#Then block that artist/writer move on with my life and forget they even exist

[glamgalasaga]

That last addition, this is important to note. I've been lurking on Pixiv and JP/KR/CN twitter for a long time, so remember this very well: CP IN JP/KR/CN/etc. FANDOM SHIPPING CONTEXT MEANS "COUPLE", NOT GODDAMN CSEM

Ngl, I know very well what that abbreviation means in JP/KR/CN twitter and Pixiv, but holy shit, it never fails to give me heart attacks knowing that some North American cuntfuck might probably go apeshit and harrass East-Asian artists for using CP (COUPLE) as a term for discussing ships

East Asian fanartists are starting to migrate back to Tumblr because Twitter is insane, toxic, and dying, and what we're NOT going to do is let the fucking exclusionists get them, do you hear me? We are not going to let a bunch of feral idiots try to apply the most myopic version of puritanism to foreign artists we're not we're not we're not. Form an armed brigade if you have to, do you hear me. We're not going to bully the artists who may or may not even speak English because we have our precious standards of moral purity. If we see art that makes us uncomfy we're going to block the artist and tumblr savior their name so we don't have to see them again AND WE'RE GONNA MOVE THE FUCK ON.

[thesaltminesrph]

PSA: Be Upfront

Communication is important in RP.

Now, to preface, I am not going to use the really awful phrase "it's a hobby not a jobby" because this is a really sketch take on what is important to people. You can have a hobby mean a lot to you, be you a collector, a gardener, someone that builds model airplanes, a writer, an artist, etc. Those are all hobbies, and the fruits of your labor are NOT only valuable to you and others if you are paid for them. This saying implies that should you never be a published author, never have a painting sell, never do something that can be sold or have a time clock punched, it doesn’t at all matter. It’s a really discouraging thing to be telling people, quite honestly. I have multiple hobbies outside of RP. Kind of really sucks to see constantly they don’t matter because nobody pays me for what I do. I know I’m not the only one who has said this, but the majority aren’t willing to say it amongst the clamoring of ‘rp isn’t a job’ because then you get people jumping down your throat. Hear me out though! I’m not done.

“BUT I HAVE REAL LIFE!”

Yes! So do we all! We all have problems, and things to take care of. The RPC is littered with people with mental illness, neurodivergence, chronic physical illness (I hit all three categories multiple times, LUCKY ME!). Do not, I repeat, do not ever feel like you need to put RP before: bills, marriage/children/other relationships, your health. Literally, do not have your takeaway from this post be these are secondary to your hobby. They are not. Do not get evicted because you were too busy doing RP at your desk at work, that’s just plain dumb af.

You owe people decency means:

-if you can only do aesthetic posts this week because you are low on writing spoons, that’s fine

-if you had work/health/mother-in-law take over you life this week and you literally didn’t have time to log-in even though you wanted to, that’s fine

-if you are sick in bed and can’t bother to write, that’s fine

What it also means:

-dropping what was supposedly a years long ooc friendship because the other mun isn’t dropping their current muse for you and following you into a different fandom ‘because they’re now boring’ and telling them as much in a message...is shitty behavior.

-daily reblogging multiple memes that people are sending in to you, your wire, your discord, ignoring both those and messages to plot, then whining on the dash that no one wants to write with you (also known as trying to guilt trip interaction, obviously you only wanted it from one specific person not the people actively engaging you)...is shitty behavior.

-claiming you’re open for plots and memes, then only replying to the one or two people consistently for 6 months...is shitty behavior.

Again, in case it wasn’t clear- it’s your blog, it’s your life, it’s your health. That’s not in question.

HOWEVER- be upfront and give people some honesty! What do I mean by that?

If it’s feasible, post that you need a writing break, even if it’s going to be indefinite. Take as many fucking breaks as you need to for your physical and mental health to be the best they can be (I’m not going to say great, as I know what it’s like to just have a ‘good’ health day mean ‘it’s less shit than it could be’).

But if the situation is really you only want to write with these one or two people, just say so! It’s your blog, you’re allowed to decide you’re closed for plots, asks, etc. Just don’t lead people on. Don’t say something and mean something else. Don’t keep reblogging your promo and really you don’t want to write,  and you don’t plan on taking on new mutuals, and don’t plan on replying to dms or threads from anyone else.

I’ll repeat it a little differently to be sure it’s clear- you dictate your activity level and number of mutuals, when you answer asks, threads, etc. This should be at a level that is suited for you and your life, health, etc.

BUT when you engage in RP you are involving someone else’s free time with yours, and it is not fair to them to act like they do not matter. You have involved someone else. Until you disengage from them, be courteous.

I’ll give you an example. When you ask for that starter on both your dash, then DMs, and act super hyped, getting the other mun excited for it, and then they put the time and effort into writing it up and posting it for you, expecting a reply? Only for you to go and make new blogs and immediately ditch that muse without a heads-up? That’s not really fair to the other mun. You communicated you wanted to write this, you hyped them up, they spent their time and writing spoons on your starter...and then you told them other people were more exciting and a better use of your time.

“BUT I DIDN’T TELL THEM THAT!”

Okay, so you didn’t message them ‘Hey loser, your starter sucked, your muse is boring, and honestly, a different fandom is better! Bye!’ But your actions sure give that impression, and unless you communicate otherwise, it’s a shitty move.

Now yes, sometimes you genuinely forget a starter was written because you thought it was drafted and it wasn’t, dumblr is an ass and loses your draft and then you forgot it, something came up that day and bumped it from your mind, etc. NONE OF THESE ARE WHAT I AM REFERRING TO. I have ADHD, object permanence is the thing my brain does where often unless it’s directly in front of my face, it doesn’t exist, until I find it again. I’m aware these things happen, as are most muns, and we don’t mind! Hell, we usually have in our rules “hey if it’s been a hot minute and we haven’t replied to this, feel free to give us a little nudge to see if it’s been lost” because we all know between brains and dumblr’s everlasting fuckery...shit gets lost.

I’m talking about those times where you just up and leave someone hanging without communication. I’m also not saying it might even be on purpose. What I’m saying is you should consider how other muns feel when you do this, and if you cannot avoid it, at least communicate with them.

“Hey, I’m just no longer going to be writing this muse. Sorry I had you write that starter. Do you want to try something with this new one? This is where my brain is at right now.” “Hey I really can’t be online this month thanks to fill-in-the-blank but I do still want to write when I am able.” “Hey, I see you sent in that ask. I’m only interested in this one ship, and I won’t be taking on new threads, but you’re welcome to follow and maybe I’ll take on new threads later. I’m just writing with these two people right now.”

Communication is something that is a requirement in a collaborative hobby.

I know it can be scary. I know the mentality ‘well they reblogged that meme but it’s not for me, I know they said they want to plot but they don’t mean me’, but you really have to get past that when you roleplay to be fair to other people.

Spoiler alert: the examples of shitty behavior further above are what help feed this ‘that post/meme isn’t for me’ mentality, when you do those things you’re fostering people’s anxiety and rejection sensitivity...just saying.

If someone gets mad at you for communicating with them, they’re a shitty person and block them. Literally if someone has a problem with you for trying to start something, especially as mutuals, you’re losing nothing by not writing with them. Find nicer people. So don’t  be afraid to communicate you can’t write currently, you need a break, you’re only writing with these certain people. And don’t be afraid to send in the meme. I promise you, the right people appreciate courteous communication. The ones that don’t...

Again, no one is saying put your life on hold for RP, you’re never allowed to narrow your scope, you’re supposed to always have writing spoons, you need to produce five replies a day or you’re wrong, you always need to log-in to communicate you had a family emergency/depressive episode/etc.

What I am saying, is if you are capable of communicating, respect the time and energy of your fellow muns who may also be very low on spoons and free time themselves, and be honest about where you are at when it comes to taking on new threads, new asks, new partners, etc. Treat others how you want to be treated, and consider you probably wouldn’t like being on the receiving end of the behaviors I’ve described. If you need to be on the clock being paid to be a nice person...please re-evaluate.

[zillennial97]

Enemies to Lovers | Larry Fanfic Recs

Walk That Mile by purpledaisy | 149k | Explicit

Harry stares at him, the line of his jaw standing out scarily. “I wanted to get the most out of this trip so I planned it carefully.” His voice is low and steady and somehow that’s worse than when he was yelling. “So far, you’ve put your sticky fingers on everything I’ve tried to do.”

“Sticky fingers?” Louis repeats, offended. “Are you saying it’s my fault you got stung by a bee? Had you been alone you would have gotten halfway to the Dotty Diner and ran the car off the road because of an allergic reaction, so don’t go blaming me.”

“Polk-A-Dot Drive In,” Harry spits before getting out of the car. He slams the door shut with a deafening reverb and Louis rolls his eyes.- A Route 66 AU where falling in love was never part of the plan.

Unbelievers by isthatyoularry | 136k | Explicit

It’s Louis’ senior year, and he’s dead set on doing it right. However, along with his pair of cleats, a healthy dose of sarcasm and his ridiculous best friend, he’s also got a complicated family, a terrifyingly uncertain future, and a mortal enemy making his life just that much worse. Mortal enemies “with benefits” was not exactly the plan.

Or: The one where Louis and Harry definitely aren’t friends, and football is everything.

we're not friends, we could be anything by nooelgallagher, yoursongonmyheart | 115k | Explicit

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. “What that supposed to be a fucking joke?”

Harry narrows his eyes right back. “It was a good joke.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Jokes require laughter, Curls.” Louis glances down at Harry’s thighs again, Christ. “Your pants must be so tight they’re restricting airflow to your brain.”

Harry wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead. “Pretty sure yoga is supposed to increase airflow, blood flow, and all that,” he responds dryly, finally jumpstarting himself and walking away from Louis towards his own bedroom.

Louis can’t help but stare at his broad back, still sheen with drying sweat, and his perky bum in the tight yoga pants.

Louis swallows. Christ.

...Or, the one where Harry and Louis are unlikely uni flatmates who definitely don't like each other and definitely won't fall in love (even if Liam and Niall think otherwise).

Our Lives, Non-Fiction by indiaalphawhiskey | 113k | Explicit

Heralded as the next Neil Gaiman, Louis Tomlinson does not appreciate being told that his very serious novel is in dire need of a PR boost. Even worse, that it comes in the form of a joint book tour with the UK’s #1 online romance-writing sensation Marcel Styles. Already turbulent at best, their partnership takes a drastic turn when, overly stressed about his looming deadline, Marcel accidentally blurts out a secret: though he’s famed for his scorching hot literary love scenes, he is, actually, a virgin.

Convinced that the only way to rid himself of writer’s block is to gain some experience, Marcel asks Louis, author-to-author, to sleep with him – for Science. And of course Louis agrees because, well, what on Earth could possibly go wrong?

Or, a lesson in romance that proves that sometimes the best love stories aren’t always by the book.

Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can't Lose by dolce_piccante | 112k | Mature

American Uni AU. Harry Styles is a frat boy football star from the wealthy Styles Family athletic dynasty. A celebrity among football fans, he knows how to play, he knows how to party, and he knows how to fuck (all of which is well known among his legion of admirers).

Louis Tomlinson is a student and an athlete, but his similarities to Harry end there. Intelligent, focused, independent, and completely uninterested in Harry’s charms, Louis is an anomaly in a world ruled by football.

A bet about the pair, who might be more similar than they originally thought, brings them together. Shakespeare, ballet, Disney, football, library chats, running, accidental spooning, Daredevil and Domino’s Pizza all blend into one big friendship Frappucino, but who will win in the end?

Dance to the Distortion by Lis (domesticharry) | 96k | Explicit

Louis accidentally breaks Harry's camera lens and in order to get it fixed, they decide to participate in a romantic couples study. The only issue is that they are not actually couple. Well that and the fact they cannot stand each other.

You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) by lucythegoosey | 95k | Explicit

Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.

Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.

One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.

Or: Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.

The Sidelines by RedRidingStiles | 47k | Explicit

"Alright, I know you guys are the best of friends but I'd like you to do this for the rest of the team,” Cowell says, making the rest of the team snicker. "So I want both of you to compliment each other." "I hate your trainers. I mean that in the nicest way possible. They're very...yellow," Louis says, arms crossed as he offers a fake close-lipped grin. "It's really nice of you to blow anyone you find slightly attractive," Harry replies, a sickening sweet smile on his lips. "Thank you, children, let me remind you this is a college hockey team. Try again," Coach says, completely unamused.

Or Harry and Louis play hockey for Penn state and can't stand one another, since they can't keep their hatred off the ice their coach and team do what they can to keep their hard earned spot in the playoffs and their two star players from killing each other

Wonderwall by AFangirlFantasy | 43k | General Audiences

Taking the sheet cluttered with times available for the next few weeks, Louis notices a pattern in the list. The name of the person Perrie had just mentioned: Harry Styles. It’s written at least seven times, and three of which are during timeframes Louis wants.

“Who the fuck is Harry Styles?”

“You’re about to find out,” she answers, pointing over Louis’ shoulder.

Or a Love/Hate College AU where Louis Tomlinson is the lead singer of The Rogue - the most popular band on campus - and Harry Styles is the talented Freshman unknowingly challenging all that.

All the Right Moves by cherrystreet | 32k | Explicit

This is the third game in a row that Harry has been distracted by the noisy boy in the stands, five rows back.

There’s really no reason that he should feel compelled to stare into the audience as frequently as he is, but he can’t help it. This boy is a nuisance. And he’s loud. Even from basketball court with nine other players running by him, shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood floor, and thousands of cheering college students, Harry can hear this boy nearly shrieking, his laugh more like a cackle than anything.

It’s seriously obnoxious.

Nicotine by KrisStylinson | 32k | Explicit

"We're two different types of people, Liam. He likes sex and drugs, I like theater and tea. Trust me, we'd never date." Except they would, they do, and neither of them plans on letting go anytime soon.

"Just because you can get me hard doesn't mean I like you," Louis whispered. The fact was, he didn't like Harry right now, not at all. Not even a bit.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry murmured, his breath fanning over Louis' cock as he spoke. "You done telling me how much you hate me so I can suck you off?"

Like Candy In My Veins by littlelouishiccups | 31k | Explicit

“Um…” Harry said slowly after a moment. “Okay. That’s… this is… Let me get this straight.” He lifted up a hand and swallowed. “You told your family that you have a boyfriend… and my name was the first one you thought of?” “Harry Potter was on TV, alright? It wasn’t that much of a stretch.” Louis pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t believe he was explaining himself to Harry fucking Styles. He couldn’t believe he was stooping this low. “Forget it. I’m sorry I even thought about bringing you into this.”

