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archaeren · 1 year ago

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How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

#creative writing #writers block #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writers and poets #writerscommunity #fanfic writing #writeblr #writing advice

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gullemec · 3 months ago

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Cowboy Clean

A Red Dead Redemption One-Shot

main masterlist ao3

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan has been a thorn in your side from the moment you met him. Things come to a head when you find out he's decided to treat himself to a deluxe bath in Valentine.

Warnings: rivals to lovers, lots of bickering/banter, reader gets covered in horse shit lol, jealousy/possessiveness, vaginal fingering, brief hand job, unprotected PIV sex, creampie, fluffy fluff

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.9k

A/N: So uhhhh I did this! I have a bunch of ideas percolating for an Arthur Morgan x reader series but that's a long way off and and I couldn't get this scene out of my head. Enjoy!

You scoop a handful of cold river water to your chest, the sting of it smarting like a snakebite against your already chilled body. It washes away the last traces of lye soap, though you’re not sure what’s worse, the stink of sweat and horse dung, or the way this damn water has you shaking like a leaf. Gooseflesh blooms a constellation across your skin, a shiver coursing down your spine as the current tugs at your ankles. The sun’s trying its best, but it’s still late April, and the wind cuts through the cotton of your wet chemise like it ain’t even there.

You can just about hear Miss Grimshaw’s voice now, all iron and vinegar, barking from the top of the hill the moment you make your way back up to camp.

“You fixin’ to catch your death out there?” she’ll snap. “Or are you just plain stupid?”

Probably both, by her standards. Of course, she'd hollered at you just the same when you came slogging into camp earlier, half-covered in horse shit. You reckon she’s gonna have to choose her battles one of these days.

You’d been out hunting with Charles, trying to put some meat on the table for the rest of them sorry bastards, not that anyone seemed to notice, or care. He'd spotted a wild boar off the ridge, and you’d notched your bow in a heartbeat, drawing for a clean shot. But just as you exhaled and your fingers twitched to release the arrow, a damn squirrel went skittering across the trail, spooking your horse.

Freya’s new. Barely saddle-broke and ornery as all hell. You paid too much for her, and you knew it the moment you led her out of that stable in Valentine. But by the time she bucked you off and sent you flying into a heap of her still warm droppings, you were certain of it.

Charles, bless his soul, bit his tongue and helped you to your feet without so much as a snort. The same cannot be said for the rest of the camp. Especially not him .

Arthur Morgan.

That man’s been a burr under your saddle since the day you met, both trying to rob the same stagecoach.

You remember it like it was yesterday. Your shotgun drawn, face half-shaded by a wide-brimmed hat and red bandana pulled up over your nose, the hooves of your horse kicking up dust as you charged after the coach on the road to Emerald Ranch.

You were closing in when another rider came up fast from behind, his horse just a touch quicker, his draw just a little surer. You glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. Cold blue, sharp as a whetted blade. You both hesitated, long enough to share a breath and a heartbeat. And then the coachman, scared stiff, dove from his seat and hit the dirt.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Leapt from your horse and landed hard on the driver’s bench, barely a second before the man vaulted up beside you.

You spent the next half-mile bickering at each other something awful, shouting over the clatter of wheels and hooves.

“I saw it first!”

“Hell you did, I pulled on the coachman!”

“Don’t matter none. I got on first!”

By the time you realized your horses were long gone and the stage had made it halfway to Emerald Ranch, it was too late to figure who won. All you knew was that you hated him then. You hate him only a little less now.

Eventually, the two of you reached a compromise, if you could even call it that. Neither of you walked away pleased. You split the money clip down the middle, argued over every last coin. The bag of jewelry you divvied up piece by piece, squinting at each item like it might whisper its value if stared at long enough. You got the short end of the stick with the ammo, but figured it wasn’t worth drawing steel over. Besides, you had your pride, and pride don’t need reloadin’.

By the time you trudged back to the spot outside Valentine where your horses were meant to be waiting, only his remained.

That goddamn, good-for-nothing, swaybacked old Thoroughbred. You could’ve screamed. Might’ve, if you weren’t so damn winded from the ride and the day and the company.

You’d spent the last hour wanting to shove his bandana into his smart mouth and shut him the hell up, but to your surprise, he didn’t ride off and leave you stranded. Could’ve. Should’ve, maybe, if he’d had any sense. But instead, Arthur Morgan looked at you all quiet-like, eyes narrowed against the setting sun, then offered his hand like it weren’t nothing.

"Need a lift?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, all suspicious, like maybe this was some elaborate scheme to gloat from a better angle. But he didn’t push. Just waited. Eventually you took his hand, scowling all the while, and he helped you onto the back of the old mount like a gentleman might. You felt ridiculous, perched behind him, clutching his coat like some damsel, your pride hitching in your throat.

“You got someplace to be?” he asked after a while, almost reluctant.

You didn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“I ride with a gang,” he said. “A group, more like. We move around some. You could stay a day or two, if you wanted. Won’t twist your arm.”

You’d said yes, figuring you’d stay long enough to steal something worth your trouble. Just a few days. A week, tops.

That was months ago.

Arthur Morgan had offered you a lifeline that day. But damn if he wasn’t also a splinter under your nail.

Maybe it was lingering resentment from your initial meeting, both of you too stubborn to admit who had the better claim. . Maybe it was because Dutch and the others took a liking to you faster than they did him on some days, tossing you jobs that might’ve gone his way. Maybe it was the time you dumped a bucket of freezing creek water on his head after he kept you up all night snoring like a dying grizzly the night before a risky holdup.

