#even my work like i am on probably my fourth draft of this document and i'm still finding things i hate

[thefabelmans2022]

i'm too much of a perfectionist to have hobbies.

[mycenalucentipes]

A very short excerpt from a very long piece - Draco Malfoy x Reader (sample)

a/n: So I'm planning to write a much longer story, I have the beginning sorts drafted. Now I need to write it. I know this project will take me a very long time and that is okay. I am going to move at my own pace and probably won't post much more about it until I'm much further along. I'm documenting this here for my sake :)

It is going to be a Draco Malfoy x Reader piece. I'm so indecisive, but I think I finally went with Y/n coming from a well known wizard/witch family, just not one from London area. She's from Ireland!

I kept debating back and forth whether or not to make another Potter twin one, because I do very much like how those tend to play out.

But I've decided in the end, to go with my first idea haha.

I'm still working on other shorter oneshots and series in the mean time! Those will be uploaded here as I finish/edit them. Tbh I only have two others in the works. 'Ghosts' and some other little DM x Reader fic :) my writing schedule is sporadic, sorry lol. Inspiration will come and go

===========================

Today was the day that Y/n Réaltín would make her journey to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As she stood just outside the grand entrance of the Réaltín manor, she gazed at the beautiful coastline to her left. Dawn’s sunrise kissed the water, offering it a soft hue of pinks, oranges, and golds. Wisps of scattered clouds brushed the horizon with gentle shades of blush and apricot. To her right, there lie the tranquil rolling hills and the verdant valleys. The rays of sunlight gave the emerald green vegetation a soft, golden glow. The luscious grass swayed gently with the ocean breeze, glistening as the dew clung to the blades. 

Though she was born and raised in Loch Garman, Ireland, her parents insisted that she attend Hogwarts. For that was their alma mater. Her father was a cold and stern man of mystery and distance. However he wasn’t always this way. 

He used to be a vibrant, kind young wizard. Mr. Atlas Réaltín started his journey by attending the Erehnholl School of Witchcraft and Wizardry before his time at Hogwarts. He was a proud Spaniel of Erehnholl, but Slytherin claimed his allegiance at Hogwarts. Shortly after graduation, Atlas rose through the ranks of the Irish Ministry of magic quite quickly. He now works for the British Ministry of Magic as the head of the International magical Cooperation. A respected and powerful figure.

Y/n’s mother, Estelle Réaltín, was a proud Ravenclaw through all seven years of her education at Hogwarts. Although a muggle-born witch, Atlas, a pure-blood did not care in the slightest. She was the most wonderful person in Atlas’ and Y/n’s eyes. Every year during the crisp winter evenings, the entire Réaltín family would go stargazing in their family’s observatory. Mrs. Réaltín always said that winter evenings were the best time to see the Pleiades, which in Greek mythology were the seven daughters of the titan Atlas and the Oceanid Pleione. Her mother owned a little bookshop that was located near the Erehnoll school. Apart from managing a book shop, she was always deep into astrological studies. 

At the age of 11, Y/n’s world as she knew it shattered when her mother passed away. Her father, deeply depressed, buried himself deep into the responsibilities of his position. He was no longer the warm and loving man she once knew. Y/n never did find out why her mother died. Only that she never came back from work one day. Upon her mother’s passing, her father decided that she would transfer into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The original plan was to have her in Erenholl from first through fourth year, then in Hogwarts from fifth through seventh year.

Y/n often sought solace in the tranquil landscape that surrounded the cold and lonely manor. She would wander the coast and gaze out at the ocean with a somber expression. Or she would walk barefoot across the lush grass that blanketed the rolling hills. Y/n became lost in her thoughts. However, her trance was abruptly interrupted when her father harshly called her name, “Y/n! Quickly now, I don’t have all day to spend on sending you off to school now.” He stood at the middle of the steps, sighing impatiently as he waited. 

Sighing, Y/n picked up her briefcase and owl cage, then headed towards her father who was huffing something about how much work he’ll have waiting for him at the office. Mr. Réaltín held out his hand for his daughter to take it. Before she could even prepare herself, he apparated the both of them to Kings Cross Station located just at the edge of Central London. 

She looked around awestruck, just watching the various people rush by in a hurry to get to their next destination. “Come dear, I cannot take you through, as something urgent came up at work. Just head to Platform 9 ¾ and walk through the pillar, alright? Now I must hurry along, don’t be late to the train, love. You’ll have a great time at Hogwarts.” Before Y/n even got a chance to say a “goodbye” or an “I love you” her father had disappeared into the air. She let out a defeated sigh and wandered towards the platforms. 

“So…Platform 9 ¾. Now where the bloody hell is that?” She muttered to herself while walking up and down the platform. She approached platform 9 and then slowly approached platform 10. Her eyes scanned back and forth between the numbers, having not a clue what she was supposed to do. Where was she supposed to go? The time was nearing 10:50 am by now, so she had 10 minutes to figure out where to go, but there were no hints on how to get there. She knew that asking the guards would be absolutely useless. Time was beginning to run out as another five minutes passed. 

Y/n heaved a heavy sigh and began pacing around her luggage and owl. It wasn’t until she heard the hurried footsteps from what sounded like a large family approaching the area that she gained a spec of hope. 

“Percy first!” You saw a kind-faced woman with fiery red hair call out to what seemed to be six children. Whoa. Y/n shook her head from amusement and sprinted towards the lady. “Excuse me, madame, sorry for the intrusion, but I am a transfer student to Hogwarts this year, do I just-” Y/n spoke, sounding unsure of herself, but gestured towards the brick barrier, “walk through the wall?” 

“Oh hello deary, yes indeed. Just hurry through and don’t be scared! You can follow Fred and George here, they’ll show you the way from there.” She explained with a motherly tone, while looking back to the rest of the children. Y/n nodded her head in thanks and looked at the set of twins. She assumed that these two were Fred and George. 

“Hi there! I’m Fred Weasley!” Said the one on the left. “And I’m George Weasley! We’re in year four!” Chimed the one on the right. “Follow us!” They both happily exclaimed while running through the barrier

“I’m Y/n Réaltín! A second year!” Y/n yelled while following them through the bricks. She closed her eyes in anticipation of approaching the wall. In the blink of an eye, the three of them were standing in front of the Hogwarts Express in all of its beauty. 

“Oh! You’re the Réaltín girl?” Inquire one of the twins as the other looked at you for a brief second. “-Interesting, you don’t look much like a girl.” The other one shrugged and chuckled. Suddenly a loud THWACK was heard as their mother came up from behind them, smacking them in the back of the head. 

“You two! That wasn’t very polite of you!” Mrs. Weasley scolded them while pointing her finger back and forth at them, “now board the train! It leaves in a- wait where are Ron and Harry?” And with that she was onto worrying about her other child. Fred and George looked at each other and then to you, sighed, then shrugged. “Well, let’s get on board. Ready Réaltín girl?” 

Y/n had such a bewildered look on her face, not quite sure what just happened. “Y-yes, I suppose so.” She quietly followed after Fred and George, still not really sure who they were, but they seemed to have heard of her before. It was most likely due to her father being the head of one of the departments in the Ministry of Magic. Y/n silently followed the two of them, not really sure of where to go again. She felt like a lost puppy just hoping for some guidance. So she opted to continue following the twins, as they hadn’t shooed her away. 

“You can sit with us if you’d like to. We’re just looking for our friend Lee!” One of the twins said quite loudly without turning around. Y/n still had no idea who was who, but she decided that was a problem for later. As they walked down the train, Y/n peeked in on various compartments full of students of all ages. However, one student in particular caught her attention when he shoved past the three of them. “Damn Weasleys, out of my way,” scoffed a platinum blonde haired boy as he briskly walked by, making sure to bump his shoulder into both of the twins on his way by. 

“Oh well, excuse us, daddy’s boy,” Fred said with sarcastic amusement. George burst out laughing as the blonde gave a sneer back at them, mocking what Fred said. “That’s Draco Malfoy,” one of them leaned over to Y/n’s ear to loudly whisper. 

Not too long after, they found the compartment their friend was sitting in. “Lee! Look who we brought. A Réaltín!” The twin to the left of Y/n announced with excitement. She still had no idea why it was such a big deal. 

tbc...

[tuiyla]

undefined

Nearly a week ago I published a gifset I’m really proud of and am happy has resonated with people. I started working on it on New Years Eve, just before going off to my end of year celebrations and worked every day towards that January 12 goal even as life got busy because I felt like this was the most fitting tribute I could give on a birthday that Naya herself sadly never got to see. While putting the pieces together, I thought it’d be interesting to document at least a slice of the process that took so long.

This video you see now is on times 64 speed so you can imagine how long some of these segments took in reality. By my calculation this is little over 4 hours of footage but the actual thing took about 3-4 times as much. It’s hard to say, really, but I will share that I listened to the audiobook of Naya’s autobiography while making this set, and could have probably done so twice or three times. The most important thing isn’t time, of course, I just wanted to share that piece of information, too.

In particular because listening to Naya talk about her life while trying to encapsulate some of it in the form of gifs was strangely yet understandably cathartic. I’ve listened to bits and pieces of the book before, when else if not in 2020 but I wanted to “save” the whole thing for later. Save it for what, people often asked me when I told them. The right time, I suppose. And sometimes, those right times just click, as was the case here. I couldn’t have chosen a better time to immerse myself in the book and Naya’s voice and a whole life being contained in so little. Though that second gif of her early career is not featured in the footage as that was the one I started with, I will say that I knew this was the only way to do this when giffing The Royal Family as she recalled her experience on set. Giffing this particular tribute and listening to the book, these two could only come hand in hand and how fitting it is that they did.

Anyway, the point of this post is really just to share, as a sort of fun fact and also as further catharsis, the behind the scenes of one of my most important sets. When I originally thought of the idea and envisioned the layout of her credits, I thought, nah, too complicated. But a voice in my head said that it was doable, that it deserved to be done and I’m glad I listened because even though you can’t capture the essence of a life, even a tragically short one in a gifset, I’m glad to have created this tribute. I have more thoughts on this set, as well as a first draft version of the very first one I started working on. And thoughts like the TV sets changing to reflect the passing of time or the attention to detail I tried to pay to every role, every small aspect. How the Glee gif especially just clicked. How the second gif background is her first TV interview and the fourth is, in a way, her last. But, I suppose, that’s enough yapping for now and I can always just come back to this later. For now, be safe and be cool.

P.S.: sound on maybe

[scribefindegil]

Writing thoughts below the cut for organizing/externalizing purposes:

The Broccoli Small Gods Fic:

Pros: closest to being complete; I am allowed to be as earnest as I want; Important emotionally so unlikely to lose motivation

Cons: Important emotionally so I want it to be Good; need to decide what tense the dang thing is in; stressed about successfully getting The Point across

To Do: get all the bits into one document. Figure out which scenes you need that aren't written yet. Figure out the tense thing. Trace the big three Thematic Words and see if there are any gaps. Cry probably.

IT IS OKAY IF: it still takes a while; not everyone gets it; the prose is a little wobbly or overwrought.

THE POINT IS: holding the catharsis in my hands like a ball of light and feeling like I explained what it meant to me

The Post-Mogami Fic:

Pros: genuinely have a draft of Most Of This; Important emotionally; I am allowed to be as earnest as I want; not being able to finish before the show ended means I have better characterization since I know the ends of everyone's arcs

Cons: Important emotionally so I want it to be Good; feel like it might be controversial (so I have to work harder to make my point clear)

To Do: organize the draft I do have, write the Dimple section, figure out the middle (bullet-point outline with Themes is okay!!); remember that the themes of gentleness apply to you too

IT IS OKAY IF: the prose doesn't feel the way it does in your head; it still takes a while; not everyone gets it

THE POINT IS: HOLDING THE CATHARSIS IN MY HANDS LIKE A BALL OF LIGHT. THE TRANSCENDENCE OF THE RETURN. THE LOVE THE LOVE THE LOVE. the gentleness of being loved when you're recovering. the narrative that's already there

The Emergency Contact Fic:

Pros: aiming for more show-accurate style so it gets to be fun and silly! The prologue works as a standalone so you can focus on that! You love your plot ideas and your weird ensemble!

Cons: aiming for more show-accurate style which is SCARY! Even the prologue is long which is also scary! Lots to keep in your head! (Scary)

To Do: TRUST YOUR BETA WHO LOVES YOU AND KNOWS YOU ARE CURSED. Send a thing even if it's rough. Cover it in annotations about the parts you don't know how to write. Let it ramble instead of choking yourself trying to keep things compact. Also do a Real Outline in Excel with scene breakdowns. You know it will help.

IT IS OKAY IF: it takes a long time. (There will still be people who want to read it and you will be happy to have written it.) The writing is not as funny as you would like it to be or some of the characterization isn't perfect. (Snadge is funnier than you and will help. Also you will get better as you practice)

THE POINT IS: having fun! Literally that is the only point of this one!

A Secret Fourth Thing (various other ideas):

IT IS OKAY IF: most or all of these are just daydreams. you have no moral obligation to finish a fic, even if you really like the idea. It is also okay to be wildly self-indulgent. this is fanfiction for crying out loud. work on the ekurei disability fic with an audience of You; it is literally fine.

THE POINT IS: to have a good time with these characters that you love! To give your sad cursed brain something to play with even if you are just lying in bed thinking about it very slowly. escapism is a powerful force.

[kurodachimagic]

Chocolate and Cherries - Chapter 1

Summary: When Adachi falls into the arms of a kind stranger his life changes for the better.

Rating: Pg 13

Tags/warnings: Fluff, getting together, au, Writer Adachi, Chef Kurosawa.

Word count: 6.2k

A/n: This story was written for the cherry magic mini bang! Thank you @hiwatari-art for inviting me to join! Had a lovely time working with you as always. Thank you to my other artist over on twitter guacagabs. The entire story is being posted right now. Thank you to @schnaf for being a great friend and beta!

Read on ao3

Adachi dragged his feet on the pavement as he made his way home from work. He was already too exhausted to start his writing day with the best mindset but it would have to do. He’d already skipped four days this week and if he didn’t actually sit down to work on his book, it would never be published. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head slightly.

The situation was not ideal by any means, he was not great at cooking and it was already too late to start dinner, but he definitely needed to eat something or his mind would absolutely quit on him, he knew that much.

Adachi knew he should probably get something healthier but he refused to waste even more time walking to the store, so he decided to stop by the food cart near his flat for his usual emergency menu: two tuna onigiris with mayo - along with a can of soda in the hopes that the caffeine would boost his creativity. He was not too happy about it, but he didn’t have much time to contemplate his choice because as soon as he had paid, the first few droplets of water hit his shoulders. Looking up, he felt the next few drops hit his nose and his forehead. He cursed inwardly and simply took off awkwardly running the last few blocks home, trying his best not to slip and fall, his dress shoes nothing but a hazard in this particular situation.

The building door was so close, he could see it through the pouring rain; just a few meters and he would be home. Adachi rushed, his hand extended already to grab at the door handle when his body collided with something - someone - and fell backwards. It was as if time had slowed down; he could see the face of the person he ran into frozen in shock, his eyes widening as he saw Adachi falling, while Adachi could only think about the pain this would cause him, physical, yes, but mostly emotional. He always managed to get himself in embarrassing situations and now -

His neighbour extended his hand just in time to catch Adachi’s and pulled him upright effortlessly, his expression switching from shock to a relieved smile. “Are you ok? I’m so sorry, I hadn’t seen you.”

“Thank you! I’m so sorry,” Adachi said, feeling the heat rise to his face, partly because of his clumsiness and partly because his neighbour had not let go of him yet. In fact, Adachi could have sworn that the guy was rubbing his thumb on the back of his hand. He didn’t know what to do, so he tried again. “Uh, sorry. I should’ve been more careful.”

“It’s ok, I’m glad that you didn’t get hurt.” The man seemed to suddenly remember they were standing in the pouring rain and pulled Adachi to the door. “Come, you’ll catch a cold in this weather.”

No matter how hard he thought, Adachi couldn't remember ever catching his name but he had seen this man before in the elevator and in some of the common areas. He seemed to be a bit of a recluse, much like himself.

The man opened the door and finally let go of his hand before ushering him in. “After you, Adachi.”

Adachi’s eyes widened; he didn't know how the man knew his name, but he didn’t mention it. He walked inside and called the elevator, followed closely by his saviour. Once the doors opened, he stepped in and turned around, pressing the button for the fifth floor and finally facing the man. "Thank you, again…" he trailed off.

"Kurosawa. My name is Kurosawa." He pressed the fourth-floor button.

Adachi smiled and bowed to him. "It was nice seeing you, Kurosawa. Have a good night."

The elevator dinged and Kurosawa bowed with a smile before exiting. “Good night, Adachi,” he waved.

Adachi hesitantly waved back as the elevator doors closed. Before he knew it he was one floor up, opening the door to his flat, throwing his work bag on the sofa and taking his wet clothes off with a groan before going to the bathroom.

What a day. Not only had he stayed late to finish on that project Urabe had handed to him but he also made himself look like a fool in front of his very cool neighbour, and to add insult to injury now he needed a hot shower to hopefully avoid catching a cold. He shook his head and hopped under the stream, washing himself thoroughly and letting the hot stream relax his muscles.

Feeling in a bit of a better mood, Adachi got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel and went about getting into a comfy set of pyjamas. He finally sat at his desk and opened the white doc of doom, checking the time and cursing as he realized it was 9 pm already. He slouched in his chair, throwing his head back with a groan. This book was going to take a million years at this rate, he really needed to prioritize his schedule, put on some good hours into it each day, especially during the weekend, he needed to -

Adachi’s stomach growled loudly, reminding him that his emergency dinner laid abandoned in its bag. He got up and stomped over to the sofa, unwrapping the onigiris and eating them without so much as a thought before returning to his spot. He promptly sat down to continue with the daily task of staring at the document while he begged his brain to type something - anything - out. But his mind had other plans though, Kurosawa’s face and gentle smile kept popping in his mind. Maybe it was because of the way he moved, how he had kept him from falling with his sharp reflexes, or maybe it was how elegant he looked even when he was soaking wet, how well his suit fitted him. Kurosawa was like some sort of superhero, or… no, he was more like a Prince Charming from an epic battle world. That was a start - it was not the murder mystery he had thought about, but it was definitely a start.

The sound of Adachi’s footsteps worked like a metronome, helping his mind settle into a rhythm. He was starting to see things in more detail: The brave prince paced in his castle, his sword close by his side, the problems his kingdom was facing were almost too much to bear and with his father on the brink of death, it was all on him. A shadow appeared above the citadel - the… the… ‘kingdom x’ was being attacked by a three-headed dragon. How would he fix this and save his people? Had someone sent the dragon or did it act with free will? Did the soon-to-be king have secret magic powers? Maybe they were a secret even to himself!

With renewed energy and excitement, Adachi sat down to work. This new world just wanted to be written, to become a reality, and he was not going to stop it. Aided by the occasional sip of soda and a few “stretching breaks” that were more like actual pacing, he managed to draft four thousand words by 5 am, effectively breaking his 3 thousand word record from just a few months ago. If he could keep up the pace he could finish the book within the next month and send it to Tsuge for editing and review. He sent a quick text to his friend to tell him the good news and got into bed; he would probably regret staying up so late tomorrow, but now he didn’t have it in him to care. Writing was definitely his call - even if he was very close to missing his goal of being a published author by 30.

---

The commute to work was nothing short of hell. The morning started with Adachi missing his usual train and having to take the next one during rush hour - not that he ever managed to avoid rush hour, but he usually took the first train during it so it wasn’t as crazy as later in the morning. This resulted in him having a very unpleasant ride, squeezed half to death between the sea of people, feeling like a canned sardine with a bad case of insomnia. That was the other issue, the previous writing night ended up being a success but even though he’d been exhausted by the time he was done, it had been impossible to fall asleep. Now he was on his way to a long workday with a pounding headache and a sour mood. If given the opportunity, Adachi would’ve chosen to take the day off to sleep and feel refreshed enough by sundown to continue writing.

His job was definitely a necessary evil, but sometimes he couldn’t help but resent it. On the verge of thirty, Adachi spent most of his day at the office, writing his reports, Urabe’s reports, and occasionally picking up the slack of some of his colleagues. There was barely any time for hobbies or relaxing and least of all to be an aspiring writer. To be completely honest, Adachi had started viewing his day job as his second career in the past year. His heart and soul were focused on his new goal, what he really wanted. In the end, if writing didn’t become his main income, it wouldn’t matter, he was passionate enough about it to continue no matter what. After all, living in the fantasy worlds he created was more than enough for him.

