#don't overthink it too much

[sharkneto]

What’s your opinion on writing pre-s3 fics post-s3? As in I have a ton of fic ideas for tua but they would be set before Viktor transitioned. Would following canon and referring to Viktor as his past name & gender be deadnaming him? Or should I refer to him as Viktor and forget that anything else ever existed? I’ve seen various opinions in irl from trans people about this (from wanting to never refer to that other gender or to often talking about it) not sure what to do in the case of fiction

So. This is a question that is going to have different answers from different trans people. I dug up when I last answered a question like this back when the news of Viktor first came out (HERE), but I'll restate my thoughts on it here, too, with a bit more nuance than I gave it then -

First, out of context - referring to Viktor by his previous name and gender would be deadnaming and misgendering.

In context, it all comes down to intent. My position on Viktor's story is his transition is a huge component of it - with his upbringing and the drugs, he never had a chance to figure himself out until he was free of it and off the pills. Even if he wasn't trans, his story over the first two seasons could really easily be a trans allegory, along with just being a queer story. To completely ignore that he is trans feels like it would ignore a significant part of who he is and his journey to get there.

But intent. I do think intent goes a long way. If you're writing a canon-compliant fic set pre-S3, I wouldn't judge for deadnaming and misgendering him (**with a disclaimer at the beginning of the fic/chapter that it is taking place pre-transition** ). I think this especially if his transition is part of his journey or scope of the story. I do this in both my fics Joining Together and Holding It Together, in which JT his gender is never questioned but will be in the long run and in HIT we have a post-transition Viktor present with a pre-transition Viktor mentioned.

That said, if his gender journey isn't part of the scope of the story and he's an especially prominent character... I would consider AUing this one bit. If his transition doesn't play any part in the plot of the fic, it wouldn't affect anything to have it happen earlier so he doesn't get deadnamed and misgendered the whole time.

How's that for complicated advice? At the end of the day, you're showing you care by asking, and you're not going to please everyone - there's too many opinions on the matter with personal emotions involved. No one has a blanket, correct answer. And, like you said - it's fiction. We can't ask him, he's not real an he's just a character being used to tell a story to explore emotions and themes.

TLDR: Follow your gut, write what makes sense to the story you want to tell, do your best. That's all anyone can do.

[prettyboykatsuki]

As an excellent writer, do you have any advice? It's been a while since I wrote something other than poetry and I wanted to try writing a story. I managed to get started, but I'm still having a little trouble.

You have inspired me a lot for the record!

as an excellent writer u say...... u want me to cry ....

you've gotten through the hardest part which is simply getting started imo!!! so do not feel to discouraged bc that is like... so often the hardest part. and im pleased to have inspired u that is huge!!!!

when i get stuck on a story, i normally go do something else related to story writing. sometimes that's reading fic for a character, watching clips of them, or making a pinterest board. something to like... stimulate my creative desires in a sense? i find that reading fic is the most effective to get me to write a bit more

but also, try not to pressure yourself and focus on enjoying the process if you can ! i think the idea of completing a fic can make it feel sooo daunting but the best writing happens when you can pour into your story without certain expectations.

i would try to give u more advice about the plotting process but being honest i don't think i've ever actually outlined and plotted anything. i process everything by just writing - though if you're having trouble sometimes trying to build out a structure and then help can be really nice.

the best way though to just write is letting yourself just get the words on the page and going back to edit it afterwards. your first draft can be super dogshit and thats fine, because it lets you have an idea of what you want to say or are trying to say and not getting stuck just not writing. its okay if none of it makes sense the first time as long as smth is on the page

i have some other writing advice in a tag but all of it's old so idk if it'll be helpful. i'll add it to this post though so u can peruse it a bit since ppl have asked me before . for some reason fdkjsdk

[somewhereincairparavel]

"jason is a knockoff watered down percy" NO hear me out, jason actually parallels annabeth immensely, sharing SO many similarities with her personality, not percy, in this essay I will-

edit: my full analysis is out now! here

[im-the-j-in-anthony-j-crowley]

Good omens tag game

Name two things you have in common with Aziraphale and two things you have in common with Crowley

More reasons to love them!