Or maybe it was just the way things always turned to sparks and spitfire when you were in each other’s orbit for more than five minutes.

Dutch called it friendly competition , like that explained anything.

Hosea just shook his head and muttered that y’all were worse than Sadie and Pearson. And considering Sadie once threatened to scalp Pearson with a fish knife, that said plenty.

But the real nail in the coffin came just this morning.

You came riding back into camp, soaked with sweat, your shirt covered in brown stains thanks to Freya bucking you off of her. Your hair was a frizzy mess beneath your hat, and you smelled like the inside of a stable.

You barely had a foot out of the stirrup before you heard him.

Arthur was leaned up against a barrel near the fire, sharpening his knife and grinning like the devil come to dinner.

“Well, I always knew you was full of shit,” he drawled, loud enough to draw half the camp’s attention. “Guess now I know it for sure.”

The laughter that followed echoed like a buckshot.

You were halfway off Freya, shit-streaked and murder-eyed, when Charles stepped in. One arm looped around your middle, lifting you clean off the ground before your knuckles could connect with Arthur’s smug jaw.

“Easy now,” Charles murmured. “Ain’t worth getting blood on your boots.”

You kicked and cursed, and Arthur laughed harder, but you caught the flicker in his eyes when he met yours, something resembling apologetic. Like he knew he’d crossed a line, but couldn’t help stepping over it anyway. Like maybe he liked the look on your face when you were mad, wild-eyed and burning with fire.

You suppose that’s part of the reason you’re down here in this freezing river, scrubbing away the scent of horse and humiliation from your skin, and the memory of his eyes from your mind.

But the water’s cold, the sun’s sinking low, and some things aren’t so easy to scrub out.

Not the dirt.

Not the grudges.

And sure as hell not Arthur Morgan.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Headin’ into Valentine,” Arthur’s voice booms across camp like a gruff church bell, startling you from the cusp of a cat nap. You jerk upright with a grunt, blinking against the brightness bleeding through the canvas of your tent. “Anyone need anythin’?”

You groan and flop back down, curling in tighter against the bedroll. The sun’s baked the canvas just enough to make the little space feel like a warm cocoon, and for a blissful second, you debate pretending you didn’t hear him.

But then, unfortunately, you catch a whiff of yourself.

You wrinkle your nose.

You’d done what you could yesterday. Scrubbed up in the river, fought a losing battle with lye soap and a patch of muddy shoreline. But nature only gets you so far. And you’re starting to smell like Freya after a long ride in the rain.

Valentine has baths. Warm ones. With those fancy, perfumed soaps Twenty-five cents for the kind of luxury that could make a girl feel halfway civilized again. That ain’t pocket change, not when you’d worked damn hard for every dollar you had. But it’s not a crime to treat yourself once in a while, is it?

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you heave a sigh and roll off your bedroll, string of curses muttered under breath as you shove your boots on.

You squint through the midday sun until you spot him, just across the way, pulling a saddle from the side of the wagon that serves as both a wall for his tent and the gang’s general dumping ground. His hat hangs low over his brow, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like he was born with it there.

“Wait up,” you call, stumbling as your foot catches in the tent flap. “I’m comin’ with ya.”

Arthur doesn’t even turn fully around, just casts a lazy glance over his shoulder and squints. “What business you got in Valentine?”

You roll your eyes and march past him, grabbing Freya’s saddle from where it’s resting near the hitching post. “I could ask you the same, Mr. Morgan.”

“I asked first,” he replies, that damn smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s got a life of its own.

“If you must know, I’m in dire need of a hot bath.” You toss the saddle onto Freya’s back with a dramatic huff. “Some of us like to smell better than Pearson’s two-day-old possum stew once in a while. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Arthur snorts, adjusting the cinch on his own saddle. “Is that what this is about? You ridin’ all the way into town just to waste money on soap and water?”

You pause to glare at him over Freya’s back. “I ain’t wastin’ it. I’m investin’ in public health.”

“Uh huh.” He squints at you, cocking his head. “Or maybe you’re plannin’ to go courtin’ some poor soul in Valentine. That it?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I ain’t.” You adjust your hat and shoot him a grin that’s all teeth. “Why? You jealous?”

Arthur barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “Of the poor bastard dumb enough to fall for a lady such as yourself?” He pauses. “Assuming I can even call you a lady.”

You haul yourself into the saddle with a grunt, lean forward, and scratch Freya’s ears. “Just for that, Arthur Morgan, I’ll replace your soap with a bar of caked horse shit. See if you even notice the difference.”

He swings up onto his horse with the ease of a man who’s done it a thousand times, shaking his head. “You try that, and I’ll throw you in the river myself. Clothes and all.”

You click your tongue and nudge Freya forward, falling into pace beside him as the two of you ride out of camp. “You’d miss me the moment I was gone,” you say, voice light.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, that shit-eating grin’s been plastered on his face since the moment you came scrambling out of your tent.

You glance sideways at him, watching the way he shakes his head and laughs to himself like he don’t quite know what to make of you half the time. If you had to guess, you might be so bold as to say Arthur Morgan enjoys your company just as much as it irritates him.

And if you had a little whiskey in your belly and the moon was high, you might even admit you feel the same.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The ride into Valentine is as dusty, loud, and as unpleasant as the town itself. Chickens squawk. Mud squelches under wagon wheels. Some poor bastard’s getting screamed at by his wife outside the general store. The whole place smells like manure and moonshine and cheap tobacco.

