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tocco-voice · 11 months

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Crispy Chronicles: Exploring India's Beloved Banana Chips | Tocco

Chips are everyone's favorite snack to binge on. Fruits or vegetables thinly sliced and fried, baked, or roasted are enjoyed as accompaniments to meals or as snacks. Well-known among this category is the potato chips, as it's the most widely consumed chips. They come in various forms and textures and in a variety of flavors too. The tiny space taken up on your plate when you order your favorite burger or sandwich - Yes, that’s sort of reserved for potato chips!

The historical account of how potato chips were first made and popular is an interesting story, or rather, as it says, ‘a culinary accident turned into a delicious invention’. The true birth of potato chips can be attributed to an African American chef named George Crum. In the mid-1800s, Crum worked as a chef at the Moon Lake Lodge resort in Saratoga Springs, New York. One day in 1853, a customer who was dining at Saratoga Springs complained that Crum's French fries were too thick and not crispy enough. In response, Crum decided to play a prank and sliced the potatoes extremely thin, fried them to a crisp, and heavily salted them. To his surprise, the customer loved the new creation, and the thinly sliced, crispy potatoes became an instant hit. Crum's "Saratoga Chips" quickly gained popularity at the Moon Lake Lodge and beyond. Other restaurants in the area started to adopt the idea and put "potato chips" on their menus. Initially, potato chips were prepared and served in restaurants and inns. However, as demand increased, there was a need for mass production and packaging to meet the snack's popularity. This version of events eventually became so well-established that, in 1976, American Heritage magazine would dub Crum, also known as George Speck, the “Edison of Grease.”

Apart from potato chips, there are several other types of chips that are experimented and have become successful. Nendran Chips, Raw banana Chips, Jaggery Coated Banana Chips, Tapioca Chips, Sweet Potato Chips, Beet Chips, Jackfruit Chips, bitter gourd chips are some of the variety of chips that are popularly available. The usual process of making any chips is slicing the fruit/vegetable in the thickness of one’s choice (mostly thin) and deep-frying it in oil to arrive at the right texture and crispiness. Over the years, people have been experimenting with making the chips using other techniques such as air frying or baking to control the oil content in the making of chips.

What’s interesting is that there are some chips that originated from a specific region and spread as a popular snack across the world. We will dive into one of the most popular traditional snacks - Banana chips, Kerala’s pride.

Banana chips, fondly called Kaayavaruthathu, is an Indian banana delicacy believed to have originated in Kerala and has become popular worldwide. Kerala is known for its abundant banana plantations, making bananas a staple fruit in the region. In the traditional Kerala thali, also known as the sadhya, the first thing served after salt is the upperi (banana chips), marking an important part of the meal.

The origin of Kerala banana chips is debatable, but one of the interesting stories dates back to the time of Alexander the Great. He discovered plantain during his travel to Africa and brought it to Europe. With time, it started to travel to Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and India. That’s how it became a cultivation in South India. The deep frying technique of making plantain chips is also believed to be part of the Roman Cookbook where they deep-fried the sliced plantain in olive oil to make the crisps.

When we ask our Amma about her memory of banana chips, she tells us the story about how this was made at her ancestral home during festivals. “Onam was nothing less than a celebration, with my cousins coming over and the grand sadhya. In the evening, when the aroma of freshly made hot chips reaches us, my cousins and I run to the kitchen to grab some, and we all gather on the front porch to have tea with it,” she says.

The traditional preparation of kaayavaruthathu is very simple: bananas are sliced into thin rounds or strips and deep-fried in coconut oil until crispy. The type of banana used for making the chips is the plantain, which is widely available in tropical regions like India, Latin America, and parts of Africa. However, in Kerala, it is the Nendran banana variety that is known for its distinct flavor and texture, adding to the unique taste of the chips.

Banana Chips-Health Benefits

Banana chips also come with health benefits as they are a good source of dietary fiber essential for healthy digestion and regulating blood sugar levels. They contain various vitamins and minerals such as potassium, vitamin A, and vitamin C, which support muscle function, healthy vision, and immune function, respectively. However, it is important to note that store-bought banana chips may significantly impact the nutritional profile due to their preparation methods, unlike homemade banana chips that use simple ingredients and do not reuse oil for frying. Homemade chips can also ensure they are gluten-free. Any snack is to be consumed in moderation for healthy eating, and it applies to the banana chips too.

Among banana chips, there are different varieties available with added flavors to make them spicy or tangy. Another popular variety is ripe banana chips or pazham chips, which are made from ripe bananas and have a slightly sweeter taste.

In the evening, with a hot cup of tea or as a snack during work, enjoy the flavor of fresh banana chips!

#homemade #chips #banana chips #kerala chips #snacks #kaayavaruthathu #meengurry memories

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this-haunting-hunger · 4 years

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fic: don’t take this haunting home

Wei Ying lives with many ghosts. It's usually not a problem. He used to be one himself, after all. However, ghosts have one glaring fault, and it is this: they are, by definition, people who refuse to stay completely dead.