Adachi made it to his desk just on time, but running those last few blocks only served to make his mood even sourer. He pulled at the collar of his shirt with a small huff, still thinking about his writing and leaned back in his chair until it touched Urabe’s shoulder, startling him.

He turned around swiftly, blush already rising to his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Senpai.”

Urabe nodded and waved him off. Then, he cocked his head and looked at Adachi in more detail. “What is going on with you, Adachi? You look tired.”

“I just had trouble sleeping last night, that’s all,” Adachi said with a heavy sigh. He could picture so many things he would rather do than give explanations about his personal life, but he would feel too guilty if he was rude to Urabe when he was only worried about him.

“Hmm, are you sure that’s all?”

“Yes. I’m ok.” He attempted his best smile. “Thank you for asking.”

“Adachi,” Urabe pouted, his brows burrowed into a childish frown, just like every time he would ask Adachi to take on more work, any semblance of concern already gone out the window. “Can you finish this report for tomorrow? The boss is really piling stuff on my shoulders and I already had other plans for today.”

Sometimes Adachi wished he was a bad person, or a bad colleague even, but he couldn’t help taking on the extra work when it was needed, after all, he didn’t have much of a life. He rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh, wait. Is your birthday today or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you’re turning 30, right?”

Adachi nodded once again, hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible; he didn’t want to be reminded of the passage of time or how much he hadn’t achieved by now.

Urabe rolled his chair closer and elbowed him. “Aaah, you sly weasel. Do you have a date?”

“Of course not. I’m just looking forward to getting home and sleeping.” That was literally his birthday plan.

Urabe frowned and gave him a quizzical look. “But you have... ‘dated’ before, right?” He winked.

Adachi shook his head slightly and saw the same look many people gave him, a mix of pity and judgement.

“You should ask one of the girls out. I’ve heard Yui is single and she’s very pretty!”

Adachi slowly turned his chair towards the copy machine and saw Yui across the room. She was, in fact, very pretty, but… she didn’t spark anything in him. She looked like a work of art, pleasant to look at, but not for him. “No, I don’t think that would work.”

“Adachi, if you don’t date someone by the time you turn 30, you will turn into a wizard!” He whispered.

“What? That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s true, you’ll see!”

Adachi rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk, finally starting on the reports needed. The sooner he was done with that, the sooner he could return to his writing.

--

The elevator opened its doors for Adachi and the ding that followed made his muscles relax instantly. Only a few more minutes and he would be up in his flat, taking his shoes off and cooking something quick before sitting down to write. He felt inspired by the beginning of this new story and he wasn’t about to let a bad day at work ruin that for him.

Just as the doors started to close, someone put a bag between them to keep them open. The first thing Adachi saw was a girl with a cute and gentle look, a black wispy fringe framing her face and a sweet smile. She nodded at Adachi and he smiled and nodded back. He wondered if he would ever date a girl like her, if sharing his life with a partner and doing things together would be so different than what he did now. The answer was probably not, since he assumed nobody would be supportive of him working all day and writing all night; if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really have time for a relationship, even if he sometimes yearned for a bit of company - theoretically. Adachi blinked repeatedly, suddenly crashing back into reality when he saw the looming presence of Kurosawa behind her, giving him a weird look he couldn’t quite place as he ushered the girl into the elevator.

Out of sheer awkwardness, Adachi nodded and mumbled a quiet hello at him, looking away as a blush crept onto his cheeks. Was that Kurosawa’s girlfriend? He groaned and let his head fall back against the elevator wall. He’d been caught staring at his neighbour’s girlfriend like a creep. He ventured a sideways glance and realized Kurosawa was still looking at him with a weird expression.

Thankfully, the ride was short and only a minute later, Adachi was home, barely paying any attention to his basic needs as per usual. He made some instant ramen and added a bit of egg to it before eating it mindlessly, daydreaming of his new story and the magic system involved.

Perhaps it was quickly becoming a much more ambitious project than he had anticipated but as long as the writing flowed, everything would be ok. What was supposed to be a long writing session soon turned into an early night after Adachi’s brain decided to shut down mid-sentence, putting him to sleep sitting at his desk, his head hanging down and his spine hunched over.

[drivingsideways]

In your experience, how much can a fic really improve after a shitty first draft? I can never just make myself keep writing without editing because I always think: the better the first draft, the better the final product :(

Hi! 

First a disclaimer: I am not the best editor! I hate it! When the first draft is done,  my impulse is to get “rid” of the story as fast as I can; I often feel emotionally done with the fic before I’m actually done with fixing it, even at like, basic proof- reading level. And that’s something I’m trying to fix as a writing process, but I don’t always succeed. The luxury of fanfic writing is that it’s so low stakes that you can do this, and feel only a mild pinch of conscience. 

Anyway, trufax: I don’t have the kind of patience that @rain-hat has for revisions. And I can see the difference in the quality of the fic! So this is why I’m trying to internalize and nurture within myself some discipline and patience.  

So this “first draft only has to exist” rule is really something I currently use when I’m feeling particularly stuck. Which happens a lot, especially when writing long fics, or feeling that my fic is getting out of hand. (As I write this, I’m side-eyeing my current WIP where I really want to write just That One Scene, but I’m finding myself writing 5k words of back story to get there.) 

Anyways!  I think the point of first drafts- they are allowed to be shitty. Second, I don’t think first drafts are actually first drafts in the sense that they’re not just top of the head, no filter brain to paper/ word doc writing! It’s just the first version of the story where it’s completed in the most basic sense, but within it lies many “drafts” that you’ve discarded along the way. 

Ok, so first, the different ways in which first drafts are shitty. There are so many. 

There’s the kind where at some point you realize that ohhh, a key plot point is resting on something totally unworkable/ untenable even within the universe of your fic, forget “real life.”  This is probably something you should fix straight up, as you write, because otherwise you end up with a lot of rewriting and midnight cursing.

Then there’s the kind where  you’ve got midway or even three-fourths through your initial plan, and  it feels patchy and incoherent- maybe you aren’t hitting the right emotional notes in sections or you’ve bogged yourself down in subplots that felt necessary when you started, but now JUST WON’T WRAP UP. This is the kind of thing where I think it’s super useful to remember that you can fix it later. Give the story some time to rest with you, and sometimes, writing ahead actually clarifies what it was that wasn’t working before. Enjoy going down the rabbit hole with whatever silly subplot or character is demanding your attention. Once it’s done, literally cut that section out into another document or something and let it sit there! Then come back. You’re a fic writer! There’s no deadline! Nobody outside of you ever even needs to read these parts where you reveal your obsession with idk, wine prices in 18th century NY, or whatever. It can be fixed!

There’s the kind of shitty where the sentences just sit there like ungainly rocks on a hill and you’re frantically looking up synonyms for “said”. Adjacent is the kind of shitty where you’ve been swinging between tenses like a trapeze artist within the same sentence. This is the kind of thing I’d say you can fix relatively stress free- even if you cringe a lot as you go through the edit. Thank god your English teacher won’t ever see this kind of thing.  I’m REALLY bad at this kind of fixing though, so if I can bamboozle kind souls into beta reading for me, then I do so pretty shamelessly. But wow, it’s amazing just how much, idk, just neat punctuation and fewer adverbs will improve the readability of the fic dramatically.  If you don’t have a beta reader- I think it’s great to take a few days off entirely from the fic, until you’ve more or less forgotten what you wrote. Fresh set of eyes- even your own- can help this part a LOT! 

So the other thing I mentioned- the first draft isn’t actually “first”. 

I’m also a fan of editing as I go along, or going back to a previous section to tweak things. Sometimes I write a chapter, and then wake up the next morning and think, well, that wasn’t great, and I’m not able to move on until I fix it. So then I do that, and the "first draft” version may more or less be this “second” version.  And y’know, I know some fic writers who will draft and redraft each paragraph as they go along because they can’t get to the next section in their heads until they do that. And that’s fine, if that’s working for you! But for me, what happens is that I run out of patience, and then stress myself out, which makes the “imperfect” section have even less of a chance of being fixed. 

So this is where non linear writing helps me, as a trick, to move the story along while also keeping me mentally in a good place re: the story. In my most recent fic, I actually wrote the end and then went back to the beginning. Which was a very, very weird thing to do, even for me--but after the prologue, that I’d written first, I just wasn’t able to make the introductory chapter work. Just staring at blank pages and feeling a rising panic. Because I was in that obsessive stage with the fic, y’know, when you’re thinking about it constantly , but the problem was I wasn’t thinking about the chapter I was supposed to write, it was the chapter I wanted to write. So that’s what I did! 

 And I think this trick works if your story isn’t very plot heavy; or it is, but you do have a good and detailed plot outline done. That way, you don’t mess up too much in terms of continuity and so on.  Sometimes I find that just making chapter headings clear my head out A LOT. Also then I can do the - ok, you have 3 chapters to go ONLY. (Lies, this will become 5, but still.) Anyway, having some kind of progress bar does help a lot! 

Ok, this is extremely long and somewhat rambly. I hope it’s encouraging! 

Last thing: it’s fine if you trash the first draft and start all over. (Ok, don’t REALLY trash it, keep it there. You’ll find some of it would be useful!)  Anyways, lots of pro authors say that their first draft and the final version are completely different- so you know, sometimes that does happen. Maybe the right thing to do IS trash it, and approach the story or the characters from a different perspective. It’ll be hard to do, and you need to allow yourself space and time to mourn the bits you’re trashing (the grief is REAL!) but at the end of the day, you’ll free yourself to write the better version of the story! 

Ok, really shutting up now. :D

Take care and best of luck with your writing projects!

[pundergrad]

Guys I. I've had a revelation tonight.

All my group essay team members put their work in the google doc and I had a read through most of it. And I. I don't know the emotion that I'm feeling. It's somewhere between humour and sadness.

The revelation is that I can just. Not care so much about school, apparently.

I'm in my fourth year of uni and I wish I was as carefree as my team members seem to be. Maybe this is a class they don't mind bludging, and they're only doing it to complete course requirements. But this essay is worth 40% of our grade so I thought maybe they'd bring some kinda Big Game to the table, y'know?

The quality of half of their paragraphs was... Not what I expected of third-year uni students. One person, who I will refer to as Shakespeare, had around 30% of their work written as direct quotes, and I couldn't tell where the description of research ended and analytic thought began. Another person, henceforth Bart Simpson, has basically written the same sentence about 25 times, all in slightly different ways, extremely vague, had missed so many citations, and hadn't connected the majority of points made across their paragraphs. The introduction could have easily been written last, because the person responsible for it, hereto-forth known as Skimp, was the last to upload their sections, and there were no references in the intro, so it would have been easy to make a bunch of vague statements about what would be mentioned in the body of the essay. But no. Instead Skimp wrote an intro that contradicts many of the points made in other sections of the essay, a lot of which is not followed up on in the body, and they haven't given even a single source for the definition they were tasked with.

I swear I must have collected 30 sources for my sections, dug deep into the digital libraries for original sources wherever possible, and tried so many variations of how to arrange my statements to create the smoothest flow - which is difficult when my sections would be so far apart in the final draft, but I tried. I tried to cover a broad range of topics as concisely as possible. I at least made an effort to use synonyms.

Shakespeare said at least 4 different things were crucial to understanding the topic. I get that it's easy to reuse words when the goal is to write 1700-ish, but William. Buddy. Thesaurus.com is right there. I'm pretty sure Shakespeare didn't fill their part of the word count, they must've been about 250 words short.

Meanwhile there was Bart Simpson, beginning and ending all their paragraphs with basically the same phrase, and filling out the paragraphs with 'the studies say this... But this isn't always true' and then not providing evidence for this contradiction, all the while leaving out citations and forgetting to finish half of their sentences. They got almost 1200 words out of this technique, with maybe 13 sources in total, one of which was the textbook for the class which is. Not a primary source. And they cited the author of the textbook as a researcher for the ideas that were mentioned, instead of the three very specific theorists these ideas came from during the second week of class. There's no way that'll fly when it comes to judging the extent of our research!

Finally, after the three of us have tried checking over each other's paragraphs, making edits, desperately trying to find clarity and extra words because we're still under even after I exceeded my word count goal, Skimp rolls into the doc. By this point, Shakespeare and I have finalised our sections, and proofread/edited each others work because that's what was agreed. Bart Simpson and Skimp were meant to proofread and edit for each other. If we had time, we'd go over the whole thing and try to make it coherent.

Skimp struts into the group document and starts reading from the beginning. Keep in mind, I had to take on the role of editing and proofreading Bart Simpson's work. So as the realisation dawns on me that, when Bart Simpson reported to the professor that our group was doing Really Well and we were On Track for the Deadline - filling me with dread because I felt like I hadn't written a thing of worth - they were really saying I Don't Care If This Essay Flops, 'at least we wrote words', etc. But then.

Then Skimp starts editing from the beginning of the essay. Making edits to Shakespeare and my sections, which had been finalised. Filling up our email boxes with tens of Suggestions, instead of leaving Comments. Following up on comments that I had already made with further Suggestions that repeated what I'd commented about. My phone is buzzing every five minutes with Suggestions. Anyone who's used Google Docs knows that Suggestions clog up the body of text with incoherent blue text. I am drowning in a sea of blue Suggestions.

By now I've finished editing Bart Simpson's work for Skimp. The comments I left asking for citations are half followed up on, half ignored. I still don't know whether they edited the unfinished sentences, but a promise was made to do so. Bart Simpson has decided to collate everyone's work even though they won't be available tomorrow for final revision, so I left it up to them to fulfil their part of the editing.

Skimp finally finishes giving Suggestions on the whole essay. Despite the chat history for this group, Skimp only now realises that my and Shakespeare's sections had been finalised, and that their Suggestions probably won't be involved in the final draft. Skimp approves their own work for the final draft and sends their sections to Bart Simpson, who - if their responses I'm the group chat are anything to go by - I can only assume is fed up from my relatively excessive editing and comments, and also from the delay in the finalisation process. Bart makes a promise that they'll be at work for all of Submission Day, so the three of us will be responsible for the final product. Sure. Work is a commitment. We were behind schedule. That's a reasonable outcome. But this was coming from someone who copied a dot-pointed list from the source into the essay and forgot to cite it as a direct quote, which would have put us all at risk of plagiarism.

I haven't read the rest of Skimp's sections. Frankly, I dread the potential plagiarism charges that we'll get from directly quoting so much content. We are barely scraping the minimum word count. This essay doesn't make a lick of sense.

Maybe there's reasons for this. I don't know what my team members' lives are like. They could be Going Through It right now.

But they gave me the impression they were 100% on board, in sync, and on task for this essay. I thought I was the one falling off the horse, with how badly my executive dysfunction hit when faced with such a massive assignment. I thought I was a Science Student in a group of Social Studies Geniuses. I haven't felt this responsible for a group project since seventh grade.

I can't believe I put off two other projects for this, and got an extension for another. I'm tired.

[irene-sadler]

Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

aka ‘The Tournament’

so it turns out medieval tax law is insanely complicated and even a small amount of side reading on it takes forever. if someone else is for some weird reason interested in knights' fees and some of the problems they caused my source material is this chapter in a very lectury 1895 book which goes into detail about English feudal government income in general. this is probably not the most recent scholarship on the subject and i would not try to use it as a source in a paper but I did not feel like battling with JSTOR's shitty search engine just to research a short color plot in my goofy thronebreaker fanfic. anyway welcome to part 2 of our non-adventure, enjoy (or don't, i am not a beggar.)

---

4. 

   A week later, Meve had nearly forgotten about the looming duel. She alighted from her horse in the castle courtyard and was instantly handed a report: in Dravograd there was a disagreement between the human and dwarf smithing guilds, which might soon lead to violence. The Queen turned out her favorite knight to solve the distant problem and settled into days of debate over an ongoing issue at home. The trouble, she learned, was that some of her barons had too many knights, overfilling the quota on which the crown drew an annual tax, and paid more than they preferred or could afford. Meanwhile, others had too few, with the result that the realm burdened them less. The latter outnumbered the former by a mathematically considerable amount, so that the crown’s entitlement had fallen short of the expected amount for the year; a new law was required, and had been drafted. However, the batch of them were incapable of finalizing the text of the proposed rule, especially where it concerned the amounts to be payable, and had come to a hopeless standstill in her absence. In the resulting confusion of numbers and obstruction, she only had reason to recall the tournament and its aftermath because a servant brought an unexpected letter to her office.

    She eyed the scrawled writing on the front, was informed that it had been delivered to the kitchen by a sullen-looking speechless brigand, shrugged, and left it, unopened, for Reynard. He found it some days later, when he returned from his mission.

    “Gascon doesn’t ever write,” he remarked, frowning suspiciously at the Duke’s name on the envelope, and cut it open it cautiously. He tipped it out over Meve’s desk, but it contained nothing dangerous, only a short note on dirty old paper, written in what appeared to be charcoal.

    “I presumed it was about your duel,” Meve explained, “Is it?”

    “Not - not as such,” he replied, after reading it over a second time; a baffled frown was on his face. “Says he’s departed on a quest, of all things, not to worry about him, will return when he’s finished, or else when Sir Holt gets around to fighting, whichever happens first.”

    Meve took the note out of his hand and stared at the offending word in disbelief.

    “A quest? Has he lost his mind? This isn’t a bard’s tale; he has a fief to manage, and -”

    “It’s getting on to winter, luckily,” Reynard interrupted in his most reasonable tone, “So, there’s not much managing for him to do, just now.”

    “Unless there’s a fire, or a war, or bandits,” Meve snapped, gripping the flimsy paper hard.

    “Well, you’ve made two of those possibilities rather unlikely, at the moment,” the Count said; he took the letter away and added as Meve instantly crossed her arms, “I agree; this is a ridiculous notion. However, he does appear to have had the foresight to choose a sensible time of year to have it, which is more responsible than usual. For him, I mean.”

    “He might’ve said something, instead of simply vanishing,” she complained, feeling that she was losing ground in the argument by remaining silent.

    “-and,” Reynard continued, as if she hadn’t, “He can’t have gone very far, else he’d have no way of knowing when this duel is to take place. If, indeed, it ever will.”

    Meve brightened slightly and said, “In that case, you should find it simple enough to hunt him down again.”

    “I’ll do it if you wish, of course, but will you hear my advice, first?”

    “I usually do, I suppose.”

    “I think you should just leave it be, for the time being; he’ll return in due time and patience will answer far better than action, to speed the process.”        

    “Were he anyone else, I’d have him arrested,” Meve said, the glare staying put on her face but her shoulders relaxing slightly in defeat.

    “I know that, but in truth, I believe we’ll have our stray dog back soon enough,” Reynard said gently, “All we have to do is wait.”

      Patience, instead of action, was not how Meve preferred to operate, but she did her best to do as Reynard suggested, aided considerably by the ongoing distraction of the tax problem. Intelligence crossed her desk, in relation to the knights’ fees and otherwise; no report contained information on the missing Duke, but one included a rumor that briefly distracted even her from her main priority: an informant ended his confidential message on the exact details of her northern vassals’ taxable estates on a strange note.

    “Says here an unknown knight’s rumored to be in th’ area of Hawkesburn,” she said to Reynard, after a glance around to ensure they were alone in the room. “Apparently he wears black armor and jousted with all comers who crossed his path, for two days, defeated three knights, and then, on losing to a fourth, vanished again and hasn’t been seen since.”      

    “How tiresome,” Reynard replied; she laughed at his stuffily disapproving tone and, as it was difficult to collect fees on the armored head of an unverified rumor, forgot about it. She was, after all, quite busy, cooking up a scheme to end the fee stalemate before it brought the court to a complete halt or, worse, came to blows. She set her accountants and clerks to work and soon delivered a new proposal to the court, a plan that settled the matter in a way that heavily profited the crown at the barons’ considerable expense; the document was of course rejected out of hand. She then threatened a royal command, and was pleased to find that all but the most belligerent of her vassals suddenly favored the original, far more equitable proposal that had been drawn up in the first place.

