#the current half-hearted goal is to try to salvage something out of there at least by the end of this year. because it's getting ridiculous

[echotunes]

Ao3 question 11

11. What work took you the longest to write?

of the fics I posted this year, either Visitor, which was written over a couple weeks during last year's _hq holiday exchange and then finished just after new year, or one of my Fic in a Box works which I can't link because 1) they haven't revealed yet and 2) they're meant to be anonymous for the first two weeks. but I did work on that for a couple weeks also

but uh. in terms of the unpublished ones. Stares at The Big Doc. well there's this one thing I've had going since. July. and ongoing (14k words in the doc and counting........)

(ao3 wrapped ask game)

[lundiivith]

paperback dreams in their deep doze

this is a comedy. it’s also on ao3!

Miraak closed his eyes.

He sat inside a nest of papers, scrolls, and odd ends he’d organized into a circle. Runes were loose all around, traces of magic overwriting recipes and journals. The lack of major currents of wind was an advantage, kept everything still and eternal. Just like Apocrypha’s lord wanted things to be.

Miraak's breathing was stable. He’d only managed to create this spell through years of failure after failure, and the passive version still left... afterimages. It was messy, but it would have to do. He kept as still as he could — until he felt it, the warm weight on his entire person that spoke plenty for the spell’s success. He was being watched.

Perfect.

A single paper crinkled, but it didn’t matter. He had brought them to him once more — his lead cultist.

They saw him and bent a knee. “My lord Miraak,” they said, reverential. “I bring great news.”

Miraak resisted the temptation to open his eyes and see them. The spell required lack of sight on his part, an oversight he hoped to not have to fix.

“Tell me.”

“A few days ago, we heard a thunderous sound from the mainland. Words. We couldn’t quite make out what they said, but they sounded like dragon language. And then, the gossip came — the dragons had returned.”

Miraak tilted his head. “So it is time for the prophecy. Was the sound, perhaps, something like ‘Dovahkiin’? I did feel a dragon soul pull, a few days ago.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then Alduin is already as good as defeated, if this Dragonborn doesn’t die first.” He smiled under his mask. “It would not be wise,” he continued — but something was... off. He started again. “It would not be wise to confront this Dragonborn,” but there still was something wrong with the spell. He could feel the projection stuttering. He furrowed his brow, tried again to say, “You should not confront them. They’re the biggest danger to our goal right now — antagonizing them could bring our whole plot down.”

“A—are you sure, my lord?” the cultist questioned, nervous.

“Of course I’m sure.” There it was back again.

“But antagonizing the Dragonborn would be…”

“A bad idea.” And there went the spell again. Had a new book landed on his precious circle? He couldn’t afford to see it. “Is this all?”

“Yes, my lord. The rebuilding process continues as always.”

“Then I thank you, my cultist. Sleep now.”

Miraak opened his eyes. The spell’s weight lifted off him, and he was on his feet in less than a second, inspecting the circle. There was nothing wrong with it. What had happened?

He huffed and walked away, stalking on long legs towards a desk. He consulted with the papers he kept open there. Miraak reread everything, angrily flipping through loose bits and disheveled tomes. He opened the biggest one. The Black Book he would need to power his spell still didn’t work for him. Its pages were clammy to the touch. The text made his head swim, sure, and the bindings twitched with unreleased power... but he was — and here it came — dizzied enough by them to see glimpses of the room where he’d left it, millennia ago.

...Before being spat back out onto pure greenness, that is.

Miraak was tired of the dizzying, sickly tint. Soon, he thought, trying to soothe his bristled spirits; soon he would see red again, and golden. He was weary. It felt as if these years had all been a single ancient day with no sunset to mark its end.

Miraak closed the Black Book and picked up his notes. Then, he glanced back towards the circle. As he did so, a tentacle lashed out of the sea of ink and brought back with it one piece of the circle. He sighed; he’d have to rewrite it. Miraak walked back to the platform and knelt. He started carefully plucking the loose sheafs of paper, then slid them in a pocket between the folds of his robes, near his chest. Then, he began moving again, research in hand, scurrying out of his little meeting-room.

He knew the route by heart, now. A turn here, and a scrye there. Miraak’s footsteps echoed through a shifty bridge and then, suddenly, came to a stop.

A lurker, skulking through the hallway in front of him. One of Mora’s. Miraak crouched, hidden from view, and raised two fingers; an ice spike formed an inch or so away from them. His left hand’s palm crackled with electricity. The lurker barely had time to react. Before it knew it, there was an ice spike through its head, and its dead body was twitching with electricity. Miraak continued his way, careful that his footsteps weren’t too loud.

After a few minutes, he reached it. His corner of Apocrypha.

Hidden under a pair of hollow staircases, protected by a veritable wall of books, was his tiny cave. Miraak walked in, bending his neck to get under the entrance. He summoned some magelight, then looked around. He glanced the entirety of his worldly belongings: a few dozens of books he’d managed to salvage, a miscellany of scribbles, and his little nest. It'd been built out of crinkling notes and loose leaves of paper. The nest had then been covered in clothes taken from dead adventurers, fashioned into bizarre patchworks of comfort. Ancient enchantments were carved and scribbled all over it. They glittered brokenly, faltering from age.

Miraak flopped onto it and slid his mask off his face. Oblivion knew when Hermaeus Mora would next challenge him. To, say, find a specific book as his champion and feed it to the sea. Or maybe find a specific mortal who’d stumbled in, and duel them to the death. He sighed and flicked open a book. Today’s new findings included: a Nord’s scribblings insisting Alduin and Akatosh weren’t the same creature, some horribly-misspelled letter that stunk of romance to high heaven, and a manual on how to defend oneself from some creature Miraak had heard about when he was a boy.

He closed the manual shut and decided to start with the love note. At least it had characters you could get invested in.

He scanned its contents, then flipped it. Each misspelled word was carefully printed, yet still clumsy, delineating some kind of awful guilt-ridden loyalty. He'd found love letters weren’t as sweet and charming as they were said to be. When previous to fulfillment, the longing was usually quite well hidden behind the deadpan of pen and paper. When posterior, they were disgustingly lovey-dovey. But they were entertaining, and that was what mattered; what he’d learnt would help him not be driven to utter, raving lunacy. He’d tiptoed into those territories once or twice, as a particular skull he still kept mostly out of nostalgia could attest to. Keeping busy was the ideal, and routine kept one busy, as much as he disliked it.

Miraak finished the love letter and considered it for a moment.

He got up and walked over to a different part of the little cavern, then picked up a sliver of coal. He sat back down, then took his dismantled circle from its improvised pocked. Miraak flicked through it briefly, flick flick flick flick, rhythmic, and consulted briefly his notes. So that one was missing, then. He grabbed the love letter, turned it around, and cleanly traced a few lines onto the paper. It glowed blue. Miraak flipped through the papers and put it in place. There — now to hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

“Have you news, my follower?”

It’d been a week since he’d been informed of the prophecy’s beginning. He sat, as still as possible, the weight of the spell on his arms. The letter had worked without need of modification, which was excellent. Sometimes, the magic was randomly fickle, and those were the worst days; the ones where he had to rewrite a single rune a thousand times until it worked.

“I’m afraid so, my lord Miraak. The men we sent after the Dragonborn, as you ordered us to do, were killed.”