Crowley

1.- Taste for black clothes and... I WANT TO BELIEVE that I look good too

2.- I love Aziraphale Dramatic

Aziraphale

1.- I love books

2.- Stubborn. Really stubborn

No pressure tags: @fearandhatred @bildads-shoes @harbinger-of-existential-dread @di-42 @sayeverythingwillbefineplease @littlekhaos626

And of course, open tags!

[mad--sad--bad]

the emptiness in me has teeth

[rudnitskaia]

White Chrysanths for the Swallow

Rocky was waiting for her at the table at the Little Daisy, but this time he was especially eager. Even Ivy had stopped teasing him about the way he lighted up and hummed to himself as he waited for Mau to show up at the door of the café, and just smiled, refilling his coffee whenever it ran out. He almost daydreamed of handing Maura two tickets to tomorrow's musical: of her eyes sparkling, of her taking his hand and telling him he was the best in the world.

But time passed, and Mau wasn't coming.

In those few hours, Rocky had replayed the fantasy in his head hundreds of times, changing the lines and the scenery. At first, imaginary Maura was beaming with happiness, calling him affectionate names, melting in his arms like all those heroines on the stage of a musical theater in the arms of their beloved ones, but every time the fantasy became darker and darker. More disturbing. Mau no longer rejoiced, no longer smiled. Her bright lively figure was becoming more and more dim, and she more often sighed, frowned, did not accept the gift. She asked him to return the tickets, scolded him for wasting his money carelessly, told him some news, one worse than the other, and finally said she didn’t want to see him again. Never again.

It was getting unbearable to sit still, and Rocky abruptly moved away from the table, threw on his coat, and headed for the exit. Maybe a walk would clear his head a little…

“Miss Pepper, I have a very urgent task to attend to. If she shows up on the doorstep, don't let her out of here on any pretext. Lock the doors, board up the windows, show her every fashion magazine you can find, but don't let her leave here until I get back. I'm counting on your wit and exceptional charm.”

The way he looked intently into Ivy's eyes before he left looked almost threatening. He wasn't even aware of the desperation hiding behind that look. But Ivy saw it.

“Don't worry, I'm an expert at this,” she winked at him encouragingly.

The cold air blew across Rocky's face, and he shivered, pulling his scarf over his nose, the same funny skewed scarf Mau had knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes, like now, Rocky thought he could still smell on it the very same scent of coffee and pastries that wafted from the Venza family's eatery. It didn't help distract him, though. Quite the opposite. After walking a few blocks in an attempt to escape his doubts, he spotted a small flower shop — Rocky's imagination immediately conjured up a lovely picture of Maura cradling a fresh spring bouquet on this cold, cloudy evening and he didn't notice himself stepping over the store’s doorstep. The frail old woman behind the counter put aside the newspaper and immediately chirped, offering him different flowers, and finally convinced him to take a few white chrysanthemums. She tied the flowers with a delicate pink ribbon and also wrapped them tightly in the newspaper she had read before.

“They mustn't be overfrozen. Or they won't last long,” she explained sternly.

Rocky walked back much more briskly. He was warmed by the thought that now he would be able to give Mau not one surprise, but two. Hiding the bouquet from a gust of cold wind, Rocky lowered his gaze to it and pressed the flowers closer to himself… when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the headline of one of the newspaper articles.

“Shootout at the small Italian eatery Casa di Rondine shocked the residents… a bloody showdown in the neighborhood… occurred on the night… police identified the bodies of two…”

Rocky couldn't remember how he reached the familiar alleyway. How he threw the bouquet to the ground, swung over the barrier tape, and rushed to the entrance — a gaping hole instead of a small blue door. Shards of glass littered the floor, the formerly cozy, cramped hall was a real mess, the furniture was riddled with gunshots. Even the old tabletop radio was now on the floor, shattered to pieces.