    Meanwhile, the end of autumn passed by; the last of the dull brown leaves on the trees blew away in a windstorm and the branches stood bare against the sky. Reliable reports of a werewolf near the northern border were followed, as Reynard was preparing a force to investigate, by further news that the beast had been dealt with by a black knight. The last holdout against the final version of the new tax law suddenly became perfectly amenable to the proposal, after a personal visit from Count Odo, armed with a sword and a bluntly phrased reminder of the baron’s failure to support the Queen during the war. A somewhat embarrassed young knight of Meve’s court turned up, with a believable, unembellished tale in which a stranger in black armor jousted against him on a bridge and knocked him off into the icy creek below. That same day, the new tax law was finally signed by unanimous consent of the court. The weather settled into its usual, predictable early winter pattern - two days of rain, two of sun, one of icy grayness, followed again by rain.

    Then, during the afternoon on one of the rainy days, a traveler arrived in court - a familiar man, dressed in mismatched chainmail and leather armor, and bearing a message from Sir Holt of the Fen. Meve happened to be in the armory, considering a new crossbow that could fire two bolts on a single load; he was shown in, followed immediately by Reynard. The sergeant broke off his explanation of the crossbow’s double trigger system, raised an alarmed eyebrow at the Count’s dark expression, and promptly invited himself out; the messenger seemed to feel similarly about the situation and wasted no time making his speech:

    “My master asks for your assistance, Your Grace; he was - “ the messenger paused, frowning uncertainly, produced a paper with writing on both sides, and read from it, squinting nearsightedly, “ - he was, I quote, assailed at night at an isolated crossroads, by a knight errant well armed in black armor who spake not; there they did fight a mighty battle for hours -”

    “Skip to th’ end, sir,” the Queen said, casually picking a sword from a rack; the messenger glanced at it, quickly flipped the paper over, and summarized the rest:

    “ - anyway, he was struck down by the stranger, following which the black knight disappeared into the darkness, as if by an enchantment, and - well, in short, he requests that you send an appropriate force to apprehend the villain. Also, he wishes to inform my lord the Count that he is prepared to do battle with the same, at the Count’s convenience.”

    “About damn time,” the Count growled under his breath.

    “To clarify,” the Queen said, a slightly malicious gleam in her eye, “Sir Holt, after challenging the best out of all my knights to a personal combat, wants me to send him along to fight off a brigand that he is unable to defeat, himself.”

    “That’s about the size of it, my lady,” the messenger said, absently folding his paper into a square and looking carefully blank. She eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what role, exactly, he filled in Sir Holt’s retinue; the question was irrelevant, and so she set it aside for later consideration.

    “I see. Well, Count Odo, what say you?”

    “I am at your command, as always, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.

    “Very well; we’ll depart for Sir Holt’s lands tomorrow morning,” she decided, idly studying the sword she held. “I believe I’d like to meet this mysterious knight for myself; my court sorceress will solve any enchantments, and there will be nowhere for him to hide.”

      The messenger bowed his way out; Meve waited a good half minute for him to be well out of earshot and then stepped across to a large map tacked to the armory wall. She considered the north of the country and noted, casually, “Gascon’s estates and Sir Holt’s aren’t so far apart; they’re neighbors, in fact.”

    “Oh?”

    “Well,” she said, turning back with the sword pointed toward Reynard, “I know of only one anonymous knight errant in black armor in my kingdom, and I certainly have not been riding about the country in the middle of the night, fighting with passing strangers and killing occasional monsters. At least, not recently.”

    “No, I daresay I would have noticed, if you were,” Reynard allowed with a fond smile. “So, then, who do you suspect?”

    “I don’t know, yet,” Meve said, looking down the length of the blade at him. “It just seems odd that the place where I fought incognito is so near to where a similarly attired knight is now causing trouble. I take issue, sir, with some stranger stealing my disguise and ruining the reputation I forged in it.”

    “Or,” he suggested, eyes narrowing, “Perhaps what’s happened is that Sir Holt, not making any connection between the black knight of the tournament and the similar knight at Hawkesburn, heard the same story we did about the latter and invented this tale of his defeat, to draw me out to the countryside and thereby avoid fighting me on home ground.”

    “Ah,” she said, lowering the sword. “Yes, I suppose that’s a plausible theory. I can send someone else out, if you’d prefer.”

    Her heart lurched suddenly as a slight, dangerous smile crossed his face. She set the sword down absently, said, “No, I didn’t think you would,” and abandoned consideration of far-away knights, black or red, in favor of the much more interesting example she had immediately to hand.

      The next morning dawned clear and the weather remained dry; Reynard’s picked company needed little encouragement to take full advantage. The General was in an uncommon hurry, it was plain to see, and so they traveled until late each night with only short breaks. During their third, bitterly cold, evening, a scout came down the column toward his commander and reported, “Seen an armed horseman not far up the way.”

    “A highwayman,” the Count suggested; the Queen, overhearing them, said, “Or the black knight.”

    The scout shook his head.

    “Not likely a knight, my lady, nor no bandit neither, sir, I figure, but I’ll wager he waits for passerby, whatever.”

    “It’s just th’ one man,” the Count said, shrugging; nevertheless the column continued somewhat more slowly, with eyes kept to the dark trees around and arrows on their bowstrings. They reached the turn in the road that the scout indicated and paused; the stranger was still there, sitting his horse in the moonlight under a dark hood, apparently waiting. The Queen and Count both leaned forward to squint suspiciously at the oddly familiar figure, and several of the warband as well; the Count then pulled an exasperated frown and sat up suddenly in his saddle.

    “Oh, for the love of -”

    “Stand down,” Meve ordered, cutting Reynard off, “We know this fellow.”

    The stranger laughed, pulled his hood down, and bowed grandly toward his audience. Meve kicked her horse into motion as Reynard said, irritably, “Nice of you to rejoin society, Brossard.”

    “Couldn’t miss your duel, could I?” the Duke replied, brightly; the knight had no time to reply as Meve approached, turned her horse, grabbed the Duke’s stirrup, and yanked upwards, tipping him off the opposite side of his alarmed mount. He hit the road with a grunt and immediately sprang upright, surprised and angry, caught sight of the grim expression on the Queen’s face, and mastered himself with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. She said nothing and rode away; the column followed, leaving Reynard behind.

    “Well,” the Duke said, after the last of the warband passed on, “I suppose my unhorsing was long overdue.”

    The Count shook his head disapprovingly, recaptured Gascon’s mare, and waited for the other man to clamber, wincing, back into the saddle.

    “Nice to see you, too,” Gascon added, settling himself and picking dead leaves off his jacket. “Ouch.”

    “Hmm,” Reynard replied doubtfully, releasing the horse.

    “Yes, quite, and no more need be said on the subject. Anyway, I rode out t’ invite you and your company to stay at my place. My other place, I mean; the lodge, not the fort, which is inconveniently located for our, um, purposes. It’s about an hour’s ride from here,” he added, in response to the knight’s unspoken question. “I stationed a man partway, to direct you; I myself ought t’ ride on ahead and ensure all’s prepared. Under the circumstances, if you’d kindly relay th’ invitation to your lady love for me, I’d be much obliged.”

    “Yes,” Reynard agreed, “That’s probably th’ only good idea you’ve had all month.”

    “Well, you know what they say about clocks,” Gascon said, cheerfully enough. “Or is it th’ one about blind squirrels? Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

    He galloped off; Reynard sighed and hurried to catch up with the column.

      Half an hour later, at a fork in the road, they found Ethan waiting; the squire awkwardly led the warband through the dark woods, attempting to look anywhere except at its silent leader. They arrived just before midnight at a building which resembled a typical hunting lodge in the same way that Rivia Castle resembled the Brossard fort. Meve displayed no particular interest in the vast exterior, built out of the crumbling remains of an elven fortress, or the several hundred hunting trophies mixed with long since out of fashion furnishings that filled the drafty rooms within it. As they entered, Reynard said quietly to her, “Reminds me of my grandfather, this place,” which dragged a slight smile through her tense displeasure; nevertheless she stayed stubbornly silent until they were out of sight and hearing of anyone else but the uncharacteristically courteous Gascon.

    “This house is like that menagerie Foltest keeps in Vizima,” she finally remarked, studying a white bearskin rug with the snarling head still attached, “Except that th’ animals are mostly still alive there, of course.”

    “I haven’t had the time to redecorate,” Gascon ventured with the air of a man testing the waters. “In truth, this is only the second time I’ve ever been here, myself. My mother never wanted t’ come here when I was young; said it was creepy.”

    “She wasn’t entirely wrong,” Meve said, glancing around at the strange shadows the animal heads threw on the walls in the firelight. Reynard shrugged unconcernedly and put an arm around her. A slightly awkward silence fell.

    “Would you like to see a camelopard’s head?” Gascon asked, breaking it; Meve looked interested, instead of icily distant, and he pointed the rare trophy out, just over the fireplace in company with a few other preserved monsters. They sat and regarded it for a moment.

    “That,” Reynard stated flatly, “Is a horse’s head with spots painted on it.”

    “It was quite a fine horse, however,” Meve said with an amused smile, her bad mood forgotten.

    “And they’re well-painted spots,” Gascon replied, grinning.

    By morning, the incident on the road the night before had been forgotten, by unspoken mutual consent. Meve and Reynard passed an hour of the morning in an argument over their next move; Gascon, meanwhile, conveniently vanished to negotiate with the enemy camp. Eventually the disagreement was resolved by some cunning diplomacy on Meve’s part; she and Isbel then departed to investigate the mystery of the black knight, leaving Reynard behind to await his second’s return.

    Rain had set in; they rode through cold drizzle, accompanied by a miserable escort. Isbel considered the dripping soldiers and the sparse, leafless scrub trees that dominated the roadside and finally said, “If the black knight, so-called, can vanish, perhaps by enchantment, as you suggested when you dragged me along on this excursion, it isn’t by light of day, and certainly not into these woods.”

    “I know that,” Meve said.

    “Then what, may I ask, is the point of this?”

    “Why, the fresh air and exercise,” she replied. Silence returned after, for a time, and then the sorceress, in a tone of deep disgust, said, “You’re hoping to find this person before Sir Reynard does, aren’t you?”

    “Well - all right; we’ve something of a wager going, on that ring I won in the tourney, and the next of us to win a fight will also win the prize. He, of course, is expecting this duel any day now, so the sooner I find the black knight, the better, as there’s not much chance he’ll lose it.”

    The sorceress sighed, cast a despairing look skyward, and noted, “The black knight perhaps does not exist, or may not be found in these parts.”

    “Yes, that’s Reynard’s theory,” Meve said, casually, “But I disagree.”

      They returned that evening empty-handed and damp, to find Reynard in a state of abject boredom. His gloom was only slightly lessened by Meve’s return and her lack of success; noticing the depressed atmosphere, she attempted to engage him in a chat about the weather, and then, when the conversation failed, talked aimlessly at him about the latest advancements in crossbow design. Gascon returned as night was falling, long after she’d stopped trying to shift his mood and had resigned herself to examining the hunting trophies in the melancholy silence.

    “We’ve chosen the field,” he said, “I just went to have a look, as it’s not all that far away. It looks decent; not too many holes in it, and I don’t think it’ll be flooded from all this rain.”

    “When?” Reynard asked, testily.

    “Tomorrow evening,” said Gascon, “And I should warn you that th’ opposition’s clearly intending to use the sunset to his advantage, should the weather clear, but then, perhaps it won’t.”

    Meve glanced out the nearest window; the rain had turned spotty after dark, and she could see stars through patches in the clouds at the western horizon. She frowned and left the men to an involved discussion of the field’s layout; neither of them appeared to notice her departure. She found Isbel studying the camelopard head with a dubious frown. The sorceress kept up the expression as she explained the latest development and only said, wearily, “These men,” in response.

    “I thought,” Meve said, idly, “That, perhaps, you’re right about the black knight.”

    “Oh?”

    “Yes; he certainly shouldn’t vanish very well, by day, at least; we really ought to be hunting for him at night, instead.”

    “In this weather?”

    “Well, it’s inconvenient, to be sure, and would make fighting him much more difficult, and I suppose that any advantage is worth th’ effort,” Meve said significantly, eying the older woman. Isbel considered the statement a moment.

    “Is Sir Reynard in any significant danger?” she asked, pointedly.

    “Doubtful,” Meve replied, waving the idea off as it if was impossible; hadn’t even crossed her mind; “This isn’t that serious of a matter. He may be injured, I suppose, but not killed - not on purpose, at least, and he’s been a knight too long for an accident to be likely.”

    “Well then, perhaps I might leave early,” Isbel suggested, looking unconvinced.

    “The fight’s tomorrow evening,” Meve noted, apparently ignoring the request, “Do you think that the weather will hold, or clear?”

    “I don’t know,” Isbel answered, reluctantly. “It’s hard to tell, so far in advance, at this time of year; I suppose it may not.”

    “As you say,” Meve said, flashed her victorious smile, and added, “Travel safely; we’ll see you at home.”

[anthropologicalhands]

Ellie’s Works in Progress

Last year, writing was very intensely difficult. Blame the pandemic, stress, or just a natural consequence of my skills not keeping up with my expectations--no matter how I think about it, that whole experience just felt awful.

So it’s good to see such a shift for this year already. January was a wonderfully productive writing month, in so many ways. Getting back into YYH has really been good for inspiration, and I have all kinds of stories I’m excited to explore.

In addition, I’m ready to branch out and try different writing techniques when approaching stories, to see if I can find some new tools to add to my kit.  I also want to develop a good writing habit and keep myself accountable, and that includes setting deadlines and other things to hopefully see these fics all the way through. I’ve started using a word/work tracking document to catch word counts on different projects, through it isn’t as convenient for shorter oneshots, and I’m going to give writing posts like this a go and see if they help. 

Ongoing Projects

Yusuke asking Hiei why he trusts Kurama - ready for revision (might need rewrite) In canon, between the Four Saint Beasts Arc and Rescue Yukina Arc, where Yusuke wants to know why Hiei forgave Kurama’s betrayal. I’ve already written a draft, but not sure if I feel very confident with the characters’ voices because this was the first thing I wrote for them.

Hiei meets Youko Kurama in the woods during the Dark Tournament - ready for revision Youko Kurama isn’t really a character as such in the series, but given how Hiei reacts to the idea that Kurama has transformed back to full power, I thought it might be fun to see what a discussion between them would look like, because while I think Hiei likes the idea of Youko Kurama, I don’t think he really would like the actual manifestation all that much. Keiko and the King of Makai - ready for revision A widowed Keiko has a meeting with the King of Makai (aka Yusuke), twenty-some years after the series ends. I wrote it entirely in chronological order, instead of my usual jumping around between interesting scenes and then writing connective tissues. A friend is reading it through right now, and I’m really excited to hear her comments. I don’t know, it feels like a very me fic. The many dates of Kuwabara Kazuma - ready for revision  This one is just going to be fun! Kuwabara decides that the best thing he can do to be a man is to try and get over Yukina and date like a normal person. And, poor guy, it doesn’t go so well. I got some great notes back, so I need to do some revisions to make it meatier. Internally, I’m weeping a little bit, because it’s probably going to expand at least another 1000 words, but the story will be better for it. Kurama stays as a guest at Mukuro’s fortress - currently writing It makes me so sad that there isn’t much fic where Kurama and Mukuro just talk. Even outside of the Hiei question, I think they could potentially have such interesting conversations with each other. I’m approaching the main climatic scenes - I can already see how this fic is shaping up differently from my expectations, but not too drastically. Plus, Mukuro’s voice is very fun. It is, however, going to be twice as long as my original predicted word count. Hiei questions Kurama’s choice to stay in Ningenkai - currently writing A sectioned/fragmented fic about Hiei interrogating Kurama about the mundane aspects of Kurama’s human life, and how he starts to understand what Kurama likes about this world.    Keiko turns into a demon AU - brainstorming  Inspired by two utterly gorgeous fanarts. After one harrowing post-canon adventure, Keiko becomes a demon and everyone deals with it. Boyband AU - brainstorming This is my comfort AU - it is so cracky and goofy and ridiculous and based on a kdrama so I need to figure out what changes if the setting is Japan, but I love it so much. Besides, YYH has always been such a boy band anime, so I think it’s only fair. I have no idea if this one will ever see the light of day, but I love it so.  Soulmate AU - brainstorming, starting to write. Because why not. This is under the premise that humans have soulmate marks, but demons don’t. Given how many characters end up straddling the border of demon and human in one way or another, I just want to explore how that works even further. The Mystery of Minamino Shuuichi - outlining A third-party POV fic that rapidly got out of control. This one will actually have chapters (gasp!) and therefore needs some planning to even begin to have a chance to make it. I’m actually going to try a long-form outlining technique I found via twitter. I’m really interested to see if it will work with my own habits. At the very least, I love that this outlining style might give way to try writing more beautifully/skillfully, which is something I desperately want to try. 4th Makai Tournament Fic - nascent brainstorming A post-canon romp as all the YYH characters gather together nine years post-finale at the fourth Makai Tournament, and all kinds of stuff ensures. This fic is still very, very unformed in some ways, because I originally wrote a few short ficlet pieces and then realized that they were all part of the same canon and actually, probably part of the main story. Depending on how the outlining works out for the mystery story, I think I’ll also try that technique here, because I am terrible at plotting for chapters and need any help I can get!

On Hold

Telepathy AU - ready for revision One day, I will revise this fic and get it out into the world. Maybe not this month, but next month.

Writing Goals

Some stuff has come up in my personal life that makes me hesitant to put any February due dates on any of these fics, though I really hope that will be possible for some of the drafts I’m currently revising. Instead, I’m going to just push through to move along as many of these stories as I can and reassess at the end of the month.

[bubmyg]

wonder - jjk

pairing: jeongguk x reader 

genre/warnings: pool boy/waiter/kind-of-baker/first-aid-extraordinaire/aspiring singer!jeongguk(ft. cherry!guk), writer/journalist!reader, the CHEESIEST fluff, tiny amounts of angst, a bad attempt at original poetry, there is a tiny blood mention

word count: 14,906

summary: romance novels lie about finding some deep epiphany in the ocean because you find your inspiration in some chlorine tainted red locks or where jeongguk isn’t smooth with a pool net. 

a/n: this is. the longest fic i’ve ever written. also the longest i’ve ever worked on a fic (...a month ajfdks) and im really proud of it :-( i hope u like it :-( 

There’s a certain breaking point for an advice columnist, one that isn’t supposed to come three years into the job and over a handwritten letter from a nine year old who has just had her dream of becoming a vet shattered by this sudden discovery that she, in fact, passes out when she sees any type of blood. Or if that breaking point comes, the draft of the response isn’t supposed to make it past an unsaved document, (Dreams are a scam, anyway. Learn that.) scrapped and used as emotional support to formulate the real answer.

There’s a nine year old little girl who rushes to the paper for a week after sending her letter, hoping to find some sort of solace in the advice column she finds fascinating, generally filled with advice on things she doesn’t have the capacity to understand: cheating husbands, the capitalist nature of the makeup industry, why “business casual” isn’t a reward for women, and taxes. She’s memorized her opening line enough to have her heart racing into her throat when she catches sight of it on its usual page, her letter transcribed and italicized just above the tiny portrait of the columnist and the bold font that would be her response.

Her mother finds her sobbing on her bed fifteen minutes after she called for her to come to dinner and consoles her enough to acknowledge that being a Disney princess is just as good of an aspiration as a vet, not before writing a strongly worded letter addressed to the editor of the paper and canceling the family’s subscription.

There’s a different document you should have scrapped completely, the sixty-seventh page of your never ending novel, never ending in the sense that it would never end because you were going to give up on everything with the exception of the column for the next day: an obscure sex toy shop escapade that isn’t fit for the nine year old and her canceled subscription in the first place.

You’d been glaring at the grainy lines across your monitor, ones that cut through the middle of the words on the sixty-sixth page, when Hoseok’s figure glided past the glass wall of your office to enter without knocking.

He cleared his throat and you turned slowly from the monitor, as if your gradual spiral cascading to a head had brought an end to your cordiality as well. There was a paper in his hand, the day prior’s edition, ink thick on the outside where a picture of a local elementary school’s service project was displayed. He opened it silently, turning to a page, your page, outlined heavily in red ink pen.

The gold links of Hoseok’s watch reflected off your monitor as the paper smacked and slid its way across your desk, forcing you to wince for two separate reasons.

