#it's such an insignificant thing and yet

[not-poignant]

if ur still doing the writing meme (i've liked all ur answers even the 'unpopular' ones a haikyuu fic i loved once got rewritten and i'm still sad i never saved the first one because i didn't realize the author didn't like it and i wish i'd commented more or sth to make them know we loved the og so much) -> 13 and 34 plz

Ahh I'm sorry you went through that anon re: the Haikyuu! fic. Please don't guilt-trip yourself for it. Authors have lots of reasons for rewriting a fic, or deleting a fic, and sometimes even when it's had thousands of kudos they will still do it.

It sounds like you commented in general (since you say 'commented more' instead of just commented) which is like... really awesome. Who knows, maybe the author thought they were giving you the better version! You can always leave a comment and ask if they still have the original chapters on file somewhere if that author's still active, and if they'd be willing to share them with you somehow.

Now to the meme:

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

I was going to answer this with 'easy, everything I don't write' lmao because I just avoid the stuff I find hardest. But that's kind of...not the point. So in all seriousness:

Big ensemble scenes with big ensemble casts. I don't know why I insist on writing these a fair bit, but anything that has more than two characters in a scene is a struggle. More than four is like 'OH GOD.' It's just a lot of work in a different kind of way.

Happy endings. It's not that they're difficult to write, exactly, it's that I'm often...kind of sad to be letting go of the story and I feel like I've already let it go at the point that I'm writing the happy ending. Like, I am not happiest when I'm writing the happy ending, though I want it to feel really really good for readers. I love happy endings, but I also get really noticeable lag and slow down a bit towards the end of stories, because I have less motivation. An ending means letting go of that version of the world, or that installment, and my brain is like 'dun wanna.'

Beginnings/openings. I don't really enjoy the first few pages of a first chapter and I know I'm not often good at beginnings which further preys on my 'everyone is going to hate this story' insecurity I have at the beginning of a new thing.

Action scenes used to be in this but they're not as much anymore. But I do really struggle with sex scenes too! And I think that's a reason I don't write them as much as I used to. It's not a bad thing, one of the reasons they're harder is because I want them to be good and I just don't want to do carbon copies of previous sex scenes and I've now written like 200 of them.

As for things I find easy, hmm. I'm going to go with broadscale characterisation and dialogue. I also think generating character and place names is really easy, and inventing species to populate a new world is easy. I also think describing nature is easy for me, though I sometimes feel silly or like...I'm boring people when I describe it, so I try not to do it toooo much.

I'm bad at writing description but hilariously I don't find it difficult. x.x Maybe that's why I'm bad at it.

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

*takes a breath*

Since you don't mind unpopular opinions I hope you don't mind this one: I fucking don't rate the Oxford Comma and try to avoid using it wherever possible. It's really easy to avoid some of the errors an Oxford Comma can prevent through context, and frankly, the Oxford Comma can create its own issues which can be prevented through not using it. You can avoid or introduce ambiguity whether you do or don't use it, basically, one solves some problems and introduces others, the other solves some problems and introduces others.

In that sense, it's understandable why it's not mandated in many style guides. It is preferable in US English, but damn, I'm not from the USA. And the Oxford Style Guide recommends it but the Oxford Style Manual recommends against it. Australian Style Guides, including the one issued by the government, generally oppose its use, but it's not mandated, so it's really at the author's discretion.

I've tried using it. Like, I've sat down and thought 'right I'm going to give this a good shot' and I just really don't like it. So you'll see a handful here and there in my writing where I thought 'okay let's try it' and then just been like nahhhh.

I have no problems with other people using it, and those people can have all the extra commas I'm not using because damn, they'll need them. :D

--

From the Weird Questions for Writers meme!

[combinationofstardust]

how do i even begin explaining to my friends that i am obsessed with a story, published ten years ago as an online pdf, about a demisexual teenager on the run from the mafia playing an entirely fictional sport that is in fact just a cover for the mafia, with a team that is all separately traumatized to the point where literal MURDER is one of the most chillax plot points in the entire series. where do i even begin.

[supernovaniamh]

Goodnight

Sleeptight

Don't let the Sleep Paralysis Demon bite!

