#Gilbert is surprisingly boring a person sometimes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

erzherzog-von-edelstein · 4 years ago

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Weine nicht um mich

Characters: Prussia, Freidrich the Great

Ships: PruFritz

Summary: Prussia reflects on important personal moments with his best king.

Words: 7.2K

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Prussia took a familiar route to the all too familiar place, his feet carrying him there without any conscious thought. He knew how conspicuous he looked clad in his black dress uniform, walking in this small town with a white chrysanthemum in his hand. But, he couldn’t care less. Let people look at him questioningly; he did not care. He had performed the same ritual every year for more than a century and he was not about to give it up just because Hitler wanted to have some dinner with his commanders.

Prussia had made all the proper goodbyes, stating that there was a pressing matter that needed his attention before grabbing the key to one of the Mercedes and driving to Potsdam. He was not usually so reckless, but this was far more important than another night of nationalistic pomp.

He reached the old church with its soaring spire; it still looked like it had, like the albino, become unchanging. The years of its creation were long gone, but the gothic architecture harkened back to an older age. The wars had not yet touched it. In the years since it had been built, it had housed the remains of all the Hohenzollern monarchs. Now the dynasty was at an end, and Prussia had not been disappointed to see the last of them abdicate. He had been a belligerent fool, unfit to bear the family name. But, that didn’t stop Prussia from making this trip.

He stepped inside the heavy wooden doors and was immediately struck by a wave of remembrance. All these years later, it had not become easier to step into this crypt. He still felt his heart beating in his throat, choking him. It was still bitter and painful. He swallowed it in an attempt to force down the raw emotions. Now it was more painful than it had been in the comfortable years. Loneliness had been easier when he could lay his year’s conquests here like the fulfillment of a lover’s promise.

The space was lit by a single candle, but there were many scattered around the room. The tomb was still mostly in darkness. Prussia put aside the flower and picked up one of the candles. With careful diligence, he walked from candle to candle. As he reached each one, he let the flickering flame of the one he was holding until the flame caught. He walked around the crypt, making certain that no candle remained unlit. If not for the heaviness of the day, there would have been something awe inspiring about the rows of lit candle, lighting the confined space of the gothic cathedral. But, as it was, this felt like a devotional.

Once Prussia finished lighting all the candles, he returned to the original spot. He retrieved the carnation, a white flower adorned with the black and white ribbon of the old flag. Choosing his steps carefully, he approached the tomb. There was a grand engraving of the name of the man, but Prussia knew that the man buried here would have called the monument austere and gaudy. He had wanted to be buried in a simple tomb far away from his father with his hounds. His heir had insisted that he be buried with pomp and ceremony, and Prussia had been in no state to object. The albino placed the flower carefully next to the one from the year before, which had withered and dried. He would remove the desiccated flower when he left. But, first there were words to be said.

The albino kneeled in front of the tomb and said, “So it’s been another year, Fritz. You wouldn’t like what has happened this year. That man keeps saying you would, but he isn’t worth the dust on your boots. I know you well enough to know you would hate all of this.” He mentally kicked himself as he realized that he was still using the present tense to speak to a man who was long dead. It was still so tempting to treat him as though he was alive and could still offer sage advice.

The feelings began to accost Prussia, the deep nausea he felt every time Hitler used Fritz’s name. This whole thing made him sick. Germany seemed happy for the first time in years, and that was worth something. The dour expression he had worn since Versailles was finally fading, and that was enough for Prussia to swallow all his misgivings. But here, alone in a place sacred to him, he could say what he really felt.

He continued, telling the gravestone his worries like he would have to the man when he had been alive, “Sometimes, I look around and I think that this is the price for my ambition. I started all of this: I told Ludwig all my war stories. He always looked so impressed with me.” His voice trailed off and he struggled to regain the thread of what he had said. Germany’s new dictator seemed fond of dragging Prussia’s name into his tirades, and Prussia could see the fervent wish for that kind of glory in his brother’s eyes. His voice returned to him, and he said the words that had been struggling to be formed all night, “I wish you were here, Fritz. I need you now.” _____________________________________________________________________

The music of the flute was soft and soothing in the warm summer air, but Friedrich was having a hard time concentrating on it. His fingers were moving, the memory of a song played many times animated them. But, his eyes were on his kingdom, who had draped himself provocatively over one of the chaises. His limbs were spread in reckless abandon. Prussia was holding a glass of red wine in one hand, occasionally taking a drink from it.

The sight was a little victory for Friedrich. It had taken categorically banning beer from his court to get Gilbert to drink French wine instead of that common German swill. He knew that when the albino drank with the soldiers he still drank beer. But, for elegant evenings like this he had learned to enjoy wine. In these little ways, Prussia had become more used to society.

But that wasn’t what was so distracting. It was the look on his face. Friedrich would be lying to himself if he said he enjoyed anything more than this. Prussia was his favorite audience. These private concerts were more fulfilling because the albino always had the most sublime look on his face, like he never wanted to listen to anything else. His attention never wavered; he never looked away. He was the only one who ever gave Friedrich the impression he was savoring every note, that the music moved him to the core. There was nothing more gratifying for a musician than the feeling of being closely attended by the one he loved. It warmed him to have the albino’s eyes fixed on him.

And yet, Gilbert’s attention was distracting because Friedrich knew that if he put down the flute and closed the space between them, Prussia would embrace him. There was an empty place in the albino’s arms that was calling to him. However, he would not leave this movement unfinished. The temptation to rush through the movement was present. The evening was pleasant and warm, as only a summer in Potsdam could be and the idea of spending it in the other’s arms sounded like paradise.

Prussia took another drink and, as he pulled the glass away from his mouth, he ran his tongue over his lips. And yet, his attention never wavered and a supremely pleased smile returned to his face. The king’s fingers found their way to the last notes of the composition and the sound hung in the air as he let the song end. Dwindling music always seemed to leave a certain magic.

He carefully placed the flute aside and watched as Prussia’s smile widened. He knew what was coming next, and there was an impish undertone to his smile that invited it. Friedrich took the invitation, stepping confidently towards his kingdom. The albino made to sit up, but apparently decided against it. The king settled himself firmly next to his country, who immediately extended his arm around the other. There was barely enough room on the piece of furniture for the pair of them, but it was easy to find space. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be reclining into Prussia’s embraced.

Friedrich spoke, though he knew he didn’t need to, “What did you think?” He knew he didn’t need to ask; he had gotten all the feedback he needed from Gilbert’s uncharacteristic silence and his rapturous smile. He asked only to hear the praise. Like an obedient soldier, Prussia responded to him, “It was beautiful. You have such talented hands.”

