#it looks horrible lol. I know i already used this verb before

[echo-s-land]

Franciser des mots anglais cessera jamais d'être hilarant

Like, yeah, I just wrote 'pickpocker'. What you gonna do

[rhysismydaddy]

Naughty Neighbors pt. 3 (Elriel)

I think I might’ve actually died writing the first part of this not going to lie. Also don’t come for me changing the verb tense I’m well aware lol 

Coming next week...

“I’m not taking you to bed while you belong to another man, Elain.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Maybe not your body,” he agrees, placing a wide hand on her chest, right above her heart. “But I want this to be mine. And you’re going to give it to me.”

______________________________________________________________

~Elain~

It’s Saturday night, the first day of what’s shaping up to be a truly unremarkable weekend for Elain. Feyre’s art show’s tomorrow, but that’s the most exciting thing she has planned. 

She can’t remember the last time she’d been excited about something even was, actually. 

Pushing that uncomfortable thought away, she settles further in the bath and sighs. Desperate for entertainment, she tries to focus on the pages of the book in front of her, but her brain won’t cooperate. 

After another ten minutes, she resigns herself to an early night and gets out of the tub, slipping into one of her robes. 

It’s only eleven, but she gets in bed, forgotten book on her night table. Closing her eyes proves she is actually a little tired, because she starts to relax and drift off to sleep. 

But then she hears it.

A low groan sounds through the wall between her apartment and her neighbor’s, and her eyes go wide. She hears two people talk, then a feminine laugh. Which turns into a loud moan a second later.

Oh. My. Gods.

There’s a thud, then sexy, masculine laughter meets her ears.

Some shuffling sounds make Elain bury her head under her pillow,, the blush on her cheeks hot enough to melt the sheets away. This is so horrible.

But no amount of pillows could stop her from hearing what happens next.

The feminine moaning gets louder, then is joined by a loud banging directly on her wall. Was that his... headboard?

Good heavens above, he’s really going for it over there. 

There’s a pause, then the banging gets even more intense. The woman’s moaning is closer now, and she realizes with a start what’s happening. They’d moved against the wall. Her wall.

Oh, he's dead.

She’ll kill him herself if she had to for subjecting her to this. 

Except that’s not exactly what she feels like doing as she hears the asshole practically growl, “Fuck, baby.”

~Azriel~

Mor slaps my chest, giving me a strange look. “Fuck, baby?” she whispers incredulously. “That’s what you say when you get laid?.”

I just roll my eyes and mutter, “Shut up.”

“That’s the most embarrassing, male thing you could ever say. But keep going. The point is to prove you have better stamina, and we’ve only been at this for ten minutes.”

Barely repressing laughter, I wrap her jean-clad legs tighter around my waist and keep moving against her.

When she lets out another ridiculously loud moan, I say quietly, “This is so fucking stupid.”

“I agree, but I’m not the one whose whipped.”

In case it isn’t obvious, I really, really regret telling her about Elain.

As soon as she’d heard about Lucien “Shit in the Sack” Vanserra, Mor had been determined to help.

She’s my absolute best friend, the one who knows every sordid detail about my life, and tonight she’s made it her mission in life to help make Elain jealous.

She’s also a lesbian.

“So this is doing nothing for you?” I ask with a frown. I mean, if we were naked, this would be some of my best work.

She gives me a flat look, even as I continue fake-fucking her against the wall. “Not unless you change your name to Azriella and grow a huge pair of-”

“Okay, I get it. Laugh like I said something funny.”

Rolling her eyes, she does, and I force myself to huff a chuckle, too.

Gods, she’s right. I’m whipped. And definitely deranged. For a chick who isn’t even sleeping with me.

If my friends knew, they’d never shut up about it. Mor was the only one I’d told, and that was because she knows how it feels to have feelings for someone and not be able to do anything about it.

Plus, I’d been her fake boyfriend for years in high school before she came out to her parents, so she owes me.

Mor checks her watch and raises her eyebrows. “It’s been fifteen minutes. How long do you usually last?”

It’s my turn to glare. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“I’m just saying, I have a date in an hour.” 

She groans, so I wait until that stops and ask, “With who?”

“That really pretty barista I told you about, so I don’t want to be late. Five more minutes seems good.” I nod, because it’s nice she’s doing this in the first place. “Make em count, champ.”

I think I’m going to kill her one day. 

But I do. 