Arthur reins in his horse outside the hotel and spits into the dirt, scanning the street like he’s already regretting bringing you along.

“Well,” he mutters, climbing down from his saddle. “Here we are. The height of civilization.”

You dismount Freya and toss her reins over the hitching post. “Astute observation, Morgan. Next thing I know, you’ll be makin’ sketches of the saloon piss bucket in that journal of yours.”

He gives you a sidelong look, lip twitching. “Only if you’re the one cleanin’ it out.”

You hum as you dust your trousers off. “Lovely. Maybe I will find someone better suited to my delicate nature while I’m in there.” You gesture toward the hotel. “Someone who smells less like cigarettes and horse sweat.”

Arthur snorts. “Best of luck to you. Now go get your damn bath before you scare the locals off.”

You’re halfway up the hotel steps when you pause, glancing back at him. He’s lighting another cigarette, already looking like he’s halfway to leaving you behind.

“You sure you don’t need a bath yourself?”

“Nah,” he says, taking a drag. “Got a few things to take care of. Heard about a bounty at the Sheriff's. Might visit the gunsmith, maybe the post office.”

You raise a brow. “You writin’ letters now? That’s sweet. Didn’t know you had a pen pal.”

He grins around his cigarette. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

You lean one hip against a porch post and shrug, a smug little smile curling your lips. “And yet you keep lettin’ me accompany you places. Kinda gives the impression you enjoy it.”

Arthur flicks his ash into the dirt and shakes his head, chuckling low under his breath. “Get in there, trouble.”

You tip your hat at him and push the door open, letting it swing shut behind you. The wood creaks under your boots as you cross the lobby, already imagining the feel of hot water and real soap, not the lye-smelling, skin-flaying blocks you’ve been stuck with as of late.

Still, as the hotel clerk hands you a key and points you toward the baths, you find yourself glancing back through the dusty window.

Arthur’s still outside. Still watching.

And when he catches you looking, he tips his hat just so.

Damn him.

You disappear down the hall before he can see you smile.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

This bath is worth every damn cent.

You sink into the water with a hiss, the heat prickling at your skin before settling into something delicious and divine. Your head falls back against the smooth curve of the deep tub, and you let your eyes flutter shut. The smell of campfire smoke and horse sweat linger in your hair, but now the sweet scent of rose and jasmine override them.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet, maybe. Without the constant chaos of living in a camp with twenty-odd other people. Without Arthur's gruff drawl, the barbs he throws your way any chance he gets.

You’d never admit it aloud, not even with a pistol to your head, but you’d spent most of the ride into town studying him. The way his shoulders moved when he rode, one arm slung back like second nature. How his forearms flexed when he adjusted the reins. That deep, lazy drawl of his when he leaned forward on his horse, whispering kindnesses to her.

That’s my girl.

It’s infuriating. The way he can be so damn irritating one moment and then have the gall to go and make flutters erupt in your belly like that.

You huff and dunk your head under the water, the heat blooming against your cheeks, muffling everything. When you resurface, hair slicked back and dripping, you reach for the bar of perfumed soap and lather up your arms.

You scrub harder than you need to.

Arthur Morgan. Thorn in your side, pain in your ass. And yet, somehow, unavoidable. Unignorable. He drives you up the wall but half the time you’d rather he pin you against it.

You shake your head, water flinging from your hair in fat droplets, and mutter under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.

Because it’s just a bath. Just a hot soak and some soap. You’re acting like it’s boiling you til you’re soft, all because the man has nice arms and talks to his horse the way you’d like him to talk to you.

You sink a little deeper, until the water brushes your chin.

… Still, you wonder what he’s doing now.

Probably leaned against the saloon bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, charming some barmaid with that half-smile he thinks makes him irresistible.

That thought shoots irritation through you.

You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You sigh and let yourself sink again, only this time, it’s not to escape the heat. It’s to escape the thought of Arthur Morgan and the way he makes you feel like you're always one step away from either throttling him or kissing him.

The water cools quicker than you’d like, the heat leeching away in slow degrees until you’re forced to admit defeat. With a groan, you climb from the tub, water sluicing off your skin, and wrap yourself in a linen towel that’s coarser than you’d prefer but does the job just fine. You scrub yourself dry, watching the bathwater swirl in lazy circles, now a cloudy shade of brown.

“Twenty-five cents well spent,” you mutter to yourself, smirking as you step back into your clothes. Clean skin under worn fabric is a small luxury in this life, where comforts are few and far between.

You take your time on your way out, fingers trailing along the wood panelling, relishing the way the wooden floor doesn’t kick up dirt beneath your boots like the camp’s packed dirt ground always does. At the front desk, you offer a quiet thank-you to the clerk, prepared to wander the main street of Valentine in search of Arthur, maybe needle him some more if he’s still loitering near the general store.

But then the man behind the desk stops you with a polite smile.

“Oh, if you’re looking for the fella you came in with, he just went in for a bath himself.”

You blink.

And then stare at him like he just told you he had a live rattlesnake wearing a top hat under the desk.

Arthur Morgan? Paying for a hot bath? After all that teasing? All that ribbing about you getting dolled up for some suitor in town? You’d half expected to find him outside rolling around in horse dung just out of spite.

Before you can gather a proper retort, or perhaps go storming down the hallway to wring his smug neck, a soft creak on the stairs turns your head.

She appears like a mirage in the desert.

Rouge on her cheeks, hair curled and piled high, her corset cinched tight enough to give a man ideas. Her chemise hangs off one shoulder, strap slipping in a way that seems both accidental and entirely intentional. She’s soft and sultry, gliding down the stairs like an apparition.