Without any resistance from the man, Prussia took his hand in his own and brought it to his lips. As the albino left soft kisses on his fingers, Friedrich reflected on how their relationship had changed. Prussia had never been good at romancing; nothing in his upbringing had prepared him for the subtleties of sweet nothings. Like the soldier he had always been, he wore his desires openly and expressed them without restraint. When he wanted to indulge his cruder desires, he made no secret of it. But, as they spent time together, Prussia had learned a subtler way. His tongue had soften and learned to speak surprisingly good French, even the sweet flirtations of a foreign tongue. Now, the compliment had rolled off his tongue with little pretense.

It was easy to find the words to respond, private words, “Your hands are just as talented. And I am fond of what you do with them.” Prussia scoffed, entwining his hand carelessly with the other’s as he spoke, “Don’t lie to me. Mine are soldier’s hands. They’re rough.”

Friedrich could feel the callouses of the albino’s hand pressed against his own palm. Gilbert was right; his hands bore the marks of the years of swordsmanship. But, that was the charm of them. They were a map of Gilbert’s life before he became a kingdom, every hour honing his own skills. They spoke of the frustrated young knight, and the ascendant power finally coming into his own.

He replied, “Why should that make them untalented? I’ve never seen anyone handle a sword like you.” An arrogant smirk lighted across the albino’s face. It was exactly what he expected. Prussia loved praise, more than he would admit. The modesty of a monastic knight still lingered, even though it was counter to his nature. Years of being a vassal had apparently taught him to hold his tongue. It was as though he thought that by voicing his own greatness, he would make it untrue. But, the deep pride he took in his skills was obvious. Obvious in the way he would best his enemies without pretense, obvious in the way he would pour over maps of his new territorial acquisitions like a giddy child. Friedrich had managed to coax it out and find the braggart craving to be released.

He leaned in and kissed the albino’s lips lightly, saying as he pulled away, “You are a knight and I wouldn’t want you any other way.” Prussia’s hand tightened on his king’s affectionately. He seemed to contemplate his words before he said, “You’re right. And you’re a philosopher, a musician, and a brilliant general.” As he listed each achievement, Friedrich could hear the pride building in the man’s voice. But, he only took pride in the latter two. Beyond that, he saw an equivocation in the words. By listing the other’s achievements, Prussia meant to lessen his own.

His king would not allow this old habit. He immediately said, “I’m afraid you give me too much credit. I leave philosophy to more talented minds. You write better Latin than I do.” At this the albino let out a scoff, “That’s only because I had to transcribe manuscripts.” The dodges were becoming tedious and Friedrich did not have the stomach for it tonight. He wanted this to be uncomplicated affection while they were alone together. He said, using the voice he usually reserved for drilling the regiments, “Mon cher, I do not want to hear about your imagined inadequacies. I know full well that you do not believe any of it.”

A mischievous smile returned to the albino’s face, and he let out a short laugh, “You found me out, Fritz.” Satisfied that he had won some honesty, Friedrich reached over his country and grabbed the glass of wine. As he put it to his lips, Prussia objected, “That was my wine.” He leaned closer, but it was only the pretense of indignation. They had shared far more than this. A retort rolled off his tongue carelessly, “As your king, I am claiming it.” Then, not yet taking a drink, he ran one finger up the albino’s leg, “It’s not all I’ve claimed of yours.”

It was brazen, but there was no reason to refrain. They were alone and secure. Prussia took the invitation, putting one hand on the side of his king’s face. He said, breathily, “I love when you’re forceful.” Without allowing the other time to respond, the albino joined their lips. He still kissed like a man of war, with passion and messy, reckless abandon. It was like he considered this another conquest. But, it was that undisguised passion, completely honest, that caused heat to spread across the mortal’s skin. He could taste wine on his country’s lips and feel the hand on his face holding him gently.

But, there was something more beneath that, something naive but wholeheartedly determined, something quintessential to the man. Friedrich knew that he had been Prussia’s first, but he suspected that Austria had pined for that honor. In that respect, he had always had the advantage in skill and experience. But, Prussia was earnest and unending in his love, and he kissed with a voracity that no other lover had ever matched.

If force was what Gilbert was craving, then he could certainly have it. His king returned his kiss with equal firmness, gaining ground against his country’s force. He could feel the shift in the albino’s demeanor as he started to succumb. Prussia pulled back, taking a deep breath as he did so. The proud, witty remark that he undoubtedly had died as he was forced to take another breath. He said, “How do you do that?”

The question was genuinely confusing, seeing as what he had been doing seemed rather straightforward. But, he took it as a flirtation, or an attempt at one. Friedrich spoke as he put his hand in Prussia’s hair, “How do I do what, amour?” The albino smiled and his king could see the playful shadow beneath the smile. Then Prussia said, “When you kiss me, I feel like I’m melting. I would do anything for you.”

His voice was thick with desire, but it was the words that made a blush take to the king’s cheeks. He knew Prussia well enough to know that these confessions did not come easily. The man was not one to readily express his emotions. The vulnerability lasted for only a moment before the kingdom added, “But you are my king, so I should do what you want.” It was a witty evasion but nothing more.

Friedrich stroked back a few pieces of the albino’s hair before he countered, “On the contrary, I am your servant. I will do whatever I can to make you happy.” He had said it before, but it carried an entirely different rhetorical weight here with no one else listening. It was not a broad statement on the ideal of serving the needs of the people, it was a lover’s promise. The other didn’t respond at once. He seemed to be contemplating what he thought of the promise. There was something endearing about the way that Gilbert bit his lower lip whenever he was thinking. But, this was more than banter.

Though he had learned to appear like cold steel to his army and commanders, Friedrich couldn’t help but feel deeply for his country and want his happiness. It had been painful to watch Prussia lose land during the Seven Years War, even worse when there had been Russian troops in Berlin and he had seen the spasms of pain when the albino slept. Each loss had felt like the thrust of a knife, if only for the pain he knew it caused Prussia. And yet, he had never said anything, because he did not want his lover, his country to doubt him. Not even a word of his concern had left his lips. Even when the urge to apologize for everything had occurred to him, he had ignored it. Gilbert believed in him and, selfishly, he had wanted that to remain. He had never told Prussia, even once the war was over, that he had told his ministers to place the preservation of his kingdom and his successor over that of his own life. It had been more important to save Prussia and give him a stable line of succession. Gilbert did not know that the deepest joy he had ever felt had not been in the arms of von Katte or in conversation with Voltaire; it had been when the albino embraced him after the signing of the treaty of Hubertusburg, because he knew that Prussia would be safe.

He spoke again, “Anything you want, you need only name it.” Prussia smirked, “Bullshit.” Friedrich responded immediately, “I secured Silesia for you, did I not? I thought you wanted to humiliate Austria and gain territory.”