And by the end, we’re both breathing hard and have made enough noise to wake the whole building. After a very obnoxious climax, I let Mor down. “You realize if she does ever have sex with you you’re going to have to-”

“It won’t be a problem,” I assure her, one-hundred percent confident in that fact. 

She gives me a disbelieving look but just shakes her head and ruffles her hair. Once at the door, she turns and whispers, “She’s going to look out the peep hole, so I’m going to kiss the shit out of you.”

With that, my best friend swings the door open, turns around, and puts on an expression I’ve never seen before. It’s desire and satisfaction and something else entirely I don’t want to read in to. It’s disgusting. 

But I act like the “champ” I am and don’t react, even as she pulls my face down to hers and kisses me. 

Her nails rake down my bare back, and even though this does absolutely nothing for me, I wrap my arms around her and lift her clear off her feet to bring her closer.

Don’t get me wrong, Mor’s beautiful and all, but she’s my best friend, and this is giving me flashbacks to homecoming and prom and every other time we had to put on an act.  

How long till this is over, exactly?

~Elain~

Watching him kiss that woman... Elain can admit it does strange things to her. Like makes her want to storm out and yank them apart, then scream. 

She somehow refraines. 

He finally lets her down, and the rage and frustration builds to an insurmountable level because she’s freaking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where Elain was tempted to go kiss her herself. 

How annoying. 

Turning on her heel, she stomps back over to her bed and flops down. 

She’s hot and cold and her core is so tight it's almost painful. 

Never, not once in her entire life, had she thought she’d be turned on hearing something like that. 

But picturing him... doing that, and so close to her own bed... yeah. She’d almost come herself, and she was in a completely different room. 

Gods, she’s pathetic. 

And she can absolutely never see him again. 

That’s beyond obvious.

Terrible liar she is, she knows it would be all over her face. What would she even say? Oh, hey neighbor. Heard you really give that woman a good time last night. So good, in fact, you almost got both of us off. High-five!

Nope. She’d rather move across town before running in to him again. 

Even though the thought makes her strangely sad. 

She falls asleep soon after, mind going back over every tiny detail she’d heard tonight until she’s surprised she can sleep at all. 

~Azriel~

It’s Sunday morning, meaning I don’t have to work. Meaning I don’t have an excuse to see Elain. 

But fuck do I want to. 

I can’t hardly wait for the blush I know will pop up on her cheeks. I probably won’t have to even speak for it to happen. There’s no way she didn’t hear the amazing fake sex I had last night. She probably won’t even be able to look me in the eyes. 

So I wait until I hear her get up and start shuffling around in her apartment. 

Then, like the creep I am, I sit on the couch and wait for her door to open so I can go out and tease her until she slaps me or something. 

But it doesn’t. I sit there until it’s four in the afternoon, and that’s when it dawns. 

She told me herself she checks her garden on Sundays--a fact she knows I know--so the only reason she wouldn’t go... 

She’s trying to avoid me.

A laugh bursts out of me. 

Oh, Elain. Baby girl, that just won’t do. 

I grab my laptop and look up the MOMA exhibits for this weekend, a probably-evil smile already blooming on my face. 

~Elain~

Should I go out the window? 

No, I live on the third floor. 

But... 

After looking at the drop down, she decides that’s definitely not happening. She’ll have to go the normal way. Which means she’ll have to walk by the door next to hers. Which belongs to him. 

Gods, she was sweating already. 

Which isn’t good, since the silk of her dress will definitely show it. Forcing herself to calm down, she grabs her clutch and slowly, quietly, opens the door. 

Empty. 

Before that can change, she hurtles down the hallway and stairs, breathing a sigh of relief when she steps outside. 

It turns into a strangled gasp as she looks up from the cement. 

Her neighbor’s standing in front of her, looking dark and alluring and inexplicably handsome in the twilight sky. 

But that’s not why her breath goes a little shallow. 

The dark jeans, boots, and t-shirts he’s worn every time she’s seen him have now been replaced with a black suit, crisply cut to his tall frame. 

He looks so handsome she can hardly remember she’s supposed to be avoiding him. 

But then the why of that statement comes rushing back, and her cheeks go pink. He looks pleased at that, even as his darkening eyes roam over her frame. 

Her dress is floor-length, but the spaghetti straps and low back make it revealing. That, and the fact that the silk fabric clings to every dip and curve of her figure. 

His eyes notice it all, all the way down to her heel-clad feet and back up to her softly curled hair. 

“Elain.”

It’s just one word, and it’s one she knows well, but it’s somehow everything. 