And as far as Wei Ying is concerned, some dead people should stay that way.

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four

Content: angst, mild violence, ghosts

Pairing: Wangxian

Length: 4400

read on ao3

There are crowds of ghosts living around Wei Ying.

Some only come when called, some stay at his command, but most are transients. There and then gone, attracted by the promise of what they could have been and repulsed by what he tells them they are. He knows some of them by name. Others, by the sounds of their screams, the way their blood had splattered, the last bitter words they’d spat or whimpered. Others, worse company still, Wei Ying knows by their laugh or their love, by their hopes and fears, by their dreams and tears. He doesn’t remember most of those who visit, you understand. But when they come haunting, he knows them all the same.

This presents something of a problem, given that he himself is a ghost, albeit of the still-breathing variety. Lan Zhan might have scowled at Wei Ying if he ever described himself as such aloud, but it’s one of those truths that suit silence more than sound, anyways. A knowledge that keeps itself company better than company ever could. No need to bother the Chief Cultivator with such whimsical thoughts.

Even if the Chief Cultivator is one of the leading experts on soothing spirits and corpses and essentially everything not-quite-dead-enough in between.

His fingers tighten around Chenqing, rigid against the silky black wood, and the lilting melody he’s playing falters. Wei Ying makes himself breathe; makes himself smile at the dirty wall of the empty temple he’s currently seated in. The trick works, like so many of his tricks do. He relaxes, loosens his hand, smooths his thumb against the flute instead. An apology to an old friend. Then he keeps playing.

Lan Zhan will be annoyed that Wei Ying went on this night hunt without him, but given what he suspects he’s dealing with, there are worse things than an annoyed Twin Jade. Off the top of his head, a dead one. Or worse than dead. (That was just a casual example. Certainly not something he’s thought about again and again and again and –)

Pausing now, pulling Chenqing slightly away and uncrossing his legs, rearranging his black and red robes, Wei Ying smiles even wider. He’s learned so much since their early years of attending the Gusu Lan Sect’s indoctrination sessions, but truth be told, he’s known how to smother his worries for longer than that. Fidgeting and smirking are excellent, day-exclusive antidotes to anything that could (and might and would and did) keep him up at night.

He lets go of thoughts of Lan Zhan as he gets a tighter grip on his focus. Closes his eyes and, bringing Chenqing back to his lips, resumes the song even as he rids himself of his wards.

The ghosts rush in when he beckons with his music. They press against his ears with their echoes, almost but not quite drowning out the flute. Most, polite by now, only murmur, to each other or themselves. Others, newer or simply more resentful, more inclined to disturb and powerful enough to manage it, are shrieking or wailing, sobbing or swearing. Not in literal words: he can’t commune with them in that way without Empathy or Inquiry. But they can impart sensations, feelings, flashes of memories that whirl across his mind, and he has become better at understanding the dizzying array of impressions the more he’s practiced demonic cultivation. There are many ghosts here, smothering him with the weight of their soul-cemented grief and rage. The sheer level of turbulent emotion – so much emotion – is a muddied current, sweeping around him and threatening to drag him to the depths that these spirits have already reached. That he reached, once before.

Some of them hate him. He can’t blame them. What right does he have to the oxygen flowing through these lungs? Wei Ying has been in this body for several years now, and yet, sometimes, he still feels like an intruder, as if his soul slipped through a crack and never could find the way out. Sometimes, he wonders – fears – that Mo Xuanyu’s invitation was not an invitation, but a cry for help. A trust offered and then betrayed. If only he had known how to refuse. How to stop hearing the summons. How to forget the offer like he had forgotten so much else. If only –

Communing with spirits wasn’t so hard. Taking in another deep breath, keeping the melody steady, Wei Ying gently rejects the accusations being flung at him. Smiles in the face of all the hatred. Not now, he tells the hordes of hungry ghosts. Not yet. I’ll answer for my crimes, for the crimes of everyone, later, but not now.

He is searching for one spirit in particular. One obstinate soul that eludes his reaching power, slips across fingertips and is gone in a flash of heat so intense it feels like melting. This ghost came to his attention only recently, and for all of his knowledge, Wei Ying doesn’t know if that’s because it just chose to reveal itself to him, or if it only found him in the last few weeks. He hopes it’s the latter. If it has been following him for longer, without him being aware of it… well, he’s mostly decent while alone.

(While he’s with Lan Zhan is another story entirely, but no ghosts could penetrate the wards he has placed around their dwelling.)

Refusing to be distracted by that tantalizing thought, he offers, I just want to talk. When there is no response, he says it out loud, around his flute. “I just want to talk. Just a little exchange of information. No tricks, I promise.” Some of the gathered spirits murmur, but no one comes forward. He could command them to find the one he is looking for. To drag it before him. But if it is who he suspects, that could very well be a mistake. He’s familiar enough with those, but not so much that he wants to make more.