The boast did not feel entirely sincere in light of what his gamble on Silesia had almost cost him. But, the smile that spread across the albino’s face erased every doubt. Prussia let out a short laugh, and with their proximity, the king could feel it in his own chest. He replied, “It was amazing to see the look on Roderick’s face when he realized you’d beaten him.” Without thinking about the words, Friedrich said, “He’s jealous.” Prussia scoffed as he always did at the notion, “Of what? He’s an empire and I won one little province.”

Sometimes Friedrich couldn’t help but wonder if this was willful ignorance because it seemed painfully obvious to him. The covetous way Austria looked at Prussia was enough to convince anyone. He sighed as he explained again, “He’s jealous of this.” To make his point more effectively he took his hand from the albino’s face and ran it up his thigh. The other shifted so that they were even closer. His response was not the usual denial, “I don’t care what he thinks.”

The brazen answer was tantalizing. It proved that the Austrian influence was truly gone. The king finally took a drink of the wine he had forgotten he was holding. Then he returned to the earlier subject, “If you could have anything, what would it be? What is your greatest ambition?” He suspected he knew already. Gilbert longed to finally be recognized as a great power. Deep crimson eyes met his own and some of the levity left the other’s face, “Are you serious, Fritz?”

The return to the somber tone was unexpected. There was a shadow of a much younger boy in Prussia’s face for a moment, and Friedrich had the sudden strong urge to comfort him. He moved his hand back to the albino’s face and ran his thumb across the skin. The words came easily, “Yes, mon cher, I want to know.” Prussia took a deep breath before saying, “I want all the German states under my control.”

The mortal drew in a shocked breath. He had not expected such far reaching aspirations had resided in his lover’s breast. The reaction did not escape the country’s notice. Responding to the inevitable question, he continued, “They should have been my inheritance. I was my father’s eldest son, but he made my youngest brother the Holy Roman Empire.” He drew in another deep breath before saying, “If I could have anything, I would have it all.”

Friedrich found himself unable to respond immediately. The information was all so novel. Aside from a few moments of sympathy in his youth, he had never heard Prussia speak of his father or the reason for his hatred of him. He knew little about the distant figure of the Holy Roman empire. This was the first time Prussia had said explicitly that he was even related to Holy Rome. It took a moment to understand that Gilbert had said something he guarded deeply. This ambition must have been festering since his days as a knight, never daring to be voiced to anyone.

Taking the silence for the end of the conversation, Prussia composed himself and said, “I’ve ruined the mood.” He then disentangled his limbs from his king and stood up. Having recovered from the shock of the answer, Friedrich said, employing his voice for command again, “Don’t walk away from me, Gilbert.” The albino stopped in his tracks, conditioned to obey. But, he didn’t turn to look at the other.

He could have ordered the man back to his side, but that would be a return to formality. Instead, Friedrich got up and walked over to his country. When he reached him, Friedrich said, “Look at me.” The albino turned his eyes with defiant fire towards his king, but the mortal could recognize the feeling beneath it.

It was that look that he addressed when he said, “Never be ashamed to tell me what you think.” Prussia snapped back, “I am not ashamed.”

Gilbert lied badly; he always had. It had been something of a miracle that he had so effectively hid their involvement from Friedrich’s father. Years of living under a monastic code of conduct had prepared him poorly for duplicity. This had to be a protestation of pride, nothing more. Friedrich took a step closer and replied decisively, “Yes you are. I don’t see why though.”

The albino let out a sigh, admitting his defeat, before saying, “It’s a nice night. We had good wine and exceptional music. You don’t want to hear about how I want my brother’s title.” His evasiveness made his king wonder when, if ever, Prussia had last voiced these sentiments and what reception he had gotten. He would not pry, since he knew he would get little from the other in the moment.

He took one more small step towards his lover and said, “Do you want to hear what I wish for?” Prussia didn’t step away from him. The albino responded with a forced laugh, “Better company?” Friedrich’s hand easily found its familiar place on the albino’s waist. He countered, “If I could have anything, I would have eternity.”

Prussia’s eyes widened as the meaning registered. His king continued, “I would want to be here with you to see you accomplish all your ambitions.” The smile that appeared on Prussia’s face was completely genuine. Everything he wanted to say was clear when he said tenderly, “Fritz.”

His king did not let him equivocate or explain; he pressed his lips against the other’s. If Prussia was really mad, he would have pulled away. But he leaned in and let himself soften under his king’s touch. Friedrich could feel that he had won. When he finally pulled away, the albino was silent. His smile was self-satisfied and bordered on a sneer; it was intensely erotic. The mortal spoke again, “But, for tonight I will be satisfied to take you to bed and claim you.” Prussia’s smile became a smirk as he leaned in again and said, “Whatever you will, mein König.” _______________________________________________________________________

The physician let out a low sigh before he spoke and Friedrich could already guess what he was going to say. The pain in his joints was intense enough already, but he had felt his health declining more rapidly for a few months. Consulting the physician had been a formality to confirm what he already felt. The man said, “My king, you are dying. I do not think you will live out the month.”

The news was no harsher than he expected. He had already appointed a successor with the full knowledge that he had had a long, rich reign. Friedrich nodded to the physician, “Very well.” He gestured that the man should leave the room, and he bowed and left. The news that he would die was not alarming. There were so many times he could have been cut down on the battlefield with his work unfinished.

He pulled his jacket back on, having removed it to be examined, and took his cane in hand. How ironic it was, he mused, that a cane had been an object of terror in his youth, but was now a necessity. He took a firm hold on the wood and used it to get again to his feet. It was deeply frustrating to be trapped in this breaking body, knowing what he used to be able to do. The young could not imagine the difficulties that came with something as vital as walking. But, it was necessary to make it to the desk on the other side of the room. Now he could feel the pain of the gout in every movement. It was only stubbornness that had stopped him from becoming completely immobile.

He reached the desk and lowered himself into the hard wooden chair with a groan. There was a will in one of the locked drawers of this desk that required his attention. It had resided there since very early in his reign, and had been altered very rarely. Removing the key from his pocket with an unsteady hand, Friedrich found the drawer and prepared himself to confront what lay inside. There had been plans in place in case of his death since the Seven Years War, but revisiting them now with such absolute certainty gave them finality. He laid out the papers in front of himself and began to read through them. The instructions were sufficiently clear; the throne would pass to his nephew since he had never wanted any issue. There should be no foreseeable dispute of the succession. For his own burial he commanded that there be no pomp, only a quiet grave at his summer palace. The last thing he wanted was to spend his eternal rest beside his father.