Now more than ever, she wished she knew his name. It usually seems like a little game, but now it feels like a whole in her chest. She wants to know him. 

Wants to know how to say his name in a way that makes him feel like she feels right now. 

“You look beautiful,” he comments, sliding his hands in the pockets of that damn suit. 

“Thank you. You look nice, too.” Nice? More like devastating. He just shrugs. “Hot date?”

A small smile graces his full lips. “No, that was last night.”

“I’m aware,” she bites out, face starting to heat. Her body’s reliving last night, and she has to force herself not to press her legs together. 

“Just wanted you to know how it’s supposed to be done.”

“How considerate.” 

He steps close, so close they’re sharing air. “Did it bother you, listening to me with another woman?”

She sure as hell can’t tell him the truth, so she says breathlessly, “Not unless you count the nausea.” 

Damn him for turning her into a liar. And damn him for smelling so good.

There’s an arm around her waist, a hand on her hip. He’s so close now that his lips brush her ear as he whispers, “Did it turn you on?”

A whimper escapes her lips, so she bites one to keep herself quiet as she shakes her head no. 

“Elain, you are such a little liar,” he scolds, pulling away to smirk at her. “You’re blushing.” A finger runs down her cheek. She bats it away. 

“We should get going,” he observes, checking his watch. 

That gets her attention. “What?”

His lips twitch as he says, “The MOMA exhibit is tonight, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Well, we should go then.”

Oh, gods above. He’s planning on attending? With her? 

This is a terrible idea. But one look at his devilish smile tells her there’s no changing his mind. So she sighs and says, “We’ll have to get a cab. It’s across the city.”

“I’ll just drive, then,” he says, throwing her completely off guard once again. 

“Wait a second. You have a car?”

He looks amused as he takes her hand and pulls her down the street to where a dark, expensive looking SUV is parked. “I do.”

“Then why do you walk to work?”

Opening the passenger door, he turns to look her in the eyes again. “Well, you know what they say. Best way to start the day...” is a quick lay, she finishes in her mind, cheeks going pink. “-is to see a friend.”

Oh, he’s such an unbearable asshole. 

She ignores the little smile he gives her and climbs in the car, and soon they’re off. For a minute it’s silent, but then she asks quietly, “Why are you coming tonight?”

“I wanted to see you. And I’ve never been to a museum. Figured I’d have the best guide this way.” 

Reasonable enough, she supposes. Even if the way he looked at her earlier told her seeing a museum had nothing to do with art. 

She doesn’t have enough time to contemplate it, though, because he pulls up in front of the MOMA and parks, then they’re heading inside. She’s happy to see there’s quite a few people here, something she knows her sister will appreciate, too. 

Said sister rushes over immediately and smiles. “You made it!”

“Of course I did.” When she eyes the man next to her, she says awkwardly, “Um, Feyre, this is... my neighbor.”

She really has to find out his name. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand. “It looks like a good turnout.”

It was the right thing to say apparently, because Feyre beams. “I know! Hopefully they’ll all sell. There’s a surprise in there for you, Elain.”

Oh, gods. That usually meant something bad. Like being the subject to her sister’s very comprehensive photography exhibit three years ago.

“Anyway, you guys look around and have fun. There’s champagne in the back. Thanks for coming!” 

Elain hugs her sister tightly before she can disappear. “I’m proud of you. This is great.”

Feyre rolls her eyes as she pulls back, but they’re a little misty. “Oh, shut up or you’ll make me cry.”

Then she kisses Elain’s cheek and turns to talk to more people coming in. 

“Champagne?”

Turning to the man next to her, she smiles and nods. That sounds like an excellent idea right about now. He disappears, so she ventures to the first room. 

It’s all landscapes, beautiful paintings of mountains and the night sky and beautiful pictures of nature. She’s standing in front of one, smiling, when he comes back. “That’s your garden, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, staring at the piece in front of her with new eyes. The night they’d first met creeps into her mind, and she sees him in the painting, lounging on that cute little bench, cigarette dangling seductively from his lips. 

“You look sad.” His voice is quiet and soft, and she turns to meet his gaze. 

She has to look away, though, because he’s right. She is sad. 

Thinking about that night makes her think about what could’ve happened. How different this last week could’ve been. 

But she can’t tell him any of that, so she just turns to walk to the next room. The man next to her pauses, and she sees why as soon as her gaze goes to the wall. 

Roses, carnations, lilies. 

Tulips, orchids, peonies. 

