#author reflections

[joncronshawauthor]

🎉 Anniversary Reflections & Creative Updates | Author Diary - June 21, 2024 📚🌌

📘 7-Year Anniversary of “Wizard of the Wasteland” This week marks seven years since the launch of my debut post-apocalyptic novel, “Wizard of the Wasteland.” Reflecting on this journey fills me with gratitude for the experiences and growth it has brought me. Celebrating this milestone reminds me of how far I’ve come and the incredible support from readers like you. 📺 Watching “Three Body…

[inkskinned]

"the curtains weren't blue on purpose. why should we care?"

my love! let me ask you this - did you eat breakfast today? this tiny moment in your life. just think about it. did you?

for some of you, the answer is yes and for some of you it is technically and for some of you it is does coffee count. some of you reached for cereal or gmo-free overnight oats or frozen waffles or 3-day-old pizza. sometimes we eat the same thing, every day, for weeks. i get tired of eggs randomly, only to go back to craving them desperately. i'm cuban; i take my coffee like my father showed me, very milky and sweet.

some of us ate in a hurry. some of us hate eating breakfast but if we don't we will get nauseous later. some of us took our meds first or took our meds after. some of us have a kitchen 5 feet wide and sometimes it's the biggest room in the house. some of us are confident there will be food in the pantry and some of us flinch and say well, the paycheck is coming. some of us turn on a podcast while we eat or we scroll our phones or write in our diaries.

some of us are choosing, specifically, not to eat breakfast. some of us are too busy. some of us are pretending we "just forgot," but we are ignoring the warning signs that everything feels too-heavy. some of us are so consumed with anxiety or grief that we can't eat. some of us can't stand up long enough to make our coffee. some of us have no table to sit down and eat.

i cannot tell you what an artist "meant" by their choices. but they did have to make a choice, conscious or otherwise, to give you information. to give you a little bit more light. each of these choices are little stars of data; connecting speckles for you to weave through, drawing a line.

you cannot use a mirror in a dark room. for some of us; we will not care that the curtains are blue, because that will just be a data point and not enough light to see by. for some of us, the blue curtains will be the same as our childhood bedroom. it will make us seasick. for some of us, blue will be the color of frostbite. it might look like a pixel up close; but from a distance, oh! the picture blooms.

i cannot tell you what will stick out for you. what will carry meaning. some of you will read the sentence "i didn't have breakfast today" and say "this means nothing." some of you will read that and say "oh, me neither." some of you will say "this means the character is probably a little grouchy." some of you will say "oh, i wonder if they're okay. why didn't they eat anything?" ... art is a mirror. i am holding hands with you, over space and time, and asking you to feel something with me.

i want you to read my work and find a blue pair of curtains. i want you to read my work and find things in it that i never imagined placing. i have no way of knowing what will resonate with you, that's true. and maybe i just was hungry while i wrote this, and thinking about the eggs in my fridge. but if you found meaning, that meaning is yours. it cannot be erased just because i didn't "intend" it. you created a different world by interpreting my work. it's collaborative! that's beautiful! that's stunning!

just! imagine looking at the night sky and saying - it's stupid to have a favorite constellation or a favorite star. they're just there.

because here's the thing - across centuries and cultures, we look up. we still find meaning in the stars. these beautiful, lovely scattered accidents. are you looking? they call. and we look back and say oh! of course we are!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Get Their Ass.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[francy-sketches]

Whenever people talk about lack of media literacy they always bring up people who think a character doing bad things=the author endorsing said bad things which are very annoying but I feel like we're ignoring the opposite, equally annoying side of the discourse who think if you criticize the inclusion/depiction of dark/sensitive topics in any way it’s bc you’re a dumb baby who can’t separate fiction from reality. and it's like no I know I’m not supposed to clap and cheer at violence against women I’m criticizing how much of it there is. Idiot

[theweeklydiscourse]

God forbid you ever criticize the lack of consequences Bakugou experiences in MHA, or suddenly you’ll find dozens of Bakugou stans pouring into your mentions to make a speech about how cruel you are for forcing him to eat cement. They’ll act as though “consequences” inherently involves throwing him into the dungeon or putting him in detention for 100 years and then moan about how him facing consequences would only perpetuate a cycle of abuse/discrimination.

Listen, it’s not really that much of a consequence if the “consequence” in question isn’t directly connected to his current or past bad behaviour. “Oh but his scars!” “When he died that one time!” “His guilt for getting kidnapped” None of those are related to his bullying, and in my opinion, that makes them insufficient as consequences in an arc about changing for the better.

The consequences I would actually like to see could be as simple as: Izuku feels sad/mad because of what he went through, or certain characters reflect on how Bakugou’s past impacts their perception of him. More introspection on the victim’s end is needed, Bakugou doesn’t necessarily need to be pilloried for the arc to be satisfying.

[vixstarria]

Mark me as yours

This takes place immediately after and is interlinked with 'Missionary with the lights off' but from Astarion's rather than Tav's POV - check it out if you haven't already, the fics complement each other.

Soft sassy Astarion, F!Tav, Gale, minor appearances by other origin characters, Astarion POV

Fluff, humour, banter, pining, non-explicit sexual references

A day in camp in the life of Astarion. Features brooding, sewing, doing laundry, being dramatic, engaging in improper use of archmage of Waterdeep, reading erotica, and more!

Approx. 2,000 words

AO3

You frowned at the stuffed bear you held in your hands, weighing up your desire to showcase your skills against the absurdity of the task at hand.  

The whole thing was coming apart and needed to be washed and restuffed if you were to do this properly. What was inside, anyway? Fur..? You supposed you could go hunt something furry. Or maybe save yourself the time and just give Scratch a quick partial shave, he wouldn’t mind – the mutt lying at your feet was stupid enough to like you. To prefer you over anyone else, in fact.  