Harry snorted. “What? Did you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend or something?”

(Basically the A/B/O, enemies to lovers, fake relationship, Christmas AU that nobody asked for.)

We're Like Bumper Cars by sincehewaseighteen | 31k | Explicit

“I have won, I won the final cross country. I win, Harry--”

“Whoever gets to fucking nationals wins it, pretty boy,” Harry teases. “You haven’t won. Interhouse is nothing compared to nationals, or interstate. You haven’t even won interschool. You can dream all you fucking want that you’ve won.”

Louis becomes so ignorant he decides to no longer eye the boy taunting him. “Trophies prove it all, Styles.”

“Where’s your trophy for biggest asshole?”

“Where’s yours for winning cross country?”

Harry growls before hooking his fingers in Louis’ belt loops and bringing them together for a flat kiss.

Or the AU where Louis and Harry are rivals of the century and Cross Country competitors before things get complicated and they play pretend.

After Hours by Velvetoscar for shipsdrifting | 26k | Not Rated

Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are the bane of each other's existences. Unfortunately, they're already in love--even if they aren't completely aware of this minor detail.

[A "You've Got Mail" AU]

When It's Late At Night by Rearviewdreamer | 25k | Mature

Louis has zero interest in an ex-boybander turned solo artist when his appearance on the show gets announced, but that's exactly who he gets stuck with when Harry Styles shows up at the Late Late show to promote the release of his debut album. For an entire fucking week.

Or

The Late Late prompt that we all need to get through this excruciatingly hard time.

Love Me Please by angelichl | 23k | Explicit

Louis hates Harry, which is fine because he would really rather prefer to avoid him at all costs.

The only problem?

They're soulmates.

runnin' like you did by orphan_account | 20k | Explicit

“Should we tell him?”

When Lauren is met with everyone either nodding their heads or shrugging, she takes a deep breath. “I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious by now.” She stalls, sounding ominous and Louis doesn’t like it one bit.

“What is obvious by now?” Louis asks. He’s starting getting anxious. “I swear to God, spit it out. Stop being so damn cryptic.”

“I—We think it’s pretty obvious that you’re in love with Harry,” she states simply and shrugs as if she isn’t telling him he’s in love with the second—Nick being the first—most annoying person on the planet.

or, a college au where Louis knows how to hold a grudge and is definitely not in love with Harry Styles

Three French Hems by 100percentsassy, gloria_andrews | 20k | Mature

In which Louis is a designer at Burberry and Harry spends December wearing Lanvin… and Lanvin… and Lanvin.

once bitten and twice shy by pinkcords | 19k | Mature

This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”

Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended.

That's How I Know by allwaswell16 | 19k | Explicit

Louis Tomlinson has just landed his dream job, coaching soccer at Augustus University. When he moves into a new house near campus, he meets his very fit new neighbor, English professor Harry Styles. Although their first meeting leads to an instant mutual dislike, the more Harry gets to know Louis, the more he likes what he sees.

Or the one where Harry’s African grey parrot spills his dirty secrets to his very hot neighbor.

Get Off of My Cloud by Marora_Daris | 9k | Explicit

Harry is the most annoying neighbour that sexually frustrated Louis could have. Niall decides it's a good idea to handcuff them together.

Featuring guinea pigs, animal print leggings and inappropriate boners.

Erase My History, (Expo)se Me by BayouSexual, pacificrimjob for Edandcurly | 6k | Teen And Up Audiences

“My hair does not smell like strawberries.”

Louis blinks up at Mr. Styles. “I never said your hair smells like strawberries. How would I even know that?” Harry’s hair does smell like strawberries, Harry himself smells like strawberries, everyone who’s been within three feet of him knows this. ~~~~~~~~ Or the one where Harry and Louis both teacher history, their students think they should date, and one pink dry-erase marker is trying to ruin their lives (with a little help of course).

[witcherslittledove]

Life's a Bitch

For @jaskiersbow as part of @thewitcherbog RPF exchange! - AO3

Ship: Joey/Henry (with a side of Joey/Kal)

A lockdown fic.... but with more dog fucking.

CW: RPF, Bestiality, Dead Dove: do not eat, masturbation, Joey has a small cock, multiple orgasms, knotting, accidental voyeurism

_

Lockdown was a bitch.

It wasn’t like Joey was a particularly sociable person, but the one thing really did enjoy was sex. He was no stranger to one night stands, getting far too drunk at the club and falling into bed with whoever took his fancy. Having sex with strangers was easy, especially when he was too drunk to care what they might think about him, about his dick. It wasn’t exactly average, and he’d been laughed at one too many times by people he cared about, so now he had a habit of pushing people away before he could get hurt.

Henry was no exception.

Sweet, kind, loving Henry, who had offered Joey a place to stay when the electrical mains had blown in the flat he shared with Madeleine. Gorgeous, filmstar, sexiest man alive Henry, who just happened to be Joey’s biggest crush.

So, despite the fact he was desperately horny, Joey kept his co-star at a distance. Preferring, instead, to cuddle up to Kal or spend hours locked away in his room composing, or trying to compose at the very least. He really didn’t want to admit how many hours he actually spent reading porn with his fingers up his arse. Honestly, the amount of lube he’d gotten through the last few weeks was just embarrassing.

There were moments when he thought that maybe, just maybe, Henry fancied him back. The soft smiles when they danced around each other in the kitchen in the mornings, the lingering glances across the room when they were watching Netflix in the evenings, or even the rather romantic walks with Kal at dawn.

But he couldn’t risk it, not when he had to spend the next seven odd years working with Henry. If they were lucky anyway, god, he hoped it would be that long. Lauren wouldn’t kill off Jaskier, would she?

Nah…

He was fine. Dandelion was integral to Geralt’s development in the series. Joey just had to have faith that Lauren saw that too.

Of course, there was a niggly feeling at the back of Joey’s head, an anxiety that said this stupid bloody pandemic would never end and he’d never get to perform again. He kept wondering whether he should just give up, get another job; something stable.

He sighed, running both hands through his hair as he collapsed back onto the bed, his guitar abandoned on the floor. Lockdown wasn’t the most inspiring of events, but he had to be productive. It was the only way he was getting through his boredom, that and far too much gin and wine. He smiled at that, Henry had been terrible for encouraging his love of gin and tonic, the pair of them spending most evenings lost at the bottom of the bottle.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t keeping Henry at as much of a distance as he should have been, but a broken heart would definitely fix his lack of inspiration. There was no better cure for writer’s block than a broken heart. Any artist could tell you that.

Until then Joey supposed he would just continue to be unbearably horny and get through too much lube.

He had nothing better to do.

Groaning, he leaned over to grab the bottle he kept in the drawer, and then hastily unzipped his jeans. It didn’t take long for his cock to get hard, teasing strokes along his length as he fell into the memory of Henry working out that morning, biceps bulging in the dark blue tank top, tanned skin glistening with sweat in the sun. Thick curls fell in front of Henry’s eyes, sticking to his forehead, and he winked -sort of- as he noticed Joey watching from the doorway. Joey wanted to lick every inch of Henry’s skin, lavishing him in kisses and hickies until there was no denying who he belonged to, then he wanted Henry to ruin him; fuck him against whatever surface they could find, strong arms lifting him up against the wall. Joey could ride him until his legs started to shake, Henry thrusting up into him until he couldn’t remember his own name.

God, he wanted it all.

Henry’s lips around his cock, never judging him or complaining, but loving him, loving his cock.

Sparks flew in front of Joey’s vision and he cried out as he came, spilling into his hand. The pleasure crashed over him, leaving him boneless as he fell back onto the bed with a blissful sigh, happy to bask in the haze of his orgasm and forgetting that it was all just a fantasy.

Until the door burst open and Joey was suddenly bombarded with a faceful of fur as Kal bounded into the room. It was mortifying. Joey was still covered in cum and lube, and now he had to try and force Henry’s giant hound onto the floor, but if Kal didn’t want to do something it was incredibly difficult to get him to behave. He was just so fucking heavy.

“Okay, that’s enough now, boy,” Joey mumbled, his face burning hot and he wondered if he could just die there, never having to show his face again.

Kal’s fur was already sticky with the mess of lube and cum, and Joey really didn’t want to have to explain that to Henry.

It was fine. He could pull Kal into the bathroom, nothing a flannel wouldn’t clean off. Henry never needed to know…

“Oh fuck, shit, Kal. No!” Joey stammered as the dog started to lick at his hand, dangerously close to his cock. “No, no, no. No!”

Kal ignored him, continuing to lick up the mess on Joey’s hand, before nuzzling against his cock, and holy shit, it had been so long since someone else had touched him. Despite the fact he’d just cum, Joey felt a whole new wave of arousal flood his body and his cock twitched pathetically, trying to get hard.

“Fuck,” Joey groaned, knowing he should be disgusted but he was just so fucking horny that he was struggling to keep a good grasp on reality.

And Kal really didn’t care that Joey’s cock was small even when hard.

Joey whined and closed his eyes, letting the dog lap messily at his dick. He was already so sensitive from his first orgasm but it felt so fucking good, and as long as he was already there and trapped by Kal, he might as well enjoy it. Every lap of Kal’s tongue sent fireworks through him, and Joey couldn’t help the needy whimpers that escaped his lips, his own hands running up inside his shirt to play with his nipples. It didn’t take long until he was hard again, panting and on the edge of a second orgasm.

“Joey?”

“Oh fucking cock!” Joey cursed and tried, to no avail, to push Kal off him

The door.

Kal had rushed into the room leaving the door wide open behind him.

“I- it’s… shit!” Joey stammered, trying to find an excuse that just didn’t exist.

He was caught. Life as he knew it was over. Henry would turn him into the police and he would never work again, all because he’d been too horny to stop Kal from licking his cock. It wasn’t as if he’d meant to do it. There was no pre-meditation and he hadn’t sought out the dog… but he’d enjoyed it?

“Kal, come here,” Henry’s voice was firm, and unfairly hot given the situation.

Despite his now flagging erection, Joey still wanted to climb the man like a tree. He was weak. He was desperate. He probably needed therapy.

Shit.

“I’m sorry, Joey,” Henry mumbled, sounding… ashamed?

Joey frowned, covering himself with a pillow as he sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry? You just… Kal… Me?”

“I didn’t know he’d- I should have told you to lock the door.”

Henry was blushing, and he really did look apologetic, like he was the fucked up one in this situation. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He should be angry, yelling, phoning the police, not apologising.

“Henry? What exactly are you apologising for?” Joey asked cautiously, chewing at his bottom lip. There was a flutter of hope in his chest that maybe, just maybe, he was the only one.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Darling, you just caught me getting my cock licked by your dog. I think we’re beyond boundaries now. I- You should hate me?”

“You should hate me. It’s my fault. I- I trained him to- to-”

Joey felt his eyes widening as he processed Henry’s words. Not only was he not disgusted at what he’d witnessed… he’d practically been the reason for it.

“Holy shit.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Holy shit!” Joey whined, scrambling off the bed to get closer to his crush who had just somehow got impossibly hotter.

“Joey, please.”

“I liked it.”

“What?”

“Kal, I- I liked it, and- umm, well… I like you too,” Joey admitted with a bashful smile, “and you did interrupt so… you could always join in?”

Henry’s face flew through a million different expressions until he seemed to finally understand what Joey was saying. A dangerous smile fell into place and they crashed together in a heated kiss, hands tearing at each other’s clothes, their shared shame fueling the passion until it was scorching every cell in their bodies. Teeth clashed, noses bumped, breaths intermingled, the taste of coffee dancing on Joey’s tongue.

And when Henry’s hand wrapped around Joey cock, he felt like he had died and gone to heaven. He waited for the comments to come, a raised eyebrow or something, anything… but Henry didn’t seem to care that his hand dwarfed Joey’s cock considerably. All his fears had been for nought. He whined and just kissed Henry with even more fervour.

“Fuck, Henry,” he moaned as Henry’s fingers stroked the length of his cock.

The bastard just chuckled, pulling back to press their foreheads together. “Ever taken a knot?”

“W-what? No?”

“Do you want to?” Henry asked, his fingers moving to tease Joey’s rim, the sensation making Joey keen.

“I- fuck, yes. Jesus Christ! You’re trying to kill me....”

“Get on the bed,” Henry instructed, then whistled at the dog who had been sitting rather patiently by the doorway.

Joey did as he was told, pulling off the last of his clothes before crawling back onto the bed, eagerly awaiting whatever new delights that Henry had in store. Smirking, he watched as Henry stripped down, looking like a fucking god, and Christ, the size of his cock… Joey might never walk again.

But that wasn’t what really caught his attention. No, Henry had Kal by the scruff of his neck and was pulling him up onto the bed to join them. It didn’t take Kal long to understand what his owner was asking of him, and he happily let Henry guide him, his own long pink cock unsheathed.

“Fuck,” Joey breathed as he stared, transfixed as everything he knew about himself was suddenly turned upside down.

He wanted this… badly. He hadn’t just enjoyed the mindless lapping at his cock because he was horny. Fuck, no, it was more than that. He wanted it. The thought of Kal fucking him made his cock ache and he was sure he’d never been quite so aroused in all his life.

“Good?” Henry asked, tilting his head.

“Uh huh. Yup, very…”

“Good,” Henry murmured before capturing Joey’s lips in another kiss.

There was a click of the lube bottle, and he hissed as Henry’s finger pushed inside him. “More,” he whined, “I can take more. I- already…”

Henry growled, and in the next thrust, he was two fingers deep inside Joey, his lips moving to attack Joey’s neck. Teeth grazed against Joey’s skin, fire burning in his lungs as he tried to catch his breath, another hand wrapped around his cock.

“I- I, fuck!”

“God, you’re perfect.” Henry’s words caught in Joey’s neck, his collarbone, his chest. “You fit so beautifully in my hand.”

Joey keened as Henry’s thumb ran along the head of his cock, the words tingling over his skin. “Please, Henry.”

“Shh, I’ve got you.”

Another finger slid inside him, the stretch a delicious burn that soon gave way to pleasure as Henry attentively opened him up, murmuring praise with every thrust of his fingers. His deep rich voice the bassline to the melody of Joey’s gasps and moans that filled the room.

