#BUT WHY!?!? I NEED THAT TO WRITE PAPERS NOT FIC

[unreadablehandle]

I will probably repeat what was said by @theliteraryarchitect already. But maybe hearing it twice might help you, so... :)

I know the feeling you're describing very well. A few years back, I was at a point where I really enjoyed my creativity (meaning: what I could come up with in my mind), and then later having trouble with putting it on paper (because once I've read it, it felt like shit).

What helped me with that in a way that I can't press enough was fanfic.

Why?

Because firstly: it made me concentrate on the joy of creating as something that mattered the most.

And secondly: once I've read enough of fics ("well written" and "badly written"... while loving both for different reasons) and then even produced something myself (that I knew was not ideal AT ALL - but in the sake of "giving back" to the fandom in the best way I could, I felt like sharing it), I got people asking me to continue a started idea and voicing their excitement for it, which showed me that my silly tries to create could in fact brighten someone’s day, despite the fact that if I wasn't a validation seeking bitch, I would torture myself with polishing the first paragraph of an idea into like... Marcel Proust level of overdone and then I would give up, because it would not be exactly like Marcel Proust’s).

Fanfic helped me realize that it’s not discipline and high standards that get you through the finish line. No. These will only make you feel bad and trap you in a circle of begrudgingly loathing everything you do.

It’s in fact the love you give your work even when it’s shitty that makes you come back to it until it’s done.

So. The most important thing you have to have is not a whip upon yourself once you don't meet your standards - but joy from how you overcame that need for self punishment. Someone might say that I’m just saying something and that my writing isn't proceeding towards "the better" at all. However, I would dare to differ.

Maybe – as an exterior observer – you can't see any signs of it. That's a fair point. Nevertheless: I observe the bettering when I write!

Meaning: When you describe a person in whichever action for the first time, it's rather hard. You have to focus and (for a long time) think about all the movements, the body language, the speech... When you write it for the second time, it's still not flawless. You see the space you have to come up with something better, use more metaphors instead of plain descriptions... When you write for the third time, you analyse the mind of your hero more than what he’s doing, because you have already realized that the internal can reveal much more then the external... But only when you write it for the fifth time, that's when you really BEGIN to understand what you are writing. Phrases come easily to you and because you don't have to think about the obvious as before, that's when something good can be born!

In fact, I think that one cannot become good at writing without practice as a wader in his own shitty prose for some time.

Like. Every bad thing you write moves you forward. In fact, I believe that the best writers must have written the biggest amount of shitty things. The literary gems on their resumé are only the top of the iceberg, you see.

And that is a brutal fact.

DO NOT compare your level one to someone’s level ten.

DO NOT concentrate on your mistakes. Embrace and enjoy the phase of shitty writing. Create as much new things as you can before you know enough to get back to where you started. Because at the end of the day, it's the only ride you can take to the top of the hill.

PS: What I recommend (it works in my experience) is to start a notebook and when you read, write down phrases, expressions or words you liked and then later go back to them. Like that, you are expanding your range of expression by the way of love - not disdain. Honestly, I really think that's the only way it can work right. ;)

PPS: Being a writer is not a hundred meter race. It's a lifestyle in which you are working on growing into someone who can bend worlds with just a pen and paper - and that's hell of a work if you ask me. ...Worth every inconvenience, isn't it? :)

I don’t know if u still answer questions but I need some advice. My passion has always been writing simply because I have so many ideas and so many thoughts and I love creating stories (theoretically). Lately though I’ve hit this roadblock. I’ll never be able to write like the people I admire, because at the end of it all I feel like I’m not learning. I’ll reread my old stuff, point out and rework my mistakes, and still feel like I’m not going anywhere. I haven’t written anything for years because of this block and I feel like I’ll never improve and find the motivation to keep writing. I’ll never be like the greats with seemingly endless inspiration and talent. Ig my question is just… how do I improve? How do I finally feel satisfied with what I do? How do I love my writing again??