[redwidow616]

I have my first real practice exam in less than ten hours and i just know i probably won't get a passing score

[bichitosdecolores]

i was making a silly post about the book i’m reading and it got out of control. long text down there

i’m a genetics at heart and i really like to do that annoying science thing where i try to find a logical explanation to everything. yet i was reading my book (about genes) and the author got to a part where he discusses the genetic link of gender identity and identity in general and for some reason i dont like it? i mean, i agree. everything is genetically determined (or influenced). and it makes lot of sense right? the cascade of molecular signals orchestrated by genes is so large and complex we barely begin to understand it. so it makes sense to think that a change in some part of that chain may cause my genetically female genes to fail to signal binary biological femaleness causing me to not have the identity or physiology of a female. but the thought of it makes me feel weird?.

i have always been really curious about the biochemistry and genetics of transgender people but i have never actually made any research on it partially because i feel scared that by finding any “true” biological reason behind my identity it will be less valid or something.

genetics are so weird because they are us and they are everything. they are inescapable and all controlling (almost? kinda), yet they are so abstract and we are so limited by our ability to visualize and understand them that we end up having to talk about them in political, moral amd cultural terms. like gender and identity and illness or disability or violence. but those things are so marked by our interaction with our environment and our need to categorize things that we end up taking a lot of unrelated meaning with them when we try to understand something so uninterested in us like genes and anatomy. it’s weird. but it’s not like we can do much to help it can we. am i making any sense now? i love genetics but god they are a difficult area to understand in not science terms. and the history of genetics is so so messy and complicated and cruel at times. and we haven’t even started to play with genes yet. i’m happy gene therapy and transgenics and crisp technology are so regulated. i don’t know how much longer we can week ignoring them for though.

[voievod]

Oh. Oh.

When Vlad is in the Ottoman Empire, he wakes up to Fajr every dawn. I found some information that some Muslims wake up to pray Fajr and then sleep until it is time to work, whereas others sleep continuously until work time and pray Fajr upon awakening. But I also think the day naturally begins very early in a structured environment like the Ottoman court or military training, so he and Radu are woken up early, made to dress, and start their routine. The Ottomans want to instill discipline in the young boys, so this would be one of the good ways to do so.

Because Vlad spends six-seven years in this rhythm — waking at dawn, exercising, then following a strict schedule — his body naturally adjusts to this routine. Even after he leaves the Ottomans, this habit stays with him. He even kind of embraces it because he finds that early mornings are the best time for strategy, solitude, physical training. Not only is this his “me-time” and a form of mental hygiene, it also helps him stay productive and disciplined. By the time he is ruling Wallachia for the second time, he naturally wakes up just before or around dawn without needing anyone to wake him.

Also, in summer, he most likely wakes up slightly after dawn (since the sun rises earlier), but in colder months, he is already up while it is still dark outside. If nothing forces him awake or he feels particularly self-indulgent, he lingers a bit in bed, but his natural instinct is to rise early and start the day.

[tentachicken]

i think im just always two or three bad thoughts from having a full on mental breakdown that has irreversible consequences these days

[1tbls]

feeling this way about hdb rn:

[radioactive-cloud]

watching teenage movies is all fun and games until you remember that you've never had a teenage first love and now it's too late

[qulizalfos]

anybody else feeling horrendously burnt out on this lovely monday evening

[danothan]

i keep wondering why my schedule has been so wonky lately as if i didn’t quite literally get into a car crash less than a week ago

[descriptionofaruby]

in order to get healthier i have to actively and repeatedly acknowledge that neither any goodness i have nor my mental illness makes me special but i have the kind of mental illness that makes that. hard

[onebrainsel]

Do you ever have an idea for a fic, and then you're like "I'm never making this." because you feel it'll either be ignored or hated? And both of those would hurt?

Yes, I always advocate for 'writing for your own dick'. And I do that. The last fic I posted is a great example of this on my end. But I had another idea and for some reason that one has me skittish of even breathing about it.

[venacesaur]

Wow I really, really missed the joys of writing a story and then unexpectedly becoming obsessed with some random background character who has two lines. Like hang on let's pause the murder mystery and gothic suspense for a second. I want this one specific guy to spend 500 pages chilling at a sleepover and playing truth or dare. I want to put him in an enclosure and study him. I want to pick him up by one leg and fling him at a wall

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[dipshit-does-crimes]

wow it’s crazy how fine everything is! wow wow definitely am a real person or something definitely not just a thing wearing a skin suit or a hallucination