Pouting, eyes still closed, Wei Ying lets Chenqing fall limply into his lap, crosses his arms. “Yah, stalker!” he calls. “It’s not fair if you get an eyeful whenever I’m doing anything, and I get nothing in return! Have you no shame? No pride? Are you so ugly you’ve nothing to show me?”

The teasing gets no more of a reply than a flicker of amusement through some of the friendlier spirits surrounding him, and he opens his eyes. Gaze slipping by the congregation of ashy-black, wispy figures and skipping through the ruins of the temple, he brings up a finger to tap thoughtfully against his nose. He’s sure this decrepit building belonged to the Wens, long before the Sunshot Campaign was a seed in the minds of any of the Sects. Conversation with the townsfolk a short distance from here, who had only moved in during the last decade or so, had confirmed it. The temple had been obliterated when the seed bloomed and the fatal fruit was reaped, but it had been beloved by one of their offshoot clans, a place where cultivators and normal folk alike mingled.

With a sudden, stiff movement, Wei Ying springs to his feet. After shaking out his limbs with a few exaggerated moans and limbering himself with even more exaggerated stretching, he begins to wander through the building, followed by a billowing escort of barely-perceptible spirits. It is not a large temple, but he thinks it was once well built and well cared for. There are shattered pieces of frescoes and statues throughout, many painted in long-faded colours, but the fragments he can make out suggest pride of craftsmanship and ownership. Now, dust covers everything, and anything of value has been snatched by greedy fingers. It may as well be a graveyard.

“Ah, it’s such a shame,” Wei Ying comments as he comes to the main hall, just as demolished as the rest. Ghosts are more raucous company than some (and one in particular, with a pretty headband and prettier lips that are altogether too good at pressing together), and many of those here are lonely; they are eager to be heard, in whatever form that takes. Though he knows none of them by name, and they don’t know him, they crowd closer, resonating with his pitying declaration and clamoring to tell their stories. Until the spirit he wants appears, Wei Ying is in no hurry, and sometimes listening is enough to ease those lingering on the border to their final rest.

It’s the least he can do.

The loudest are the saddest and angriest. Many are soldiers or cultivators who died by the sword when the forces of the Qinghe Nie, Lanling Jin, and Yunmeng Jiang Sects took this area and annihilated all who resisted. (And some, the ghosts convey frantically, who did not.) Still others, with their houses and fields burned, died of starvation, their souls screaming their hunger even now. None perished in this building, but, a focal point in life, it has become a focal point in death, too, a place for familiarity when resentment trapped hapless souls and caged them from going further.

Sooner rather than later, he is going to have to ask Lan Zhan to come here and play Rest. It should have been done a long time ago – years and years ago – and Wei Ying only hopes the resentment hasn’t grown too powerful for the lapse.

I am sorry for what happened. It was not just, Wei Ying tells them, the words too heavy to give voice to, and most are grateful to receive his compassion. He wishes he could leave it at that. Let them be soothed by sympathy. But there is a sudden scent in the air, one that’s been plaguing him for weeks now, the ozone reek of discharged electricity. It’s so strong he’s almost surprised that there are no clouds in the sky, no lightning bolts hurling into the ground. So, Wei Ying wishes he could leave them all alone, but he is too good at doing hard things to let a simple wish stop him. He continues, idly twirling Chenqing as he strolls across the hall and out a crumbling archway into what might have once been an enclosed garden, long overgrown. “It’s not really their fault that you died, though. The soldiers who came here, I mean.”

The reaction is immediate. It feels like constricting, like water being sucked out of a bay before a tsunami, like thunder in the distance. An oppressive warning. Not quite dangerous – but it could become deadly. He holds up his hands in appeal to the audience only he can see. The villagers would probably start lighting torches if they saw him wandering about and talking to himself, so it’s lucky they stay away from here. “Think about it. Who began the war? Who gave the first insult? Surely you have all heard of the atrocities the Wen Sect committed, long before the others retaliated.”

Some are too far gone to heed him. They buzz angrily, jarred and jarring in their rejection, and their vehement antagonism stabs into his temples, threatening to spin the world off its axis. That’s fine. The trick to dealing with that is a simple one; Wei Ying’s world hasn’t been on its axis for a very long time now.

He brings Chenqing up, plays a few calming notes. It would be better if no one but the one he’s hunting attacked him. Or none of them did, but Wei Ying isn’t quite as much of an optimist as he pretends to be. He’s been trying to draw the spirit into a conversation for weeks now, whenever he catches a hint of lightning on a breeze or the not-his memory of pressure constricts his throat. (Dancing around Lan Zhan’s blank faced suspicion each time the Chief Cultivator catches him talking to thin air has been a hectic mix of fun and stressful.) His attempts at making contact have been in vain. If even presenting himself at this temple didn’t evoke a response, where the spirit should be most comfortable (unless Wei Ying is wrong about who it is, which would be embarrassing), he can only imagine that the entity’s intentions aren’t entirely peaceful. Given who it might be, they may in fact be the exact opposite of entirely peaceful.