As he read the words again, an image filled his mind, alarmingly strong. He saw his country, dressed in mourning clothes, bent over his coffin crying. It caused a sharp pain in his chest. The idea was clear, but puzzling. Why should he be crying? In all the years he had been king, he had never seen Prussia truly cry. His country was the kind of man who could have wounds stitched with no more than a stony grimace. Prussia had certainly shed no tears for his father.

But, regardless, in the dizzying image of his own death, he saw Prussia weeping. Worse, he saw no one being able to console his country, no one knowing the man beneath the warrior well enough to do so. What was that German word? Einsamkeit. The french was more familiar, Solitude.

The idea was so throughly unsettling that he laid aside the document. There were no arrangements he could make that would keep his precious lover, who had become more like a husband than a casual lover, from pain. It would be absurd to add a clause to his will dealing directly with Gilbert, since his existence was a secret outside of the court.

The sound of familiar footsteps outside his door was not as welcome as it would usually be. What could he say to his country to soften the blow? Prussia did not wait for permission to enter his king’s chambers; he never did anymore. He looked as young and intoxicatingly virile as he did in Friedrich’s earliest memories. If anything, he looked stronger than he ever had; these years had been good to him. The contrast between them as the years widened had never seemed to bother Prussia, even when Friedrich had felt painfully aware of it. Prussia looked young enough to be his son. Austria did not age either, nor did he seem to physically weaken. When they had met in during the War of Bavarian Succession, it had been hard to meet Austria’s gaze knowing how old he looked next to Prussia. It had been clear from Austria’s self-satisfied smile that he was glad to see how imminent the king’s death was. Austria could see that an annoyance in his path would soon disappear.

As Friedrich reflected on his immortal rival, Prussia walked across the room. The albino needed no invitation; he chose one of the many chairs and sat. He looked at his king, apparently not yet understanding what the document on the table was. Before the albino could bring up a another topic of conversation, Friedrich said, “Have you ever considered taking another lover?”

He heard the pretense in his own voice. Asking about his lover’s infidelity sounded like inquiring whether the weather was favorable. Prussia’s eyes widened as the words registered. He said, sounding throughly incredulous, “Of course not. Why would I?” He scoffed as though he thought the question was a joke. But, it was not. If he had said yes, then that would have given the mortal some comfort. Perhaps if he knew that someone would take Prussia away from his coffin and dry his tears, then he would be at peace with the concept. At least then Prussia would be spared the loneliness he would otherwise have to face.

But, the words died in his throat as he attempted to form them. It was too hard to tell Prussia that he was dying, knowing that the man loved him and would be alone without him. Friedrich knew what it was like to watch someone you loved die. So instead he said, “I am old and I doubt that I still satisfy you. Perhaps you should find someone younger.”

The thought of Prussia bedding someone else made him feel a deep rage accompanied with a slight queasiness. The thought of someone else’s hands on the intimate parts of the albino’s body made him feel ill. But, if it spared him from misery then it would be worth it. The albino’s face fell as he comprehended how sincere the conversation was, and his expression was replaced with one of disdain. But, he shook his head, and the sight could scarcely be more frustrating.

The albino replied with the air of one whose pride had been deeply wounded, “Do you really think that’s all I want? I could certainly find someone to fuck, but would he treat me like you do? Would he discuss philosophy, poetry, or music with me like you do? I don’t think so. I love you for more than your body.”

In the years they had been together, Prussia had certainly become more eloquent. He had enough of an intellect to be a force on his own. But in the moment, Friedrich wished that his country could be simple and superficial. He took a deep breath before saying something else that he thought would never pass his lips, “As your king, I am ordering you to find another lover.” If he could not remedy the anxiety with gentile urging, he was not against coercing the man for his own good. But, he could have guessed Prussia’s reaction before the man snapped back, “No! Why would you ever ask that of me?” Frustrated with his country’s stubborn nature, Friedrich slammed his hand down on the desk. Before he could consider or reorder his words, he said, “I will not allow you to be alone without me!”

His meaning was clear enough and the other’s face went completely blank. He spoke with a mounting disbelief, “But you aren’t-” He stumbled for a moment, and then he caught sight of the papers. Enraged, the albino stood and stormed over. Before he could be stopped, he grabbed the top page and took several steps out of his king’s reach.

The red eyes flitted over the page. Friedrich steeled himself for his country’s inevitable rage. But, Prussia just shook his head slowly, saying under his breath, “Nein.” Before Prussia could fully articulate his thoughts, Friedrich said, “You knew this would happen, Gilbert.” The other’s eyes snapped from the pages back to his face. The tremble in his lower lip negated any idea that he was angry, “Is this why you’ve been having physicians hanging around? So they can make you worry about this?”

He waved the page of the will with a wordless outrage. His king could hear the meaning just beneath the words, and it was making his heart ache. He said, choosing his words carefully, “It is more than just worry. My health is failing.” He spoke the statement with absolute certainty, and it fell flat in the deadened air. Prussia pulled in a deep breath and shook his head again, “It’s not that bad. It has never been before.”

He didn’t sound fully convinced, and his hands were clenched together in front of himself. Friedrich could see the knuckles on Prussia’s right hand turning even paler as it attempted to restrain his sword hand. It was hard to tell what he intended to do with it. Perhaps he wanted to rip it to shreds, like destroying the words would change the reality. But, Prussia knew better than to believe in such childishness.

The king took a breath before saying, “I am not immortal like you, as you have always known. I am dying, and it is certain.” He saw the albino shook his head, but took a moment to collect his thoughts. He finally said, not daring to meet Friedrich’s gaze, “I knew it. I told myself it wasn’t that bad. I told myself that if loved you enough this wouldn’t happen.”

His discipline allowed him to restrain himself, but it was a familiar facade. Friedrich responded, trying to be gentle, “If it worked that way, my father would not have lived so long.” A smile appeared on the albino’s pale lips for a moment. Even wit could not blunt this blow. When Prussia spoke again, there was a tremble in his voice, “I always thought thought there would be one more year. I’m-” His voice caught in her throat, and for one of the first times, tears welled at the corner of his eyes. The sight sent a cold jolt down’s his kings spine. It was beginning already, and he felt his country’s pain as concretely as if it was his own. Prussia collected himself enough to finish his thought, “I’m not ready to be without you. I thought I would be stronger when the time came.”

Though it was uncomfortable, Friedrich got to his feet, using the cane to support himself, and walked around the desk to where his country was standing. Ignoring the pain that it caused him, he let go of the cane and pulled Prussia into his arms. The other immediately pulled him closer. Friedrich put his hand on the back of the albino’s head and cradled it against his shoulder. He spoke, attempting to be comforting, “It’s not a battle, mon cher, you do not need to be strong.”