All her favorite flowers are on the wall, the paint blending together and creating the most beautiful collage she’s ever seen. They’re all over the wall--there has to be at least fifty paintings in here. 

And in the middle of them all is the front of her shop. 

It’s an almost perfect rendition to the door of The Archeron, with the glass walls and flowers almost bursting out. 

The whole room’s been designed to look like the inside of her shop. 

A tear escapes down her cheek as she looks at the art around her. Gratitude, love, and happiness almost erupt from her, and she notices something. 

The man next to her notices it at the same time. “You feel something.”

“Yeah,” she replies happily. “I do.”

He smiles, and it’s not one of his usual little grins or smirks. It’s a full smile, showcasing all his perfect teeth. “So do I.”

The voice inside her head tells her he isn’t talking about the paintings. 

And for a minute, Elain just stands there, flowers blurring in her peripheral as she stares at him. 

“Please tell me your name,” she whispers. 

He smiles again, taking a step towards her. And it’s just as he’s leaning down that he opens his mouth and-

“Elain!” Feyre bursts into the room with a wide grin. “What do you think?”

She practically jumps a mile in the air, but she recovers quickly and says honestly, “I love it. Thank you so much. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me,” her neighbor says in a low voice, eyes on something in the distance as he heads to the front of the store. 

Feyre watches him go, and as soon as he’s out of earshot says, “Okay, now that he’s gone, can you tell me what’s going on? Did you and Lucien break up?”

Elain notices her sister doesn’t exactly sound sad at that prospect. “No, why would you think that?”

“Because you came here with him, and he looks like a villanous-”

“Prince Charming? That’s what I said!”

They laugh, but then Feyre smiles knowingly and asks, “You know he’s in love with you, right?”

The words clear a path through her chest, even as the heart inside swells. She suddenly can’t breathe, can’t form a normal thought. That’s... impossible. 

“What? How do you know?”

“Because he just went to buy that painting,” she says softly, motioning to The Archeron’s door. 

She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t.”

Feyre smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh, gods,” Elain whispers, pulse starting to race. 

“You like him, too. It’s obvious to anyone who isn’t you.” Feyre flicks her nose playfully. “So stop thinking so hard. Just do what makes you happy.”

They say goodbye, and Elain turns to leave, finding him by the entrance. They walk outside in silence, then ride home in silence. 

Something’s different between them, and it’s created a tangible tension in the air that makes it hard for her to breathe. 

It’s only when they’re in the hallway outside their doors that she quietly asks, “Did you buy that painting?”

His body goes a bit tense, but he looks at her and answers, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you.” His eyes are warm, like chocolate and caramel and smoke. And they’re looking at her like she’s everything to him as he says, “I felt something.”

“Liar,” she accuses, stealing his line.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, so they continue to stare at each other. She knows him so well already, but there’s one thing she’s still dying to figure out.

Just as she’s about to ask, he murmurs, “My name’s Azriel.”

She tells herself it’s the deal, the arrangement. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. She tells herself she’s just paying the price. 

Elain tells herself all sorts of little lies as she steps forward, takes his face in her hands, and presses her lips to his. 

______________________________________________________________

Wrote this in one setting sorry if it’s shit. Part 4

@wineywitch202 @astreia-oniria @keshavomit @zukos-simp @whimsyrhys @lameomclameo @thedarkdemigod @captainthefangirlofhp @elriel4life @queen-of-glass @courtofjurdan @nessiantho @texas-shaped-waffle-maker @stardelia @myshadowsingeraz @tswaney17 @illyriangarbage @nicerhero @fancycrowncat @sjmships @perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @a-bit-of-a-cactus @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @poisonous00 @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @afifthofvodka @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

[schrijverr]

Behind the Scenes

This is a story that developed from a small peek into my brain whenever I write the stories you read into a thinkpiece about writing and posting fanfiction. 

On AO3.

Ships: none (unless you wanna ship me with my keyboard lol)

Warnings: none, I suppose, but it does get a little down in the end, I was having a rough day when I wrote this, sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~

I sit on my chair before my laptop. I’m curled into myself as my fingers glide over the keyboard and my thoughts flow out of my fingertips onto the screen.

It isn’t all that late, just past midnight, but it’s already dark outside and in order to see the keys properly I have to turn on the lamp I have on my desk. With the light it’s kind of cozy here in my little nook of the world.

I look to the screen and try to make sense of my own words. I don’t have a fully fledged idea yet, but a vague idea that floated through my brain at some point during the day has inspired me enough to open a new document and start typing.