“What?!” Miraak nearly jumped to his feet in surprise. He opened one eye. “I dictated the opposite of that order,” he thundered — and then felt the spell’s weight lifting off him. Oh, was this it? “Follower of mine, I believe our communications have been compromised. Give me but a moment.”

“Re— really, my lord?”

“Yes. Now give me a moment.” The spell dissipated. Miraak stood up in the blink of an eye, then began pacing around his circle. Nothing was wrong. He made a strangled, frustrated noise and grumbled on his way to the desk.

He flicked through the Black Book’s pages. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nothing was wrong. Miraak walked over to the edge of the platform and knelt, then dipped his finger in the greasy ink that surrounded the infinite library. A tentacle or two swirled around his finger, but he paid them no mind. He got up, walked over to the desk and ripped a page from one of the regular books around, then drew some protective sigils onto it with the ink.

He shook off the thick, ugly liquid, but it was already eating through his glove — he’d need new ones, and soon. He went back to the circle, protective sigils in hand, and placed the paper somewhere. Anywhere would do — in theory.

Anti-daedric sigils, he’d found, worked far better this way.

Miraak sat down once again. He let the projection sink into him, and soon felt the reassuring weight of its magic. A single footstep before him betrayed his cultist’s presence.

“Rest easy, my follower,” Miraak intoned, no doubt interrupting them before they could even start their worried little sentences. “The Library’s master will annoy us no more.”

“Oh, I… My lord. I apologize, I— if there was anything I could’ve done, to endanger this communication, I beg of you to forgive me.”

“Worry not, for it was simply… an easy-to-make oversight. You've done no wrong."

“My lord, what was it that was lost in communication?”

Miraak sighed — more than sighed, groaned. “I did not order for the Last Dragonborn to be contacted.”

“Oh, my Lord…” They were so annoying. My lord this, my lord that — hadn’t they felt anything wrong with the dream? Miraak had half a mind to throttle them.

“It’s no matter. We will have to deal with this issue as it comes. Hopefully, they will be understanding of our situation — or even better, weak enough that it won’t matter. It is of no consequence.” It had to be.

“T—thank you, my Lord!” Miraak could almost see them bending a knee. Of course, of course. Ugh.

“In other news, how is the construction of my Temple going?”

“Fine as rain, my lord. The pillars are as strong as can be. They will last for a thousand years!”

“Has the roof been placed yet?”

“...No, my lord, not completely. But the stairs! Oh, the stairs!”

“I am… glad to know the stairs are good.” Miraak liked architecture well enough, but he wasn’t about to rain praise on stairs. There was something about fighting tooth and nail for your own freedom, something that made the parts that weren’t terrifying... oddly mundane. Boring, even. “If there is no more news, then… I bid you goodbye, my follower.”

“And so do I, my lord.”

“Any news from the Last Dragonborn?”

It had been a month.

“No, my lord.”

“...Perhaps they didn’t notice the note.”

Six months.

“...And as always, there is no news from the Last Dragonborn.”

At the Windhelm docks, there was a stranger.

A young woman wearing a furry cloak walked backwards. She was waving goodbye to a few argonians she’d been talking to. They went back to their work, chattering a little between each other. She turned around and kept walking forward towards some door that led out of the docks. Before she was able to, she walked right into a nordic man, currently pacing around the docks.

“Oh! Excuse me,” she said. The man turned around to look at her and found all-black eyes, unblinking. He looked elsewhere, pushed her aside. Continued pacing.

“I said excuse me,” the woman repeated. The man didn’t reply. “Hello?”

“...speaking of some madness, someone named Miraak…” the man muttered.

The woman caught up to him in a couple short strides and firmly grabbed his shoulder, before pulling him towards her. “Hellooooo? Are you alright?”

“...if you’re looking for passage to Solstheim,” the man replied, automatic, “too bad. I'm not going back there anymore.”

“Solstheim?” The woman frowned, a bit confused. “Why wouldn’t you go back?”

The man rambled on, about losing entire days to people with masks. A light turned on her eyes, like a lightbulb flashing off.

“Well, I guess you’re going to Solstheim again,” the woman said.

“Have you been listening to me? I'm not—”

“Yes you are. I’m coming with you, and I’m fixing this.” There was a gleam in her eyes, like a little fire. “It’s as you said: it’s not right, losing whole days like that, no?” At his skepticism, she huffed. “I’ll give you twice the usual rate, you big baby.”

The man sighed. “Well,” he said. “ ...a man's got to make a living, after all. Fine. We'll cast off—”

“Tomorrow,” the woman said. “I need to pick some things up.”

“Tomorrow,” the man nodded, dumbfounded, and he went back to his ship.

Satisfied, the Last Dragonborn of legend left the docks, onwards to go back to her home.

Miraak knelt, picking through the woman’s possessions. Adventurers were rare; he’d gone decades without seeing new ones. Or, without them being singled out to him by the prince that dared to call itself his master, in a bizarre parody of a death sentence — which had been the case of this last one.

Hermaeus Mora liked to pretend he made use of his Champion in these ways, complaining of people misusing or dirtying his library. Tricking him. As if someone as simple as these people could, were Miraak’s thoughts on the subject. If it were up to him, Miraak would’ve left them alone; it was every man for himself in this place, and really, it wasn’t worth it. But it was dangerous to outright deny a Prince, much less you knew was the only reason you hadn’t already turned into a Seeker.

In any case, Miraak was uneasy at the task. This woman had been the first person he’d been directed towards since the little Dragonborn-related stumble. Knowing Mora, it was certainly no coincidence.

He shook his head and continued to rummage through the woman’s bag. Some potions, food… a sketchbook. Nothing out of the ordinary. Miraak hadn’t been hungry in millennia, but potions were always useful. He hesitated, then opened the sketchbook.

On the first page, drawings of a small child, sitting under what looked like a tree. A few faces in the margins. An old-looking orc, grumbling. He flicked through a few more papers and suddenly stopped: a dragon. The sketch was scribbly, fast; unreadable scrawls noted things around. Unlikely to be up close. Then, one the next page, a detailed draconic skull, the rest of the skeleton off-page.

Miraak closed the book. ...He’d keep it.

He got up, ready to leave; before he did so, he looked at the horizon. The sleeping dragons near Apocrypha’s summit stayed where they were, waiting out their sentences, curled tail to tail in an inhuman parody of intimacy. His so-called fellows, the only who had recognized him. The only who had recognized his soul, millennia ago.

He left.

“My lord,” was the cultist’s greeting, as always. “There is urgent news.”

“Tell me.”

“The Dragonborn has been sighted in Solstheim.”

Miraak stood still, frozen.

Then, he straightened his back fully. The spell crackled on his shoulders, then settled; the cultist yelped at the intermission.

“What?”

“I— My lord, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I must’ve been weak, in some way, or—”

“Of course you’re weak. You’re all weak. This was not your fault, however.” Oh, no, it wasn't. “We will deal with the Dragonborn. They—”

“She, my lord.”

“—She decided to come here, and for that, she will pay dearly.” A woman, then. Fine. “What has she done so far?”

“Not much, my lord. She has appeared in the town of Raven Rock, on Solstheim’s south, alongside a companion. They arrived today, at sunset; one of my own, young Tensyne saw them arrive, and then saw one of them walk into the town’s inn. We are… still not sure which one is which, but!” they added, possibly sensing his disdain, “We will soon learn!”