He felt the other’s shoulder’s heave as he let out a sob. His hands were knotted in the back of his king’s coat. Friedrich felt a sharp pain with every beat of his heart. This was exactly what he feared. The man he had never seen shed a tear was crying against his shoulder.

He said, “You’re not going to be without me.” Prussia looked at him, and there was a look of disbelief that was understandable. But, Friedrich had finally lighted upon the right solution. What Gilbert needed was not a poor imitation of their relationship. He would find no comfort in that. He needed to be reassured that he had no reason to mourn, that he would lose nothing.

Prussia’s next question was predictable, “What do you mean? You’ll die and I’ll still be here.” To answer it, his king pulled away far enough to press his hand flat against the other’s chest. He asked, “What do you feel here?” The albino spoke slowly, clearly confused by the question, “Right now? Pain.” It was kurt, but it was expected. Friedrich responded, “I feel it too. Your pain hurts me too. But, that feeling tells you I am there in your heart.” He met Prussia’s ruby eyes again and he could tell that the man was drinking in every word. His eyes had not completely dried, but it was still clear that he was distressed. He continued, “I will always be there. That will not change with time.”

The albino put his hand over the other’s where it was on his chest. He said, “What about the times when I need you?” The answer was easy, and Friedrich spoke it, “Listen to your heart. I will be there with you. It’s my heart as much as yours.”

Prussia’s tears were gone, but his arms were still holding his lover with such force that he could not pull away. Friedrich did not mind, it was easier than holding his own body up. Prussia spoke again, hesitating uncharacteristically, “I will miss you all the same.” They were inevitable words, and there was nothing Friedrich could say to counter it. Instead he said, “I expect you will. But, you are fully capable on your own.”

He reached up and stroked back a piece of Prussia’s wayward hair. The albino leaned in and pressed his lips gently against his king’s. This was not the forceful kiss of youth. It was softer and sweeter, and as he put his hand on the albino’s cheeks, he could feel the moisture.

But the change in position proved too taxing for the elderly King’s body, and he was forced to say, “Gilbert, I should sit.” It was a command and the albino simply nodded and released his hold. Only once Friedrich had settled himself in his favorite chair, did Prussia sit on the floor next to him, resting his head on his lap. Friedrich’s hand found his country’s hair and he stroked it comfortingly.

A difficult thought seemed to struggle on the albino’s lips. He finally said, “These years with you have been the best of my life.” It was a deeply personal confession, the type that were difficult for the albino. Friedrich owed it nothing less than an honest response, “I have loved you since I was a young boy, and everything I have done, I have done for you.”

He had never dared be this forthcoming with his country before. But, now that there time was sparse, there could be no secrets. So, in favor of complete confession, he continued, speaking the words that he had never said, “Thank you for coming to me when I was at Küstern and telling me you loved me. I do not know if I would have been able to endure without you. You came even though my father forbid it. I knew then that I could love no one else.”

The memory was distant and cold. The imprisonment after his attempt to escape his father’s tyranny had seemed like the frigid end of the world. His former lover and friend was dead, slain right in front of him, and the future held no prospect but his father’s cane. Prussia had cut through it like a ray of sun through deep fog. He had ordered the guards away, wrapped the young prince in his own traveling coat and spoken the words that Friedrich had never forgotten, “You will survive and prosper because you are destined to be my king and because I love you.” Those words had galvanized him and given him the will to find common ground with his father.

Now, Prussia was looking at him adoringly as he continued, “Whatever you may think of Voltaire, you have been the one and only love of my life.” Prussia was blushing, which was very obvious against his unique skin tone. The albino drew in a deep breath before replying, “I never thought I would love anyone. You are the love of my life.” He echoed the sentiment, though the time frame was vastly differently. Prussia leaned his head welcomingly against the other’s hand, but he continued to speak, “I’ve never wanted anything in my life but you.”

Friedrich felt a smile turn up the corner of his mouth. He countered, “I’m not the only thing. If I remember correctly, you want to control all the German states.” Prussia scoffed, “Fritz, that was just banter. I know it’s impossible.” Continuing to run his hand through the other’s hair, Friedrich replied, “In this moment it is. But in a century or two, it could all be yours. You’re more than just a soldier. You have the skill and the mind for it, mon cher. I know you well enough to know that you do not say what you don’t mean.”

There was an obvious glint of ambition in the albino’s eyes, but he did not voice it. Instead he let his king speak again, “Promise me you’ll pursue your ambitions, even if I am not there with you.” Prussia swallowed whatever he was about to say about the improbability of controlling everything. He could tell that this was not the moment for modesty. He said, “I promise, Fritz. I will.”

With his free hand, the king reached down and took his country’s hand. Prussia’s grip was firm. Neither of them spoke; what had been said was enough. Wordlessly, the albino brought the hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. He then spoke again, “I am going to stay with you tonight, and every night until the end.” He sounded like a knight pledging to keep a vigil and it was comforting. His presence was more familiar than any, and it would be no intrusion for him to remain. So, Friedrich said, “I would like that.” ___________________________________________________________

In the night, the king woke. He looked at his country, who was asleep in his lap. His hand was still resting firmly on the other’s.

He looked incredibly serene asleep. The room was dark, but Prussia stood out as pale and pure as moonlight. It was easy to contemplate him now that Friedrich knew he had found an uneasy peace. Likely, he would mourn. But he would keep his promise and continue.

He felt a heartbeat that felt out of time, followed by another that seemed uneasy. It was not unnerving though. This was the most peace he could feel. He looked at Prussia one more time, memorizing every line and feature. If one sight was to be his last, then he wanted it to be this. As he looked at his country, he slowly closed his eyes and let himself slip away.

#hws prussia #hws fredrick the great #prufritz

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alayne-stonecoldfox · 4 years ago

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What do you think would help make YA female main characters more interesting in comparison to boring ones like Elena Gilbert, Rory Gilmore etc? They’re so flat they make my eyes want to burst and you seem to have a different taste and distance yourself from that trope with the characters you stan. What kind of traits etc and character arc tend to draw you?

uuuuuh gosh this question made me have to think lmao, but GOOD question

I think I like best when a female main character is already a bit of a star?? if that makes sense. I dont (personally) like or relate to the shrinking, shy, wallflower, omg im so awkward and quirky, I wear converse, I like books, why is that boy looking at ME boys never look at ME, character tropes that a lot of female protagonists have. The writers have already shrunk them down. It’s like, this piece of media basically just told me this person is a loser, sometimes even explicitly like ‘Hi, im maddy averagegirlMcOrdinary, 17, and a ...welll... COMplete loser, and this is my life’ like girl bye, I’m not gonna stan a loser, I’d look past you in real life, i’m not reading a whole book on you....

so i guess a lot of it’s about confidence. Elle woods is such a universally loved character because of her confidence, she just exudes self love, and cares for other people and reaches goals on her own merit and THATS something audiences love to see and surprisingly isn’t seen that often considering. Same with Cher from clueless. She has her own plans and carries them out, female protaganists who make things happen rather than things just happen to them tend to be so much less boring. Proactive rather than re-active. Maddy averagegirlMcOrdinary is so busy worrying about what a loser she is and it’s like, girl, solve a real problem. Also both Elle and cher dont actually change a thing or have their life revolve around getting themselves their love interest. It comes along as they’re living their life for themselves, which I think is a great YA novel message.