I now know how this story begins and I see where I am going and how it will end, but the question of how I get there sits heavily on my mind.

I stop typing for a moment and think. If I introduce this character now, it might set some other things in motion and that’ll be good for the plot, but I don’t know how to write that character at all and I’m afraid that if I do it wrong, people won’t like me or my story.

I sigh and realize I’ve started almost every new paragraph with the same word. I hate it when I do that. The story starts to feel repetitive and as a non native English speaker I want to prove that I have a bigger vocabulary than that.

How to proceed?

A synonym, maybe? But I’ll have to look that up and I don’t think there is a good synonym for I. Sighing again I scan the page and think. Maybe I could start with a verb to shake things up a bit or a question. No, not a question that would feel out of place here.

Now I’ve written a few paragraphs again, so I could use the word I used before, but since I used it so many times already I want a bit more space between now and the next time I use it. So a synonym it is, I guess, I think as I open my browser to look one up.

…

There is no synonym for I.

Goddammit, I think. Well, it’s no use now anyway. I’ve decided to write this story in the first person, despite knowing I’m horrible at it, and now I have to deal with the fact that I don’t have another word for I.

I start my next paragr- no that’s not right. Backspace, backspace. Moving on to the next- No, not that either. Backspace, backspace. I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t, hmm, what’s a good word there?

I know I have a good word in Dutch ‘voortborduren’, but when I translate it, it gives me elaborate, which doesn’t fit in the sentence at all. Mentally groaning I recline in my chair as I try to think.

Maybe it’s the sentence itself? Lets see what did I write again? Oh yeah: I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t- and then I need to find a word. Hm, funny, I don’t know how to go on by the sentence about not knowing how to go on.

‘I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t’, I whisper it to myself in the hope the right word comes to mind.

First there is nothing, but then! Expand! Not perfect, but it fits, which is good enough for now, maybe when I proof read it a better word will come to me and I can use that.

So, expand. I wonder why I wrote something I can’t expand upon.

Fuck, I’ve spend so much time finding the right word that I have forgotten what I was talking, well writing, about in the first place. Softly swearing under my breath I scroll up and read what came before the sentence with the stupidly hard word to think off.

Ah yeah, it was about the other stupid thing, namely that I am writing this in the first person, which I still cannot do, no that skill has not come to me in the time it took to look up a word. What a pity.

But I have started the last few paragraphs with something other than I from time to time. That at least is something. Wait, should I add punctuation there? That, at least, is something. Looks better, but maybe that is just my love for commas talking. I mean, why write a boring sentence with a dot in the middle, which makes it short and doesn’t give you enough space to play with it, when you can also add unnecessary punctuation, so that you can play with the cadence of how something is read out loud or in someones mind?

Whoops, now that whole paragraph is long, if I want to make this story easy to read I’ll have to make this one shorter. Hmm, is this good? Yeah, probably. Enter.

Now, I’m suddenly wondering, if paragraph is even the right word. In Dutch the word is ‘alinea’ and the word ‘paragraaf’ also means chapter, but not really, only in a school book. It doesn’t really make sense, because you also have a chapter in a schoolbook and that’s divided in paragraphs and each paragraph has ‘alinea’s’

Aaand I’ve distracted myself by thinking about the differences between each language instead of looking up if paragraph is actually the right word and it means what I think it means.

I look it up on Google translate, not the most trustworthy source for sentences, but for lone words it’s alright.

It is the right word, along with indention, but I’m not really familiar with that word, although I can see where it comes from with the paragraphs creating indentions in the text. Still, I decide to stick with paragraphs, cause “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” and I live by that.

Looking back to the clock in the corner of my screen I realize that I’ve now been writing this for 40 minutes. It isn’t all that long, but I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I had a point when I began and now I’ve forgotten it.

I stretch my arms, by pushing away my chair, leaning forward until my shoulders are at the same height of my desk is. My right shoulder cracks, it has always done that, but the sound snaps me out of my musings and makes me pay more attention to my surroundings.

It is raining outside and I hear people screaming. They sound happy, probably celebrating something and drinking, but I still wondered what they’re doing up so late (ignoring the fact that I am still awake too.)

Right, my word document. I was trying to remember what my point was. No wait, not remember, recall sounds better. I double click remember and replace it with recall: I was trying to recall what my point was.

Although I have found a nice sentences with the best word to describe the action, I still don’t know what comes next. I suddenly begin to doubt myself. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe I’ve read this somewhere before and I am unconsciously copying someone. Maybe I should just delete this and move on to something else.