“Stop right there!” a panting policeman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “What the hell are you doing breaking into a crime scene?”

“I… uh…” in his panic Rocky couldn't think straight, but nonetheless he blurted out: “I'm from a newspaper. Wanted to visit the crime scene myself.”

“A lousy reporter you are, then. Your buddies sniffed everything around here a long time ago.”

“I was just hired today and immediately assigned to this very intriguing case. So…”

“There's nothing intriguing about it. This Bianchi guy…”

“Who?”

“The renter, Augusto Bianchi, if that's his real name at all, apparently had a huge debt to pay someone. And for that, he got pinned down. There was a scuffle in the night, at least four assailants. The two guys we found here have a couple priors, but they're not in a condition to tell us who hired them. The amount of such cold cases we have…” the man hummed and passed his hand above his head. “We've already explained it all to your fellow scribblers this morning. And I highly doubt the landlord would want to tell the same story tenth times over to another newspaper weasel. The only thing he's interested in right now is getting money from the insurance company.”

“And the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The waitress. Who worked here. What about her?”

“Considering how much blood there is, they're probably both either in a ditch, scattered in pieces, or feeding fishes somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi… both father and daughter, if you meant her,” boredly remarked the other officer, who had quietly approached them, lighting a cigarette. “There's nothing for you to do here, boy. Henry's right — there's absolutely nothing of interest in this case. People might have chattered about it in the morning, but the very next day they'll forget all about it. Go home, don't add to our workload. And quit the paper that sent you here. If your editor doesn't realize that news like this must be broken in the heat of the moment, believe me, their business will burn out faster than a short match.”

Rocky tried to get anything else out of them, at least a little bit, to look in the kitchen of the eatery, to slip upstairs to Mau’s and Augusto's apartment, but the policemen were adamant. On unsteady legs he made it to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, staring blankly into the dark November sky. He could have screamed, could have destroyed everything around him on a single painful impulse, but the emptiness that engulfed him was far more frightening.

His silence was more frightening.

Years would pass. Would flow, as before, from night to night. The world won’t notice his loss. The world won't notice any loss at all. In the place of his beloved swallow house, other birds will build a nest. Freckle and Ivy will eventually stop opening that wound with their questions. And one day, perhaps, he will stop gazing into the crowd, hoping to find among the unfamiliar faces the features dear to his heart, and stop flinching when he hears someone say amore mio. He knows how it happens — it was not the first time. All he has to do is smile and everything will work out. It'll wear off, getting back to the way it was. One day.

But the bouquet of chrysanths will still remain rotting on the cold ground.

[profounddefendorcrusade-blog]

I feel bad for Starlo. (pt. 7)

Staroba is... not my cup of tea.

Still can't get over the fact Ceroba showed so little empathy for Star. It becomes even worse when you remember she started lecturing him ALL while wanting to take Clover's soul herself and lied to his face just so she could later betray the kid. At least Star tried to fix things. She started digging deeper and deeper into her plan and in the end got forgiven really easily.

I keep thinking Ceroba sees Starlo as a childish little bro or smth and even mentions how the reason she chose Chujin was because he was "mature." Yeah he WAS more serious in terms of personality but everyone's different. Chujin wasn't morally perfect anyway

'Back when I was a naive kid, kinda like you' and 'hey, it's science. your brain is still developing' rub me the wrong way. Basically what I got from this is how she thinks only someone childish and emotionally underdeveloped would consider a relationship with Starlo

Ceroba seems to view Star as a "poor naive manchild" who needs babysitting. She feels so bad for him that she'd sometimes tag along with his antics but won't hide the annoyance most of the time.

She'll also spare him from his feelings getting hurt, which is nice but it's not her honest opinion:

She seems to show little appreciation for what he tried to do for her even though they're supposedly best pals. She says how she's been burying her sorrows in the saloon but not how spending time there even slightly cheered her up.

She envies Star's optimism but imo it sounded more like an adult envying a kid's naivety than one adult admiring the other.

