practically shoving her face into Keith's hand. “Instead of radioing us so we could call the vet out, she just pulled the nail out and walked Bella home. Even wiped the nail clean before putting it in her pocket.

“Oh, no.”

“We never found out how deep or at what angle it went in. We took x rays, and we guessed, but now it's not healing like it should. We just started her on a round on doxycycline last week, and hopefully that cuts down the infection, but if it doesn't our only other option is surgery. And I'm not sure if I want to put her through that.”

Bella turned to look at me, nosing me for treats. I scratched her forehead, immediately taken by how sweet she was. It would be a real loss to have to put her down over something as simple as a nail.

“I know that sole punctures are tough even with the best care, but it's less about what happened and more about her choices afterward.”

“What are your options with her?” I asked, feeling like I had to put this right somehow. To make up for the failures of my predecessor.

“She's been on stall rest for the past month with her foot wrapped to keep it from getting infected even farther. The doxy needs a couple more days to reach the bone, and if it's going to work, we'll see improvement. And from there… I'm not sure, maybe turnout.”

“That should help,” I said, pointing at how Bella's leg was still curled over. “If she's been walking on her toe for a month, I'm sure that whole leg is stiff.”

“That's what Ellis thinks. But if there's still in infection going on, then that much movement wont help.” Shaking his head, Keith changed direction a bit. “She can be walked out to the grass 15 minutes every day. Keeps her happy.”

He showed me the rest of the barn, 12 more horses in every color but gray. When I asked about that, Keith stopped in front of a black and white mare named Raven.

“Nope, not a single gray on the island, not even geldings. There's an old superstition about them, and the ferry won't allow them to cross. Ellis had a hell of a time getting Mack here, had to have documentation proving he was a black sabino and not a gray paint. I'm still not sure it was worth it.”

“Mack is from the mainland?” I'd read about him, of course. Keith had made a post about him when Ellis started training him over a year ago, how it would be Ellis's biggest challenge in all of his years working with Keith. There's been no mention of his origin, however. Perhaps it had been implied. I'd wondered, of course. Mack was the same color as a horse I'd once known, the first colt I'd ever delivered. That colt had been sold as a two year old to a trail riding home and I'd lost track of him after that. But every time I saw a diluted black sabino, even one like Mack, who'd already accomplished more than that entire farm combined, I had to took closely to make sure it wasn't him.

“Yes. I'm not sure where exactly. Maybe Michigan? Ellis saw him on the circuit a couple years ago and fell in love. He started out okay, but his performance declined until he didn't come back one year. That's when Ellis tracked him down to buy him.” He sighed. “You'll meet him. Gorgeous horse, but I'm not sure if he'll have what it takes to be number one. But anyway, here's Raven, Ellis's other horse.”

The mare regarded Keith and eyes with intelligent eyes, standing dead center in her stall like she was royalty, and us her humble servants. She was beautiful, mostly black with white legs, a couple spots of white on her butt and right shoulder, and a star that closely resembled a heart on her forehead.

“The two of them have never spent more than a couple days apart. She's been rock solid since the day she was born, and sometimes I swear she can read Ellis's mind. She's four now, and I bet she'll sweep the entire green season before jumping straight to the pros. I've never met a horse like her in all my years training.”

“She's beautiful,” I said, unable to think of any other way to describe her. She still hadn't looked away from either of us. “Is she looking at us like that because we're not Ellis.”

Keith laughed. “I think so, yes. Two sides of the same coin, these ones. She's the only one that is solely his project.”

“I really can't wait to meet him.”

“Wednesday.” He continued back to Vaughn and Bronson. “Let's put these guys out, and then we can go get your truck so you can start moving in.”

We Forget how to Walk 2018

Since I’m currently in the process of rewriting We Forget how to Walk, I figured I would post the original chapters (that I have, since I never finished the first draft…). 

I’ll try to tag things as needed when they come up, but do be aware this story will eventually have graphic injury description and animal death.

CHAPTER ONE

Keep reading

[pencils-and-ponies]

Naomi Oxley (Nox) aesthetic board

We Forget how to Walk

[pencils-and-ponies]

Ellis Ackley asthetic board.

We Forget how to Walk

[pencils-and-ponies]

CHAPTER THREE

“Alright, you can take this guy here, Bronson” Keith said, pointing to the taller gelding. He had two white hind socks and a star and snip on his face. There was a certain intelligence and depth in his brown eyes, like he was watching me and judging my character. As I held out my hand for him to smell his left ear locked onto me and did not waver even as I grabbed his bridle off the horn of his saddle and put it on. Keith, already in the saddle of the other gelding- this one a shorter solid bay- watched me casually, and nodded approvingly as I got on before heading out down the street, away from the docks. Bronson was strong and steady beneath me, responding almost more from my thoughts than my actual movements. After a second to settle with him I bumped him easily into a trot to pull up alongside Keith.

