#and then 'again.' is in theory more convoluted but because i have never actually sat down and made the decision tree i need to make to writ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sleepii-moth · 1 year ago

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the fact that fnaf after everything with its creator still has adult fans and is getting new merch, games, and other things made for it is wild to me. regardless of how you feel about death of the author or whatever, the new fnaf content that is being made is getting less and less coherent plot wise and the gameplay is getting repetitive. From an objective standpoint i think that the first fnaf game was never meant to be what the series became. As someone who has a general knowledge of how games are made, especially when it comes to narrative driven games, it was clearly meant to simply be a gameplay focused horror game with a little story thrown in to give some cool backstory and add some mystery, and then maybe there'd be a few more games in the series that expand on the mechanics and elaborate on the story a bit but its pretty reasonable to assume that the story of the game was meant to be mostly up for interpretation and that as a series, it wouldnt be too long. Unfortunately though, it ended up gaining fame and people reading more into it which definitely contributed to the series being what it is now (and also yknow.. money is another reason.) It sort of ended up having a certain Supernatural (tm) effect where it kept getting worse but people still watched it which i guess answers my question of why people still like it (because people arent willing to let things they like go even if theyre bad) but that is an unfulfilling answer to me and theres definitely a more fulfilling one

so im wondering now.. are people (not counting kids for a reason) who still like fnaf holding onto the series because they liked the concept (of animatronics, a sprawling mystery, and other things) and have never found or heard of other things that share those same concepts? Or is it really just simply holding onto things that are nostalgic to them? Im genuinely curious because i have been into things that just got bad because they went for too long or tried to do convoluted things with the story that i just moved on from. I still remember when i was younger i watched supernatural with my sibling, and did really enjoy it, we got pretty late in the show before my sibling told me they thought it was getting worse and didnt want to watch it anymore. Of course as a kid who didn't really even know how to tell if a form of entertainment was bad, i was a little upset and didnt understand why but agreed anyway. And so we stopped watching supernatural and watched other things together like steven universe that we ended up liking way more. Occasionally there would be tv show or anime that just ended up sucking and from then on we just stopped watching it and watched something else.

I think the reason i fully stopped liking fnaf was partly that i recognized the content i was watching for it (like lets plays or theory videos) were getting worse and i also just grew out of it? As the years went on i got into other games like half life or portal that had way more fulfilling stories to me that i enjoyed a lot more so fnaf just became something i didnt care about. fnaf is like the cracker barrel of video games to me, i went there as a kid because other people liked it so i was supposed to also like it and mostly really liked it because it was restaurant food and to a kid thats better than anything you get at home (and also they have little toys), and then one day when i was older and had gone to more different places i sat down, ate my food, and thought "wow this is bad actually," and never ate there again. And all of that is to say i really do wonder if the majority of adult fans of fnaf still like it because its one of the few games theyve engaged with in their life, and that if they were to expand their palette, try new things, and look back on their interests, then theyd be able to more easily accept its (and its creators) problems and move on from it as purely a thing of their past. because i promise you, there are better things out there, not everything is cracker barrel or supernatural, theres genres youve never even heard of, games that no one knows about waiting to be played, theres the sprawling mysteries of Outer Wilds, the gut wrenching horror of Devotion, the captivating characters of Psychonauts, the expansive world building of Half Life, there are so many better things out there made by better people. Letting go of something doesnt hurt as much when you have more things to enjoy. There are better things out there, you just have to stop looking in the same place.

#also if you have (or still do) like fnaf i wanna know either why you still like it or what specifically made you stop liking it :0 #this has been on my mind for a few days i think its just an interesting thought because i think people like to care when people who make th #things they love really suck and i think it makes sense that someone would try so hard to justify just not letting go of it because they #dont have anything else. i think this is something you especially see with things that arent media too #if people are telling you not to go to a certain restaurant or store or something because it supports bad things and you havent tried #many other places and enjoy going to those places so you keep going to them anyway i dont think that alone makes someone a bad person #i think it just means youre scared of trying new things. like you can make coffee at home! you can try the special coffee beans you saw at #the store or a new creamer that looked interesting! instead of treating yourself to fast food you can buy other premade treats or just make #yourself some really good food you like to eat instead! i think the reason most people have trouble not going to chic fil a or starbucks #or whatever is because theyre too used to doing what they already do so they dont want to change #this is something i definitely need to work on but im just sort of in a situation where me doing anything outside of the norm is looked dow #on and made fun of by the people who i live with so i think im just gonna wait a while haha

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fallen029 · 6 years ago

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Death Talk

"What happens when you die?"

"I'm so glad that you asked, Lisanna." Bickslow, who'd been lazily puffing away on a smoke, sat up then. He and the woman in question were on his apartment floor, in the dark, spending time alone with just them and his babies. How they liked it. Looking to her then, he went on. "I know that a lot of people have that hang up. Death. But I am very experienced in it and no longer ponder. Rather, I've formed something greater than just stupid theories. I've proven things! Things no one can disprove. I'm pretty much an expert. I-"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Eh?"

She sat up some too, one of his babies, Pappa, tumbling down from her chest and into her lap. "I wasn't being philosophical. I really don't care what you think about life after death."

"Well, there is none, Lisanna, and it's not what I think, it's what I know, so-"

"Bickslow-"

"What are you asking then?"

"When you die," Lisanna began once more. "What happens to your babies? Your magic ends at your death, so they'll be released from their bodies and then what? Do they just go back to what they did before they found you? Or do they wait for your soul? Is your soul going to meet them?"

Slowly, as if deflated, the seith fell back once more to the carpet. After another puff, he remarked. "Dunno."

"You don't know?"

"That's what I said."

"Bickslow, how do you not know? You're the master of souls, aren't you? Is that not what you said? You know everything about death."

"I do."

"Then-"

"I don't know what happens to them or if I'll be able to find their souls once mine's free from my carcass." He liked that word. Carcass. Tried to work it into a conversation at least once a day. Lisanna should know. It was normally conversations with her that he worked them into. "So I don't waste time thinking about it."

"So according to you," she said with a slight suspicious look, "not only do you know everything that happens after death-"

"Yes."

"-except for what will happen to you and your children after death."

"Also yes."

"You sound like a shitty father then."

"Lisanna!" He gave her a glare and his dolls hummed. "What naughty language to use around such young children."

She gave him a look of her own as she said, "Sometimes, Bicks, I think you just lie and make up the things that you know to impress me. But the jokes on you; I probably know way more about death than you ever could."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"This is absurd. The audacity of this one, babies. Who do she think she is? Huh?"

"I," Lisanna told him confidently, "am someone who beat death. Who are you?"

"I am so glad you asked." Again, he moved to happily sit up, cigarette dangling from his lips as he spoke. "I am the one, the only, the magnificent Bickslow. And yet often overlooked. Even in my tiny circles. Why is that? Because the most important thing that I am is a dark knight. A misunderstood, cast aside, forgotten dark knight. Do I let this bother me? No! Why? Because I understand my role. Though not large to many, it's important to me. And I uphold my duty far better than any other possible ever could. So you're Lisanna Strauss? Fine. Great. That's nothing to the Dark Knight Bickslow."

"Mmmm," it was her turn to hum as his babies took to flying around the room, all five of them, excited from their father's tone of voice. "You sure have a love for theater, Bicks. Sure you're not more suited for that."

"I'm a dark knight, Lisanna. You can joke-"

"Isn't that Freed's thing? Anyways?" She looked up then, as if considering. "Freed the Dark. Bickslow the Dark Knight. Sounds like copyright infringement, if you ask me."

"Is not! I was Bickslow the Dark Knight long before he ever-"

"It's at the very least gimmick infringement."

"It's not a gimmick, Lisanna."

"Sounds a lot like one."

"Well, it's not! I can't speak for stupid Freed, but mine's not a game." And he fell back in a huff onto the floor. His babies took to swarming him then, as if to cheer up the man. After a long drag on his smoke, he grumbled, "It's the only way I know how to be."

She gave him a few long stares then, a slight smile playing at her lips. It was so different, when she was with Bickslow, than the others. She was relegated to the emotional position with her older siblings, with Natsu, probably not with Happy, but they were both pretty prone to emotions together.

With Bickslow though, somehow, she was the adult. Somehow.

One of the things that always drew Lisanna to him was that he was older and darker and there was something more to him, but as she dug, she found that the things that were beneath the surface were there for a reason. Because they destroyed the outer persona. On the inside, Bickslow was actually an emotional wreck for the most part who cared pretty deeply what others thought of him and only pretended to be apathetic towards the others. His image meant the world to him. He had to preserve it. At all costs.

Which is why it annoyed him so much, in those few moments, when Lisanna poked at it. She could tell. As one of the few people allowed in, it got on his nerves when she wouldn't conform to the rules of entry.

He was a bit of a prick, Bickslow was. He liked for people to play by his rules and, if they refused, tended to flip the board and declare himself the winner regardless. It was the only way he knew how to play.

And Bickslow wasn't big on change.

"I'm just kidding, you know," Lisanna said after letting him pout for a few moments. Observing him and his demeanor, she knew it was time to stop the charade before he got too low on himself. "Bicks."

He only grunted, at first, before grumbling out, "I know."

"Well, don't get all upset about it then."

"I'm not."

Lisanna fell too then, on the carpet, but closer to him. Resting up against the man, she giggled as she rested against him. After pressing her lips to his cheek, she whispered, "I didn't mean to put you in a bad mood."

"I'm not in one."

"Bickslow."

"What?"

He turned his head down then, to stare at her, while Lisanna looked right back up, with little concern. She was one of the only people that willingly looked him in the eyes. Then again, she was one of the only ones to routinely see him without his visor on.