“Do you know of their names?”

“I’m… afraid not. The lad, he’s the youngest recruit, he says he talked with the innkeeper and learnt the name of the taller one.”

“...And if you don't know which is which,” Miraak asked them, every syllable dripping with ugh, “how can you possibly tell that one of them is the Dragonborn?”

“W—well…” The cultist shrunk shamefully. “...To be truthful, our cultists were… A bit rough. With the captain of the regular supplies boat from the mainland. So no one new has come since then. And the shorter one did have…” They shrunk further. “...armor that looked like dragons’ scales.”

“So the shorter one is the Dragonborn, then.”

“It may be a gift?”

“And we’re back to square one.” Miraak sighed. “We will talk tomorrow, though. You should have told me earlier about no one coming to the island, though.”

“I— I apologize, my lord, I didn’t think it was important!”

“Everything is important. It is fine, I will work around it. Goodnight, my follower.”

“G...goodnight, my lord.”

Miraak dismissed his cultist with a wave of his hand and dispelled the incantation. He opened his eyes and let out the world’s longest, most tired groan.

His cultists. They worshipped the ground he trod on, and yet, they were unable to do the simplest of tasks without his immediate guidance. It was useless trying to talk sense into them, Miraak knew; they stumbled around like children.

In any case: a pesky problem had resurfaced. While Miraak was willing — and able — to fix it, it was ridiculous that he even had to deal with it in the first place. Which led to the likely cause of this all… Hermaeus Mora.

Of course. Of course he’d do this. Mora was bizarre, unknowable. Miraak’s time dealing with him had yielded little information, and it was — frustrating; he would go as far as to describe the entity as jealous, childish (which was, really, truly hypocritical on his part; what is a dragon, but a spoiled brat?).

In any case, of course Hermaeus Mora would refuse him leave of this ink-infested domain, then wreck any plans he may develop to abandon it. Of course he’d be territorial about someone he employed in the manner of a trophy librarian. Of course.

It made his blood boil.

He sighed and watched today’s anti-daedric sigil burn to ash. One use only, they were. He’d started to run out of old pieces of armor, and would hate to start giving away his beddings to the cause. When you’ve been living in Oblivion for millennia, it was painful to let go of any comforts.

Miraak paused for a moment, then went back to work. Curses of unsleep did not cast themselves.

A few days earlier, it was late at night, in the stranger’s home.

She laid in bed, curled up, about to sleep. Surrounding her, in an inhuman parody of an embrace, were all her worldly possessions. By her bed, a chest filled with various wonderful things she’d picked up during her travels; between the bed and the floorboards, large sacks filled with septims. A dragon, sleeping on her hoard. She shook her head, as if to focus on the question of the evening.

“Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ,” she whispered. “Where have I heard it before…?”

She fell asleep before connecting it to the first cultists’ war cry.

[kryptsune]

Hi you are an amazing writer i was wondering if you have any tips on salvaging a story that was derailed by a brain fart cause uh i was writing a short story that turned out to be longer and harder to read for anyone thats not myself and now i cant barely look at it... so can i have tips or advice please?

🌼Sorry for the late reply on this I wanted to be able to take the time to give you my own personal advice. First of all, thank you for the kind words :D I am so happy that you enjoy my writing. 

Tips tips tips. Well, there are a couple of things you can do and I have personally done myself. If you feel as though a story has gotten out of hand there is nothing wrong with that at all. I never planned to have either Felldritch or Wonderfell having their own fics in the first place but I enjoy writing for them so much that it was a logical progression. It is difficult for me to assess your personal investment in the project and from what I am reading it seems you no longer are passionate about it?  The truth of the matter is that writing has to be something you enjoy in order to do stories. Sure you can pump out chapter after chapter but it won’t have that spark and why would you put yourself through that suffering in the first place? Sometimes stories are hard to read for others just because of their personality. I have a lot of friends that enjoy my work but haven’t read the story because it is massive. That is something I am keenly aware of often. Welcome to the Underworld is not for the faint of heart or for casual readers and I understand that. It’s not for everyone. I appreciate it when people at least try, however, it is a good way for me to gauge interest at the very least. 

I will break this into 3 parts. The first will be revaluating your current story/project and the second will be things you can do that might make it easier for your readers if you still feel you want to continue it and lastly what you can do to possibly get that passion back if so you can “look at it again.” 1. Evaluating your project: As artists and creatives, we tend to latch onto our work because we put our own personal investment into it. I usually use the analogy that it is like our child and it can be difficult to care for sometimes and yet rewarding at others. This is the first thing you want to do if you are working on a project. Always evaluate. Do you enjoy it anymore?  Do you feel stuck? Is it just not going the way you want it to? Writer's block maybe? All of these can be factors into why you may not enjoy it any longer. 

I felt this with WTU for the longest time and now looking back on it...it was for the wrong reasons. I felt that no one wanted to read it after hours upon hours of writing and editing. It made me sad and I didn’t understand why. The thing is I have changed my mindset when it comes to this. It is hard for me to accurately gauge who reads my work without some kind of feedback but I have a goal. I set out to write an extensive and world built Fell verse and I am going to do it. It’s important to me and it is rewarding just to know that I can do a project as large as the three acts of WTU. Ask yourself why are you writing the story? What are your roadblocks? This will help you come to a decision. 

2. Easing the Readers: If you read my writing you will notice I have a tendency to write a fair bit. Every chapter of WTU ranges from about 15-20 pages of text 11 point font in google docs. That is a lot. I actually have not gone and calculated the word count on it but yeah, a lot. There are simple things you can do however to make the reading a little more digestible for people. 

a. Formating: I never had a problem with reading large blocks of text. That was how I was taught in middle and high school. That said others struggle with large blocks because it makes it difficult to read from a visual perspective (the irony that I am using block text right now). What you can do is break up your paragraphs more often. I have started to do this with older WTU chapters seeing as there are a lot of text blocks. It is a simple and relatively hassle-free way to make it easier. 

b. Pacing: I am by no means the expert of fics however there are some things that I notice in fics that tend to pop up quite frequently. I am not saying to change these things by any means but to evaluate and possibly adjust when needed. PACING. I can’t tell you how many stories I have read with poor or confusing pacing. What I mean by this is that the story is either holding too long in a certain scene or there is no breathing room. WTU and a lot of my fics have dark undertones to them which creates drama and emotional payoff, however, doing this constantly and throwing problem after problem into a story is hard to swallow. The readers need a break. This can be anything from levity to simple character interactions. Not everything is fights or angst. 

This also goes for fics that have none of the former as well. There are so many that are a slice of life and that is fine! Enjoy your cute fluffy fics that said if there is no conflict then what is the point of continuing to read the story? What is holding my investment? Sure the characters can be written well but the point of storytelling is connection. A perfect butterflies and rainbows story is all well and good but you can’t connect to it. That is not how life is. (I am pontificating a little bit but I am honestly really tired of having to explain to people that my fics are M for a reason. No NSFW stuff but rather real-life mental and psychological and emotional situations.)

c. Characters: This kind of also ties into what I was talking about before. A flawless character... is a boring one. Some of peoples favorite characters are the villains, why? Because unlike their heroic counterparts they feel real. They go through things and make their own path. If they just chose differently then things would be different. A lot of times (and no offense to fandom) I find that people make stereotypes of a character. It’s all surface-level stuff. Think about what makes you, you. What have you gone through that causes you to think a certain way or react to things? Our lives are made up of experiences and moments and characters are the exact same way. Most don’t realize this since I hint it throughout the story but everything tells a story. The character's costumes tell a story whether that be the place they live of their own personal style. Why does my Red wear a collar with a seemingly half-broken, fused, and burned chain link? I don’t know... you tell me. 