“Who's that, then?”

“This is Vaughn,” Keith said, scratching the horses neck fondly. “He's a bit older now, retired from competing, but he's certainly not done working. He was the first horse I trained and won on as a professional, 14 years ago. We've been together a long time.”

“Are you the only one that rides him, then?”

“Oh no, he's one of the five I keep at the barn for work rides. Same with Bronson. If you ever want to ride for fun or just need to go check something in a hurry, they're always there. I do tend to use him most often, though.”Switching gears a bit, he pushed Vaughn into a ground covering trot, following a dirt trail between the sidewalk and the road. “So, this here is main street. This time of year there isn't much open- in fact you already passed it. Josh runs the grocery store, if there's something you want that he doesn't currently stock, he'll order it for you. And Lou owns The Tack Store, we get all of our feed through her, and all of our fencing supplies. I'll add you to the account so you can pick up anything you need at any time. Gas station also has an account if you need diesel. Everything else you'll need to go to the mainland for this time of year.”

“Do you go to the mainland often?”

Keith laughed and shook his head. “Usually only for the horses or the hospital. There is a clinic here, and a vet, but for the big stuff they mostly just get you stabilized before shipping you across. And there's a coast guard vessel stationed here for emergencies so you don't have to wait for the ferry. They don't take horses though, unfortunately.” Pointing at a couple boarded up storefronts, he said, “These will reopen next month. A lot of them sell tourist garbage, but there's some that have useful stuff.” With a nod a store with a giant ice cream cone out front, he continued, “That's the only place you'll ever catch me in during the on season. Steve's Sweets. Everything else? Too many people.”

“I know that feeling,” I said, thinking back to my hometown. In the summer, when all the city people came to stay at their cottages, my little town with no traffic and about 100 people total suddenly turned into a mini urban setting. I did my best to avoid them when I wasn't keeping them alive guiding trail rides.

“Figured you would. Now, this way,” he turned down a side street, again with boarded up houses along each side, and still following the dirt path. “Summer houses, and lots of them.”

“Are there paths like this all through town?” I asked, paying closer attention to the cross streets. The crosswalks weren't asphalt, instead they were rubber or something similar.

“Yep. A lot of the locals don't have cars, and some of the summer residents bring their horses instead of driving. There isn't a single place here that isn't meant to be ridden to.”

We continued at a trot all through town, and then turned back onto a trail that ran parallel with the shore. He kept going until a small barn and pasture came into view, just a shadow against the fog.

“This,” he said, slowing to a halt a fair distance away, “is the trail stable. We winter the horses for them, and give them a couple tune up rides before sending them back for the summer season. I'm not a huge fan of how they run it, but it keeps tourists off my land and that's good enough for me.”

“I certainly don't miss guiding trails,” I said, happy to leave that part of my life behind. “I've met some great people through it, but also some pretty terrible ones.”

“Yeah, I see them out sometimes. Not pretty. But anyway, we have some ground to cover before we get to my side of the island, so let's step it up a bit.”

“Go for it!”

I didn't have to tell him twice. With a slight push of his hand toward Vaughn's ears the gelding shot forward, leaving me in the dust. Bronson tossed his head impatiently, ready to follow, but he waited for my command. Just before Keith disappeared into the mist, I let him go.

It was like flying, two birds in the open sky. It always was, the freedom that a galloping horse could lend you, but Bronson was something even beyond that. The way his body surged beneath me, each stride closing the gap between us and Keith. I leaned low over his neck, trading the sting of the wind in my eyes for his mane whipping me in the face. As I pulled alongside Keith he urged Vaughn even faster, until the two of us were racing at what had to be top speed, the ground seeming to disappear beneath us the second our horses touched it. Keith stayed ahead of us, but only barely.

Nothing could beat the feeling of a flat out gallop, not in a million years.

All too soon, but also after what felt like an eternity, Keith held his right arm straight out and gradually slowed, eventually coming to a halt just in front of an arch with a metal sign, Olsen Performance Horses, that was flanked on both sides by pastures. Out of breath, he patted Vaughn on the neck and gave a whoop of pure joy.

“Holy shit, I forgot how fast he was!” He cried, now scratching the gelding's neck with both hands vigorously. “V old buddy, you never let me down.”

Bronson was still jigging in place as I looked up as the arch, almost as if he was trying to say that if it had been a real race, there would have been no question who would have won.