“There you go, good boy, come on Kal. He’s ready for you,” Henry finally said.

“Oh, oh cock!” Joey panted, biting against his own hand to try and stop himself from cumming.

They were doing this.

Fucking mother of god, they were really doing this.

Henry’s strong arms scooped him off the bed, flipping him with ease and guiding him onto all fours. He whined, fingers gripping at the already filthy sheets, head dropped forward so he could see his own cock red and leaking onto the bed. Kal’s nose was cold against his skin, but Henry didn’t let him sniff for too long.

“Up boy, come on,” Henry coaxed.

The weight of the dog almost had Joey collapsing back down onto the bed. Pain seared down his spine as the claws dug into his skin, but fuck he wanted more. He needed more, everything that he could get. Joey could do little more than close his eyes and hold on as Kal rutted against him, frantic and desperate until finally, oh god, finally, his cock pushed inside.

It felt strange, different to any other cock Joey had taken before, reminding Joey of just how filthy this was, forbidden, disgusting and yet so fucking good. Kal fucked like a man possessed, desperate, ruthless, uncaring, and Joey felt tears prick in his eyes. He needed to cum, already so exhausted and oversensitive, but yet he felt like he might explode if he didn’t cum again. He vaguely heard his own voice babbling, pleading, begging, Henry's voice a constant low growl in his ear, stroking and pulling at his hair.

He felt so full, and it was only getting worse with every thrust until he finally felt the pressure of Kal’s knot teasing at his hole.

Fuck.

Henry hadn’t been kidding.

He whined, hand desperately reaching out until felt Henry’s fingers lace with his own.

“So fucking, full,” he gasped.

“You’re doing so well, Joey, almost there.”

“Fuck!” he cried as the knot finally pushed inside him, the dog cumming harder and longer than any human. With just a single touch to his cock, Joey’s own orgasm burst through him, spilling over Henry’s hand as he struggled to stay upright, the energy draining from him.

“That’s it, well done,” Henry murmured and Joey wasn’t sure if he was talking to Joey or to Kal.

Kal continued to rut against him, working the cum deeper and deeper, leaving Joey to whimper pitifully as he hung off the dog’s knot, unable to move. By the time the knot finally released him, Joey was a mess, whining against Henry’s chest, covered in cum; Kal’s, his own, Henry’s. He felt thoroughly used and fucked out, dozing quite contently in Henry’s arms.

So maybe lockdown wasn’t quite so bad after all.

[ladyxxdaydream]

a year-in-review meme - for writers!

I thought up this writing meme for fic writers who might have been staring at the artists having their lovely and well-deserved collages of their work through the year - and wanted to join in the fun! also this works as a great reminder for those of you (and me) who’ve been thinking that they haven’t been writing as much as they want to, and allows you to go back to enjoy your old fic ;D

Rules: pick your favourite sentence from a work you posted / wrote during a month of 2020! if you didn’t write anything in any particular month, don’t worry! tell us what you were doing or use it as free space for runner-up sentences. after that, tag 8 people or more to do the meme!

That being said, here’s mine:

Tagged by: @rikacain !!