“I’m sorry—”

Hoseok withdrew his latter hand from the pocket of his black slack and your fingers itched to close out of your novel but his gaze was steady on the blinking cursor next to a piece of grammar you’d fiddled with six separate times.

“Any progress?” You blinked at him and he jerked his head in the direction of your desktop, black fringe parting against his eyelashes so his dark eyes dropped a deeper shade of black.

There was a raw spot ready for you on the inside of your cheek and the taste of stale metallic flooded your tongue. Your legs unfurled from where they’d been folded up underneath you in your desk chair, gaze sweeping to the wilting ficus underneath your desk, “Not exactly…”

Papers fluttered together and you caught sight of the dogeared letter from the little girl as Hoseok brushed a bare spot on the corner of your desk to take a seat. There was a smiling cartoon character patterned to the surface of his short-sleeved button up and it’s smiling muzzle appeared to mirror that flit of an upturn on the edge of Hoseok’s dimpled lips. The subtle cock of his chin was anything but of praise, sympathy more so bleeding out the strict in his dark irises as he sighed.

“I understand this job and this column are not your first love,” He mirrored the snarky response that swallowed on the back of your tongue, “Hell, this probably isn’t even your third or fourth love.”

“But I do expect you to uphold a certain level of professionalism in your column. I’ve never had an issue with you in the past. In fact, I nearly stopped looking over your submissions before sending things to print,” Hoseok leaned forward, elbow on his thigh, chin on curled, ring clad knuckles, “However, as of recent…”

“It won’t happen again, Hoseok. I swear, I was just—”

You quieted when his fingers curled outward from underneath his chin. “...this was not the first column as of recent that hasn’t exactly been up to par.”

Quieter, barely a breath, you nodded, “I’m sorry.”

Hoseok’s index finger straightened, leaning from his lips to press into the side of your monitor, tapping his nail against the screen, “I know how much this means to you. I know how little progress comes when inspiration comes. I know that inspiration doesn’t just strike when we ask it to. I get it, I really do.”

“...and I think some time away from here, from this place, from your column, would do you wonders.”

There was something defensive in your next inquiry, “What are you saying?”

“I’m giving you the summer off—” His finger wagged in your direction when you choked, “—no I’m making you take the summer off.”

“The whole—”

“Two months. Away from here, as in, I’m sending you to the coast for two months. Beach house, all to yourself, all-expense paid. Except for your food, I know you like—”

You squinted at him, “What?”

“Namjoon,” Hoseok provided and you tensed at the name of his friend, a high-powered executive at a publishing company you’d failed three times over to score an internship at, “He really understands the plight you’re going through. It’s his house.”

“There has to be a catch.”

“Yes, I’m giving Jimin your column while you’re gone.”

You grit your teeth at the mention of Hoseok’s blonde headed assistant and Hoseok chuckled at the reaction he desired, “I’m kidding. I mean, I am giving him your paper space. But, Namjoon said, providing that you make some sort of sizable progress on your manuscript, he’ll review it.”

“What?”

“You’re my friend. He’s my friend,” He plucked your turtle shaped paper weight into his palm, tracing it with the same index finger, “I want the best for you and I want my employee’s to be working at their utmost capacity. Namjoon can never have too many clients—” He made eye contact with you when he set the turtle down, “—and he probably owes me some sort of favor.”

Your gaze wandered out the window, eyeing a taxi as it sped away from the curb and forced its way into the flow of traffic. “All because I told a nine year old that Disney princesses’ aren’t real, huh?”

“No,” Hoseok’s hand covered one of yours, patting gently, “Because you’re better than this version of you. And I miss her, frankly. Old you used to bring me coffee in the mornings, so—”

“That’s when I was in Park Jimin’s position.”

“Jealous?”

“No,” Your jaw clenched but the smile on your lips was tiny and genuine regardless, “Thank you, Hobi.”

He hummed, pushing himself up off your desk to trail around toward the door, “Put your novel away, you have two months at the beach to work on that. Submit tomorrow’s column and then get your ass out of here. You have a flight to pack for.”

You weren’t sure if it were the wet tropical air that clung to your hair follicles or the grains of sand already wedged underneath the platform of your sandal but stepping off the plane gave you at least the vague sense that your inspiration was back. You itched for the keys on your laptop, letters worn and granules of salt from potato chips lodged in between, the space bar with two glossed circles from the unconscious tap of the side of your thumbs.

But the device was lodged in your backpack which was lodged between your shoulder blades as you tried to balance the lopsided baggage while maneuvering the cheap wheels of your suitcase over cobblestone sidewalks.

The keypad granted you entry when you’d barely pressed down on the last number of the combination you were given and your suitcase thanked you when sand rippled stepping stones became smooth, white tile. You nudged the luggage aside, dropping your backpack from your shoulders in the process of the long exhale you released from tense muscles, sand splaying messily over sleek flooring as you peeled your sandals from your ankles.

The house was open concept, white tile outlined in golden, sand like consistency, flooring that disappeared from the entryway to the wide room in the middle and down a short hallway that pointed into a wide, sliding glass door. Stainless steel appliances encased by black cabinets and white marble countertops, blue accent pieces and a fruit bowl filled with plastic treats completed the kitchen while compact leather furniture in the same hues boxed in a towering entertainment center on the opposite end of the room.

Your bare feet welcomed the shag grey rug that resided under the living room furniture, carrying you toward the various DVDs peeking out of the glass case underneath the TV. Nature documents sandwiched a singular copy of The Notebook, the cover worn and tattered underneath plastic from being parted so many times.

He’ll like her then and your fingertips twitched at your thighs in search of your laptop keys.

You turned a collection of faux grapes in your palms, pressing into the waxy material, eyes squinted for the typed letter lodged underneath the wire basket.

Welcome! I trust that you’ll find your accommodations satisfactory for a few months, yes? I’m eagerly awaiting your progress, Hoseok speaks very highly of you and your skills. Happy writing!

Underneath was a bulleted list of contact numbers and a FAQOTH (Frequently Asked Questions of the House), trash days, the number of the nearest pizza delivery, the code to the shed outside that contained noodles and an inflatable flamingo for the pool. It was skimming that provided you with that information and your brain short circuited on the mention of a pool, abandoning memorization in favor of your bare feet scuffing across the warmed concrete of the pool deck.

If the pesky sand rubbing raw at the arches of your feet or the palm trees you’d spotted out the windows of the plane weren’t enough to immerse you in the mindset, the clear blue of chlorine tainted water twitched at your knuckles just a fraction more, especially as engulfed by a privacy fence and vining vegetation cut neatly through the rungs of thick white.

Your stomach argued for lunch from one of the pizza places Namjoon had suggested and your heaping luggage argued for organizing the white wicker drawers in your bedroom but your gut said your laptop and your swimsuit. You were pressed onto a candy-striped towel in a lounge chair with the sun trickling at the sweat on your hairline before any other option could out weight, your clothes half strewn in the entryway of the house where you’d dug for the spandex material but forgotten as you furiously hacked away at editing your outline.

You bolded the newest addition to your outline inside your outline, the one that held all the tropes you wished to tackle in the sensical nonsensical manner that was a novel centered around the beauty of clichés. If other authors avoided clichés at all cost, the adverse relationship of shoving any and all that you could correlate between the confines of two plastic ends and a spine could produce a similar effect, pique the interest if marketed as the cliché of all clichés, work against and for itself between worlds of bubblegum high school romance and stale mint flavored coworkers, strangers, and enemies to lovers.

 Besides, eliminating stereotypes within clichés counted for something in itself. A commentary on something much larger, at least, you liked to think it was.

SEND THEM TO A BEACH HOUSE appeared directly beneath THE SPAGHETTI SCENE FROM LADY AND THE TRAMP BUT WITH EXCESS CHEESE FROM A PIECE OF PIZZA and the giddiness from typing it out had you overloading the software with how quickly you switched documents to your outline outline, swiping your index finger until the setting appeared and you deleted it in one long, blue highlight.

You thought back to the young adult romance you’d read in high school that had taken place in a beachside town, then to the very same romantic thriller you adored as an adult, to the whimsical short story you’d written in an undergraduate, elective creative writing class, to the first time you’d dug your toes into slightly damp sand and let the soothe of the waves lap at your ankles and the fall of your eyelids to be as dark as the never ending water disappearing over the horizon.

Nothing is more cliché than a beachside town, you thought and spoke the words all the same, shoulders hunching over your keyboard as you clacked the same sentence across the screen and quickly deleted it to amend more specifically. It was the most you’d typed, switched tabs for research, and had the curled feeling of anticipation for what would flow from your fingers in the last year and you briefly wondered if Namjoon had pumped something into the seashell shaped air fresheners stuck in every outlet in the house.

Your trusty search engine provided little response for “beachside towns with little to no tourism” and you instead found yourself typing in the name of the city you’d directed your cab to from the airport, a homage to the sudden rush of inspiration. More details flowed than necessary but you allowed them in the haze of humidity and sun, the name and country and zip code following out next to the bolded location bullet point until your cursor dropped down to the third line and you cut yourself on the words Sunny Drive, where the speed limit signs end in threes?

You cracked your knuckles first, then your toes, then rolled your ankle to pop it, too, crooked fingers still sat on the middle row of the keyboard, asdf-jkl;, tapping in tune with the hum that slipped through your sealed lips.

The high top of a golf cart cruised over the links of the white fence encasing you in your writing utopia, the whir dying as the vehicle rounded the corner. Your fingers were back in action, deleting the modest, white four door sedan assigned to your main character in favor of a high-powered golf cart that you’d research later if realistically existed.

Somewhere in the distance was the call of a bird, traveling over the thrash of the waves onto the shore just in reach beyond the tops of houses suspended on frames around the boardwalk. It was the call of a sea gull or something of the same variety, but you considered giving your main character a parrot and added an entire new section of your outline for the very plot piece.

Something bubbled in the depth of the pool stretched at the end of your pointed ankles, something that had curled into the filter and elicited a burst of air. In your head, you extended the pool by significance on either side and gave your protagonist the trait of an accomplished swimmer in high school.

Nothing more cliché that dropping some characters into a seaside town, one with a parrot, a tricked-out golf cart, and an affinity for swimming rather than surfing like her love interest, antagonistic counterpart and his four door sedan with a dent in the side and caked sand on the rims.

Three documents over was your actual manuscript, one you marked with various highlights to change major plot points later. A major rehaul of location but worth it for the electricity snagging and pushing your joints to click across the keys. Your brain left a footnote to revamp the scene you’d left your characters at, previously at a crossroads of figuring out the vibe in their acquaintance, stuck in a grocery store with the love interest clutching a bouquet of flowers and squinting at your protagonist.

It was quickly changed to a late night scene at a beach, the bouquet of flowers instead a ghost crab and the line of dialog a do you want to hold him? rather than the, awkward albeit, I could buy these for you? To give to your mom, of course—

And then the artificial blue of the water behind you seemed to engulf your laptop screen, draining it into a lower quality of pixels and blurred lines that categorized your work computer, the giant stone turtle hidden behind a bush of thick vegetation shrinking into your paper weight, the line of documents open across your screen erasing into your next column that, for some reason, included every curse word you could imagine in angry red font.

A tiny emoticon reminiscent of the talking paperclip from early Microsoft word processing appeared in the corner, but in the shape of Park Jimin.

In short, you were stuck, the fire of inspiration eager to boil in the pit of your stomach evaporating like the footprint on the pool peck after you’d dipped a singular foot in. You’d transported back to your office in the uncomfortable desk chair stolen from the insurance office a story down with Park Jimin breathing down your neck for your position by bringing Hoseok coffee every morning but in a slightly better quality than you had, because it was handmade with love in the longue, with a novel that was no closer to being finished than it had been when you’d fell in love with the concept and got paid to outline the entire thing not a week into your position at the newspaper (and in between running Hoseok coffee and trying to hide your work in the limited privacy of your cubicle).

A massive control + Z was in order and the fingers on one hand stretched to do just that on the first of three documents, latter cuticles shoved in between your teeth to nibble miserably on. You’d erased any mention of a beachside town and ripped away the sticky note on the inside of your conscious that suggested touching a ghost crab for romance when something rough and cold dripped against the outside of your thigh.

Confusion caused you to place your laptop to the concrete below your chair and terror caused the startled gasp to bubble out of your throat at the sheepish looking figure stood knee deep on the pool stairs.

“Uh, hello,” The figure had obnoxious red hair to match the obnoxious yellow shirt hanging off his shoulders, a similar hue that colored the apples of his cheeks, shading embarrassment over sunburn and traveling to the peek of his teeth and the twinkle in gentle brown eyes that much resembled that of a deer pinned by some oncoming headlights. “I’m...here to clean the pool.”

It was a pool net that had hit you, misjudged from the sopping pile in the mulch of leaves and bugs and neon colored specks of unidentified objects. Your eyes trailed upward from the damp pleats of rope at your side to the holder of the pole, one who hadn’t tried to jerk the net away from you but instead kept in place, as if he didn’t move a muscle maybe you’d disappear.

“I clean the pool twice a week?” He tried again but you were too focused on the rosy shade of his lips matching the moussed fringe that curled into his eyelashes. “It should have been on the note Namjoon left—”

“It probably is,” You dismissed and he finally pulled the net away from your side, the wide sweeping circle he took to plop it back into the pool not succeeding without dripping some onto the top of your head. Unconsciously eager to amend the endearing pout that graced the stranger’s lips as he stirred the net into the center of the water, you added, “I just got in this morning. I haven’t had time to read everything yet.”

“Oh. Oh,” The man straightened from where he’d been crouched trying to snag a red thread at the far end of the pool, the ends of blue pool shorts darker than the rest and trickling against toned thighs, “Well, I’m Jeongguk. The neighborhood pool guy. And groundskeeper. And...whatever else you need me to be, I guess.”

You quirked an eyebrow and Jeongguk faltered, “I mean, like, I can fix shit. If you need me to. Like, if the cable goes out. But don’t ask me about the Wifi. No clue how to improve that.”

“Do any of us?”

He laughed and there was a peek of a dimple at the corner of his lips, turning away from you, “Fair point.”

You watched as he navigated the net with a finesse that suggested he didn’t just smack your thigh with it, depositing the red string in a sad heap near the filter. The calculated wander of your gaze drew your mouth to dry, following the jump of his calf muscles as he stepped from the pool, dragging the net with him over his shoulder.

“Seriously though,” Jeongguk’s voice snapped you out of your trance and you wet your lips and longed for your chapstick lodged somewhere in the depths of your backpack. He stood by a plastic looking brown shed, the net out of his hands, arms instead folded to his chest. “If you need anything, just call the front desk. The number is pasted on the fridge.”

“Noted, thanks.”

“My pleasure—” He paused halfway through the sliding glass door, fingers poised in an awkward pointing motion, “—what was your name again?”

You uttered it and Jeongguk winked, fingers shaking as his latter foot joined him inside. “Well, then I’ll see you later.”

“Perfect,” You breathed to yourself and you realized after the roar of his blue maintenance truck pulling from your drive that your collection of tattered bras and panties were scattered in the only entrance to the house.

Romance novels lied and movies an even bigger scam about wearing sandals for long periods of time without developing stupidly coarse blisters on the surface of the faux leather straps. You were heaving and limping and confused by the time you found the main office at the far end of the neighborhood.

In retrospect, it was hard to miss, an obnoxious aqua shade of paneling, outlined in a thick white trim led to by an equally bright staircase. Bikes accented in the same white but a clearer shade of blue lined the racks outside, complete with wicker baskets on the front and shiny metal bells that glinted just right to make you shield your eyes and trip up a single stair in your ascend. Inside the barn like doors came a refreshing burst of air conditioning, eliminating the humidity from outside and immediately calming some of the sweat curling into the hair at the nape of your neck.

A man sat behind a glass top counter in the middle of the room, legs delicately crossed on the stool he perched to, sunglasses nudged in the darkest part of dyed blonde roots, thumbing through a tourist style magazine that advertised May, the current month, as it’s date of publication. When the doors rattled shut behind you, he looked up, sunglasses bouncing to the bridge of his nose as he let out a tiny, startled noise.

“Hello!” He greeted after a moment, broad shoulders setting as you approached the counter. The magazine was flipped shut and slid closer to you, eyebrows wiggling at you beyond the frames of his fallen glasses, “Can I interested you in an entire article on the shrimp business in town?”

You giggled then, gently nudging the magazine back to him. The gold on his nametag fastened to the pocket of a blue surf shop t-shirt read Seokjin.

“No, not today.”

Seokjin balled the gloss into a roll and with a shrug, pitched it over his shoulder. “You know what, me either,” He winked, folding his hands on the counter and leaning toward you, plump lips curled back to let out an endearing wheeze of a laugh, “What can I do for you today?”

“Do you rent the bikes outside?”

“I’ll rent you two of them,” He laughed again at the expression on your face, turning to fish a clipboard off the tiny table behind him. “Kidding. I’ll rent you three.”

“I love it, but I think I only need one for right now.”

“If I weren’t on shift, I’d accompany you,” Seokjin scribbled something on the clipboard, “What house number are you in?”

You recited the number to him and he nodded with his tongue between his back molars. The clipboard was returned to the table in exchange for a set of tiny keys, ones he held out to you by the dangle of their miniature, metal hook. “These work on the first bike on the rack,” He smiled again, all full lips and an endearing red tinge to the tips of his ears, “Bring them back to me to check the bike back in or I may have to hunt you down.”

Your eyes widened and he cackled again, slapping a palm down on the glass countertop, “Kidding. But there is a fine if it’s not returned in twenty-four hours so—”

“Noted. I’ll have it back,” You pressed the keys into your palm and offered a halfhearted wave, “Thank you!”

“Always! Happy riding!”

The keys were deposited safely into the pocket of your shorts after you’d managed to wiggle the bicycle away from the rack, clacking against your phone screen as you clambered aboard the leather seat and pushed off in the direction you’d came.

You pedaled first in search of the house, finding it easier on the retrace and mapping it to memory as you dared a new trail, the one that looped and met a dead end when asphalt curled into white sand. The house whirred by again and then the main office, the air cooler in a breeze and with an easier travel than walking with a dozen blisters. You cycled slowly, taking in the unruly wind of cobblestone sidewalks and curiously planted palm trees near the planned planted flowers and each house in their own entirety in comparison to your own and the license plates of each car in each driveway as they advertised various regions and places and worlds aside from the one you were living in.

The blue maintenance truck elicited bile in the back of your throat from the incident earlier in the week as it sat parked on the street corner where sprinklers poked out of the turf and sprayed onto the green and yellow logo pasted to the side. The cab was empty but the yard it was parked in front of wasn’t, the knee height gate surrounding the shrubbery open with Jeongguk’s feet planted just on the other side of it.

You whipped your gaze from the slice of hedge trimmers through an exotic looking tree, instead looping your bike onto the opposite sidewalk and in the opposite direction. To no avail, the cul de sac throwing you back around like an out of control speed skater and suddenly the distance in front of you was filled only with the image of Jeongguk’s bare shoulders.

The bike coasted underneath you, leather relaxing its strain on your blisters as you concentration instead fell to the defined ridges between his shoulder blades, ones that rippled under a thin sheen of sweat each time he drew the trimmers open and shut, fluttering confetti like green to the grass below. The gardening tool fell as you watched, one arm staying above his head as he wiped a glove covered hand across his forehead, pasting more of the faded red fringe to the sweat already glistening there than clearing it. In the same moment did he pivot, trimmers dangling at his thigh, but this time you weren’t focused on the short black clinging desperately to his lean hips or the bunched white shirt sticking out from the waistband, rather the defined lines of his trimmed stomach starting underneath his ribs and disappearing underneath the elastic.

Jeongguk calling your name wasn’t part of the mirage and your rounded mouth jerked up just in time to notice the rapidly approaching edge of the curb.

Your dry mouth didn’t need water when it instead got the sprinkled of gravel, your bike tire colliding with the blocked concrete below and throwing you off to the side. A pain registered as a skid down your elbow but nothing quite matched the shamed embarrassment that flushed at your cheeks as a distant shit, hey! echoed in your ears and gravel crunched under approaching footsteps.

“Hey, woah, are you okay?—” You felt like you were underwater, like the ocean had suddenly decided it could eat the human race and was choosing you as its first victim, “—shit, you’re bleeding.”