“This is the start of our pastures, but I own part of the fields we just came through. There's an old rock wall that shows the property line. Can't miss it,” Keith eventually said once he'd settled, picking up a walk. “The wall goes almost all the way to the beach, so there's no confusion about where tourists can and can't go. Of course, we don't own anything on the actual sand, so they still end up over here, but at least they can't wander up in the middle of work.” Pointing first to the left field, and then the right, he said, “This is where we keep our youngstock and retired horses. We round them all up every fall, and individuals when needed. And there is our open broodmares and the trail herd, plus a handful of show or training horses that need a break. We try to rest this field in the summer, and move them all closer to the farm.”

“And they all get checked every day?”

“For the most part. Our training trails run the perimeter, and we usually see them all while out riding. But if we get to the middle of the day and haven't seen them yet, or notice someone looks off, then we go looking for them and take an up close look.” Glancing around at the fog, which seemed to be growing denser the closer we got to the farm, he shrugged. “Like today, we'll have to go find them.”

“No kidding, I can barely see the fence. Is it always this foggy on the island?”

“Only when I'm trying to show it off,” he grumbled. “Specter Island usually has a fairly even temper. Not too cold, not too hot, never cloudy or raining for too long. It's the perfect place to train ICTHA horses.”

“It sure seems to be working,” I said. Keith just smiled at me and continued on in silence until we reached another fenceline. He again pointed left, then right. “These fields connect to the barn. This one has our pregnant mares, the other is empty right now. I had broodmares there earlier, and we'll put the trail horses there a couple weeks before the season starts, tune them up. They both have smaller catch pens closer in, so when foaling season comes we can keep the mares in sight at all times.”

“How many mares do you foal a year?”

“Around 15. We aim for January/April foaling so we're mostly around for deliveries. At that time of the year we focus more on arena work, especially when it's below freezing.”

“Are you mostly hands off? Or are you there to help things along.”

“We let the mares do it themselves mostly, but we try to make sure things are going smoothly each step of the way. So, I guess a little of both.”

“When I foaled out thoroughbreds it was super hands on. 24/7 watch, in the stall as soon as the mares laid down, pulling with each contraction. I learned a lot though, we had two dystocias out of six foals.”

Keith whistled. “Yeah, we don't get that crazy about it. Horses have been having babies without us for thousands of years. I just like to make sure they don't die.”

“That's hard sometimes.”

He laughed. “Yes. Yes it is.”

We Forget how to Walk 2018

Since I’m currently in the process of rewriting We Forget how to Walk, I figured I would post the original chapters (that I have, since I never finished the first draft…). 

I’ll try to tag things as needed when they come up, but do be aware this story will eventually have graphic injury description and animal death.

CHAPTER ONE

Keep reading

[pencils-and-ponies]

CHAPTER TWO

Keith had given me basic directions to his wife's diner, claiming that I'd have to try pretty hard to miss that, and that there was very little cell service, so I would probably not find the farm if I didn't know where I was going. He'd also said that Helen ran the best diner in town, all year round, so I should stop there anyway. It was a good enough recommendation for me.

There weren't many businesses open, as it turned out. In addition to the diner, down at the end of the main street, there was a gas station, a bar, a grocery store, and a hardware store that seemed to also double as a feed store. Mostly the basics, but with the trip to the mainland not terribly long it didn't feel isolating. It was nearing lunchtime, and the diner seemed fairly busy- at least, busy for a town with a population of 400. Despite that, I had no trouble finding a place to park near the door, and pulling in I saw why. In big block lettering, a sign proclaimed the spot was “Reserved for Nox,” complete with a little drawing of a horse. Smiling broadly, I through my truck into park and hopped out. The lingering chill of the tail end of the New England hit me instantly, and I pulled my coat tighter around me as I hurried to the door. On the ferry, where it was probably always cold due to the wind, I hadn't noticed it much. On land was a different story entirely.

A bell jingled merrily as I entered the diner. It was pleasantly warm, and the smell of burgers cooking and bacon frying reminded me of breakfast at my dad's house. The whole diner was like something out of a movie, with red vinyl booths along the window and a row of stools at the counter. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings and pictures in varying states of age. The majority of them seemed to be just of different people, but there was a small section behind the counter that featured horses. There were also several awards for being among the top ten restaurants on the east coast and, for 2018, number one in Maine. Best in town wasn't just because they were the only place open.

“You must be Nox,” a voice called from behind the counter. A woman had just come out of the kitchen, carrying a slice of cherry pie. “I'll be right with you.”