I’m tagging -- @flailinginlove @aviss @kiitsvne @stupidbadgers and @tea-blitz who doesn’t use tumblr anymore but WHATEVER. and anyone else who wants to do it! <3

~~~

JAN: (from Heavy Weight)

“Iruka felt Kakashi’s eye on him. Most people feared the Sharingan, and for good reason, but Iruka feared his real eye, his own eye. It had a way of seeing straight past Iruka’s defenses, no dōjutsu required, and deep into his soul.“

FEB: (from Old Pine)

“Do you want children?” Iruka asked, feeling like the timing was right.

Kakashi was quiet for a few moments. Iruka had learned to read Kakashi’s silences for what they were. It wasn’t hesitation like he had initially thought. Kakashi simply liked to think things through before answering immediately. Iruka liked that about him.

“I think we have four already,” Kakashi said, eyeing Sasuke, Naruto, Ino, and Sakura through the glass door.

Iruka laughed, but refrained from clarifying. He knew Kakashi understood what he meant and would answer him shortly. Iruka had also learned that Kakashi had a tendency to be indirect, before he got around to what he actually wanted to say.

MARCH: (from Mouthful)

“So, Kakashi.”  Iruka said, unable to stand still any longer.  “We both like what we see. Now what?”

 He wasn’t usually this forward, but he was feeling it tonight. All of this playful banter was riling him up—it was his favorite way to flirt.

 “I like a man whose direct,” Kakashi said, shifting his stance to lean an elbow on the table. “But hmm,” he hummed. “I don’t know.”

 He gave Iruka a seemingly bored look, as if the obvious invitation to leave together was lost on him.

 “Well, I like a man whose decisive, so I guess that rules you out.”

 Kakashi let out a hard, surprised laugh. He downed the rest of his beer, and took Iruka by the hand, pulling him out of the bar without a word.

APRIL: (from A New Chapter)

 “I don’t know how to put this,” Sakumo started, “but… what the hell is that?”

 Kakashi looked at where his Father was pointing.

 “Uh… a diaper…?” Kakashi guessed, not sure where this was going. They had about a million others, in every color and pattern you could imagine, folded and stacked in the closet. Iruka wanted to go the re-usable route, and several of his students mother’s were eager to gift them. Kakashi had been less than thrilled by the extra laundry.

“Yes. It’s a diaper, Kakashi. Very good. Tell me, did you have both eyes closed when you put it on?”

MAY: (From Cake Substitution No Jutsu)

 “What’s this?” Iruka asked as Kakashi entered the kitchen, a fully dressed Tomo whizzing past them both.

 “Ah, it’s a backpack,” Kakashi said, crossing over to Iruka excitedly. “I saw it on display in a shop window while doing Gai’s scavenger hunt. Its arms and legs are the straps, so when you wear it, it looks like it’s riding on your back.”

 Iruka smiled, turning it around in his hands, noticing the zipper and a few pockets.

 “That’s actually pretty ador—”

 Iruka stopped speaking. The tail was tightly curled up inside plastic casing still.

 “Kakashi,” Iruka said, feeling his eyebrow twitch. “Is this… is this a leash?”

 “No. It’s a Puppy Pal… with an exceptionally long tail.”

“It’s a leash,” Iruka deadpanned. “A leash for a  child.”

 “You put Tomo inside a barrier the other day as a playpen,” Kakashi said, a matter of factly. “Why can’t I have some help controlling her?”

“That’s… that’s different!” Iruka exclaimed, feeling his cheeks heat in contradiction. “Would you like it if I put  you  on a leash, Kakashi?”

 Iruka regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. He could practically see the wolfish grin forming beneath Kakashi’s mask.

JUNE: (from Use Your Imagination)

They laid in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the night through the cracked window—distant cars on the street, a lone dog barking, upbeat music wafting from a floor below them.  

Kakashi never wished for time to stop. In fact, he tried to keep himself as busy as possible—he chose a career that ate up most of his life for a reason. But right now? He wished time didn’t exist, hyperaware of how quickly it would pass before Iruka was back on a plane tomorrow.

He traced circles into Iruka’s lower back, watching as the brown skin pressed against his broke out in a wave of goosebumps. Iruka shivered, and then shifted, and Kakashi wondered if he was falling asleep.  

He selfishly continued his adorations, wanting to keep Iruka in this realm with him for a little while longer. He expanded his rake, sliding his fingers up Iruka’s spine, skirting around his scar, and back down again.

Kakashi wasn’t one to believe in divine intervention, or soulmates. He’d acted in enough corny films to almost make him hate the notion entirely. But the fact that a man as perfect as Iruka had come into his life so serendipitously—and just as scarred as he was—was something he couldn’t overlook.

It made Kakashi’s heart ache with want, before that ache traveled down, and curled into his gut.

JULY: (from Love Me As You Are)

“And then you demeaned their lives by calling them your soldiers—”

 “—is that not what they are?!” Kakashi cut across him, getting upset. “You’re as much a part of this system as I am, sensei! We both know the truth of it, whether we like it or not. I just called it by it’s name.”

“But they’re people too, Kakashi! Kids. They’re so much more than soldiers…”

“That’s not how I was treated,” Kakashi said before he could catch himself.

 Iruka’s mouth fell open with a punched sound.

 “Kakashi…”

 His tone was soft and free of the anger it held a moment ago.

 “Forget I said that,” Kakashi said, turning away, his cheeks heating up—the last thing he wanted was Iruka’s pity. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Iruka said, shaking his head as he took a step towards him. “I’m not going to forget you said that. It does matter because  you matter.  You deserved to have somebody stand up for you too, Kakashi. I’m so sorry Konoha failed you.”

 Kakashi’s eyes burned with tears—he bit his tongue, refusing to let them fall. Those words pierced him straight through the heart. It was everything he never knew he needed to hear.

AUG:

um I didn’t write anything this month because my wife and I separated annnd my whole life was uprooted as I moved to a different country ksjdhgkdsj

SEPT: (from I’ll Fall, If You Do)

Their relationship was going really well. There were days where Kakashi still turned him away, usually corresponding with the mornings he had therapy. It was frustrating, because Iruka just wanted to be there for him, for Kakashi to open up to him completely, but he didn’t push. He knew that would only make it worse. They didn’t fight anymore, but Iruka regularly had to correct the language Kakashi used towards himself, and sometimes it was irritating for the both  of them.

But mostly… it was amazing. Their chemistry was incredible. Electric. And not just in the bedroom—they were never far from each other, drawn in like magnets, grounded by a simple touch or brush of hands. Kakashi hadn’t even left the room twenty minutes ago, and already Iruka felt the pull.

He jumped up from his seat and went to go find him.

OCT: (From Language Gap)

Iruka glanced out the bus window, his body instinctively knowing where they were about to pass. The building was still empty twenty years later, the brick still scorched, and Iruka’s nightmares were still plagued by the fire despite not being there when it broke out. He’d been sent on a delivery on foot — one steaming container of karē udon — two blocks away. He delivered to the same old lady everyday, and she always kept him longer than necessary, pressing sweets into his palm. When he had come back, the noodle shop was aflame. In his shocked state, he distantly heard something about a grease fire, before he was whisked away by the hand by his childhood friend Asuma, living with him and his father from that day on.

Iruka sighed and stood up, making his way towards the door since his stop was next. He really wished the city would do something about the building. Every time he saw it, it made him feel oddly exposed and vulnerable, like his past was staring straight at him.

He shook his head a little and stepped off the bus.

NOV: (From Brand New Sound)

Kakashi watched in stunned silence for a moment, trying to get his heartbeat under control as color effortlessly flowed from the artist’s hand onto the brick. Whoever this was, they had sort of become one of Kakashi’s heroes. People always said meeting your heroes was never a good idea—bound to be disappointing—because it brought them down to a human level.

But that was precisely what attracted Kakashi to this artist in the first place—the sheer, raw, humanness. The way they tackled hard emotions and vulnerability, baring everything through their work for others to see. It was honest and transformative, and Kakashi spent more nights than he could ever count wandering the streets when he couldn’t sleep, hoping to catch a mural he’d never seen before it was painted over. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he’d sit in front of ones he already knew and found new meaning in them.

DEC: (from Perks of Promotion)

“But why now?” Iruka insisted. “Why ask me out now? Right after I’ve made tokubetsu jounin? When we’ve known each other for years?”

 Oh.

Kakashi paused, the realization dawning on him. He didn’t blame Iruka for being suspicious of his intentions; he’d heard the way people said ‘the chuunin sensei’ or ‘the chuunin desk worker’ like it was some kind of insult. It always pissed him off.

Kakashi stared at his feet for a moment before lifting his head again, leveling Iruka with a serious stare. “Because I didn't think I’d live past 21. Because it took me an obscenely long time to become a barely functioning adult. Because I never had the guts before… I-I still don’t, not really, if you can’t tell by how much I’m fumbling around here,” he said with a nervous laugh.

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

okay, y’all, i’ve gotta back on my tl;dr bullshit soapbox about something:

so, the other day, i was just mindlessly scrolling through my corporate & capitalist hellscape facebook™️ (i.e. LinkedIn) and came across this totally trite mostly bullshit meme that was shared by some corporate executive search man (whose name i decided to crop out bc eh):

so i obviously agree with the last three points on this list, bc god yes my life would’ve been a bit better if I didn’t get all my dialogue about mental health only from teen mags and horrible portrayals in teen tv shows (and also this hellsite). and hell yeah everyone, and I mean EVERYONE needs to learn that failure is okay many situations (like failing a class in uni or school) bc everyone fails at something sometimes. and dealing with failure is HARD. and time management is something that I’m pretty sure everyone lies to fuckin hell about on their resume, bc lots of people really suck at it, myself included. so yeah. that needs to be taught. and i also agree with the “how to manage your health” point. bc thats becoming ever more prevalent and important with career burn out etc.

but entrepreneurship? people management? conflict resolution? creativity? how to manage money? public speaking? like y’all. three of those ARE taught/learned in school, who the fuck wrote this meme? 

for anyone who actually paid attention in maths class, (which is probably very few people outside of the top performing classes), there WAS A WHOLE FUCKING UNIT that focuses on financial maths (in australia anyway). I ignored this unit as well as maths in general at school, bc I generally hated maths and was convinced that I was somehow never going to get a job. but i remember the gist of the overall topic and its subtopics. one subtopic teaches you how to calculate your wages in various contexts (overtime, double-time and a half, holiday payments, im pretty sure maternity leave pay was jammed in somewhere? idk if other countries would have double time & a 1/2 like australia though). another subtopic teaches you how to calculate interest on bank loans and credit rates on credit cards. a third subtopic teaches you how to calculate savings (obvs in terms of discounts in shops)....im sure there was a bit about budgeting in there somewhere? im pretty sure there were some questions were about tax payments somewhere as a subtopic enrichment exercise? but you get my gist. are these not money management skills? in some sense? like if i could find one of my old maths textbooks or old maths books i’d give an example of a question, to make my point stronger. but the problem, like i said before, is that a load of people (myself included) just zone out in maths in high school and stop trying with it. they forget what they’ve learnt, and just remember how much they hated algebra and how they’ll never use it again. maths was one hell of a fucking strong bitch, guys. but maybe i’m wrong.

creativity? excuse me? have people forgotten about art classes? drama classes? english classes? music classes? need i go on? okay don’t get me wrong, most of these classes did focus a lot on memorising quotes or facts about people (artists/writers/poets/composers/dramatists etc) or specific  periods/movements in art or theatre or literature for example.... but the amazing sculptures/paintings etc people created in art for their final projects in year 12, or even in year 10 were works of their imagination. the scripts people write in drama or maybe english (if you had a fun teacher who did a screenwriting unit, for example) are creative asf. especially in year 12 when they do their major projects, where they may produce a monologue or a short movie, and then there’s a group piece. drama students might even make their own costumes for these performances. LIKE AIN’T THAT A LOT OF CREATIVITY RIGHT THERE Y’ALL????? and english. lowly old english. THEY HAVE A WHOLE FUCKING TOPIC ON CREATIVE WRITING FOR FUCKS SAKE. the original music people might create for their final projects too in year 12? does that not count as creativity? like yes, i know a lot of these things do still have to meet bs assessment criteria (especially in catholic schools, where the main things are you don’t offend the catholic education office and jesus/god lmao) to be considered worthy of a mark for your year 12 exams. but FUCK. HOW THE FUCK AREN’T ANY OF THESE SUBJECTS COUNTED TOWARDS BEING CREATIVE???????? like fuck your corporate creative ideation or w/e bullshit, Callum. drama and english even lend themselves to improvisation in some instances, like public speaking, which is examined further, below.

next, we move on to public speaking. this shit is basically taught from the first goddamn day of “show & tell” in kindy/kindergarten, and this fucker has the gall to say that it’s not fucking taught in schools? someone call in miley cyrus/hannah montana to throw the fuck down in this motherfucking hoedown BC THIS STUPID-ASS MEME-FUCKER HAS NERVE. i hated public speaking. absolutely hated it. even though it was ironically one of the places i ended up excelling in in english classes. even when i fucked up in my english speeches with like “oh, fuck.... said nelson mandela,  i’ve seem to’ve lost my palm card. wait, shit! there it is... excuse me while i pull it out of my ass. whoops, sorry miss” *bats eyes and finger guns at my year 9 english teacher who has her head in her hands and is done with my shit, while the class laughs at my gaffe* i’d still end up with like 73% or like 26/30. it was baffling. but for people who weren’t the class clown/smart alec like i was from years 7-10 (and like i actually wasn’t once i moved schools).... public speaking is like the leading cause of anxiety, right? like by the time i got to doing speeches/presentations at uni i was having panic attacks... the thought of presenting to my classes made me fucking sick with fear and anxiety. nearly every subject i did at uni (even when i tried to avoid subs with public speaking assessments) and throughout school had some type of presentation/speech whatever you want to call it project/activity in it. even fucking SPORT/PDHPE at school and even philosophy at uni. and these fuckers are saying its not taught in schools. FUCK  OFF. like yeah, i get that they actually mean it in the professional sense.... where people can give the sappy bs motivational speeches or an insightful ted-talk worthy 20-minute presentation... or a great sales pitch. but like??? save that for mike “my dad phoned in to EY and i have a job waiting for me after uni” mcfuck in a business major or law degree? or for clubs like toastmasters? fuck. ok enough of the skills we learn in school. let’s move onto the businesslike-sounding ones of “people management”, “conflict management” and fucking “entrepreneurship”. like. what the fuck? okay in some sense people management and conflict management could potentially be used in managing friendships and relationships in your personal life. but like. i can feel the business underpinnings and i dont like it lmao. like why do you want fully functioning adults straight out of school, franklin? and there’s extra credit conflict management subjects at uni??? or at least my home uni had it... and i never did them bc they were intensive courses during summer break lol. but the one that pissed me off the most was entrepreneurship. LIKE ARE KIDS NOT FUCKING ALLOWED TO BE KIDS NOW????? well  apparently: “NO! YOU MUST ALWAYS THINK OF MONEY MAKING WAYS TO BE RICH! YOU MUST BE ENTREPRENEURIAL!!!!!! YOU MUST GENERATE BUSINESS IDEAS FROM THE TIME YOU CAN FUCKIN’ WALK!!!!! AND SPEAK!!! CHILDHOOD AND BEING A TEENAGER DON’T EXIST WORKER BEE!!!! CAPITALISM FOR ALL!!!! WORKER BEES!!! CAPITALISM IS YOUR FRIEND!!! OWN A BUSINESS BY THE TIME YOU’RE 8 YEARS OLD!” like it’s insidious asf. and it doesn’t acknowledge that most entrepreneurs are already privileged people anyway, who usually have some type of money to start off their venture (or that’s what it feels like anyway). and yeah throw all the “THIS BOY IS AN ENTREPRENEUR AT 18!!! 18!!!???? BY STARTING HIS OWN BUSINESS AT 12!!!! WHAT A CHAMP! 😁🙃” clickbait news stories at me, but i don’t fucking care. the concept and perceived over-importance and almost preaching mindset of entrepreneurship is slowly becoming insidious and toxic asf. call me paranoid. but that’s what it feels like.

but with those last three topics, i want to make a point that school curriculum’s (in australia at least, and probably worldwide) are so jam-packed already with sport (which is pointless and shitty), geography (ok how to read maps is important, but i never bothered to learned to do it properly), history, science, english etc etc etc..... that like.... where the actual fuck are the gonna jam the above bs (people management”, “conflict management” and entrepreneurship) into the curriculum???? and also teachers are already over-worked enough as it is, they don’t need another load of shitty subjects pushed onto them. and they sure asf don’t earn enough (especially in the states) to have this bs pushed into their subject schedules either. keep them at uni, where they should be. or just in the workplace/in the general public where they belong. and if people suggest that you could probably push these subjects into the year 11/12 business studies programs or elective commerce courses in years 9/10, save your goddamn breath. like i remember looking at business studies hsc papers in years 11/12 to see what they did.... and it was pretty chock-a-block anyway. and my experience of my year 9 commerce was horrible, to say the least. let kids be kids, for fucks sake. they shouldn’t have to be fully functioning adults in the workplace, by the end of high school, for fucks sake. AND ENTREPRENEURSHIP IS NOT AN ESSENTIAL SKILL????!!!! FUCK OFF WITH THAT SHIT, WILHELM. anyway. that’s my rant over about how i hate how corporate people are trying to be #relatablewiththeyouth🙃 with their shitty versions of “10 things i wish we learned in school” memes.... and failing.... without realising that this is why millennials are suspicious and cynical about meme usage by corporate people/corporations.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Goofus And Gallant

“He called pa a drunk!”

“Well, that’s what he was.”

-- The Sons Of Katie Elder

 I know / knew two writers, one living, one dead, contemporaries of one another, alike in certain ways, different in others, but similar enough for an apples-to-apples comparison.

The dead one we’ll call Gallant; the one still wasting oxygen we’ll call Goofus.

Oh, full disclosure:   I do not like Goofus one little bit, and for ample reasons.

Gallant produced an impressive body of work.  It would not be an overstatement to say said body of work remains enormously influential.