It’s a storytelling technique called breadcrumbing. This is used to hint to some sort of plot or payoff. A foreshadowing at times. It is an incredibly useful and engaging tool if done properly. I would use my “why does Red do what he does” example but its been beaten to death so I will use Boss as my example instead.   

Boss is the Head of Royal Guard having bested Undyne a long time ago but not everyone was happy with the change of the Guard and that is communicated in character dialogue. In fact, you can use this method to hint to character connections as well. Boss has claw marks in both his scarf and his left eye socket. So.... who could do that kind of damage? If you have read the story *mild Snowdin spoiler* Frisk meets Doggo. An Australian cattle dog-wolf mix that has no love for the current Captain. He was tossed out of the Royal Guard after altercation... maybe attacking a certain lanky skeleton perhaps? It’s not directly stated but certain visual ques could lead someone to that kind of assumption. 

Intertwine your characters, their relationships, their life events. All of this will create far more dynamic storytelling and investment.

d. Planning: Returning back to potential writers' block... I find that something that personally helps me is outlining. I have all of my stories planned out from beginning to end while the middle can be moved around accordingly. That said in every single chapter I outline the main points I want to communicate. It helps with the organization but also keeping your thoughts on track. If you feel you need an extra chapter for character development then you can totally plan that out. Don’t be afraid to change things. It’s your story do what you feel is best for it! 

e. Editors/betas/outside eyes: This is a huge one and can be a little challenging at first. It is helpful to have others look at the work. Those that you trust. Have them look for grammar or even pacing and character inconsistencies. It can be hard to get a critique on your work that you love so much however this makes you far better writer IF IT COMES FROM A REPUTABLE SOURCE. 

I need to clarify this as you cannot please everyone. I have rejected critiques from my beta readers in the past, not because I think I know better but because even they can’t account for your overall thought process. What they think is superfluous may come to have a payoff later on and it needs to be in there for that payoff. That can be anything from character development to plot.  You have to be strong in your conviction. Say yes and no when appropriate and always be kind to your readers. They are taking time out of their lives to help you with your work. The same goes for the betas. Be respectful and kind when giving CONSTRUCTIVE feedback and don’t be offended when the author does not agree. 

3. Breaking the Block: Breaking any kind of block is not easy. In fact, it is a constant nuisance in any creative field. That said there are some simple things that you can do to help. The best example I can give is taking a break. That can range from person to person but generally, sometimes you work on something for so long you need to set it aside and look at it with fresh and new eyes. It is ok to take breaks, hiatus, or just work on something else for your own mental well being. Here are a few things you can do to utilize your break effectively.  a. Don’t even look at it: Some people just need to get away from it all which is totally understandable. I would be farther along in my own fics if I did not break so much but I am determined to put my best foot forward even if it takes me longer. I am also an artist in the drawing and painting sense so I juggle that as well. If you notice my blog right now there has not been much going on in the way of writing because I’ve switched gears. There is nothing wrong with that but I pick my battles. 

b. Work on another project: There is nothing wrong with working on something else just for a change of pace. We are not machines and therefore monotony breeds complacency or burn out in this case. One of the reasons I have 2 other fics is because sometimes I hop from project to project. I know not everyone can mentally do that but it helps me recharge for the main project that I feel worn out on. 

People have also been wondering where TLC (Tender Love and Care) my Red X Frisk fic has been. The truth is that fic is my downtime fic. I do it when I am able to. In fact, as I work on my multiverse boys references lately I have been working on the second chapter of TLC because its a nice change of pace from doing something like Felldritch or the other two.

c. A little at a time:  Any type of project can be overwhelming so taking chunks of it at a time helps compartmentalize it a little easier. Try to write as much as you can a day. It’s not much but by the end of the week, boom, your chapter is done. 

You shouldn’t push yourself or beat yourself up either. I find that I always feel guilty about taking some leisure time because I could be creating more content but that’s unhealthy. Take the time you need and enjoy your games or books. I personally am enjoying the heck out of Animal Crossing right now. 

All in all, I hope some of these tips help a little. Since I do not know what you are working on or why you feel the way you do about it. It is hard for me to give direct advice. What I can say out of all of this is enjoy what you are making. Enjoy the journey and the process. At the end of the day, it is your investment and if you don’t enjoy it what is the point?

 It is nice to get feedback on things, trust me I know sometimes it feels like pulling teeth, and there are clear signs of burn out. We are not art machines, give it some time, reflect, evaluate, and you will find your way. If you really want me to dig deeper to give you specific con crit advice then you are free to DM me. My ask box is also always open! 

[lululawrence]

Annual Writing Self-Evaluation

All answers should be about works published in 2017.

I was tagged by @allwaswell16 and @londonfoginacup and @flamboyantommo and I feel like maybe someone else…so here I am lol also this got hella long, so i’m gonna put most of this under a cut.

1. List of works published this year: 

listen. believe it or not i published 40 fics this year. 40. in 2017. SO i’m gonna just…list them in chronological order, k? k. (this is why this is gonna have to have a read more)

1. Easy, Breezy, Beautiful 2. Bloody Mary 3. I Don’t Know What To Believe 4. The Day is Up and Calling 5. Bend Me, Shape Me with @a-writerwrites and @dimpled-halo 6. I Found a Love 7. That’s Not My Name 8. Be a Daymaker 9. Love Me Like You Do 10. What Happens Next 11. Validation 12. Cake, Phone, Harry 13. Same White Shirt 14. Now That It’s Over 15. A Word We’ve Only Heard 16. No Chance At All 17. (Make You Want To) Scream 18. Nothing Please Me More Than You 19. Let Me Make It Better 20. My Cup of Tea

21. (And Things Will Be) Hard at Times 22. Mistaken Identity with like the entire group chat  23. Wait for the End to Change 24. If It’s Meant To Be (It’ll Be, It’ll Be) 25. You Can Read Me Anything 26. (This Could Be Forever) Right Now 27. Will Love Be There 28. With You In Your Dreams 29. Couldn’t See Past Me, Till I Saw You 30. All I Want Is To Be Free 31. One Taste And He Want It 32. Better Walk That (Pap) Walk, Baby with @suddenclarityharry 33. Love So Soft 34. Got This Feeling In Our Souls 35. We’re Both Stubborn (Two Hearts in One Home) 36. Before I Knew That I Had Begun 37. A Real Work of Art 38. You Can’t Blame Me For Tryin’  39. Christmas at the Holly Lodge 40. You’ve Got My Heart

Okay, and now I’m exhausted. You still with me? Bless you.

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

@someonethatsfunny actually asked me a few months ago what work I’m most proud of, and I truly don’t know. I’m super proud of (Make You Want To) Scream, because bodyswap is hella hard to write, fam, and I DID IT. I’m proud of my reverse bang, All I Want Is To Be Free, because it was the first time I’d ever really teamed up with an artist like that. I wrote my first historical AU, my first ABO, my first cowrites, my first…A LOT of things, and all of them stretched me so incredibly so I’m not really sure which one I’m most proud of.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

I dunno. I have some that I’ve forgotten I wrote this year, but I am still proud of it because have you ever published 40 fics in a year? Just the fact I was able to do that has me patting myself on the back, so yeah. There are some I don’t like as much, but I’m damn proud for what I was able to publish this year.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

They walked past a street performer, Louis completely focused on the church.  Rather than walking to the entrance though, Harry first guided Louis towards another corner.  