That would be Helen, then. She was shorter than I expected, maybe 5'3”, but she made up for it with sheer presence. There was a grit to her, something that seemed to say 'I have survived more than any shit you could throw at me, don't even try it' . Her long, sleek brown hair was tied back in a braid, and she wore a dark blue turtleneck that made her look even fiercer. Despite that, she seemed very kind as well, checking in with other diners and making friendly small talk as she made her way back. All in all she just seemed very real and genuine, just as Keith had described her.

I took a seat at the counter and picked up a menu and flipping through it to see what was offered, even though I knew I'd probably order a burger, my typical go-to when trying somewhere new. Keith even had a special mention, a burger with caramelized apples and onions, cheddar cheese, and something called fire sauce. Keith's favorite- We're not sure where he came up with this one, but for a man with absolutely zero culinary talent, it isn't half bad. If we're going to be ordering the ingredients for him, you may as well try it too. Helen must have written the menu herself. At any rate, it sounded good enough for me.

“Hey! Glad to see you made it okay,” Helen said, returning behind the counter. “I'm Helen, if you haven't figured that out.” She reached out to shake my hand, and then gestured to the menu. “Anything you want, it's on the house. Do you want something to drink, for starters? Cider or something else warm?”

“Cider sounds perfect, thank you.”

“Keith should be here any minute, I think he's going to give you a tour on the ride back,” she said over her shoulder as she poured two mugs of cider. “He said something this morning about ponying a horse over.”

“Riding already?” I asked, surprised but definitely not put off by the news. Helen returned, nodding while setting one mug down in front of me.

“If you're not up for it yet, that's fine. But it's the best way to see the island. We can bring your truck home after.”

“Riding sounds like a great idea! And to be honest, as much as I like my old truck, I've spent too much time with her these past couple days.” Tapping a finger on the menu while Helen laughed easily, I added, “I'll try Keith's favorite, it sounds pretty good.”

“Oh, you two are going to get along great,” Helen said, again turning back to the kitchen. “Hey Tony! I need two favorites and one of mine.”

“Got it.” A man called back.

“How was the drive? What was it, 1000 miles?”

“1200, give or take. I came across Canada, beautiful drive, although I'll probably fly next time.”

“I don't blame you there. My parents moved to Alabama when they retired. Keith and I visit every Christmas and have only driven there once, when helping them move.”

“The past five years I've probably put over 30,000 miles on that truck. It seems that the only places that are hiring are always on the other side of the country, no matter where you live.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that myself,” Helen said, turning again to grab a sandwich that had just been placed in the order window and delivering it to a man with a large white beard and weathered fishing coat sitting at the far end of the counter. “I've lived on Specter Island my whole life, and worked here since I was 12. But Keith's last barn manager was from California. I guess, in hindsight, it makes sense why she didn't work out.”

“What did happen with her?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Keith said it was a matter of safety, but not much else.”

“Marie talked a good talk and had a fairly decent resume to back it up, but we later found out she didn't know nearly as much as we thought she did. Medically, she didn't know anything, and she didn't exactly tell us that. We had to find out the hard way, after nearly losing two horses.”

“That's awful,” I said, shaking my head. “If you're going to work with horses, you have to know what you're doing. Especially medically- they're particularly creative when it comes to getting hurt.”

“That's part of why Keith wanted to hire you. It's not often you come across someone that's worked with as many vets as you have.”

At all of my previous jobs, I scarified my days off to ride along with local vets. It was the best I could do without actually paying upwards of 100 grand and spending eight years in college to become one. It gave me a lot of first hand experience in wide variety of things, from lacerations to colic, choke to fractures, viral infections, foaling emergencies, and of course a whole lot of the routine day to day. Sure, I couldn't do surgery or anything major, but I could handle a lot more than most.

“It was the best education I could get on an interns salary.”

“Well, we could certainly use it, at any rate. Keith always says that this time of the year is when the horses are the dumbest.” She shifted her gaze to the door behind me and pointed over my shoulder, then turned to pick up our three burgers from the order window.. “I'll let him explain it to you.”

Looking behind me, I saw Keith tying up two bay horses to a rail outside. Both wore western tack, and stood politely while Keith removed their bridles and loosened their cinches. He seemed just as kind as I expected him to be, giving each horse a fond scratch on the forehead as he walked away, as opposed to just tying them and leaving. He had on a Carhartt jacket that looked like it had seen years of time outside, and a baseball cap with the farms logo on it. A couple people waved a greeting at him, and he nodded in return before hopping up on the stool next to me, shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the floor by his feet.

