#narrative.

[retisent]

in which we find ourselves where we have always been 11 - 04 - 2016, friday afternoon

“no,   dude  —  i   don’t   think   you’re   understanding   the   extent   to   which   patrick   completely   fucked   me.”   he’s   talking   to   luke,   the   brother   he   talks   to.   as   difficult   as   shea   finds   it   to   level   with   that   reality.   “okay,   i   never   didn’t   say   fuck   dad,   fuck    dad   for   sure,   but  —  dude  —  patrick   fucked   me.   yeah.   no,  i’m   not   there,   i’m  —  no,  i’m  at   the   marchs’.   ha,   no.   highlands.   uhhhh   huuuhhh.   so   i  can’t,   or   i   would,   but.   i’m   here.    so   i   can’t.   no,   dude,   and   it’s   fucking  weird.   uh   huh.   yeah,   she’s   —   she’s   here.   yeah.   of   course   he’s   here,   it’s   his   fucking   house.”  the   world   spins.

but   he   catches   himself.   narrowly   escapes   catching   teeth   on   the   staircase.   it’s   halfway   through   this   forward   motion   that   he    understands   what’s   happened.   he’s   tripped.   on   a   pair   of   heels.   and   extrapolated,   without   having   to   look,   why   this   has   happened.   bea.   it’d   just   about   have   to   be,   right?   it   only   makes   sense.   narratively   speaking.   he   knows   he’s   intuited   his   way   to   the   right   sequence   of   events   when   he   collects   the   shoes   that   tried   to   kill   him.   if   she   hadn’t   taken   them   off   and   put   them   on   his   lap   in   the   helicopter   today,   he   could’ve   regardless   picked   them   out   of   several   hundred  lineups.   “yeah,   no,   i’m   still  here.   i   just  —   yeah,   okay.   fuck   off,   yeah.   i   gotta   go   man.”   he   looks   at   the   slick   black   pumps   hanging   off   his   fingers.   trails   off.   hangs   up.

shea   likes   to   have   a   plan.   he   likes   to   know   where   he’s    going,   and   why,   before   he   goes.   this   is   a   sort   of   fuck   you   from   the   universe   on   that   particular   front.   he   had   been   on   his   way   up   to   his   room.   he   was   going   to   grab   his   laptop   and   his   coat   and   chainsmoke   on   a   balcony   until   the   next   corporate   torture   session.   maybe   write   some   emails.   because,   if   he’s   being   honest,   the   fucking   walls   are   closing   in.   lucien   is   everywhere.   art   is   everywhere.   his   own   self,   younger   and   maybe   worse   but   maybe   probably   better,   he’s   everywhere.   around   every   corner.   quiet,  listening.   all   day,   since   the   helicopter,   there’s  a    buzzing   in   his   ear.   a   tightness   in   his   chest.   a   bounce   in   his   leg.   so,   when   you’re   in   the   damn   trash   compactor,   and   the   walls   are   closing   in,   best   course   of   action:   egress.   even   partial.   balcony.   at   least   it   was   cold.   at   least   it   was   quiet.   it’s   a   good   plan.   this,   though,   the   thing   with   the   shoes,   has   pretty   completely   fucked   that   plan.   because   before   he   knows   where  he’s   going,   or   why,   he’s   gone.

there’s   a   stray   barcart   in   the   hallway,   bottles   missing,   another   environmental   blessing.   shea   abducts   rocks   glasses,   lets   his   feet   carry   him   the   rest   of   the   way.   just   an   object   in   motion   staying   in   motion.   that’s   all   it   is.   he   doesn’t  give   himself   any   time   to   think.   suddenly   he’s   at   her   room.   it   was   like   he    was   on   the   phone,   and   then   he   blinked,   and   now   he’s   here.   he   braces   a   forearm   above   him   on   the   doorjamb   and   knocks   thrice   with   the   heels.   when   the   door   opens,   he’s   got   two   rocks   glasses   and   two   shoes   to   present   in   offering.   and   somehow,   even   though   his   ears   are   still   ringing   and   his   heart   is   still   overbeating,   even   though   he   can   still   feel   lu’s   dead   hand   heavy   on   his   shoulder,   he’s   got   a   smug   face   on.   something   altogether   fond.   “hey kid.”

@culpabilities.

[freundlichen]

making you the patron saint of something

[pokemastoshi]

SATOSHI  AKIYOSHI  +  THE  JOURNEY.

red choral diamond spray, the mountain goats   //   endless summer, nate pritts   //   rain shadows, andy goldsworthy   //   the greek tragedy i’ll never write, elisabeth hewer, elisabethhewer   //   little fires everywhere, celeste ng   //   journey with dante, mahtem shiferraw   //    colorful orange magenta storm clouds at sunset, keith webber jr.   //   such a loser, garfunkel & oates   //   a game of thrones, george r. r. martin   //   road to hell ii, hadestown.