Which is a shame, because he’s actually beginning to enjoy himself here. This outdoor space is quite pretty, blue and purple wildflowers doted throughout the thicker tangles of green, and his music suits the abandoned atmosphere of the area. There are fractured stone columns here and there, broken by overly enthusiastic purgers, holding up nothing now, but he imagines the temple had some kind of pavilion for enjoying the outdoors in the shade. A long gone comfort, but one that could be brought back with a bit of work. This is the sort of place that welcomes visitors but asks no one to extend their stay. His kind of place.

Eventually he finds what is either a worn bench or a toppled statue, half conquered by the overgrowth, and, after dusting it off, he takes a seat, leans back, and props himself up on his elbows.

If he weren’t communing with a bunch of livid spirits, this would almost feel like one of his informal teaching sessions with the juniors. “Yes, it was the Wen Sect who started all of this. The insults, the degradation, the murders, the puppets… who could stand by when such injustice was going on? I’m sure very few of you knew what Wen Ruohan was doing. You’re all decent people, aren’t you?”

That’s a joke, coming from him, but it settles them down a little, makes them less defensive. All well and good, and still no stronger sign of the presence he’s searching for. Well, he has always said that patience was meant to be tested. “Those that did know, though…” Wei Ying looks around, arches an eyebrow in a chiding expression. Only vaguely wonders if he’s pushing things a little too far. “They’re to blame for all of this. They could have stopped Ruohan if they’d chosen. Cowards, sycophants, bootlickers… they’re the reason for all of your deaths. For all of the death. They –”

The man was, in life, an imperturbable individual, but death does things to a person, things more significant than just stopping the heart. Wei Ying doesn’t know what the final trigger is – the place, the accusation, or maybe the spirit just loses its patience with their game of cat-and-mouse – but regardless, one moment he’s having a delightful garden chat.

The next he’s been heaved off the bench and thrown across the enclosed space, to crash into one of the taller columns with a strangled, “Umph!” while heat and an ozone stench invade his senses.

Wei Ying lands – hard – on his hands and knees, the breath fleeing from his lungs as though it’s finally realized it doesn’t belong there. Wheezing, blood a coppery coating at the back of his throat, he clutches his flute a bit too hard and tries not to regret how differently this fight would have gone in a different life. No time for what-ifs – only time for enthusiastically trying not to pass out from the impact his head had made with the pillar. He doesn’t manage to do more than get unsteadily to his feet before he’s slammed into again, the force too fast and distorted to get a good look at the spirit attacking him.

This time he’s not flung as far, and he lands in a bush – a distinct improvement. Sprawled in the plant, several pointy bits jabbing him in the back, Wei Ying yanks his sleeve off a particularly malevolent twig and jerks Chenqing up. He’s aware of the thing rushing forward – of a pulsing, fragmented, confused rage – of a disconcerting emptiness where the other ghosts were just moments before – (of static anxiety, an old companion) – of Chenqing’s smooth warmth under his fingers as he begins to play –

Of time, pretending to come to a sudden, violent halt.

Just an illusion. With the spirit abruptly suspended before him, caught up in the invisible threads of power cast out from his flute, Wei Ying has a disjointed moment where the overwhelming emotions from his attacker bleed through his vision, painting everything in reds and golds. Anger and anger and not-anger, something he can’t understand, something like the tempered steel of Suibian, flexible and resilient, yet so sharp it could slice a careless wielder.

The spirit is vaguely man-shaped, all blurred edges and flaring shadows. He can’t force it to assume a more distinct form; the mere effort of keeping it still is enough to have sweat pouring down Wei Ying’s skin, sticky between his fingers as he performs a tune that has by now become second nature. This spirit isn’t the most powerful he’s ever encountered, but it comes rudely close. It’s not surprising, exactly, but he’s won this battle before. Maybe he got just a little overconfident.

Lan Zhan is going to be really furious with me, Wei Ying thinks cheerfully, all the better to drown any second-thoughts about not bringing the other man. Because, really, bringing his lover into this specific kind of danger just wasn’t an option.

He won’t be able to suppress his opponent through Chenqing alone. That much becomes obvious as their stalemate draws on and Wei Ying’s mouth and lips begin to dry. He changes his tune, literally. Broadens it, with only a twinge of guilt. The appeal – a command, really – sings through the air, as pointed as any sword, and begins to draw on several of the ghosts that had scattered when the more powerful spirit revealed itself. He only calls to the angriest, the most formidable in their own right; no point in subjecting the souls of peasants to this demonic contest of wills.