Gallant could fairly be described as a mercurial person.  A fighter -- and more often than not a fighter for good causes, not just for the sake of fighting.  Generous and helpful.  Willing to go the extra mile for those he felt needed the help.

Gallant’s writing career proved long enough for some stories that expressed ideas and attitudes perfectly acceptable in the 1950s and 60s to be rendered…well, let’s be generous and say passe’ 70 years later.

To their credit, Gallant grew as a person, and in many cases learned better and did better as the 1960s segued into the 1970s and 80s.

Gallant also made mistakes in praising and defending some people and some organizations who later proved unworthy of such praise and defense.  Those cases involve Gallant voicing opinions based on their best knowledge at the time, and later when the truth of said individuals and organizations came out, Gallant either muted or recanted those opinions.

Gallant also mentioned their own bad behavior several times in the public record, bad behavior documented and reported by eyewitnesses and victims.  Behavior bad enough on occasion to warrant criminal prosecution of Gallant had police seen the behavior or any victims pressed charges.  Behavior bad enough on occasion to cause physical harm.

I can’t speak to Goofus’ abilities as a writer other than to say the few times I read their work, it seemed professional and competent.

I don’t watch or read anything by Goofus because I studiously avoid anything having to do with Goofus.

I know from direct personal experience that Goofus is a liar, a coward, and utterly treacherous.  I have seen Goofus betray and attack two organizations that originally welcomed Goofus, organizations devoted to promoting the best interests of creators.  

I have seen Goofus maliciously lie about people who did them no harm, simply because Goofus exists in a universe where one is either high above (and thus worthy of ass-smooching) or far below (and worthy only of contempt, even if smooching Goofus’ ass).

There are no equals in Goofus’ universe.

I have had Goofus lie to my face about business related matters, and I have seen Goofus lie about their own behavior in a given situation even though there was ample documentation of what Goofus actually said and did.

I have seen Goofus falsify the work of others to smear their reputations.

So when I refer to Goofus as a sac of human excrement ///I have earned that right///.

Now, here’s the thing:  ///There are some people who like Goofus and the work Goofus produces.

Fine by me; I bear no one any grudge for what they may or may not like.  Most of these people have either never encountered Goofus face-to-face, or if they have, are perceived by Goofus as being so high in ranking as to render them safe from abuse.

So be it.

Some people report to gaining insights from Goofus’ work.  

Sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie but I'll never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfuckers.

Some people report Goofus doing good deeds and charitable works.

If Goofus did, fine.

Doesn’t alter my perception of what Goofus did to people I know and care about one iota.

Doesn’t change the harm Goofus inflicted or attempted to inflict on friends of mine.

I’m a half-Italian hillbilly from Appalachia, folks.

We may forgive.

But we never forget.

And Goofus to date has done nothing to indicate they deserve forgiveness.

As Gallant’s life moved on, Gallant became aware certain boundaries of social acceptance changed.

At first Gallant railed against these moving boundaries -- “Toughen up!  It’s a joke!  Don’t censor me!”

But gradually, bit by bit, it sank in on Gallant that the times had indeed changed, and that Gallant had not changed with them.

Many of us loved Gallant.

We loved Gallant’s stories.

We loved Gallant’s fearless nature.

We loved the unbridled passion for what Gallant loved and believed in.

But we need to be honest and admit Gallant made mistakes, and on occasion Gallant acted deliberately badly to people who didn’t deserve what Gallant did to them.

There are people not of our coterie who hear us wax nostalgic about Gallant and point out the bad things Gallant did, and legitimately so in many cases where Gallant’s attitudes didn’t move fast enough with the times and people who should not have been subjected to abuse were.

Gallant wasn’t the first or only writer with these sorts of issues.  

There are lots of writers like Gallant -- and artists, and musicians, and actors, and politicians, and doctors, and…well, the list goes on and on, doesn’t it.

Crappy behavior is crappy behavior, and we’re too often willing to forgive or overlook it because “Oh, that’s just Ernest being Ernest, that’s just Jack being Jack, that’s just Bill being Bill.”

We’re willing to overlook because we were not on the receiving end of Gallant’s abuse.

We’re willing to forgive because we feel we gain something from the transaction.

Look at all those cool stories.

Look at all those great times.

We don’t see this the way others see it:  “You are defending and honoring a person who did bad things that made life worse for some people.”

Consider the case of Bill Cosby.

There are people who openly hope he dies soon so his reputation can be rehabilitated and they can openly enjoy his comedy again.

Why?

What will future generations lose by not hearing or seeing him?

All the positive influences he made have already been absorbed by the comedians who came after him.

All his charitable acts have already come to fruition. 

How can we look at his work today and not feel disgusted by the rank hypocrisy permeating it?

And granted, Cosby’s actions proved far worse than what was laid on Gallant’s doorstep.

Nonetheless, the difference in either degree or magnitude does not negate the wholly reasonable reactions of a new generation who aren’t going to put up with that kind of bullshit anymore.

Not being honest about beloved creators and friends who did something bad is akin to those white supremacists who wish to eradicate all mention of slavery and jim crow and prejudice from public discourse.

For the white supremacists to acknowledge the evil of slavery and jim crow is to tacitly acknowledge they are wrong in defending those things.

It forces them to recognize at the very least they are enablers insofar as they block attempts to address those issues.

We must find a balance point.

We must acknowledge people are complex that few are wholly saints or monsters.

We must acknowledge, as painful as it feels, when those who did things we admire also did things that we should condemn.

I have come to terms with Gallant to this degree:

I can admire Gallant as an individual while fully acknowledging their flaws and shortcomings.

I can admire and advocate most of Gallant’s work while acknowledging some pieces contain harmful, outdated attitudes.

I can accept that many will never appreciate Gallant either as an individual or a writer because of Gallant’s well documented multitude of shortcomings and offensive-bordering-on-criminal behavior.

So be it. 

It is up to us, Gallant’s friends and admirers, to do better going forward, to take the good ideals we gleamed and present them to the next generations without the baggage of a problematic creator.  This doesn’t require canceling Gallant, but it doesn’t require ignoring those affected by Gallant’s bad actions, either.

I personally have come to terms with Goofus to this degree:

I bear no grudge against those who like Goofus as an individual or a writer.

I will have nothing to do with Goofus or their work.

I will not condemn those who defend Goofus as a friend or as a writer.

And I plan to live long enough to piss on Goofus’ grave.

 © Buzz Dixon

[10cities10years]

On the wall next to the pool table in the basement, there was a plate cover that always hung loose. It had been missing the bottom screw for as long as I had memory and, when slid back, would pivot up to reveal an empty black hole behind it, an opening for a non-existent outlet. In the eyes of a child, it wasn’t just a gap in the drywall, it was a secret cave, a limitless expanse; a hiding place.

I used to fold up a dollar bill, even a fiver on the rare occasion I accumulated such a bountiful harvest, and tuck it into the crevice between the wall and a pair of loose wires. My hope was that I would forget about the stash and then some day, a few months later, maybe years, I’d come across it again, and it would be like finding buried treasure. The only problem was, the moment I slid the cash behind that plate, I thought of nothing else. The bill never remained back there long.

As I grew older, the game – and I suppose that’s what it was, a game I played with myself that I lost every time – took on a different objective. Now, instead of hiding the money so that I could stumble upon it at some unknown date, I hoped for enough willpower to resist removing the money at all so that, in some unknown future after my family had left, a different kid from a different family, would find the treasure.

I can’t say when I was first struck by the realization that I would not always live in that house, that my family would not own it forever, but it must have been fairly young. Our home was perpetually in a state of flux. I never had visions of growing up to raise my own family there.

I wish I could say that the last time I stuck money behind the face plate, I left it, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure I did not. I was consistently cash strapped and there was a new Spider-man comic to buy every week. Still, it’s fun to imagine some curious six-year-old playing around in that basement one afternoon and somehow managing to uncover my secret stash. It would be the greatest discovery of her young life.

Following the diaspora of my siblings and my parents’ divorce, my mother and I moved into a two-bedroom, loft apartment in the middle of Lawrence for my senior year of high school. Many different homes would follow. Over the ten years of my project, I lived in thirteen different apartments, some by myself, most with roommates, all of varying degrees of comfort and disorder.

These homes have been, at times, shabby and, at others, luxurious. I’ve had isolated apartments, and I’ve lived in the heart of the city. I’ve gone from having two floors all to myself to sharing one bathroom with six people. Whatever the amenities, wherever I’ve ended up, like a hermit crab making use of a found shell, I’ve made it home in my own way.

After three years in Brooklyn, I’ve yet to fully settle; I still exist in the vapor. No art on my walls, cardboard boxes serving simultaneously as storage and tables. I live like someone with one foot out the door because that’s all I know. In just over a month, I’ll move again.

I tried. When I settled into my first Brooklyn apartment, I purchased a desk and a chair, and a bookshelf. I picked up some cheap pictures from a street vendor and even bought a wall clock for some inexplicable reason. I made an effort to spread out, to accumulate, to slip into the nooks and crannies and feel attached. It didn’t take.

The clock’s batteries have been dead for two months.

Home is a bed

I have this kind of strange habit when I’m traveling, I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. As a child at camp and even now on a trip, I’ll refer to whatever temporary facility I’m staying in as “home.” If we’re out and I’ve forgotten something at the hotel, I’ll say, “I’ll just head home real quick and grab it.” It’s a quirk that occasionally earns an eyebrow raise, but I’ve done it all my life and I don’t think it’s so strange. Home is where I lay my head down to sleep.

I love having my own space, I crave it, but I’m not too picky about what the space should look like. I just need to be able to find my peace.

Living with other people can complicate that, not everybody was meant to be a roommate; or, at least, not my roommate.  Sometimes I’ve made a home in an apartment despite living with people with whom I had nothing in common. Other times, it’s the people that have made an apartment home.

Home is a base, a starting point, a fixture to which I latch a tether, however temporarily. Like a climber reaching for the next anchor point, I’m always searching for somewhere new to fasten a hold.

Yet, home also remains, stubbornly, Lawrence, Kansas, and a blue, three-story, behemoth of a house ever sliding incrementally down a steep hill, now the residence of a family I’ve never met.

Lawrence: home to the University of Kansas and its rabid basketball fan base; home to the best hillside views in the entire state (maybe the only hillside views); home to artists, writers, and musicians; home to liberal reactionaries and a church on every other block; home (for a time) to William S. Burroughs, Erin Brockovich, and Langston Hughes; and the home of a family of seven, sort of okay.

Pictured: Setting of beloved TV movie, The Day After

The weekend before my next leap into the unknown, I’ll fly to Kansas to spend a few days with some of my family that now includes three nephews and a niece.

It used to be, when I’d return home for a short trip, I couldn’t walk downtown without running into a half dozen people I knew, just by chance. Now, when I go back, unless specific plans are made – and even then – I can go the whole visit without seeing anyone I know outside of my family. I’ll walk into an old haunt and anticipate hearing my name called only to be met by the disinterested stares of a whole new generation.

With each passing year, Lawrence, the small town in which I spent 22 years, transforms into something increasingly unfamiliar, even though in structure and physical layout, it remains persistently recognizable.

There was a time when my family name carried some cachet among (the less reputable) establishments in the town (in no part due to me), but those days have mostly passed. I suspect name dropping one of my siblings would only be met with confusion nowadays. As a college town, Lawrence is a constant churn of population turnover. You don’t have to leave a place for it to leave you.

Time will change our relationships with everyone and everywhere. I haven’t lived in Kansas in a very long time, and each visit reminds me of that fact. Yet, I haven’t broken the habit of saying, “I’m heading home” when I talk about returning to Kansas. I will never live there again (and I shake my head in dismay at almost every bit of state politics that makes national news), but it remains for always, my home.

My first home.

My room looked out from the two windows in the upper right hand side.

I’ve done this silly thing over the years, before leaving some of my apartments: I’ll take one of my original 10 Cities/10 Years stickers and press it directly above the door frame on the inside of my closet. It’s unlikely anyone will ever find them, but who knows. Maybe some curious 26-year-old will be messing around in their room one afternoon and somehow manage to uncover my surreptitious memento.

It will be the stupidest discovery of her young life.

"I've called many places my home little darlin, but I only come from one" Homes, new and old. On the wall next to the pool table in the basement, there was a plate cover that always hung loose.

[nct-thedreamchaser]

Wedding Bells [Part 1]

Words: 2270 

Genre: Fluff, LOTS of it 

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader

Request: hellu~ do you mind doing a super super fluffy jaehyun one bcs he sure is ruining my sleep with his cute ass face omg thankuuuu in advance 😍

A/N: Wew! This is a part of my request done and I know there isn’t much here but it’s always good to provide some context before we start eh? Don’t worry anon! The next chapter (or perhaps subsequent ones) would contain what you are looking for. :) For now, please enjoy this first chapter everyone! I suffered some form of Writer’s Block but I was so glad that this idea popped up in my head eventually. :) Once again, thank you for requesting! Click HERE to read the rules for requesting and feel free to submit and drop an ask!! :) 

[Part 1] | [Part 2]

——————————————————————

“Y/N! Just a gentle reminder that you are walking down the aisle tomorrow! You will never believe it but I am so happy for you!!” My best friend chirped, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like a rag doll with a huge grin on her face.

Indeed, it was my wedding day tomorrow and I was nowhere near excited for it, especially when I had no idea who my groom would be. In fact, I never knew, no matter how much I tried to scan through the database of my parents’ phones and computers when they were not looking. There were no pictures, no e-mails and simply, no leak of information about the man whom I was going to marry.

For some strange reason, preferred to keep it as a secret and only told me that my soon-to-be husband was rich, “drop dead gorgeous” (quoted from my very own mother) and the “nicest man that I could possibly know”. Obviously, that was probably the information that nobody wanted to truly hear in the context of an arranged marriage. It was probably everything a parent would say to convince that they had made the best decision for their child; confident that everything would work out just fine.

Sure, it could possibly be true, but then again, how would it be possible for two people to get married to each other without even knowing the other party? It was absolutely bizarre to think about the many possibilities, especially when I was the only one among my group of friends who got betrothed without my knowledge by my parents. Everyone had the choice of choosing their boyfriends, and eventually husbands, but for me? Nah, that did not exist in my world. There was never a guy who was good enough, for reasons as lame as him not having enough valuable assets, tangible (which was definitely the main reason) or intangible.

Who would ever forget the day 2 years ago, when my parents had finally returned from a business trip in Germany. I was so excited to see them back at home, and I was already a 23-year-old, behaving as if I was a 6-year-old getting her very first birthday present. For most of the time, my parents were never at home, and even if they were, it was only for a day or two, before they flew off again to carry on with their busy, mundane lives. Truthfully, I never agreed with the way my parents lived their lives, especially when it came to spending time as a family and catching up with one another.

Call me selfish, but in my personal opinion, it was completely understandable for a child to simply desire spending time with their parents, especially when they have not seen them for ages, and yes, I mean years. As a teenager, I never really thought much about it and was way too busy to even think about any of the matters which took place at home. However, I was an adult now, and it was again natural for me to worry about my parents, especially when they seemed uncontactable and for some strange reason, the huge bungalow of ours felt empty. In fact, it was as if our employees had outnumbered our employers, and it made people wonder whether I was actually a part of the employers. For the longest time ever.

Unfortunately, that was also the day when they had announced that I was going to be betrothed. My eyes were threatening to pop out of its own sockets and my jaw hung heavily, especially when I saw my mother’s beaming smile. At that point, I was probably beyond furious and this was not a matter of the weather forecast or the traffic news; it was my future on the line and it was of no clue to me why they would be so happy in the thought of selling their daughter away to a supposed rich man in order to gain profits and more good points to add to our family name.

“Are you crazy?” I shouted when I reached my breaking point, “I waited for you to come back for years now. You were not there for my first day of university, and neither were you there for my graduation in both high school and university. I suspect you probably don’t even know that I graduated a co-valedictorian and this is the news I get? That I’m betrothed to a man I have no clue about? You showed no care, no concern and only came home to talk about your new business ventures and prospects. Why bother now then?”

I remembered heading to my room and slammed the door in a fit of anger, before leaning it and slid down to the carpeted floor. Tears were cascading down my cheeks now and I tasted the saltiness of it as they flowed. It was the worst thing I had ever said to my parents, and I did feel the pang of guilt, but I was in no mood to think about defying all the laws of Confucian filial piety now.

