#this is why fanfiction writers so good

[ladsofsorrow24]

kishimoto kinda did something with oiroke no jutsu and naruko because it really birthed so many dudes who got weirdly horny for a guy who sometimes turns into a girl lol

like there's a whole gender thing going on here but idk how to explain it

but i know i find it fucking amusing

[laudaddysmitten]

Stunning View

Ch 5: Binary

by LaudaddySmitten

(GOAD Writer's Guild Official)

CW: Rated Explicit (eventual smut; see tags on AO3)

Summary

An angel and a demon walk into a private room at an inn, for more of that closeness they crave. They are safe from Heavenly and Hellish intruders…right?

This chapter is sweet, things are heating up, and wait, is that some plot simmering beneath the surface? As usual the boys can't help but think in science- because I'm the one writing them.

😈 🌈🔭 😘 🧣🧠 😇

Excerpt

While Aziraphale worked on undoing the tailcoat's large buttons fastened on the right side, he began to talk — a light, running patter, as much to calm and distract himself from the dull murmur of inner turmoil fighting to break free again, as to tease Crowley.

“You know, Crowley, this clothing of yours excels at being inscrutable. So many overlapping portions or at least the illusion of such. Even the human body is easier to figure out.  All the muscles are completely hidden by skin, but even then I can find where a muscle begins and ends. For example, when I kissed down your neck and up the other side…”

Crowley nodded and let out a long hum of pleasure at the recent memory.

I was tracing the path of one of my favourite muscles, especially on you.

Continue reading on AO3:

Pssst, it's the neck chapter, folks, featuring my favorite (and Aziraphale's favourite) muscle. Calling all members of the Neck Club of GOAD!

Credits:

@goodomensafterdark @paperclipninja @kotias

Thanks to my VERY patient beta readers. This chapter and the next proved what saints you all are. @olfactoryventriloquism , @outrageousring5655   @happynachohologram @adverbian, @nosferatini astrophysics

Art banner by @lexarturo

[youchangedmedestiel]

People reading and leaving kudos on multiple fics I wrote, I'm kissing you on the forehead.

[lilacthebooklover]

hey melissa ending fix-it but paul's been slowly recovering with emma when he meets pete. pete, whose brother was murdered in front of paul. pete, whose brother paul likely blames himself for the death of. pete, who looks incredibly similar to his brother. pete, who doesn't have a brother anymore. and paul is thrown straight back into his mindset directly after ted's death, and pete is grieving and concerned, and emma doesn't know what to do. angst ensues.

[subpar-celestial]

I HATE when fanfic writers villainize certain characters so they can make their fic more angsty, or so they can have a canon couple break up to do their ship.

like some teen wolf writers got me defending Scott and I don't even particularly like Scott.

THERES SO MANY OTHER WAYS YOU CAN GO ABOUT ITTTT!!!!

If you want conflict between characters you can DO THAT without having to make one the devil.

Also there's many ways to get your ship going even if a character is in a canon relationship without making their partner like abusive or toxic or whatever. YOU COULD EVEN MAKE IT SO THEY WERE NEVER DATINGGGG!!! THE POSSIBILITIES ARE LITERALLY ENDLESSSSS!!!!!!

[taradactyls]

Trying to Tread Water: Chapter Thirty

The Elizabeth/Darcy Marriage of Convenience fic no one asked for

Chapter Thirty: Elizabeth's first ball in town - and the first official dance she is attending as Mrs Darcy - has arrived. As have the Darcy family's collection of jewellery, which Mr Darcy sent for. Of course, despite that their marriage was made to secure her safety, his love for Elizabeth means he wants none but her to wear them. They stay close to each other during the ball, and he cannot keep his eyes off her. Especially when they dance.