"I just wanted to know what your contingency plan was, for after your death," she said simply. "That's all."

"Contingency, huh?"

"Like, I know what happens to Happy if I die."

"Well, that's just not fair," he pointed out. "He already lives with Natsu and you've already died once before, so you have a dry run to go by."

"My point is that I know that he's fine."

"Again, because you're not really providing any real care to him-"

"I provide plenty of care."

"I think you're a deadbeat, Lisanna."

"At least I know that he's safe if something happens to me."

"You seem really concerned with this, Lissy," the man accused then with a suspicious stare. "You planning on offing me? And concerned that you won't get access to my wonderful dolls anymore? Have no fear!"

"I think if that's the plan, you should probably be the one in fear, actually, but go on."

"With just a few simple grueling years learning the art of seith magic," he began with a nod of his head, "you too can capture souls and care for my young when I am no longer able."

"Are they really young though?" she questioned. "If their eternally the same?"

"Why are you so full of questions today?" he griped. "You know how I feel about question."

"I'm nearly one hundred percent certain I don't because you've only made up this dislike just this moment."

"No. I haven't." And he stuck his tongue out at the woman then as his smoke found its way between his fingers instead. Guild mark flapping, he remarked, "Questions lead to what?"

"Answer, I'd hope."

"More questions! And more questions! And more questions!" He huffed. "It's a paradox, Lissy."

"I really don't think it is, Bicks."

"It's better to never question anything and just live your life in ignorant bliss."

"Except for when I'm asking you about one of the things that you're so glad I've asked about?"

"Except for then."

She couldn't help it with the smirk and he'd been trying to be so annoyed the whole time, but it showed through then as he reflected her grin and when they kissed, finally, it just all felt right.

"Are you going to tell me?" she asked though, once they separated. He'd fallen completely onto his back and she was over him, her hands rested on either side of the seith's head, looking right down at him. "Bickslow?"

"'bout what?" he asked as he blinked up at her with almost a sleepy expression. He still had his smoke in his fingers and glanced at it then, a bit bummed that with the way she was over him, it was inaccessible. "What happens to the babies when I die?"

"No. I think we can both agree you're too neglectful to know that."

"Least my fake children live with me, deadbeat."

"Happy's very real, thanks."

"So are my babies."

"I'm not the one that implied otherwise."

Eyeing her then, he asked, "Just what are you so curious about now? Eh? Lissy?"

"What you were trying to tell me before. About death. Tell me about all the things that you've proven."

"Really?"

"Mmmhmm." Her blue eyes shined brightly down into his. "I really do."

He needed a few more puffs for that and Lisanna obliged without verbal communication, just easily falling off to his side with a giggle as his babies landed on his chest, also eager for their father's deep ponders.

As expected, they were poorly thought out, convoluted, and not based in any fact whatsoever regardless of his insistence of otherwise. And yet Lisanna found herself nodding along and agreeing regardless because, hey, he really was good at it. Playing up the dramatics that way he loved so much.

Bickslow wasn't as dark and devious as he played himself up to be, but he certainly was misunderstood. By nearly everyone else. Not her though. Not in those days.

"Death," the seith finished after a few long and pointless tangents that he seemed to just be making up as he went along, "can be summed up in one way, Lisanna. You know that really visceral feeling you get, you know, when you see something you haven't in a long time. So long that it feels all fuzzy. What is that? Nostalgia? But different. Deeper. Like hearing a song that you only heard once, when you were a really little kid. That special scent that your home always had, when you were a baby. It's there, just barely, but it stops you dead in your tracks, because you can feel it. In your gut, in your mind, it's all you can do to continue on because it's just so overpowering. That's death. Because you have experienced it before. It's the first thing and the last thing. The end. The dark. The long night. It's what you had before this and it's what you'll have after. It's familiar and yet distant. It-"

"Wait." She was just vying to interrupt him at some point. He could tell. "What are you saying then? Bickslow? If we've experienced it before and go back to it, that means that we had life before as well, right? To know what the darkness was? So you think death leads to reincarnation. That's what you're saying."

For some reason, her claim annoyed him.

"No. That's not what I'm saying."

"I think it is."

"It's not."

"It's okay. A lot of people believe that."

"But I don't."

"Then what-"

"Life is...cyclical." And, smoke dangling from his mouth again, he made a circular motion with one finger. "It's just a long, endless, rehash. One after another. And any slight deviance you could have produces complete other universes. Like Edo-ass."

"Edolas, you ass," he got a slight grumble.

Undeterred, Bickslow only said, "You know the dark because you did live the dark once, before. But you know the light too. It never ends. We've had this conversation an infinite amount of times and will have it an infinite amount more. It all just continues on for the rest of forever exactly how it was. Each and every time. When it doesn't, it gets stored in another universe. Like I said before. That's why we're so afraid of it. Death. Because we have to return to it. That darkness. But we get to see the light again, eventually. We get to do it all over again. We always will."

"Is that what you really think? Bickslow?"

He nodded before looking at her. "It is."

"Mmmm. It sounds nice, anyways. That you get to do it all again. Even...even if you just get the same worthless result." She shrugged a bit. "You'll get to see everyone that you lost, again, eventually, right? Like I could see my parents again. Is that...is that why you believe that?"

"No. Why would I want to see your parents?"

"Bickslow-"

"Not everything has a deeper meaning, Lisanna. Somethings just are."

Yeah. But the moment they were having wasn't one of them.

"What do you think then?" he complained at her. "Since you're the rest master of death, huh? Isn't that what you said."

"It is."

"What then?"

Humming some, she thought before saying, "Mira believes in an afterlife and divinity. Elf thinks that we become the stars, the air, stuff like that. Just going on. Forever. And you think, apparently, that it all just restarts? Right? Again and again?"

"I asked what you thought."

"I think," she told him then as she shut her eyes, as if envisioning it as she spoke, "that there's nothing."

He frowned. "Nothing?"

"That's right. That there's nothing."

"At all?"

"At all."

"But-"

"There's nothing after this. Why would there be? Where was that promised? At any point? To any of us? Once this is done, we're just not anything anymore."

"My babies-"

"They're souls, fine, but you know as well as I do that there's not just a bunch of souls floating around constantly, like there would have to be, if all the humans and animals that died over the centuries were still around. The vast majority of us don't get stuck. We just finish. We stop breathing, our heart stops pumping, our brain dies, and that's it. That's the end."

Not pleased with this, Bickslow frowned some and thought before remarking, "That's fucking dark, Lisanna."

"Oh, you're one to talk!"

"I am the only one to talk, yes. I should be. I agree."

"And it's not dark," she retorted with a tongue sticking out of her own. But only quickly as she couldn't do it like him. Couldn't speak around it. Not without biting the appendage off. "It's beautiful."

"How?"

"What's in nothingness, Bickslow? Not pain or hurt or anything. Not happiness or joy either, fine, but you have to hurt to have those. To know what those are. Nothing...to be finished...to complete whatever reason you were put here and go softly into the night… I really want that. And I hope that Edolas Lisanna got that."

Considering her, Bickslow watched the woman for a few moments before, with one last puff of his smoke, saying, "If I die before you, will you try and find my babies? Keep 'em, if you can? Explain to them, at least, that if there's any way I can get back to them, any way at all, I will?"

"Yeah, Bickslow." She even nodded. "Of course."

"Great." And he tumbled up then, to go stab the butt of his smoke out in the overflowing ashtray that rested on the coffee table. Glancing over his shoulder at woman, he said, "And if, you know, you kick the bucket again, I'll take care of things with the cat. He has Natsu and all, but you know, I'll take him aside. Man to man. Stepfather to stepson. Give him a real good speech. All about you. And how you love him. All that good stuff a stepfather should."

"You keep using that word, stepfather, but I'm starting to think you're confused on the meaning."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Grinning widely, he fell onto his back once more. "Why don't you explain it to me then?"

"Well, for starters," she began as, once more, she cuddled against him., there, in the dark apartment, "Happy doesn't even like you so it doesn't matter what you are. He thinks you're weird."

"As any good stepfather should be."

"Plus, Natsu also thinks you're pretty weird."

"See, Lissy, you keep trying to disprove me as this cat's stepfather, but everything you list-"

"Not to mention he's an Exceed, not a cat, so-"

"A distinction for a father. Not a step-"

"Bicks."

"What?"

"Let's just both agree to never die? Okay?"

"I didn't know it was an option."

"We can pretend it's one," she pointed out. "Until, you know, it's not."

"Sounds irresponsible." Then he laughed, loudly, and made her and the babies alike jump. "Right up my alley!"

Lisanna giggled and he grinned and it didn't matter, when it would all end, because it was there, in that moment, and that's what made it so perfect.

That's what made everything so perfect.

#Bixanna #Bickslow #Lisanna #Lisanna Strauss #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

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notsoguiltykpop · 7 years ago

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The Tenth Floor pt15

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader & Taehyung x Reader

Min Yoongi had gone through 34 secretaries in the past 24 months, and each one of them left in tears. This fact alone should have warned you against taking the job, but the pay was too good to pass up. Surely you could put up with a billionaires temper-tantrums, right?

Genre: Fluff, humor, probably some angst

Warnings: Strong language, smut talked about/implied, some dark themes

Chapter Warning: Kind of substance abuse? Cough syrup abuse.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Yoongi did follow you, albeit somewhat reluctantly. At first, he stayed a fair space behind you, as though scared to walk side by side. To someone who didn’t know any better, they might have thought he was stalking you, stopping four feet away when you paused to look across the street, and keeping up the distance when you continued. It was irksome, but not so much so that you would tell him to cut it out and try to be normal. As it was, the only reminder that you were actually allowing Min Yoongi to know where you lived was the faint click of his shoes on the sidewalk.