They come, but only reluctantly. More reluctantly than he expected. Harnessing dark spirits for violence is rarely difficult, given that they already want to commit harm. Hell, half of the battle is usually keeping them directed and contained, not getting them to fight at all. Yet these ghosts need to be chided by Chenqing’s stern voice, prodded to do as bidden. Is it fear? Wei Ying doubts that. Very few spirits have maintained their hold on life enough to fear losing it even more.

Regardless, they can only drag their feet (metaphorically speaking), not reject his orders entirely. Before too long, he has all of them sparring with the other spirit, colliding with it and ripping off chunks of smoke-like substances that dissipate into the air as though they were never there. The assault is enough to let Wei Ying heave himself off the (very flattened) bush and, in a quick scramble, begin to search his robe for a few specific talismans.

All the while, the passions of the ghosts haven’t abated. Actually, they’re thunderous, almost a physical pressure wreaking havoc against his thoughts, crushing them into the here and now and nothing else. He can’t understand why fury isn’t the most prevalent emotion of this fight. He can’t understand why the aggressive spirit hasn’t torn apart at least a couple of his minions yet – or done worse. No time for speculation. There’s just the music, pulling his power from him with reckless abandon and carrying his will out in waves that distort the air and exhort his servants to greater efforts.

His pulse is pounding in his throat, an unpleasant counterpoint to the rhythm his fingers are tapping on Chenqing. Fatigue is a grey murkiness that makes each controlled breath a little more rattling than it should have been, makes every thought just a bit too slow, a bit too hazy. Not for the first time, he wishes Mo Xuanyu had spent a little less time on impeccable face makeup and a little more on his cultivation. Or at least cardio.

Of course, Wei Ying could probably have spent a little less time drinking and a little more time training, so he supposes he should graciously let the man off the hook.

Shoving his power against the spirit is like pushing against a mountain or trying to convince Jiang Cheng to change his mind: a lot of gross sweating and no satisfactory payoff. Or at least, it is until, with a jolt of energy that Wei Ying feels as an agonizing shock straight through his muscle and bones, all the way to his core, the fierce spirit does something to one of its opponents. One that’s latched on and refusing to be shaken off. Some kind of implosion ripples across the other ghost, and there is a screeching wail, cut brutally short, and then… nothing. Wei Ying’s servant is just – gone.

He is concentrating too hard to be able to fully see what happened, but still – he knows. Or remembers. Remembers something he never actually saw happen, but remembers all the same. And abruptly the fear is there, a stranger this time, acidic in his mouth, and the shadow of words he never said come unbidden to his tongue, words like please, no and I’ll do anything and stop, stop, stop. There’s no room amidst the horrified realization for anything like contempt, but somewhere in the groping dread is a tingling empathy, a sour sympathy for things long finished and dead.

He hasn’t ever blamed Jiang Cheng for his fear before, but now Wei Ying’s understanding isn’t just nestled patiently in the core he used to own; it’s throbbing in his heart, coursing through his veins, forcing every artery to personally acknowledge the wrenching terror. His jaw is aching, he realizes numbly, but can’t stop clenching his teeth until a strained sob almost cracks them in its attempt to escape. That startles him, yanks him viciously out of a torture he never experienced, and he slams back into himself and awareness of his surroundings so hard that it practically winds him. With a gasp, Wei Ying flings up his arms, a reflexive attempt to protect himself from –

Nothing.

People have called him lucky before. Blessed. With good looks and a sparkling personality, sure, but he’s never been able to look back on his life and concede that luck had much of a place in it after his adolescence. Now, though…

There really isn’t another word to describe it. While he had been distracted (Wen Qing had mentioned something about possible triggers, but that had been in another body, another life, so why the hell had it carried over to–) Chenqing had clattered to the ground, the music grinding to a halt. With the goad gone, the spirits he’d yoked to his will – the ones still left – had faltered, gone from raging to ragtag in the span of seconds. They’re wandering adrift now, though none of them have left. By rights, they should have turned on him. And if not them, then his enemy should have taken the opportunity to finish what it started.

Lucky indeed.

The spirit is still standing in front of Wei Ying, and of it’s own free will it’s taken on a much clearer form. A distinct face, distinct features, an almost distinct wardrobe. Distinct hands, big and partially covered by fingerless gloves, the kind that remind Wei Ying of an age when holding a sword hilt meant cutting through muscle and bone as if they belonged to monsters. The spirit is currently staring at its hands like it expects them to sprout claws.

It – he – slowly curls his fingers, until they’re formed into shaking fists, and then he looks up. Not at Wei Ying. At the other spirits. “I am sorry,” he says, or projects, or offers, and regardless of how he does it, they understand. Wei Ying can feel the waves of sorrow, of grief, of acceptance. The fury is still there, a frigid undercurrent compared to the warmth of this – this –

What is this? It feels like a reunion, like a meeting between friends or family long parted. The way he stares at the other ghosts, the stream of recognition that links them all, the guilt that has his features crumpling as if he just murdered…

Oh. Oh.