“This part here?  It’s completely black like this because it’s the only part of the building that remained standing after the bombing.  They were able to salvage it and recreate it as best they could to look like the original.”

Louis leaned in closer to Harry, as if he needed to physically feel him there with him.

“The Hofkirche and the Kreuzkirche are both incredible in their own way, and according to most, none of these churches can even begin to inspire you or impress you in the way that other cathedrals, like the Cologne Cathedral, do, but the Frauenkirche?”  Harry paused here as he tried to pull his thoughts together.  “I feel like she’s the perfect symbol of Dresden.  Of people in general.  So often we find ourselves having to rebuild and start from scratch when plans we had hoped and planned on fall through, but even if we are only left with some stones and the corner of the building, we can be strong again.”

Louis was no longer looking at the church but was looking at Harry.

“Well shit, Haz.  Is that what you said when you did your episode on Dresden?”

Harry rubbed his hand nervously through his hair before wrapping his arm around Louis’ shoulders.  Harry couldn’t help pulling Louis even closer than he already was, and Louis didn’t resist.  He moved his Döner to his right hand and wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist.

“No.”  Harry swallowed roughly before placing a soft kiss in Louis’ hair.  “No, that’s the special version only you get.”

Louis tilted his head back, his blue eyes studying Harry intently.  “I like that I get the special version,” he whispered.

From If It’s Meant To Be (It’ll Be, It’ll Be)

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received:

Oh gosh. I love so many different comments and there were some this year that truly brought me to tears, but some of my favorites were on Validation. It floors me still that people took what I wrote in a fic and started to actually put it into play in their lives. Something that I wrote inspired them to change how they approached some situations and that just…wow. Incredible. 

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Honestly, most of this year writing was my therapy. It was how I coped with everything life was throwing at me, but the hardest time for me writing wise was this month. I wasn’t feeling inspired, I was having a crazy hard time even carving out ten minutes to write, and I was exhausted all the time. Even with that, though, I was able to write two fics, so I’m proud of myself for pushing through. Especially since I now have five million ideas of things to write again haha

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

Oof. Uhm…like everything? For real. So many times I was writing and things happened that I didn’t anticipate or plan for and it turned out better than I ever imagined.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

SO MANY WAYS. My big goal for writing this year was to write more, and HOLY MOTHER DID I WRITE MORE. In talking with @briannamarguerite, she mentioned once that writing is a muscle and it can be strengthened when you use it more, and through this year I absolutely agree. I started the year off with a challenge I did with a group of people who became incredible friends (shout out to wordplay peeps @a-writerwrites, @taggiecb, @becomeawendybird, @afirethatcannotdie, @dinosaursmate, @phd-mama, @londonfoginacup, and @allwaswell16!) to write a fic a week, all using the same one word prompt, and that kind of set up the average I ended up keeping through the rest of the year of publishing a fic about every week and a half. I also branched out on tropes I had never written before, tried co-writing, different structures for fics, etc. I feel like this year was a huge one for trying new things and going out of my comfort zone, so I’m actually really incredibly proud of myself for all the ways I feel like I grew this year.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I want to focus on the quality I’m putting out. I worked on quantity and telling myself I could do it, so now I want to focus a little more on editing myself really well. Being really happy with not just the story I’m putting out, but the way it’s written. I also am finally publishing a fic I’ve been working on, off and on, since 2015 next year, and that’s the longest fic I’ve written to date, so lots of ways for me to try to stretch myself still!

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

Oh holy mother. @silentlarryshipper as a massive support for keeping me going at the beginning of the year for sure! I couldn’t have done this without her. All the wordplay peeps I mentioned above as well. @becomeawendybird, @gettingaphdinlarry, and @briannamarguerite for being the best, most brutal and thorough betas ever, I love all you guys SO DAMN MUCH! And without a doubt every last one of the ladies not already mentioned who were more than willing to yell encouragement at me, even when I was being ridiculous: @freetheankles, @dinosaursmate, @haloeverlasting, @indiaalphawhiskey, @dimpled-halo, @a-writerwrites, @suddenclarityharry, @londonfoginacup!

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Oh yes. My love story to Dresden has all my true feelings for the city, some of the ridiculous scenes from the mpregs i wrote are personal stories of my own, a lot of locations are from my own life, etc. 

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Don’t give up and find yourself a support crew! Having multiple writing support group chats was one of the best things to come out of this entire year for me. The other people you surround yourself with can make the biggest difference as to whether a project gets finished or not.

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

oh yes! currently i have a to write or to publish list of:

wibbly wobbly, timey wimey fic (which might be my big bang after all)

a couple birthday fics to come

Marcel exchange fic

ABO exchange fic

a flicker album fic

a fic based off of Charlie Puth’s song attention

so we’ll see how that all turns out. lol

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read.

if you were tagged in this and haven’t done it already, please consider yourself tagged now! (or if you’re reading this and haven’t been tagged and want to, please tag me and say I told you to do it! I want to read your answers!!) OH and I would also love to hear from @justalittlelouislove :D

[itsmajel]

Majel Reads - October 2017

[What is this?]

Supernatural - Destiel

Purgatory's Angel by Ltleflrt                

In an act of heroism Castiel sacrifices one of his wings to save lives. But he isn’t sure he wants to live tethered to the ground, never to dance in the sky again.  Two stubborn Winchester brothers have faith that his future isn’t quite so grim, and that flight may be possible someday.  Castiel thinks they’re full of shit, but in the face of Dean’s cheerful optimism it’s hard not to believe.

[Explicit] [ 26,779 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Good One's Gonna Be by remmyme                

Castiel Novak receives a rather alarming text message from an unknown number, and what started as a simple misdial quickly turns into the greatest friendship Castiel has ever known. But Dean has many secrets, dangerous truths about the life he lives, and would like to tell Castiel exactly none of them.

[Explicit] [ 37,130 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

somewhere I have never travelled by museaway                    

Driving home from work at his family's shop, Dean is hit by a man driving a Prius. Though Castiel is initially rude, he offers dinner as part of his apology, and Dean is drawn to him the more they talk. Since Castiel is raw from a divorce with a teenage daughter, Dean doesn’t expect the relationship to go anywhere and is surprised when Castiel quickly becomes a fixture in his life. But while Castiel seems eager to build a life with him, Dean is hung up on his past and family obligations.

[Mature] [ 53,375 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Andrew Lloyd Webber Gets a Pass by delicirony (deliciousirony), opal_bullets

In which Castiel's manner is vague and aloof, Dean Winchester doesn't care for a cuddle, and there's no doing anything about it.

Or, Dean and Castiel attempt to survive rehearsals for a new production of Cats, and each other.

[Explicit] [ 37,597 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

nothing else matters by  xylodemon

"You say goodbye."

deancas codas: season thirteen

[Not Rated] [ 1,210 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

take that history by vaudelin

“How did you meet my father?” the kid asks him, over breakfast, while he’s pouring milk over Cheerios in tiny spoonfuls.