First off, I hear you. So many writers—especially the ones who care deeply—go through exactly this. You love storytelling in theory, but when it comes to writing, it feels like you’re stuck in a cycle of self-doubt and disappointment. That’s not a personal failing. That’s just what happens when your standards grow faster than your skills.

The mistake most writers make (and one I see repeated constantly) is thinking that learning = immediate improvement—as if you study the craft, tweak some mistakes, and suddenly level up. But writing doesn’t work like a skill tree in a video game. It’s messy, non-linear, and full of invisible growth. The work you put in today might not show results for months, or even years. And that’s frustrating as hell, but it’s also normal.

And the writers you admire? The ones who seem endlessly inspired and effortlessly talented? They aren’t immune to this feeling. The difference is, they write through it. They let themselves write badly. They embrace inefficiency. They trust that even their worst drafts are part of the process. AND (top secret info here)... frankly a lot of the big names have editors at their publishing houses that are practically doing ghostwriting work: fixing their mistakes, rewriting their stuff, or even composing sections for them so they can pump out the next bestseller in record time.

But here’s my advice: stop waiting to feel satisfied before you start writing again. You’re not going to think your way out of this. Improvement comes from doing. Let yourself write terribly, inconsistently, joyfully. Take the pressure off. And when your brain tells you it’s pointless, remind yourself: the only way to get better is to keep going.

You don’t need to be “one of the greats.” You just need to write.

Hope this helps, friend.

P.S. I get Asks like this so much that I'm actually working on a whole long book about it, since it's really more than I can handle in a short post. Stay tuned for details. xo

[weskie]

Imperfectly Perfect (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader) - Lover, Leader, Liar

700 words, non-chronological/plotless one shot, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, wesker yearning, mentions of corporal punishment, flashbacks (kid wesker), may count as some degree of angst, part of the lover leader liar series | Fic Directory

To ache for the idea of it...

He's breaking the rules. 

The heat of the flashlight prickles his skin, but he must continue on. The blanket conceals precious little of his infraction, though he'll only be caught if one of the wards enters the dorm. 

Or if one of the other boys rats him out in the morning. 

The skritch of his pencil is the only audible sound save for a gentle snore here or there. His eyes ache. 

But he must fix his error. 

Penmanship was no laughing matter. How could he ever hope to be taken seriously one day if he failed to carve eloquent lines, perfect in their mimicry of the template, onto paper? Of all things, this is where he suddenly falters. He'd already broken the need to rest writing utensils between his pointer and middle fingers, having been reprimanded over and over by the teacher until he, like the others, utilized the space between his thumb and forefinger. 

The right way.

He chews his tongue as he traces the intricate curvature of a cursive A, looping slowly into an L until, suddenly, his first name stares back at him. 

Albert. 

To be etched upon document after document, form after form, contracts upon contracts… 

“Captain,” you greet him, awkwardly entering his office as you always do. Afraid to disturb him, you've said – consideration even if you were there on his orders, even if to surprise him with your kindness. You've grown accustomed to his subtleties, picking up organically on the nearly nonexistent nod he gives to enter. 

It is strange to feel known. 

Paperwork, he assumes before you've even reached his desk. You no longer clutch the stack to your abdomen as you once did, devoid, now, of the nerves that once rattled your ability to approach him, the ever intimidating Captain Wesker. 

“I've got those reports you asked for.” You hum, extending them to his waiting grasp. 

He makes sure to look away upon taking them. It diffuses any suspicions as to why he always manages to brush his fingers against yours. 

How else is he meant to feel such a jolt zap through his very being if not by sneaking this part? 

“I appreciate you.” He says, tone firm and proper, never wavering despite the smile that threatens to cut through his cool demeanor. Ah, but he could let it. Observe and take note of how you react to such an uncommon occurrence. You looked about shell shocked the last time he let one slip. 

His glasses touch the table with a soft click. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. The coffee mug's warmth seeps into his fingers even through the handle. 

You're caught off guard, it seems. Your lips part to accept his appreciation, but you simply blink. 

Most find his gaze uncanny. Too cold, too calculating - sharp and cunning in a way that cuts into their minds and leaves behind the salt of unspoken threats. 