You reached down to give him a fond, absentminded pet.  

And then there was the matter of not letting it burn to a crisp the moment Karlach touched it. 

“Is there a flame ward enchantment on this..? Can you reapply it?” you asked Gale, who was nearby at his usual spot by the fire, concocting something edible for the rest of your group. 

“There is and I sure can,” he replied.  

Great. You had gotten yourself into a group project with the wizard to rescue a teddy bear.  

“Don’t tell me this is what Wyll was so concerned about earlier...” Tav had finally made it out of your tent and sat down next to you, looking somewhat less disheveled than how you’d left her.  

“The bag of holding finally tore. Naturally I was the only one competent enough to fix it.” 

You gestured with your thumb towards a towering pile of assorted crap that Wyll and Lae’zel were still sifting through: Lae’zel inspecting and setting aside any weapons and armour she deemed worth keeping, and Wyll sorting through an array of scrolls and potions no one was ever going to use, or would forget were in your possession if the need for them ever did arise.  

“Darling, this is your fault, you know,” you added. “Must you pick up everything?” 

“Karlach made me do it. Also I don’t know what you’re talking about, I am prudence and sensibility personified,” she said. 

“You’re uh... You’re also bleeding,” Gale said, pointing at her neck. 

A trail of blood had started running down from the puncture wounds, which must have reopened.  

Shit. 

Before you could reason yourself out of it, your instincts kicked in and you pressed your mouth against her neck, licking the blood off. By the gods, she actually leaned into you as you did that, not away. You glimpsed a guilty, sheepish smile she threw at Gale, as you pulled away.  

“Idiot... Here, apply pressure, I’ll get the amulet,” you said. 

“I’m the idiot?! You’re the one who ran off to resolve a sewing emergency, like a good little seamstress, before sorting me out!” 

You strode over to your tent, in part to grab the amulet of Silvanus, in part to discreetly tuck away the erection that had immediately started developing as soon as you tasted her blood.  

Hells, am I 239 or 15? you thought, annoyed with yourself.  

“An amulet? I was wondering why you’d stopped visiting me in the mornings...” you heard from Shadowheart. 

“We have a system,” Tav replied.  

“Clearly,” laughed Shadowheart. 

A scene from the night sprung up in your mind as you went about your day: 

She’d fallen asleep on your shoulder, half lying on you, her nose buried in your neck.  

It was... nice. Really nice. And you didn’t think this bizarre scenario would ever happen again.  

And yet, pleasant as it was, she still felt too far. You needed to feel her closer. Perhaps you were being greedy, but after all these years, why should you get anything less than exactly what you wanted? 

Carefully, very carefully lest she stir awake and leave, you rolled over onto your side, holding her against you.

She was still asleep. Good...   

You cautiously slipped lower and lower until your head was at her chest, delicately wrapping your arms around her torso. 

Then she stirred.  

Shit. 

Without waking, she sighed, drawing you into a tight embrace, clutching you against her chest, complete with throwing a leg over your hips to pull you even closer. 

You finally relaxed, your arms wrapped around her waist. 

Perfect... 

She felt so warm... She smelled of comfort. 

You could indulge in this for the night. You would wake up before she did anyway.  

You drifted away, lulled by the beating of her heart. 

You didn’t have any nightmares that night.  

“Is your boyfriend coming?” you heard Karlach somewhere in the distance.  

You cringed at the juvenile term. Still, you were curious how she would answer.  

“He’s on laundry duty,” she responded. “Just us gals today.” 

“So your idea of doing washing is to pawn everything off to me,” said Gale. 

“Vampires and running water, remember,” you said. “Also you don’t look like you’re exerting an awfully large amount of effort yourself... Although I must admit, this is ingenious.” A little flattery wouldn’t hurt.

Gale sat at a riverbank at a deeper section of the river. Some sheets and clothing were being tossed and spun in a small bubbling whirlpool within the water, together with foaming slivers of soap. 

“Surely few archmages possess such finesse and creativity?” you continued. 

Gale sighed and motioned for you to throw your bundle in as well, expanding the whirlpool.  

“Just toss your shirt in too, it's splattered with blood,” Gale added wearily.  

Her scent lingered on it. The last thing you wanted was to wash it off.

You pulled the shirt over your head and hurled it into the whirlpool.  

“Not Tav’s creative nailwork, I presume..?” Gale asked with a wince, looking at your back.  

“Nope” was all you said, as you pulled a book out from your pocket, making yourself comfortable on the bank. To his credit, the wizard did not probe further. 

‘Mark me as yours’ 

Those words had been echoing in your mind over and over all day.  

It couldn’t have meant anything.  

A little expression of some vampire fetishism finally poking through – you shouldn’t have expected any different from her, she did offer you her blood consistently, not even asking for anything in return.  

Still, you’d felt like something inside you might burst from your desire and thrill when you heard those words.   

And then everything that followed after... 

You had actually lost yourself for a short while. Not dissociated and detached. Lost yourself. In bliss. In the scent of her skin, in the sounds of her need for you, in the sensation of her blood merging with yours and flowing through your veins. 

And now she was walking around somewhere, with telltale bitemarks on her neck for all the world to see. Scandalous... 

No, it couldn’t have meant anything.  

‘Mark me as yours’ 

Still... What a pleasant little fantasy... 

‘Yours’ 

“You’ve been smiling at that page for ten minutes straight now,” Gale’s voice snapped you out of your musings.  

“It’s my favourite page,” you retorted. 

“What’s it about?” he asked snidely after a short pause.  

“I have no idea,” you confessed, begrudgingly, snapping the book shut. If the wizard knew what was best for him, he would abstain from any further comments.  

“She’s quite fond of you,” Gale said sombrely after another pause.  

