#even if they are critiquing my fic

[erinwantstowrite]

every time i start panicking about the small details (like how i don't know near as much marvel lore as i do DC, etc) i remind myself that LoF wasn't supposed to get super popular and im just having fun and practicing writing for my own books and suddenly that anxiety goes away. like it's not gonna be perfect and it was born out of me and my friend being goofy

[dukeofthomas]

"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.

[lazylittledragon]

right now i'm very torn between "taking critique is important as an artist and it's not an attack on me personally" and "people commenting about my same face syndrome under my posts upsets me an unreasonable amount and i wish they would stop doing it"

[autisticrosewilson]

Um if you write Jason having to get drugs for Catherine I want you dead btw. Not only does it tell me you assume the average drug dealer would give the hard shit to a very small child and then not supervise them at all (classist stereotype that all drug dealers are inherently evil + lazy writing with no grasp on reality) and you genuinely think that Catherine was CONSTANTLY high, as if that's even possible without overdosing far sooner than she did. That's without even getting into the bad mom Catherine propaganda.

[altschmerzes]

omgggg shipping is not arophobic in the LEAST but keep making us look like whiners with no real problems by continuing to complain about it I guess

yeah that's definitely what i said in any post ever man great job

average person who has made shipping their entire identity will see a post where someone says 'hey please don't say these specific types of things that are degrading and cruel about nonromantic relationships while enjoying your ships and maybe examine the thought processes and beliefs and prejudices that led to saying them' and be like 'oh so you're a whiner with no real problems who thinks shipping is arophobic?'

telling on yourself there bud

[yuwuta]

i get critiquing plot holes and power differences/disadvantages and systemic things like sexism and sexualization/fetishization and racism in manga and stories in general, and i also understand loving your favorite character and wanting a certain outcome for them, but it's always a little bonkers to me that people geniuenly believe they could have come up with better endings or outcomes than the authors themselves... like i know people get attached to their favs and everything but manga and story telling is an artform and it's art that's created by a real life person who chooses to share their story with you there is no "better" ending that you could have come up with because you couldn't have come up with those characters in the first place! sure you think you could worm them around in better scenarios but even that is wishful thinking because you couldn't have, wouldn't have, and didn't come up with the world and scenes around them to navigate them in canon in the first place! idk i get wishful thinking and hopes and cracking jokes and fix-it fics and ships all that but sometimes i feel like people need to be humble and take a step back lol.... it's not your story and there's nothing for you to change, much less publicly scream about how the author fucked up just bc your favorite character didnt end up how you wanted them to.... and if u feel that strongly just like... do it in your own little online or irl community lol there's no need to scream on the internet every 3 months about how u think the mangaka who gave u the character u love so much is a piss poor artist

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

please exit your ableist harassment fandom right now

genuinely flabbergasted what fandom this could be about

[lilacs-in-space]

[catsushinyakajima]

Drew Keith from Voltron again, except it’s getting better

[hideyseek]

hmmm critiques and wishlist items for the writing of the spirealm below

i think one of the things that really frustrates me about the writing for the spirealm (aside from the way that the dialogue seems to have been written for a radio play and is therefore repetitive and often restates information already extremely clear to the viewer from the cinematography) is that it doesn't strike the specific "acting within a game" balance that i personally want as a person who studied computer programming

there's all this worldbuilding around the rules within a door and the behavior of npcs and what's needed to find the exit door and the key within each door. narratively, this consistently also involves some kind of heart-to-heart or demonstrated understanding of some core experience or emotional wound or backstory of the door ghost. but — in those confrontations, i wish that the show picked a side more.

either option 1 — following through what happened in door one with the snow village, where it turned out to be UNUSUAL for ljs to have a heart-to-heart, and he subverted whatever the normal door rules are in order to leave (we also aren't ever told this which weakens the thematic and narrative impact of his 'subversion' imo). or, option 2 — how games work irl, which is that there are certain key phrases to say to important characters, or key actions to do, that unlock further information and story progression.