“I, uh…” you stammer, eyes blinking rapidly as if to return yourself to Earth. “Y-you're welcome.”

You'd left him with an invitation for lunch. He'll certainly be taking you up on that offer, but first he's got to tear his eyes away from your delivery. 

He's meant to be reading this, interpreting the details and checking for errors. All he can do, however, is trace a finger over the etch of your words, digits just barely registering the sensation of the fine-point carve left in your wake.

You are imperfect, he instantly concludes. Your letters are all wrong, slanted here and there, inconsistently joined in one instance and broken in another. Your writing changes periodically, telling him exactly when your mind had been pulled elsewhere and left you starting again with a renewed flow. 

You are nothing like him. 

His touch traverses the submission details. You've etched his name into the sheet. It hovers slightly above the line, dipping down beneath with the sharp tips of the A and W. 

His penmanship teachers would have labeled you unfit and chaotic. Your knuckles would be split with their rulers over and over again until you were naught but a simple reflection of their ideals. 

But you aren't. 

You are a contradiction to all that he is meant to find worthy. Despite this, you've begun to bleed into him. He should find you no different than his teachers would. 

Instead, as you poke your smiling face in the door, he finds you otherwise. 

You are radiant. 

AO3 LINK

[katblu42]

Cheeky Fic reblog . . . The Letter

Because it came to mind while reading some of the RP blogs today.

(Can be read on AO3 here)

Warnings for grief/mourning and mention of death. I may have cried while writing this.

Response to another Flash Fiction Friday prompt (#162 - The Letter) Scott finds an old letter, written by a young Virgil, that stirs some painful memories.

“Scott?” Virgil approached his big brother quietly, cautiously.  “Are you okay?”

The piece of paper he held was shaking slightly, and when Scott looked up at Virgil his sapphire blues were glistening with unshed tears.

“I …” he swallowed hard and held the fragile piece of slightly yellowed paper out for Virgil to see.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Virgil’s eyes widened as he scanned the handwritten words on the page and recognised the content.

“Where did you find this?”  Scott seemed unable to respond for a moment, but Virgil’s eyes were glued to the page.  Some of the ink was smudged with some kind of water damage – two distinct round spots near the bottom of the page – but the paper was dry, the damage old.  “I mean, I remember writing it but I don’t remember keeping it, or giving it to anyone.”

Scott pointed to the pieces of a picture frame on the desk.  The frame that usually held one of the last photographs of all five boys with both parents.  Along side the photo and the broken frame were a few other small pieces of paper, some with their mother’s handwriting on them, a pressed flower that Virgil recognised as one of Mom’s favourites and a scrap of embroidered fabric.

“Dad must have kept these things hidden in the back of the frame.  Reminders of her, I guess.  But the letter …”

Dear Mom,

I don’t really know why I’m writing this letter.  I just miss you so much and I didn’t know what else to do.

I wanted to talk to Scott because we always tell each other everything, but I don’t think he really wants to talk about this right now.  I know he’s hurting just like we all are but he seems to be coping by keeping everything as normal as possible for everyone else.  Especially Alan.

Scott is the one making sure all the chores get done and everyone gets to where they need to be on time and does their homework and stuff.  He’s taken charge, which is good because Dad’s not really doing that right now, but it’s bad because I think Scott’s not letting himself be sad that you’re gone.  He’s trying not to give himself time to think about it.

I can’t talk to Dad.  No one can.  Except maybe Grandma sometimes.  He went back to work so quick after the funeral and he stays there late a lot.  When he is home it’s like he hides in his office.  I’m not sure, but I think being in the house with all of us but not you hurts him too much.  Sometimes it even feels like he can’t look at us without seeing that you’re missing.

Gordon and Alan are too little.  I mean Alan still asks when you’ll be coming home.  He doesn’t understand what never means and Scott and John and I don’t really know how to explain it, so we just don’t and hug him tight instead. 

Gordon is old enough to understand death means we never get to have you here with us anymore but he wants to know why Heaven can’t have visitors.  He has so many things he wants to show you and ask you about.  I hope it’s okay I told him he could always talk to you because you can still listen even if you can’t answer.