Read on Ao3 here

First reviews of Chapter Thirty: "Honestly when I get the email this story has updated I get very excited and it’s a proper treat! I made a coffee and sat down to read it as soon as possible." "Loved this update! Oh man the vibes during that dance were just perfect." "I'm literally so unreasonably happy that they had a nice night out😭😭 grinning in public like a lunatic rn..." "I really loved the ball in its entirety, honestly. The descriptions of the room and atmosphere, and especially the last dance, all speaks to your writing prowess. 12/10, would recommend." "This story is my absolute favorite notification and I seriously enjoy reading it so much! The characters, the world building, just so incredibly well done!"

Story updates on Ao3 fortnightly, with Chapter Thirty-One coming out on the 17th May.

Story tags: Elizabeth/Darcy, Marriage of Convenience, Unrequited Love, Not Really Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, Pining, Pining Despite Being Married, Mr Darcy thinks his worst enemy is Wickham but maybe it's himself.

[strawberry--boi]

writing the most banger chapter and realising you started hallucinating it half way through

[strawberrywinter4]

Sick Days

I’ve come down with the flu, so… that’s the inspiration for this! Wanted to write a little something.

_____

Sherlock wakes with a sore throat and he instantly feel a surge of disappointment.

Sickness. Tedious.

Of course, a sore throat won’t stop him, especially since he also sees that he got a text from Lestrade, advertising a case for him.

Before going out, Sherlock drinks plenty of water, striving to make this laughable setback disappear.

Sherlock and John go to the case and John keeps setting his eyes on Sherlock, noticing his slightly red cheeks and how his eyelids are droopy.

“You alright, love?” John asks quietly in the cab.

It takes a second to acknowledge that John is speaking to him due to his hazy state. He turns and blinks slowly at the blogger. “Hm?”

John pauses in suspicion. “Are you alright?” He asks again.

Sherlock nods, looking away. “Fine.”

John puts the back of his hand to Sherlock’s head, feeling him. “God, Sherlock, you’re burning up!”

Sherlock huffs and shrugs him off. “John, I’m fine.”

They arrive at the crime scene and Lestrade leads them to the body. Sherlock looks down at it and gains more frustration when he can find nothing. Deductions usually pop up quickly for him, like sprouts. But as he kneels down and scans the body, he finds nothing popping up. Nothing at all. Sherlock can only see a dead woman.

Lestrade stands beside him, looking down uncertainty. “Uh… anything?”

Sherlock stands, but as he does, a wave of dizziness hits him. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gain steadiness. He opens his eyes again and tries to think of something, anything.

“She- She was… married,” Sherlock concludes, starting to feel uncomfortably hot.

Lestrade furrows his brows. “Uh- yes. Yes, she was. We interviewed her husband.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees in a low voice. “Of course.”

Silence draws out within the room.

Sherlock swallows and winces, pain advancing through his throat.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice soothes through his thoughts. “You sure you’re okay?”

Sherlock nods, rolling his shoulders. “Yes. Um- the woman. She… seems to have… have been killed with a knife wound…”

Sherlock trails off, feeling slightly hazy. God, this is exhausting. Why is this so exhausting? It shouldn’t be exhausting.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” John says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’s been burning up since this morning.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade scolds. “You shouldn’t be at a bloody crime scene when you feel like death.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but even that hursts his head. “You both are being quite over dramatic.”

“No, we’re being sensible,” John corrects him. He squeezes his shoulder. “How about this, Lestrade will deliver you the case files and you can observe them in bed.”

Sherlock sighs in complaint. He tries to argue with John, but he knows it’s useless. Finally, he readily agrees, too tired to voice any more disagreement.

Sherlock and John head back to 221B and once they are finally in their warm flat, Sherlock can’t help but feel a sense of relief.

“Alright, you.” John takes off his coat, then helps Sherlock with his. “You’re going to lay down and I will hear none of it, hm?”

“Oh, John, you’re—“

“I said I will hear none of it,” John reminds him, hanging their coats up.

John adjusts the pillows and blankets on the sofa, and Sherlock reluctantly lays down. Once his head hits the pillow, he instantly sighs in contentment, shifting to get in the most comfortable position he can muster. He faintly feels a hand on his forehead, then a thermometer in his mouth.

John makes a displeased noise. “Too high. Much too high.”