#maybe would have to probe this more this is a first thoughts kinda answer #Anonymous

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tiesandtea · 4 years ago

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Ahead of Suede’s Galway Arts Festival headliner, Brett Anderson, reflects on fatherhood, ageing, mortality, his first-ever meeting with David Bowie, and why he’ll never write his autobiography.

By Olaf Tyaransen. Published on 22 July 2016.

“The world doesn’t need another bloke from a band writing about himself taking drugs years ago,” he continues. “It’s boring. Such a cliché. I did have a bloody minded idea about writing an autobiography about my early life that ended the day we got signed. I thought that would be an interesting way to do it and leave people hanging a bit thinking, ‘Come on, we want the interesting stuff!’ But me talking about my life as a child and struggling as an adolescent… and stopping just at the part everyone wants. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“I’m terrified of absolutely everything,” declares Brett Anderson. “I can’t go out my front door without being terrified.”

How times change. Back in the early ‘90s, when Anderson was rarely off the front covers of the UK music weeklies, the porcelain-skinned, rake-thin and eminently quotable Suede singer used to be the fearless poster boy for druggy decadence and sexual daring (“I’m a bisexual who has never had a homosexual experience”).

Today, at the ripe old age of 48, the still angular frontman is clean and sober, a married father of two, and a very different sort of rock star. “I think as you become older you become less carefree about life and about your future,” he muses. “When you’re younger you don’t really entertain it as a concept because you think you’re immortal or whatever. I’m not actually sure what you think, if you even have a sense of the future. I certainly didn’t when I was in my twenties and now it’s a different thing. I’ve a family and having a family changes your perspective on things, your own mortality especially, and I think lots of it is fear of death being at the heart of it. That’s probably what a psychologist would say.”

This somewhat fearful worldview is at the black heart of Suede’s darkly poetic, thrillingly orchestral seventh studio album, Night Thoughts. Anderson’s awareness of his own mortality is also reflected on its rather bleak-looking sleeve, which depicts a scantily clad woman floating in an ink-black sea. “Yeah, the sleeve of the album was supposed to be a comment on that,” he says. “You know, the tiny figure lost in the vast indifferent sea, and that’s sometimes how I view life. You are a flicker of light against a huge, consuming, empty universe… and that’s what I wanted to reflect with the sleeve.”

For the most part, despite some exuberantly trashy musical flourishes, the songs are just as dark and gloomy. Not that Anderson is apologising for them. “Well, that’s what I’m here for!” he laughs. “I’m not interested in making jolly music or putting across jolly sentiments. I don’t care. I’ll leave that to other bands, it doesn’t interest me. For me it’s about accessing these primal things that matter, the big questions of life and death and birth and mortality, and those are the things I want to talk about in my music. I don’t feel as though I’ve always done that and there’s been moments in my career where I think I’ve been more flippant, and that’s fine because I think you need that complexity to have a real career, to have a body of work, it can’t be one dimensional, but I think now I want to get to the heart of things.”

The title, Night Thoughts, refers more to this gnawing sense of existential dread than to his preferred time to concentrate on writing song lyrics. “It doesn’t really refer to my writing process, it’s more supposed to be those moments at four o’clock in the morning when the walls seem to be caving in on your life, that primal fear of the night that you have. I don’t kind of get up in the middle of the night. Occasionally I’ll get ideas and scribble them down, but I’m not an insomniac.”

The follow-up to 2013’s excellent comeback Bloodsports (their first since 2002’s poorly received A New Morning, the album that preceded their lengthy hiatus), Suede tried a different approach when writing and recording Night Thoughts. Rather than staying put in London, Anderson and his bandmates – the current line-up comprises Richard Oakes, Neil Codling, Mat Osman and Simon Gilbert – instead decamped to Belgium with absolutely nothing prepared in advance.

“We did, yeah,” he says. “We took a bit of a leap of faith and went into a studio in Brussels and basically just recorded a whole load of music that hadn’t been turned into songs. Doing something like that is quite a risk because it means you might end up with a whole lot of things you don’t use – or can’t use because not every bit of music I’m presented with turns into a Suede song.”

”It was more important to us just to have a different mindset going into this and from very early on we wanted it to be a coherent record rather than a collection of good songs, which basically Bloodsports was,” he continues. “We wanted it to have some unity as an album and we thought that was a good way to do it, go in there and record some music, let it breathe and then I’d sort of go in and arrange the songs around the music, the music would flow. So that was basically the backbone of the album recorded like that. Once I’d written some of the things, and lots of them had worked and some of them hadn’t, we had to go and tinker with it a bit, but that was how the backbone of the record was made.”

Were they up against the clock with this? “Not really, no, I’m never against the clock. It’s always ready when it’s ready, to be honest.” Despite having an orchestra playing on most of the songs... “Oh no! We did the orchestration later,” he explains. “It was just us in the studio. But that’s an interesting idea. Doing something like that would be even more a leap of faith – to hire an orchestra and then have to work around that.

“You have to make yourself less comfortable with what you’re doing. As soon as you start repeating yourself and doing the same things over and over that’s when the music gets boring. You have to always be a little bit concerned about it. You gotta almost always feel that it might not work to keep it exciting.”

On the song ‘What I’m Trying To Tell You’, which written for his young son, Anderson admits that he doesn’t “know the price of anything.” So is he still a pampered popstar? Does he know what a pint of milk costs? “I know exactly what it costs, yeah,” he laughs, “but it depends on what you want. Organic? Semi-skimmed? Ha! No, I don’t have a pampered popstar existence. When Suede broke up, I went through a period of making solo albums and that was very interesting because instead of being in this big machine, a successful band where everything is done for you, you’re out on your own and that was a great learning curve. I did things I’d never done.”

Such as? “I learned to drive and all these sorts of things, and I felt like I was standing on my own two feet,” he explains. “It was such an essential period for me about 10 years ago when I was making solo albums. They weren’t the most successful for me financially, but they were incredibly successful for me personally and I learned a lot about my limits. The pampered popstar thing, you can’t do that when you’ve a family. Suddenly, when there’s kids around, you’re not the most important person in the room and that’s a big lesson you learn from having kids.”