A sting to your arm drew you above water and fingers that weren’t your own wiggled in front of your blurry vision, coating in a glob of dark red. The dots in your vision worsened when there was a pressure around your arm, Jeongguk’s t-shirt yanked from his shorts to act as a makeshift bandage and you couldn’t even appreciate the feeling of his hands touching you when you felt like you could vomit all over them any second.

“Hey, hey, babe can you hear me? Don’t pass out on me, it’s just a little scrape. C’mon, hey, I have some water in my truck, give me a second—”

The grass was a welcome pillow to the throb in your head, clearing the specks of black and white in your vision just enough for you to welcome the overhead blue curling around the landscape. You focused your attention on a cloud, one shaped like a disfigured dolphin, until it slipped in front of the sun, the rays spilling out in thick shards from between the transparent water vapor chilling the new layer of sweat that had slipped over your skin in your near faint.

You shuddered as more of the dots in your vision transferred to a seeming chill in your veins, goosebumps crawling across your arms and leaving a dry, cotton taste in your cheeks. Scrambling footsteps in the gravel returned as quickly as they had retreated and a gentle hand slipped behind your shoulders, aiding you in sitting up enough to bring your lips to a cool splash of water.

“I’ve been telling Seokjin to replace the brakes on these for months,” Jeongguk passed the water bottle into your still twitching fingertips, instead taking a seat next to you in the grass.

You were shaky in taking another gulp of the lukewarm water, letting it slide thickly down your throat. Various retorts snagged in the back of your throat and you suppressed them like the urge to glance over at him. Instead, a soft hum came out, one emitted through another cheek full of water.

“Well, when you’re ready, I’ll drive you back to the house and take the bike back—”

“I’m fine,” You croaked but you punctuated the sentiment by gathering your feet underneath you. A dull pain throbbed in your forearm and you swayed slightly in your crouched position, but you managed to stand with no more than a few stars decorating the back of your eyelids.

Jeongguk stuttered behind you, scrambling to his feet as you hunched over the fallen bike, dragging it to an upright position by one of the protruding handles. He slipped a warm hand to the small of your back, stalling you. “You’re not going to try to ride back, are you?”

“Yes?”

“You nearly fainted just now. Do you really think that’s...the best idea?”

Your knee caught on the seat in your first attempt to straddle the bike but you were successful the second time, standing with shaky palms clenched on the handles. “Not really. But it’s not very far…”

You thought you’d shaken him, the bike wobbling as you pushed off, getting two tire rolls away before his figure was jogging up beside you, placing an insistent hand on the bars. “At least let me walk back with you,” Jeongguk insisted, red fringe not obscuring his wide-eyed concern.

You begrudgingly ignored the veins in his forearm, slowing the speed of your pedaling to let him guide you through the desolate roads of the quiet neighborhood. It was a quick but silent trip, Jeongguk turning to balance the bike with two hands as you clambered off on shaky legs. He’d barely pivoted from depositing it back into its empty space on the rack when you’d pushed the tiny set of keys against the center of chest, too engrossed in a range of mortification.

“Here,” You bit out, “Thanks again.”

You took off in a rumpled mess of gravel, sunburn, and a bloody t-shirt as Jeongguk called after you some variation of be careful! that almost sounded like he was laughing.

The blood caked off his t-shirt on the third wash (when you managed to understand the complex mess of dials lining the top of the machine) and you hung it on a wire hanger on the tiny awning that extended outward from the house onto the concrete. He’d have to duck underneath it to do his job as you hid faithfully in your bedroom and pretended to nap for the duration of his visit.

There was a distinct clattering outside as the morning hours drew into the afternoon and you buried your head underneath the puffy duvet, taking comfort in the flash of colors across your phone screen even if you were mute to the video you’d played. But then the clutter outside transferred to the slide of the patio door and the video disappeared as your phone fell face down against your waist and you froze.

Jeongguk was calling your name, fluctuating in volume as he moved about the main part of the house. You winced each time the scuff of his bare feet moved closer, relaxed when it was farther away, and sighed when he tried, “I know you’re in here. Seokjin didn’t see you leave today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.”

You swallowed your pride and the unattractive scab growing on the flat of your forearm as you stalked out of your room. You found him mostly clothed this time, hands braced on the lip of the bar in the center of the kitchen with his phone pressed toward his nose in one hand.

“What, have you been watching me?”

There was a fond smile that crept to Jeongguk’s lips as he turned to look at you, “Making sure you didn’t bleed out, actually, but if you want to look at it that way.”

You paused in the hallway, feet as wide as your shoulders and arms folded tight to your chest. Only then did you realize you still had flannel pajama shorts and a flimsy white shirt on. “Well. Here I am. With only minor injuries. So uh…”

There was a glass plate in the flat of his palm before you could blink, a pyramid of chocolate chip cookies wrapped with plastic presented before you. “I, uh, made you some cookies,” He blinked, tossing his head toward the refrigerator. The red in his hair had faded to a harsh pink, “and there’s fresh lemonade in the fridge.”

“Your t-shirt is hanging outside,” You blurted in response, “free of blood.”

Jeongguk’s nose wrinkled, turning to deposit the cookies to the countertop again, “Didn’t want it back. I have fifty of the same thing. But thank you…”

You stared at the back of his head, where dark brown roots had begun to weave through the sharp red. After a moment, you blinked, “...so you can bake?”

He shrugged without looking at you, peeling the plastic away from the plate to pluck a cookie into his palm. He glanced over his shoulder, endearing smile dimpled into his cheeks and you melted like the bits of chocolate that brushed against his digits when he stretched the treat out to you, “Eh. Try one?”

Jeongguk’s gaze followed you as you shuffled around the kitchen, sliding out one of the bar stools with the crook of your foot to slip onto the round leather. You reached over the countertop, snatching a napkin from a pile near the sink to spread out in front of you, lips pressing into a geometric shape in your cheeks.

“C’mon, hand it over.”

He bypassed your wriggling fingers to place the cookie down on your napkin, watching you with a bated breath and round eyes. Soft irises followed the path of the piece you broke off the cookie to where you nudged it into your mouth by the curve of your thumb. The cookie crumbled across your tongue, melting in a mess of sugar and chocolate that gurgled a pleasured moan from your throat as you dived in for two, four more nibbles on the soft corners.

An amused expression wrinkled at his cocked eyebrows and the small sliver of his teeth when your eyelids fluttered open from devouring half the treat, “Good?”

“You can bake,” You affirmed, breaking off another bite sized corner. “Maybe I should wreck bikes more often.”

“No,” Jeongguk assured, replacing the cookie with a fresh one before turning to your fridge to yank out the pitcher of lemonade, “You definitely should not.”

His stature went fishing about the kitchen area, yanking open cabinet after cabinet until he found something suitable, glass pieces smudged from years of use. He pulled down two, placing them in front of the pitcher.

“You know, your food selection here is pretty sad,” He handed over a full glass, watching as you took a languid gulp.

“I don’t exactly know where the grocery store is,” You argued of the boxes of leftover pizza stacked inside your fridge and the singular bag of pretzels you’d smuggled onto the airplane. “Nor do I have a car, and biking is certainly out of the question—”

Jeongguk ignored you, opening and closing drawers until he found the packet of paper Namjoon had left for you, the FAQOTH. His thumb lodged between the pages, squinting at the ink as his voice muffled around the rim of his own glass.

His tongue swiped at the lemonade clinging to his upper lip, sighing, “You really didn’t read this, did you? There’s, like, seven cab services to choose from. And at least six of them know where the Walmart is.”

You dismissed him with a wave of your hand, snatching the packet of paper from his grasp to flatten it over the napkin you’d been snacking from. “All Namjoon has listed are pizza places…” You trailed off, “I need restaurant recommendations. Throw some at me.”

“That’s a pretty broad question. I have a lot.”

“You’ll have to show me a few before I leave.”

You stared at each other in a passing silence that heightened your mortification like bile on the crux of your throat, especially when Jeongguk cocked an eyebrow, the slightest of smirks slanting his lips as his chin unhinged, falling to his chest as he fished aside for another napkin.

“Maybe…” He trailed off, snatching a pen from the same drawer the FAQOTH had came from. “But for now—” He scribbled some more on the surface pebbled in design, scratching out a name and an address before presenting the drooping napkin to you, “—try this place. I think the cab drivers can find it...”

The Dusty Dolphin bordered the line between the natural white sands of the beach and the main strip of highway that cascaded down the coastline. It was as if sitting on the border in territories, the inside seating of the restaurant on soft grasses sticking through sand like soil with an asphalt parking lot lined in chipped neon parking spaces just a walking distance away, while the outside seating was perched on the beach, a patio raised on wooden platforms with brightly colored umbrellas stuck through the center of wooden tables.

Your fingers paled your knuckles with how tightly you clenched your fists, flip flops slapping against the wooden surface as you climbed up a rickety staircase to tell an uninterested looking hostess that it would be just you.

“Outside?” It wasn’t really a question of yes or no, more of a confirmation of what she was expecting you to say as she hopped down from her stool and began to collect silverware and a glossy menu.

Your sure was lost under your breath as she took your curt nod as the answer, weaving through the close knit tables in the indoor seating to lead you through a single set of double doors and to an empty table on the far corner. Again, her, “Is this okay?” was a confirmation, not an affirmation, and your nod had her saying your server will be right with you when she’d already slipped back inside.

The sun peaked out from behind the lapping waves on the horizon, the blackness engulfing the farthest waves a taste of the sun’s sleep for a few hours, leaving the world with a brilliant mesh of pastel hues, colored together like oil crayons as brushes of wispy clouds rushed by to the melody of the water rushing to the shore. A breeze rolled with the motion of the water and you tugged your thin cardigan closer to your torso, not helped with the fans bolted to the overhead framing that continued to rotate softly, a cooldown from their midafternoon duties where they whirred fatefully.

“Hey, told you the cab driver could find this place.”

Jeongguk stood in front of you with the dopiest of grins on his lips, a tiny and audible giggle stumbling out from the shocked expression that met your features. He was adorned in all black, tight black jeans, a black belt cinching a black t-shirt into his waist, a black apron snug just a beat above the belt buckle. His bright locks were styled, parted away from his forehead in a calculated fashion that made one swoop a tad bigger than the latter side. Pens and straws and a tiny notepad were tucked into the pouches of the apron and he held a notepad of a similar fashion up, pen clicking rapidly as he continued to giggle at you.

“You work here?” You blinked, and then added with flat palms slapping against the front of your menu, “Is there anything you don’t do?”

“Can’t quite train the dolphins at the wildlife reserve yet, but we’re getting there,” His nose wrinkled in another laugh, pen clicking out finally as he rested it against the paper, “What can I get you to drink?”

“Uh. Water, I guess.”

“Boring,” Jeongguk scribbled shorthand to the pad, “Are you going to get something a bit more exciting than chicken strips for your meal?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be heckling the paying customer.”

“Seriously,” He eyed you again, “Do you know what you want?”

You opened the menu for the first time, the array of seafood and pastas and salads and various other dishes overwhelming you with him hunching over you, shuffling to read over your shoulders.

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, we’re pretty known for seafood—” You shot him a look, “—obviously. But like, all the shrimp is pretty good—”

“Because of the shrimp business in town?”

Jeongguk laughed, “Seokjin?”

“A little bit.”

He hummed, chin hovering dangerously close to your shoulder before he straightened, shuffling between the railing around the porch area. “I’ll bring you a couple things,” He decided, mostly to himself and absently over his shoulder,

A couple things meant a platter of shrimp, cooked, seasoned, piled, and ripped in different variations, piled high like the pyramid of cookies you’d nearly devoured after he’d left your house. His manager complained twice upon finding him sitting with you, judging your expression as you sucked some butter contraption off the ridges of a steamed shrimp and teasing you of the flakes of garlic clinging to the corner of your mouth. He returned to refill your water when you’d only taken a few sips from the candy striped straw and ignored you three times when you asked for the bill as the sun completely disappeared beyond the water, leaving the sea to one giant stretch you could not see but could hear the threat of.

“Here, I guess,” Jeongguk settled the black fold down on your table, leaving with a wink that illuminated in the artificial porch lights hanging from the center of the still turning fans. It was enough lighting to read that he’d paid for your bill, scrawling a giant smiley face underneath the amount.

You sighed, prepared to reprimand him as you carefully folded the receipt to slide into your pocket but two colored notes underneath caught your attention. The pink one read wait on me, I’ll drive you home. You placed it aside with a check to your phone, finding it five minutes from closing time of the restaurant as a majority of the other patrons who had long fled the premises.

The second note was yellow, the handwriting a bit more loopy, calculated in a sense.

A mirage is the peace the night time sea suggests; a reality is the beauty your soul creates.

Jeongguk was free of the apron when he returned, shirt untucked, and a large blue jacket shrugged across his shoulders. The same giddy smile from before remained plastered to his features as he dug in his pocket, pulling out a set of keys that he tossed and caught in the same palm.

“Ready to go?”

You folded the sticky note carefully, slipping it with the collection of bills in your back pocket.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

He left notes while you were asleep and he had another schedule to get to, choosing your pool as the first to clean and assess and correct the chemical balance of, leaving the bright blue paper with tacky glue stripped on the top to the patio door.

You caught it when you shrugged outside with a piece of toast in hand and your laptop folded under your arm, crumbs decorating your knuckles as you slipped the paper off the sizable smudge on the glass to bring it to your nose.

Think of dream, sleep of you.

He left notes on the hedge just outside your door on his way to the neighbors to fix a faulty outlet in the upstairs bedroom for a family who’d just arrived and had decided to cram three children with twelve electronic devices between them into that very room.

It was bright pink and sealed to the petal of a flower you debated picking, a petal that dislodged anyway when you plucked the note instead, decorating the stone walkway with a single question of soft red hues.

Bloom in my heart like the question of my soul.

He left notes on the inside of your refrigerator, right on top of a family sized bottle of orange juice he’d watched you haul through the front gates of the neighborhood while Seokjin assumed he was paying attention to his instructions for the disposal of some lawn chairs at the community pool near the beach.

You found it after he left in a flurry of more cookies, the smell of chlorine, and an off handed comment about you needing more variety in your life than water and orange juice, a yellow note that rivaled the unnatural coloring of the juice when you’d purchased a brand name rather than the more expensive, family brand.

Orange juice sucks, that much I do know.

You scattered them across the screen of your open laptop like an investigator piecing together the details of a crime while your neglected novel watched on, the cursor mocking you from beyond a note that said procrastinating my destiny with a useless metal fence. Color coding failed when Jeongguk switched from pinks, blues, and yellows to purples, oranges, and greens. His handwriting didn’t falter, suggest a trend with a certain harder press of his pen. The medium in which he wrote varied, lead or red pen or what appeared to be a blue colored pencil. Some told a story, only to be ruined with orange juice or elbow scabs or half eaten shrimp.

Your laptop screen was coated in a thin layer of film from placing and plucking the notes into various orders, one that hazed over your novel as you began to stack the notes into a neat pile in your cupped palm. It mirrored the midday haze that had curled across the neighborhood, the sun eliciting the mirage of steam curling off the pool water that seemed to hinder your conscious unable to understand the growing tree of poetry in your grasp.

The contents of the last paragraph, even without a layer of tacky glue and humidity stained air, made little sense, only one of five you’d written in three weeks. It was thick and expositional, a writing exercise within the draft, a rambling discussion of your surroundings when you’d decided to have your characters visit a beach rather than force their stories into some sand and sun.

Your outline answered your rhetorical question.

Why are they going to the beach? TBD.

You deleted the fifth paragraph and shut your laptop. Four paragraphs in three weeks.

Soft fluttering of the notes between your fingertips kept the distracted state of your conscious occupied long enough to seek out an unnatural sound of nature. It was a scurrying from around the side of the house, scattering through dry pine needles and gravel poured between the concrete stepping stones. The cloud of your thoughts cleared enough to panic in confusion, leaving the notes underneath a corner of your laptop as you crept into your flip flops.

The wire gate was left open, swinging gently against the side of the house. Clear footsteps rut deep into the coarse brown needles, smudging into the mud below still damp from the morning rain shower.

Your first rational thought of it being a squirrel erased as you reached for the gate, pulling and latching it. Someone was walking a dog across the street, a tiny white poodle with a ridiculous haircut and a cat bell on its collar. A childlike scream traveled upward from the beach. The breeze clattered against the leaves of a towering tree planted entirely too close to the house.

The same gentle breeze fluttered a strip of pink against the side of the house.

“Dammit, Jeongguk,” You cursed, needles lodging between the rubber of your flip flops and your bare feet as you moved off the stepping stone path. It was pasted high, too, barely in reaching of your pinching fingertips as you leaned into the house and stretched as high on the balls of your feet as you could go.

Your back slumped against the house as you glared at your prize for thin scratches and a strain in your shoulders. A number. A phone number.

With a shitty smiley face, a curve and two dots, beneath it.

You cursed through another layer of pine needles, deserting your flip flops on the far end of the pool deck as you hopped across seething hot concrete to retrieve your phone from underneath your towel. Pointed thumbs jabbed in the number to a new text thread, equally as prominent in clicking out a message.

What the hell are you trying to tell me with these notes, Jeongguk?

For thirty-seven agonizing seconds, you thought your only answer was the smiling emoticon with tiny red hearts dotted around the surface. And then three little dots appeared in the bottom left corner.

Everything. Meet me at the beach tonight?

You followed the sound of music, passing only a family with two tiny girls, headlamps strapped to their foreheads and plastic sand castle buckets clutched in their fingers as they chatted eagerly about what they’d seen underneath their feet, and a colony of the very crabs they’d been trying to capture. Your flip flops followed the beat of the guitar melody, pattering against the flex of your thigh where you clutched them in loose fingers at your hip, bare feet sliding through the cool sand, occasionally catching on snags of sea shells and scurrying sea creatures.

The sounds grew louder, dimming the thrash of night time waves, and you found him, seated not far down the coast line on a ratty looking, red lawn chair.

Jeongguk glanced up from furrowed eyebrows when you cleared his throat, hunched over a guitar balanced neatly on short clad thighs. Confusion erased into elation as he grinned, tossing his head toward the empty lawn chair next to him, blue and with less frayed edges.

“Hey! Have a seat. I brought beer in the cooler behind you. And water. I can go get you anything—”

You ducked for the red plastic container, drawing out a dripping water bottle and cracking the lid, “It’s okay. Thank you.”

He visibly relaxed, the lingering stare on your lips wrapping around the bottle diverting back to his work on the instrument in his lap, fiddling with some of the tuners at the top. You watched as he worked, thumb coming out to strum at the bottom few strings before he sat back with a satisfied hum.

And then Jeongguk began to sing. Softly at first, a testing glance in your direction as soft pink lips seemed hesitant in parting. When intrigue lit your features, body visibly tensing, his mouth curled into a smile, voice a higher volume but a soft octave nonetheless, gentle and soothing like a retreating wave that lipped gently across the shells it was leaving behind. His gaze faltered from yours to hit a note, a scrunch to his nose, a vein down the length of his neck, a passion that you longed for as his voice fishtailed into an easy run. It was an unfamiliar tune to you, one that ended in a handful of endearing head bops and cheesy hums from Jeongguk as he strummed once, hard, down the strings of his guitar.

The smile on his lips wobbled, trying to contain his teeth but still dimpling in his cheeks as he blinked at you. He lost the battle with his smile when he spoke, testing “Good?”, with a slight giggle.

“The notes,” You said dumbly, “They’re your lyrics?”

“Some of them…” He sat the guitar in the sand with a shy hand wrapped around the back of his neck, “Some are just, I don’t know, poetry.”

“So you sing.”

“I sing,” Jeongguk nodded, “I like to think I’m a better singer than pool cleaner. Or cookie baker.”

You followed his gaze from your eyes to his clasped hands on his knees. “Have you tried to pursue anything in it?”

“No point,” His gaze moved onward from his hands to the ocean, squinting and closing, “Just a hobby.”

“For now—”

“For always,” He was staring at you again, curt in his sharp correction. After a moment, a tiny smile slanted his lips, “It’s okay, really. I enjoy doing it in my free time.”

You tilted your head, “Why are you sharing this with me?”

Jeongguk was standing above you, hand outstretched, shy smile flushing his cheeks even in the darkness. “Walk with me.”