“Here.” Yoongi interrupted the silence that had surrounded you for the last five minutes or so abruptly, and when you turned to him, you saw him holding out his jacket without looking directly at you.

“What?” You snapped. You definitely liked it better when he wasn’t talking.

“I’m too hot anyway.” Yoongi said gruffly. “You should wear it, you look cold.”

You were cold, but that didn’t mean you were going to take anything from him. Besides, you could tell by his red-tipped nose in the dim light that he was lying; he was just as frozen at that point as you were. “You’re not going to accomplish anything by giving me your jacket, so you might as well put it back on.”

Yoongi looked indignant. “I’m not trying to ‘accomplish’ something, I just said I was too hot, so you might as well wear it.”

You scoffed, turning away from him. The idea that he still thought he might win you over was absurd, and the fact that he was trying was mildly insulting. Yet, the action made you hesitate, if only momentarily, which was one of the main reasons you refused. It was a kind gesture, and you could feel yourself melting slightly because of it. You supposed in theory you could wear the jacket and take joy in the fact that he was that much more miserable, but you feared that it was more likely that you would instead start forgetting your anger and giving in to his and Taehyung’s game.

It wasn’t until you stepped into your apartment building that you noticed that Yoongi hadn’t ever put his jacket back on. You were about to make a snide comment, perhaps a jab at the fact that his pride had made him suffer completely unnecessary when you noticed how sickly he looked in the light. A cold sweat was starting on his brow, and he loosened his tie absently as you studied him. “Are… You okay?” You asked slowly.

“Yeah, why?” He raised an eyebrow as he followed you into the elevator. You’d forgotten how rickety it felt, and were more aware of how loud it was standing next to Yoongi. But he either wasn’t aware of it, or didn’t show that he was.

“You don’t… Look okay.” You replied. You were half furious at yourself for noticing and caring, and half concerned about him. Without thinking, you held out a hand and put it to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

Yoongi brushed your hand away looking somewhat alarmed by it, then rubbed his eyes. “Flu medicine ’s wearing off.” He muttered.

You stared at him incredulously. “You have the flu?” It was a redundant question, you knew, but you would have thought he would have said something earlier.

“Do you care?” He countered. “It isn’t a big deal, I just need some rest.”

“You didn’t think maybe you should let other people know you were sick?” You continued regardless as you stepped out of the elevator.

“I said I was tired!” Yoongi snapped. That was true, and looking back, he had stayed as far away from people as possible the whole night. You had assumed he was just being antisocial. “What difference would it have made? If I didn’t show up because I’m sick, everyone would think I was lying. And no one would have known better if I’d gotten home an hour and a half ago like I was supposed to.”

He followed you into your apartment, palms pressed to his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit.” You said, and he shot you a glare. Sighing, you opened a few kitchen cabinets before finding something for his fever. You set it on the counter in front of him, and he said a quiet “thanks” in return. “I’m going to change into something warmer, and then I’ll drive you home.” You told him, and he nodded absently. “Just how much flu medicine did you take for you to be able act normal earlier?” You couldn’t help the question.

Yoongi shrugged. “I dunno. Enough that I felt a dizzy for a while.”

You almost scolded him, told him that overdosing on cough medicine was dangerous and stupid, but stopped yourself. It wasn’t any of your business. If he wanted to get high off DXM, that was his problem, not yours. “Whatever.” You muttered. You needed to stop asking questions; the sooner he was out of your home, the better.

You changed quickly into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, but when you walked back to the living area, you found Yoongi passed out on your couch. Your first thought was to wake him up and drag him to your car, but you did no such thing. Instead, for some reason you couldn’t explain, you grabbed an extra blanket and draped it over his shoulders. He muttered something you couldn’t quite understand, and thinking that he had woken up, you asked “What?”

“Thank you.” Yoongi said somewhat more coherently. You blinked, taken aback.

“Just… Get some sleep.” You said, unsure of what else to do or say.

“Fuck off, I’ll do what I want.” His voice trailed off as he mumbled this, and you realized he was talking in his sleep. You laughed under your breath. He wasn’t even a normal person in his dreams.

When you woke on Saturday morning, you didn’t initially remember that Min Yoongi was sleeping in your house. But when you exited your room and found him sprawled sideways on your couch, one arm slung over his eyes to keep out the bright light of day, it all came back to you.

It was funny, you thought, how easily you were swayed by this man. Only the day before, you wanted nothing to do with him, save for the money you got from working with him. Now, you didn’t know how to feel. Were you angry? Yes. But it wasn’t the burning rage that had made your blood boil at the thought of him days before. More than anything, you were frustrated and confused by him now.

You were curious about him--who he was, what he did in his spare time, the reasons for his actions--and you wanted desperately to understand, though you suspected that it wouldn’t help you. Everything you had learned about Yoongi only seemed to hurt your further, and sometimes you wondered if he himself even knew who he was, his character was so convoluted and twisted.

You glanced at him again, sleeping relatively peacefully. He looked better than he had the night before, and you were grateful for it. Like this, he didn’t seem intimidating or scary, he just looked like... Well, a normal person. One you could get to know, and one who had normal interests, hobbies, and fears. Someone you could relate to, perhaps, and share stories with.

You stopped that train of thought there, however.

Maybe it was a form of stockholm syndrome, you thought. Was that even possible? You had no idea, but you decided the question could wait until you’d found something to eat.

You’d left your phone on the kitchen counter the night before, too distracted to plug it in. You glanced at it briefly to check the time, and grimaced when you saw the number of missed calls and messages. Many of them appeared to be from Jessica, while three were from a number you didn’t recognize. You sighed, putting it back down. Whatever it was, they could wait.

It was no wonder you were hungry, it was after 11am. You’d just sat down with a bowl of cereal when Yoongi dragged himself off the couch, taking the blanket with him as he walked over to sit across from you at your table.

“Why am I in your house?” He asked flatly.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Because you fell asleep last night and I didn’t want to wake you up--you clearly needed the rest.” He blinked slowly. “You don’t remember being here?”

“Fevers have a bad effect on me, and I think I took too much cough syrup.” He replied. “I remember walking here, but not much after that. Also, your couch sucks as a bed.”

You sighed. Yoongi was clearly feeling more like himself, judging by his blunt tone. But he still looked and sounded sick, and you tried not to care. “You should take time off when you’re sick.” You said rather than address his words. “You would recover faster if you didn’t push yourself--that’s probably why you were so sick last night. You went out and exerted yourself when you should’ve been resting, and then all the physical exercise of walking here...” You shook your head disapprovingly.

Yoongi didn’t look like he appreciated your mini-lecture, but your doorbell buzzing interrupted him before he could start complaining about it.

“Are you expecting company?” He asked.

You ignored him. It was probably your neighbor, ready to tell you off for letting someone stay the night. Mrs. Brickman had spider-senses when it came to that sort of thing, and never hesitated to let people know how much she disapproved. So when you opened the door and found yourself face-to-face with Jungkook, you were startled.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m making sure you’re not dead.” Jungkook was frowning, his arms folded. “I wouldn’t have had to come all the way here if you’d just answered your texts like a normal person.”

“How do you even have my number?” You could never really predict what Jungkook was going to do next, so perhaps in that respect it shouldn’t have been surprising. You might have been annoyed if you weren’t so confused.

“Oh, please. It takes a two minute google search to find someone’s number, don’t act surprised.” Jungkook then stepped past you into your apartment. You did try to stop him, but it wasn’t much use. “I don’t want to be weird, but I got worried when I didn’t hear back from you. After knowing what Yoongi and Taehyung said, who knows what they would do--” He stopped upon seeing Yoongi still sitting at your breakfast table. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” You said dryly. “Oh.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

You shook your head quickly, knowing what it must look like. “God, no--are you judging me right now? You, of all people?”

Jungkook grimaced. “I didn’t mean it that way--just, he’s such a…” He stopped and glanced at Yoongi.

“Does everyone but me know where you live?” Yoongi asked. By some miracle, he apparently hadn’t been paying attention to what Jungkook was saying only moments before, instead looking at his phone.

“You’re here.” Jungkook raised his eyebrows at Yoongi. “So wouldn't you know where she lives as well?”

“I have no fucking clue where this is.” Yoongi shot back, then seemed to think about what he had just said.

“Did you drug him?” Jungkook turned to you suspiciously.

“He drugged himself, but that isn’t the point.” Jungkook looked like he wanted more of an explanation on the subject, but you didn’t give him the chance to ask. “I’m fine; thanks for your concern, I guess, but you can leave now.”

“You can drive me home at the same time.” Yoongi cut in. He had his palms covering his eyes once more, and his elbows leaning on the table.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with him?” Jungkook asked you.

“Apparently, he has the flu.” You said. You phone started ringing, making you and Yoongi both jump. You answered it without looking at who it was. Too much was happening at once, and you didn’t like it.

“Open the door, my hands are full.” It was Jessica’s voice that greeted you, and you had never been so panicked hearing your friends voice. “I totally forgot there’s this conference thing I’m supposed to go to later, and I need my dress back. I tried to text you, but you never got back to me.”

Oh, good god. This couldn’t get worse, you were sure. The situation wouldn’t be so terrible if Jungkook wasn’t currently standing in your apartment, but it was made a worse by Yoongi’s presence on top of that. You longed for the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but your wishes were left ungranted. “I’ll bring it out to you, just wait there. No, wait downstairs.” You took a few steps further away from Yoongi and Jungkook so they might not hear what you were saying.