“Is this about to turn into one of those ‘You break her heart – I'll break your face’ talks?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“Oh gods no,” Gale laughed. "No, I would go straight to incineration... You just strike me as the type that needs to have the obvious spelled out for them.” 

“I am not entering this type of discourse with someone who’s presently washing my spend off my bed sheets,” you said, laying back and shutting your eyes, to bask in the sun. No answer followed. 

Not even a minute had passed when a shadow fell over you.  

Odd, you thought. There hadn’t been a single cloud in the sky. 

You opened your eyes to see a giant water bubble hovering a few meters above you. Was that... a bedsheet floating in the middle..? 

Worth it, you thought just as the undulating bubble spilt and crashed over you.  

You coughed and spat, trying to untangle yourself from the sheet, as the unleashed torrent nearly swept you off the bank. And yet, above all else, you found yourself curious. 

The water had no longer been running as part of the river, true, but given its sheer volume and the velocity at which it hit you, it should have hurt more than merely your pride.  

You made it to the edge of the bank, and cautiously dipped a finger in.

Nothing...

You proceeded to submerge your hand, then your entire forearm, to your elbow. 

Nothing.  

Of all things... Why this? Why not your reflection? Why not the blood craving? Oh well. Beggars, choosers... 

You were laughing.  

“This tadpole,” you turned and shouted at Gale, unabashedly stripping yourself of your pants, as Gale turned away, muttering something about going blind, “is the best thing that’s happened to me in centuries!” 

The best? Maybe second best? It had some tight competition, but you supposed nothing would have been possible without it, so it reigned supreme. 

You leaped into the river, diving and letting the gentle current carry you downstream for a while.  

You knew what you would be doing later that evening with her.  

“What have you got there?”  

She slid onto your lap like a cat that refused to take ‘no’ for an answer as it sought attention. You had been idling away your time by your tent, with some pulp you had picked up earlier. The rest of the group had been drinking and roasting something at the campfire.  

“Trash. Disappointingly boring trash, this time,” you answered. 

“No pulsating flesh tunnels in this one?” 

“Alas... There were not one but two mentions of ‘velvet-wrapped steel’ however, and plenty of ‘sword-sheathing’.” 

“To the hilt?” 

“Is there any other way?” 

“Wouldn’t want to sheathe it only partially, I suppose...” she mused. “Come join us. We found some half-decent wine. And you don’t have to be alone all the time, you know.” 

“Spare me, I’ve had enough of Gale’s lectures and Wyll’s tales for the day. And besides, ugh, all those chewing noises!” You made a gagging sound. 

None of them want me there. 

“Oh don’t be such a delicate princess,” she rolled her eyes. “How’s this: it’s our joint meal time. It would be rude and completely unfair to exclude anyone. You should sit down with everyone, bite down on my wrist and make a great deal of slurping.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

Delightful. Simply delightful. 

“It will be funny!” 

“I fear you might be the only one laughing, darling.” 

That is hilarious, I can just imagine Gale squealing or getting sick. 

“Is there anyone else you’d care to make laugh?” she asked with a slight upturn of her lips. 

Not in the least. 

“I could die again knowing I have accomplished something if I ever make Lae’zel laugh. But perish the thought – I am perfectly happy right here with my literature.” 

“Well, if you don’t want to join the group, perhaps I will stay and you can...” She snatched the book from your hands and tossed it aside, leaning in and bringing her lips up to your ear. “...Release your kraken in my field of rose petals,” she purred in a sultry voice. 

“Stop,” you choked back a snicker.  

“Get tangled up in my beef curtains?” she continued with the same tone. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Sink your meat shaft in my cream tart!” she persevered.  

“By the gods, woman, I am never having sex with your again.” 

“Suckle the nectar from my weeping core!” 

“Alright, fine, I’ll go, anything is better than this.” You got up, pushing her off your lap. 

“Taste my forbidden, oozing fruit, Astarion!” she cried out from the ground behind you as you covered your ears and shouted “LALALALA”, making your way towards the campfire. 

You would endure the prattle of your companions.  

Then you would take her for a moonlit swim in the river.  

Then you would see if she might spend the whole night in your arms again.  

Perhaps she could sleep in your shirt and leave her scent on it again – it was foolish to sleep completely in the nude out in the wild after all, what if there were intruders? 