Your mouth goes dry.

The desk clerk straightens a bit, his tone easy. “Hattie. Gentleman in room two. Deluxe.”

She smiles, slow and syrupy, a curl of smoke practically floating in her wake. “Let me have a quick smoke,” she purrs, glancing at you with a wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Then I’ll be right in.”

She turns on her heel and saunters toward the hallway, hips swaying with practiced ease.

You're rooted to the floor.

Your thoughts, however, go flying.

That rotten, no-good, two-faced son of a bitch.

After all that grief, after the wisecracks and smirks, the whole you plannin’ to go courtin’? nonsense, he turns right around and orders himself a deluxe bath with a woman like that waiting on him?

The sheer audacity.

Your ears burn so hot they might catch fire, and you barely register the front desk clerk blinking at you, a little wary now.

“Miss? You all right?”

“No!” you snap, sharper than a pistol crack. “No, I am not .”

And with that, you storm outside, the door slapping shut behind you as you step into the dust and heat of the street, fury rising like smoke from scorched earth.

Arthur Morgan is about to get his damn comeuppance.

You don’t pause to think, don’t stop to weigh propriety or pride. You just follow the scent of tobacco like a bloodhound on the trail, stomping down the narrow alleyway between the hotel and the bank, jaw clenched tight.

And there she is.

Hattie leans against the frame of the hotel’s back door, a cigarette perched daintily between two fingers, lips pursed around it as she puffs. She’s got the look of a woman who’s seen too much and lets even less surprise her, but she startles when she sees you approach..

You draw in a breath, tempering the fury that wants to lash out in all directions. It ain’t her fault she’s the kind of woman men pay to have bathe them.. It ain’t her fault men pay for warmth and softness in bathwater and bed alike. And it sure as hell ain’t her fault that today, of all damn days, Arthur Morgan just so happens to be her customer.

“Hattie,” you say like you’ve known her all your life, your tone smooth as whiskey left too long in the sun. “Enjoyin’ your cigarette?”

She straightens a bit, eyes scanning behind you as though there must be someone else you're talking to.

Then she catches the pistol on your hip, the pants in lieu of a skirt, the storm in your eyes.

“Miss, please,” she says, lifting one hand defensively, “I don’t want no trouble.”

You blink, realizing what she sees. What you must look like right now. Mad enough to spit nails, armed, wild-eyed.

“Oh, Lord no,” you say quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Ain’t here to rob you.”

She softens only a little, still eyeing you like you might go feral at any second. “Alright then… what are you here for?”

You reach into your satchel, fingers brushing over flint, bullets, an old piece of jerky, until you finally fish out your coin purse.

“What’s a deluxe bath cost these days? Extra twenty-five cents?”

“Fifty,” she says, flat as a skillet.

“Good God,” you mutter under your breath, grimacing as you tug the purse open. She shoots you a look. “Not that you ain’t… Not that your services ain’t worth that much.”

She smirks at that.

You hold out a shiny silver dollar, letting it catch the sun between your fingers. “I’ll give you this if you let me go in that room instead. Room two, with the gentleman.”

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes. “You plannin’ on robbin’ him ?”

You sigh. Lord, you almost wish that were the case. Would be easier than the truth.

“Somethin’ like that.”

She takes one long drag, ash glowing bright, and watches you as she exhales slow and thoughtful. Then she leans forward and plucks the coin from your fingers like she’s done it a thousand times before.

“Second door on the right,” she says, tucking the dollar into her bodice. “Don’t make too much noise, ‘less you want the fella at the front desk pokin’ his nose in.”

You nod, one foot already inside the threshold. “You’re a good woman, Hattie.”

“And you’re a strange one,” she calls after you, her chuckle trailing smoke.

You move through the corridor like a ghost, boots soundless on the wood, heart pounding louder than it ought to. The door looms before you, seeming larger now. Steam curls from beneath it, thick with the fragrant smell of rose and jasmine.

You raise your hand to knock, affecting your best, most sultry voice. “Need some help in there?”

A pause.

Then that voice, deep and unmistakably Arthur. “Come in.”

You turn the knob and step inside.

Steam fills the room like fog on a mountain pass, the glow of a small oil lamp, casting everything in a dim amber haze.

Truth be told, you didn’t have much of a plan. You’d stormed in here thinking about tossing a bucket of ice water in the tub or maybe snatching his clothes and leaving him to drip-dry in shame. But those half-formed ideas vanish the second your eyes land on him.

Because there, sunk low in the tub, arms sprawled along either side like a goddamn painting, is Arthur Morgan.

His head is tilted back, hair slicked down, eyes closed. He looks peaceful more serene than you’ve ever seen him. And damn it, he’s glowing . Skin golden and wet, a few scattered droplets clinging to the scruff on his jaw. You stare. You forget to be angry. You forget how to breathe.

Then his eyes open.

He blinks once, slow, and sits up just a bit. Water laps at his chest.

“What in the hell…”

And just like that, the fire under your ass lights right back up.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a damn liar,” you snap, stepping fully into the room and letting the door shut with a click behind you. “Told me you didn’t want a bath, but that ain’t what I’m seein’.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What’re you…”

“A deluxe bath, no less! That what brought you to Valentine? Didn’t want me gettin’ one ‘cause you didn’t wanna be caught playin’ cozy with some saloon girl?”

He tuts, jaw already tightening. “Now, how the hell’d you — ”

“I was there , Arthur! Stood right there when she got the order. Gave her a damn dollar to scram.”