“What are you talking about, just open the door--” There was a knocking on your door that sounded like Jessica was using her foot rather than her fist.

“Don’t--” You started, but Jungkook was closer to the door, and much faster than you. He stood dumbfounded with the door still open as you hurried over.

“How dare you.” Jessica said lowly, glaring at Jungkook. “You have some fucking nerve to be here.”

“Jessica, I can explain--” You started, pushing past Jungkook who was as still as a statue.

“Explain?” Jessica said weakly. She had two to-go cups of iced coffee in her hands, one you guessed was supposed to be for you. “Knowing what he did to me--knowing what a piece of shit he is, you still--god, how could you do this to me?” Tears were welling in her eyes as she spoke, and Jungkook finally came back to his senses.

“You know each other?” He all but whispered.

Jessica’s response was to drop one of the cups of coffee, rip the lid off the other, and throw it’s contents into Jungkook’s face. Some of it landed on you, but the majority soaked into Jungkook’s shirt and hair. “Fucking scumbag.” She said as she walked away.

Jungkook didn’t waste any time chasing after her. You heard his “Jessica--Jess, wait. Please?” as he followed her down the hall, and you debated whether or not you should do the same. You deemed that it might be best that you didn’t, because Jessica’s anger wasn’t only at Jungkook, and both of you pursuing her would likely do more harm than good.

“Who was that?” Yoongi asked, walking up to stand beside you, sticking his head out the door to see their retreating forms.

“Jessica.” You said. Yoongi didn’t look like he knew who you were talking about, so you added; “She was your secretary for almost two weeks, remember?”

Yoongi shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of secretaries. It takes at least four weeks for me to remember their names.”

You turned to him slowly. “Is that why you never refer to me by name?” You asked. “Because you don’t know it what it is?”

Yoongi shifted his weight. “No.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You demanded. “You don’t know my name.”

“I do too.” Yoongi said, his tone slightly resentful.

“Oh, really?” You took a step towards him, so you were nearly nose-to-nose. “Then what is it?” You were sure he wouldn’t have an answer, that he would continue trying to avoid the question.

“Y/n.” Yoongi said simply. “Your name is Y/n.”

You wished you hadn’t made him say it. Hearing your name from his lips, in his voice made you feel things you knew you shouldn’t. You were in far, far too deep, and if you weren’t careful, you’d end up drowning.

A/N Two updates in the same week, both over 2k words long?! It’s been a while lol! I’m going to see if I can finish up the next part of Royals soon, Jimin is killing me recently ;-; Thanks for reading this, and let me know what you think, of course! Originally there was going to be a lot more to this chapter, but sometimes I prefer to update more consistently rather than with longer parts haha. Also, have any of you ever taken too much cough syrup? I did one time before I knew it makes you loopy, it was a weird day (I didn’t even take all that much, I’m just a lightweight lol) 0/10 would not recommend.

@sanfurcopi @parkjiminsjagiya @rimuslymoony @lunarosemai

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future update and I’ll add you to the list! <3

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kingofthewilderwest · 7 years ago

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Shiro back in Black is *FORWARD* story development

Thought I’d make a title for once to pique peoples’ interests. I mean, that statement is probably a rare opinion. I’ve seen many individuals comment that they felt Shiro’s return to Black in S4 was a cop-out, “too soon,” convoluted mess, or backwards step in storytelling (especially concerning Keith’s characterization as a Paladin). And while at first I found the writers’ choice weird, I sat back to rewatch S3... and lo and behold everything clicked.

This is actually a really smart move and smooth storytelling point on the writers’ part to put Shiro in Black for S4.

The gap between Seasons 3 and 4 I think have thrown many of us. Though we understand that S3+S4 = the length of S1 alone, many of us have treated these seasons so separately that the broader plot arc of 3 / 4 got passed over. This was passed over also because of the time gap... while waiting for S4 to premiere, our minds got solidified in the current state of S3... thus treating the events of S3 as though they were more permanent, resolute, and long-lasting than they were. I mean, there was so little permanent about 3... it was only seven episodes, after all! And only in five of those did we see Keith in Black.

For I noticed a trend in how people theorized about future Black Paladins. Pre-S4 predictions about the Black leader mainly followed the lines of:

Keith always stays in Black and the lion switch of S3 is permanent.

The Paladin team grows in their new lions and learns new lessons. Once they have matured as people, they more or less return to the original configuration.

And then there are theories about a sixth lion, Paladins constantly swapping depending upon needs per mission, etc.

Now the thing is, ideas #1 and #2 always felt to me as... problematic... concerning either Keith or Shiro’s character development.

If we go with #1, Keith gets a brilliant character arc where he grows into a leader. He is forced into a leadership role and has to become someone great. But Shiro would easily be shafted in this route. It would be very hard to write a satisfactory character arc for Shiro without him returning to Black. It would be hard to get a sense of growth for his character upon permanently leaving as Voltron tream leader. Not to mention... the S2 plot arc of Shiro trying to bond with Black was only just making headway when he disappeared. So #1 shafts Shiro’s characterization.

If we go with #2, then Keith, Lance, and Allura allegedly would return to their old lions. It again could easily feel like a step back, especially for Keith and Allura. A story introducing Keith as “a leader with potential” cannot have him tossed back to second-in-command and never actualizing as leader. He has to become that leader for the story to make sense.

These theories all have something in common that I only realized with S4 in retrospect. These ideas assumed that the lion switch is what would stimulate Paladin character growth. But with Keith, it’s not simply that piloting Black will characterize him into leadership. Rather, S3-4 suggest there’s also the idea that learning leadership will characterize Keith into piloting Black. We got it swapped!

And Keith isn’t at that point to take such command of Black. Not yet. But because we assumed that Keith being in Black was how he would become actualized as a leader, it felt like a step backward or a reverting to “the original” when Shiro flew Black in S4. It felt like taking away that character growth of how Keith could become leader... something that desperately needs to happen in storytelling.

Lots of people seem to be disjointed by Shiro returning to Black, especially so soon before his psychological struggles are resolved. Lots of people seem disjointed by Keith leaving Black so soon, especially since he only just began to demonstrate any good leadership at all. It seems like a step backwards to undo the little Keith was beginning to do, and to simply default back to what we’re “used to” with Shiro. Overall it can feel the writers took away change and progress.

But no. That’s not the actual arc of S3 / 4. We didn’t take a step backward. We didn’t return to the default Black Paladin in a muddy, useless tangle of plot. We’ll never get back to S1′s status. Instead, the writers did something cool and progressive, moving the plot forward in a neat and linear progression. Check out what’s been happening when we actually look at S3-4 as one unit:

Season 1: Shiro is the clear, dominant, uncontested leader of Voltron. There’s no question about it and basically nothing to suggest otherwise.

Season 2: Shiro is still the clear, dominant, uncontested leader of Voltron... but there’s a new suggestion that someone else might have the potential to lead someday. Shiro suggests Keith as a replacement just in case anything goes wrong.

Season 3 / 4: Keith gets that taste of leading alone, but emotionally doesn’t feel ready, opts out, and the command continues with Shiro. Shiro can still pilot the Black Lion and act as a good Voltron leader, but cracks are developing. He’s no longer the clear, dominant, uncontested leader. Keith is now something that has to be considered because he can pilot Black, too.

Nothing is ever going to return to the old S1 standard. Keith versus Shiro flying Black is a problem with much more development to come. S4 contributes rather than degrades the development of the situation, in fact, by throwing in the detail both can pilot Black. That’s a lot more complicated with more questions than just, “Oh, now we have a different pilot: it’s Keith.”

See the progression that’s happening? It’s like there’s a slow gradient of black to white. We started in black, then slowly have transitioned to dark grey, then a more average grey. Slowly, the story is building cracks into the idea of Shiro being the one, dominant Paladin of Black. Slowly, the story is building Keith into the idea he can be leader of Voltron. It’s not by shoving Keith into the Black position that he becomes leader... but by growing him into the position to pilot Black.

We have to have this starting point of Keith’s first time in Black... where he’s not ready and leaves... where it still feels as though Shiro is “it”... but where we are starting to see the questions...

By having Keith get a taste of Black but not ultimately take Black on permanently in S3 / 4, we fall into the grey zone between black and white. We show the first glimpses of what it can be like as Keith in Black. The story doesn’t just close up that concept of him flying Black then and there in S3, and then we say, “Keith’s in Black, done deal, he has to learn, Shiro has to cope.” We didn’t just snap one Paladin into another Lion, done deal, black to white with no gray in between. Instead, the idea of who is the rightful Paladin of Black becomes a growing, morphing, black to grey to white gradient storytelling point with more nuance, development, and smooth direction. That’s pretty cool and will make for fascinating storytelling, character moments, and more.

Season 3 isn’t meant to feel as solidly “Keith is Black” as it should be. It’s meant to initially fool you because Shiro is gone, but it’s not meant to have this feeling Keith is solidly there because, really, he’s not - he goes in and out of Black quickly. But because we had that big time gap from 3-4, Keith further growing into the role of Black Paladin got solidified in our heads, making it feel all the weirder to see Shiro return “so soon.” But again, if you watch 3 directly into 4, you might see... it’s just that Keith is getting a taste, and the story is slowly building to ask the question of who should rightfully lead Voltron.

Because that’s obviously not a topic that’s done with, between Keith saying Shiro is the rightful Paladin, Shiro saying Keith is the rightful Paladin, yet Keith leaving and Shiro taking position without complaint. Yeah, issue totally not done.