An hour or two had probably passed, and I did not move from my position at the door. I stared into space in a daze; trying to get over the fact that I was going to get married when I was not even close to ready. Trust me, I tried to convince myself that this was for the best, I really did, but I just could not see the light at the end of the tunnel at that point.

I thought to myself that I was a pawn for my parents’ riches and successful ventures; like an object and a gift to the other more powerful CEOs and companies out there. There was no consult, no allowance, and they did what they wanted; find me a good husband and flooding me with information of his entire life story. There was no mood for me to show any care or concern anymore, knowing that the decision was final and all I could do was to suck it up and move on with my life.

However, there was a knock. Then two. And I got up, thinking that it was the maid, but I only came face to face with my mother. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, proceeding to close the door again, but she only said in a calm voice, “Look Y/N, I think we need to talk. Would you care for some mother and daughter time?”

Only the Almighty knows what came over me, but I moved aside and opened the door wider to let her in, before closing it again. The tension was so thick that one could possibly cut it with a knife, and the same went with the silence that ensued once she stepped in. She looked around my room, as if trying to recall all the happy moments that she could have possibly shared with me in the room.

“Take a seat and I will tell you a story. Come, sit here with me.” She said, making herself comfortable and patted the bed, signalling that I should sit with her instead of awkwardly standing around in her presence. I did, and waited for her to kickstart a conversation; something that we’ve never had for the past years. It was probably safer to use the word “decade” instead at this rate.

It followed with a few moments of awkward silence, but my mum finally opened up in a gentle and comforting manner. She had admitted to saying that my father and her never knew each other either, and were betrothed to one another earlier than I was. She was only 15 when it was announced that she was to marry a man at the age of 21, having no clue to who he was at all. According to her, the reactions and outbursts were completely normal, because that was the exact things she felt when she grew up. She grew cold and distant, refusing to open up to her parents when she felt as betrayed as ever.

Hearing that, it was like a similar situation all over again, and I was beyond surprised to hear that. You see, my mother was known for being gentle, calm and demure, and it was beyond my imagination to even think of her as someone who would actually go against her parents’ wishes. She could sense it, and only laughed at my reaction.

Later, it followed with the fact that she had only known my father on the day of their wedding, but also claimed that he did not force himself onto her. He was willing to wait for her to be ready, and besides, he felt the exact same way too; that they should get to know each other a lot better before they are officially known as husband and wife. And that was simply how my mother fell in love with him because he respected her, cared for her and accepted her, even if she just came from a relatively average family in our world.

Hence, it was with that when she encouraged me that everything was going to be alright. She also assured me later that unless the man was not willing to treat me the same way my father had treated her, she promised that she would not hesitate from calling it quits. Nevertheless, she encouraged me to give it a shot and gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze with her signature smile.

So now I sat here, donned in a white wedding dress that my husband had apparently picked out for me. It was unlike no other, and was apparently custom made in Italy. Yes, it looked simple, but the embroidery was refined and very very well sewn together. It was intricate, and was donned with little Swarovski crystals sewed to the dress. Furthermore, it had a long train of fabric at the back to give it a grand effect, and of course, the look was not complete without a Grade A diamond necklace that my father had given, as well as a pair of silver stilettos from my in-laws to complement the dress.

No matter how anxious and unprepared I was, I could not help but admit that my in-laws had good taste. On the other hand, I relied on my best friend who was makeup artiste to do my hair and face, and I have no idea how she did it, but I looked absolutely stunning that I actually gave her a hug, only to be pushed away saying, “Don’t ruin my handiwork. I french-braided your hair and simply enhanced your looks so please do not do anything crazy that would ruin it before the actual event.”

I rolled my eyes and gave her a playful nudge, before she took the veil that I was going to put onto my hair. It was an ordinary veil, but again, it had the most intricate of embroidery and it was put on a flower crown. At this point, I probably looked like a Disney Princess in every disney movie wedding scene, but I could not thank my friend enough and I was willing to pay her for her services, support and everything that she had ever done for me.

She shook her head though, and only said in her usual sassy fashion, “I think you would need money for the baby that’s coming. But come on, you got this yeah?”

“Do you know the guy?” I asked quizzically, and she only gave me a huge smile. She grinned from ear to ear and her eyes became the shape of two crescent moons on her face.

“Of course I do. I have connections, so I found out pretty easily.” She shrugged before continuing, “I know, you are going to ask me who it is, but you can be sure as hell that I would not tell you anything.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes again for the nth time in the years of our friendship, and I began to give her the best pair of puppy eyes that I could muster. However, she was firm, fierce and was adamant in not telling me anything about the guy. She obviously knew way more than I did, and by the looks of it, I was going nowhere with my pleading and convincing.

“Why are you even worried anyway? I can safely say that he is a great guy.” She said as she added the final touches to my look and made sure that everything was in its place.

“How are you so sure?” I asked, watching her furrow her brows and stick out her tongue, fixing all the nitty gritty details that she could spot with her naked eye.

“That’s simple. But you owe me something because this is a huge hint that I’m divulging.”

“Fine, just tell me already!!” I said, impatience evident in my tone of voice.

“It’s someone you know, and trust me, you’ve seen him before. He’s literally an angel and is claimed by you to be your ‘soulmate’.”

At this point, my mind froze and it seemed to be trying its best to look through my memory bank. I scratched my head in confusion and squinted, only to be smacked in the hand by her, with a nagging that I had ruined my own hair again.

It was at this point when there was only one possible name which could possibly surface. Crazy, it sounded, but it was a possibility.

And his name was Jaehyun. 

[carriejonesbooks]

When I was a kid at Bates College, I spent a lot of my time feeling like less. My family had been kind of poor after my step-father died. My nana would stand in line to get us big orange blocks of commodity cheese for the week to supplement our $30 grocery budget Every  week my mom would yell at her that we didn’t need that. She always took it.

My mom didn’t answer the phone because she was so afraid of credit card companies calling.  She’d make me do it and lie that she wasn’t there.

I still hate answering the phone, even the cell phone, even when it has caller ID.

Anyway, when I went to college I wanted to forget all that. I wanted to be an intellectual like everyone else. I wanted to have gone to private school in Manhattan or Conneticut, have a summer home in the Hamptons and clothes that weren’t from K-Mart, which was sort of the WalMart equivalent back then, but worse.

I got over all that because I knew it was pretty shallow. What I had a harder time getting over was class issues that had less to do with materialism and more to do with hatred and intellectual history.

In one of my directing classes, one of the sexier straight guys actually announced about Beckett, “People who are not wealthy don’t care about this. A truck driver doesn’t watch public television or listen to NPR. They don’t care, they’re too busy humping and eating and drinking.”

My dad was a truck driver. He watched public television. He listened to NPR. I didn’t want to think about him humping. He ate food. He didn’t drink. His parents had been prohibitionists.

In one of my playwrighting classes the professor announced, “The working people of this country don’t give a shit about nuclear power. They don’t give a shit about a man of color.”

When I was in elementary school my dad would bring him with him to protest the same nuclear power plant that my step dad was helping to build. He helped me try to get New Hampshire to recognize Martin Luther King Day and do a hundred other civil rights things. He cared.

And one of my college friends would love to say, “Carrie is too poor to be pro intellectual.”

He’s a minister now. That still doesn’t make what he said right.

And one of my female poetry teachers told me over and over again, her voice trilling up with her patrician accent, “Carrie, you have the potential to be a poet, but your voice is too raw, not refined, not artistic enough.”

My voice was poor. My cadence was public school. I was not from rich. Every sentence I spoke showed that.

They still do.

Those are just four of the incidents that made me both angry and intimidated and focused, but in the back of my head it just inflamed my self doubt. I could never be a poet because I wasn’t wealthy, private-school educated, my parents weren’t intellectuals. I could never move people with words because my words were too stark and my sentences too short. I would never fit in because I didn’t have the background that most of the other students had.

And then two things happened. I read Sherman Alexie, a not-wealthy Spokane and Coeur d’Alene who despite his issues with women, impacted me positively. Maybe because I never met him.

And I met Seamus Heaney in real life.

Seamus Heaney came to our college at the invitation of Robert Farnsworth, who was an awesome poet and professor. He met with students, he gave a reading and we all got to hang out with him at a reception.

“I can’t go,” I told my boyfriend at the time.

He bit into his pizza. He was always eating pizza. “Why not?”

“Because it’s Seamus Heaney,” I answered staring at the little bits of sausage on the pizza before I plucked them off.

“So?”

“Seamus Heaney!”

“So?”

I didn’t know how to explain. Seamus Heaney was THE poet, the Nobel Prize winner. He was Irish for God’s sake. Those people were gifted with words. They had so many amazing poets… Heaney, Yeats, Wilde, Clarke, Moore. I was from New Hampshire. We had Robert Frost but pretty much every New England state tried to claim him.

Heaney wrote things like:

“A hunger-striker’s father

stands in the graveyard dumb.

The police widow in veils

faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don’t hope

on this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

the longed for tidal wave

of justice can rise up,

and hope and history rhyme.”

You will regret it if you don’t go,” my boyfriend said. “I’m going to just be playing Leisure Suit Larry anyway.”

So, I went, as anxious as if I was going on stage myself. Heaney transfixed me with his amazing baritone and bear-like presence. And his words… Of course his words… And when I met him afterwards, I was terrified until he grabbed my hand in his and said, “So you are a poet?”

And I said, “No.”

And all he did was nod and say, “Oh, yes you are.”

But in his eyes was this knowing, this connection, and maybe it wasn’t really there. Maybe I just saw it because I wanted him to understand me, because I wanted someone to get who I was and who I wanted to be. Or maybe not?

I don’t know, but one second later my professor said, “Oh, yes she is. I told you about her. She is like you.”

And then one of them said something about growing up not wealthy and I can’t remember the exact words, but what I do remember is that I finally felt understood. Later, I looked up Seamus Heaney’s past, about how his dad was a farmer and neither of his parents were big on words really, not in the intellectual way that everyone in college seemed to be. I found out that he was like me a little bit not because he was a poet and I was trying so desperately hard to write just one decent poem, but because we were both human, that we both came from humble places, that we both looked in people’s eyes when we said hello.

And that was enough for me. That was enough for me to believe in myself.

Seamus Heaney performed a miracle when I met him. He made me believe that I could be whatever the hell I wanted to be and that it didn’t matter how hard I had to fight or work or not fit in. What mattered was that I wanted the miracle of being a writer, of metamorphosis from Carrie the poor neurotic kid from Bedford, New Hampshire into Carrie Jones, the neurotic best-selling author who lives on the coast of Maine.

He gave hope and miracles in his poems and in his person and I am so thankful for his existence and so sorry for the world’s loss.

“The main thing is to write

for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust

that imagines its haven like your hands at night

dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast.

You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous.

Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest.”

  I wrote this post back in 2013 when Seamus Heaney died, but in one of my student packet’s this week, I referenced Heaney and then yesterday I saw this Liam Neeson video (randomly) where he was talking about Heaney, so… there you go. I’ve reposted it.

Here’s Seamus Heaney reading his own poem, “Blackberry Picking.”

  Do Good Wednesday

Scary, right?

People are fixing it.

You can help with poetry and kids. These images are from Get Lit’s website and Get Lit is making a difference.

“Get Lit was founded in 2006 after Diane Luby Lane created a one-woman show about the power of words and toured colleges with iconic Chicano poet Jimmy Santiago Baca. After the show closed, she couldn’t bear the thought of cutting off the work completely. She started teaching classic and spoken word poetry in two high schools, Fairfax and Walt Whitman. When the semester ended… the students wouldn’t leave. They insisted on meeting after school. The rest is history. Today, the curriculum has expanded to almost 100 schools, and the Get Lit Players are the most watched poets on the internet. Curriculum requests flow in from Mexico to New Zealand.”

Get Lit “uses poetry to increase literacy, empower youth, and inspire communities.”

Get Lit works – 98% of Get Lit Players go to college, and 70% get scholarships!

Here are Get Lit’s specific needs and how you can get involved.

  Writing News

Carrie’s  super excited about the upcoming TIME STOPPERS book coming out this August.

This middle grade fantasy series happens in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine and it’s all about friendship and magic and kids saving their magical town.

An imaginative blend of fantasy, whimsy, and suspense, with a charming cast of underdog characters . . . This new fantasy series will entice younger fans of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.” –  School Library Journal

  “Sticks the landing . . . The world building is engaging . . . between the decidedly wonderful residents and the terrifying monsters who plague them.” –  BCCB

  “Amid the magic, spells, adventure, and weirdness of this fantasy are embedded not-so-subtle life lessons about kindness, friendship, and cooperation.” –  Booklist

  “A wild and fresh take on fantasy with an intriguing cast of characters. Dangerous and scary and fun all rolled into one. In the words of Eva the dwarf, I freaking loved it!” –  Lisa McMann, New York Times bestselling author of The Unwanteds series

  “Effervescent, funny, and genuine.” –  Kirkus Reviews

It’s quirky. It’s awesome. It’s full of heart. You should go by the first two books now. 🙂

  Time Stoppers

Time Stopper Series

Time Stoppers Front and Back Covers – US versions

CARRIE’S BOOKS

For a complete round-up of Carrie’s 16-or-so books, check out her website. And if you like us, or our podcast, or just want to support a writer, please buy one of those books, or leave a review on a site like Amazon. Those reviews help. It’s all some weird marketing algorhthym from hell, basically.

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The Poet Who Saw Me – Wednesday Writing Wisdom When I was a kid at Bates College, I spent a lot of my time feeling like less.

[yespoetry]

What Dementia & Sexual Trauma Have in Common — And How to Heal

By Joanna C. Valente

He didn't remember me. Sometimes, there would be glimpses of him coming out of his body and I could see in his eyes that he recognized me, but those moments were becoming more and more fleeting. Moments of remembering, of having memory, were rare. I would push the grocery cart around every week, following him as he picked out his favorite foods (vanilla wafers were a must), and listen to him talk to himself. I would agree and nod. Most of the time, I didn't know what he was talking about or even understand what he was saying.

It didn't matter. I didn't need to understand. He didn't need me to understand. Manny was my great uncle, a Greek immigrant, who worked as a medic in World War II, then later as a mailman. He never married and lived alone in his one bedroom apartment in Yonkers, New York - only a few minutes away from my parents and my yiayia, his sister. When I grew up, there was an unspoken truth about him: He was "different." We didn't speak about why. No one called him "special" or said he had special needs or a disability. He just was. And that's what mattered. He was just Manny. 

When I was in high school, he was found inside his apartment one day, muttering to himself. It quickly became clear he had dementia. My mother found him on the hardwood floor. He was alone. He was babbling. He was surrounded by forgotten garbage. He was a human suffering in his own humanity, in a world that doesn't cater to those who don't fit into neatly an able-bodied society. 

Soon after, he was moved into a nursing home where he eventually died. He lived in that nursing home for close to 10 years. No one wanted him to be there, but the question any caretaker and family member asks themselves when a loved one is diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer's is this: How can you take care of someone who can't remember themselves? Who can't remember to eat or go to the bathroom? Unless you have 24-hour care in your home (which requires a lot of money), it's impossible. That fact alone, the impossibility of that kind of care, is devastating.

Everyone feels like a failure. How can you not feel like a failure when you feel like you're abandoning someone you love, even if it's in their best interest? Even if you aren't actually abandoning them, but allowing them to continue living. But that idea of living is different than thriving - and what does it mean to live without your identity, your sense of self, your memory? What does it mean to exist inside a shell, to have your spirit trapped inside a place in the body that is no longer accessible? 

When you don't remember yourself, your agency is lost. This means we aren't in control of our bodies anymore - our bodies have become something or someone else's, but whose? Caretakers, in a legal sense: Our bodies are controlled by our caretakers, by a seemingly indifferent universe. But what does consent mean in those situations? Legally, we allow others, usually loved ones who act as power of attorneys, to control our bodies and make major decisions; yes, we have rules for this, but rules can't govern the spirit or the mind. They can't govern what you don't see. They can't govern ghosts, or the ghosts of ourselves. 

In those moments, it can feel as if your body was never really yours to begin with. If you believe in any kind of God, it feels like an awful trick, as if God is Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream putting an ass' head on you and watching what happens. In many ways, I started learning about consent because of Manny, because of his dementia. I didn't want to, but I was. 