as it is, to me, the spirealm toes an awkward line between these two options. the viewer is never given enough information about the true rules of each door to feel tension that the main characters will get into trouble (in fact we're basically told nothing about them beyond this sort of arbitrary "there is one taboo condition per door" which for some reason wasn't true in door 1 but has been true for all subsequent, more challenging doors). the final confrontations with each of the door ghosts seem to consistently follow a pattern of some heart-to-heart conversation but the conversations are written as though they are conversations held between two human people, rather than one human player and one npc who behaves according to specific rules and needs to be told a specific thing in order to react a certain way.

it's possible i'm missing something big behind the intention of the show, to be written this way, but for now i'm mostly frustrated. to be honest, to make the storytelling more effective, i would be really happy actually to see a show like this lean more heavily into pattern stories, or some of the techniques that work well in time loop stories, where main characters (or door travelers in this case) have to try different actions in the same scenarios to change things or get different results slowly after an accumulation of information and understanding of the situation.

[flownwrong]

expectations (a due south fic)

F/K, 1.5k words, additional tags: first kiss, stupid phone conversations, drama over a duffel bag

I'll tell you what I told ao3:

"My writing hit a wall a while back. To deal with it, I decided I'd write the only way I can now—short fic I can seat-of-my-pants in one day. A piece for each ship/fandom/idea where I have wips or thoughts that I can't make into actual works. This is the first one.

Thanks to @nigeltde-fic for dragging me down with this ship, and generally being a champion. <3”"

read on ao3

Maybe it really is a damn Groundhog Day type situation. Only twice as boring and nobody gets the girl, like, ever.

One thing he never pictured when he thought of the after-fraser-life, which he didn’t do very often, or, well, maybe he did, but he didn’t like doing it, point being—one thing he didn’t imagine was that it would be the same. As in, poof, never happened, must have daydreamed it, off you go, Stanley, play well with the boys.

And, well, it isn’t really a never-happened kinda deal, because Fraser, he just lives in a pocket in Ray’s head now, twenty-four-literal-seven, like friends do, you know, or something close. And what with Vecchio and Stella fucking off to Florida and Frannie doing her thing all while they were still doing the big adventure stuff, between all that it’s hard to not notice the change. But other than that—it’s the same job, the same desk (his desk, The Kowalski Desk), the same bottle in the cabinet above the sink and the same—the inside of his head is the same, too, giving him trouble like always.

The way they left things—if that’s even what happened, left things, huh—it’s not what he feared. Not what he expected, either—and it took him many, many frozen-through adrenaline-drunk days to put a finger on it, that there was an expectation. And now back here, it’s like one of those tip-of-the-tongue moments he’s so familiar with, only with that expectation; it circles him all predatory with every lonely shuffle around his dance-apartment-floor and every stupid late night reruns session and every finger of drink he takes with that, and then it wafts away on the wind, leaving him feeling like he missed a step and twisted his ankle. Which is kinda stupid, when you come to think of it, since it looks like all his worst-case scenarios solved themselves and left him with a cushy little offering while he was playing explorer, and wasn’t that what it was all about.

And maybe it wasn’t, because Fraser calls, like he does, which floors Ray a little every single time for reasons he can’t even begin to articulate, he calls on a Friday and brings him up to speed on Dief’s aversion to the nearest Tim Hortons (nearest being a few hours’ trip to Yellowknife) because quote he says it’s cheating and Chicago ones tasted better and frankly it’s insulting end quote and how you pay and pay and pay and how he fixed up the cabin now and the second bed is new and really much better than the one Ray had to deal with up there, he made sure of that (felled the best tree he could find, Ray wagers), and Ray finds himself nodding and humming and gripping the stupid station handset, knuckles gone white, biting his cheek, hell if he knows why, not like his smile could do any damage at this point. “There isn’t a waiting list for that bed, is there?” he says, no reservations worth stopping for. And, “no,” says Fraser, and there’s that expectation, clarion as you please, ten-four, roger that. “Greatness,” Ray says, and hangs up, and does a little shimmy he’s not even ashamed of.