He took the initiative the thread your fingers together, leading you down to the edge of where the water reached. The water still warm from the heat of the season lapped around your ankles as you trudged down the coast, hand in hand, silence welcome to the soundtrack of the ocean. After a sizable distance, Jeongguk sighed, footsteps stalling to yank your unsuspecting figure to a stop.

“I’m showing you because lately, they’re all about you.”

You blinked at him, hands still clasped but pulled at an unnatural distance between your statures. “Jeongguk, what—”

“Look, I’m extremely lame and not as good with actual words as I am with the notes I left you but…” He stepped closer, dropping your intertwined hands to swing between your bodies, “I like you. Basically.”

“Basically?”

A disgruntled whine left his lips and his gaze trailed over your shoulder, upward toward the sky, “I know you’re only here for another month and I know I barely know you but. I don’t know. I like you. And I felt weird envisioning a future where I didn’t at least try.”

Your skin warmed through the thin flannel draped across your sun irritated skin. Another step closer, this one initiated by you, followed by a soft squeeze and tug on his palm. “Like you said, I’m only here for another month,” Soft eyes darkened into the stars dancing around you wandered back down to your gaze, hopeful even as you sighed, “I’m supposed to be writing, anyway. That’s the entire point of my trip and I’ve barely got anything done…”

“I won’t be a distraction.”

“You already are.”

Another shy smile graced Jeongguk’s features, mumbling, “Sorry.”

“But a good distraction…” One more step and there was but a fingertips length distance between your torsos, your thumb running along his knuckles, “You’re a good distraction.”

“So what you’re saying is…”

You held up your free hand, pinky presented. “I’m willing to try, Jeongguk but—” You punctuated the word before he could hook the digit in yours, “—no obligations. Not really, anyway.”

“Do the obligations include or exclude kissing?” He braved leaning closer to you, even as the rosy hue on his cheeks spread, “Pleasesayinclude, pleasesayinclude, pleasesay—”

You tugged down on his hand, loose fist with your pinky presented falling against his shoulder as you connected your lips. He hummed happily into the seam of your lips, arm snaking around your waist to eliminate the distance between your torsos. “One month,” You punctuated between a breath of air, one he ignored with another languid kiss into your mouth.

“So I can’t tell Taehyung you’re my girlfriend?”

“Who’s Taehyung?”

“My roommate,” Jeongguk linked your pinkies while you were distracted, kissing your jaw, “I’ll introduce you to him.”

“Jeongguk,” You squeezed his hand and pinky in tandem, “One month.”

“Stop, you’re making your not-really-your-boyfriend sad.”

Kim Taehyung was all surfer, the stereotypical bleached blonde hair with dark peeking out of the roots, baggy black shorts with the white strings untied, a thin white undershirt hugging his lean figure underneath a blue shirt with some intricate design of flames and waves and a surfboard ironed on the front. His bare feet slapped through the corridor, grumbling something to Jeongguk’s greeting call, hair tossed back with a thick white headband around the middle of his forehead that pronounced his harsh eyebrows, ones that furrowed to inspect you.

“Hi!” He was loud, like an over excited golden retriever, especially when he beamed to tease his roommate, “So you’re the beautiful lady Gukkie here courted by flashing his stellar abs and less than comparable thighs.”

You gawked, cheeks heating because well, kind of, but the hand on the small of your back fist into the material of your shirt, pushing you forward and past his broad figure.

“Don’t you have a wave to almost drown in?”

“C’mon, I was just kidding, love!” Taehyung’s footsteps were heavy behind you, following your figures through a narrow hallway, “No part of Jeon is impressive enough to get you. Did he bribe you? I’ll pay the ransom.”

You giggled as Jeongguk paused around you, sucking in a breath through his teeth that materialized into a whispered, “If you ignore him, he goes away. Eventually.”

Your nose wrinkled, turning to look at the red-faced man pressed against your back, “But he’s funny.”

You’d paused in front of a doorway, one Jeongguk pushed open and glared pointedly at you. “Don’t encourage him. Go.”

Jeongguk’s room was wide, a contrast to the narrow hallway lined in creaking hardwood and paneled walls. It was open concept, not much furniture aside from a few dressers and the bed. Blacks, whites, and greys told the story with color sprinkled in from accented belongings, like a collection of keychains hanging off a billboard in the corner, the cork material of the wall hanging filed with various photographs pinned up by neon colored tacks. A string of lights hung above his headboard, polaroids dangling from the wires, similar ones pasted in a haphazard pattern on the same wall.

“You like photography?”

He watched you step to his corkboard, delicately sliding your fingers underneath a photograph so as not to touch the ink on the front. It was a picture he’d taken of Taehyung at a surfing competition, purposefully edited to look straight from a vintage yearbook.

“A little. Filming too....”

You nodded, letting the photograph flutter back against its board. Pivoting, slow steps carried you toward his slumped figure standing rigid in the center of his room, sliding your palms over his shoulders when you got close enough.

“All of these talents and you can’t dye your hair by yourself?”

Jeongguk’s fingers fell into the fringe hanging over his eyes, now blonde with hints of pink clinging to the ends of certain strands. A pout materialized but he didn’t whine, just leaning closer to you with tendrils of hair still secured between a hand behind his head.

“Just because it’s your first visit doesn’t mean I won’t subject you to Taehyung’s three hour lecture of proper surfboard waxing techniques.”

“Stop threatening me with a good time and lead me to the hair dye.”

His bathroom was as small as the hallway and you found yourself seated on the edge of the vanity with Jeongguk crushed between your legs. He didn’t seem to mind, fingers twitching from their place beside you to creep up to your thighs as you squinted at his head, plastic covered fingers globing harsh red through his hair.

“What’s your natural hair color?”

“Brown.”

You tapped at his roots, taking a glob with the crook of your fingers. “Why don’t you leave it at that?”

“Because red is cool.”

“Who told you that?—” You pulled your hands into your lap, careful to hold the stain away, “—Your girlfriend?”

“Don’t know,” Jeongguk leaned close enough to smear red on your forehead with his bangs if they weren’t pasted to his forehead, “Is my hair color cool?”

A playful look of disgust wrinkled at your nose, “Only half of your hair is dyed right now.”

He glanced behind you in the mirror, eyeing the glob of dye on one half of his head to the straight blonde on the latter. “So?” He blinked back to you, “Is it cool?”

“I don’t know,” You began to peel the gloves off, “Wash it out and we’ll see.”

You sat cross legged in the center of Jeongguk’s bed when he returned, half of his hair back to the vibrant red it had been when he nearly impaled you with a pool net, half the blonde it had been trending toward when he asked you to entertain his affections for a month more. He didn’t give you an option of a yes or no, flopping at the foot of the bed to press his cheek against your ankles, arms stretched out across your thighs.

“Hey,” He said after a moment, muffled against your jeans.

You tested the waters of placing a hand against his scalp and when he cuddled into your affection, you softly ran your nails through his hair. “Hey, what?”

“I let you read my things—” Jeongguk shifted to place his chin on your naval, blinking owlishly up at you, “—my things about you. When do I get to read part of your novel?”

“Hmm, when it’s finished and published and available in bookstores.”

“Is that soon?”

You shot him a look but he didn’t seem to be kidding. “No. Probably not. Especially since I’ve made virtually no progress.”

“Well,” He pecked your belly button over your shirt, snuggling back against you again, “I’d love to read an advanced screening version.”

You’d deleted the four paragraphs you’d completed in three weeks. Zero paragraphs in five weeks.

“We’ll see…”

You printed your outline in three separate copies, each one with their own unique set of markups of various color pens and pencils and highlighters, colors born out of your tiny sparks on inspiration that you tried to hold onto like a the end of a rope, one that would pull you to the surface for clarity, creativity, anything. But each time the trill of your red pen reached the end of the page, transferring over to your fingers on the keyboard, the half an ounce of rope had slipped through your fingertips, leaving you to tread underwater.

Those stapled pages were spread across a table on the patio area of The Dusty Dolphin, half sandwiched between your laptop that was attached to an extension cord. Jeongguk had hijacked both the Wifi password and an extra long cable, seating you in the far corner of the deck area and keeping you stocked with fresh water and samples of mozzarella sticks.

It was the third time you’d marked through and rewrote a certain bullet point, the result a smear of dying highlighter in neon yellow that you could barely read. You capped the highlighter and the open pen rolled to the center of your keyboard, turning your attention instead to the goosebumps that had appeared across your bare forearms and Jeongguk’s figure as he jogged out onto the patio deck.

“That my hoodie?” He questioned as he approached, your head halfway through the black fabric you’d had tied around your waist for the duration of the day.

“Could be Taehyung’s. I stole it from your laundry room.”

Jeongguk placed the new glass of ice water down, avoiding your papers and electronics to wrap a hand in the collar of the hoodie to tug your mouth to his.

“Nope,” He teased with a nip to your bottom lip in a whirling departure, “Mine.”

“Wait!”

He turned, nearly colliding with a high chair protruding out into the walkway.

“Come back, waiter.”

The pad of paper was drawn from his apron, just to appease the look the child’s mother shot him as he moved to stand next to you again. “Yes, paying customer?”

“Can you bring me real food, please?”

He began scribbling something before you could talk, mirroring your sentiment the same time you uttered it.

“The shrimp pasta?”

A bashful smile sunk your chin into your shoulders and you nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Course,” Another chaste peck on your lips that turned into two, then lingered on the third, only for heavy footsteps and a rough voice to have him jumping away.

“Jeongguk…” A figure was leaning out of the doorway dressed in an ironed white button up and black slacks, the tiny gold nameplate advertising manager first reading Yoongi. “Stop kissing customers, please.”

This time a horrified gasp from the mother in question, one that caused Yoongi’s eyes to widen as he moved for the table, shooting you a comforting wink as he began to explain the concept of a joke while Jeongguk disappeared back into the depths of the restaurant.

You managed to hack out two paragraphs while Jeongguk put your order in with a handful of dialog sprinkled within. His kiss was to the top of your head when he slipped the plate in front of you, careful to avoid your twitching fingers over the keys as he hummed.

“Any progress?”

Your response wasn’t a total lie. “A little bit…”

Two paragraphs and useless dialog tagged with edit later in six weeks.

You’d managed to catch a handful of the rope promising to pull you ashore, one you clung desperately to while your fingers, coiled equally as tight, wore the letters on your keyboard to nothing, backspace barely a factor as you left in typos and grammar issues and a myriad of useless punctuation. The lines from where your laptop sat in relation to the cover your swimsuit bottoms provided was of little concern, just as your hair tied messily on the nape of your neck and the lack of towel underneath the bare parts of your stature not covered by the swimsuit you’d stumbled into in route to reach the rope.

The paper outlines sat somewhere inside but you didn’t need them anyway, the digital copy enough to mark off pieces from as your word count skyrocketed, pages clicking over and over the hump you’d previously been stuck on, the rope dragging your belly first over but getting you there nonetheless. You typed until your mouth begged for the ice water you’d left inside and one of the two cookies of Jeongguk’s left, but you powered through into another page, giddy with the possibility but more focused on the emotion somewhere between determination and greed.

You heard the gate open but ignored it, you heard a call of your name but ignored it, and you felt the splash of water hit your ankles and glared at it.

“Hey!” Jeongguk resurfaced on the side of the pool. He’d fixed his hair, vibrant and red against where he brushed it out of his eyes. “Come in for a swim?”

You pursed your lips, determined to ignore him as your fingers started slow on the keys again. When you arrived at your previous speed, you huffed, “You aren’t supposed to clean today.”

He dunked his head under, resurfacing in a flurry of bubbles, “Does it look like I’m cleaning?”

“Jeongguk. I’m busy today.”

“You’re only here for another week.”

“Exactly!”

He sighed, forearms folding onto the concrete as he leaned forward, watching you, “Whatever you have is great. Better than great.”

“You wouldn’t know.”

“I have a vague idea because you won’t let me read anything.”

You were glaring at him again, the playful expression previously on his features hardened into something you couldn’t quite understand, one that softened only marginally as the seconds passed.

Jeongguk uttered your name, a gentle request, “Take a break.”

Your laptop sat open on the bare lawn chair, battery zapped the longer the heat bore down on it but the pointed stalk of your footsteps across the pool area had shoved it aside. The water was cold upon first touch but the reactions of your body didn’t show it, carrying you down the staircase until you were submerged, body crouching so that your chin skimmed the surface of the water until you were treading directly in front of Jeongguk.

“I’m in the water,” You hissed, “Is this what you wanted?”

He didn’t have it in him to giggle, a sad smile instead not quite reaching the dimples in his cheeks.

“No. I want you to believe in yourself.”

The push of your mouth against Jeongguk’s was wet, tasting of the chlorine that splattered around you when you stood to grapple for purchase on his shoulders. Strong arms encased your waist, accepting you anyway as one liquid staining your lips was replaced with something warm and tinged in salt, dripping in unwarranted streams from the corners of your eyes.

You whimpered when your back was pressed to the side of the pool, legs coming to wrap around his waist while your fingernails scraped at his back. “I’m sorry,” You gasped, his lips mouthing at your neck while he held you.

“Don’t be,” He reprimanded you with teeth on your collarbone, arms sliding higher on your waist to press you flush to his chest, “I’ve got you.”

Another miserable apology fell from your lips and your chin was jerked upward by a soft palm cupping your cheek, latter hand pressing into the concrete behind you. “I said, I’ve got you, baby girl,” Jeongguk reiterated, forehead pressed to yours. Something sad rippled in his starry irises, something that dug the dagger deeper into the hammering organ in your chest, “What do you need me to do?”

“Just, I—”

Words failed but the bury of your face into his neck, securing your ankles around his back and holding to him like he’d disappear any second, didn’t.

Jeongguk’s arms threaded around your stature again, nosing into your damp hair with a shaky sigh. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you. Shh, it’s okay, it’ll be okay…”

Fourteen pages in seven weeks.

The weight of his palm in yours had never quite reached home, a foreign weight laced through your fingers from the hesitancy echoing a mantra in the forefront of your conscious, eerie and daunting and to the tune of your rapidly beating heart.

No obligations. A distraction. A good distraction. No obligations. Broken laptop charger. Not enough complete. No obligations. Too much dialog. Too little progress. No obligations.

Fourteen pages. Seven weeks. No obligations.

You squeezed your fingers together just to watch the joints retract under your skin, the moonlight a ghost over your knuckles. Again and it was inevitable to catch Jeongguk’s attention, his hand flexing underneath yours, smooth and gentle and waiting, accepting of the home your lost heart would need.

If you’d just let yourself knock on the door. No obligations.

“Hey.” He’d stopped walking next to you, the sand cold on your toes, the plastic straps of your sandals rubbing a blister on the soft crease between your fingers on your free hand. “Hey, can we…”

“Look,” You overlapped him, sandals falling from your grasp when you pointed instead. A small group of crabs ruffled through the sand in front of you, bumping through languidly, over and under each other. Jeongguk’s eyebrows nearly met at the wrinkled bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth slightly downturned when you glanced at him. Softly, you nodded, “Crabs.”

He let go of your hand, crouching. A cupped palm scooped through the sand, effectively excavating one of the crabs. It shook the sand from around itself, scurrying eagerly about the surface of Jeongguk’s hand as he straightened, stretching the creature out to you.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Thoughts of your novel and the overwhelming overhauls it’d endured in your eight weeks, the first a modest to a beachfront neighborhood, from a grocery store to a beach, from a bouquet of flowers the boy had been clutching onto for months while you worked on the details around him to a tiny crab who lasted long enough for you to hate the idea.

The tiniest of smiles made it to your lips, “Is there anything you can’t do, Jeon Jeongguk?”

He crouched again, releasing the crab in a flurry of sand dusted from his fingertips before returning to you. Curled fists made it into the pockets of his shorts, foot nudging into the ground below him as he shrugged. Wide eyes lifted from their spot at the tips of his toes to yours, the same sad smile lacing his features, “I can’t figure you out, apparently.”

“Can we...can we talk?”

He nodded, slowly at first and then all at once. A hand stretched in your direction again, fingers wiggling, the smile on his features a step closer to genuine. “C’mon, let’s go sit down.”

You followed Jeongguk up the beach, finding a space just in front of where the long grasses began, fluttering gently in the night time wind so much so that their soft ambiance almost outweighed the ripple of the ocean from farther up on the shore. Your hand retracted from his, sandwiched between your thighs but your shoulders still touched, sitting side by side as the moonlight crawled up the waves to be deposited onto the coast.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You said after a moment. Features scrunched to the breeze, eyes shutting as you sighed, “I really don’t know what I’m doing.”

He hummed, “Do any of us?”

“You seem to,” Your cheek pressed to your shoulder, offering a smile when he glanced at you, “Mister gorgeous pool boy who can sing, play guitar, write poetry, bake, and catch ghost crabs without blinking.”

Jeongguk hummed once more, a lower sound this time, nose pointed toward the breeze. “If you think my ambitions in life stopped at tourist neighborhood groundskeeper and a waiter at a place named The Dusty Dolphin, I must have done a really shitty job at letting you get to know me over these couple of months.”

“I know that,” You nudged him, “but how are you content with your passions just staying passions? How can you not want more?”

“Let me ask you a question,” He nudged you back, chin meeting his upper arm to peer at you under vibrant bangs, “Why do you write?”

“Because I want to have a published novel.”

Jeongguk quirked an eyebrow, “Why do you want to have something published?”

“Because I’ve put years of work into the idea. I’ve drained my soul to invest it in this project.”

“Do you love it?”

You blinked, “My novel?”

“Your novel, your column, the newspaper, writing,” Jeongguk shrugged, “Any of it.”

“I did…”

“Did?”

“I’ve always been in love with the craft of writing—” Softly, you amended, “—my writing. My creations. And I’ve had slumps, I’ve endured writer’s block. I’ve gone past deadlines and I’ve scrapped entire plots, ideas, paragraphs, sentences. But never this bad. Not to the point where I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Why I even started writing the piece in the first place, what the end goal. What it was even supposed to be about, let alone anything about it.”

Jeongguk nodded, nose pointing toward the breeze again, cheek lulling to his arm, “Why did you come here, of all places?”

“I was sent here. Work leave.”

“What’d you do?”

“Told a nine year old that, not only are Disney princesses not real, but not a viable career option.”

He chuckled next to you, legs stretching out in front of him. “Harsh.”

“What about you?” You nudged him again, “Why do you write?”

“Because I love music and words are the language of music,” Jeongguk’s finger dug into the sand, absently drawing geometric shapes before brushing them away with the heel of his palm, “Even instrumental pieces can be described in words. Whimsical, haunting, pretty. That kind of thing.”

“I didn’t have to ask you if you loved it…” It was a rhetorical sentiment, trailed off as you stared at the nudge of his fingernail into a crooked rectangle.

“Can you do me a favor, when you go back home?”

“Please don’t tell me not to forget you. We live in the twenty-first century. I expect a picture of Seokjin with his shrimp magazine once a week.”

He was smiling when his hand slipped to your cheek, turning your gaze to his. “I’m serious,” His eyes flicked between yours, dizzying you in a mess of stars that never seemed to blur with the speed of his insistent gaze. “Scrap your entire novel. Start over.”

“What? Do you understand—”

Jeongguk’s lips felt like home. You hadn’t placed your guard around those. “I don’t understand. You won’t let me read it,” His forehead pressed to yours, “but just try it.”

“But Namjoon—”

Another kiss, gentle, a brush of your mouths together, just enough to swallow your insecurities. “The new one will be just as great. Better. More than enough to send to Namjoon.”

“How do you know?”

His thumb brushed against the apple of your cheek, eyes following the movement, “Would you allow him to read your current draft in its entirety? Not just what you’ve gotten finished while here.”

You hesitated long enough for Jeongguk to kiss you again, lingering enough to properly swallow what you were going to say. No, absolutely not.

“Might as well try—” His cheeks dimpled and it was the first genuine smile you’d allowed yourself in days, “—right?”

“Can you do me a favor?” You asked after several seconds of indulging in each other’s affections, lips swollen and brushing against his mouth.

“I won’t send you shirtless pictures every morning, no—” He shifted enough to shed himself of the pink checkered flannel on his shoulders, wrapping it to your shoulders to pull you against his side, “Taehyung already thinks I’m vain.”

You smacked Jeongguk’s shoulder and he giggled, leaning forward just enough to brush the tips of your noses together. Once. Twice. Four times.