It’s not as if Wei Ying has never used the dearly departed against their loved ones. He has. It’s just that he’s never done it accidentally before. Coming here hadn’t been about that, hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d thought it might draw the spirit out and had forgotten in the process that stone walls and a ceiling don’t make a home. It’s the people who manage that. The people and the soup.

His heart lurches at a rebuke that hasn’t dulled despite how long it’s been. Regret, grief, and guilt are all excellent whetstones, and besides, it hasn’t really been so long for him. Wei Ying feels too sharp, like anything or anyone could be cut by the edge of his shame, and it makes him restive, anxious. He stoops, picks up Chenqing from the ground with silken-soft gentleness, just in case the flute somehow shatters against his jagged margins.

The motion attracts the spirit, but when he looks towards Wei Ying, there’s no spike of rage coming from the restless ghost. The guilt of what he just did has smothered it, and Wei Ying doesn’t think he’ll ever understand the dead man more than he does right in this moment.

He’s not even wary anymore. It’s as if the echo of Jiang Cheng’s fear was too big, too reverberating, its aftershocks clearing his chest of anything too light to resist. Hollowed out, Wei Ying can’t manage to feel much of anything at all. Or maybe that’s just – himself. He’s already been parted with one core. Why should a second threat, against an admittedly shabbier core, be viewed as worse than the first?

Gathering up his black sleeves and linking his hands together, Wei Ying bows to his opponent. Maybe holds it a bit too long, dips a bit too low, making respect into a mockery, but he can’t stop himself. His concern for the safety of Lan Zhan, of the juniors – and especially of Jiang Cheng – has been his sole focus for the last few weeks of investigation into this spirit’s background. However, confronted with a slightly clouded face that suits his slightly clouded recollection, Wei Ying has to acknowledge something that crackles, ugly and vengeful, just below his lips, frozen into a smile.

If he could have chosen to meet anyone from his past life, ascended to the Heavens or buried in Hell, Wen Zhuliu would probably have been close to last on the list.

#the untamed #mdzs #cql #the untamed fanfic #wei wuxian #wangxian

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apexwords · 4 years

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My Boyfriend is the Princess from the Princess and the Pea

Have you ever heard of the Princess and the Pea? It’s true that this is not a well known fairy tail and Disney has yet to put it’s spin on the tall tail so it’s completely understandable. Really, don’t feel bad.

To give you an idea of the story the general premise is as follows. There is a young woman that all the towns folk believed to be a commoner, a mere peasant. She insisted to all the land that she is indeed a Princess, so the people decided to prove that she is out of place to say she is a princess. That night before the girl heads to bed the commoners decide to prove it with a fool proof plan that will surely prevail in truth. Oblivious to this trickery the alleged princess slumbers away.

The next morning the girl is distraught over her lack of sleep and her sudden back pain that wasn’t there before. She hops down from her mountain of beds to demand an answer. Upon inspection it is revealed that underneath the seven mattresses there was a single pea. A single pea is the perpetrator for the princesses back pain. Those proving to all the land that she is a true born princess, to go down for the ages and the Princess and the Pea.

Now my boyfriend may not sleep on seven mattresses, because let’s be real, we don’t have that kind of money. But we have something smaller than a single pea. Crumbs. Now this may take some explaining, I chronically eat food in the bed specifically his side. After all, I don’t want to sleep in crumbs. Though our sleep schedules have shifted so much that we rarely sleep in the bed at the same time, this is due to him taking the graveyard shift, he still feels the supposed crumbs I left in the bed.

Every night I fall asleep eating snacks that are sure to kill me one day. Just not soon enough. I fall asleep with zero issues and don’t feel a single crumb, now mind you that I take up the whole bed by myself, after all if you don’t sleep spread eagle on the bed by yourself then are you even sleeping? Just a reminder that I don’t feel a single crumb, and waking up I see no crumbs. It is a reasonable assumption that there are no crumbs in the bed right? I thought so too. Thanks for being on my side in this “debate”.

In the early hours of the day my boyfriend let’s call him Ace for privacy comes dragging in through the door. Rexy, our dog wags his tail in delight welcoming his father home like a good child. They play and cuddle for a bit and Ace gets going with his bedtime routine, eat ramen at his desk and go to bed watching hermitcraft on youtube. Such a cute creature of habit. Now as he enters the epitome of a comfort zone he always freaks! “There’s crumbs in the bed!” Of course I am somehow to blame considering I am the only one that eats in the bed. Honestly there were no crumbs when I left the bed!

Now there are three arguments that you can make for this story; one Ace somehow makes the crumbs in the bed as he enters the bed, two I am a crumb so the crumbs in the bed are just parts of my snack self left in the bed after my slumber. Lastly three, my boyfriend is the princess from the “Princess and the Pea”.

I, a lowly commoner, would never feel such small and unrecognizable changes to the bed, but my princess boyfriend definitely does. After all the proof is in the crumbs! He feels the crumbs that no one else could feel, after all everyone else that tried is not a princess.