Everything was going according to plan, you reminded yourself.  

~~~~~

Next in series - Down by the river

Series master list

AO3

Tags: @littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tallymonster @tragedybunny

Also @spacebarbarianweird - you haven't asked for a tag but sounded interested

[tea-cat-arts]

I simply think this fandom doesn't give Wei Wuxian enough credit for the various ways in which he saved Lan Wangji

[unknwn-a]

—Lang Leav, "Soul Mates"

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Reflection: A Retelling of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”

The mirror is a gift from the dwarves. Its frame of hammered gold is wrought with delicately-crafted birds and beasts, fruit and flowers. Its silver-backed surface, unlike those created by human craftsman, shows a true reflection.

The queen loves to gaze at herself in the mirror. It tells her that she is beautiful—skin like milk, hair like midnight, eyes as blue as a crystalline lake. She is young, healthy, graceful, charming—perfection in human form. Truly a queen worthy of this kingdom.

Then, one day, the mirror’s message changes. It shows that the queen has lines around her eyes, sunspots on her nose, wicked glints of silver in her night-black hair. The queen does all she can to hide the damage, spends hours before the mirror with cosmetics and concealers. To the rest of the world, the queen is as perfect as ever.

Yet every morning, the mirror tells the truth.

Worst of all, her husband has a little daughter—barely fourteen years old—who grows lovelier by the day. Every morning, the mirror says that before long, those who worshiped the queen’s beauty will transfer their devotion to the princess—and will be right to do so.

The queen's beauty would not seem so tarnished if the princess were not there for comparison. The queen tries to send the princess to an isolated estate—tells her husband it is better for the girl to grow up away from the corrupting influences of the court. But the girl is too dear to her father. She wastes away with homesickness, until her father the king orders her to come home for the sake of her health.

The queen tries neglecting the girl in ways the king won't notice—refusing to let her wash with good soap, denying her a maid, forbidding her fashionable clothes and hairstyles. Through it all, the mirror tells her that the girl’s beauty shines out brighter than ever.

Before long, the queen spends hours by the mirror each day, locked in a futile endeavor to restore what is lost forever. One moonlit night, she finds a dagger, and considers plunging it into her heart just to end this ceaseless torment, but the morning shows her a better path.

She will never be perfect, nor make the princess less so—but she can destroy perfection.

It would be easy to take this dagger to where the princess sleeps and shove it through her perfect heart, but the queen doesn't dare to mar her own beauty with blood-stained hands.

She gives the dagger to a loyal huntsman. He takes the girl into the forest—and returns holding a small, bloody heart.

That night before the mirror, the queen's smile makes her glow with a new kind of beauty.

*

People often tell the princess she is beautiful. She believes them, for she has never seen an ugly face. Old Sal’s missing tooth is an open door into her smile. The chambermaid’s freckles make a daytime constellation. The little stable boy’s one good eye glitters green as an emerald. Her stepmother owns a beautiful mirror, but the princess barely gazes at it. Why would she waste time examining her own familiar face in a world with so many other lovely faces to gaze upon?

One day in early spring, she asks to go berrying in the forest beyond the castle, as she once did with her mother. To her surprise, the queen permits it—the queen rarely allows the princess anything that might be a luxury. She even sends one of her huntsmen as protection.

In the eaves of the forest, the princess finds strawberries not far from the path, and she hastens to gather as many as she can. She invites the huntsman to join her, but he stands statue-like at the edge of the clearing, always on guard. Not wanting him to go without, the princess brings the berries to him, and offers him the largest, sweetest one.

As she does, she gazes at his face. Scars make mountain ranges along his cheeks and brow. His hair is edged with silver. The lines of his face are solid as stone. His deep gray eyes hold storm clouds.

“Oh, my,” the princess says in awe. “You are beautiful.”

The huntsman’s face disappears as he hides it in one of his hands. “I can’t,” he says, his voice rough with unshed tears. “I must betray my queen."

His other hands darts to the side, quick as a serpent, and the silver flash of a blade disappears into the undergrowth.

The huntsmen places both of his hands on the princess’ shoulders and crouches to look into her face. “You must run. The queen wants you dead. If you stay at the palace, she will find a way to kill you. You must flee into the forest and never return.”

“The forest?” the princess asks in terror. She has often wandered in the eaves, but she has never dared the strange terrors that are said to lurk in its interior.

“There is nothing there that can harm such innocence,” the huntsman says. “You will find shelter.” He turns her around and pushes her toward the depths of the forest. “Now run! As fast and as far as you can!”

The shadows of the forest embrace her, and the flowers make a path at her feet. She crosses shallow rivers, climbs rocky slopes, winds through twisted groves of trees. She couldn’t return home even if she wanted to.

She had not been blind. She had seen something like ugliness in the queen’s face whenever they were alone. But hatred? Murder?

She nearly collapses with grief, but through the trees, she sees a wisp of smoke. A chimney. A roof over a tumbledown cottage. The princess runs through the open door, collapses on the floor, and is glad to find a safe place to weep.

Her father will think her dead, and she will not be there to comfort him. She will never again see any of the beautiful faces that fill the palace. The hundreds of hidden details that made the castle home are forever out of her reach. The huntsman saved her, but to what end? A lifetime of loneliness and misery? Is this truly a better fate than the quick death of a dagger through the heart?

She opens her eyes. She has looked too long at the sorrows in her heart. She must find solace from without.

She gazes upon the cottage.

And sees seven beautiful faces.

*

The dwarves love their princess. She is beautiful, not only because of her face, but because of the way her soul shines out through it. She is endlessly beautiful because she sees the beauty in everyone and everything.

There never was a girl so selfless. Her every waking moment is spent filling their days with a million small comforts. The cottage has never been so clean. The food has never been so lovingly prepared. There is nothing she would not do for them, and in return, they devote their lives to her service.

She needs their protection. One so naturally kind and innocent can’t recognize when strangers might have ill intent. One day, after being out in the woods, the seven dwarves return to the cottage to find the princess nearly strangled by a set of stays. When they revive her, she tells them of a ragged old woman (with such beautiful hands!) who asked for food and water and then repaid her generosity by giving a nearly-fatal gift. The eldest of the dwarves caught a glimpse of the stranger’s retreat, and saw enough of her form to suspect the queen.