And APPARENTLY the time she spent with Clover in Steamworks cheered her up a little but not what Star's been doing for her for months.

heck she didn't even notice he had been doing it for her. too stuck in her sorrows, probably

I think the reason for this is because the Steamworks reminded her of Chujin and Kanako and the life they used to have. Btw, she loved Chujin waaaay too much (and even though he's gone now she still doesn't think she'll ever be with anyone else except Chujin, she's proud of Chujin for a useless award, she still calls Chujin 'her love,' she keeps talking about Chujin's legacy and how Asgore and everyone else never believed in him), to the point she stubbornly supported him without question, only (maybe) seeing him more realistically at the end of pacifist. I just feel like Ceroba doesn't take Starlo seriously. It's not that she doesn't care about him at all, but… she definitely doesn't get him.

For these reasons, I'm not a fan of staroba.

[fictionadventurer]

Beauty and the Beast for the WIP game?

My only real attempt at writing poetry before this year happened during a stretch when I tried to write a Beauty and the Beast retelling in verse. I got about two-thirds of the way through before it fizzled out and languished forever unfinished.

When it comes to my recent novel-in-verse obsession, the simplest option would be to take another look at this work and try to finish it. There's a lot of terrible poetry in there, but there are some that are somewhat better than I remember. I can't claim to be a judge of what's good poetry, but some of these are readable, so I'll share some of them here.

The first set of semi-readable poems covers the first meetings between Beauty and the Beast. (These are all numbered, and I'm leaving the numbers in place to better differentiate between separate poems. I think the speaker in most of these is fairly clear from context, but just in case, I'll put the speaker's name in the title, too.)

VI. beauty and beast

he is every nightmare i’ve ever forgotten he is thunder and darkness and death he is fear with fangs he is beastly

she is every dream i’ve never dared for she is roses and sunlight and life she is hope with jewels she is beauty

*

VIII. beauty

the chair creaks when he sits

my knees quake when he speaks

the master laughs when i ask

when i will die

my ears doubt when i hear

my mind reels when i realize

the master wonders when i began

to think he’d kill me

IX. beast

the rules are these you are mistress of this castle the servants will obey your every whim the rooms and all within are yours including me

you will dine with me at dusk we will not speak if you want silence you will look at me and try not to scream

i will not harm a hair of your head i will not cause a moment’s worry you will do whatever you wish except leave

X. beauty

his mercy shatters my world makes it bigger and at the same time smaller

how can i live in a monster’s cage

my life will be long and lonely with him my friend and at the same time jailer

how can i look at a monster’s face

the castle teems with wonders that all belong to him and at the same time me

what do i do with a monster’s love

*

The next set of poems I feel like sharing starts with Beauty finding a portrait in the castle, and then leads into her sharing a dance with Beast that makes her kind of freak out over the fact that she might be falling in love.

XXII. beast

today you found a painting in a long-forgotten room covered in cobwebs and shrouded in dust

there was a reason it was lost

the portrait showed a man with a face like the dawn and eyes like the sea you thought he looked kind

he was young and a fool

you may keep it if you wish or lock it back in darkness it matters not to me i used to see him daily

i doubt i’ll see his face again

*

XXIV. beauty (and beast)

if rooms have souls the ballroom is wise a radiant beauty long past her prime

she treasures the days when she lived and was loved she keeps them and counts them like pearls on a string

(she is not the only one, my dear)

long past midnight in moonlight and hush this sleepwalking girl can glimpse former days

a flash of a gown and a whisper of waltz what glorious balls must this room have beheld

(they were marvelous indeed, my friend)

it seems a shame she grows old alone with nothing but darkness and dust held within

i would dance for her return the spark of life if only we had music and i had a partner

(i will gladly dance with you, my love)