That shuts him up. For a beat, anyway. Then his jaw works, and for a second, you think he might smile.

He leans back against the porcelain, eyes tracking over you slow. There’s a glint in them now, not teasing, exactly. It’s warmer than that, more curious. He’s not mad you’re here, just trying to parse why exactly.

“Well,” he says at last, drawl thick with steam, “you gonna stand there accusin’ me, or you plannin’ on helpin’ me wash?”

Your breath catches.

The steam clings to your skin, beads at your collarbone. Your shirt's damp at the edges, clinging to your arms. You should turn around. You should . But your feet don’t move.

But there he is, reclining in the tub like some damn river god, lips parted slightly, water beading along the muscled curve of his shoulders, sea blue eyes fixed on you. There was challenge in his voice, sure, but there was something softer too.

“I’d like to get my money’s worth,” he says, softer now. “Reckon you would too.”

As if possessed by the steam and the knowledge that he is naked beneath the cloudy water, you cross the room and kneel beside him.

He shifts, sitting forward just a bit. “Could use a hand with my back.”

And damn you if your heart doesn’t do a little flutter at that.

You reach for the cloth perched on the rim of the tub. Dip it into the water. Your fingers brush the edge of his shoulder as you begin to wash, and you feel it, that sharp little inhale he tries to hide. The tension under his skin.

Warm water runs down the ridges of his back, over scars and sun darkened skin. He exhales, head dropping forward, and for a moment it feels like the world gets very still.

“I didn’t… I didn’t rightly know what I was doin’,” you admit, voice small now, honest. “Just knew I was mad. Came up here all fired up, ready to start somethin’. And then I saw you sittin’ here, lookin’ like that, and…”

You trail off, cloth pausing over his spine.

He turns his head, gaze catching yours. “And?”

You swallow. “And I didn’t want some other woman’s hands on you.”

The shift is instant. His whole expression changes. Softens. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe I don’t want that either.”

You scoff, but it comes out breathless. “Right. You paid extra for a deluxe bath ‘cause you didn’t want a woman touchin’ you. Makes perfect sense.”

His gaze flickers away. “I… hurt my back. Been tough reachin’ everything. Wanted to make sure it was done right.”

“Oh.” The irritation slips through your fingers like bathwater.

“Just wanted to smell nice, you know.”

“For who?” you ask, meaning it to sound playful, but it slips out softer than you intended. Barely a tease at all. “Plannin’ on courtin’ someone?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“For you. Wanted to smell nice for you.”

Your chest tightens. A slow, hot ache unfurls deep in your ribs.

You reach out before you even know you’re doing it, brushing damp hair back from his temple. He turns into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I think about you all the time, Arthur,” you whisper. “More than I ought to.”

His eyes open. He searches your face, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

But you don’t.

“Join me?” he asks, the words a little rough at the edges.

The hot ache in your ribs dives down to your core.

You could make a joke. Could throw up that wall again, tease him about not wanting to dirty yourself soaking in his dirty water. But none of that feels right now, not here, not with him looking at you like that. Like you hung the moon.

You rise slowly, taking a step back from the tub. Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt, and though they tremble, you don’t stop. One by one, you undo them, each one a step closer to something you’ve only let yourself imagine in the quiet of night.

Arthur bows his head, eyes shut tight like if he doesn’t look, he can keep control of himself.

“You don’t have to look away,” you say softly. “I… I want you to look.”

His eyes open, and what you see there undoes you. Like he’s looking at something sacred.

When you slip your trousers off, you swear the air gets thicker. Your chemise clings to your skin, damp from the heat, and when you finally slide it off, there’s nothing between you and him but the steamy distance across the floor.

Bare in body and soul.

You step toward the tub. The water laps at your ankles first, hot and silken, and then you ease down slowly, legs folding to the side so you’re facing him. The tub is small, and your knees touch beneath the water. The heat of him seeps into you like sunlight through your canvas tent.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just watches you. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His gaze moves slow, respectful, reverent.

Then he lifts a hand, wet and trembling, and cups your cheek with such tenderness it breaks something loose inside you. His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, slow and reverent.

“Let me wash you, too,” he says thickly.

You huff a quiet breath, a smile tugging at your lips. “I just had a bath, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ain’t about gettin’ clean.”

You nod once. “I’m yours.”

You know Arthur is not used to being given things without a fight. Not used to things being his. But you figure you’ve given him enough hell at this point. And maybe you’ve been his this whole time, since the day you laid eyes on him from across that damn stagecoach.

Arthur shifts forward a little, the water sloshing gently around you. His hand slides from your cheek down to the curve of your jaw, then to your neck. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing you one inch at a time.

“You sure?” he asks all low, like gravel soaked in honey.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you murmur.

He reaches for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and wringing it out slowly. You watch the way his hands move so gently, those rough and capable hands you’ve spent so long admiring wrapped around guns and knives and ropes.The way his chest rises and falls. It stirs something deep and aching in you.

He presses the cloth to your collarbone, dragging it gently across your skin. The heat of it makes you shiver, and his eyes flick to yours, gauging your reaction.

You don’t look away.

He trails the cloth over your shoulder, down the line of your arm, the curve of your elbow. When he reaches your wrist, he turns your hand over and kisses the inside of it, soft and slow.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this. Not slow.”

You let your head tilt, watching him. “Then take your time.”

He does.