Sherlock hums. “Are you going to play doctor with me?”

John chuckles. “I am. Have a problem with it?”

Sherlock gives a small grin. “I may.”

“Well, then, that’s just too bad,” John teases, kneeling down to get eye-level with Sherlock. “Because I’m going to play doctor hard with you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Do not say it like that.”

John only grins and presses a kiss to the detective’s lips. Sherlock yanks his head back incredulously. “John! I don’t wish to get my germs on you in my state.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor; I’m immune to sickness.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“It is now,” John whispers, pressing another kiss to his head. “I’m making you soup and you’re eating it.”

The rest of the day, John takes care of Sherlock, making sure he eats (even if he’s only getting the broth of the soup in his stomach) and bundling him up in blankets.

Sherlock huffs and complains, claiming that he doesn’t need assistance. But then again, John hardly ever listens to Sherlock.

Hours pass and Sherlock wakes up from a nap he didn’t even know he fell into. As he blinks his eyes open, the first thing he notices is his throat. He swallows and it’s as if needles are poking through his skin. His lips are dry and his head is foggy.

That’s the thing Sherlock hates the most.

His brain being in this state.

He isn’t able to properly think. And in a way… that frightens him.

He catches sight of the window and notices it’s already dark out. He makes a groan of complaint as he shifts under the heavy blankets.

John hears him from where he’s sitting on his chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Marvelous,” Sherlock murmurs in a dry voice.

John sighs, setting his laptop down. “I’m sorry, love. Do you need anything?”

Sherlock is about to shake his head, but he pauses. Instead, he reaches his limp hand out, gesturing to John.

John grins and stands, making his way over to the detective. Gently, he lifts Sherlock up and settles behind him, resting his back on the arm of the sofa. He positions his legs on either side of Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his middle. Sherlock releases a shaky sigh, resting his back on John’s chest. John hums, running his hand up and down his side. “Look at you. So snuggly when you’re sick,” John observes.

Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to banter, so he only denies it with a, “Hardly.”

John laughs softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Mhmm. I’m sure.”

Before Sherlock can say anything, he’s interrupted by his own cough. Oh, for the love of all that is good, he’s coughing now? Tiresome.

“Oh, darling,” says John softly. “I should go get you some medicine.”

Sherlock holds John’s hand tighter, leaning his head back to look at him properly. “Don’t go,” Sherlock pleads in a rough voice. “Please.”

John stares at him for a moment, a bit in bemusement, then smiles and settles back down. “Okay. I won’t. I’ll stay here and get sick with you.”

“I thought you were immune?”

“Sick with love,” John elaborates.

“Ugh. How sentimental,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Git. You love it.”

Sherlock sighs, resting his head on John’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I do.”

[spicechica]

Attention all Neil character writers!

I grew up watching the queen of swords when i was younger, and didn't even know he was in it as Anton. I love how the episode gives off Romeo and Juliet type of vibes and would love if I could see someone write about this character, it's so underrated. I might do so myself because look at him.

[beastsovrevelation]

In all the Good Omens stories I'm currently working on, the child Crowley eventually ends up with (having it, not romantically involved with a child) is a girl. He strikes me as a girl dad (and mom), really. Yes, imagining Crowley as a parent at all is wild, but that's a different can of worms.

Thing is, I have to come up with a story where Crowley has a son named Aleister. You... Understand why, don't you?.. Right.

It could be Fem!Crowley x Hastur (I feel it would be Hastur's idea), or Crowley x Fem!Reader (definitely Reader's idea).

I think, this may open some doors for comedy? Reader (or Fem!Crowley) could have a mental breakdown, fearing a snake may slither out of her when time comes. Though, admittedly, a snake would likely cause less discomfort than a human.

...If the previous paragraph made you think of a certain song, I like you.

Hell, even if the child is born in human form, it might shapeshift, no? I guess, you could pretend you're taking your pet snake out in a stroller (I bet there are reptile owners that insane in reality). Only, when the "pet snake" starts crying or babbling, you'd have a real problem, because... Reptiles don't do that. There wouldn't be any religious people around, hopefully.