And then Fraser doesn’t call for three weeks, in which Ray is very productive, managing to vent drunkenly at Turtle who looks so unimpressed Ray thinks he actually hears him sigh, pack the bag, unpack the bag, consider terminating the lease, call in with Welsh then come in anyway, chase the latest case into almost three whole days awake and get sent away by Welsh anyway once the Bonnie and Clyde of small-time food truck GTA are locked up, pick up the phone roughly thirty-seven times, put it down thirty-six, and that last time, Fraser picks up and calls out for him softly and he’s too much of a chicken to do it back. Where exactly they tripped in a dance Ray felt resonate in his bones, he can’t guess.

Week four, Fraser calls, only it’s Ray’s doorbell that rings this time, and he picks himself up faster than he would the phone.

“Fraser,” he says first, then swings the door open, “Frase,” gripping his wrists way too tight, “what in god’s name was that—scratch that, don’t say, one thing it was is not buddies.”

“I don’t see what you mean, Ray,” Fraser says, and it’s supposed to make him angry, this far in, only this time Fraser is wrapped up in a soft green-gray flannel instead of the red walking coffin and he has his beat-up bag and the stupid hat on, so even Ray can see through the reflex of it. Fraser tugs gently at him. “Ah, Ray, if you could just let me put my bag down—thank you kindly.’

“You do, Frase, I know you do.” He lets Fraser’s wrists go for half a second it takes for the bag to thud onto the floor—other side of the threshold, damn it—and not a moment longer. “Did you come to stand outside my home and bullshit me?”

“Yes. I mean, not for that, no, but yes, I forgot about—oh, darn,” he says and tugs one hand free to take his stetson off, which is how you know, if you’re Ray, things are afoot. Big things. Momentary events in history. So when Fraser steps one foot in and leans back against the doorjamb and pulls him near—with hands snaking under his arms to land just below his shoulder blades, one half of a hug not yet given, a freakish way only Fraser would go with, which fires Ray up instantly, heat flooding his face like a punch he has to close his eyes against—when that’s done, Ray can find his mouth blind he’s so ready.

“You’re off,” he mumbles, because Fraser is the one with eyes open and he still landed somewhere around where Ray’s lips turn into his cheek, and then only corrected half an inch down, catching the corner of his open-eager mouth.

Fraser presses a kiss there, with intent. “Not,” he says, and then, then he hits the bullseye, fucking A, bingo, job done, you get a sticker—or a mouthful of tongue, because that’s faster where they stand.

“Momentous,” Fraser says into Ray’s hair, some breathless minutes later, and Ray says, “wha—’ and Fraser says, “you said, or rather mouthed, something about momentary events, if my memory serves—well, it must, it’s only been three minutes. I suppose you meant momentous, given the context.”

“Jesus, Shakespeare, come the fuck in, what do I have to offer to get you both feet inside.”

Fraser straightens but doesn’t move an inch to displace Ray where he’s giving him the second half of a hug. “Well, Ray, I didn’t mean to stay, per se.”

Ray disentangles them and tugs at the lapels of Fraser’s really very soft shirt, whenever he’s grabbed those, huh. He blinks once, twice, and thinks about how many bottles he will have to get for that cabinet now, because fucking hell. The bastard didn’t even have the courtesy to rub at his eyebrow, so to him it all makes sense somehow. He looks down and frowns.

“What’s with the bag?”

When he looks back up, Fraser smiles, an honest to god I’m-back-in-ten-foot-snow-and-alive-again grin, eyes kind of superglued to Ray’s face. “Promised Dief to get some of those Chicago donuts, which are, apparently ‘the right kind’.”