The cloth moves down your chest, careful, reverent. He doesn’t rush, not even when your breath hitches as he grazes the side of your breast. His hand lingers, trembling just a little, and his thumb moves over to graze across your nipple. You lean into his touch, soft peak pebbling under the pad of this thumb, and into the space between you that’s growing warmer with every breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with wonder. “More than I can make sense of.”

He dips the cloth again and brings it to your thigh, dragging it slowly upward. Your legs shift in the water, parting, an invitation unspoken but clear. His hand stills just above your knee, and he looks up at you, gaze searching.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, voice hardly a rasp. “Please.”

He slides the cloth higher, over your thigh, up the tender inside of it, so slow it makes you ache. You can’t hold back the soft sound that slips from your lips, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back, like he’s barely hanging on.

The cloth slips away, forgotten. He drops it over the edge of the tub, and both hands find your waist, drawing you gently toward him. The water shifts around you as you settle into his lap, straddling him, bare skin against bare skin beneath the surface. He’s warm everywhere, solid, a wall of hard-earned corded muscle beneath you.

You feel him, hard and hot beneath the water, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind against you or ask for more. He just holds you there, like this is enough. Like you are enough.

Your hands rise to his face, brushing the wet hair back again. “Arthur…”

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours. “You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just want to touch you. Feel you.”

But you want to say it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper. “Wanted you. ”

His breath shudders against your mouth, and then he kisses you.

Arthur Morgan is an outlaw, but when he presses his mouth to yours, you are certain he has only ever known tenderness. You are certain you have only ever known this feeling, of his body entangled with yours in a steaming bath, of being lulled into unreality by steam and the way he touches you.

It’s not hurried. It’s not rough. It’s deep, slow, devastating in the way it unravels you. His lips are soft, tasting of heat and longing. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this moment, like if he lets go, he’ll drown.

You deepen the kiss, one hand slipping to the nape of his neck, the other drifting down, skimming over the swell of his chest. He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, and his mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, kissing a line down to your collarbone. Then he’s pulling a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before turning to give his attention to the other.

“I could die happy right now,” he breathes against your chest, pressing kisses there.

“You’re not gonna die,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Not tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth continues to lather both breasts in open mouthed kisses, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and you arch into him, your body asking for more even before your mind catches up.

He groans again, quiet and rough, as if your reaction undoes him.

One of his hands skims up your back, broad and calloused, fingers spreading wide as he holds you close. The other trails lower, slow and steady beneath the waterline, tracing the curve of your hip. His palm slides over the swell of your thigh, and then inward, the pad of his thumb brushing just shy of where you ache for him most.

You gasp softly, breath hitching against his cheek. He stills, giving you space, giving you the chance to stop this, but you don’t want to stop. You need him to keep going.

You tilt your hips up in answer, pressing closer, your mouth brushing his ear. “Please, Arthur.”

That word, please , shatters whatever restraint he was clinging to.

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers tentative at first, but guided by your sharp inhale, your body’s silent instructions. He finds you slick, warm, already undone just from being close to him. His mouth finds yours again as he strokes you, slow and patient, like he’s learning every inch of you. Like he wants to remember exactly how to make you come undone so he can do it again and again.

He gathers your wetness on his thumb and guides it up to your clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles. His thick middle finger teases at your entrance, and he pulls back to look you in the eyes as he pushes in. You pout at the intrusion, a low whine escaping your lips. He pumps you a few times before adding another finger, and that’s when he knows he’s hit the sweet spot.

Your head falls to his shoulder, fingers digging into his back as he fucks you on his fingers. The water laps around you both, soft and rhythmic, masking the sounds of your breaths turning ragged, your gasps swallowed into the curve of his neck.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, heavy with awe. “So damn good…”

“Arthur,” you whine into his ear, his name never sounding so pure and yet so filthy. “Don’t stop, please.”

The pressure builds in you quickly, quicker than it ever has when you do this yourself, and in seconds you’re falling over the edge, fingers digging into his back, his name falling from your lips amid a string of muttered curses.

He pulls you back to look at you coming down, admiring his handiwork. He’d look smug if he weren’t so desirous, if his cock wasn’t painfully hard and resting inches from your still fluttering cunt.

Sensing this, you shift in his lap, seeking more of him, the heat between you almost unbearable now. His fingers still at your hip, holding you steady as you guide your hand between your bodies and wrap it around him, thick, hard, pulsing with need.

Arthur’s whole body shudders. His head drops back, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep from losing it right then and there.

“You’re killin’ me, darlin’,” he rasps.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “I don’t want gentle. I want you. All of you.”

He grits his teeth, his hands finding your waist again, gripping tight as he positions himself. You rise up a little, just enough to line yourself up, and then you sink down, slowly, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you.

A broken sound, your name, slips from his throat, part growl, part prayer, and your head falls forward to rest against his, both of you shivering in the aftermath of your bodies connecting at the root.

He fills you perfectly. The stretch burns deliciously, your bodies slotting together like they were always meant to. Like maybe this was written somewhere in the stars long before you ever crossed paths.

You begin to move first, slow, rocking your hips gently, savoring every drag of friction, every pulse of pleasure that builds in your core. Arthur’s hands roam everywhere, your back, your hips, your breasts, like he can’t decide where to settle because it’s all too much, too good, too real .

His mouth is everywhere too. Your tits, your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. He murmurs things you can barely make out between gasps.

So beautiful, can’t believe you’re mine, I got you, I got you.

You find a rhythm, the water sloshing gently with each movement, and your bodies fall into a perfect, desperate cadence, like a prayer whispered back and forth, over and over.

When it starts to crest, when the pressure builds and coils tight, you bury your face in his neck, your moan muffled against his skin.