And in this sort of storytelling format, we avoid the awkwardness I mentioned in #1 and #2. We won’t have Shiro’s characterization arc fall flat because he got shafted and put to the side. It won’t feel like this character just disappeared and poof wasn’t a leader and poof wasn’t cool anymore and poof wasn’t progressing anymore with his connection to the Black Lion. And it won’t have Keith’s arc fall flat at all... because this means that Keith will have a long, nuanced, gradual, inclining development into someone who can be a great leader. In fact Shiro returning to Black makes Keith’s characterization into a leader all the richer.

For we see Keith go from someone who isn’t a leader, to someone who is suggested to be a leader, to someone who gets a taste of leadership and rejects it. We create more nuance and steps this way, than just by having a plot where first he’s recommended to be leader, then lo and behold he is leader, and now he learns how to be leader while being leader. The writers are building more. Keith is learning both how to become leader and how to accept being leader this canon way. Keith is progressing just as much about how to become a leader than if he stayed in Black. Furthermore, rejecting leadership and leaving it and seeing Shiro still lead is a cool stage for Keith’s growth! Because S3 / 4 gave Keith the taste of being leader but ultimately not becoming leader, we show that Keith still has so much further to go. We show that there’s an interesting avenue that he might be headed towards... but we still have to wait eagerly to see actualized. We’ve got to get this whole growth going for Keith to learn how to accept leadership - even leadership as a Paladin of Voltron - before we really see him frequently back in action in Black.

And indeed, S4 shows that idea progressing forward of Keith learning leadership and Shiro increasingly being shown not to be the irrevocable leader of Voltron. Shiro makes a big mistake this season. Keith leaves, but learns some responsibility with the Blade of Marmora (rallying back-up? that’s new for him!)... and likely, he’ll continue learning. It might seem like a big, tangled, directionless mess when we focus just on the microcosm that is S4′s six tiny episodes... but looking at the larger plot arc, I am pleased. I think they’ve got great potential to develop this, for Shiro, for especially Keith, and for VLD as a whole.

#vld spoilers #vld #Voltron: Legendary Defender #Voltron Legendary Defender #Voltron #Keith #Keith Kogane #Shiro #Takashi Shirogane #analysis #my analysis #I hope the thoughts in my head translated okay to words #non-dragons #long post #a little late to be posting this #but I'm too excited with the idea to wait longer to post

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dontshootmespence · 7 years ago

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IQ Meets Experience

A/N: An anon request for a fic where the reader is a young genius (about 21) and they get into the BAU because of their genius. Kind of like Spencer. Due to age, they aren’t that confident and start to make mistakes in their profiling, but Reid assures them that everyone makes mistakes. They’re also intimidated by everyone in general, looks, intelligence, and otherwise. The requester didn’t specify him or her, so because I get them so rarely, this is a Spencer x Male Reader (who is bisexual because my bisexual ass has a mighty need). @coveofmemories @sexualemobitch @jamiemelyn @unstoppableangel8

----

This is like high school all over again. I’m never going to fit in. Intelligence is one thing, but everyone else is a minimum five years older than me, plus they’re all beautiful, intelligent and nice, and here I am, this bumbling genius, idiot that despite an IQ of 190 can’t get my damn profiling right.

Fuck me.

I started at the BAU nearly a month ago, brought in on sheer intelligence and the basic ability to stand upright, because physical prowess there was none of whatsoever. “Dammit all.” Once again, I’ve spilled coffee on my way out of the cafe, causing my hand to burn, which in turn caused me to drop the coffee on the ground, so I had to go get a new one. This was the third time this week.

After grabbing another cup, I walked carefully to the Bureau and into the elevator. JJ and Morgan were on their way up at the same time. “Hey, Y/N,” Morgan said as he slapped me on the shoulder. “How are you this morning?”

Play off the clumsiness and the burn on your hand as a joke. “Well, I’ve burnt my hand for the third time this week, but otherwise I’m okay.” Morgan chuckled as we all left the elevator and I couldn’t help but think that not only was I never going to get the hang of this job no matter how badly I wanted it, but I was also just never going to fit in. My bisexual ass couldn’t possibly be more intimidated by the beauty of everyone on this team. JJ was a goddamn angel sent down from the heavens. Morgan, as Garcia said, was sculpted from the most decadent chocolate. Hotch had his own charm, though it was hidden most of the time. Emily was a raven-haired goddess. Penelope was a fucking ray of sunshine that I could never even hope to be, Rossi was well...Rossi, which I’m sure he would appreciate me saying, and Reid...goddammit. His confidence level is just a hair’s breath above mine, but I have no clue why. I have the hots for everyone, but Reid...Reid is an angel with cheekbones that could cut a roast, deep-set eyes that convey all the emotions of the universe, and stupid fucking hair that makes me want to pull my fingers through it. Oh, and lips that gave me the dirtiest of mental images.

Everyone is cool and intelligent and pretty and I am so out of my league. Why the hell did I accept this job? That’s right, because I wanted it more than anything in the world - still do - I just wish that I could actually fit in.

“Morning, Y/N,” Reid said, his smile nearly killing me inside. I did manage to control myself and give him a good morning back. Go me.

Just as my train of thought was going to pull over to ‘Please-Fuck-Me-Reid Junction,’ Hotch came out of his office. “We have a case.”

Everyone got up and made their way into the conference room. I followed behind, but kept my distance. Though everyone was welcoming and warm, my stupid brain refused to let me believe that I actually fit in. I hadn’t for the entirety of my 21 years. Why would I now? “What do we have?” Emily asked as her hair fell in front of her face. God I’m bi as fuck.

“Garcia?”

As happily as she could under the circumstances, Garcia stood up and started briefing us on the case. “New York City. Three women have been found with their throats cut.” When the pictures came up, it was fairly easy to see they were prostitutes. “Now, by their clothing and the locations they were found, one might assume they were prostitutes. But they aren’t.”

Oh fantastic. Now I’m making assumptions. What is wrong with me?

“All three of them are suburban moms from Long Island. All blonde. All between the ages of 25 and 35, and all were abducted from a date with their significant others just prior to their deaths.”

“The clothing,” I started without realizing it. “Was that what they were wearing on their dates or were they changed post-mortem?”

“We don’t know yet,” Hotch replied. I was going to have to get used to the way he spoke. I kept thinking that when he spoke to me I was wrong, or I had asked a stupid question, but I knew I hadn’t. Adjustments were taking longer than I wanted. “Y/N, why don’t you give us a reason that the clothes would’ve been changed post-mortem.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and attempted to form a hypothesis. “Well, the fact that they are suburban moms is obviously important to him.” I tried to think of a reason, but the only one I could come up with sounded convoluted to my own ears. I said it anyway. “These women could be substitutes for a mother or caregiver in his own life. They fit the bill look-wise, but not professionally, so he changes their outfits.”

“So the unsub’s mother or mother figure was a prostitute and he’s substituting these women for them?” JJ asked. I nodded and JJ reciprocated. “That’s definitely possible. But what started this unsub off?” Again, the question seemed to be geared toward me. I had no idea. That was one thing I really needed to work on. I could dissect a crime scene with the best of them, but coming up with a motive for murder was always more difficult. Who was able to think like a killer? Well, everyone on the team but me apparently.

For a moment, I stared at the screen, trying to come up with a motive. “Motive, I’m not sure, but the trigger could’ve been the mother figure’s death, or possibly a return to prostitution.”

The rest of the team nodded and started to throw around other possibilities. Of course most of them sounded better to me than my own theories. “Wheels up in 30,” Hotch said, bringing me out of my daze. I’d only been here for a month, but I’d already gotten used to Hotch saying ‘wheels up.’

As the rest of the team filed out of the room, I stayed behind. Reid was gathering his things; he must’ve noticed the doubt in my eyes. “You okay, Y/N?”

“Yea,” I sighed. “I just can’t help but think...you know what, never mind.”

“You can talk to me Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been through a lot. Probably a lot of what you’ve been through.”

“I just keep fucking up when we’re profiling. I have an IQ of 190 and I feel like the dumbest person in the room,” I said quickly. That was practically word vomit. I guess I’d been bottling that up since I started. “Plus, everyone is so nice and intelligent and good looking,” Fuck that came out of your brain. Good job, asshole. “I just don’t fit in.”

Reid smirked as he picked up his files and started walking out of the conference room. “If anyone knows about not fitting in, it’s me,” he said. “You do fit in here. I can promise you that. Everyone loves you. And when it comes to profiling, mistakes happen. Human beings are too varied to not make a mistake every now and then.”

“Yea?” I asked. “Are you sure? Because I feel like an idiot. And with an IQ of 190, I feel like that shouldn’t be a word that exists for me.”

We walked down the stairs and towards the jet. Both of us had our go-bags ready to go so we figured why not just go to the jet straightaway. “Intelligence is one thing. You have that,” he started again. While he spoke, I started to feel better, his voice washing over me like a hot shower after a long day. “Profiling is taking that intelligence and applying it to real life crime. Even with crazy intelligence, that takes practice. You’ve only been here a month. Just give yourself some time.”

I heaved a deep sigh as we both walked onto the jet, taking seats across from each other. “I guess you’re right. I’ve just been straddling the line between being comfortable with my intelligence and not fitting in for so long that I’m tired. I want to take a firm step to one side, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he laughed. “After a little more time, you’ll wobble over to one side. We’ll pick you up and then you’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay,” I smiled. It’s a good thing everyone else started to pile onto the jet because I could feel my brain getting ready to say something stupid - probably about how hot I found Reid. As the plane readied for takeoff, the rest of the team sat down beside me and we began talking about whatever the fuck before we had to turn our attention to the profile again. Emily asked my opinion as the plane took off. Maybe I would actually fit in here eventually.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #dontshootmespence

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survivingart · 5 years ago

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HOW TO MAKE ART THAT TRANSFORMS PEOPLE

Creating art is a two step process; first you obviously have to make it, but then you also have to show it and present it to the public, and hopefully leave an impact on the world (preferably for the better).