XXV. beast

my dear beauty don’t you know i learned dancing long ago

one step closer take my hand with a waltz you’ll understand

let the music guide your feet in a dance that’s slow and sweet

hand in hand and heart to heart it’s not love but it’s a start

XXVI. beauty

he is hulking beastly

i am small delicate

i should be stumbling crushed

but

we marvelously miraculously dance

and it feels like flying

XXVII. beauty (to the portrait)

man on the wall i may be mad but i must give voice to the storm in my heart and you are the only one near

the master puzzles me i know his home as well as my own but i know so little about him

(is he beast or man or nightmare or dream or captor or friend)

i saw his face and thought him a beast

(but he grows roses and reads poems and has never killed or even raised his voice)

i heard his voice and thought him a monster

(but he spared my life gave me his home and all he owned offered his heart and never once has been anything but gentle)

i watched him dance and thought him a man

(with grace like an angel or a prince and i think that maybe he was not always so lonely and that his heart aches for things lost)

what am i to think do say be feel about him now

and why do these questions always come at midnight

*

The final poem is one that I had completely forgotten about, so I was shocked to find it lurking in the latter sections of the document and showing signs of using some decent imagery. By polishing up the last couple of lines, I've got something that's not half bad as a standalone poem.

This one occurs during an extended period when Beauty is still trying to process her feelings toward Beast and figure out if this is really love or if her feelings are being warped by isolation and close proximity.

XXX. beauty

if this is love it is a dark and grasping love a child stumbling in the night crying for a candle flame and cherishing the smallest spark of light

if this is love it is a bleak and desolate love a skeleton tree in a barren desert windbeaten and scrubbed to bone and bursting into bloom at the first drop of rain

if this is love it is a smoke and mirrors love a sleight of hand or trick of light that takes my broken heart and fools me into thinking he can make it whole

[katyspersonal]

Regarding previous post about disco horse: I really appreciate that everyone is actually talking for once, but a kind of jab happened on my mental health so I have to step away. It isn't from this post, but the reason is sort of connected

Again, I personally find no problems with the DLC except for how Radahn ship came from nowhere and can justify how that comes. But regardless of how many things anyone else dislikes about the DLC: you are valid to hate it as much as you want, but when you start insulting people who loved/accepted/justified the DLC as "media illiterate fromsoft dickriders who keeps coping even after the honeymoon phase passed" and variation I draw the line. There are many ways where other fans can find reason where you didn't and there is potential in new lore that you won't use. Absurd how some people are still willing to support illusory narrative that Radahn Redditor simps are the "worst" part of the fandom when not even at their most arrogant and annoying they can dream to reach HALF of the toxicity cultish Miquella/Malenia fans have, over the awful crime of having different readings, opinions and priorities.

And yes, I know it is inevitable that Tumblr and Twitter fans WOULD make a moral/intellectual/maturity contest out of how people feel about the DLC (🤡🤡🤡), but it hurts when people I actually don't want to butt heads with who start to approve of this mentality. Like, okay cool. Wallow in your elitist toxic pool of Ledas while we, "pathetic dickriders" go and "cope" somewhere else, hope everyone is more comfortable this way 🤦‍���️ I am tired of getting hurt through endless passive aggression and I have my limits. It is just always hurtful to finally rip the bandage, even IF it is to the better. I need a hiatus for a longer time, albeit for a different reason now

[butterflysnowflake]

new Wolf thoughts just dropped

so something that occurred to me last night- in the wedding scene, after being unfrozen, Wolf offers a selfie with Lydia and Astrid and poses and everything, only to look a lil disappointed when they don't seem interested (and why would they be? Lydia was a Mario Bava stan and cop movies were probably the last thing she'd ever watch). The poster behind his desk in his office is very heavily implied to be the one from the movie he died making, based on the foreboding tagline, the suit he's wearing on it (same one he's wearing in the afterlife) and, as @one-fancy-flapjack pointed out, his pose showing the non-injured side of his face.

Going off the design style/fonts it's very likely from the 1980s, which puts his death date way before the existence of smartphones or even cell phones.