To further cement my evidence I will do my best to recreate the story, so tonight there will be a crumb under the mattress of our bed. Time will tell if my boyfriend is a true born princess or not.

The plan has prevailed people, I repeat the plan has prevailed. My lovely princess boyfriend is truly no commerner. I will from now on do my best to make him the Disney princess he was born to be.

In the wee hours just before dawn Ace crawls into bed dead tired and rejoiceful that there is not a single crumb on the bed. That bliss is sadly ripped away as his eyes shoot open in betrayal. His “crumb free bed” was all a lie. An illusion created from desperation, like that of an oasis in the dessert. “Where is the crumb?”

To which I replied “what crumb? I made sure to vacuum the bed before you got home. There can’t possibly be a crum in the bed.” Shaking my head I dismiss his bewilderment.

I watch as he tosses and turns from the ageney of feeling the crumb under the mattress. My heart aches for my love. It’s not his fault that he is a princess. Lifting the bed dramatically I reveal the presence of my evil plan like a wicked villain that just can’t help but gloat their maniacal plan to the hero. A lonely crumb stands alone amongst the freshly cleaned boxspring. Lifting it up with a glint in my eye. “Hun. You are the princess from the Princess and the Pea”. His deadpan expression didn’t express any amusement, but that’s okay after all the hero never laughs at the villains joke. “Good night my Princess and the Crumb” only if you could see my devious smile as my beloved Ace huffs and rolls as far away from me as possible.

#writing #short story #cute story #princess #boyfriend

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writeinspiration · 5 years

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How Long Should Your Novel Be? (The Definitive Answer)

Text of the article pasted below!

Many aspiring novelists ask themselves, “How long should my novel be?” The answer to this question is surprisingly complex. There are multiple issues that need to be to addressed… and I’m going to cover ALL of them in this article.So let’s get it!

My Journey

It took me eight years to craft my debut novel, The Page Turners.

Eight years is far too long to spend writing a first book. Looking back, I cringe at the thought of what I could have created in the time I wasted drafting and redrafting that novel.

One of the many reasons it took me so long to write my first book was that, like many rookie authors, I wanted my debut to be an epic story. I had twenty-five years worth of life experiences, thoughts, emotions, and stories to draw from, and I was determined to cram all of it into a novel that would dazzle readers and immediately launch my literary career into the stratosphere of superstardom!

At one point, the manuscript for The Page Turners was up to 130,000 words, but the published version is a little over 55,000; hardly an epic.

But you know what? Stephen King’s first novel wasn’t The Stand. It was a tight-packed little masterpiece called Carrie.

Once I followed King’s lead by focusing on intimacy and letting go of my aspirations of a sweeping and grand narrative, the project finally become manageable. After years spent struggling with this beast of a story, I was suddenly dealing with a focused and fast-paced narrative that had a clear theme and a nice sense of rhythm and harmony.

Before long, finally publishing the book was no longer a distant pipe dream; it had actually become an attainable goal. In shortening the length of my novel, I made my life as a writer much easier.

The Benefits of Short

It’s easier to redraft and review a shorter novel.

It’s easier to convince beta readers to give it a look, and you get their feedback much quicker.

As an indie author, it’s significantly cheaper to pay for copy-editing of a shorter novel, and the production costs of printing the final books are also more affordable.

Across the board, virtually everything becomes easier and more do-able once you commit to shortening your novel.

A shorter book also forces an author to focus with laser-like accuracy on the story’s most important elements: the plot and lead characters. Tangents, supporting characters, and non-relevant aspects of the narrative are kept to a bare minimum because there simply isn’t room for them in a short book.

Tell an enthusiastic young writer you need them to write a 2,000-word article, and there’s a good chance they’ll return with 4,000 words of mostly unusable material. On the other hand, tell them you need 500 words and not a single word more… and they might just come up with something great!

I’m quite fond of the Orson Well’s quote, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations,” and I think it can be applied wonderfully to word count. Keep the book short, and you’re much more likely to create good art. At the very least, you’ll reduce the chances of creating bad art. (The only thing worse than a bad novel is a bad novel of epic length!)

With all of this in mind, I tell my writing students to aim for a 55,000 word novel for their debut book. A total of 55,000 words is the perfect length for a rookie author. It’s short and sweet, and it forces the writer to stick to the point, something young writers often struggle with. And, of course, as mentioned earlier, it makes the entire project more manageable.

Is a 55,000 Word Manuscript Novel Length?

In his article, “Word Count: How Long Should a Book Be?”, Glen C Strathy turns to The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America’s (SFFWA) criteria for the Nebula Awards to determine his word count criteria.

Here’s how the SFFWA defines the stories they review for the award:

Short story – under 7,500 words

Novelette – 7,500 to 17,500 words

Novella – 17,500 to 40,000 words

Novel – anything over 40,000 words

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) (an annual event that challenges writers to craft a novel within the month of November) identifies 50,000 words as the minimum target for their definition of a novel.