But these two steps could not be further apart in both their methodology and all-around nature. The real problem is that making art is a predominantly personal and intimate experience, but showing and presenting it requires an entirely different skillset.

So, in today’s blunder I would like to explore the act of creation and presentation and — with a little help from psychoanalysis, theory of mind and history, all sprinkled with a few down-to-earth examples — show that even though it seems like they are two very disparate things, in order to master either of them, we really “only” need to master one thing: ourselves.

But first; let’s talk about making art.

First we need to figure out the basics and touch upon what we are actually making: Art is an experience, embodied inside an object or subject (like a painting or a performance piece). Its sole purpose is to communicate something, anything, and this purpose always stays the same, whilst the core message and even how it is conveyed changes constantly (think how different styles, motifs, art eras and political ideologies change the purpose of any particular art piece, but the basic idea of any one piece still stays the same — propagation of ideas).

But, at the beginning of our path as artists, art is primarily an exploration of self and not that much about communicating anything. We first have to find our message in order to then concern ourselves with communicating it, and this is where a strong distinction occurs: the distinction between artisan or craftsperson and artist.

The artisan or craftsperson does not posses a message, they do not wish or know how to communicate whatever it is they would like to propagate into the world with their creations. They only create.

Be it out of an urge to make beautiful things, to make functional things or just to play and create for the sake of creation, I’m not really saying that their creations are void of anything — beauty is a message, and so is play — but there exists a strong difference between those that imbue their creations with life, and those that merely bring into life whatever they create as a consequence of creation itself.

To create a table for example, I do not need much in order for me to make my object become a table. I can take a few planks of wood and at least three (but preferably four) sticks and attach them to the planks and call it a day.

Most people would probably agree that I have made a table — albeit a horrible and probably even dangerous one if it were used, but the point is, it could be used as a table and therefore it is one.

So, making a table isn’t that hard and it’s the same with making a chair, a sink and so on. The only difference in making any utilitarian object is the amount of technical expertise one needs to adequately make one (let’s call that part 80% of any particular object).

It is of course harder to make a car or an aeroplane, but as we humans know how to group-up, roll-up our selves, and since Ford demonstrated the incredible efficiency of labour division, even such a feat is doable in the long run and given enough time and resources.

But what about the rest? What about the extra 20% of anything we make, and that basic mathematics so eloquently describes as being quite important for any thing to be a whole “thing”, rather than just a work in progress?

The extra 20% is the semantic value, the meaning of a thing. That part cannot be fully constructed individually or in a group when the object is being built. It can only be made collectively; it needs creators and spectators to come together and ponder over whatever has been made and how it relates to their surroundings and themselves.

And even without the creator present, the object always has a certain semantic value, but it is never present in the object itself. While a bit convoluted, the point is: a chair is not a chair because there exists a heavenly blueprint of “The Chair” somewhere in god’s warehouse of stuff, with IKEA, OBI and MÖMAX fighting epic battles in order to obtain that immaculate rendition for the perfect chair to up their quarterly earnings.

A chair is only a chair because people have collectively decided to call it that and give it its now defined specific purpose — to be sat upon. It is a part of our belief system, and when that system changes, so does the semantic value of the chair (and all other objects, that are part of that system).

If we look at old pottery for example, the first time white long-necked vases were found in Greece, they could’ve been considered to be just that, vases. But as researchers explored them over time (and because they weren’t ignorant people), more detail and context was uncovered pertaining to these peculiar yet ordinary objects. Soon they found that such vases were actually urns, originally filled with the ashes of deceased children and were painted in white, because they symbolised their innocence at death.

And exactly this is the punchline: to symbolise. Only by uncovering context (we could also say the collective amalgamation of beliefs that the researchers uncovered from that time and of those people) could the function of those vases be determined — even if only approximately, because one can never be 100% sure about anything that has happened, especially if it happened in the distant past.

So, in order to find the meaning of anything, we first have to find the context in which it was created. Only by understanding how any object is connected with its surroundings (physical, cultural, etc.) can we really know what that object is.

Without context, you get a Plumbus (the Plumbus is an oddly shaped imaginary object that has no functional application or description of what it is useful for, that appears throughout the popular animated series Rick and Morty on Adult Swim).

And what is most important for us artists, we can also create context for any one object or subject yourself, either by taking something that has an already established function and purpose in society and reappropriating it for our own means, or creating something new entirely (the best way is usually to combine both worlds, so as to make our art seem novel while still being accessible enough for people to understand the newly created object).

And one of the parts that is incredibly important for us is exactly this process of creating, because it is the process itself that actually stands as a temple to the human condition and capability — without our ability to create, we would have gone extinct as a species a long time ago.

In his book The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell describes this process as an ever-present, ever-revolving wheel that just keeps turning throughout human existence.

From Genesis, the Bhagavad Gita to the stories of Buddha, Jesus Christ and Muhammad, the Babylonian and Mesopotamian creation myths, Egyptian and Greek mythology; all such stories tell us more or less the same thing: How a person can become the hero of their own world, or to say a bit differently; how a person can acquire the mental and physical tools to bend reality to their will and become a true creator.

Starting ones journey because of the call to action, stepping into the unknown and even dying (albeit a metaphorical, spiritual death, rather than the non-amendable physical variety), finding the demons that dwell in ones mind and soul and slaying them, only to rise again into the world forever changed; such is the evolution of The Hero archetype.

I butcher Campbells book by only giving it this much space in today’s piece, so please read or listen to it if you’re interested, because it is an incredibly amazing piece of literature — almost as incredible as the guy who wrote it (just type his name into YouTube and enjoy the ride).

But my point in mentioning all of this is that the process of creating art is nothing else than the reenactment of what Campbell describes in his book: the Monomyth. In order to create any one art piece that can actually have an impact on people, it has to come from a deep place of understanding and a strong foundation of courage for its creator to even be able to get to that place of knowledge (or enlightenment if you will) in the first place.

It’s not a coincidence so many artists go crazy, commit suicide or just sink into the depths of depression, alcoholism and drug abuse. It’s not that artists are incompetent alcoholics and junkies, it’s the process of making art that takes such a toll on many people.

And the irony of this example is in the fact that most “outsiders” view art as a safe heaven from the “real world”, where adult children can play and not be fretted by words like job security, pension fund and mortgage. But we all know (or at least I hope we do) that there is no such place, and what may be even more important, there is absolutely no such place in art.

Art is a mirror to the world, but not a gross mirror that directly shows a copy of what is in front of it, it’s an exposé, a dissection of reality that takes what it is pointed towards and rips it apart, exposing the bare flesh and inner workings underneath. And it does so without prejudice, without presuppositions and without constraints. Even if we’re not prepared to see what really hides inside ourselves and the objects we are studying, the mirror does not care.

This is the part where one ventures into the abyss, into the dark forrest where the ogre lives, that devours people whole. And this is also the place where many loose a part of themselves — the truth is, we never know how courageous we are, until the time comes when we are tested to our limits.

The point here though is not to stop and never even dare to peek inside the dark places of life. The whole idea is only to be self-conscious and humble enough to know that whatever was, is not all that can be — regardless of how horrible or great we think life is, nothing is static and everything can be changed. If, and this is a big one, if we are willing to pay the price (and as so eloquently described in any old myth or story, the heroes never know the real price, the only thing that keeps them going are their courage and their iron will to go on).

And sure it sounds easy and maybe even stupid, but Basquiat, Van Gogh and Modigliani thought so too. Or maybe they didn’t; regardless, the real point is that we all should respect the process of making art and not take creation lightly, at least if we’d like to one day have a steady and comfortable life, paid for by our art.

Because only the courage to stand and fight in the darkest of forests and in the deepest of nights can conquer the demons that inhabit our hearts and souls. And even if one thinks there are none there, I can assure you we all have them; leeching on our hopes and dreams and silently turning childlike awe and wonder into despair, depression and the monotony of the 9-5. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year. But all of us, if left to our own devices, eventually end up there whether we like it or not.

It’s a choice that is undeniably hard, but righteous and well worth it in the end.

And the best part: the same courage that we can use to create art can then also be used to show art — or better put, is absolutely imperative to show art. Because when we create that piercing mirror and put in into the world, we inevitably become reflected inside of it too. And when that happens, when our exhibition has opened and the spectators come, it’s not only our creation that is judged, but all that we are, even all we wish to become.

And to stand pure judgment, to weather the storm of anonymous critique and the potential of being seen as a failure in the eyes of the people we care about, those we strive to impress, we have to be strong.

To be frank, we have to stop impressing completely and ourselves become the impression. And the only place to find the strength, courage and the tools to even try to do so, is in the darkness that lives inside of us all.

from Surviving Art https://ift.tt/2lF2BE0 via IFTTT

#artist life #contemporary art #surviving art #make art everyday #blog

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theliteraturenerd · 8 years ago

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Getting Unstuck, Writers’ thoughts on writer’s block. Illustration by Caitlin Hazell, Article originally published on Rookie

Fran Lebowitz

(From an interview on Bullseye With Jesse Thorn)

I have only one fear in life, and that is of writing.

Up until the point that I got my first actual writing job, I loved to write. I wrote all the time when I was a kid, and when I was a teenager. But the second I got my first $10 writing assignment from a tiny, tiny newspaper, suddenly I hated to write. Part of it is that I just hate work. I am by nature a sloth—I am really lazy, and I really don’t like to work. I have never had any work that I’ve enjoyed.

