#creative writing is all confidence

[writingwithfolklore]

Creative Writing is All Confidence

                I've learned something recently that I believe is a lesson you can only really internalize with time. Creative writing is at least 70% confidence, 30% skill. To succeed as a creative writer, you have to be brave. This is something I am still working on.

                I think you need confidence to know when you’ve finished. You have to believe once you’re done, that it’s good enough to be considered ‘done’. Then, you have to have the confidence to allow others to tell you their honest opinions about it.

                I abandoned a project quite literally chapters away from the end (I know, I know I didn’t take my own advice to just finish the dang thing), because I lost faith in it. I lost the belief I’d be able to finish it, and that eventually it would be good enough. I mean, what even would good enough have looked like for me at that time?

                It took a couple semesters of creative writing classes and talking to my peers about writing for me to realize there was nothing they had that made them more capable of finishing a good work that I didn’t have, except the confidence to put words on a page and call it done when it was done. I’m going to keep trying to figure out what ‘done’ looks like to me.

                Have any of you struggled with believing in your own writing ability? Or otherwise, have any tips for the rest of us on owning our work?

                Good luck!

[radley-writes]

UNPOPULAR WRITEBLR OPINIONS go go go

I'll start: editing the first draft is fine, actually

[battleaxeproficiency]

I genuinely. do not understand people speculating that Veilguard could have been written by ai . there are significant flaws in the writing of this game done get me wrong but like . poor pacing and "cringe" dialogue doesn't mean it was written by ai

[thevioletcaptain]

y'all get that screenshotting fic to publicly make fun of it is straight up bully behavior, right? like. it doesn't matter if you redact the author's name. this is no different to a kid taking someone else's art off the wall in a classroom, walking out into the playground, and holding it up to say "haha look how shit this is"

[hiraethwrote]

don’t mind me, just going to queue up some amazing fics while i sulk a little about not participating in kinktober 🥲

[loafbud]

I SUBMITTED TWO QUIZZES AT THE LAST POSSIBLE MINUTE BEFORE THE DUE DATE ENDED

[spicyicymeloncat]

Yknow I think Lloyd should be good at devising plans. He went to evil school he should be good at scheming. The reason why he’s leader of the ninja is because he’s the one that makes the plans and comes up with ideas.

[nexility-sims]

🌷

[calenhads]

i am one exam away from finishing college this is so fucking crazy

[fagcrush]

So funny seeing ppl mock me for falling behind in drabblecember bc the reason I feel behind is my creative energy has been focused on original stuff

[milkyplier]

Me: *inspiration hits*

Me: I’m going to write something!

Me: *opens document*

Anything at all that is useful that I would channel into writing:

[real-life-cloud]

im GOING to write today ........ i WILL !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

*wipes dust off*

Ahem.

Dilliam.

Mayor Attorney.

Marmien.

That is all.

[omnipotent-omnicube]

utau/vocaloid mutuals please know i am vaguely writing about you all collectively in my english project

[lumalalu]

man fuck it im gonna start doin wip wednesdays here

Summer is sweet and endless and she has nothing to do but look at me. She's looking at me now, through the sun's glare on her mirror. She shadows the shapes of my mouth, but doesn't put her voice to my words.

My parents are worried about Grace. They think something's wrong with her - I know what it is. Grace knows, too, looking at me, looking through the glare in the mirror. Everything about her is wrong. I could fix her, if she would let me.

Solid, measured knocks. "Gracie?"

"Yeah?" She pulls her braids back to look at her shoulders uncovered. The angle of her jaw. She is trying to see how it matches up to mine.

"Your mother and I are going to go to the mall. Do you want to come?"

I've never been a fan of the sweltering heat of a cracked-asphalt parking lot, nor the chill on my skin in a Macy's. Grace says, "Okay." But she only said that so that she can look away from me. She is a fool. I can be found in anything that can reflect. I watch her in the windows, in silver lockets, in the mirrors she models new boots in. She parades about like a wind-up toy, a ballerina in a music box. Her mother hands her new skirts for the new school year, button-up blouses, low-cut but not whorish, and modest stockings.

The dressing rooms are hidden in the corner, neatly separated by two icons of triangles - one upside and one downside. I follow her to the wrong one, the wrong stall. It's cramped and ill-fitting, somewhat like a body. Grace tries her best to avoid me still. It's a valiant effort, I'll give her that much. But at some point, in a few minutes, maybe, she'll have to turn around and face me.

Grace takes off her tanktop like the accused pushing off concrete slabs. She hisses with impatience at the clasp of her bra and its stubborn claws in her skin, throws it on the bench with more violence than is necessary. Branded into her back it remains, aching, smoking. Cramped and ill-fitting. She itches at it like the fabric is stuck in her, like it still remains subcutaneously and she could pull it away finally, permanently, if she also removed the skin. Her nails are well cared for, and so, won't do the job. I smile at the sound of her bent elbows.

Her pants go too, her keys squeezing free of the claustrophobic pockets and diving with raucous applause to the floor. Her phone is in her purse, because the back pockets are only decorative. Grace doesn't curse. Her words are never ugly. Instead, her lips bend into the shape of: "shit", and then she bends and picks up the keyring. It is unadorned. Why should it be anything else? A key only has one purpose.

For a moment we stand there together, Grace's back to me, my back not quite to hers. She is hesitating, stretching out the moment between one set of clothes and the next. The blouse is slippery and coarse in texture, sends spider legs running over her back. The skirt is of good quality, but takes up in the back, so she is afraid to bend. No pockets.

I ask her if I can see it. She stares at the off-white wall in silence, and then she turns.

"Oh, no, Gracie. That won't do at all." I tell her. "That thing isn't even fit to be a tablecloth. It's see-through, it's itchy on my ribs. It's pushing my skin too close to my bones, the points of my ribs poking at my lungs. It's like a coffin leaking air, sighing its way into the ground." 

Her breath hitches. "I don't know what's wrong with me." She's saying to herself, to the mirror, to me. I make a sound - in my mouth it is sympathetic, but in hers it is animal, pained, cornered.

[thornilee013]

Hiii hello I hope you’ve had a great day today!! The convention sounds like so much fun! I’ve never been to one before, but I’d love to go at some point soon. Being busy isn’t a bad thing for me, but I’m definitely ready for some time off. How have your applications been going?

Could I please get some baby Jean? Thank you and have an amazing week!!! 🤍🤍🤍

prev | Baby Jean

Jean shrugged and looked back out the window, too tired to make any kind of decision. But his sisters were persistent, and Amélie tugged on his arm while they begged him to provide them with an answer.

"I don't know," he said finally, rolling his head to the other side so he could look at his sisters. "It'd be cool to see a really big fish though, if they have any. Or a penguin."

MASTERPOST