The dwarves keep a closer guard on the princess, but six months later, a few minutes go by when all seven of them are away from home. They return to find the princess nearly killed by a poisoned comb in her hair. The story she tells is similar to the last one—an old woman in need of help repaid their kind princess with a gift meant to kill.

After that, the princess is never alone. The dwarf on guard duty always has the envied task, so lovely is it to be in her presence. A year, then two, go by with no signs of danger.

Then one winter morning, after a night of birthday feasting, all seven of the dwarves sleep late. The princess rises at her usual time, hoping to fix them a holiday breakfast. By the time the dwarves stumble out of bed, they find the princess sprawled across the kitchen floor—cold, pale and lifeless, with a poisoned apple in her hand.

They despise themselves for having failed her, but their love for the princess drives them to serve her the only way they can—by laying her body to rest. The cold, hard earth won’t take her, and they can’t bear to hide her away in the realm of death. Knowing that decay will not touch one so innocent, they place her in a coffin of glass and lay her in their garden, where her beauty can brighten the world in death as it did in life.

They keep a constant vigil, lost in loving grief. They ought to have known she would end this way. This is the fate of all innocence in this dark and sinful world—to be destroyed by wickedness. Even as they see this truth, they know that it is wrong. The world should not be this way, but what can they do? They wish and pray for better, but they can’t hope. How can innocence ever overcome such evil?

In the spring, when the last snow melts and the first snowbells bloom, the dwarves see movement in the woods beyond their cottage. A prince approaches on a snow-white horse. He is ruler of this forest and its mysterious ways—a king of kings, even more beautiful than their princess. His face shines with a wisdom that does nothing to defile the innocence of his heart.

He leaps from his horse, approaches the coffin, raises the lid, and takes the cold hand of the princess between his.

“Beloved,” he says, “arise.”

In his words and actions, the dwarves find the answer to the riddle they have pondered in their long vigil of grief. In a world of wickedness, the salvation of Innocence is Love.

The princess opens her eyes. Takes a breath. Sits up and gazes upon the world she loves, upon the one who loved her back to life. Something of the prince’s wisdom is reflected in her, so that her beauty is almost painful to behold.

The dwarves rejoice, and the princess rejoices with them. She kisses each one atop the head, but does not release the hand of her prince.

Eager to serve one who served them so well, the dwarves cook her breakfast, and she eats with even more enthusiasm than she showed in her former life. Yet when the meal ends, she stands with her prince at the threshold of the cottage.

“I must return to my father,” the princess says.

The dwarves protest. What of the queen? What of the danger?

The princess looks at her prince with eyes full of love. “I have nothing to fear.”

*

The king rejoices at his daughter’s return—he has thought her dead for so many years. Grief has aged and weakened him, but there is beauty in his face that grows brighter with every minute he spends in the presence of the princess.

The princess tells him of her troubles since she went away, and the king is horrified by her words. “I knew my wife had lost her reason,” he says, “but not her heart! She must pay for her crimes!”

He moves toward the door as though he will administer justice this moment.

The prince stops him with a gentle hand upon his chest. “There is no need.”

*

The queen gazes at herself in the mirror. She never looks anywhere else. If there is a world beyond the edges of its frame, she has forgotten it. She sees only her own face, searches for the remaining scraps of beauty, tries desperately to erase the blemishes that grow ever more hateful with the passing of years.

Another face appears in the reflection—a face the queen thought she had destroyed long ago. It is lovelier than ever. The queen hides her face in her hands so she can not see the painful beauty of the princess.

“Come away from there,” the princess says. “Gaze with me upon the other beauties of the world.”

“And lose myself?” the queen shrieks. “That is what you have always wanted—to destroy my very self! To take all the honor and beauty that should be mine!”

“I wish to save you,” the princess says. “Come away.”

“Never!” the queen screams, clutching the mirror in two white-knuckled hands. “I have everything I need right here! You can’t take it from me!”

The princess touches the queen’s shoulder. The queen screams and shrinks away, hiding her face once more in her hands.

A man’s voice—painful in its beauty—says, “Beloved, she has made her choice.”

At long last, they leave. The queen looks in the mirror and sees no face but her own. No greater beauty remains nearby to shame her.

In the confines of her world’s silver surface, she is fairest of all.

*

The queen is locked away in the prison of her choosing.

The king stays to do what good he can for his kingdom, and the princess promises to return for him after he has fulfilled his purpose.

The prince places the princess on his snow-white horse, and they travel once more past the cottage of the dwarves, who are glad to see her so beautiful and beloved.

At last, the prince brings the princess to his kingdom at the heart of the forest.

The beauty she finds there is beyond words.

[marypsue]

Something about The Lost Boys, a deeply, deliberately queer movie all about vampires (so necessarily obsessed with blood transfer/exchange), where being attracted to the wrong person, taking risks around them, taking their tainted blood into your body, will change your life irrevocably and doom you to death, coming out in 1987, and saying that the real source of the majority of the problems caused by sharing tainted blood is a respectable middle-aged middle-class white man obsessed with power, heteronormativity, and the replication and eternal enshrinement of the nuclear family structure, and that the only way to survive and cure the infection is to destroy him...whoooo.

[bixels]

So I l’ve been getting into your ko crisis story lately (it all sounds rlly awesome btw) and i was curious - you’ve said in the tags in a previous ask that ash is comphet, so is that gonna play a major role in her character arc/journey in any way?

Yeah, the story basically covers her journey of redefining her identity as a queer Asian-American disabled woman in a sports-entertainment industry, which is a media landscape that specifically targets, exploits, and fetishizes people like her.

[isalisewrites]

A Deep Dive into JKR's Terrible, Amateur Writing - Reflective Interlude

Hello and welcome to my ballsy series where I will prove to you, dear reader, that J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series and resident Twitter TERF, is actually a very, very poor writer.

And when I say ‘poor writer,’ I’m talking about her prose, her sentence structure, and her scenes in the Harry Potter series. I am not going to discuss anything about the HP world nor the overall plot of the books. 