My mother would drive me to visit Manny in his nursing home often. I grew to look forward to the visits, even if I pretended I didn't want to go as a depressive, moody teenager. Most of the people in the nursing home were like Manny, unable to remember, unable to care for themselves. And if they could remember, sometimes it seemed worse - to be stuck inside a body that no longer does what you want it to. I couldn't decide which fate was better, which luck of the draw I wanted as I got older. 

This fear of forgetting is exactly why we write about ourselves, detailing our lives even in obscured details, as a way to keep a tab on ourselves even when we can't. What's the point of other people remembering us if all we exist in is a void of darkness? It was Nabokov, after all, who told his friend Edmund Wilson in April 1947 why he wrote his memoir, Speak, Memory: "I am writing two things now 1. a short novel about a man who liked little girls - and it's going to be called The Kingdom By The Sea - and 2. a new type of autobiography - a scientific attempt to unravel and trace back all the tangled threads of one's personality - and the provisional title is The Person In Question."

Nothing exists as stationary, our minds are always changing, even with dementia. Manny's life was measured in black and white photographs my yiayia kept, his endless stories he would tell me, his repetition. As Nabokov illustrated in his own memoir, if the self is only endless projections, like a projector showing us a film of who we're supposed to be and who we want to be (and where our self meets somewhere in the middle), what does this mean? 

I of all people understand how flawed memory is. We often misremember details, black them out, or purposefully color them in, all as a way to survive and navigate trauma. As an assault survivor, I often have questioned my own memories, both happy and traumatic ones. Like many survivors of trauma, I blocked out certain details for a long time, usually details during the assaults themselves, because it was easier not to remember. Nabokov does the same thing when he recalls the idyllic events of his life, painting a gorgeous memory for us that may not be accurate; here is he painting an exquisite picture of his mother:

As often happened at the end of a rainy day, the sun might cast a lurid gleam just before setting, and there, on the damp round table, her mushrooms would lie, very colorful, some bearing traces of extraneous vegetation—a grass blade sticking to a viscid fawn cap, or moss still clothing the bulbous base of a dark-stippled stem. And a tiny looper caterpillar would be there, too, measuring, like a child’s finger and thumb, the rim of the table, and every now and then stretching upward to grope, in vain, for the shrub from which it had been dislodged.

Memory can only be as accurate as accurate as we allow the exercise in remembering to actually be, which is mutable at best. In 1966, Nabokov said, “As a writer, I am half-painter, half-naturalist." He also wrote about butterflies in Speak, Memory - which are intrinsically beautiful, but also indicative of change (and change confuses memory and how we remember):

I have hunted butterflies in various climes and disguises: as a pretty boy in knickerbockers and sailor cap; as a lanky cosmopolitan expatriate in flannel bags and beret, as a fat hatless old man in shorts . . . Few things indeed have I known in the way of emotion or appetite, ambition or achievement, that could surpass in richness and strength the excitement of entomological exploration. 

So, what does this mean, trying to invoke beauty into memory, or take out the grotesque? What does it mean, then, when we talk about illnesses like dementia or PTSD, or our brains post-trauma? With any trauma or illness, we are forced to forge new identities and reinvent ourselves; if we don't, we die. How can you remain stagnant when parts of your own agency are taken away by something or someone outside of you?

Our minds yearn to be transcendental, and transformed, into magic. We want to live in a curated fairy tale whenever possible, which means much of our power as humans is distortion, is storytelling. Much of our power as humans is memory, and the ability to recall, regardless of whether this recalling is truth (and whose truth?).

A better question, then: What does it mean to our humanity when we can't remember? This doesn't make us less human, but it does take our power and our agency away. My own misremembering of my assaults has been both powerful as a coping mechanism and a means to survive, but also as a way my own identity shifts, for better and worse. Who are we without our memories and our "real truths?"

When Manny died, we were relieved. We were relieved as much as we were devastated. Manny was in his late-90s when he passed, and in some ways, you could hardly say the death was tragic, that being released from his own mind-prison was unfair. If anything, he was free, regardless of where he went after he died. I remember throwing a flower into his open grave, the soil freshly dug, the air smelling of earth - both sweet and rotten. 

I cried. But I didn't cry long, because I wasn't sure what or who I was crying for. I had mourned him a long, long time ago; I wasn't sad for his body or the fact that his body could no longer move or breathe. Years later, I realized I was sad for his lost memories, for his lost self. He never wrote a memoir like Nabakov, he didn't leave behind a long journal of his experiences during the war, or if he ever fell in love or what his favorite childhood memory was. He didn't leave behind anything except for our memory of him, a faulty legacy in the brains of bodies that will also forget. 

People warn you about this, about forgetting them, begging you not to. We lose each other in the noise of our lives long before we lose our minds. When we part, we pray and wish each other luck, do spells to direct energy to the right places, hoping for the best. Even on a daily basis, we say phrases like "I'm always around," as if our self is capable of that. While we might mean it, for as long as we humanly and bodily can, our bodies sometimes strip ourselves from us. That is perhaps what I'm afraid of most: losing myself. 

In all my art, like many artists, I explore identity. I explore what it means to be alive in a body in a place in a time, locked inside a structure we can't control, to have a fluid identity in a rigid society (a society that still questions interfaith and interracial relationships and queer bodies and different backgrounds and religions and skins). I, like you, am trying to find agency when everything around us vies for our freedom and our minds.

What's the solution, other than science trying to find a cure, than writers trying to scribble down their lives and truths on paper and in the vast space of the internet? Dementia is just one face of finding and losing our true selves, of finding and keeping love, of trying to hold and make a future.

We try, constantly, to be our perfect selves in a world where capitalism pushes us to the impossible goal of "having it all" and being perfect versions of humans. That idea takes away our vulnerability, because how can we truly be vulnerable when we search for the impossible, and try to be the impossible? In my uncle's dementia, I didn't find hope or a cure or an answer, but the realization that wasting time is the truest crime.

This realization, the fear of dementia, gave me the freedom of "coming out" as queer and nonbinary, to write about assault and trauma, to write about abortion, to make hard choices that I know will make me more fulfilled ultimately. It's not bravery, as some people will call it, the will to be yourself, but it's a decision made out of the fear of forgetting everything, of never having been to begin with.

And that's the only thing I come back to, after every trauma and heartbreak and change and anxiety: Don't waste time on things you don't love, on things that don't love you, on something that isn't helping you figure out your identity and your happiness. Legacy, that perfect history and reputation (whether in textbooks or curated on a social media feed), will be forgotten too. Because everything passes, even you. And what's the use of living a fake life when that life will be forgotten by you and everyone around you anyway?

Joanna C. Valente is a ghost who lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is the author of Sirs & Madams (Aldrich Press, 2014), The Gods Are Dead (Deadly Chaps Press, 2015), Marys of the Sea (The Operating System, 2017), Xenos (Agape Editions, 2016), and Sexting Ghosts (Unknown Press, 2018). They are the editor of A Shadow Map: An Anthology by Survivors of Sexual Assault (CCM, 2017), and received a MFA in writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Joanna is also the founder of Yes, Poetry, a managing editor for Luna Luna Magazine and CCM, as well as an instructor at Brooklyn Poets. Some of their writing has appeared in Brooklyn Magazine, BUST, Them, Prelude, Apogee, Spork, The Feminist Wire, and elsewhere. 

[potatoandrice-blog]

1228170201

I dont want to fight anymore or am I even trying to fight I just want to sleep forget it all I dont even know who I am or who I was I just want to see things and life positively but I just cant It feels like I, myself, am blocking my own eyes from all the colors that life has to offer or probably life has nothing to offer to me Sometime I feel worthless not sometimes but Most of the time. I dont know how I survived being like this I dont know how I managed to be this twenty-one years old human being working, "busy" just like other people just like her peers. I dont have a life yes, I dont I know that for sure. I am doing things, stuff, on the daily without a hint of motivation yes I can laugh I can smile but I know inside Its not right Something about me is not right It was never right I have no one to talk to. I do have a family but I dont think they will understand I know they just wouldnt, because I tried. When I was 3 years younger I thought of drinking bleach yep bleach but before that I tried talking to them I tried telling them that I was not feeling well that I was not happy. Their response "youre over reacting" or "youre just saying that because you are lazy, you dont want responsibility" Right there and then I knew no one will ever understand me or how I feel then I laughed to myself I cant even understand myself so what am I expecting Then that time I thought "yea time to go to the bathroom and have a shot of that bleach" Might be funny to some people but it is never to me. While I was in the bathroom with that bleach in my hand I look at myself one last time and I cried I cried so hard I cant do it I dont know why I wanted to leave this place for good but I can never do it

Why am I such a coward

Then I remained a puppet I cant decide on my own for years I am afraid of stepping outside without getting someones approval I dont know I just feel like I have to or maybe Im just used to it. Not being able to decide for myself because I am Afraid I am a Coward I can never standup on my own because everything insidey head is fucked up like this world that we are living at. Or am I  even living? For years I have to keep it all in. Until now I dont know how to deal with everything I may seem like a normal person getting up every morning get dressed for work be at work try to communicate with people work going home from work sleep and do it again the next day. This routine is driving me mad so mad to the point where I regret not drinking that bleach 3 years ago. I never really liked the course that I took up in college, but still continued taking it because I need that diploma and I dont want to disappoint the people around me I end up disappointing myself but hey, I graduated but I was not happy I was never happy. I looked for a job right after college Landed in a pretty decent job Offers a good amount of compensation but it can never compensate my thirst for happiness but I still accept the job because I again I dont want to disappoint the people around me Now I dont know what Im doing with my life anymore Its 2 am, and I am feeling the emptiness not that same emptiness that I feel everyday This is a different kind of emptiness I dont know how to explain it because it hurts I can physically feel my chest clenching it hurts so much that I thriving for air to breathe and I know WOW this is my solution get my laptop and try to write write all of this non sense maybe because I am hoping that it will somehow ease the pain, a little bit because I have no one to talk to no physical living human being to converse with and share my feelings with 2018 is fast approaching and Im very scared I am fucking scared I dont know what am I scared of but I can feel this anxiety eating me away This is more than struggling I dont even know if there is a word to describe what I am feeling right now or what I am feeling for the last 4 years For the past months I dont know what I want in  my life what I want to be now I may have an idea of what  I really want or may need I want to be happy I want that genuine happiness that happiness that I felt when I was younger that feeling when I was watching anime during afternoon I want to feel that again Seems very imposible now The only thing that I can do is reminisce but I can not reminisce the feeling there is nothing just plain black and hurting I remember when I was nine I said to myself that I want to be a writer or a director or anyone that's behind the camera or stage assisting artist and all that jazz Seems fun to me. When I was in highschool I firmly said to myself that I want to be a writer that I want to write a book that is going to inspire people, I want to be at least like my favorite author at the moment. And that shit remained a dream. I really dont want to blame anyone I dont want to blame my parents for not allowing me to follow that dream of mine I dont want to blame them for making me to follow "their" dreams There is no one to blame but me I am a coward I have no voice I am too afraid of standing up on my own it is me who made myself like this I am a failure I just cant feel anything but pain and sometimes disappointment with myself It is now 2:30 and I am regretting every decisions that I have made for that last couple of years or I would not even call it decisions It were all just a stupid move plain stupidity and cowardness Like I have no purpose Hell, I dont have a purpose I feel like a rock has a lot more purpose than my existence. I am never living I am just trying and thriving to exist I need to go I need to die and rot along with all the trash in that shitty pit. I dont want to continue this anymore I am so tired

[touchpointpress]

Sean van der Wath is one of our newest TouchPoint Press Authors. His latest thriller, Nether, was released on September 15th. He is also our first author located in South Africa. If you like to know more about new authors before reading their books, this is your chance to get connected with another TPP author.

What was your motivation for becoming an author?

My motivation came from the love of creating stories. It was only after a time that I began to believe my ideas might have a place in the world.

I like to ask authors this question because I know how hard it is to choose a publishing company, and TouchPoint Press isn’t that well known. Every author has a different answer. How did you find/choose TouchPoint Press? How involved were you during the publishing process?

I came across TPP while searching for a publishing house that might take time to read through my pitch. I must say with all honesty that they have been great. There was always support, and I never felt left in the dark.

You started writing at a young age, so when you did you first consider yourself a “real” author? How do you feel about those old stories now?

I think I considered myself an author when I got the contract for Nether. As for my old writing, through high school, I started writing my own lyrics to songs I tried to compose on my old banged up guitar. I think the foundation to the stories I have thus far created was born in those days of one-page lyrics.

How do you balance your career, family life, and writing life? Do you view writing as a full-time/second job?

I usually spent about an hour in the evenings writing. I see the activity (or job) I do during the day simply as a means to survive. Writing is my true job.

That’s a great way to look at it! You have been called a first-time author on our site, but Nether isn’t your first published work. Can you tell us a little about your older projects and what you’ve learned or done differently since working with TouchPoint Press?

I actually wrote what I thought then would be my first published project in 2008. It was a fantasy tale about a young man controlled by forces outside the realm of sight. But it was not to be. I got rejected and demoralized by many of the queries I submitted, and so I crept back into my hole. For years I didn’t write until I had a horrible nightmare one night about three years ago. This, along with certain other sources, brought about the idea of Nether. With Nether, every chapter was revealed to me as I wrote. This made me want to write more. I was telling myself the story, watching myself go deeper into the world which existed in my thoughts. It has been much the same with my other books.

Can you describe writing desk or atmosphere? Do you have any habits surrounding your writing time?

My desk is kept pretty neat, and pretty simple. When I sit down in the evenings to write, I make sure I have something to drink as I start. Be it a cup of tea or a glass of beer.

What is one moment in the writing/editing/publishing process that you will never forget?

Seeing my work published after all these years as a whole was the greatest moment.

I can definitely understand that! What the most challenging part about writing characters? Do you consider real inspiration for characters necessary? Did you use your own life as inspiration for your books?

The characters in my books are born with the idea as the story is born in my mind. They flow into the setting of the story and what message I wish to convey. I have never used myself as any one character in my books, but I believe every author at least sees a bit of him or herself in the characters they create.

It sounds like creating your stories involves quite a bit of time. Does writing exhaust or energize you?

It comes down to balance in the end. I make writing into a routine, and this gives me a great deal of satisfaction.

I haven’t done any research about writing groups in South Africa. If you’re a part of any groups, can you tell us about them? Or is writing a solitary experience for you?

At the moment, it’s a solitary experience.

What can you tell me about your future writing projects? Will Nether be part of a series?

As of this moment I have a couple of short stories that I am working on and a novella that might someday see the light of day. I am also writing a much longer tale as part of a new creative technique I am trying to master.

It sounds like Nether and everything else you’re working on right now are stand-alone stories. What books on your shelf could you never get rid of?

Definitely my “Wheel of Time” collection by Robert Jordan.

I know that you have literary inspirations – (most authors do, and you can list some if you want) – but I want to know if you have any non-literary inspirations.

I have always found sanctuary in music. I would say that this is defiantly one of my most non-literary inspirations. There is no substitute for good music.

I’d be curious to learn what types of music or artists inspired Nether. But moving on…What was one surprisingly difficult part of the writing process? Did you find one part surprisingly easy?

The hard part is making the story gel and allowing the characters to play out their respective roles in unison to each other. Sometimes it works out, and other times it doesn’t. When I get stuck in either the plot or setting I usually try to take a step back and let the story breath for a while. When I return, the answer is usually right there in front of my nose.

So I think you’d agree that being an author is rewarding, but it isn’t always easy. Which part of the writing/editing process do you wish you could skip?

I’m not very fond of the editing process, although I know how important it is. If I had my way, I would write a story in a completely spontaneous mindset and send it out into the world. It doesn’t matter what the people might think of the grammar or spelling. To me, it’s important that the story conveys a message, and I believe the true meaning of a good story transcends the letters it’s boxed into.