Damn, this made me laugh. I'm sitting at my desk, drinking my coffee, laughing like a maniac. Let's be serious, I'm probably incapable of writing comedy, just angst, gore... Romance, but not comedy.

Just some thoughts while I ✨procastrinate✨.

[gorkaya-trava]

really need to unlearn this "my work isn't perfect so it's awful and cringe" mindset. like if there are things that could be improved it doesn't mean that there is nothing to be proud of. it doesn't mean that there's nothing beautiful and breathtaking in your text. yeah you could've bring that line smoother that turn of phrase better but IT DOESN'T MATTER. like listen girl you're doing everything you can now. there's always something that could have been better but it doesn't mean that you have to choose it over things that are good the way that they are. girl. girl listen girl it's okay if you're not getting pulitzer for your little genshin fic. you don't have to.

[luke-shywalker]

home again.

“Rey! Come down! You’re going to be late for school!”

“I’m coming, Mum! Geez!”

“Han, would you wash out the caf pot—no, wait, you broke it last time. Just leave it alone.”

“You could have a little faith in me, Your Highness.”

“Don’t ‘Your Highness’ me. Get that scrappy kid to school. And tell her not to beat up any more boys.”

“Rey, don’t beat up any more boys. Just tell ‘em who your dad is.”

“Right, Dad—and they’ll be all like, ‘Han Solo’ who?”

“For kriff’s sake, why am I getting the rough end from both my ladies today?”

“Han, language. But—sorry. Kiss! Mwah. Go upstairs and check on Ben when you come back, all right? Have a good day at school, Rey! Bye, flyboy.”

“Bye Mum!”

“See ya, sweetheart.”

The sound of the door closing.

“Oi. Mum’s always so stressed.”

“Rey. I know your mother doesn’t want you picking fights. But, as your father, I just wanna tell ya I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself, and I want you to know that if you ever feel like you gotta—”

The door closed again, leaving the rest of the conversation a mystery.

Ben sighed and rolled over in bed. The house he’d grown up in had always been like that—you could hear everything that went on from any room.

He hadn’t lived here for a long time—seven years, about? And yet, it felt like he’d never left. Or, like he’d gone back in time.

There was evidence that Rey had started using his bedroom as kind of a garage—not that she didn’t have enough space in her own room (which required one to wade through knee-high levels of…just…stuff, and rather resembled the wasteland she had been rescued from). His desk, where he used to draw pictures of his own made-up ships and write himself into fictional stories about the Rebellion, was covered in mechanical pieces and bits of wiring from Rey’s projects. But other than that, his room was largely unchanged. The X-wing posters were still there. And so was the Sy Snootles pinup that Poe had given him as a joke. He was both surprised and amused that his mother had never taken it down.

But, then, it also felt like time had moved on without him. He’d been here for a few days now—consigned here by a freak medical crisis—and watching his mom and dad and sister play out the daily orchestration of their lives kind of made him feel like he had died after high school and his family had just kept on doing their thing.

Being around Rey was the weirdest part. The last time he had lived in the same house as his sister, she’d been seven, eight years old. Obviously, he’d seen her since then, every Life Day, and a few other times each year—but whenever Rey showed up in his dreams or in his mind, she was still seven.

But now she was fifteen, and she was…him. All those memories Ben had of being a teenager, of doing homework at the dinner table, fighting with his parents over nothing, using words that meant things to his peers but that his family didn’t understand, laughing on late night holocalls with friends and getting yelled at to go to bed—that was her, now. And now here he was, twenty-five and boring.

His boringness was evidenced by the fact that he missed buying groceries and making his own food. His parents couldn’t cook. They never could. Rey could eat literally anything, so that didn’t bother her. But Ben missed making his own dinner—maybe it was about the food, but maybe it was also just about the sense of control.

He couldn’t pilot a speeder in his current condition, so he was stuck here. He could go on walks, but he didn’t want to most of the time, because it made him dizzy.