I’ve spent most of my life reading, and I have probably never read without feeling guilty. I always feel that I’m supposed to be doing something else—and I always am supposed to be doing something else. When I was a kid, I was supposed to be doing homework; as an adult, I’m supposed to be writing. If I tell myself, “Fran, you have to write,” I will not do it. I am so resistant to authority that I am resistant to my own authority.

Writer’s block is painful. There are painful things in our lives that we don’t seem to be able to fix. Things that you know the origin of, you have a high chance of fixing. Obviously, if I knew exactly what this was, I would fix it. I do not know what it is, exactly. I have my theories, but I don’t really know. However, I do not believe that I will never write again. And since no one would ever accuse me of being a cockeyed optimist, probably I will.

Joss Whedon

I wasn’t sure how to start this, so I did anyway. I’ve faced plenty of writer’s block in my time, though maybe less than some. I’ll lay out whatever rules for dealing with it that come to me. I think I’ve already laid out the first.

Control your environment. No one comes or goes. You’re alone, with enough time not only to write but to fall into the place of writing, which can take a while. No internet, no phone. Play music. It can amp the mood and separate you from the people on the other side of the door. (I listen to movie scores when I write. Nothing with lyrics—too distracting. Modern movie scores are very drone-y, in a good way for writers. Just sustained emotion. Hans Zimmer, Rachel Portman, Carter Burwell, Mychael Danna…there’s tons.) Make sure your desk faces the right way. (I have to face the room, not the wall.) Not too much clutter…it all matters.

Start writing. You can overthink anything. You can wind yourself up into a frenzy of inertia by letting a blank page stay blank. Write something on it. (Don’t draw something on it. The moment I doodle on a page I know nothing else will ever go on it. The blank page is scary, but it’s also sacred. Don’t mar it.) Anything can be rewritten—except nothing.

Be specific. You want to write something. Why? What exactly are you going for? Whether you’re at the beginning or the middle or the last damn sentence of something, you need to know exactly what you’re after. Verisimilitude? Laughter? Pain? Something that rhymes with orange? Whatever it is, be very cold about being able to break it down, so even if you walk away, you walk away with a goal.

Stop writing. Know when to walk away, when you’re grinding gears. This is tricky, because it’s easy to get lazy, but sometimes straining for inspiration when it’s not there is just going to tire you out and make the next session equally unproductive. I believe that Stephen King once likened it to kissing a corpse. But then, he would. Walk away, relax, and best of all…

Watch something. Watch, read, listen—it fills the creative tanks, reminds us why we wanted to write in the first place, and often, it’ll unlock the thing that’s missing. That doesn’t mean you’ll see something and subconsciously steal from it (though it doesn’t 100% NOT mean that), it just taps into the creative place a blocked writer can’t access. Very often I’ll see a movie that’ll completely inform what I’m writing, which will bear no resemblance of any kind to that movie. I’ll just know how I want to feel when I’m writing it. (Episode 10 of season three of Buffy: totes indebted to The Last Temptation of Christ.)

Have a deadline. I would probably never get anything written if it weren’t shooting next week. I’m a terrible procrastinator, which means the adrenaline of last-minute panic is my friend. (It’s all that kept me afloat in school, I’m sad to say. My attention has a disorderly deficit. There was no acronym for that when I was little.) But you can create deadlines of your own. Friends are good for this. Make yourself mutually accountable—you have to deliver such-and-many words by this-or-then time, as do they. You might not always (or ever) hold to these, but they can help you remember that your writing may matter to someone besides yourself.

Have rewards. I’m talking about cookies. Actually, I’m finishing with cookies. What matters more? Earn them, then enjoy them.

Malcolm Gladwell

I deal with writer’s block by lowering my expectations. I think the trouble starts when you sit down to write and imagine that you will achieve something magical and magnificent—and when you don’t, panic sets in. The solution is never to sit down and imagine that you will achieve something magical and magnificent. I write a little bit, almost every day, and if it results in two or three or (on a good day) four good paragraphs, I consider myself a lucky man. Never try to be the hare. All hail the tortoise.

Susan Orlean

1. If you think you are suffering from writer’s block, stop writing immediately.

2. Walk away from your computer.

3. Remember this: writer’s block doesn’t exist. What does exist is a condition in which you don’t really know what you’re trying to say, and therefore are having trouble saying it.

4. Don’t try to think of what you’re trying to say—yet. Go do something other than writing or thinking, preferably something where you’ll sweat (running, weeding the garden, walking the dog) or be pleasantly distracted (cooking, going for a drive).

5. When you’re done with that diversion, start thinking about what you still need to learn before you know what you’re trying to say. Don’t start writing yet.

6. Usually this will require making some phone calls, or doing some research. DON’T START WRITING YET.

7. Once you’ve done that additional research and thinking, start composing in your head the idea that got you stuck.

8. Find someone whose opinion you trust. Explain to her what you are writing. Listen to yourself as you’re talking. You’ll be sorting out your thoughts as you’re talking.

9. NOW sit down and try writing that down. If you’re still stuck, maybe you still don’t know what you’re trying to say. Repeat steps 1 through 9. If necessary repeat again. And again.

10. Celebrate getting past a hard part of your writing!

Adrian Tomine

The worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced struck when I was 14, before I’d actually written anything. I knew that I wanted to be a cartoonist more than anything, but thanks to a childhood spent reading superhero comics and science fiction novels, I’d gotten it in my head that you needed not only an idea, but also a plot and even an entire fictional “universe” before you even started, so instead of actually writing or drawing, I sat around wishing I was writing or drawing. And when I did eventually stumble upon what I thought was a suitable idea (e.g., Elric of Melniboné mixed with Neuromancer, only it’s set in an alternate, futuristic version of the 1950s, and all the characters are robots…or are they?), it was so ambitious and convoluted that I would get frustrated and give up before I had completed a single page.

Fortunately, I soon discovered comics by people like Chester Brown, Harvey Pekar, Julie Doucet, Seth, and Joe Matt—people who made comics about themselves, about everyday life. At first I was like, “You can’t just do a story about waking up and making a can of soup for breakfast!” But then I’d find myself thinking about that story for a long time after I’d read it, and going back to those comics and rereading them, trying to figure out what made them so compelling. I wasn’t smart enough to work up any big theories about the true nature of art or anything like that, but I did feel, admittedly arrogantly, that if they could do stories like that, so could I.

I felt like I’d been trapped behind a massive roadblock for years, and suddenly I was able to just hop right over it. I could write and draw about anything, even the most mundane occurrence in my generally mundane teenage life. The ideas had been there all along, I just didn’t realize that they counted.

Then, of course, I was faced with the realization that making comics was about so much more than just coming up with an idea or a story. Contrary to what I’d believed when I was sitting around endlessly brainstorming (“I’m an amazing cartoonist…all I need is an idea!”), I was terrible. It was obvious that I had a lot of practice and learning ahead of me. But I was actually, finally, writing and drawing; and I was surprised to discover that once I started making comics, those elusive ideas came to me with much greater ease than when I was sitting there staring at a blank sheet of paper. They weren’t high-concept blockbuster ideas, but they were stories I was eager to tell, and that’s a great feeling.

Julie Klausner

Writer’s block is hardly ever a symptom of having nothing to say. It’s usually just your dumb lizard brain beating yourself up because you’re afraid of (in this order, at least for me):

1. Discomfort/ boredom 2. Not knowing exactly what it is you want to say yet 3. Failure

If you can push through the squirminess and clock the hours at the computer like you’re doing brain cardio, puking out whatever it is you MIGHT want to say in a fixed period of time, you’ll be OK. Because once you get ANYTHING on the page, you’ll be able to return to it later and make it better. If you leave and you have nothing, you’re not being very nice to your present OR future self.

The good news is that, even if you’re judging yourself while you barf out that crappy rough draft, what you write is usually not as bad as you think it is! Just make sure you sit on it for a little bit of time before returning to it and editing the shit out of it. It’s always easier to shape something from something than to make something from nothing. So try as hard as you can to blurt something out, even for 10 minutes, and know that once you’re done, the hardest part is behind you.

Writer’s block isn’t magically ordained, or sent down as a decree from God or whatever. It’s not external—you’re the only one doing the blocking! So please try to be gentle to yourself. Being hard on yourself is the #1 cause of misery and wasted time and keeping yourself back. I’ve never heard of anybody who’s bullied themselves into being more prolific or successful.

Give yourself the gift of letting yourself put something down that isn’t perfect. You will return to it later and make it wonderful.

Vanessa Davis

The hardest thing for me has always been the beginning of a project—just getting started.

I went to painting school, and I learned all about how to stretch canvases in all of the olden-times ways, with hand-made stretchers and millions of layers of rabbit glue and sanding (so much sanding). All of this fussy craftsmanship shit. I’d think about painting, but the idea that everything had to be perfect and gorgeous and “right” had been drilled into my brain, and I wouldn’t even be able to start. Any ideas I’d have would immediately be second-guessed (by me) and would evaporate.

After college I decided to make comics, but at first I didn’t really know “how” to make comics. I’d never thought of myself as writer—I didn’t know how to structure a story. I didn’t know how to plan out my pages. I didn’t know how to draw my characters.

I thought back to a painting teacher I had when I was 16, who did one tiny painting a day, just as a way to always have something going. Like a diary. When our class visited his studio, he had thousands of paintings on his wall—the last five years of his life displayed all at once. It was so moving, so cool. I decided to do something in my sketchbook every day. I told myself I wouldn’t to show it to anyone. It could be big or small, a cop-out or an ambitious project.