When Anderson and Suede first became famous in the early ‘90s, his most obvious influence was David Bowie. So much so that the NME put them together for a memorable cover shoot modelled on one that Bowie had done with Naked Lunch author William S. Burroughs years earlier. “Well, a couple of times after that, we’d get together and hang out.” Where was he when news of Bowie’s death broke? “I was at home,” he replies. “What can I say? I don’t know if I can really add anything else to it, there’s been so much discussion of his death. It’s a terrible tragedy, it’s a terrible tragedy for music. One of the greatest artists ever. I don’t think we’ll see his type again, I really don’t. Those times have passed and when he died, a type of artist died as well, and that’s very sad. I can’t see how we’d ever find another one of him. It’s impossible.”

British photographer Roger Sargent, who’s best-known for his work with The Libertines, made a feature film to accompany Night Thoughts. When the band toured earlier this year following its launch, they performed from behind a screen on which the movie was projected during the first half of their set. “I sat down with Roger and explained the themes of the record to him – basically birth and death and decaying and ageing,” he explains. “He felt as though he could do something with that. He really wanted to do it because he had been experiencing those things. Bereavement, having a kid… so these big life and death issues were happening to him as well.

“So he thought, ‘I’ve got to do this project, I need to get some of this out of my system’. And the reason we chose him is because it seemed like it was more important to him than just a job. What I wanted to do was let him run with those things, and to express and interpret them in his own way. What I didn’t want to do was sit down over his shoulder and say, ‘No, you’ve got this wrong, this isn’t about this it’s about this or something else.’ “I wanted him to interpret them purely in his own way so sometimes the film runs in parallel to what I’m talking about and at times it drifts off. It’s the story of a man and a terrible tragedy that happens in his life and the consequences of that tragedy. It’s not a literal interpretation of the lyrics of the album but it kind of touches on some of the things.”

Surprisingly for a band with such a cinematic sound, Suede haven’t done much in the way of movie soundtracks. “Well, we did a couple of years ago,” he recalls. “We did the title song for a film called Far From China, which was a bit of a one-off. I’d love to do something like that again, but I’m not sure if we’re seen as the sort of band that do that sort of thing. I always find it confusing how people perceive us but I’d love to do that.

“Cinema was one of the big influences of the album,” he continues. “We’re all big fans of cinema, as is Ed [Buller] the producer. He’s in LA at the moment working on film scores and he’s done stuff with Hans Zimmer, so he’s sort of drifting into that field more. There’s always been that sense to Suede’s music that we wanted it to have some sort of cinematic size.” Buller produced all of Suede’s most successful albums. “He’s kind of an invisible member, in lots of ways. We’ve made our best records with Ed and hopefully we’ll carry on. He always does a really good job.”

Looking back on Suede’s career, can he identify one moment that was the biggest? “There was a really lovely moment in the Royal Albert Hall in 2010 when we reformed, and we played ‘Metal Mickey’ and there was this standing ovation. It was lovely to see all that love after all those years. It was a really wonderful way to come back. That standing ovation was a feeling that I’d be happy to take to the grave.”

When they reformed to play that Albert Hall show, there were no initial plans to carry on. “We were just gonna take it as it came, play the gig, see what happens, how we feel, but it was wonderful and I’m really glad that we did because it’s gone from a band playing all the old hits – which is easy to do, to be honest – to a band that’s been reborn creatively… which isn’t easy to do. The last two records are right up there with what we’ve done in the past, and I’m so pleased because that’s what it’s all about for me, creating new music and not playing the old songs. It’s about evolving as an artist and I think people are interested in what we’re gonna do next; I know I am. I don’t know what path we’re going to go on, or where it’s going to lead us, but I know we’ll do something interesting with the new record.”

Has he ever had a lengthy creative dry spell? “Yeah, doesn’t every writer?” he says. “I don’t really believe in ‘writer’s block’, it’s just a meaningless term. You have to shake yourself up and do something else and come back to it reinvigorated. Writer’s block sounds so permanent and it’s just a temporary state of mind but of course you go through different stages of creativity and every time I start a new record I always think, ‘I don’t know if I can do this again’. “You always have these crises of confidence but that’s almost half the process. All these bad things that you feel, you know, these weird uncertainties, sense of doubt, it’s part of it because, when you overcome it, you get this sense of achievement. It’s very much part of the process, you can’t have the good side of it without the bad side.”

Would Brett Lewis Anderson ever consider writing his autobiography? “No, I don’t think anyone needs to read about me in the ‘90s,” he sighs. “It’s kind of boring, it doesn’t really interest me. If I wrote anything like that it would be short novels or something like that. Bizarrely enough, I’m not particularly self-centred which I’m sure a whole load of people will laugh at or find hard to believe, given my public persona, but I don’t particularly want to write about myself. Maybe I’ll change my mind in 20 years but not now.

Suede headline the Festival Big Top at the Galway Arts Festival on Saturday, July 23 with The Frank and Walters supporting.

#brett anderson #suede #hot press magazine #night thoughts #bloodsports #stumbled upon this interview the other day when raiding the Hot Press website #it's a great long read!#very prophetic about both Coal Black Mornings (hahaha) and The Blue Hour #also nice bits about Bloodsports and Night Thoughts #and a nice mention of the Royal Albert Hall reunion show #also i slightly adapted the formatting of this text for a better reading since the original paragraphs are SO long

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sennalily · 6 years ago

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Reflections from a NaNoWriMo veteran

So I’ve done NaNoWriMo since 2008, and I've won every year. Hilariously, my cumulative word-count from 10 years is 503,605, meaning I've won by an average of 360 words each year - if that isn't precision, I don't know what is.

I thought newer NaNoers might find it interesting to hear my reflections on how to get to 50,000 year after year. It is up to you to decide whether or not 50,000 is your goal, whether it's a sensible goal, and whether it's how you want to write. Ultimately, a NaNo where there are more words on the page at the end of the month than the beginning is a successful NaNo.

Be determined

NaNoWriMo is a huge thing to undertake, and there are times when it just isn't going to feel worth it (somewhere around Day 25). At those times, you just need to feel, through gritted teeth, that you want to see that 'Winner' page and get that purple badge on your profile more than you want...

... sleep.

...to be an interesting conversationalist. (Your brain will be so fried you won't be.)

... to be a good friend. (You will have to decline social events to drag yourself home and write. You will become extremely self-absorbed.)

... to write something good, or even usable. (Seriously, the first year I did NaNo I realised 30,000 words in that my story wasn't really viable, so most of the rest of what I wrote was the MC learning how to do random crap like play the harp, do square dancing, and run a farm. It wasn't good, it wasn't useful, but dangit it got me to 50,360 words.)