This is all about the nitty gritty in the craft of writing itself.

Part One Link.

Part Two Link.

However…

Hiya! *waves* I’m Isa, the author of this… Actually, I dunno what to call this series anymore. Anyway, thus far, you’ve heard a very satirical tone from me in the previous two posts, but that’s not my normal tone. I’m a rather laid back kind of gal with a side of sarcasm and deluge of emoji usage.

I have used quite a confident, even bombastically obnoxious tone in the effort to be entertaining and engaging with these posts. It was meant to be playful and sarcastic. It’s the internet, so I’m aware everyone’s attention is… kind of like a commodity, unfortunately. Look at TikTok or YouTube. How long does a 30s video hold your attention before you’re scrolling to the next? It depends for me, I’ll admit. People don’t have the attention span for long style posts such as these and that’s fair. Sometimes, I don’t either.

Thus, I used repeated ‘catch phases’ to maintain a rhythm and a thematic style through the series with a controversial title meant to hook a reader. I repeat the opening, even in this post. I repeat ‘Class is in session’ to show the beginning of the major section of the post.

However, in this interlude, I’ve toned it all down because I wanted to give you a window into my heart, my purpose, and my intent in this series. It is a reflective post that ends with writing motivation to you, my dear reader, as well as links to writerly resources. 

I’ve had a lot to think about this week and I realized that many writers (and other creatives) have to battle against an enemy found within themselves. This enemy often torments many with cruel, destructive thoughts; they burrow their way into so many writers’ minds. It whispers: “Can you really do this? Are you really sure you’re any good? Aren’t you just fooling yourself? They’re going to find out you’re just a fraud. So… why bother?”

Whose voice is that?

Let’s talk about the destroyer of creation, Imposter Syndrome, why I refuse to let the bastard infect me anymore, and why my confident tone in previous posts has grated nerves.

Remember: take what resonates and leave what doesn’t.

(This means I write my posts with the honest acceptance and expectation that not everything will fit with your style, your vibes, or your personality. That’s okay.)

All right, let’s buckle up, my dear writing friends. Grab a snack. Hydrate. Let’s begin. And yes…

Class is in session on this little Tumblr post… should you wish to attend.

Having confidence or pride in one’s work seems to be taboo. Any brief moment in time where I tried to be proud about my writing or say, Hey, I’m a good writer, I was always told to be humble. “Don’t be prideful. Be humble.” It would often chip away at my self esteem. I could be a good writer, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel like a good writer.

But no more.

I have only given myself permission to be confident about my writing within the past month. This is why I started this series in the first place. I wanted to share knowledge and in an entertaining way. I make a bold claim that I’m a better writer than JKR; I analyze her writing to both improve my own understanding and to help others as well.

However, this does not mean I’ve ever been under the delusion I’m perfect. Absolutely not. God, that’s so fucking laughable! I am not perfect. I am not a perfect writer. I definitely don’t know everything. Someone once corrected me, informing me that snakes are venomous, not poisonous. Bless them, wasn’t aware of that. Immediately fixed that. One of the recent reblogs said geodes do not contain emeralds. God bless, I didn’t know that, though in the case of how it was used in TBG, I won’t be changing it since it’s within a character thought.

Sorry, Tom. I guess you need to take a geology class, too.

Ugh, and I have so many godforsaken typos. My soul withers when I catch a typo after I’ve posted a chapter. I miss things all the time. I repeat things because ‘that’s my thing’ and I don’t always catch them in my edits. I forget things all the time. Thank GOD for Dede, someone who loved TBG so much she spent countless hours archiving data from it, where she caught a number of inconsistencies and alerted me to them. I still haven’t been able to fix them yet, but I’m so grateful to her. I’ve noted them all down. Harry’s height often is incorrectly implied to be taller than it should be because my brain isn’t wired for imagery. My brain forgets TBG Harry is a short king at 5’4” while TBG Tom is 6’2” and I need to go back to fix all of those. 

I am not a perfect writer and I don’t claim to be.

My goals with this series are to study/learn for myself, teach/share knowledge with others, and learn some more from this experience. I love this kind of analysis. But there’s difference between my analysis of JKR’s writing and a number of those who have retaliated with an analysis of my writing. 

Instead of looking at my imperfections with the desire to learn from them, they were illuminated in the attempt to ‘take me down a notch.’ To those who put in the effort to make counterpoints, I do thank you for your contribution to this series. It is appreciated, even when given impolitely and with the intent to ‘put me in my place.’

Despite all of my errors and imperfections, I still stand by my statement: I am a better writer than J.K. Rowling.

Do you know who else is a better writer than her? I could list thousands of them. They’re fanfiction writers. They’re indie authors. They’re other traditional published authors. They are so many other writers that, yes, I do think are stronger writers than JKR. 

And you’re a better writer, too, so long as you wish it.

I sincerely want you to believe that.

Why? Because it’s clear within the Harry Potter series that JKR did not make attempts to grow as a writer. She just wrote. Perhaps she was under deadlines, but the lack of editing is pretty apparent to me. When you write a lot, you will inevitably get more skilled over time, but you have to actively be seeking improvement to see drastic change in your own skill. It is this lack of drive that I see within her work. She’s not making attempts to push the boundaries of her abilities and skills with each new book.

I’m not at the end of my journey of learning. I never will be. I love expanding my skills. I’m even learning during the process of writing these posts, too. I’m seeing more weaknesses in my own work and I’m now thinking on ways to strengthen my writing even further.

That’s the point of this series.

In the end, it’s not really about me. No, really, it’s not about me. I truly think it’s about the jealousy of seeing another writer be confident in their work. You see, I’m not supposed to be confident; I’m not supposed to act like I can help and teach others to write. How dare I. Posting anything about my work is an act of attention seeking. I’m supposed to be ‘humble.’ I’m supposed to be silent. I’m supposed to wave a shy, dismissive hand at compliments.

Why?

Why is being proud of one’s work and loving one’s own work such a controversial idea?