You feel it again, that pressure in your core, the pull that drags you into ecstasy. His cock seated so deep inside you, his mouth lapping at your sensitive nipples, his fingers exploring every inch of you like he can’t possibly have enough of you flooding all of his senses.

He feels it. Feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your movements stutter. “That’s it,” he groans, hands gripping your hips harder, driving into you deeper now, chasing the edge right behind you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

And you do.

It hits like a wave, sharp, sweet, overwhelming. Your body clenches around him, pleasure sparking down your spine as you cry out his name. He follows a breath later, hips jerking, breath caught in his throat as he spills into you, hands trembling against your skin.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe. The world narrows to the quiet splash of water and the warm weight of his forehead against yours.

Then Arthur lifts a hand to your face again, brushing his knuckles along your cheek.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, a dazed little smile curling your lips. “Better than alright.”

He kisses you, slow and deep again, a promise sealed with steam and sweat.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You both linger in the tub longer than any paying customer probably ought to.

The water's gone tepid, but neither of you seem to mind. Your fingers trail idle circles across his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing soothing beneath your palm. His nose brushes yours now and again, lazy little kisses shared between soft smiles.

Eventually, you shift, your legs tangling with his as you rest your chin atop his shoulder. “If we go back to camp now,” you murmur, all low and drowsy. “We'll wake everyone up ridin’ in.”

Arthur lets out a soft grunt of agreement, nuzzling into your hair before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then we’ll keep ‘em up all night, too.”

You lift your head, feigning a scandalized gasp. “Arthur Morgan!”

“What?” he says, completely unbothered, though the crooked little grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. “You think I’m lettin’ you crawl back into your tent after that?”

You shake your head, hiding your smile. “What’ll the others say?”

“Don’t much care,” he says, sitting up, groaning as he stretches. “Think we earned a real bed tonight, though. What do you think?”

He climbs out first, grabbing a towel and then another, insisting on drying you off himself, all slow and careful. You dress in his flannel shirt draped over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs. Your chemise’s neckline peeks out where you didn’t bother buttoning all the way, your hair still dripping down your back..

You slip out into the hall together, Arthur’s hand low on your back, guiding you toward the front desk. The clerk is still there, chewing on a toothpick and flipping lazily through a tattered newspaper. He glances up as you approach and blinks.

Arthur clears his throat. “We’ll take a room. Just for the night.”

The clerk squints. “Weren’t you just in there for the deluxe bath?”

“Was,” Arthur says evenly. “Now I’m payin’ for a bed.”

The man frowns, glancing toward the back. “Where’s Hattie?”

Arthur raises a brow. “Didn’t need her, turns out.”

The clerk looks between the two of you, taking in the damp hair, the loosely buttoned clothes, the unmistakable glow of two people who just did a whole lot more than bathe. His cheeks redden and he hands over the key without a word.

You make it halfway up the stairs before you bite back a grin.

“So,” you murmur, tossing a glance over your shoulder at Arthur. “How’d you enjoy your deluxe bath?”

He smirks, deadpan. “Bit underwhelmin’. Tub was too small. No champagne. Woman wouldn’t stop talkin’.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as he catches up to you at the top of the stairs.

“Well at least you didn’t have to share it with a cowboy who dirtied your bathwater” you ask, playing along. “Maybe I’d have preferred your woman, seems awful sweet.”

“She was.” He pauses at the door, unlocking it. “Still talkin’ though.”

You scoff as he opens the door for you, stepping inside. “Ass.”

“Your ass,” he shoots back, swatting at your backside as he ushers you inside.

You don’t even make it under the covers before he’s got you in his arms again, falling back into the mattress with a satisfied grunt, taking you right along with him. You’re laughing as he pins you beneath him, one knee nudging your thigh as he brushes your hair off your face.

His gaze flickers lower, down to your collarbone. He dips his head there, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then inhales deep like he’s savoring you.

“You smell good,” he mutters against your skin.

You giggle. “Better than horse shit?”

He grins into your neck. “Oh, by miles.”

Then he nips playfully at your collarbone. “Still might have to take you back for another bath tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer with a teasing hum. “Well, if that’s the case… I suppose we better go for the deluxe again.”

And from the way he grins down at you, you’re certain he’s already plannin’ on it.

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jamiepaige · 8 months ago

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Constant Companions Closeup #5: CADMIUM COLORS

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(also on bandcamp and spotify!)

Once again, welcome back to the Constant Companions Closeups - a series of in-depth dives into the songs off of my latest album, Constant Companions! Last time, I wrote a whole diatribe about my OCs while talking about I Wish That I Could Fall, and today, we're eating paint! Cadmium Colors featuring Soneji of Project Mikan!

Consider this a content warning: this post will discuss the pandemic, struggles with mental health, and suicidal ideation/attempts. I'm hoping it'll ultimately be uplifting, but the discussions at hand are incredibly heavy, and it wouldn't do this song right to be vague. Please be warned.

---

Let's talk about COVID.

At the beginning of 2020, I was in the midst of a long-term break from making music. It wasn't completely cold turkey, and I might not have even called it a break if you'd asked me at the time, but things were dire. I was still dealing with the burnout I'd sustained from the making of Autumn Every Day; I'd had my ego bruised by a live performance at a house party that went so hilariously bad it'd hurt even the most stoic performers (imagine watching an entire packed room of people clear out in 5 minutes flat from the already hyper-exposed vantage point of being on stage in front of them and knowing you single-handedly caused that lol); I had just moved across the country, and was preoccupied with trying to make ends meet as a 22 year old dealing with pure adulthood for the first time.