He found himself alternating mostly between sleeping, and wandering the empty house during the day. Trying to spot things that had changed. Looking at the holopicture frames. There were still holos of him, but there were more and more holos of Rey. It was like getting caught up on her life since he’d left home.

Being off work felt like summer vacation. Only…bad. Because doing nothing all day was fun for a kid—but for a grownup, it was kind of like hell. The hours blurred together into sluggish, amorphous days, and he just kind of found himself places, doing things—oh, hey, I’m here now. Now he found himself downstairs in the kitchen, washing out the caf pot that his mom hadn’t trusted his dad not to break.

That was another thing—he didn’t like the caf his mom made. She used really cheap caf grounds that she bought in bulk, which was exactly what she would do, being practical—but ever since leaving home, Ben had discovered good caf, and it was hard to go back.

It was hard to go back to a lot of things.

He set the caf pot on the rack to dry, and for a second he just stood there, looking out the kitchen window. Is this who I thought I’d be as an adult…?

Am I an adult?

And then he noticed that Rey had left the blue milk uncapped and on the counter, and the carton was sweating and becoming lukewarm, and that really pissed him off, so he capped it and put it in the fridge like it was supposed to be—and that told him, yes, he was now just a boring adult.

…Well. Maybe being a boring adult was better than being a teenage psychological mess, which was what he had been before.

He filled a glass of tap water and drank cheers to that.

Ben heard the door open, and turned to see his father coming back in.

He gave a nod. “Hey, Dad.”

“Oh, you’re up,” Han said. “How ya feelin’, kid?”

Ben imagined his dad would probably still be calling him “kid” when he was forty-five.

“I’ve been better,” Ben said, then changed the subject, because he was kind of sick of talking about his health. “So. How’s being house husband?”

“Hey.” Han pointed a defensive finger. “I am not a house husband.”

“Hey, I never said there was anything wrong with it,” Ben chuckled into his glass of water. “You’re doin’ great, Dad. Maybe she’ll even let you wash the caf pot someday.”

“Listen, kid, that was one time.”

“Oh, I’m just givin’ ya a hard time, old man.”

“Uh-huh. And when are you getting married?”

“Never. Women find me intolerable.”

“Funny. I said the exact same thing, at your age.”

“You know, I can’t believe Mom settled for you,” Ben joked, curious to see how the jab would land.

But Han just grinned and inclined his head and spread his arms in humility. “That’s what I’m sayin’, kid. If there’s hope for me, there’s hope for anybody.” He paused mischievously, and then took a shot back. “Even if you never inherited my dashingly good looks.”

“Ha! You mean I was spared from them,” Ben snorted. “Well, thanks, Dad; I’ll keep it in mind.”

Han laughed too. Insults were kind of a love language in their family, as weird as that sounded. He came over to lean against the counter next to Ben, then clapped him on the back and looked him in the eyes, like he was studying the man Ben had grown up into.

“Hey. I know the circumstances aren’t great, but…it’s kinda nice, having you home, Ben. I miss ya.”

“You do?” Ben asked with a self-conscious laugh, feeling more sentimental about his father’s words than he was comfortable admitting. “Kind of seems like your lives all went on without me.”

“Well…yours went on without us, too,” Han said, then shook him by the shoulders a little. “You need to call home more often, little buddy.”

Little buddy—Ben was a couple inches taller.

“I know,” Ben said, patting the top of his father’s graying head. “I’m just bad at it.”

“That’s no excuse.” Han tilted his head conspiratorially. “A house husband gets lonely, ya know.”

“Heh. Well. Can’t have that, I guess.”

They stood there, together. Father and son. The Solo men, Leia called them, when she was feeling playful.

“…Wanna take the Falcon out for a spin?” Han asked suddenly.

Ben turned to look at him, so abruptly it made his head hurt. “What—like, right now? I can’t pilot, Dad. The medcenter told me—”

“You can co-pilot.”

“No, Dad, I so can’t.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, I get us both killed? No, wait—what’s worse is if Mom finds out.”

“C’mon.”

“Dad.”

“C’mon!”