Ray steps back, shoves at Fraser’s chest, no way-like, and folds in two with laughter. Fraser looks at him all affectionate, and the absurdity is so familiar it gives Ray a headrush. Or maybe that’s all the wheezing he's doing.

“A bag? A whole bag of donuts?”

Fraser gets this look where his eyes get all liquid and light, and now that Ray’s got the manual he knows that translates to scared and hopeful in downright unhealthy measures. “I didn’t count on being back to Chicago soon.”

Ray can feel he’s doing the superglue thing now, too.

Fraser clears his throat. “Oh dear. Unless—I didn’t mean to presume, it’s only that on the phone—”

Ray cuts him off in a voice that’s too rough to seize the reins of, so it will probably break in there somewhere but it’s all a-okay now, isn’t it—says, “You’ll have to get in here, Frase. I think I’ll want some pants with my donuts, and I’m now in the bag-unpacked phase—uh, anyway.”

He heads inside and hears Fraser shut the door and toe off his boots. 

So maybe there was no tripping after all. Just Fraser and his insane moves Ray always learns, dancing skills be damned. Good thing he isn’t Bill Murray—would be awkward to explain this to the girl.

[jaywhere]

was in the process of typing "sorry if this is bitchy" but like no, this is bitchy and i am not sorry, im having a bad night! being a reader does not make you a good editor or a good critic. like sure ur opinions are valid but random critiques from strangers are not helpful to me.

the types of concrit i have received unprompted in ao3 comments have been at their base: a reflection of a personal opinion on a fic trope or characterization, an inadvertant admission that the commenter is deeply unfamiliar with the topic or genre of the fic, or just a lack of reading comprehension. either bc the commenter didnt read the tags, didnt read the actual literal text of the fic, or dont know where the fic is going. if i want criticism i will ask one of my writer friends who is a good critic, like. i promise you are not helping me become a better writer and everything will be okay if you express the thought that is in your head to someone who is not me.

[spectascopes]

my brain can fit so many bad ideas inside of it

[suffarustuffaru]

i just. remembered again that i have a fembaru fic but also the premise is. Very Messed Up hah and also it was written before the canon genderbent au with its official genderbend names for everyone so its also outdated on top of that T^T i had like. Genderqueer subtext going on too. but i also wrote this fic like almost two years ago and havent touched it in forever so im unsure if i should go back to it…. o.o but i would love to finish it one day if only for my own satisfaction hah… i had a very detailed outline for ch 2 (its a twoshot) and several scenes written already anyway!! (and also i would probably update those names, make minor edits, etc etc hmm…)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

.

[personal and vaguely unnecessary whining underneath, just a bunch of undigisted and personal thoughts about my problems with Creation and Art that mostly just concern myself, but here they are anyway woooo!!!!]

feeling some kind of way about having to concede my artistic calling truly is in fanwork, but, yeah. all of my creative energy really tends towards fanwork, and like. not even the popular kind really, but the long, cerebral, pretentious kind of fanwork that is impossibly costly to produce yet comes with an inherently very limited audience at the end of the road. but every time I try to do something else, something "original", I get frustrated and I feel like I have nothing to say, or that what I have to say isn't really worth saying/that I'm only kind of doing this out of fear of being perceived as illegitimate rather than because of actual passion. I have original ideas, but I don't even really like most of them. it's weird, to have your inner creative fire being so intricately connected to something you will never have legal control over, something you can't really show off/take actual pride in, and something that is, by and large, decried as a waste of talent or time or proper artistic merit.

but yeah, it's the shape of my brain. it's what it is. I'm just not sure how to connect this reality to the rest of my creative/career frustrations. weird place to be, don't love that my brain chose to be like this honestly.

[strawbubbysugar]

Skipping an update for tomorrow bc I had a super long day- zucker got sucked into a gelatinous cube, etc etc, you get it