I was working a shitty minimum wage job at a discount clothing store I will not be naming, slogging through late-night shifts that wouldn't get me home until 3 am some nights. I had friends and roommates, but they were all just as overworked and exhausted and dealing with their own shit as me. I was mentally ill and unmedicated. Suicidal ideation was rearing its ugly head at my lowest moments.

Then, as I turned 23, a global pandemic shut the world down, my grandpa died with me being unable to attend his funeral, and I had a catastrophic mental breakdown that suddenly turned the voices in my head into a deafening cacophony of self-inflicted malice.

In hindsight, I think being 23 kinda just does that to you

---

Fast forward to 2021. I was back at my retail job with the pandemic raging in full force, my sense of self was held together with duct tape, positive self-talk essentially didn't exist for me, and I was the loneliest and lowest I had ever been. I was working the fewest hours I could get away with, and still, almost all spare time I had was taken up either by work or by my recovery from it.

This was around the time I got an email from Crypton, of all places - the people that make Hatsune Miku, for anyone uninformed. They wanted a remix of the song Happy Synthesizer for a Digital Stars compilation. I could not for the life of me tell you how I lucked into this or why they reached out to me of all people, but they did, and I was deathly determined to prove myself worthy of it.

This was August of 2021. I was staring down the barrel, languishing in what felt like only half of a life, fantasizing about death and trying to twist my thoughts into something that could at least keep me blearily shuffling forward another couple days. It was untenable.

(I'd also recently been diagnosed with OSDD 1b - this is a whole can of worms I can't really open until we talk about Breeze Blows, but it's important to at least mention that coping with this was a significant part of this turnaround.)

It's melodramatic, but I had only two options - make things again, or die.

I finished that remix within 24 hours of getting the stems, and I will gladly toot my own horn about it - it's really fucking good, in my opinion. Bittersweet ended up coming together in a mad dash over the next couple months as well. I was making music again.

Even though I was exponentially busier, things paradoxically got easier. I made the creative process a priority in my life, and not only did it give me an outlet for everything that had otherwise been eating away at my soul, but it struck a chord with other people who had been struggling as well. Things just... started getting brighter.

So I kept making music and living and yadda yadda blah blah here I am. This is all a lot of words and very personal stories of mental health struggles to say this:

One: The line between being an artist and being one of countless people forced to work jobs that go nowhere, that put their life at risk, that force them to strip parts of themselves away - it is a faint and transparent line built on circumstances of class and privilege and luck. Making Art and being an Artist aren't magical elevated states of existence, but something anyone is capable of if given the space to nurture their creativity. I believe the world should be a place where any person can do this.

Two: It's easy to convince yourself that art is meaningless in the face of the world at large. And yes, revolutions aren't fought by poetry and paintings, and people aren't fed through songs. But art is a source and a medium for connection; Art is how we find beauty in a disorganized and entropic world; Art is what we come home to and what words we write and pictures we paint and songs we sing to remind us that people matter to us and love is real and life is worth fucking living. Maybe that's corny and stupid, but it's true.

Three: So help me God, I will never work retail again in my entire life.

---

This is another song that is heavily inspired by artists like Prefab Sprout, Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, and other artists of that ilk - very 80s, very flowery and sentimental lyricism, focused on telling a story. I greatly admire songs that aren't afraid to paint otherwise banal or ordinary scenes in abstract reverence!! I wanted the verses to contrast heavily with each other in that way, with verse one's relentless poeticisms (prosaic practice of depravity) and idioms turned on their head (suspending innocents above their disbelief) against verse two's incredibly straightforward depiction of a factory worker's circumstances.

The flowery language might have worked against me somewhat, though! I've seen a lot of folks that thought the ending was darker or much more defeatist than I intended, and while some of that is just inevitable with a work of art, I want to be clear.

Translator's note: this means "don't kill yourself, you idiot"!!

As you may have picked up from the previous post in this series, this song does heavily feature a leitmotif or two predominantly performed under pudgy pretenses. I'm not going to go on that whole novella-length spiel again, but rest assured knowing that this song, too, is one that makes me think about my OCs. Since it's something many people missed, however, I will take a moment to point out that this song quotes none other than Autumn Every Day off of my album of the same name!

Painting and visual art have been something of a reoccurring obsession of mine in my own art. I grew up around visual artists, have always been friends with many visual artists, and generally have a really intense love of it as a medium and a mode of expression. However, there's also always been a sense of... well, I don't want to call it jealousy, but it's jealousy. I've tried many times to start making visual art of my own, and I have made some things, but it's been a struggle, and I worry sometimes that my eye has permanently outstripped my ability.

However, in my quest to toss out grand expectations and simply have fun making art, I did recently pick up a cheap little drawing tablet! I'm excited to be a beginner at something artistic again...

Finally, I want to thank a couple people: Soneji of Project Mikan for the gorgeous, soaring saxophone solo; friend_xp for the mindboggling MV editing; and especially my good friend Que for the GORGEOUS painterly art that goes along with this song! Que's style was just perfect for this, and really tied the whole thing together immaculately!! There's no joke or deeper lore or anything I just fucking love Que's art go follow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And with that, I think this post is complete!! If you have anything else you wanna know about, ask away in the replies! Tomorrow will be Breeze Blows with Marcy Nabors and Marlow Jacobs!!!

MAKE ART AND BE GAY

#music #jamie paige #bandcamp #constant companions #behind da scenes

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