“Keith Olsen, at your service,” he said, shaking my hand. I was about to answer him when Helen set the burgers down in front of us., and he scooped up one of them. “Excellent, I'm starving.”

“You're always starving,” Helen said, rolling her eyes.

“Well yeah, I work for a living.”

“So do I, but you don't see me scarfing down any food in sight.”

“I work outside, there's a difference,” Keith said around a mouthful. Then, after swallowing, he turned back to me. “You up for riding? I brought a horse over for you.”

“I am,” I said, taking a bite out of my own burger. It was, quite frankly, the best burger I'd ever had. “Don't have to ask me twice about getting on a horse.”

“That's great, because you're going to be on at least one every day.”

I nearly choked on my burger. While that wasn't a problem, obviously, it still came as a surprise. My other barn manager positions honestly hadn't offered too much riding, and even Keith had said that he was looking for someone to maintain the herd health, keep the barn clean, do general maintenance. Not riding, not exactly.

“I am?”

Keith gave me a confused look for a moment. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not! I just wasn't expecting it, really. Usually being a barn manager keeps me, well. In the barn.”

“Ah. We do things a little differently here. I run a herd of about 70 horses on nearly 2000 acres, and I own about 4000. We check fence lines and check the herd every day on horseback, which will be your job primarily, but we all keep an eye out. Then I have a rotation of 15-25 horses that I keep near the barn for training. You can't really drive to the pastures, and in fact most places you can't get to by truck at all. Specter island was built around horses, and things haven't really changed. Plus I'll have you on the competition horses for conditioning rides.”

“Makes sense,” I said, already thrilled about the thought of having so much land to explore. “I can't wait to get started.”

“I can't wait to have you start! Ellis is away at a show and won't be back until later this week. I'm pretty sure the horses are sick of seeing just me every day.”

“Yeah, and I'd like to see you more than just for lunch whenever you feel like stopping by,” Helen quipped, heading out to check on customers again. Keith suddenly grinned and nudged me with his elbow.

“Didn't I tell you, best food on the island. Although,” he glanced over at Helen for a moment. “It's actually the worst place, this time of the year.”

“Isn't it the only-”

“Are you still telling people that joke!” Helen called from across the diner.

“Well it's true!”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, swatting him playfully on the back of the head as she walked by. “Best diner in the state and you still call it garbage. What have you ever done?”

“Oh, 13 world titles, number one horse in ICTHA, and the record for the most wins in a single season, to start.”

I sat back and watched them banter back and forth for a bit, dazzled by their genuine chemistry. This didn't seem like some sort of posturing to make me like them or to hide who they truly were. It was just them, real and unfiltered. It was a beautiful thing to watch

We Forget how to Walk 2018

Since I’m currently in the process of rewriting We Forget how to Walk, I figured I would post the original chapters (that I have, since I never finished the first draft…). 

I’ll try to tag things as needed when they come up, but do be aware this story will eventually have graphic injury description and animal death.

CHAPTER ONE

Keep reading

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget how to Walk 2018

Since I’m currently in the process of rewriting We Forget how to Walk, I figured I would post the original chapters (that I have, since I never finished the first draft...). 

I’ll try to tag things as needed when they come up, but do be aware this story will eventually have graphic injury description and animal death.

CHAPTER ONE

“You waitin' on the ferry?”

Looking up from the horizon, I saw an older man approaching me. He looked to be in his late seventies, and had a kind face that had been left lined and weathered by decades spend on the ocean. Jerking a thumb over my shoulder into the bed of my truck, loaded down with all my belongings, I nodded.

“Moving to Specter Island today.”

He turned the face the ocean and smiled faintly, a look that conveyed a sense of fondness that could only come from years of living in the same place without ever wanting to leave. For an almost uncomfortable length of time he stared out into the fog that stood like a wall between us and the island. Then he shook his head abruptly, frowning.

“I wouldn't”

Well if that's not a ringing endorsement, I thought wryly to myself. Of course I wasn't going to let one old man sway my decision. Growing up in a small town I'd learned pretty quick that the old timers weren't always as welcoming with newcomers, and would often try to come up with ways to convince people to live elsewhere. This likely wouldn't be any different. “I just got a job with Olsen Performance horses. I figure after 20 years of living in Wisconsin, there's nothing an island can throw at me that I can't handle.”

He gave a short, bark of a laugh and sat down on the tailgate beside me. “I don't mean the weather. I mean the name- Specter island. Ever wonder how it got it?”

“Not particularly, no. I guess the fog, now that I've been here.”

“Nah- you can't see it from the mainland anyway. No, there's something… off about it.”