Imposter Syndrome often cripples creators. There’s already so much self doubt and anxiety in the world, but Imposter Syndrome can really wreck with a creator’s mind. It’s a poison. It stops you from creating what you love most. When you believe you aren’t good enough, then it becomes harder to try. Your belief becomes truth to you, whether or not it was true in reality in the first place. Perhaps, you sink into depression. You become anxious about sharing anything, for fear anyone might say even the slightest negative comment. The heart becomes fragile and brittle, and the muscle which builds skill atrophies over time. You see your work through a lens of self hate. You can only see flaws.

“I will never be good enough.”

When you’re in this state of mind, it’s hard to see the truth about your work.

But let me promise you something: your writing is far more beautiful than you realize.

In spirit, all creative writing is perfect to me with all of its typos and mistakes (yes, even all of the Harry Potter books!), but no single work is objectively perfect. There will always be room to improve your creation because you’re constantly growing. It’s why so many aspiring novelists fall into an endless cycle of editing their first few chapters. The more they write, the more they improve; thus, when they go back to their earlier chapters, they get stuck trying to update those chapters instead of pushing forward to the finish line.

Your work is valuable, no matter what. It’s beautiful. You’re allowed to love your work. You’re allowed to see the good in it and you’re allowed to have confidence in yourself. You’re allowed to say to yourself and to others, I’m a damn good writer.

You deserve to have love, for yourself and for your art.

I have often sincerely complimented other writers and, many times, after they respond with their thanks, it becomes clear to me they’re not confident in their work, yet they have still bravely shared it with us.

I’m so proud of them. Thank you for your bravery.

My heart breaks for them, too. They’re such good writers—such damn good writers. And I wish they knew and believed this.

I will always do everything in my power to encourage others.

How do you feel about your writing? Do you like your writing? You should. You really should because it is good. You created it, after all. There will always be space to grow and refine your craft, of course, but you are a good writer now. You’re going to be a better writer tomorrow and the next day, so long as you desire this growth in yourself. There’s no destination, though. There’s no magic level you have to reach before you’re allowed to have some confidence in yourself and your abilities. The only trap to avoid is remaining stagnant. Writing is a skill. Writing is a craft. This means it gets better through study and practice.

You can achieve that.

I know it’s hard, though. There are so many naysayers in life. There are so many people waiting to attack and bring others down, both on the internet and in our own families. How many precious fanfics have been lost because a writer received horrible, hateful comments? How many writers have disappeared from the internet because of this cruelty? We have lost many in all fandoms. That is unacceptable to me.

Uplift others. Spread love, not hate.

You’re allowed to be proud about your work, imperfect as it may be. Please, I beg you, don’t let the negative voices of others—including your own!—drag you down and steal the joy of creating. I know it’s so very, very hard to stand strong against such voices. Words have power, but you have more. Resist the naysayers.

What you have to offer the world is precious. Please lift your head and acknowledge that what you create is good. It’s great. It’s amazing. It’s fucking fantastic. You’re not an imposter nor a fraud. No one can offer what you can to the world. No one can write the stories you have in your head the way you can. Your style is unique to you. You’re allowed to love it as it is now and you’re allowed to love it whatever form it takes in the future.

Imposter Syndrome is a thief; toss it into jail and throw away the key.

My writing is not perfect and it never will be, but I’m a better writer today than I was ten years ago. I’m a seeker of my own growth. I’m often reading books on writing and watching YouTube videos on writing. I absorb it all because writing is my truest love and passion. My style has evolved from reading endless amount of novels and fanfics. I devour both. 

But I wasted a decade thinking I didn’t have what it takes.

And life is short. I can’t waste anymore time.

Don’t be like past Isa, please.

There’s a difference in refinement between an episodic fanfic posted over the course of years and a traditional novel published in whole, but I still stand by my work. I recognize my style will not be enjoyed by all those who read it. It’s okay if you don’t like my style. I’m eternally grateful for the many readers who do love my writing. I’m humbled and honored by the sheer volume of people who have commented, bookmarked, and have left kudos on my work. Thank you.

My style has evolved into what it is today due to a combination of two things.

I have ADHD. It’s why my style uses smaller paragraphs as a whole.

I have aphantasia. I lack a mind that can visualize pictures. I literally cannot see anything in my mind. When people say, “I can picture it in my mind,” that’s not me. I cannot at all. When there’s a lack of description in prose, it feels blank and empty to me. This is why I use vivid descriptions in the way I do because otherwise I feel nothing from my work.

It’s okay if this style doesn’t work for you. I love my style because it caters to what I need. I also love other styles that don’t use as much description; however, I can’t always follow what’s happening because of the wiring of my brain. I can get lost sometimes, but I still appreciate their style because I can’t effectively do what they can.

If you find no value in my style and what I offer in this series here, then that’s okay. I’m not offended. This series is for those who benefit from it. For you, there are so many other writers out there from whom you can learn and I’m more than happy to send you in the direction that benefits you the most.

Here’s a list of YouTubers you might find interesting.

ShaelinWrites has been working on many unpublished projects through the years and has lots of great discussion videos on writing.

Abbie Emmons is a self published author with solid writing advice in all of her videos. 

Alexa Donne is a traditionally published author with great insider information into the traditional publishing world. 

Ellen Brock is a professional editor. She knows her stuff.

I hesitantly suggest Jenna Moreci and her content on YouTube because I think she has some major weaknesses in her writing. Many others have seen this about her books. However, she is a successful indie author and her YouTube content has a lot of value.

Brandon Sanderson has an entire college course in a playlist on his channel. It’s a fabulous free resource if you vibe with his style of writing. Highly recommend. 

Here’s a list of writing books I recommend.

Elements of Fiction Writing, a five book series. My TOP recommendation is Elements of Fiction Writing - Beginnings, Middles & Ends.

Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wicked Good Prose

Let the Crazy Child Write!: Finding Your Creative Writing Voice

Novelist's Essential Guide to Crafting Scenes

All right then.

Thank you for sticking around. I hope you accept this post in the good faith it was given and was always given in the previous posts. Next post, I’ll be returning to my playful satirical tone. Hehe~!