Sometimes I worry a bit about John.  I can’t talk to him about this stuff either because I know he’s struggling with it too.  He’s gone quiet.  Even more quiet than normal.  He still helps with Alan and Gordon and does all his chores but I don’t think I’ve seen him smile or heard him laugh since you died.  Not even when Allie and Gordon get up to their mischief.  Plus he hasn’t gone up to the roof to look at the stars at all in ages.  Not even when I offered to go up with him.  I know you two used to stargaze together.  I wish you could let him know it’s okay for him to do that without you.

Mom, it’s so hard without you.  Sometimes I don’t know what to do and I know that if you were here you would have the answers and I feel so lost because I don’t know who else to turn to.  I miss you so much and I wish more than anything that I could have you back just for a day.

Love you always, Virgil.

“Why would he keep this?” Virgil’s fingers traced the creases where the paper had been repeatedly folded.  “How did he even get hold of it in the first place?”

“Why did you write it?”

Virgil finally tore his eyes away from the letter and looked back at Scott.  He couldn’t form the words to explain, but some of the emotional turmoil he felt was mirrored in his brother’s face and he realised he didn’t have to.  And suddenly his big brother was wrapping him in a welcome embrace.

“You were grieving and felt like you had no one you could confide in,” Scott said softly.  “I think when Dad found it he realised he needed to be there for us more and kept it to remind him of that.  We should have been there for you, Virge.  I’m sorry.”

“You were,” Virgil whispered back, returning the hug.  “In the end even Dad was better at it – all of us being there for each other, no matter what.”

[skitskatdacat63]

Me: *in the troes of finals week*

My brain, for some reason: *suddenly has the extreme motivation, passion and compulsion needed to work on fics and illustrations*

[armulyn]

Taking a tentative stab at this!

F - A several-years-post-canon Wingfeather Saga fic with Janner & Sara's wedding, mostly focusing on Sara & Artham

Finally Sara decides to plunge right into it. “So. Janner and I are getting married next month.” Artham looks up from his paper, an even wider grin breaking out at the reminder. “I’ve heard, as has every man, woman, child, and goat in the surrounding ninety leagues. Congratulations! Should I act shocked?” Rolling her eyes, she drags a chair out from the table beside him, plopping down in it. “You’re very funny.” “Very true. Now that you’re broached the subject, is there something that you need?”

I - The Bookseller and the Sock Man, in which Oskar N. Reteep has the Bilbo Reflex of inviting startling callers to tea.

It’s not the cleanest of rooms, for it has been a long time since he entertained callers, but Oskar gets the feeling that Peet won’t mind very much. He locates the kettle with little fuss (top of the fourth bookshelf on the right), two clean mugs (in use as paperweights), and even a small pot of sugar tucked into a corner (the last surviving member of a set his mother had left him). While the tea begins to curl little wisps of steam into the air, Oskar dusts off his hands and turns to his visitor. Peet has actually managed to advance a few paces past the open doorway in the intervening minutes, and though he is still tensed defensively, with all limbs held close to his body, he studies the room intently with something like curiosity. Feeling Oskar’s eyes on him, he jumps, and his gaze falls to the floor at his feet. “All right, now?” Oskar isn’t sure why he feels the need to ask— it’s clear Peet isn’t all right, but he’s not sure how to help. He starts by clearing off the little coffee table he’d been given as a house-warming present over a decade ago. Two chairs he appropriates from his office, and a dish cloth from the sink with which he grasps the kettle to pour. Two mugs of tea, and minimum casualties.

N - A Home By Any Other Name - The Igiby family's first Dragon Day in Glipwood.

Nia’s lucky to have the cottage at all. Podo had grown up in the cozy building, as had his parents, and his grandparents, and his great-great-great-grandparents, so they had plausible buy-in at least. Neighbors talked as they always did, but the talk was about what Old Man Helmer used to be like and how much the little ones resemble their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, and not at all about their sudden appearance or lack of belongings or how strange a name was Igiby. They’d shown up just before the Fangs, and nothing makes Skreeans stick together like common enemies so clearly demarcated. So they’re lucky. In their neighbors, in their ignominy, and yes, in their new home. It’s still standing and nobody contests their deed. An old bookshop keeper has even given them a few books about Glipwood as a housewarming gift. Nia’s been using them as a booster seat for little Kal; they’re very useful.