“No,” You tilted to squish your noses together, locking his gaze to yours, “Try to pursue something with music. I don’t care if it’s DJing at that shitty club Taehyung was trying to get us to go to last week. Or maybe busking on the weekends. You can set up in front of the pond as you enter the neighborhood.”

“I don’t…”

“Try it,” You punctuated it with a hard kiss to his lips, “What can it hurt?”

You’d shifted to lay between his legs, cheek on his chest, kisses shifted to his chest over his shirt, his sprinkled to your forehead, cheeks, nose. He hummed into the ministrations, nosing over your hairline.

“Theoretically, if I were to become a famous musician, would you come to my first gig? It’ll never happen, but you’re a writer. Speaking in hypotheticals...”

You settled your chin between the hard planes of his chest, “Depends. Will you buy my novel?”

“Three copies. I’ll come to three separate book signings to get personalized notes from you.”

You giggled and Jeongguk couldn’t help but kiss your nose. Twice. “Then yes. I’ll come to your first gig. Maybe two of them, if you pay for my plane ticket.”

He seemed satisfied with the answer even as an insecurity seemed to linger on the tip of his tongue, one that festered when he glanced over your head to the ocean, still as dark and thrashing as before. “You really won’t forget about me, will you? Because truthfully, I don’t think I’ll ever forget about you.”

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately. Give me your email and we can be penpals. You can remind me not to crush the dreams of elementary students while I’m at work…”

“...but no, Jeongguk,” You squeezed his waist, pressing your lips to the center of his chest, “I won’t forget you.”

“I’ll still send you my lyrics. They’ll probably be about you for a while, anyway.”

“I’ll let you read snippets of my novel, once I restart. Actually let you read something I’m proud of.”

“I’ll send you a picture of the first dollar I get from busking. It’ll probably be from Seokjin, but it’ll count.”

“I’ll miss you. And your cookies.”

“Miss implies forgetting,” His index finger lifted to prod at your pouted bottom lip, “We aren’t forgetting.”

Another sad smile, a different type of sad, one of the up most cliche smile because it happened, adorned your features as you raised a pinky finger. Slightly crooked, open, without your guard, “Pinky promise?”

Jeongguk’s lips distracted you from the feeling of home that came with the link of your pinky’s, squeezing onto your digit. “Pinky promise.”

Zero progress in eight weeks.

Park Jimin was standing in front of your desk with a copy of your novel in hand, a nervous smile pasted on his plump lips, feet shifting awkwardly beneath him as he waited on you to finish typing. He’d told you to keep working and who were you to deny him of that request.

“What can I do for you?” It wasn’t anything work related. You’d already passed the advice column and your office down to him in exchange for a feature column and a better office with a better computer monitor. He wasn’t getting that too.

The book hit your desk and he scurried to amend the flurry of papers that kicked up around it, speaking as he shuffled through the documents. “My girlfriend, she, uh, loves your novel and I was wondering if you could, uh, sign it for me? Maybe? It’d make her day, year probably, and—”

“Yeah, Jimin,” You reached for the book, dismissing his efforts to clean your desk with a flick of your wrist and a smile, a genuine one, “Of course I can sign it. What’s her name?”

The waxy cover contained the result of your efforts, the painstaking nights you’d stayed up sobbing over your manuscript, the early symptoms of carpal tunnel from hacking at your backspace too much, your familiarity with deleting and recovering entire documents. But most importantly, the return of your passion, your love, your fears the ultimate roadblock to the end of your novel and the beginning of a new, the one currently hidden behind a couple emails and your column for the following week.

The beauty of dual screens.

“Thank you so much,” The blonde gushed, clutching the novel against his chest when you were done scrawling on the cover with a ballpoint pen, “She’ll be so excited. Thank you!”

Your phone was prepared to text Hoseok, did you pay Jimin to do that?, when you noticed another notification, red and glaring at you from your messages application. It was a familiar contact name, a message written in a font generated by something, a three step process he must have taken to type, copy, and paste it. Even through the silly font did your heart swell.

They say lest we forget, but why forget when I can be there with you, if you’ll let me.

You kicked away from your desk, propping your foot onto the seat of your chair, phone onto your knee.

Alright, Guk, what’s the significance of this one?

There was several seconds of typing, deleting, typing again, silence, more typing. Finally, a message. A single emoticon, the side eyes, the ones that knew something with a slightly upturned mouth. You were halfway through another inquiry, an okay, what the hell does that emoji mean, Jeon? when you received a picture.

His hair was brown now. Dark and fluffy and disheveled across his forehead where a single pink note was pasted to his skin. The ink was dark, prominent, like he’d sat and scraped at it for hours.

I’LL SEE YOU SOON.

You called him.

“Jeongguk, what the fuck are you talking about—”

“I got an audition.”

You paused and he continued with a shaky breath, “I got an audition. In your town. For music. Singing.”

“...so what you’re saying is you’re going to become a big superstar and I’m going to have to pay my own way to your first concert—”

“Baby,” Jeongguk whined, “I haven’t got the spot yet.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

There was another pause, some rustling in the background and then he hummed, “I’m going to sing a song about you. For the audition.”

Your cheeks heated and you rolled toward the window, blankly staring at the towering building next to the office. “Yeah? What’s it called?”

“Wonder.”

“Yeah I wonder what you’ve titled the song about me, if it’s not my name—”

“The song is called Wonder…”

There was a pause and he was singing again, just as soft as you remembered, the same lyrics he’d serenaded you with on the beach holding a different weight now, both literally without the organic strum of a guitar and figuratively to what the polished poetry did to your healed heart, open and ready.

You murmured into his soft, teasing hums, hugging a knee to your chest, “That song, huh?”

“I told you already. I can’t seem to write anything that’s not about you,” You could hear Jeongguk’s smile, “That didn’t change in the months since you went home.”

Your cheeks heated all the way to the back of your neck, filtering to the shy roll of your shoulders as you hunched over your knee, squeezing it tighter, and you reveled in that he couldn’t see you to quip, “You know what has changed though? Your jokes. I think they’ve gotten dumber.”

There was still a smile in his voice, even as he threatened, “Alright, listen here you little—"

“Watch it or I’ll sue for you using ‘me’ without my consent.”

“You based an entire character in a bestselling novel after me. It’s only fair.”

You spluttered, “I did not—”

“And for the record? Washboard abs is a lame description of my godly physique. Even I know that and I’m but a mere lyricist.”

“I’m going to kick your ass when you get here.”

“...so you’ll want to see me?”

“Of course,” Your voice softened and you watched a bird climb altitude before fluttering to the windowsill, “I have to sign your three copies of my novel.”

Jeongguk laughed, sweet in your ears.

“I can’t wait…”

[halberdierminister]

July Monthly Goals Check-In

1. Write 250 Words Each Day Well, I started out very faithful to this. But sometime around the middle of the month, I got pretty choppy. I honestly don't know exactly how many days I skipped. I'm gonna try to write a fair amount today when I can and hope that it is enough to make up for it. Which is fine. It has been an otherwise very productive month in many other ways, so I cannot be too upset about it. I may start running a wordpress blog with a friend of mine, and if I do that may keep me more on track with these.. We shall see. We shall see.

2. Read 55 Books This Year I finished reading 55 books in May! Last month I read 10 more books. THIS month, however… I read 31 books. That brings me to a total of 97 books read for the year!!! A lot of them have been VERY short books. Lots of poetry collections, manga volumes, graphic novels, etc etc etc. But not exclusively!! I was hoping to get to 100 books by the time I wrote this but the last couple days, I have not been able to make the magic happen. But that's fine! That's TOTALLY FINE. This will be a very significant get, but I have months to get over that hump. By the time you hear from me on this goals check-in next month, I will undoubtedly be decently well over 100 books, and I can talk about why that personally feels so good then!

3. Get A Full Time Job I did not get a full time job this month. BUT. I applied to 38 full time jobs. Got a bunch of rejections. HOWEVER, I have scheduled EXACTLY ONE JOB INTERVIEW so far so that is good news! And that would be a VERY good job if I were to get it! Some of these jobs are actually pretty exciting things and I feel confident for the first time in a while that I might actually find a good job IN MY CAREER PLAN!!!! Also I almost lost my part time job but the library director was able to convince the village to let me stay on as a substitute, and it has paid off surprisingly well. I've been working two to three shifts a week on that, which is more than any of us expected. So I guess what I'm saying is I am making good progress again and I hope I can have something positive to report by the time I'm thirty. Eugh.

4. Move Out Speaking of being almost thirty. I really do not want to be here. If I get the job I interview for, I would be able to move in with my friends in Milwaukee just about as soon as possible. So that is good news. Every day it gets more tempting to just say "screw it" and live down there. But that won't help me find a job. And the job really is the important thing.

5. Drink Less Soda I mean yeah. Occasionally, I drink-a the soda. But not too much. I am good at drinking less soda than I did last year or the years before that. That's because I would have several sodas each day, to the point where it worried some of the people I know.

6. Get Something Published Just found out that I'm getting something else published today! So that is one new poem published this month! I also had my fic in the Lalonde Zine come out, but it turns out that the Lalonde Zine was more of a shared Google Drive folder than an actual zine. Maybe I should offer to compile the zine into one document? I should do that. That would be a good thing to do and it would give me a lot of experience with doing that, something I haven't really done in a while. So the practice would do me good! And then I would feel better saying that I got published there too. But yes so besides the Lalonde fic, I have had two poems published in zines, one poem published in an online literary journal, and one fic published in an online fanzine this year! If you include the articles I wrote for school newspapers, I have gotten at least one thing published every year for the past fifteen years. If you don't count the articles (or the Lalonde fic yet), I have had 30 pieces of fiction and poetry published since 2005! That's pretty neat! I want even more though!!!!!! I found a publisher's website that accepts unsolicited manuscripts. I'm going to try to put together an honest to god actual collection of my poetry, one bigger than either of the two digital chapbooks I have made. I have a friend who is a professional editor -- not of poetry, mind you, but I might be able to convince her to give it a shot -- and I would honestly hire her at full price to take a look at it. I actually will need to seek a lot of feedback from a lot of people, so if you want to read a document full of a bunch of my poetry, lemme know and I will show you what I've got when I've got something.

7. Finish Writing A Legitimate Businessman Finished in April! No new news. But just because I completed this goal doesn't mean that is the end of it! I do still have the sequel to work on, even though I haven't done any of that this month. And one of these days I am going to get around to sitting down with the printed copy and a pen and editing the shit out of it so that I can write draft #2! I think I'll probably throw draft #2 up on wattpad (why not?? I've been curious about that website and know absolutely nothing about it) and maybe I'll make a nice looking e-book out of it that I can distribute on noisetrade or itchio or something! I wonder if I could get it printed on demand or something. Obviously not for profit. But like, maybe I have friends I want to send a nice printed copy to.

8. Write More The Revelation of Takaya According to Jin Finished in Februrary! No new news. A friend of mine has offered to bind a copy of it when he has access to the materials, and I think that'd be dope as hell. I ought to work on compiling it into a nice document. I don't know if that's what he would need. He would probably want to do that work himself. Sometimes I think about the concept of making an illustration for it? I don't know. I can't draw. But I might not need to draw for the thing I have in mind. Really I should be consulting with him on that. Ah well. Either way, I hope that ends up happening. That would be so friggin cool.

MINOR GOALS

9. Finish Playthroughs Of 1. The Legend of Zelda Breath of the Wild: Finished in January! 2. Persona 1 Main Quest Good Ending: I didn't do anything on this whooooops. Getting into the second half of the year without once having touched it. I ought to get back to this. 3. Pokemon Sword: Finished in March! 4. Pokemon Let's Go Eevee: Finished in February and March! 5. Persona Q2: I have finished the fourth dungeon and gotten to The Twist!!! It's weak. This really is the kids' version of a Persona game. Minus like… the fact that it's still rated M for partial nudity. There was exactly one moment of horror and even that was like… just a bit scarier than The Nightmare Before Christmas. But I did some of the side quests and those are actually decently fun. So I have the final dungeon left. I just wanna sort of power through this. I'll worry about completion when I do new game plus, whenever that might be.

10. Record More Ukulele Videos I did not do this. I want a new microphone. These are not inherently related things, as I do have a microphone already. I have everything I need to do this. I just haven't done this. And I would like a new microphone. Also, an amp for the uke would be nice. I should text my old coworker, see if he still has one to sell.

11. Record Let's Plays Neither did I do this. How could I? My parents think video gaming is the Devil's Lettuce. And they are always home. They would notice if they heard me talking to my computer. And that is assuming that I had something I could play on my computer that anyone would want to watch. I need a better computer. A gaming computer. An editing computer. I'm lucky that these are the same thing.

12. Duolingo? I was SUPER gung ho in the end of June and the beginning of July, but before too long I petered out. I've used a couple streak freezes and have really been doing mostly the bare minimum to not drop out of the emerald league. But I've got a streak of about 208 days, and that is nothing to sneeze at! Do I feel like I'm learning? I dunno. But I am at least interacting with Spanish just about every day so that… that's got to be helpful, right? right?

This was over one thousand five hundred words. Wait! Sixteen hundred exactly.

[screechfoxes]

thank you for @cuttoothed and @twodrunkencelestials for tagging me! warning: i ramble.

Author Name:

screechfox on AO3, but you can call me Kit!

Fandoms You Write For:

at this moment in time, the Magnus Archives almost exclusively.

i also have one Homestuck WIP in my documents that i’m determined to finish, but that one is more a matter of spite than anything else

Where You Post:

here on AO3! i occasionally post ficlets on tumblr but i think i’m up to date on crossposting them right now

Most Popular Oneshot:

huh, i’m surprised to learn that by kudos, it’s liar’s comfort, some jon+helen feels i wrote post-episode 146.

but a close runner up - and the winner by comments - is curiosity kissed the cat, which is much less of a surprise: jon/elias with touch-starved jon and brief explorations of his ace-ness

(non-TMA: by kudos we have mourn for all and none, one of my caduceus/molly oneshots, and by comments we have climbing up the walls, a vampire!percy de rolo fic! both solid choices)

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story:

well, given that i have a tendency to orphan abandoned longfics, or at least exile them to what i like to call my Shame Pseud ™, i only have two longfics on my account and only one on my regular pseud

so logically, it’s my body, unreal, the TMA season 4 fix-it-but-not, which i will finish the fourth chapter of somewhen, when my muse has stopped being so fickle

(in actual fact it’s an umbrella academy fic on my other pseud but i refuse to link to it because it has a guilt-inducing number of kudos for something i stopped working on in march.)

Favourite Story You Wrote:

oh no you can’t make me pick between my babies, come on

‘story i’m most proud of finishing’ is my jonelias watcher’s crown fic, the ritual of kings because fun fact, that so nearly ended up languishing in my abandoned projects folder to be pulled apart for scraps

in general though, probably spidersilk and eyelashes, the faintly grotesque web!jon fic i did. i’ve got a lot more confident/experimental with lots of aspects of writing since joining TMA fandom, and i would count this fic as one of the turning points in that

(honourable mention to a wine-dark death, because i will never not love trashy vampires.)

Story You Were Nervous to Post:

i wasn’t sure i had an answer for this and then i remember the multiple crises i had over posting the boneturner-flavour grit your teeth, clench your jaw, despite the fact that it is, in hindsight, quite tame

also, every successive chapter of my body, unreal, because the more chapters i keep it going for, the more pressure i feel to keep updating it X)

How Do You Pick Your Titles:

wildly and with no consistency at all

recently i’ve been focusing on the idea or imagery of the overall fic and trying to think of a good play on that. occasionally i paraphrase lines of songs or poetry (or mishear, as in the case of the ritual of kings)

on a rare occasion, nearly all of my current wips have actual proper titles - normally they don’t get to upgrade from draft titles (eg. more vampires or werewolves, sort of) until they’re nearly ready to post

Do You Outline:

i mostly write oneshots, so not really? the beginning process of a oneshot tends to be writing a lot of little fragments of my initial idea and then stitching them together, so that’s kind of like outlining? and i do generally have an endpoint in mind, though this can change easily

in my current longfic cases... also only kind of? my body, unreal, is outlined a whole chapter in advance, and i have a whole six chapters outlined of a passion project but i haven’t even got halfway through the plot floating in my brain

How Many of Your Stories Are Complete:

19 of 20 TMA fics on AO3, with the caveat that some of those belong to series that could get later installments: the distortion!jon fics and some weird jon/helen

In-Progress:

including my body, unreal, i have ten WIPs in my active WIP folder, and fourteen things ‘on the backburner’, which may be finished somewhen or stripped for parts, who knows

i have too many WIPs. someone save me

Coming Soon:

i’m pretty busy over the next few days, so my already-fickle muse is going to have a hard time working on any one thing. in other words, god knows

Do You Accept Prompts:

weirdly, i do! see above musings on having a fickle muse, so i have no promises i’ll fill them, but i love getting prompts!

Upcoming Story You’re the Most Excited For:

i swear to god, i will finish this ridiculous mike/jon vast-centric multichapter fic if it kills me.

Tag Five Fanfic Authors to Answer These Questions

i am not awake enough to deal with having to think of new people to tag, so take this as a free pass to do this if you haven’t already!

[rosecorcoranwrites]

Editing Advice Part 3: Rewriting

Last time, we discussed how to address plot holes and keep world building internally consistent. Today, I will share my thoughts on rewriting, specifically on when you should rewrite, and when you should stop. I should mention, though, that parts 1, 2, and 3 of this series can and should be done simultaneously. That is, while you're rewriting, you can fix plot holes and issues with timing, and when you're looking at some inconsistencies in world building, you might find a section you need to rewrite. So the first answer to "when should I rewrite" is "when you have to fix the problems with continuity, world building, and plot".

But what about in general? First of all, what do I mean by rewriting? I'm not talking about tweaking a sentence here or there, or find/replacing a character's name, nor am I talking about changing the details of how a certain magical creature looks or wether the moon should be waxing or waning in one scene. I'm talking about full on changes to scenes, chapters, or entire books. This is hardcore stuff. Fun, but hardcore. First, let's talk about dealing with different drafts.

My Draft Philosophy

While some writers will tell you to completely scrap each old draft and literally rewrite each new one from scratch, I think this is utter madness. First of all—

and I realize I am only one of five writers ever to say this—your first draft is good! If it wasn't, then you shouldn't bother rewriting it and should move on to some other project. Is it perfect? Heck no! That's why we're shiny-ing it up. But it's good. There are good sentences, good turns of phrase, good exchanges and flow. What's more, there is heart; when you wrote it, you were feeling certain things that you won't be feeling if you completely rewrite it. Don't forget that, and don't throw it away.

Well, now that that's out of the way, what should you do with your first, or second, or third draft (did I mention I rewrote my third book four and a half times?). Save them each as a separate document! You never want to write over an old draft, because you might, even years down the line, think back on something that you can reuse from one of those old drafts. I'm speaking from experience here. Just as there are parts of your old drafts that you dislike, there will be parts of your new drafts that you end up not liking as much as what you had previously written. Computer memory is cheap, and writing time isn't. Save everything!

I'll even save each chapter of a to-be-rewritten/edited draft as its own document. This helps me break rewriting into chunks and, occasionally, rethink structure. Maybe the story would flow better if I moved this chapter before that one? Maybe I should break this long one into two short ones (separate documents will more easily show you the word count of each chapter). I'll even do this for particularly tricky scenes, saving only the scene into it's own document so I can really play around with it without fear of altering the rest of the chapter. When I'm done with the scene or chapter, I copy/paste it back into the larger draft of the whole book.

When to Rewrite

But how does one know when a scene or chapter should be rewritten, instead of changed a little. The simple answer is, when you don't love it. When you're reading through your book, happy as a clam, and suddenly there's a part that irks you, or feels off, or is kind of boring. That part needs to be rewritten rather than sent out into the world in a subpar fashion.

Obviously, you'll need to rewrite scenes that contain large continuity errors, internal inconsistencies, or plot holes, but there might be scenes that are perfectly serviceable that still don't sit right with you. They're not as good as they could be, and you know it. Rewriting, to me, is a very personal thing; you might even have beta readers who think your story is fine, but if you don't think it is, then it isn't.

Given the personal nature of the beast, it's hard to talk about it in generalities, so I'll instead deal with examples. I'll use my own writing, since I've done my share of rewrites for a number of different reasons.