As such, by either the SFFWA or the NaNoWriMo’s definition, a 55,000-word book is certainly novel-length.

That said, if you would prefer to turn to general opinion and/or critical regard to determine the minimum length of a novel, consider The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece is only 55,000 words long, and it’s considered by many – myself included – to be one of the greatest novels ever written.

In fact, a number of my favourite novels of all time are around this length: The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, The Old Man and the Sea by Earnest Hemingway, Lord of the Flies by William Golding, The Catcher in the Ryeby J.D. Salinger, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, and The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, to name but a few!

As this list clearly demonstrates, despite what many young authors mistakenly believe, more words are not always better. From Kafka to Carroll, some of the greatest prose writers ever to live chose to produce shorter novels.

In Praise of Long

Despite my recommendation that aspiring authors focus their efforts on producing a shorter book as their initial publication, I would be remiss to ignore the variety of well-loved long novels out there.

In her Salon.com article, “Why we love loooong novels”, Laura Miller provides a convincing argument in praise of the epic. She also references the New York Times report that author Garth Risk Hallberg received a $2 million advance for his 900-page debut, City on Fire – a clear indication a shorter debut novel is not always the best route to critical acclaim and financial riches!

Riffing on Miller’s article, Maddie Crum’s Huffington Post article, “An Ode to Unaccelerated Reading” lists ten excellent novels well worth their page count, and I’m sure we all have a beloved epic tome or two weighing down our bookshelves.

In fact, it was likely my love of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and Stephen’s King’s The Stand that got me into trouble with The Page Turners word count in the first place.

I’m not arguing that a novel must be short to be great; I’m simply suggesting that if you want to make the transition from aspiring author to published author in as smooth a manner as possible, you may want to save your epic for your sophomore release.

Industry Standards by Genre

Of course, only a few of the short novels I mentioned earlier were debut releases, and today’s modern writers, especially those looking to break into the mainstream publishing industry, would be wise to take into account industry standards when it comes to determining world count for their work in progress.

In a helpful article written for Writer’s Digest in 2012, Chuck Sambuchino outlines recommended word counts for various different genres of books. His recommended word counts are as follows:

Commercial and literary novels for adults – 80K to 90K

Sci-fi and Fantasy – 100K to 115K

Young Adult – 55K to 70K

In another article on word count and book length, “How Long is a Book? Determine Your Novel’s Genre, Subgenre, and Best Word Count”, Ronnie Smith expands on Sambuchino’s list by adding some additional genres to the mix:

Romance – 80K to 100K

Mystery – 75K to 100K

Thriller – 90K to 100K

Western – 45K – 75K

These recommendations are extremely helpful to keep in mind while working on your book, particularly if you intend to secure an agent and a traditional publisher for your work.

Keep in mind, however, that Sambuchino and Smith’s recommendations are based on the long-entrenched requirements of the traditional book publishing industry. As such, the recommended word counts are largely the result of industrial standards and therefore have more to do with the production requirements of paperback books than they do anything related to storytelling technique, artistic aspirations, or the preferences of readers.

New Standards

In recent years, the rise of ebooks, along with the ever-increasing ease with which independent authors can self-publish their work via web and print-on-demand has completely changed book industry standards in terms of word counts requirements.

With storytelling becoming increasingly digitalized, the very meaning of terms like “books” and “novels” are being consistently destabilized.

Ebooks come in a variety of forms and lengths, and print-on-demand can turn a project of any reasonable word count into a paperback publication. Authors are now free to craft books and novels with word counts that are bound only by the author’s imagination and creativity, and the audience’s receptivity.

Hugh Howey’s hit self-published “novel” Wool was originally released as a series of e-novellas. Authors Johnny B. Truant and Sean Platt are releasing serial fiction that is then collected together into “seasons”, thereby combining 19th century Charles Dickens-like publishing model with that of modern television. Erotic authors, riding the surging 50 Shades of Grey wave, are consistently finding new and innovative ways to get their work into reader’s hands, including bundling books from several authors together to create what is, essentially, an anthology of novellas.

Where to From Here?

If it was difficult to determine exactly how long a novel should be in the past, it’s only going to become increasingly more difficult in the future. As independent authors continue to push the boundaries and test what digital publishing and print-on-demand have to offer, and as the traditional publishing industry attempts to keep up with technological innovations reshaping the publishing landscape, there’s no telling what a “book” might look like in the years to come.

If you’re looking for a career in traditional publishing, educate yourself on the word counts the publishers and agents you’re targeting are looking for. If you are embracing independent publishing, get creative! There’s an exciting world of storytelling possibilities out there, and whether your book is a short jaunt or an epic journey is totally up to you. Remain true to your vision, give your audience the read of a lifetime, and the last thing they will be thinking about is word count.

#writer #writing #write #writeinspiration #writeblr #original content or from the Internet at large

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