#this may seem out of nowhere for which i apologize; but i've seen this sentiment creeping up in outside circles

[vtriol]

this is a vague about stuff outside my little tumblr circle here, but i wanna be really, painfully clear: i do not want people who actively enjoy or engage with jk rowling's ips around, and i also do not want people who support others engaging with those ips around either. i highly encourage you block me and move on if you fall under either category, and i mean that.

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

you'd never guess what happens when you work consistently, it's like you get things done or something

Heretics there are so many posts that have been waiting to get through my queue, and yet, life moves on, and yet, my art is constantly writhing and evolving and biting the hands of people who taunt the exhibits with their very consumable fingies. My work eats what it wants, as long as it doesn't reach my carpet I've stopped devoting energy to worrying about it.

All of which to say, remember that novel I keep going on about? At this point I'd be more impressed if you'd somehow forgotten, but, at the risk of repeating myself, it's the biggest project I've ever undertaken and between the cringe of rereading work you wrote when you were quite literally a different person, it's one of my proudest achievements and I work on it constantly to get it to a point I'd be happy with releasing it to the public.

And I just finished Chapter 3? And I understand if that doesn't sound impressive, and admittedly I'm certain that's not the last I'll see of editing Chapter 3, but I've finished rewriting it? I've have the first draft of this finished for some time, but due to the unflinching passage of time and other such nonsense, it's been some time since I've seen a few of these passages, some paragraphs the result of several previous rewrites, some the original draft still shining through.

I just killed some rough thousand words, culled for the sake of the art, rebuilt, stitched together festering wounds with new words and phrases and a deeper understanding of just what I'm building toward. And that feels fucking monumental. I'm not a large creator. I know that. I know I have a long way to go before this starts to support me, before enough people let me know how deeply they enjoy this before I'll feel secure in my creations, but if you would allow me a moment of sentimentality.

Thank you so fucking much. Thank you for every spare like, every shining reblog, ever time you took the time out of your day to read something I've written. Your time is invaluable to me, but your support, to let me know through the screen that you did see this, that you liked it, that you'd be ecstatic to have more... That means more than you will ever know. More than I have the words to express.

I'd tell you it's making my body feel lightheaded as group experience but I just wrote funky fresh eight-hundred words of character interaction and dialogue and also I haven't eaten in awhile... There's competing factors, is my point.

I can't believe that even a handful of you have stuck around, that I could collect a handful of you delightful heretics who have chosen to follow me, to see each time I put my words to keys, my fingers to typeface and try to capture even a sliver of the human experience. And according to you idiots, I seem to be doing that.

Chap. 3, finished, for a few months at least. If I look at it again within the next few months I'll try to rewrite it until my hands bleed, so I'm barring myself, with the exception of the next few numbers I'm going to give you.

Chapter Three of my snarling novel, is 10,937 words long.

The beginning gauntlet of my beautiful, violent creation, now totals at 23,517 words.

And isn't that something fucking miraculous?

I'd apologize for the lack of my usual flare in this update, but my brain may be somewhat fried, I've been at this for a couple hours without break and my braincells are dropping like flies, it's been a night.

Don't stop making, heretics. Create and build and destroy and set flame and cut apart and so back together. Victor Frankenstein may be regarded as The Modern Prometheus, but V. Frankenstein was a bitch-ass motherfucker and with only a sprinkle of spite and a inch more dedication than 'I've created a demon-spawn, it has the wrong Eye Color,' which between us, I think we can drum up.

A selection from Chapter Three of my novel, now named but nowhere near the marketing stage of telling the internet the name before I have that copyrighted will be making an appearance here in the next few hours, if tradition holds this will be served on silver platters some time after it was actually typed up, turns out if you post nonsense at four in the morning, none of your followers will actually read it. Who would've thought.

Glorious goddamned heresy to you, returning reader, future sin to you, fresh fleshsack; e come sempre, a te.