Miscast Spells had it's major changes when I went from planning to drafting, so I didn't have too many rewrites, but I did significantly change the prologue; it was actually the last scene of that book that I wrote. Why did I rewrite it? Well, it was boring, so I spiffed it up, added more characterization, and actually showed Emmaline getting cursed during it (yes, that very important scene was not in the first draft!).

I would say I went through about three drafts of Outcast Shadows. The first one existed before I wrote Recast Light, and I didn't know how the trilogy ended. Sebastian had a bit of a different motivation for his actions ( he actually wanted to destroy Chiaroscuro! Yikes!), but when I started writing Recast Light and looking at Sebastian's character, this motive didn't ring true to who he was. This meant I had to do a major overhaul of his storyline, but it was obviously for the best. In the final draft, I rewrote particular scenes—when Sebastian first speaks to Millie in Chiaroscuro, when he explains about the threat facing the city, what happens between him and Alistair in the courtyard—in order to really emphasize character relationships and feelings. I wouldn't say the old versions of those scenes were bad, but they weren't what I wanted for the story overall. I didn't love them, and now I do.

And then there is Recast Light, the problem child. When I say I rewrote it four and a half times, I mean I basically changed half of what happens in the book, significantly, four times, and then tweaked the rest here and there (that's where the half comes from!). For example, in the first two drafts, there was an entire subplot involving Chiaroscuran anarchists; if you've read the book, you'll know that that is no longer a thing (though two of their members, Augustus and the Empress, remained in the story). Why did I cut it? It was random and added nothing to the story; I didn't love it.

Then there was Sebastian, my problem child within a problem child. In the first draft, he slept through most of the book (no, really!), and in the second draft, he was awake, but hardly interacted with the rest of the main characters (he was hanging out with the anarchists). It wasn't until the third draft that he finally joined everyone else like a proper main character. Why did I change it? A better question would be, why did I write it so poorly the first two times. It was so weird and not at all what I wanted that I couldn't let it stand.

Then, I overhauled the entire second half of the book between the third and fourth drafts (everything after chapter seven, for those of you who have read it). None of that was there before the final draft. I'm still shocked by this, and I'm the author! Why did I rewrite it? Several reasons. First, the way the main cast dealt with Alcea in the first drafts was totally deus ex machina. Gross! Second, none of it tied in enough with the first two books. It wasn't narratively satisfying, instead feeling thrown together. Sure, the story ended, but it wasn't how that story should have ended, given everything that came before it. I wanted to bring back elements from the other books so that the trilogy would feel like a cohesive whole.

As a side note, the above example is also a reason not to kill your darlings. I had always wanted a ballroom scene in my books, but could never find a place to put it that made sense. As I was writing my fourth draft, flailing around for a way to fix it, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Eh, why not?", figuring that a ball scene couldn't hurt what was already massively suffering. So I wrote the scene, and suddenly everything fell into place: how Sebastian could naturally meet-up with the rest of the cast, what Alcea's endgame would be, and from there, what the characters would need to do to deal with her. It all fit, and all because I had a silly little pet project of cramming a ballroom scene into the book. Don't kill your darlings; use them.

When to Stop

Hopefully those examples can give you a feel for how to go about choosing when to rewrite, but then there is the opposite question: when should you stop?

This is actually an important question, because some writers never stop, and if you never stop, you'll never publish. Worse, still, are certain writers (usually poets) who continue to rewrite works that they've published! I feel like this is a case of the perfect being an enemy of the good, in that it is almost impossible to actually create a perfect story (there are, in fact, only four in existence: Fullmetal Alchemist, Coco, Erased, and Ghost Trick). What you need to realize is that you aren't going to send a perfect story out into the world and should instead aim to send out the best version of your story.

Thus, if the answer to "When should I rewrite something?" is "When you don't love it" then the answer to "When should I stop rewriting something" is "When you love it". When you read what you've written, or rewritten, and it makes you smile, or get excited. When you no longer feel annoyance or boredom or dissatisfaction at reading that scene or chapter. Again, this is pretty personal, so there aren't any specifics I can give you. Just pay attention to how you feel about your own writing; if you really love it, you probably don't need to rewrite it any further (though you might need two tweak it for continuity and world building and such).

A Few Other Tips and Tricks

Everyone has their own style of taking on the rewriting process. Some people use Track Changes, or different colors of font and highlights. Some people print their documents and make changes on the paper itself with a red pen. I would say to find whatever works for you.

My process is: I usually read each chapter through, changing what I can and marking other things for later review, usually using Track Changes. I will leave myself notes, like, "Check for continuity with Chapter 5" or "Is this clear?". If it's something that irks me, but I'm not sure why, I'll usually highlight the whole section for later review and rewriting. I will then move on to the next chapter and do the same thing, then return to my notes after going through the rest of the book.

When it comes to how to rewrite a scene, I will usually outline my thoughts on paper. I might chart out two possible scenarios and see which one works best, or enumerate how changing one thing will effect the rest of the events in the story. I like writing on paper because it's quick, impermanent, and easily scrapped. There's also something about moving my hands, using different colored ink, and seeing my ideas written out spatially that helps me think. It's a way of seeing the story from a different perspective that I find helpful.

And that's it for rewriting. We've covered the main chunk of the editing process, the hard part, if you will. All that's left is copyediting. See you next time!

[cappuccinosweets]

HAN-SOME STRANGER

Title: Han-some Stranger 

Warnings: none

Pairing: Jumin x College Student!MC

Description: After a stressful day, Jumin decides to surprise MC.

READ MORE OF MY WORKS HERE (X)

For what seemed like the nth time that afternoon you looked up from your computer and glanced at the man sitting about 3 tables away from you. There was nothing strange or out of place with the way he sat or even interacted with the staff in the cafe. However, his sheer presence alone was enough to draw attention from everyone around him.

 The man wore casual clothes, simple but hinting designer origins. His black hair was in a careful disarray, styled to emphasize his sharp features and equally dark eyes. He had been casually sipping at his coffee, and for the last five minutes had been preoccupied with his phone. 

Then out of nowhere, he looked up and your heart almost leapt up your throat--he smiled. 

Shaking out your initial embarrassment you smiled back. Jumin Han chuckled to himself. It was as if he could hear your frantic heartbeat from his side of the room (which could be possible with the way it was hammering against your chest). He turned his attention back to his phone and you thought back to how you got into this situation. 

You and your classmates had planned to meet up together in a local cafe to finish up your report. The deadline had been looming over your heads but what with exams and other requirements you had put off this particular project until the last minute--err rather, last 24 hours before the submission. 

As a fourth year student just a few months away from graduation you were exhausted. The pressure and fatigue from all the schoolwork you were doing was bearing down on you like a concrete wall. Still, you managed to be optimistic and energetic and encouragements from all the RFA members had helped you remain sane throughout most of the duration.

Supposedly you and your groupmates were to meet at 8 am. You arrived a few minutes earlier and expected them to follow. A text from them informed you that they were going to be a few minutes late so you decided to kill some time and log into the RFA chatroom. 

Everyone immediately flooded you with greetings. Yoosung, sending his sympathies and extending his own worries about his finals. Zen, reminding you to eat properly to which Jaehee fervently agreed to and Seven wondering out loud if he could use the anxiety of college students to power his computer. You were a little disappointed to see that Jumin wasn’t online. It had been a while since the two of you had talked properly. Afterall, he was equally busy with his work. Jumin being him, was understanding about the whole situation and supported you in his own way. He gave brief encouragements, lectures about not skipping meals and the occasional sweet confession that he had missed you. For you missing him was an understatement but you couldn’t exactly say that. It was selfish.

 Shaking away the aching feeling that wrung your chest you typed back a short thank you for all the other members’ concerns. You took a selfie with the empty coffee shop as the backdrop with the caption. Still waiting for my groupmates to arrive :(

Zen sent an angry emoji. 

How inconsiderate of them to make you wait! If I wasn’t busy I would run right there and wait with you. 

You don’t need to do that, you replied, they’re just a little late. I don’t mind waiting for a bit. The coffee shop is really peaceful and quaint.

Plus, Yoosung inserted, I don’t think Jumin would appreciate it if you were alone with MC.

True, Jaehee agreed, he’s become quite fond of MC these days. 

Then maybe MC should ask Jumin to stay with her! Seven chimed in. 

For a brief moment the idea made your heart flutter with excitement. You and Jumin alone in the coffee shop eating starwberry cheesecake and talking all afternoon. What a dream that would be...

I think that’s too much... Jaehee replied trampling on your fantasy, Mr. Han is quite the busy now-a-days. I don’t think he has the time to indulge MC.

Jaehee, that was too harsh... Yoosung typed and you wanted to agree but Jaehee was right. There wasn’t really any time for things like that to happen. 

Don’t worry about it Yoosung... you typed, Jaehee is right, Jumin doesn’t have time for silly requests like that. Listen, I think I just saw my friend enter the cafe. I gotta go, bye!

You didn’t wait for any of them to reply. You just exited the chatroom and stuffed your phone inside your pocket. Your groupmates did arrive and after apologising profusely the three of you went on to work with your assigned tasks. It wasn’t really that difficult just long and time-consuming. Enough to occupy most of your thoughts and disappointment from what Jaehee said earlier. 

All this time you had barely talked to your groupmates. Just the occasional questions and brief encouragements. By the sixth hour your head was aching so much and your back was killing you. The sun outside was setting bathing everything in a soft orange glow. That was when the front door to the cafe chimed, calling your attention. 

At first your brain couldn’t process what you were seeing. Different snapshots came into perspective--first the dark hair, then the tall frame,-- until the whole person came into view and you realized that Jumin Han had just entered the building. 

Everyone seemed to have the same reaction as you, dumbfounded at the sudden arrival of this gorgeous excuse of a man. He was out of his usual suit and in a more casual jeans and and dark sweater. That didn’t make him any less attractive. 

Jumin took his time, calmly surveying the room until he caught sight of you. Automatically his features morphed into a kind smile. He started walking and you were flustered because for a minute you thought that he was going to go to your table and sit with you and your group. Instead he stopped a few tables away. He sat down, called for a waiter and ordered himself a drink. 

 Still trying to process what had just happened you stared blankly at Jumin. As if somehow he could give an explanation from the other side of the room. Then, as if right on cue, your phone buzzed on your lap. It was a message from Jumin. 

Are you almost done? I came to pick you up. 

You stared at your screen, unable to respond. So much has happened in a quick span of time that your emotions were all over the place. 

How did you know I was here?

You sent a picture on the messenger, Jumin replied, You looked very cute by the way The name of the cafe was in the background. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to your side as Zen had put it. I was indeed busy that morning but I wanted to make it up to you at least. Did I come at a bad time? I seem to be distracting you from your work. 

You looked up to see him smirking down his phone. It seemed like he wasn’t that sorry at all. 

“Is everything alright? That guy is really cute, huh?” your groupmate suddenly asked, making you jump at your seat. 

“Y-yeah,” you grinned sheepishly, “Hey, we’re almost done here right?”

“Yup,” she replied happily, “once you’ve finished just send your part to me. I can compile them together into one document then we can leave.”

“Alright,” your voice barely came out. Gingerly you sent a quick reply to Jumin, telling him that you will be done in a few minutes. 

It was hard enough to concentrate knowing that Jumin was just few feet away from you but you had diligently attended to your work, albeit stealing a few glances at your boyfriend. Your fingers trembled as you typed on your computer. They didn’t stop shaking when you finally sent your draft to your friends. 

“I’m gonna go ahead,” you told them.

 You wanted nothing more than to run into Jumin’s arms and just have him catch you in the middle of the room but you kept your cool. Politely waiting for your friends to say good-bye before finally heading to Jumin’s table. 

He stood up and you swore everyone’s jaws dropped when he extended his hand to reach for yours. Usually you would be bashful at these kinds of things but you paid them no mind.

You were so tired. You hadn’t realized the gravity of it until you felt Jumin’s warm hand wrapped around yours. It was comfortable and it made you feel safe. You suspected that if he had hugged you then you would feel even better. All you wanted to do was to collapse in Jumin’s embrace and just let the world dissolve around the two of you. 

“Thank you for waiting for me,” you told him as the two of you went out the cafe, hands still intertwined together. 

“Did I surprise you?” he asked.

“Yes,” you admitted leaning on to him a little more, “but in a good way. Which reminds me. I thought you were busy today.”

“I was,” Jumin confessed and you worried that he might have done something to curtail his work, “I didn’t log in the messenger until later today. I saw how stressed and a little upset you were. Zen, even pointed it out on several instances.” 

Jumin snorted surprising you, “As if I couldn’t see that.”

You giggled at him but stopped short when he gave you a pointed look. 

“I know, I’m probably not the best at all this but I do care about you. I hope you don’t think that I take you for granted whenever I’m busy with work.”

“I know that,” you bumped his hip against him playfully, “I was just... a little lonely I guess. Doing all this schoolwork day-in and day-out just burned me out.”

Jumin nodded to himself, “That’s why I came here after work. I once saw on a TV drama that girls like it when their boyfriends pick them up after a stressful day.”

He glanced down at your blushing face and grinned, “I guess it’s true.”

You wrinkled your nose at him and he laughed. Jumin gently spun you around to him, his hands on either side of your face. 

“It’s amazing how happy you become when I only do so little.”

Your brows automatically knit together at his words, “You went out of your way to pick me up, when we know for a fact that you’re crazy busy.”

Jumin chuckled softly, “I am not crazy busy.”

You narrowed your eyes and he shrugged. 

“Even if I am, I promised you that were gonna have a normal relationship. Going on dates, picking you up and supporting everything you love. I know this is not what you had in mind but once you’re done with your finals--once you’ve rested, we can do all those things and more. For now I just want you to focus on school and let me take care of you.”

“Alright,” you murmured awed at his sweetness. 

“Good,” Jumin smiled, dropping his hands to hold on to yours once again. 

[jacquelinesresearch]

The Staples of Writing (AKA My Favorite Things About Writing)

“The Case FOR ‘Latinx’” seems to use most, if not all, of the staples of writing shown in the reference documents. The most obvious case of Scharron-del Rio and Aja involving these ideas in their writing is through their use of evidence to create an argument. In the argument handout, in the section on evidence, the authors of this handout claim (notice my use of a signal word) that the use of evidence and the strength of that evidence “can make or break your argument.” We see this in the Latinx article. For example, in the section on “Linguistic Imperialism”, Scharron-del Rio and Aja use their evidence about Spanish being the agent of “linguistic imperialism” for centuries. Without having strong evidence like that, their entire argument would have fallen through.

Additionally, we can see Scharron-del Rio and Aja thesis in the introduction of the article in the paragraph beginning with, “As scholars…” While this is not the typical sentence structure that at least I am used to as a thesis, it does accomplish the first strategy for what a thesis statement can be, as shown in the handout (“It makes a definite and limited assertion that needs to be explained and supported by further discussion”). The authors are making the assertion is that conversations about “Latinx” as a term are not going away anytime soon, which means that the implications of these conversations are going to continue to form. The purpose of the article to try to explain why “Latinx” is a necessary term, which they defend with evidence throughout the article.

In the article, Scharron-del Rio and Aja use their introduction and conclusion in the most efficient way. The introduction successfully introduces the topic and establishes where it is the authors stand on whether or not “Latinx” is a necessary term. As far as creating “an interesting, effective introduction”, the authors use the fourth strategy of using an anecdote (ie their backgrounds) when explaining why chose the topic and their position. As far as the conclusion goes, the authors keep from just repeating their biggest claims (which is something I will admit I default to), but rather reaffirm their point in a way that is new and impactful, which is what conclusions are supposed to do.

The one thing I will say Scharron-del Rio and Aja do not out right accomplish, and I really do believe that it is just because of the structure of the article, is using topic sentences. While I am never lost or confused on what it is they are writing about, other than including headers on every point they argue, I would not know what it is they are arguing against in each section until I am already fairly deep into the meat of their arguments. However, as I said before, I think this is just because of the structure of the article and it works without explicit topic sentence.

I also have to contend that I cannot tell if Scharron-del Rio and Aja revisedtheir article, which is a good thing. I do not see any obvious gaps in their article, spelling/grammar error, etc., so I am going to assume that they did revise the article in order to craft the most effective argument.

All of the staples of writing seen in the reference documents are ideas that I have trained to try to accomplish with my own writing. Even in the essays I write for fun (because I am a nerd), I try to make sure that I have a thesis that explains what it is that I am arguing, evidence to support that argument, topic sentence, an effective introduction and conclusion, and I am not going to lie, using signal words is probably one of my favorite things (remember, I am the biggest of the nerds). Using these ideas help make writing just that much more effective, which is the goal. Without an effective argument and writing, we’re just putting words on a page with little purpose, no matter the intent.

Scharrón-del Río, María R., and Alan A. Aja. “The Case FOR ‘Latinx’: Why Intersectionality Is Not a Choice.” Latino Rebels, 5 Dec. 2015, www.latinorebels.com/2015/12/05/the-case-for-latinx-why-intersectionality-is-not-a-choice/.

“Argument.” The Writing Center • University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 22 Feb. 2021, writingcenter.unc.edu/tips-and-tools/argument/.

“Using Thesis Statements.” Writing Advice, advice.writing.utoronto.ca/planning/thesis-statements/.

“Revising Drafts.” The Writing Center • University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2 Mar. 2021, writingcenter.unc.edu/tips-and-tools/revising-drafts/.

“Introductions and Conclusions.” Writing Advice, advice.writing.utoronto.ca/planning/intros-and-conclusions/.

Nordquist, Richard. “Examples of Effective Topic Sentences.” ThoughtCo, www.thoughtco.com/topic-sentence-composition-1692551.

Signal Phrases, department.monm.edu/english/mew/signal_phrases.htm.

[whentherewerebicycles]

sorry for the blow-by-blow account of this week of diss writing!! I just find that at the end of a super long writing day I need to narrate the day for myself so that it feels like something happened and it wasn’t just a weird fever dream. I wrote for 8.5 hours today (that autocorrected to “wept” which is TOO REAL ahahaha). too tired right now to think about what I did but I think some of it was good. I draw closer. I definitely will not have a full diss draft by the end of the day Friday but I think that I will have a really interesting and completely new draft of the chapter I was not supposed to rewrite. ha. fuck. ok. that’s fine. but then I will have two really solid chapters done, a third chapter that is kinda piecemeal at the moment but I think has some really solid stuff in it, and a fourth chapter (woolf) that I know has some really exciting stuff in it but is definitely going to be the most fragmentary/confused of them all. tbh though there is so much scholarship on Woolf already, much less on Bowen, and almost none at all on Renault so I feel actually pretty good about the fact that I invested most of my energy in the stuff that feels like my ~Original Contribution to Scholarship~ or whatever a dissertation is supposed to be.

the document is still a mess and there’s so much left to do but when I defend this thing I am going to be proud of the work I did. it represents original thought and sustained work and while I understand that perfectionism must be guarded against etc etc, I think what I am most proud of is the fact that I tried to do the harder thing that felt more ethical to me even though I was not sure at all that I could actually pull it off (I’M STILL NOT SURE I CAN HAHA. OH GOD SEND HELP.) instead of doing the safer thing I was pretty sure I could.

I was writing down something earlier about how when I was in my second year of the program, I spent most of my time just having intense existential crises about how little I knew and how vast it all seemed and how shivery/scary/awful it felt to be hiding inside a voice of critical authority when you knew you were just faking it. back then I just totally had bought into this academia thing hook line and sinker and it felt awful to think that if I failed or slipped up I might be rejected by this institution I wanted to be a part of. but like. idk. I still have that longing to be received as a serious thinker and I am still terrified of rejection but I also feel like I have started to let go of that need for academia to give me a sense of self worth. I can define myself for myself, both by thinking about who I am / want to be and by drawing heavily on the support of other women and queer writers who have also grappled with these big questions about what it means to be a person. I also feel like I’m no longer willing to let this academia thing crush me up into its fantasies and eat me alive, to borrow Lorde’s phrase. I feel stressed about how much work lies ahead and by the vastness of what I still don’t know (which will probably never change!). but it feels different this time. I feel different. I’m less terrified that I’m gonna be unmasked/exposed/rejected by some impersonal authority or whatever, and I think it’s because I’m no longer asking the vast impersonal institution to tell me who I am or give me authorization to speak. I’m trying to authorize myself. I’m trying!!!!!!