“You mean like it's haunted?” I had to admit, he'd caught my interest. While horses had been my passion my entire life, taking me on the five year journey that had lead me here, I did have other interests. And ghost stories were right at the top of the list.

The man didn't answer for a bit, instead taking off his cap and scratching at a tuft of air clinging stubbornly to the top of his otherwise bald head. Then putting it back on he sighed and gestured to the ocean before us. “I've been sailing these waters a long time, and I ain't never seen anything like that place. An' I seen a lot, let me tell you.”

“What was it then?”

“Now I've never actually set foot there, an' I never will, but I've been off the coast more than enough times. There's something that appears on the shore. Not all the time, not even that often. But every time I see it, someone returns to the mainland in a wooden box.”

For a moment I was a little concerned. Ghosts were one thing, but death omens were a little bit more than I was hoping for.

“How many times have you seen it?”

“Oh, about three, maybe four times. Of course I don't see it every time someone dies, but if I do, within the month someone comes home for the last time. No one gets buried there.”

He'd just answered my next question. Superstition and coincidences, that was all there was to it.

“I think I'll take my chances then,” I said, nodding in the general direction of the island. Off in the distance, there was a low, almost mournful call from the ferry's foghorn. As if that was his cue to leave, the man got to his feet and held out his hand.

“I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, by the way.”

“Naomi Oxley- although most people call me Nox,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He had a surprisingly firm grip.

“Well Nox, I wish you the best. Just don't say I didn't warn you.  If you're ever back on the mainland, look me up. I'm curious what that thing looks like up close. Benjamin Alda; most folks know me.”

“If I see it, I'll be sure to report back.”

He smiled again and, without another word, turned and walked off into the fog.

After parking my truck below, I made my way up to the passenger deck, and then out to stand at the bow and watch for my first glimpse of my new home. There weren't many people making the crossing with me, although I hadn't expected a whole lot. April was still considered the off season, and most tourists wouldn't be arriving until the middle of May. The few people who were onboard shot me mildly suspicious glances as I passed, and I assumed they were locals. My only company outside were a couple seagulls, hitching a ride on the railing a few yards away. They ignored me.

While it wasn't the friendliest of welcomes, I did not feel discouraged. There was something alive about this move in a way I hadn't found before. It was something I could feel, the same way I felt the spray from the ocean on my face, and tasted the salt in the air. I'd felt it the same thing the moment I'd started my interview with Keith on the phone.

My previous experiences with starting new jobs had been less than ideal. While I'd known going into this path that a career with horses took a lot of time, tears, and plain old hard work, I'd never imagined that the people would be the worst part. The barn that I'd grown up riding in had been like a fimily to me, and I figured that finding another place like it would be a piece of cake. However, my first job had been at a lesson farm that was starving their horses to death; the second had me living in her basement, which doubled as a bathroom for her dogs; the third was run by a woman who would be from praising you to hurling curses in your direction multiple times per day.  It had been an eye opener, to say the least.

This time would be different. It had to be. I'd done a lot of research on Keith, and on OPH, before taking the position. There was no record of him being accused of abuse, no one showing off the truth that he kept hidden behind closed doors. He was open and honest about his business and what was expected of me, and he even gave me a live tour of the place during our video interview. It was all so simple and yet so rare to find in the horse world.

That, and he just happened to be running one of the best ICTHA training facilities in the country. How could I turn that down.

The International Competitive Trail Horse Association hosted the most popular equine sports in the world, extreme competitive trail. A three day event that tested a horses stamina, bravery, and trust in it's rider, there was nothing else out there that could really showcase what horses are truly capable of. The first day was an endurance ride of varying lengths, although 30 miles was the standard. The following day was an arena course with some of the toughest obstacles imaginable, including rings of fire and the giant inflatable tubes typically seen outside of car dealerships. The final day returned to the outdoors for a much shorter race with obstacles along the way. The horse with the best overall time, performance, and vet scores took first place.

There were no shortcuts in extreme trail. You couldn't focus all your energy on one thing and expect to win, and you couldn't use drugs to mask lameness or pain for the sake of winning a trophy. It took years to train a winner at the top level. And Keith had managed to have one of his horses place in at least the top three ten years running. If he lost, it was to one that he had sold. That kind of success didn't come from training with force or starving your horses, that was for sure.

The call of the foghorn, deafeningly loud now that it was directly behind me, startled me out of my thoughts. And then I heard the reply, surprisingly close but still just out of sight

The island emerged from the fog a couple minutes later like a ghost ship, a solid beam of light swinging around from a lighthouse on the coast to welcome us in. There were other lights in the distance as well, houses and other buildings in town, the docks. I tried to imagine it on a clear day, with tourists and vacationers at every corner.