[swordince]

the living dead prince.

white is for witching, helen oyeyemi // pyrrhic victory, wiktionary // world war i memorial in church of ss peter & paul. aldeburgh, suffolk, gilbert bayes // nathaniel orion g.k // sunlight, hozier // details of bacchus und ariadne, domenico fiasella

[vulpinesaint]

quiz enjoyers! i am now inviting you to come create something in my workshop❕

[qwertyprophecy]

You are the Dark Queen—the most powerful being of your entire universe. Your lair is breached by an aspiring hero—a pitiful thing, easily crushed.

Except they keep coming back.

PLAY ON ITCH.IO

[rollaut]

Q. what tragic horror character trope are you ??

A. THAT WHICH CANNOT BE KNOWN. oh  god.     how  did  it  come  to  this ??     to  some  extent,  you've  gone  so  far  past  your  own  idea  of  " human "   that  it  must  be  kind  of  fun,  right ??     maybe.     i'm  not  sure.     as  an  artefact  of  cosmic  horror,  you're  wild  &  wacky  &  colorful  &  people  are  probably  drawn  to  that,  but  you  will  never  let  them  know  you.     the  mystery  intrigues  for  a  while,  but  it'll  wear  everyone  down.     it'll  wear  you  down,  too.     who  are  you ??     do  you  remember ??     are  you  so  far  gone  that  you  can't  go  back ??     &  maybe  that's  the  most  tragic  thing  of  all — becoming  so  distorted  in  your  identity,  &  for  so  long,  that  no  matter  how  hard  you  want  to  return  you  can't  ever  seem  to  figure  it  out.     but  you've  learned  a  vast  amount  up  in  the  stars,  &  people  will  work  hard  to  get  to  know  you.     it  doesn't  matter  who  you  used  to  be.     sometimes,  you  should  just  start  from  scratch :  give  yourself  a  name,  a  birthday.     let  someone  celebrate  these  things  with  you.

[daincrediblegg]

OK THIS IS NOT A FUCKING DRILL EVERYONE FUCKING REPEAT AFTER ME. THIS IS WHAT YOU WILL DO WHEN YOU WATCH MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL THIS YEAR:

You will navigate to the page on disney plus (and it has to be here. Unless someone has actually uploaded the REAL movie anywhere else you cannot get it elsewhere)

BUT YOU WILL NOT HIT PLAY. You won’t do it. Because it’s NOT THE REAL VERSION OF THE FILM AND DISNEY IS FUCKING LYING TO YOU AS IT ALWAYS DOES

You will scroll down HERE. To EXTRAS instead. You MUST GO HERE. This is non -negotiable

THEN YOU WILL SCROLL DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF THE EXTRAS AND YOU WILL THEN HIT PLAY ON THIS BAD BOY: THE FULL LENGTH VERSION

And you will watch it. And you will thank me for having been so blind and led astray by that stupid fucking mouse. You’re welcome.

[muffinlevelchicanery]

[wardensantoineandevka]

is that piece of media actually bad, or is it just not following the blueprint you projected onto it? is that work actually not good, or are you just demanding something from it that is absolutely antithetical to its themes, genre, tone, and narrative goal? is that story actually poorly written, or do you just dislike that it is not the specific things you wanted from it that it never set out to be, never was, and never is going to become? is it actually bad, or is it actually well-executed and you just dislike the story it chose to be because it isn't catering to your specific desires and expectations?

[deception-united]

Writing Tips Master Post

Edit: Some posts may be deleted

Character writing/development:

Character Arcs

Making Character Profiles

Character Development

Comic Relief Arc

Internal Conflict

Character Voices

Creating Distinct Characters

Creating Likeable Characters

Writing Strong Female Characters

Writing POC Characters

Building Tension

Writing Grumpy x Sunshine Tropes

Plot devices/development:

Intrigue in Storytelling

Enemies to Lovers

Alternatives to Killing Characters

Worldbuilding

Misdirection

Consider Before Killing Characters

Foreshadowing

Narrative:

Emphasising the Stakes

Avoid Info-Dumping

Writing Without Dialogue

1st vs. 2nd vs. 3rd Perspective

Fight Scenes (+ More)

Transitions

Pacing

Writing Prologues

Dialogue Tips

Writing War

Writing Cheating

Worldbuilding:

Worldbuilding: Questions to Consider

Creating Laws/Rules in Fantasy Worlds

Book writing:

Connected vs. Stand-Alone Series

A & B Stories

Writer resources:

Writing YouTube Channels, Podcasts, & Blogs

Online Writing Resources

Outlining/Writing/Editing Software

Writer help:

Losing Passion/Burnout

Overcoming Writer's Block

Fantasy terms:

How To Name Fantasy Races (Step-by-Step)

Naming Elemental Races

Naming Fire-Related Races

How To Name Fantasy Places

Ask games:

Character Ask Game #1

Character Ask Game #2

Character Ask Game #3

Miscellaneous:

1000 Follower Post

2000 Follower Poll

Writing Fantasy

[retisent]

in which we rendez-vous at the pool 11 - 4 - 2016, friday evening

so   here   we   fucking   are.   back   at   the   scene   of   many   crimes,   the   highland   fucking   estate.   don’t   listen   to   what   they   tell   you,   the   difference   in   the   volume   of   stars   between   this   particular   corner   of   bumblefuck   and   the   city   is   negligible.   not   worth   it.   rarely,   has   it   ever   been   worth   it.   shea,  at   present,   is   being   held   up   at   gunpoint   by   a   parade   of   memories   he’s   reluctant   to   indulge.   the   one   leading   the   pack   is,   somehow   unsurprisingly,  his   grandfather.   he’s   got   a   .28   leveled  at   him:   his   outstretched   palm,   two   cigars   lying   flat   across   it.   one   for   shea,   one   for   art.   shea’s   sixteenth   summer.  the  sunlight  flies  outward   from   behind   pop’s   head,   forms   the   vision   of   a   halo   on   fire.   he’s   smiling   through   the   tailend  of   a   joke.   shea   can’t   remember.   “alright   boys,”   two   hands   dive   towards   his   open   palm,   plucking   the  cigars   with   the   fervency   of   seagulls  on   a   starved   beach.  “now   scram.   before   i   change   my   mind.  i’m…   gonna   go   see   if   missus   knightly   is   amicable   to   the   prospect   of   hustling   some    fools   at   cards.   this   crowd,   i   tell  ya…   ripe   with   opportunity.”

back   in   november,   obstensibly   the   present,   several   lifetimes   away,   shea   presses   his   eyes   shut,   opens   them   again,   presses   them   shut   again,   opens   them   again,   and   eventually   clenches   down   on  an   exasperated  fuck.   the   tie   he   took   off   hours   ago   is   choking   him   around   the   neck.   he   can   feel   the   tension   in   his   body  coiling   tighter   and   tighter.   shoulders   knotted.   chest   heavy.   a   dull   buzzing   behind   his   eyes.   there   is   this   bottom   of   the   seventh   adrenaline,  anticipation,   a   sort   of   running   out   of   room   feeling.   it’s   that   in   exactly  two  and  a   half   innings:   something   ends.   something   is   going   to   end.   that’s   the   feeling  sitting   behind   his   ribs.   but   god,   how   long   is  an  inning.   he   wipes   a   hand   over   his   face.   get   it   the   fuck   together,   shea   thomas.   and   he   does.   by   the   time   he   hones   in   on   a   familiar   pattern   of   footfall   (somehow   unsurprisingly)   coming   up   behind   him,   he’s   at   least   gotten   the   better   part   of   himself   together.   took   one   and   a   half   cigarettes.   one   inning   is   approximately   anywhere   from   five   to   five   hundred   cigarettes,   if   that   helps. “mr.   march,”   shea   greets   artemas   without   turning   around,   in   the   cadence   of   a   boarding   school   proctor   and   in   a   tone   that   balances   on   the   razorsedge   of   familiar   and   distant.   shea   is   in   the   rather   adolescent   process   of   ripping   matches   out   of   a   book,   lighting   them,  and   flicking   them   into   the   pool,   one   by   one.   he’s   sat   on   the   edge,   suit   legs   jacked   up   haphazardly,   calfdeep   in   the   water.   everything   echoes.   “you   are   late.”   he’s   talking   around   the   menthol   in   his   mouth,   or   he’d   suck   his   teeth   here:  “that’s   a  demerit.”   he   looks   over   at   art,   then,   and   tries   to   keep   an   even   keel.   equal   measure   is   applied   to   reading   art’s   expression   and   schooling   his   own.   the   buzzing   in   his   ears   has   stopped,   but   the   thing   in   his   heart   is   lifting   dangerously   close   to   his   throat.   “how   goes   the   night?”   there’s   a   note   of   something   acid   in   there,   for   a   close   ear   to   notice.  nothing   outright,   nothing   on   the   face   of   it,   but   under   everything:   anger.   just   not   the   kind   shea   wants   to   share.   he   tosses   aside   the   matches,    slides   the   pack   in   art’s   direction,   braces   all   the   way   back   on   his   elbows,   and   fixes   himself   on   the   reflections   of   light   on   the   surface   of   the   water.   here   we   fucking   are.

@secondism

[mandersie]

Holy moly

[mayasaura]

I'm obsessed with characters we only hear about second or third hand, especially when those accounts are conflicting. No, you don't get to see them, but here's a warped mirror of what other people thought they were. Enjoy your contemplation of how being known is an act of translation and communicates only aspects of the self.

[podcastwizard]

because here's the thing here's the thing the question was not "would you be more surprised to run into a fairy or a walrus" the question was "would you be more surprised to find a fairy or a walrus AT YOUR DOOR" and while no, i do not believe in fairies and would be surprised to know they EXIST i would NOT be surprised to find one at my door. HOWEVER, if a WALRUS shows up at my door i have to contend with the fact that a walrus somehow made it to my apartment specifically and knocked on my door for god knows what reason. i would be more surprised to know that a fairy EXISTS, of course, but NOT that they're at my door, do you get me?