There’s always something that happens in a day, something worth remembering or noticing. Putting those moments together started to form a story, without my even trying to write one. It was reassuring, but also humbling—it meant that I didn’t always have control over everything I made. And you don’t, either. Sometimes what makes something good is something you improvised, or something you weren’t even conscious you were doing, or something you thought was a bad idea. If you go into a project demanding perfection, you’ll never have a chance to be pleasantly surprised by those lucky “accidents.” But if you leave yourself room to figure things out as you go, you’ll not only have an easier time starting a book/poem/article/diary entry/whatever; you might also end up with a better end product.

I did eventually show people my sketchbook, and those sketches became my first graphic novel, Spaniel Rage. Since then, my process has changed—I found that I do like to do some pre-planning now. But when I just don’t know where to start, I stop and look around, and write and draw whatever I see around me, whatever I’m thinking about. It’s my start button. You can find yours, too.

(Also, I have put a waterproof notepad in my shower. All those good ideas you get in the bathroom go right down the drain if you don’t write them down!)

Jenny Zhang

I have been telling stories and making up nonsense words for as long as I can remember. But around the time I started high school, I started to realize that for me, writing wasn’t just a hobby. It was my freaking life. I knew I wanted to write and not just wanted to write but wanted other people to read what I wrote and not just wanted other people to read what I wrote but wanted other people to read what I wrote and like it and not just wanted other people to like my writing but wanted other people to read it and like it and be transformed by it.

Do you see how if you go down that path you will (a) seem full of yourself and (b) scare yourself into doing nothing by placing outrageous expectations on your writing? So let’s you and I take a step back, and try to remember a time when an afternoon of writing was something to look forward to, not something that caused us crippling anxiety and agony. Here are some tips to get you there:

The internet is not your friend. The internet wants you to do excessive online browsing. The internet wants you to scroll through Tumblr until your wrists hurt. The internet wants you to read other people’s writing. The internet wants you to have 30 tabs up at once that you can’t possibly close until you’ve read every single link from the Wikipedia page on zombies. You have to peel yourself away from the internet.

You could do what Miranda July does here, or you could download an app like Freedom or Self-Control, both of which block you from going online for whatever amount of time you specify. I personally prefer Self-Control, because even if you restart your computer, you still can’t get online as long as you are under the time limit you’ve set for yourself. Also, the app allows you a “whitelist”—a small number of websites, pre-ordained by you, that you can still access. I like to keep one tab open for Dictionary.com and one for Poetry.org, so I can look up words and poems as little breaks between writing bouts.

Give yourself small assignments and projects. I’m the first one to resist any kind of writing exercise because I’m all like, I am far too complex to submit to a lowly writing exercise. I will come up with my own inspiration, thank you very much. And then I go online shopping and spend three hours finding 45 items to add to my shopping cart until I have the equivalent of a down payment for a house in the ol’ cart. So, no, I am not too far advanced, and, yes, I do need a kick in the ass sometimes. So kick yourself. Tell yourself that whenever you get a paper receipt from a store, you will, by the end of the day, write a poem on the back of that receipt, or the first few sentences of a short story.

Take an old book that you don’t care about and a black Sharpie and make an erasure poem, which is where you delete entire chunks of text to create a new poem. It’s way more satisfying to do it to an actual, physical book, but if all of your books are precious, you can check out Wave Books’ online portal for creating erasure poems here.

Keep a notebook at your bedside, and every morning write down whatever you remember of your dreams the night before. If you don’t remember your dreams, make them up. Dream up your dreams.

Go to a café and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. Write down what you hear, then go back over it and scramble it up, take stuff out, add what you want, and turn it into an absurdist play.

If the physical act of typing or using a pen on paper is somehow a block for you, get a recorder and record yourself telling a story. Transcribe it the next day.

Be curious about other people. You know who has a million and one stories to tell? Your parents. Your grandparents. Your weird uncle. Your weird aunt. These are people who have lived through a lot of shit, and what’s more, they know other people who have lived through a lot of shit. Yes, some of the stories are boring, and some are about how cute you were when you peed yourself at the movies, but there are also amazing, incredibly sad, and incredibly hilarious stories to be uncovered. Gabriel García Márquez’s inspiration for One Hundred Years of Solitude was just sitting around his kitchen table listening to the women in his family gossip. He turned that gossip into gold. You can too.

Read, like all the freaking time. I meet young writers all the time who don’t read, and I’m always like, “What are you doing? Stop writing so much! Read more!” Be a better reader before you start worrying about being a good writer. Reading George Saunders in college inspired me to write better short stories; reading Kafka and Babel and Gogol and Kharms inspired me to write with more imagination. Reading Chelsey Minnis in grad school got me writing poetry again. Ariana Reines’s first book, The Cow, encouraged me to keep writing poetry and eventually to emerge from my writing hole with my own book of poems. Read other writers. Develop your tastes as a reader and eventually, just as Ira Glass says in this video, your writing abilities will catch up to your high standards as a reader.

Dreaming counts! We’re all told that we’re supposed to be “productive.” There’s a glut of things to know about, memes to forward, hashtags to create, instagram photos to take, etc., etc., etc. There’s not a lot of time in our lives to dream. But being a writer is saying that you want to see beauty in places that other people often overlook. So give yourself a day or a week off, or even a few months off, to daydream. But don’t let your brain get comfortable. Make it spin. Give it time to gather strength from ideas.

A lot of writers swear by routine, but I swear by chaos. There’s enough fucking routine in my life. Every day I have to brush my teeth. Every day I have to smile at strangers. Every day I have to worry about money. Every day I want something I can’t have. Every day I find some way to go on! I know that writing every day for an hour would help me tremendously with writer’s block, but I also know that I need an element of wildness in my writing. I need to know that writing is something I do because it sets me free. It makes me feel golden with confidence. It gives me the gift of gab. I feel like a god. I feel like an entertainer. So write when you damn well please.

No one is going to die if you don’t write. The world will find a way to go on. But you might find your soul shrinking the longer you go without writing. The thing about writer’s block is that sometimes it’s real, and sometimes it’s just your brain taunting you: What if you’re not a good writer? What if once you put the words down on the page, it becomes evident that they are not so brilliant after all? And then there’s the fear that if you do write the most perfect story or poem in the whole world, will that mean you won’t ever have another good idea? What if you run out of ideas? Well, then you…

GO OUT AND LIVE YOUR LIFE, BECAUSE AS LONG AS YOU DO THAT YOU WILL NEVER RUN OUT THINGS TO SAY. The best way to avoid living your life, as a writer, is to spend your time worrying about writer’s block. So, live your life for a while. Your talent and your instincts as a storyteller won’t die, I promise. And then when you’re ready, hole the eff up, and write, write, write.

Etgar Keret

“Writer’s block” is a term invented by very spoiled and whiny writers to refer to periods in which they do not feel inspired. The assumption hidden behind this term is that creativity is an everlasting, full-powered fountain, so that if at any given moment we wish to write but nothing exceptional comes out at the other end of our keyboard or pen, there must be some malfunction obstructing the natural cycle of everlasting creativity.

I’d like to offer an alternative perspective. Creativity, very much like love, is a gift. And you don’t get to get gifts all the time. If you go on a date and you don’t like the guy or girl you are meeting, you are not experiencing “lover’s block”—you simply don’t love at that moment, and if you’re patient enough you’ll experience love in the future (probably in the place and the time you’d least expect it). If you don’t write well, keep writing bad stuff (don’t worry, bad writing is completely ecological—it doesn’t damage the ozone layer or give you cancer). If it gets too frustrating, stop doing it—move on to badminton, collect airplane models, or do all those other things that people who don’t write do. But mostly, wait patiently. (Patiently as opposed to impatiently, or angrily, or bitterly—because those kinds of waiting don’t breed future good writing. Patience does.)

Writing isn’t a habit. It’s a unique form of expression. And nobody owes you that special experience on a daily or a weekly basis. But if you make an effort, when it’s gone, to keep living your life and experiencing new things, it will eventually return. And when it does, enjoy it as much as you can, before it goes away again.

Ayelet Waldman

I had writer’s block today. Here’s what it looked like:

I woke up late and sluggish, a result of having spent last night watching a six-episode marathon of Say Yes to the Dress. Too logy to work, I lingered over my oatmeal and tea, reading the New York Times on my phone despite the fact that the actual paper paper was lying on the kitchen table, next to the sugar bowl. Convinced that I would never be able to focus on work without a dose of endorphins, I headed to the gym. An hour later, I was far too physically exhausted to even contemplate opening my computer, let alone work. Ever the taskmaster, I forced myself to it—and spent an hour pinning wool blankets and linen throw pillows to my Pinterest wall.

Then I was hungry. So I ate lunch. Afterwards, I considered what a challenge it is to concentrate on a full stomach, but I forced myself back to the computer. Isn’t it remarkable how an hour of web surfing passes in the blink of an eye? Before I knew it, it was time to pick up the kids.

Another day lost to the torment of writer’s block. Right?

No. Wrong. There is no such thing as writer’s block. There is only procrastination, and laziness. Had I just turned on Freedom and sat the hell down, I could have written at least 1,000 words today. They may not have been good words. In fact, they probably would have sucked. But that’s not the point. The point is not to produce lyrical perfection—that’s what rewriting is for. The point is to sit your ass in your chair and write, even if all you write is a paragraph about what a lazy cretin you are.

Writer’s block is a myth. Get to work.

#writer #writers #writing #writer's block #creative writing #work #writing motivation

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