Someday, I would see it that way for real.

[pencils-and-ponies]

Couple things to add as someone who only knows English and spent several months living with a bilingual family with varying levels of fluency in English and Spanish-

-older members of the family would often switch from English to Spanish mid conversation, and carry on in Spanish for several sentences before switching back. They didn’t seem to switch mid sentence though.

-I only understood about 50% of dinner conversations

-the grandmother spoke English very well, but stuck mostly to Spanish except when talking directly to me, even when everyone else was speaking English.

-their kids had varying levels of Spanish fluency and usually wouldn’t switch from English unless it was faster to say something in Spanish.

-commands or requests were typically given in Spanish. Also yelling or insults would switch to Spanish

-I left speaking no extra Spanish, but found that I could understand some phrases as if I did. Once I was asked to unload the dishwasher and it wasn’t until I was almost done that I realized it had been asked in Spanish. The mom seemed equally as confused because she knew I only spoke English.

Tips For Writing A Bilingual/Polylingual Character:

People who speak more than one language aren’t as likely to accidentally start speaking another language as they are made out to be. There are little slip-ups, however, that are more realistic. In my experience, this is what I think it’s more like when you know/have learned/are learning multiple languages:

Your character might use the wrong word when listing things! I’m very likely to sometimes use the wrong word for an item on my grocery list. Even if it’s just one or two items randomly on the list that are in another language, and I might not notice them until later or if someone points them out. Sometimes I’ll put the first letter, realize that I’m about to write the wrong word, and come up with something else I need that starts with the letter I accidentally wrote.

Sometimes sentences come out so wrong, but not necessarily because of a different learned language. More like it’s out of normal English word order and it sounds ridiculous. I obviously correct myself as soon as it happens and make a joke usually, but that happens a lot if I’m not thinking while talking or if I’m talking too fast. I get really embarrassed about it, especially because I’ve been around English for nineteen years lmao but not everyone does- and they shouldn’t be because they know more than one language and that’s so cool!

I forget words ALL the time. I will sit there and try and describe it or be like “the thingy”. Sometimes it will seem so obvious and it could literally be the dumbest thing, but I think it’s much more likely than just ‘switching’ into the wrong language for other people as well.

Think about your character’s problem words! I have a tendency to have to ask for confirmation on certain words, avoid using certain words, or think I’m spelling words incorrectly because of the way they look/sound seeming wrong to me. For example, I had to type ‘usually’ twice in the second bullet because it looked wrong. I have issues with other words like ceiling, separate, recommendation, etc. Sometimes when I write them out or type them they look wrong. I’ve also been told I pronounce certain words like ‘both’ and ‘tourist’ weirdly?? 

If one of your characters knows sign language, they might have a tendency to use their hands when talking, signing words they’re saying with small motions in front of their stomach, near hips, etc. Or some specific words they may sign while speaking frequently. For example, I have a tendency of using the “same” or “me too” sign a LOT while talking, more frequently than some other words I sometimes don’t realize I’m signing. 

Sometimes with fatigue or caffeine-deprivation, I will accidentally almost start a sentence in the wrong language BUT I notice. I don’t sit there and try to talk to someone in the language not noticing, it’s more like I almost do and it’s a very quick ‘no, wrong’ in my brain.

I don’t experience this, but sometimes people learn certain subjects in certain languages, so they think about the subject in that language. Someone might learn math in their native language and never learn it in English, or astrology in a certain language, or maybe just science in general. Maybe they analyze literature in their native language. 

Sometimes people speak a ‘franken-language’. My old art teacher married a man from Colombia and she speaks ‘Spanglish’ lmao. She knows a lot about Spanish, a lot of vocabulary, and they spend most of the year in Colombia, but she’s not fluent so sometimes her conversations are more like a bunch of parts from both languages put together. 

There are a lot more! And every person is different, so remember that, but this list is getting very long so I’ll leave it at this for now. Feel free to add on!

[pencils-and-ponies]

Just started but hoping to be active ASAP!

Looking for active writeblrs

It’s this time of a year again I guess because my dash shows me the same 10 to 15 blogs and even though I follow a lot, it’s frustratingly empty most of the time or it’s the same post over and over

SO

If you’re a writeblr and you’re active please reblog this so I can find you and revive my dashboard. I’m 28 and write Urban Fantasy / Magical Realism and sometimes it gets dark but not much. I crave happy endings and hate love triangles, cheating, and sad endings with a passion. I also like plants.