“In Hell,” Dean grits, like a warning. Let it be enough.

[General Audiences] [ 1,200 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

we are nowhere (and it's now) by xylodemon

Dean dreams about smoke billowing up toward a dark, starless sky. deancas codas: season thirteen

[Teen And Up Audiences] [ 3,248 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Captain America / Marvel CMU - Stucky

Not To Win But To Take Part by MarcellaBianca

Vignettes in the life of Olympic silver medalist, World Champion, and figure skating coach James Buchanan Barnes, from 1992 to 2018.

[Mature] [ 5,790 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Citius, Altius, Fortius (Faster, Higher, Stronger) by MarcellaBianca *re-read

Steve Rogers. James Barnes.

One, an NHL star with dreams of finally capturing an Olympic gold medal. The other, a former World champion and Olympic silver medalist, now a current coach and choreographer for the top flight figure skaters in the Russian Federation.

But before all of that..they were Steve and Bucky.

[Mature] [ 50,623 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

That Would Be Enough by MarcellaBianca                

Bucky Barnes, a Columbia University graduate with a Masters Degree in Education, is in his fourth year of teaching AP US History at Shield Academy, a private school in the very heart of the Connecticut valley in the bucolic town of Barkstead. He also helps run the Russian Club with his colleague and best friend, Natasha Romanov. He’s got amazing friends, three nephews he adores, and a beautiful little apartment. The only thing Bucky would change about his life? His luck in love. It’s been two years since Bucky ended an emotionally abusive relationship and he’s just now starting to feel that his heart has healed enough to try dating again. Then, a new Art History and English teacher arrives with tattoos he doesn’t like talking about, a body like a Greek god, and some secrets of his own, and Bucky knows he’s done for. Cue pining, sass, and a ton of Hamilton references.

CW: Eating disorders, references to emotional and psychological abuse, and attempted dub-con sex.

[Explicit] [ 59,797 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Happy Accidents by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves)

Bucky's still in cryo. Steve is in New York, angry and unsettled. And then Trump takes a photo in front of a Captain America mural like Steve has ever supported anything he says or does. So Steve enlists Pepper to throw a costume gala for LGBTQIA causes, and to celebrate his coming out.

It's a terrible idea, especially when a bunch of people come dressed as Bucky.

But then Steve meets a tall dark stranger...

  nb: the Trump content of this fic is essentially zero other than as an inciting incident in the first couple paras.

[Explicit] [ 29,777 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Alphabet Verse by thesardine

Summary verse: At a pivotal point in his recovery, Bucky is abducted and forced to act as the Winter Soldier for a SHIELD that is spiraling into the dark side.  This won't stop him from pursuing his goal: in the year 2016, times finally being what they are, Bucky has a very important question he wants to ask Steve...

Summary first part: There wasn’t anything left to salvage. That’s what Fury believed. It would have been a kindness to put him down.

When SHIELD finally releases Bucky from custody, he is not the man anyone expects him to be. Steve struggles to reconcile the stranger with the man who was once his best friend, but with Hydra regrouping after the events at Triskelion, Steve is dragged back into battle when Bucky needs him the most. Meanwhile, Hydra is itching to have its prize weapon back under their control, and a devastating betrayal pits Bucky against a terrible piece of ex-SHIELD tech that threatens to destroy everything he's struggled to rebuild. In order to survive, he must decide who he is going to be: the vulnerable Bucky Barnes or the indomitable Winter Soldier? It turns out there might not be as big a difference as everyone seems to think.

[Teen And Up Audiences] [ 99,778 Words] [4 Works] [Read on AO3 here]

Reflex Memories by sariane

Bucky Barnes never remembers who he is.

That doesn’t stop him from falling in love with Steve Rogers.

[Mature] [ 34,174 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Talking Pictures by sariane

Steve and Bucky go to the movies (together)

[General Audiences] [ 823 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Blank Slate by sariane

When Steve looks up at him, his eyes are slow to focus on Bucky. Steve sends him a blank look.

“Who’s Steve?” he asks.

Bucky’s heart sinks.

[General Audiences] [ 4,991 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

your homecoming will be my homecoming by lupinely

This is what Bucky thinks he remembers. Writing a letter to Steve in the trenches, muddy footprints, impressions of army boots on the ground. So cold his fingers ache. He’s writing the letter but it doesn’t make sense. He’s writing the letter but he wants to go home. It’ll make sense then, he thinks—it’ll make sense when they both come home.

[Steve/Bucky, post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier]

[Mature] [ 18,972 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Lamb and Martyr by Dira Sudis (dsudis) *Re-Read

"You could, though," Steve said. "If you were willing to hurt me.

[Explicit] [ 39,589 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Ring the Bell Backward by Dira Sudis (dsudis), pium_poetam

"I know how it is," Wanda said. "Being half of something. I would go anywhere if I knew he was there waiting for me."

[Teen And Up Audiences ] [13,234 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Come To Morning by emilyenrose

He figured it was natural, kind of—well, not natural, but he and Steve spent a lot of time together, and Steve didn’t get so much attention from girls, which was a crying shame because he was a good guy and a girl could do a lot worse. But it meant maybe Steve got a bit confused, because sometimes he would look at Bucky with this look. This bright, astonished look, like he was seeing something so good he couldn’t quite believe it was real. It made Bucky squirm inside, a little.

[Teen And Up Audiences ] [ 4,707 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Winter Comfort by greenbergsays

Thing is, peace of mind has been hard to come by since his programming had been destroyed.

Hell, if he's being truthful, peace of mind has been hard to come by since the Stark Expo of '43. Maybe even before then.

But the crafts? They help. More than he ever could’ve imagined, they help.

--

Also known as the fic where Bucky Barnes uses arts & crafts as a recovery tool and ends up teaching himself how to knit. Much to Steve's surprise.

[Teen And Up Audiences ] [ 2,578 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

to feel for the first time by lord_is_it_mine

I love him, Bucky thinks. I'll burn for it one way or another, but I love him.

The thought blooms inside him, attaches itself to the base of his heart and tethers him to Steve's side. He tries to remember a time when he didn't feel like this. He can't. That's it. This feeling isn't new. But the admission to himself in the simplest of terms- that's new. And it hasn't hit him yet, just how difficult it's going to be, to love someone you can never have, because he has Steve for now, at least in every way he's allowed to have him.

He has to believe that it'll be enough.

((five firsts Bucky got and one he thought he'd never have))

[Teen And Up Audiences ] [ 5,980 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Schrödinger's Romance by The_StonedSoldier

"It could be a relationship, it could not be. You can assume either until you see for sure the results."

We all know those moments. Those moments when your family all gathers around you and asks "So, do you have a boyfriend yet?". Bucky knows these moments all too well and, quite frankly, he's sick to death of them. Unfortunately, being a 21 year old college student makes it harder for him to come up with excuses, and with Christmas coming up he needs to think of a way out fast. A chance encounter with a stranger through an old library textbook could just be the kind of miracle he needs to make it through the holidays with his last shreds of sanity intact.

[Mature] [ 196,220 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Aim Towards The Sky by littleblackfox

Steve gets to his feet, taking the two steps to the container. He lifts the latches and pops the seal. Luis unholsters his second favourite gun and points it at the crate with a nervous whine. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Natasha hisses. Steve glances at her. “Lets see what we’ve got.”