D - A potential continuation of Wisdom to the Wise, on Esben investigating the First Books.

Dang it. Well, this isn’t working. Esben sighs, and regards one of the books open before him. It is turned to a page full of Old Hollish, bearing little resemblance to its modern form, and there is something familiar about the carefully inked symbols. He pulls the book closer, and peers intently at it. Though he doesn’t have the First Books on him, he’s spent at least dozens of hours staring at their writing over the past month and a half, and the text, devoid of meaning, is practically burned into his eyelids. The text here and in the First Book look similar, though he can’t place why. The style of script, maybe? Or were the symbols somewhat similar in form? He can’t place it, and in frustration he twists to peer at the letters upside-down, in vain hope that it will clarify things. To his shock, it does. Like a puzzle piece slotting into place after several unsuccessful attempts to jam it in, the words, upside-down, fall into the shapes held in his mind with a perfect fit. “It works,” Stunned, he stares down at the page. “It… works.” Several nearby Annierans, peacefully paging through volumes and scribbling in spare paper, nearly leap out of their skins when their king, grinning like a madman, suddenly whoops and sprints out of the library, an old book clutched in hand. The door is already swinging shut by the time racing hearts still, Esben long gone for his room.

Anybody who wants to: join in with key word WORD! :D

WIP Word Train

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @queerofthedagger Thank you! My word is HOME (which is very fun considering I've been working on some fics with that as their theme)

H - This is Not a Second Chance (Celebrimbor gets dragon-amnesia post-fall of Nargothrond and gets found by his father and uncles; canon still happens after that and I try to make all the readers cry)

He did not know what that word Tyelpë meant. Could only hold the dog and shake as that one order - run, run, run - began to fade away, leaving him empty and hollow. “Help,” he said, the word a cracked whisper. The word choked with smog and burning and terror that erased every thought. He held tight onto the dog as he spoke. “Help.”

Time after that turned into a blurr. There were hands that lifted him up. Gentle, careful of his burns and scratches, cradling him close. More words, some in a language he understood and others in a language he felt that he should know but could not remember. The dog left when he was placed onto a horse. He cried but did not know why. 

Had he run far enough? Had he been caught? 

“Easy, Tyelpë,” said the moonlight-haired elf. “We’ll be at Amon Ereb soon. Just hold onto the horse and trust me to lead, all right?”

He said nothing. The elf’s words fell on him like snow: cold, making him shiver, disappearing through the gaps in his mind. 

O - Oh Sing, Defiant Stars (all SoF survive the kinslayings but Maglor gets amnesia at Sirion and still does a twin kidnapping; very NOT canon-compliant)

One hand was made from metal, glinting like polished brass. The lord, Lindir guessed, from how everyone else backed away or bowed to him. The leader and the one who would decide how best to hurt him. 

But the lord’s hands, when he reached out, only ghosted over Lindir’s shoulders. “Laurë,” he said again, that strange word.

Should he bow? Lindir had not bowed for the orcs no matter how much they kicked him, but they had been servants of Morgoth. These were elves - but they were also murderers. The words stayed stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, dumb and shaking, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn’t look at the red-haired lord, or the beautiful horses, or the bright, eight-pointed star that decorated the deep red banners. His heart ached. His head screamed, as though something deep within the back of his mind was trying to tear it apart. 

“Bring the healers,” ordered the lord. He may have said other things, but Lindir could barely focus on his words.

M - To Haunt These Golden Halls (Maedhros searches and grieves for his lost brother; Maglor misunderstands and thinks he's happier without him - happy ending don't worry)

Maglor said nothing, could only stare up at his brother, drinking in the sight of him. Centuries upon centuries had dulled his memories, tarnishing the image of Maedhros. Now, there he stood, alive again, and there were a thousand things Maglor wanted to say. 