“No!”

“Come on—”

“Okay!”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Geez.”

“All right!” Han tousled his son’s hair as if he was twenty years younger and tossed him his boots, which Ben started putting on amidst a sea of complaints—

“For kriff’s sake, Dad, fine, but I’m tellin’ ya, I can’t see that good right now, and I haven’t even piloted the Falcon in ages even if I was healthy, and this was all your stupid idea in the first place, so don’t you go giving me hell if I happen to put a scratch on your beloved—”

Han only laughed, while Ben was still talking, and the door closed, leaving the Organa-Solo house quiet again.

[youchangedmedestiel]

Almost every weekend morning, I wake up and it's too early to my taste.

So I try to get back to sleep, but my brain explores different thoughts. Eventually it stops on Destiel. And a fic idea pops up. I write a few parts in my mind that I want to include in it. At some point, I tell myself that I'll forget about all of this if I get back to sleep. So I don't, I grab my phone and write it all down.

Anyway, almost every weekend morning, I wake up too early to my taste.

[killershrike]

I want to say to all writers or would be writers; we gotta stop comparing ourselves to other authors. Take inspiration, absolutely!!! I have taken sooo much inspiration from media in my fic Dark Suspension. Not just from books, movies, tv shows, songs, paintings, everything. I think it's absolutely so important to use the things that inspire you to create and not be afraid of "ripping off." Obviously if you copy and paste a whole paragraph and just change the names then maybe rework it a bit. But, personally, I see absolutely no problem in having direct inspirations. Yes I have a lot of original lines and things, but I also have reworked some of my favorite moments and lines into the story.

Two examples from me specifically:

• Cersei Lannister and Margaery Tyrell speaking together. "Gone, a gentle word, why not say slaughtered?" reworked into So-yin saying "Force, a gentle world, why not say slaughtered?" When Ghost tells her about "forcing" Bad Bloods to give up info.

• In The Terrfier 2 Art the Clown brutalized a victim and two of the ways is by snapping the victim's arm in half and tearing it off her, and another way is by tearing her hand apart so it rips down the middle. This was reworked into Ghost, tearing an arm off a corpse and snapping it in half to create a "knife" to throw at someone escaping. And then directly tearing a man's hand apart so it rips down the middle.

Someone could argue this isn't Changed enough, not Original enough, I disagree. This is where it comes to opinion and where I hope to help me and other writers or potential writers to feel some ease. I've been seeing a lot of people saying they're too scared to post their fics cause of people saying things like "copying too much," "too much description," and "too much dialogue." And really, at the end of the day, everyone is wrong. Even I am.

Art has always been subjective, but I feel like writing can be some of the most subjective of all. One person can read Homer's Odyssey, a literal world renowned classic, and say it's boring. Someone can read The Lord Of The Rings books and say they're stupid, even though it's arguably the most popular book series to date.

No matter who you are or how "good" or "bad" your work is, there will always be people who either love it or hate it or don't care. We have got to stop comparing ourselves and holding ourselves back from sharing the things we want to because of other people's stupid little "writing rules." Those dont exist.

You know what the only rule of writing is? You gotta write. To be a writer, you have to put words down somewhere. That's it. That's all. Whether it's me, you, or Stephen fucking King. We're all just silly Little Guys with thoughts in our head that we put down and share with other people because they mean something to us. Just because you aren't a published author and Stephen King is doesn't mean you're a worse writer, or shouldn't bother posting your stuff. He just had the opportunity, luck, or possibly both, to end up in a position as a famous and published author.

But even he didn't start that way. So many authors don't put their stories out as a way to get famous or attention, I definitely didn't. I use my story as a way to work through my own pain and hopefully come up with some fun and interesting ideas along away. I'm not saying one way is right, go for that bag if you want! Or just post your story for fun! Just don't feel like you can't post your writing or people will hate it or won't read it because these stupid "rules." Someone will read it. Even just one person. And you never know, maybe that one person could turn out to become a friend!