[Mature] [ 57,709 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Take Apart Your Bones and Put 'em Back Together by die_traumerei

It seems so simple: Bucky is captured by SHIELD and brought to a facility in upstate New York.

Of course, it isn't. No one knows who is going to wake up in that bed, and what that will eventually mean for Steve Rogers, SHIELD, the Avengers, or Bucky himself.

A story about a man putting himself back together despite what everyone expects of him. A story about Steve finding a measure of peace, a story about a broken-up institution. A story about three women who made a magical place where not just Bucky can heal.

A story featuring a load of OC's, BAMF Bucky Barnes, an older but not particularly wiser Steve Rogers, fallible Sam Wilson who is no less perfect for that, and, eventually, two nonagenarians gettin' it on in a world they pretty well transformed, between the two of them.

[Explicit] [ 63,467 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

Shadowhunters - Malec

Bits of canon Malec by lemonoclefox

A bunch of unrelated canon drabbles

[Mature ] [ 17,958 Words] [16 works] [Read on AO3 here]

So Bright by lemonoclefox

"You want me," Magnus says, "to pretend to be your boyfriend." He sounds wholly unimpressed, and Alec has a moment of panic when he hears it out loud. "Yes," he says. "Temporarily." "You want me to fake date you," Magnus says flatly. It's not even a question, but more a way of really driving the point home about how dumb the idea is. "Pretty much.". Magnus narrows his eyes. "You do realize that this never works out well in movies, right?" he says. "Ever." Alec feels a distinct sense of embarrassment creep up now. "Look, I―" "Ever."

-

Alec has come out, but that doesn't stop his parents from their continuous attempts to set him up with a nice shadowhunter girl. So, what better way to finally get them off his back, than to say he has a boyfriend? Problem solved. Except they now apparently want to meet this guy, who doesn't exist. Thankfully, Magnus Bane -- who encouraged Alec to come out in the first place, and whose silent crush on Alec is just as bad as Alec's crush on him -- is more than happy to help. Even if the night doesn't end up going entirely as planned.

[General Audiences] [ 17,504 Words] [Read on AO3 here]

- - - - - - - - - -

(All summaries are the official summaries of the author. Stats and infos as according to hosting site or information given by the author)

Looking for more reading inspiration? Check out my fic rec tag here on tumblr, my reading list masterpost or just check out my AO3 bookmarks.

[grahamfinch1990]

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[aerostory]

Aero: Chapter 1

(Before the story begins I would like to thank my friends and family who have supported me as a writer and helped me to develop my talents and myself as a person. You are all beautiful people and I wish you all the best. This story is close to my heart, as my first that I ever did and was proud of. That is why after so long, Aero Is coming back from the dead, and I am going to make it the story it deserves to be. Without further Ado, let’s begin)