Please do the world the greatest of favors and write. Create. Share your fanfiction. Become best selling authors, traditional or indie. I promise you’re far more capable and skilled than you realize.

Until next time.

Isa

[deathsweetblossoms]

“I think Jane Austen would like Bukowski”

I’m obsessed with this analysis of Jess’s thought process when he said this.

[muffinlance]

I really do love your writing and Salvage gets me through when I am sad or depressed. However, I was wondering, how do you cope when someone who wrote a review didn’t like your writing? If you’ve had this before… I had one today and I am dejected. I’m working through my perfectionism and I keep telling myself, “my writing isn’t for everyone and it’s okay.” Any advice?

If it was unsolicited, especially on a fanfic? Delete it, block the person if you feel like, then go do your rage activity of choice before forgetting about it forever. That person is rude and doesn't deserve your time anymore than someone bumping into you on the street.

I've also found it useful to actively think of my fanfic as writing practice, and not even my brain expects perfection from writing practice. It also frees you do Try Cool Things.

Now take this digital blanket and cup of hot chocolate and go reread your nice comments.

[dieselocelot]

you're losing a savior and a saint

[summertimemusician]

Linktober 2024, Day 1, Mirror (Self)

Alright here we go again.

Technically a sneak peak of a bigger thing to come in the future that I'm repurposing, and the result of my final playthrough and readthrough before EoW dropped being Four Swords Adventures and that made me sad about Shadow Link again.

Note that this is for the Four Swords Adventures iteration of Shadow Link that might evolve into an LU Shadow, not Dark Link in either LOZ or LU, I have other plans for him.

This one shot was brought to you by Scars by The Crane Wives, Ribs by The Crane Wives, Ruin by The Amazing Devil and Two Minutes by The Amazing Devil because the author's playlist decided to be incredibly cheeky when they blacked out to write this like an ancient seers being cursed with visions and then called mad and hearing they've been put up for execution.

As always the nature of the relationship can be romantic or platonic, mostly due to the author's time constraints and further plans.

Anyway enjoy the reading!

It was cold.

The sort of cold after a wildfire, when everything's turned back to ash, the sort that left burned your vision white after the flames licked through your veins and left an ache in your bones. He shuddered, coughed black onto the stone floor, shaking with a muffled whimper.

It never got any easier, being dragged from the Dark World and into the Realm of Light, the goddesses' world itself revolting against an intruder, wanting the wound torn asunder into their oh so precious realm cauterized. To purge the intrusion and smite it where it stands.

Too bad for them (and for him), his master didn't particularly care about what the world wanted. Didn't particularly care that he hadn't grow accustomed to the pain or the cold, he had to stand up. There was work to be done.

(Shadow gritted his teeth, willed himself not to think about the prophecy of a golden haired princess- because whether he liked it or not, it was prophecy. As those with divinity running through their veins are wont to spill from their throats so carelessly- of violet eyes and a smile a third moonlight and hands holding a hammer.

It always hurt more, after one of the heroes liberated one of the maidens, or the jewels, the pain lingering for days afterwards and carving a home in his metaphorical bones. But just this once he'd take the cold bite of the Four Swords over the pain in the hole in his chest that Vio's betrayal had left, something that felt so much worse than every other time before.

Just this once he wished that maybe, just maybe, the hurt would be too much to bear, that he wouldn't wake up again-

Why? Why does it hurt so much but he's still here? He already knew the Light was uncompromising and unforgiving, but he thought them at least above curses.)

His ears twitched as soft, almost silent footsteps came up to his side. Someone crouching by his fallen form, setting a cautious hand over his own that Shadow couldn't help but draw away from with a hiss, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the world again, to your face, carefully blank as you guided him to lean against your side, a silver choker with a crimson gem winked mockingly at him, the shade closing his eyes and going boneless against your side.

Shadow was so, so tired.

He heard you quietly sigh, plucking his cap from his head and running your fingers through dark amethyst, smoke and mist made hair. "I told you so."

"Shut up." He grumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. One clawed hand curling against your free wrist, digging into the skin. Absentmindedly noting there were new scratches just above the metal.

It was routine by now, the warmth of your existence against his own a welcome balm, not quite of the Realm of Light where it's unpleasant, not too close to the Dark World where he felt like melting back into the embrace of the darkness, only to howl in agony at being dragged out.

Memories not quite his own bled into his mind all the time. How you'd shape ice into flowers for the princess in winter with nary a though, of blinking and from one second to the next you'd have whatever sword he had hostage if you though it was time for a break with a smile brighter than the sun.

His master had changed that though. It took months for you to stop trying to claw the collar out and to stop trying to fight Vaati.

(Funny how holding a mage's dragon as a bargaining chip is just as effective as kidnapping a ruler.)

Your gaze flicked to the polished obsidian of the Dark Mirror, to the gold, ornate frame. "The offer is still open, you know. Let me take the suffering from you."

"No." He scowled, leaning back to glare into your eyes, a hint of fangs poking out from a maw struggling to keep the shape of a human jaw, "You helped him. Helped them." Shadow spat, there is that hurt again.

You shrugged, a movement that's just slightly awkward as you flinch, "That I did." You confirmed simply, it almost made Shadow see red as he leaned away, knocking your hand from his head in the process, but if there's anything him and the heroes shared, was a lack of a desire to hurt you. It was a little grating to be honest, "Vio even offered to take me with him, to be honest."

"Then why didn't you leave?" He demanded.

Why did you stick around?

Your eyes shuttered, a hint of conflict in your pursed lips. Before you found your words, they come out softly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you why. You'll just have to find out yourself."

You tug your wrist from his grasp, and Shadow lets you go.

(Stubbornly pushing down on memories and emotions that arearen'tarenotanymore quite his.)

You stand and turn away, pushing the curtains away from your sight, you turn your tired eyes to Shadow with an emotion he can't put a name to. "Just keep it in mind that there's more than one way to end this. Nothing is truly inevitable."

Shadow watches you go. 'There's nothing that can be done. He tells himself, hand hesitating above the Dark Mirror, briefly, it curls into a fist. The hero's original self stares back at him.

'… Does he really believe that?'

He shakes his head, and focuses on willing the Dark Mirror to show him his counterpart.

His chest still hurts.