I mean, come on, who wants to read this? No one. I’m just going to post it, knowing that no one cares and no one will read it. People don’t go to AO3 for original works, you don’t, so why would anyone care about it? It’s going to get five hits tops, with maybe two kudos, three if you’re lucky.

And now I have accidentally switched to a second person perspective, can’t even stay consistent. Maybe if I play it off as an introspection or and internal dialogue no one will notice or think it’s an artistic choice.

Pff, artistic choice. You can hardly call what I’m doing artistic. It’s just fanfiction, a hobby. Yeah, I know that is still good and can be great, even amazing and artfully written, but this isn’t. I have a too direct writing style for that. I’ve only been getting English education for six years and it’ll take so much more practice until I ever reach that level.

I’ve gotten off track completely now. I faintly remember that this started out as a mock internal dialogue of what happens when I write a fanfic, but now it turned into a self deprecating shit parade.

I blink long and hard, trying to get my head back on track and write something better, or at least more consistent.

Realizing that in order to do that I should probably scroll up and read (lets be honest scan) how I started. I don’t have the energy for it, but I force myself to do it with a sigh.

Scroll, scroll, scroll.

Ah, yeah, I began with where I was and then that discussion about language and looking things up. Oh, but I’ve also reflected on what I’ve written before, well, before. Then it was about re-finding what I was doing after I had to look up a word and now it is desperately trying to remember what the actual fuck I was doing in an attempt to make something cohesive, but still. I decide to not do that again.

I still don’t know what my point was when I started this, but I’m making a new one up right now. I think I’m going to call the work ‘behind the scenes’ or ‘the thoughts of a writer’, since I have now decided that this is a way to get readers a peek behind the curtains.

As a reader, I can respect people so much for all the work they put into a story. And of course I’m not saying you can’t do that if you don’t write, no, that would be pretentious, but I do have more respect for them than before I started writing all those years ago.

It is really easy to forget that something you read in a few minutes has taken hours to write. This is not even 2k words long right now. I know I can read that in a few minutes, not even blinking and mostly forgetting, before moving on to the next story, but I have been writing almost nonstop for over an hour now.

I am lucky that I can usually keep the words flowing long enough to make some bullshit up that I can reason into a coherent story in the end, but that has taken practice. A lot of practice.

In order to become a good in writing a story you have to do it so many times and you won’t even notice you’ve gotten better until much later. I know this, because I recently went through all my works and made them better. Got all the typos out there, I fixed vague sentences and I made the lay out better. I also cringed a lot.

Well, I think I have to go with a ‘behind the scenes’ now, because I don’t think I can claim this is my internal monologue when I’m writing. Instead this has turned into a think piece about writing and appreciating it or something.

I don’t even know anymore.

I recall I had a point when I started this, probably thought it out and then my brain decided to throw it away and throw up this garbage instead. It is interesting, I suppose, but not at all what I was going for in the beginning.

Oh well, maybe I can fix it when I proof read it, because I am tired and I think I’m going to bed. I have half the mind to just fuck it and throw it on AO3 without glancing over my own words even once. It’s very tempting to leave others to deal with these honest words and pretend they aren’t mine, but I don’t.

However, I don’t think I will edit this that much, because it was nice to get some frustrations on, well not paper, but on screen. Just order my thoughts, you know?

It is hard to stay motivated when it seems that everyone around you is doing so much better than you. It is disheartening and it makes you want to stop.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Writing is what I do, it helps, it’s nice. I love writing and I don’t think I will stop loving it. But one of the reasons I love writing is because it can get the constant thoughts and ideas to stop swirling around in my head.

Today I needed it to stop, so that I could just go to sleep properly and I feel like this helped. It was honest and I feel better now. Tomorrow can come at me and I will face it like I did today. Maybe my last few fics weren’t to everyones taste and that’s okay, they were my taste and I love them and I am proud of them. For me that’s enough.

I would apologize for ranting, I usually do, but since you could stop at any time and leave, I don’t think I’m going to do that, what I am going to do, is thank you.

Thank you for reading this, despite the fact that it is not a fanfic. Thank you for allowing me to just dump all these thoughts on you. And thank you for being here and clicking it, your support, even if it is only an extra number by “hits”, means so incredibly much to me and I cannot put in to words how grateful I am that you are here.

Since it is now 01:18 and if I recall correctly it was 00:02 when I started, I think I am really going to stop now. Goodnight, or good-whatever time a day you’re reading this!

Goodbye :)