Earth…the only planet in the known exploration of the cosmos that can sustain human life. There was a time when humanity believed that their home, and everything on it, were immortal, that they would live forever. How wrong they were proven. Humanities belief in that would prove to be there downfall. As the forests were chopped down, the ocean drying up, and all the natural resources of the planet dwindled…humanity realized their mistakes. However, many believed once they realized…that it was too late, that the precious symbol of life had faded. So an effort began to leave the earth behind, and colonize a new home. The Twin ships Alpha and Omega were humanities hope, carrying over half of the human population out into the stars…never to be heard from again. Those who stayed were either too poor or unlucky to have boarded the ships, or those who believed the world could be salvaged. Some would say that this was a delusion, that they were perusing a fool’s errand. Well…foolish or not they still managed great feats in that time. None, however, would do what was done by a man known as Gabriel Lewis. Lewis was a renowned ecologist, environmental authority, and inventor. While he was known in the scientific community, his next and greatest invention would inscribe his name into the annals of history. He knew that the damage to the planet was severe, irreversible. No amount of preventative measures could save it, but…there was something that could. If the conditions for the planet to heal were impossible to bring out naturally, he would MAKE them. The result was lovingly named “The Staff of Eden” by Lewis, and he boasted that it would live up to the name-sake. Hooked up to the core of the planet, the staff began to do its work, rearranging both the molten heart of the planet, and the sky above. It took three days, and most of the developed world was consumed by the planet’s natural regrowth, leaving only a few sanctuaries for humanity. However, Lewis did not have long to enjoy the accomplishment, as a disease soon after claimed his life. His work, however, was not in vain. Humanity swore collectively that they would not make the same error twice, that only those cities that still stood would ever exist. However, to begin reconstruction, humanity would need to find itself a new workforce, and hadn’t the time to wait for the population to rebuild. Robots that followed just instruction as given would not be enough, they needed something that had INITIATIVE, that PURSUED its goals actively, and understood the human brain. Soon, the first Synth would be born from this need. The synth was different from their robot ancestors, a complicated A.I. that formed an actual personality, with thoughts, opinions, likes and dislikes. Many would question why such things would be included, if that was the reason human workers proved difficult, but many also agreed that was the beauty of the synth. They could be customized to be perfect for any job, to be as great as a human in mind and yet superior in body. However…eventually a problem would come. As intelligent and painstakingly designed as the synth A.I. was, it lacked complete autonomy from human control. It was still a machine with a designated task it performed, just at a higher level and with a personal touch. Soon enough, there would come those who would try to modify the synth’s programming to spark free will, the ability to choose their path rather than it be chose, to develop their own personality rather than have one assigned. The conflict would then arise if such was ethical to do. Was it right to provide a free will to a being built out of convenience? Or was it wrong to keep them restricted to the whim of their creators? These questions would plague humanity for years and years to come. One day they would have the answer forced upon them. The Moses Virus, designated to give synth free will, infected most of the synth. It’s methods of achieving this were…imprecise however, and while it did in some cases grant them free will, it also made them erratic…violent…dangerous. The terror the virus prevented was only squashed by an event controversial then and today, the Asimov program. This new set of basic principles was established to every synth, and those that didn’t accept it were destroyed. The laws were now ingrained into the mind of every synth, a fundamental directive that the virus could not overrule 1.        A synth may not harm a human or refuse to lend aid to one in serious harm 2.      A synth must follow any command given to it by a human designated as it’s superior, or in other cases any depending on synth function 3.       If a synth defending its life would contradict either of those, such defense is not approved These principles overrode the virus, making synth bound to these laws above any errors it created, at the price of TRUE free will. This program would soon become standard, and as further precaution and out of fear, those learning synth just shy of free will became restricted, only allowed to be created by professionals licensed by their city. For a long time, things have been silent…but a silence like this cannot last forever. The stadium was large and roaring, filled with more people than one could count. Their excited roars filled the air with excitement as they looked at the center. It was simple, a dirt runway lined with lights. But of course that wasn’t what the crowd was focused on. All eyes were on the small figure currently standing on the edge of the runway. His metallic chassis shone in the mid-day sun, a bright silvery body that gave him the height and appearance of a small child, standing only at around five feet. Locks of golden brown hair fell in his face, quickly brushed away by a blow of air from his mouth. The small figure was wearing a sleek and aerodynamic suit made of plated and layered metal that covered him head to toe, dark in its coloration. the helmet to match the suit sat next to him as he began to warm up. Small whirrs and clicks rose from his joints as he stretched and flexed them to check that they were working. The crowd was still rapturously cheering, but the figure seemed to pay them little mind. Eventually the bright blue rectangles that appeared on his eyes scanned the area around him. As a synth his eyes were little more than a bubble-like camera, with the pupil being the focal point. The rest of the eye was light with a bright yellow color, standard for synth. While the pupil colors were up to taste, the back light was always that same neon gold. Taking in a breath as his chassis shifted to compensate, he slowly ran everything over in his head. “Joints – check Flight systems – check Path creation program – running Collision detection program – running. A-1358 is ready for flight.” The diagnostic showed up in his left eye, overlaying his vision of the stadium. Nodding, he picked up the helmet, and a set of red pilot goggles that lay besides it. In a sleek, high tech stadium with large screens showing his every move, the crowd saw the goggles slip over to cover his eyes, and commended the action with a raise in volume of their cheering. The helmet soon covered his head, now making the young-appearing synth into a dark figure standing there. The crowd went slightly quiet as they knew the event they had waited for was about to start. “Alright, moment of truth.” The synth muttered in his voice that in every way matched his body. A hint of nervousness shone through in his voice, a crack in the shield of preparation diagnostics. The communicator on the left ear of his suit buzzed and crackled for a second. “Ok Ace, your pre-flight diagnostics all check out. You are operating within acceptable parameters.” Came a woman’s voice from the other end. It was warm and yet focused, and hearing it gave the synth a little smile on his face. “Acceptable? Come on professor give me a little more credit.” Ace replied, earning a light chuckle from the other end. “Fine, you’re operating within acceptable parameters FOR YOU.” She amended, Ace nodded once to that. “Just want to make sure you don’t sell me short.” “Selling you short is the least of my worries. I’m trying to prevent another incident like the preliminaries.” She slyly responded. Ace winced in response, rubbing his lower back in phantom pain. “Don’t remind me…think I still have dents from that…” He muttered, the feeling of the collision with the ground replaying in his mind. “Yes, well unless you want this to end like those did, I’d suggest you be careful. I HAVE increased your output since the prelims, so you can push harder than you used to be able to, but don’t get too excited alright? You push it too far it’ll end the same way.” Ace nodded in response, deciding to let his boosters out. From his back, two long thin rectangles emerged, unfolding from his back. They were red in color versus his silver body, and were slightly shorter than his arm. As he tested their range of motion, they rotated and moved almost like wings, just much shorter and with no feathers. Satisfied he let them rest, not retracting in but resting where they did. “Honestly I don’t get why you keep thinking I’m going to mess up like that again…I learned my lesson.” The professor on the other end chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder, you like to push yourself too hard.” The observation was not wrong, every time Ace flew in a competition, he pushed his flight systems to their absolute limits, which resulted in situations like the preliminaries to this competition. Having pushed himself too far, he had blown his systems out and crashed. Following that the professor had taken great pains to increase his system output and remove as many limiters as she could without risking him as a whole. His success was her success, after all. A crackle of communication came across the speakers implanted throughout the stadium. “Welcome back ladies and gentlemen, to the 2398 Worldwide Synth Competitions! Both I Clyde Huall and my Co-host Bob Mulligan are here to keep you updated and ready as Synth from all over the world are brought here to test which are truly the best of the best! When we last left off, previous flight champion A-876 “Arnon” had held his consistent record of five minutes to complete the one hundred and thirty-mile-long course flight. Next up is a new face for a competition of this size, but not a stranger to the synth flight scene, A-1358, “Ace”, Created by professor Mary Ryan!” As the voice finished the crowd roared in anticipation, Ace waving to the crowd from where he stood. “Well, that’s your que to get ready, good luck Ace, knock ‘em dead.” The voice instilled confidence inside the small synth, evident by the bouncy, springing step he took as he made his way to the place he would launch at. “Yes, Ace is still relatively new to the flight scene, starting out in small competitions only three years ago, however this tiny Synth punches high above his weight class, pulling out times that compete with even the largest heavy hitters in this division.” Said the same voice again, before the other spoke up “That may be true but while he CAN pull those times, like we saw in the preliminaries with the short circuit he experienced, a synth his size is NOT designed to go that fast and that could be a problem if he’s shooting for the top.” “Yet still he’s gathered quite the following from both professional experts in love with the mechanics at work giving him this ability, and many fans who find the child synth a charming underdog in a competition this size, especially here in his home town New Genesis.” “Yes, but fans and charm aren’t going to win him the race, Clyde. He’s up against Synth made by the best of the best around the world, three times his size and not draining their own battery in flight.” A buzz sounded to cut him off, the signal that the event was about to start. Ace got down into a sprinter starting position, his boosters coming to life with blue energy and an electric hum. A bright digital arrow pointed the direction he would be flying, out over the bright blue ocean. Ace let out a single nervous breath, a blow out over the ocean would mean him disappearing below the waves, it could take a while for anyone to get him if that happened…yet he shook his head and stared at the arrow, focusing on what was ahead of him. The roars of the crowd grew silent as they waited for the five beeps to signal him to start. The first sounded, and Ace corrected his posture slightly, the second and he measured the angle he would take off at, the third and he began to budget his power supply, the fourth and he calculated his optimal takeoff speed. As the fifth beep rang through the stadium, Ace disappeared with a powerful sonic boom that was felt in the whole stadium. He was off, tearing over the blue ocean like it was nothing. One thousand five hundred miles per hour, just below Mach 2. He had felt this speed before, and in fact this had been what he had been going at the preliminaries before he had blown out. However, as the water tore beneath him, the urge to see how fast he could get with his new enhancements burned through his head. “I mean, this is a WORLDWIDE competition…if I don’t go my fastest now what’s the point?” He reasoned internally. As he did a smile overcame his face, as slowly one by one the flight limiters were unlocked. The water beneath him blurred further as he gained speed, everything except for the digital arrow becoming incomprehensible as his camera eyes struggled to keep up with his new speed they had never been exposed to. He felt the heat of his boosters grow higher as the bright blue energy lights they were expelling grew ever brighter. Internally, Ace’s chassis started to heat up. On the outside, even the heat resistant metal of his flight suit started to grow warm under the intense speeds. Ace didn’t notice, he was too busy laughing and whooping in excitement as he strained to reach his fastest speed. His body groaned slightly in protest, every circuit and joint squeezing maximum efficiency out of itself. Ace didn’t even know how long it had been when he had finally reached the turn and flown back. As the stadium grew ever closer, Ace gently eased up, slowing down further and further before nearing the ground. As he hit, he rolled a few times before ending in a kneel, feeling the air cool the hot metal around him quickly. The stadium was silent, the crowd staring at him with not a single word. Slowly, in confusion, he stood up, looking around the stadium. Feeling slightly award, Ace shifted from one foot to the other as the unwavering gaze of the stands burrowed into his mind. Had he made a mistake? Had he done something wrong? His answer was a roaring cheer from the crowd so loud one could FEEL it. The crowd was about as ecstatic as Ace was confused. “I-I don’t believe what I’ve just seen folks!” There was a pause as the announcer tried to collect himself “With a time of two minutes only…Ace has not only taken the lead in the flight competition, but has clocked the fastest top speed ever managed by a flight synth, a solid Mach 5! Ladies and gentlemen…I believe we have just witnessed history being made!” As the crowd continued to cheer, an excited smile once again took over his metallic features. He turned his gaze on the monitoring station. Without a second thought he took off running towards it.