Seriously, getting to 50,000 words is an exercise in sheer bloody-mindedness for most of us. Embrace it! Mind over matter/common sense/sleep!

Life will happen

Ultimately, there are some things that trump getting your novel written. One year, my grandfather went into hospital on the 25th of November; the only reason I hit 50,000 that year was because I'd been writing 2,000 words a day so I was already basically there. I certainly wasn't sneaking off from his bedside to get my words done.

There are other things that will make it more difficult, and that you will just have to choose what you want more (see above about determination): 50,000 words or sleep/friends/a life/overtime at work. I've done NaNo when I was unemployed and bored and had nothing else to do. I've done NaNo around university study. I've done NaNo around three different jobs that were different levels of demanding and took up different amounts of my time. Interestingly, the easiest years for NaNo were the ones when I was early in my career, working an office job that wasn't too mentally challenging. NaNo while studying was a bugger, and NaNo while unemployed and broke was surprisingly tough - a certain amount of time constraint forces you to prioritise.

Understand your rhythm

Depending on what's going on in your life, and the kind of writer you are, different things will work for you.

Most years, I've gone with the approach of sitting down every day and writing 1,667 words and not getting up until they're done. One thing I've noticed is that 1,667 is actually a bit of an awkward number of words to write; the first 1,000 words each day are the hardest, while you get back into the mindset. Then you have 700ish fairly fluid words, and then it's done.

Actually, writing on to 2,000 words is often not that much more difficult, and will give you a nice buffer for dramas later in the month. When I was early in my career, I used to write 2,000 words a day, with the goal of getting to 60k over the month (as my lifetime total demonstrates, actually what happened was I hit 50k on the 25th and then clocked off...!) As I've needed more of my mental bandwidth at work, I've moved to an approach of writing 1,000 words a day during the week and catching up on weekends. One year I got two days behind early on and that year was such a grind that I literally had to make that up 100 words at a time over the whole rest of the month. Not a good year.

Speaking of catching up, know how much you can realistically catch up. My wordiest day ever was 6,200 words so I'm not the kind of person who could sprint out 10,000 words in a day to catch up if I got a long way behind. In fact, in general 5,000 is pretty much my max in a day. So if you're like me, you need to be disciplined and not get too far behind; whereas if you can bang out 10,000 words in a day then you can be a bit more relaxed about that.

Planning out your story does make life easier and results in more usable stuff.

Planning during NaNo is hard because you're tired and you always feel like you should be writing. If you can force yourself to, plan out (or at least have a sketch in your head) the plot you need for all 50,000 words before you go in.

... That said, I usually don't do that. Because I am not a planner.

Don't expect to (always) write something good

Look, at some point you're going to get home late from work, bang out 1666 words that are crap and you know they are. It's going to happen. Make peace with it. (I've often gone back much later and found passages I wrote in the depths of NaNo that were surprisingly non-terrible - so maybe it's more accurate to say you should suspend judgement about whether it's good.)

If you do Word Sprints, then you're going to find yourself writing 600 word blocks that are detailed descriptions of buildings, or long musings from your character, that stop the action completely and will bore readers.

Sometimes you're going to write off the end of your plot and not have enough energy to figure out exactly what should happen next, but it's 10pm and you've only written 500 words and you need to go to bed, so just make some crap up and accept that it might get deleted in the next edit.

If you decide to write historical fiction or something else that requires a lot of research... come to terms with the fact that things are going to be wrong. That is what editing is for. If you're the kind of person who needs to get things right, let yourself research (it'll just drive you crazy if you don't), but know when to call time, leave yourself a **CHECK** flag, and move on.

Edit if you must... but don't delete ANYTHING

It's good advice to 'fire your inner editor' for NaNo, but if your inner editor is like mine, that little bugger has tenure, and she's not going to be quiet. So if you have to edit, let yourself edit! I hate the feeling of leaving bits behind me I know are wrong because the direction of the plot has changed, or I need to introduce something sooner, etc. So I let myself edit.

BUT. First, accept that time spent editing is time you're not churning out words. Everything has a price! So edit enough to scratch that itch, then get back to writing.

AND. Create a separate folder in your project, or word doc, or chapter at the end, and copy/paste everything you delete into there. Those are still words that you wrote in November - you earned those words! Sometimes I've got to the point around the 28th of November where I am literally copy/pasting single words I've deleted from the main text into my 'deleted stuff' document.

Be a rebel

The traditional NaNoWriMo is to attempt to write a fresh, 50,000 original novel from beginning to end in a month. I've literally never done that. I've done a few years where I wrote the first 50,000 words of a longer novel, one year where I wrote the second 50,000 words of a novel, one year where I wrote a 30,000 word novella and then 20,000 words on a different project, one year when I took a second run at a NaNovel from a previous year (this is not as easy as it sounds), several years where I interleaved working on existing projects with writing my main NaNo story, etc.

If the traditional approach works for you, great! But if you're 25,000 words in and your story is just sort of over, wrap it up and start something new. Or if you're getting sick of the thought of your MCs, take a few days on something else.

Be social

The years when I've had the most fun doing NaNo (and the writing has felt easiest) have been the years when I've got into the community, going to Write-Ins, socials, etc. You can get a surprising amount of writing done sitting in a cafe, and wanting to be able to tell people at the TGIO that you got your 50k is a powerful motivator to keep going. The years where I haven't got so into the social aspect because I've been busy or just haven't clicked with the crowd, have been less enjoyable on many levels.

Have fun

Seriously. Write something you'd enjoy reading. Don't go in thinking you're going to write the Great [Nationality] Novel. You might end up doing that! But what's going to get you through the month is writing something you enjoy because it's silly, funny, dramatic, dark, romantic, etc, or write the thing you've been wanting to write for years. My two best NaNos were the year I wrote the story that had been in my head since I was ten years old... and the year I wrote a silly romance novel structured around my favourite Gilbert and Sullivan songs.

For me, doing NaNo has given my 50365 words I wouldn’t have had otherwise, wonderful friendships, a sense of myself as a writer, and stories I’ve been able to share and that have found an audience: Philomena, The Crown’s Price, The Forest’s Heart, The Time-Traveller’s Choice and In spite of all temptation were all at least part-written during NaNoWriMo, along with many other stories that have yet to (and may never) see the light of day.

Ultimately, the 50,000 is a target. If you get there, great! If you don't, oh well, at least you have more words! If getting that purple badge is your goal, I hope the above is helpful. Other veteran NaNoers, what are your tips for getting onto the Winner's page by 30 November?

#nanowrimo #national novel writing month #writeblr #writetip #writing advice #wattpad

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