I missed you, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time. That I threw it away. I was right to throw it away. Do you forgive me? I’m sorry I was not enough to keep you in life. Please say you forgive me. Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyo, I missed you. 

His mouth stayed locked shut. 

Would Maedhros yell at him now? Chase him out of the garden? Welcome him and kiss his forehead, like he had when Maglor was small and woke up from a nightmare? He tensed and waited. 

But Maedhros only stared down at him and said, “What is your name, stranger, and what are you doing at my home?”

E - Little Crab in the Big City (Fëanor forgets his crab son in the Valinor shopping district and so Maglor and Bilbo go on an adventure together. Maedhros is never trusting his father to babysit ever again)

Even Aman, with all its power, could not prevent a mortal mind from slowly breaking down. Or so Gandalf had sadly warned him. 

The crab scuttled a little to the left and then a little to the right, giving Bilbo a few more clicks of his claw. Above their heads came the cry of a bird - a seagull, perhaps, though Tirion was far away from the coast - and the poor thing hid behind Bilbo’s leg. 

“There, there, do not fear. I will not let such a well-mannered creature such as yourself become dinner.” Bilbo held out a hand. “A busy street such as this is no place for someone so easily trampled. Would you care to travel with me?”

The crab let out a series of fast clicks, eagerly scurrying forward. Carefully, Bilbo lifted him up and placed him on his shoulder, wrapping one long end of his scarf around the crab to keep him warm. 

“Excellent. It has been far too long since I’ve had a companion on an adventure.” Bilbo opened up his notebook and readied his pen. “Now then, where was I? Oh yes…”

Tagging, with your word being CRAB: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @beatles4ever65 @thelordofgifs @camille-lachenille @whovianofmidgard @leucisticpuffin @awwyeah107 @veilder @starspray and anyone else who wants to. No pressure, of course!

[darkwing-katy]

Well, shit. My excitement over making a sigil map skirt has gotten me bitten by the Leland bug again. Which means that yes, I’m 100% writing another fic for him again. I dunno how long it’ll be, if it’ll be a series or a one shot, but I’m currently at 1,907 words. Maybe I’ll get it done by Christmas. Or New Year’s. Who fucking knows, man.

Fucking Leland Townsend.

[supurman]

this is here i rp if you guys were wondering.

[lordsardine]

.

[shiverandqueeef]

i think my latest fanfiction sojourn might be what finally pushes me over the edge into actually writing again. mostly because i haven't been so at odds with the popular fanon interpretations of a main pairing in uhhh actually possibly ever. it would mean having to subject myself to another rewatch of a movie for which I have the world's most tepid feelings but. Honestly I haven't felt this motivated to write in years. and it's not that the fics I've been reading are "bad" some of them are certified bangers I've just had the most unfortunate onset of 'nobody understands this character but me' syndrome come over me and like! i can either fume silently, complain about it annoyingly, or write what i want to see in the world. so! gonna ride this wave of irritation all the way to the bank baybee!!!!

[wifeiy]

[citrusinicake]

once internship is done i stg im gonna lock in and draw all the stuff ive been meaning to draw + a shitload of zammbu, og players™, destinyduo, unstableverse, and some smaller mcytbers that i like

[fenharel-babe]

Fandom….can anybody do my the favor of reading my draft of my new chapter of my fic (ya know the one) bc I need to see if it makes sense and flows naturally. I need some idea bouncing help😭.

[yelenadelova]

i haven't written anything for fun in literal years but of course when i have an academic paper due soon my brain decides it's time to write a whole fic

[quatregats]

Current Situation would actually probably be solved if I stopped looking to Projects for all my satisfaction in life

[caterpillarinacave]

why will my brain not work

[cheswirls]

sits down to write fic and writes 3k of notes for it instead, spends two separate hrs in the middle of it dwelling on pointless things, there were 8k notes prev so i def added almost half that amnt, have not written a single thing even tho i set down at 8p to write a scene and made a conscious decision to do this instead of starting laundry between 8 and 9 (laundromat closes at ten), it is three am currently,,,,,,