So the incredible implication I'm getting here is that 1. there wound up being in universe, a whole Frank Hardballer fandom, whether genuine or ironic, well into the 2010s, which makes sense! either people watched them on TV, were introduced to them by their parents, or had cult midnight movie sessions, 2. big enough that people coming into the Afterlife during the smartphones era ran into him with their skullphones or whatever the punny term for them there is and begged him for a selfie and 3. at some point, someone (probably Janet bless that patient woman's soul) had to explain the concept of a selfie to him for the first time.

and this old dork LOVES it and will offer one any chance he gets because he's nothing if not good to his fans. it's really sweet the fact he must have a decent ongoing fandom in the afterlife and the knowledge that even after he left the world of the living, people were enjoying his movies.

[six-white-venus]

What can you do when you hate every word that comes out of your mouth with a burning passion? When nothing you say ever feels right? When all of your words feel like lies, even though they’re not?

Because they’re not, right? …right?

[lord-squiggletits]

I was at a "making friends" kind of social event just this past week and ended up having two subsequent conversations with different people that gave me an interesting reflection on my own reasons for writing without me even intending to make the conversation about it.

First conversation: The person talked about the feeling of awe from being at a music concert and how incredible it is that so many complete strangers can be united by a singular love of music. I related to it with regards to my own writing and how many people have read my stuff. Ended up telling this guy about some of the AO3 comments I've gotten from people to the effect of helping motivate them to live/just reflect on life in general. Somehow went into a tangent about a suicidal friend of mine who died when we were in high school, and me saying that maybe the reason I write so much about the things I do is because of the influence his death had on me. And the other person ended up asking me, 'So do you think it's like every time you write, you're doing it in his memory in a way?'

Subsequent conversation was with someone who was a psychologist for a day job, and I ended up telling them that I was kind of thinking of getting a degree in psychology/therapy one day because writing about mental health issues had gotten me so interested in the world of helping people heal themselves. But then I was also like, "Well, I don't know, it could be that I don't need to become a psychologist to help people with mental health. Maybe helping people by being a writer and telling stories is enough."

It was just a surprising, but topical realization for me to have talking to a bunch of strangers. For someone like me who's often preoccupied with doing and having knowledge and expertise, I often fall into the idea that you need to be directly involved in helping people to really be making a difference. I've literally had thoughts in my mind along the lines of "I'm so smart, hardworking, and dedicated when it comes to writing, but wouldn't it have been so much more of a net gain to the world if I'd decided to be this passionate about something like being a doctor or activist that actually helps people?" It's not like I truly regret being a writer (or ever will, because there's nothing else that I love so much), but in my bad moments I truly do sometimes think "Why does it make a difference if I entertain people or make them feel nicer for a while if it doesn't actually change anything in the world?" To quote one of my favorite Transformers fics of all time, "There was nothing that would have been more worthwhile, but that didn't rule out the possibility that the whole damn universe was wasting its time."

I guess the answer is that making someone feel better, even in a small way, is changing the world, even if it's just a few people, and even if it's just as simple as making someone's day better.

[daughterofhecata]

.

[teddybeartoji]

at what point should one go and get tested for ocd...................

[menhera-jellyfish]

I wonder if it's just some kind of hyperfixation or is it my ocd or is it that I'm not a necro but I just sometimes like such stuff in fiction or am I actually a necrophile.

[mumbledramblings]

[Trigun OC]

I don't want to look at this anymore so I'm just gonna call it "done" for now.

Funny explanation/OC lore under cut:

Fun fact #1: Bad Luck is REALLY superstitious (I know; shocker)

Fun fact #2: Bad Luck is also from an isolationist community full of really superstitious extreme-sportsmen that I made up (they're storm-chasers, but I'm not going to get into that rn)

Ergo, the superstitions he subscribes to range from 'that's not a superstition, that's just common sense'-level, to 'that's just a variation of a common superstition'-level, to 'how the fuck did you come up with that one'-level.

Anyway, Bad Luck believes if someone touches your gun before you're about to use it, you'll fuck up your next shot.