I've found so much happiness by posting my story and characters. Yes, I've received some hate, but the love and support I've gotten so outweigh that. Sometimes, I get caught up in the negative and the anxiety, but overall, I don't regret posting my writing and will continue to do so. I hope you can too!

[cleromancy]

i feel like a lot of bruces escalating Badness over the past few... decades... has been writers reading well-told stories exploring bruces flaws, or dark batman concepts, and going like this

just. replace the text in your mind. use your imagination

[vulpinesaint]

i will be for real with you all. the many variations of the "everyone should be commenting on/reblogging my fanfic!!" mindset (and its children, "and if you're not doing that you're a bad person" + "and i am directly tying that to my motivation to write/my self esteem" + "and if you don't do that you are directly harming my motivation to write/my self esteem") are all bad for you. i've said it before! and i'll say it again! there is nothing wrong with reminding an audience, whether it's in the notes of a fic or in a tumblr post, that authors like comments! calls to action are great! it's the anger that i see when people post about how they get no reblogs. or the passive agressiveness in posts about how people will like but not reblog. or posts straight out saying that likes mean nothing. that's the shit that's not working.

first off: it has to be said. you are not entitled to people's time or effort. it's a harsh fucking truth but it has to be said! you're not entitled to the time it takes someone to read your fic, much less comment on it. you're not entitled to a space on someone's personal blog. human beings are never going to do exactly what you want them to because people just don't fucking do things sometimes. and expecting things from the people that read ur stuff (or see your art!) is only going to create a cycle of frustration in which your expectations are continuously left unmet and unmet and unmet, and if you cling to them, you're going to build up that frustration and anger, and it's not going to go anywhere positive. prommy. it's okay to be frustrated with a lack of attention! but then you have to let that go. and accept that any interaction is because people choose to interact, which is more than they can be expected to do.

which leads me to the "likes are worthless" argument. first off telling people that you don't want their interaction is not going to lead to more interaction. second off what the FUCK are you talking about. i know people get upset when people like but don't reblog because it doesn't further their content's reach, but: what the FUCK are you talking about!!!! likes are an acknowledgement that someone saw what you did and they liked it, enough to let you know. isn't that the goal? with a quick reference to the above paragraph (you are not entitled to time/effort/blog space), we have to talk about the way that people structure their intake of validation. likes are good! reblogs get your stuff out to another person's audience, but that enables more likes! any interaction is interaction. and also:

we cannot be basing everything around validation and interaction from strangers. that is only going to do you harm. as i said, your expectations are realistically most often not going to be met, unless you don't set expectations; if you will only have good feelings about something if people give you a certain amount of likes/kudos/comments, a certain amount of reblogs, you're going to end up with negative feelings, because most times, you're not going to get that. and the same way that you build up anger and frustration, you'll build up anything else you tie to that: sadness, worthlessness, however you feel when you don't get something you want. you can't let that control you. you can't live your life with all of your sources of happiness and self-worth rooted in external factors. those things are great for a boost! but you have to love your creative work for its own sake. you have to enjoy sharing things because you enjoy sharing things. it is genuinely not a healthy mindset to hang so much on other people's actions.

and i get it! believe me! i had one big work a while ago that got a bunch of comments with every update and it was absolutely thrilling and i got hooked on that validation. and then it fucking sucked afterward, cause nothing else i did ever got to that point again. it's brain poison! for real! it's the same shit they put in likes on social media, and i'm sure we've all seen the articles or ted talks or whatnot about the dangers of social media addiction! it's the same thing! and what i had to do to get out of that was find validation elsewhere. start investing myself into my creative processes for the sake of enjoying the creative process. train myself into enjoying every bit of interaction i got, rather than setting a threshold at which i could enjoy it. and it's hard work and i have to do it constantly and it fucking sucks but i am so much happier with my fics because of it. living in that disappointment and anger is awful. i promise it's better to fucking. practice gratitude. i hate that shit but it works sometimes.

and also! it has to be said. as a fic writer + reader: the "likes are worthless, everyone should be reblogging/commenting on fics" posts are fucking annoying. make different posts.