Doesn’t matter what you post about and my triggers (ed, abuse, abusive relationship, body horror, blood, gore) are all blacklisted so I won’t see anything of that even if it might be a topic of your current work in progress.

Nice to meet you! 😊

[pencils-and-ponies]

HEY, Romance Writers!

A few followers have asked for tips on writing romance into their stories or as the basis of their stories. Here’s a masterlist of sources (below cut) that may help.

General Romance:

What Defines Romantic Love?

How to Build a Romance Thread in Your Story

How to Plot a Romance Novel

Slowburn Romance

When Friends Fall for Each Other (ask)

Tips for Writing a Character Who Has a Crush

Tips on Writing Unrequited Love 

Writing Healthy Couples in Fiction

An Antidote to “Love at First Sight”

How Attractive Should Your Characters Be?

3 Great Ways to Show That Your Character Is In Love

6 Ways to Get Your Readers Shipping Like Crazy

Six Steps to Stronger Character Arcs in Romances

Seven Great Sources of Conflict for Romances

9 Romance Writing Mistakes to Avoid

20 Tips for Writing Lovable Romance Novel Heroes 

How to Write a Kissing Scene in a Romance Novel

Types of Kisses and Kissing + This Post Is All About Kisses

List of Ideas to Keep Romantic Tension High

100 Questions for Character Couples

How Do I Make the Relationship Development Realistic?

How Do I Know If Two People Are Compatible?

Healthy Relationships Can Include Teasing

YA Romance:

How to Write a YA Romance Without Cliché  

20 Mistakes To Avoid When Writing Young Adult Fiction/Romance

Intercultural Romance:

How do I write an interracial couple accurately? (ask)

15 Common Stereotypes About Intercultural Relationships

Cross Cultural Relationships

[Ideas for] Your [Fictional] Cross-Cultural Relationship

Things to Avoid When Writing Interracial Romance

writingwithcolor: Interracial Relationships (w/ links)

Bad Romance:

Removing the Creeps From Romance

Why The Surprise Kiss Must Go

Possessiveness 101

10 Signs You May Be in an Emotionally Abusive Relationship

Edward & Bella Are In An Abusive Relationship

Red Flags, Verbal Abuse, Stalking… | Script Shrink

5 Huge Mistakes Ruining the Romantic Relationships in Your Book

How do you write a [bad] relationship without romanticising it? (ask)

General Tips for Writing Characters Love Interests:

How to Write from a Guy’s POV

Writing Awesome Male Characters: What You’re Doing Wrong

7 Point-of-View Basics Every Writer Should Know

How Do You Describe a Character?

4 Ways to Make Readers Instantly Loathe Your Character Descriptions

3 Signs Your Story’s Characters Are Too Perfect

Is a Quirk Just What Your Character Needs?

Six Types of Character Flaws

Is Your Character Optimistic Or Pessimistic?

5 Ways to Keep Characters Consistent

9 Simple and Powerful Ways to Write Body Language

10 Body Language Tricks for Deeper Characterization

Describing People Part Three: Gestures, Expressions, and Mannerisms

33 Ways To Write Stronger Characters

Conveying Character Emotion

Distinguishing Characters in Dialogue

How to Make Readers Love an Unlikable Character…  

Characters: Likability Is Overrated

Relationships in General:

How to Create Powerful Character Combos

8 Secrets To Writing Strong Character Relationships

Character Relationships: 6 Tips for Crafting Real Connections

Writing Relationships: Hate to Love

Stereotypes, Archetypes, & Tropes:

Five Signs Your Story Is Sexist: Part 1, Part 2

Five Signs Your Story Is Sexist – Against Men

Always Female vs Always Male

Born Sexy Yesterday & Manic Pixie Dream Girl

7 (Overused) Female Love Interests

Other Resource Lists

Resources For Romance Writers

Pinterest Board “Writing: Romance Arcs and Plots”  

thewritershelpers FAQ (romance, kissing, sexuality, etc)

+ Follow HEY, Writers! on Ko-Fi // Wattpad // AO3 // Goodreads // Pinterest

[pencils-and-ponies]

Heyo! New Writeblr, long-term writer Nox here! I’ve been working on assorted stories and series since the third grade (16 years now!), and currently I’m focusing on realistic fiction and science fantasy. There isn’t much to see here yet, but someday soon!

Calling All Writeblrs, Artblrs, and Poetblrs!

Hey guys, I’d like to get to know who all is in my community and I’d love it if you could either like this post or reblog it in order for me to know who I can follow! I’m hoping that I could get to meet the great young and ambitious minds of tomorrow, and I’m excited to meet all of you! Thank you so much!