What is the best money you ever spent as a writer?

Probably on promotions.

That makes sense. Promotion is a crucial part of the publishing process. What kind/how much research do you do?

I write from the heart, so my research is only done when a snag comes in the story I’m creating. If I am uncertain about a place or a fact, I immediately research it. But I like to keep the stories I create as original as possible, and that usually means making up my own facts or places.

Is there something that you want readers to know that you haven’t gotten the chance to tell them?

About me, no. I think you will get to know me through my stories. About writing, only this – a story is no great mind created plan. It starts with a single flash of inspiration, and through this tiny doorway, a billion paths may run. We as writers are tasked with following those paths and giving life to all we experience on them.

Okay, last question. I’d like you to weigh in on one of the biggest arguments in the writing community. Do you believe in writer’s block?

No, not at all. I believe that you will write when you have to and that the only time you can’t write is when you make yourself believe it.

  I love that answer! And I’ve really enjoyed getting to know all of our authors. Every writer is different. They have different motivations and different techniques, and it just goes to show that writing is an art, not a science.

You can order your very own copy of Nether on Amazon or the TouchPoint Press Bookstore. Check back soon for the cover release of Sean van der Wath’s second book, Tainted.

Meet Thriller Writer Sean van der Wath Sean van der Wath is one of our newest TouchPoint Press Authors. His latest thriller, Nether…

[laurendzim]

Book review: A master class in creative nonfiction  

By Michael Dirda, Special To The Washington Post

In “Frames of Reference,” one of the chapters in John McPhee’s “Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process,” this longtime staff writer for the New Yorker visits his granddaughter’s 12th-grade English class. He brings with him a list of approximately 60 items mentioned in an article he has just written. “I would like to try that list on you,” McPhee tells the young people. “Raise your hand if you recognize these names and places: Woody Allen.”

All 19 students are aware of Woody Allen, so he starts going down his list. Only five hands go up for Norman Rockwell, Truman Capote and Joan Baez. Laurence Olivier gets one. In 2014 none of these high school seniors can identify Samuel Johnson. Or Sophia Loren. Or Bob Woodward.

McPhee doesn’t intend this to be shocking. He certainly knows the voting results if you were to ask other students about John McPhee.

No, what he means to emphasize is the brief shelf life of cultural references. Prose that overindulges in the hip can quickly grow incomprehensible or dated. Today’s “woke” and Adele are yesterday’s “keen” and Dinah Shore. So little abides and the present inexorably overwrites the past.

Which is why rediscovery remains an important function for critics, scholars and serious readers. Even if you’ve never heard of Bill Bradley, you can pick up “A Sense of Where You Are” and read with pleasure this profile of a young basketball player. That book, McPhee’s first, appeared in 1965 and has since been succeeded by 31 others, the most admired being “Oranges,” “The Pine Barrens,” “Coming into the Country”- about Alaska – and the Pulitzer Prize-winning study of North American geology, “Annals of the Former World.” Never as flashy as Hunter Thompson or Tom Wolfe, nor as lyrically moving as Joan Didion, McPhee has always relied on prose that is fact-rich, leisurely, requiring a certain readerly patience with scientific and geographical description, and nearly always enthralling. Years ago, when I taught literary journalism, I had my classes buy “The John McPhee Reader.”

As it happens, McPhee himself teaches creative nonfiction at Princeton, and two of his former students – the New Yorker’s editor David Remnick and The Washington Post’s Joel Achenbach – warmly praise their mentor on the jacket of “Draft No. 4.” Apparently derived from that college course, this insider’s guide to long-form journalism, though somewhat meandering, is a book that any writer, aspiring or accomplished, could profitably read, study and argue with.

However, its opening two chapters, in which McPhee presents his various systems for structuring articles, do require a bit of perseverance. There are graph-like illustrations, circles, arrows, number lines, maps and even an irrelevant excursus about an outmoded text editor called Kedit. The upshot of it all is simply: Take time to plan your piece so that it does what you want.

From here McPhee proceeds to offer more specific advice. For example, he warns against comic lead sentences, such as “Insomnia is the triumph of mind over mattress.” If you are serious about the subject, he explains, “you might seem to be indicating at the outset that you don’t have confidence in your material so you are trying to make up for it by waxing cute.” Successful writing, above all, starts with knowing what to include and what to leave out. In his classes, McPhee regularly asks students to trim a dozen lines from Joseph Conrad or tighten up the already concise Gettysburg Address. His aim could be summed up by the classic tonsorial mantra: Cut it but don’t change it.

In another chapter, McPhee addresses the uneasy relationship between editors and writers, illustrating his points with anecdotes from life at the New Yorker. Once he asked the then-editor, William Shawn, how he could justify devoting vast amounts of time and money to making sure the magazine’s stories were accurate. After all, besides underwriting its contributors’ research and travel, the New Yorker employed copy editors, fact-checkers and an in-house grammarian. Was all this labor-intensive attention to detail really worth it? Shawn only murmured, “It takes as long as it takes.”

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“As a writing teacher,” McPhee adds, “I have repeated that statement to two generations of students. If they are writers, they will never forget it.” Without disputing the importance of getting things right, may I nonetheless gently demur from this implied goal of artistic perfection? While McPhee proffers tested insights into efficient reporting and note-taking, on the deft use of quotations and indirect discourse, on both writer’s block and the pleasure of revision, he’s nonetheless living in a privileged world, where expenses scarcely seem to matter and he and the New Yorker can expend months, even years on a single project. Yet most of us in the writing trade face inexorable deadlines and weekly bills. We can’t afford to carry on like perennial graduate students, endlessly researching, endlessly polishing. We simply do the best we can in the time available, then move on to the next assignment.

Enough of such carping. For over half a century, John McPhee – now 86 – has been writing profiles of scientists, eccentrics and specialists of every stripe. All are exceptional at what they do. So, too, is their discerning chronicler:

“Creativity lies in what you choose to write about, how you go about doing it, the arrangement through which you present things, the skill and the touch with which you describe people and succeed in developing them as characters, the rhythms of your prose, the integrity of the composition, the anatomy of the piece (does it get up and walk around on its own?), the extent to which you see and tell the story that exists in your material, and so forth. Creative nonfiction is not making something up but making the most of what you have.”

Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process By John McPhee Farrar Straus Giroux.

from News And Updates http://www.denverpost.com/2017/09/07/book-review-on-the-writing-process/

[jimblanceusa]

Book review: A master class in creative nonfiction  

By Michael Dirda, Special To The Washington Post

In “Frames of Reference,” one of the chapters in John McPhee’s “Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process,” this longtime staff writer for the New Yorker visits his granddaughter’s 12th-grade English class. He brings with him a list of approximately 60 items mentioned in an article he has just written. “I would like to try that list on you,” McPhee tells the young people. “Raise your hand if you recognize these names and places: Woody Allen.”

All 19 students are aware of Woody Allen, so he starts going down his list. Only five hands go up for Norman Rockwell, Truman Capote and Joan Baez. Laurence Olivier gets one. In 2014 none of these high school seniors can identify Samuel Johnson. Or Sophia Loren. Or Bob Woodward.

McPhee doesn’t intend this to be shocking. He certainly knows the voting results if you were to ask other students about John McPhee.

No, what he means to emphasize is the brief shelf life of cultural references. Prose that overindulges in the hip can quickly grow incomprehensible or dated. Today’s “woke” and Adele are yesterday’s “keen” and Dinah Shore. So little abides and the present inexorably overwrites the past.

Which is why rediscovery remains an important function for critics, scholars and serious readers. Even if you’ve never heard of Bill Bradley, you can pick up “A Sense of Where You Are” and read with pleasure this profile of a young basketball player. That book, McPhee’s first, appeared in 1965 and has since been succeeded by 31 others, the most admired being “Oranges,” “The Pine Barrens,” “Coming into the Country”- about Alaska – and the Pulitzer Prize-winning study of North American geology, “Annals of the Former World.” Never as flashy as Hunter Thompson or Tom Wolfe, nor as lyrically moving as Joan Didion, McPhee has always relied on prose that is fact-rich, leisurely, requiring a certain readerly patience with scientific and geographical description, and nearly always enthralling. Years ago, when I taught literary journalism, I had my classes buy “The John McPhee Reader.”

As it happens, McPhee himself teaches creative nonfiction at Princeton, and two of his former students – the New Yorker’s editor David Remnick and The Washington Post’s Joel Achenbach – warmly praise their mentor on the jacket of “Draft No. 4.” Apparently derived from that college course, this insider’s guide to long-form journalism, though somewhat meandering, is a book that any writer, aspiring or accomplished, could profitably read, study and argue with.

However, its opening two chapters, in which McPhee presents his various systems for structuring articles, do require a bit of perseverance. There are graph-like illustrations, circles, arrows, number lines, maps and even an irrelevant excursus about an outmoded text editor called Kedit. The upshot of it all is simply: Take time to plan your piece so that it does what you want.

From here McPhee proceeds to offer more specific advice. For example, he warns against comic lead sentences, such as “Insomnia is the triumph of mind over mattress.” If you are serious about the subject, he explains, “you might seem to be indicating at the outset that you don’t have confidence in your material so you are trying to make up for it by waxing cute.” Successful writing, above all, starts with knowing what to include and what to leave out. In his classes, McPhee regularly asks students to trim a dozen lines from Joseph Conrad or tighten up the already concise Gettysburg Address. His aim could be summed up by the classic tonsorial mantra: Cut it but don’t change it.

In another chapter, McPhee addresses the uneasy relationship between editors and writers, illustrating his points with anecdotes from life at the New Yorker. Once he asked the then-editor, William Shawn, how he could justify devoting vast amounts of time and money to making sure the magazine’s stories were accurate. After all, besides underwriting its contributors’ research and travel, the New Yorker employed copy editors, fact-checkers and an in-house grammarian. Was all this labor-intensive attention to detail really worth it? Shawn only murmured, “It takes as long as it takes.”

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“As a writing teacher,” McPhee adds, “I have repeated that statement to two generations of students. If they are writers, they will never forget it.” Without disputing the importance of getting things right, may I nonetheless gently demur from this implied goal of artistic perfection? While McPhee proffers tested insights into efficient reporting and note-taking, on the deft use of quotations and indirect discourse, on both writer’s block and the pleasure of revision, he’s nonetheless living in a privileged world, where expenses scarcely seem to matter and he and the New Yorker can expend months, even years on a single project. Yet most of us in the writing trade face inexorable deadlines and weekly bills. We can’t afford to carry on like perennial graduate students, endlessly researching, endlessly polishing. We simply do the best we can in the time available, then move on to the next assignment.

Enough of such carping. For over half a century, John McPhee – now 86 – has been writing profiles of scientists, eccentrics and specialists of every stripe. All are exceptional at what they do. So, too, is their discerning chronicler:

“Creativity lies in what you choose to write about, how you go about doing it, the arrangement through which you present things, the skill and the touch with which you describe people and succeed in developing them as characters, the rhythms of your prose, the integrity of the composition, the anatomy of the piece (does it get up and walk around on its own?), the extent to which you see and tell the story that exists in your material, and so forth. Creative nonfiction is not making something up but making the most of what you have.”

Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process By John McPhee Farrar Straus Giroux.

from Latest Information http://www.denverpost.com/2017/09/07/book-review-on-the-writing-process/

[jackdoakstx]

Book review: A master class in creative nonfiction  

By Michael Dirda, Special To The Washington Post

In “Frames of Reference,” one of the chapters in John McPhee’s “Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process,” this longtime staff writer for the New Yorker visits his granddaughter’s 12th-grade English class. He brings with him a list of approximately 60 items mentioned in an article he has just written. “I would like to try that list on you,” McPhee tells the young people. “Raise your hand if you recognize these names and places: Woody Allen.”

All 19 students are aware of Woody Allen, so he starts going down his list. Only five hands go up for Norman Rockwell, Truman Capote and Joan Baez. Laurence Olivier gets one. In 2014 none of these high school seniors can identify Samuel Johnson. Or Sophia Loren. Or Bob Woodward.

McPhee doesn’t intend this to be shocking. He certainly knows the voting results if you were to ask other students about John McPhee.

No, what he means to emphasize is the brief shelf life of cultural references. Prose that overindulges in the hip can quickly grow incomprehensible or dated. Today’s “woke” and Adele are yesterday’s “keen” and Dinah Shore. So little abides and the present inexorably overwrites the past.

Which is why rediscovery remains an important function for critics, scholars and serious readers. Even if you’ve never heard of Bill Bradley, you can pick up “A Sense of Where You Are” and read with pleasure this profile of a young basketball player. That book, McPhee’s first, appeared in 1965 and has since been succeeded by 31 others, the most admired being “Oranges,” “The Pine Barrens,” “Coming into the Country”- about Alaska – and the Pulitzer Prize-winning study of North American geology, “Annals of the Former World.” Never as flashy as Hunter Thompson or Tom Wolfe, nor as lyrically moving as Joan Didion, McPhee has always relied on prose that is fact-rich, leisurely, requiring a certain readerly patience with scientific and geographical description, and nearly always enthralling. Years ago, when I taught literary journalism, I had my classes buy “The John McPhee Reader.”

As it happens, McPhee himself teaches creative nonfiction at Princeton, and two of his former students – the New Yorker’s editor David Remnick and The Washington Post’s Joel Achenbach – warmly praise their mentor on the jacket of “Draft No. 4.” Apparently derived from that college course, this insider’s guide to long-form journalism, though somewhat meandering, is a book that any writer, aspiring or accomplished, could profitably read, study and argue with.

However, its opening two chapters, in which McPhee presents his various systems for structuring articles, do require a bit of perseverance. There are graph-like illustrations, circles, arrows, number lines, maps and even an irrelevant excursus about an outmoded text editor called Kedit. The upshot of it all is simply: Take time to plan your piece so that it does what you want.

From here McPhee proceeds to offer more specific advice. For example, he warns against comic lead sentences, such as “Insomnia is the triumph of mind over mattress.” If you are serious about the subject, he explains, “you might seem to be indicating at the outset that you don’t have confidence in your material so you are trying to make up for it by waxing cute.” Successful writing, above all, starts with knowing what to include and what to leave out. In his classes, McPhee regularly asks students to trim a dozen lines from Joseph Conrad or tighten up the already concise Gettysburg Address. His aim could be summed up by the classic tonsorial mantra: Cut it but don’t change it.

In another chapter, McPhee addresses the uneasy relationship between editors and writers, illustrating his points with anecdotes from life at the New Yorker. Once he asked the then-editor, William Shawn, how he could justify devoting vast amounts of time and money to making sure the magazine’s stories were accurate. After all, besides underwriting its contributors’ research and travel, the New Yorker employed copy editors, fact-checkers and an in-house grammarian. Was all this labor-intensive attention to detail really worth it? Shawn only murmured, “It takes as long as it takes.”

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September 6, 2017 Book review: Projecting our own desires onto Yellowstone’s landscape

August 31, 2017 “My Absolute Darling”: A brutal novel about a tough teen girl

August 31, 2017 Emotional healing and a search for true love in “George & Lizzie”

August 31, 2017 Move over, Harry Bosch: There’s a newer and more relentless cop in LA

August 31, 2017 At 85, John le Carré emerges with a sequel to “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold”

“As a writing teacher,” McPhee adds, “I have repeated that statement to two generations of students. If they are writers, they will never forget it.” Without disputing the importance of getting things right, may I nonetheless gently demur from this implied goal of artistic perfection? While McPhee proffers tested insights into efficient reporting and note-taking, on the deft use of quotations and indirect discourse, on both writer’s block and the pleasure of revision, he’s nonetheless living in a privileged world, where expenses scarcely seem to matter and he and the New Yorker can expend months, even years on a single project. Yet most of us in the writing trade face inexorable deadlines and weekly bills. We can’t afford to carry on like perennial graduate students, endlessly researching, endlessly polishing. We simply do the best we can in the time available, then move on to the next assignment.

Enough of such carping. For over half a century, John McPhee – now 86 – has been writing profiles of scientists, eccentrics and specialists of every stripe. All are exceptional at what they do. So, too, is their discerning chronicler:

“Creativity lies in what you choose to write about, how you go about doing it, the arrangement through which you present things, the skill and the touch with which you describe people and succeed in developing them as characters, the rhythms of your prose, the integrity of the composition, the anatomy of the piece (does it get up and walk around on its own?), the extent to which you see and tell the story that exists in your material, and so forth. Creative nonfiction is not making something up but making the most of what you have.”

Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process By John McPhee Farrar Straus Giroux.

from News And Updates http://www.denverpost.com/2017/09/07/book-review-on-the-writing-process/