#writer junk

[scarthefangirl]

Me everyday: *gets a fic idea* Yes I need to start this!

My 45 wips:

[diazheartsbuckley]

“I wish I could help you” is actually such an insane thing to say to your totally platonic male best friend after he mentions how sexually pent-up he is

In this essay I will-

[cto10121]

…There is a whole Wikipedia page about literary influences she has openly talked about.

[sincerelygarden]

Secrets accumulate atop my tongue, making beds in rooftop ridges and gap teeth.

After dinner I spit them out, all blue and crazed in a bathroom sink on another Sunday.

A girl prays to a god she feels unworthy to be loved by-

anything, or everything, or nothing at all

It is the wonder every September:

I feel her heart beat again.

My feet

thump,

thump,

thumping atop gravel.

"Listen," she says.

"Do you hear that?

Do you feel that?"

I try.

I stretch my arms down a drain,

frantically searching for the means to scream, to be anything, or everything, or nothing at all.

I tried honey—

scooping her out,

desperate and stretched,

goop thickening the walls,

syrup-like and sorry for making everything worse

much worse than ever before.

I give up.

I follow the ant trail to a sad pillow,

heating up the center where agony breaks free.

I follow the ant trail to therapy every Monday at 11, and say much yet nothing at all.

I follow the ant trail to the walls I wish I’d step outside of.

I try honey once more.

I shower it over myself in hopes the thing inside is able to thin it out in time,

like tea on an anxious Tuesday.

But my sisters are perhaps weary of what clings to their shoes,

of hands stuck upon doorknobs and kitchen sinks and Wednesday’s dinner engulfed in goop.

I follow it to a mirror.

I am frightened to believe what I have become.

I run to the supermarket and make a mountain of salt in aisle 24,

hoping to counteract the monstrous situation upon me,

smothered in the taste of all the things I needed to say,

in the sour shame coming back home all the same

My god!

on old clocks, windowsills, light switches, and more pillows, cold pillows on lone Thursdays,

Forget the mirrors!

I must not look at myself

slugging around and destroying a home I’ve made none but my own.

Oh but

She is in picture frames,

Lovely and light and easy to hold

behind glass, handled with care.

Pity is dreaded fear, a pungent knock I want to ignore every time.

I weep onto the smile, the what-was, a known.

I try once more,

stretching myself down the drain,

uncertainty a growing depression—a well-known symptom of a heart beating faintly on Friday, under layers of each day before.

She is somewhere in the hollow parts,

in the shadow dancing on the edge of what lives outside,

in the music sticking onto a seen but unexperienced.

Saturday, I am the soles of hurried feet,

thump, thump, thumping like knocking—a thunderous prayer possibly heard.

I follow it to my mother’s voice,

and my father’s wisdom,

and my sisters' cheers—

shoes kept neatly in spaces just for me.

Is she worthy of love?

My god!

Is she!?

To follow the ant trail to the old town lived once before-

She is there!

I feel her heart beat again,

trying to be

anything,

or everything,

or nothing at all.

My heart,

the center where agony breaks free!?

Do you hear it?

Do you feel it?

Thump,

thump,

thumping atop gravel.

An ant trail follows me down to

the places that consume me.

She tastes the sweet outpour of will,

or anything, or everything, or nothing at all.

A girl prays to god, on a Sunday-

Thump,

thump,

thumping..

Do you hear me?

[puppyeared]

fake ep idea + doodles

[writeouswriter]

You know what, this "actually writing" thing is really fun, someone should tell my adhd that 'cause it still doesn't believe me.

[ilikekidsshows]

'Kim Possible' shows us that it is possible to create a badass female character without every one of her allies being useless in comparison. What an amazing recent discovery from writers from 2002, no wonder there's people in France that haven't heard about it yet, it's only been 22 years!

[see-arcane]

After reading and watching several adaptations, I have come to the conclusion that Quincey gets much more respect than Jonathan. Yes he appears much less, but he gets his heroic sacrifice when he does instead of getting bastardised. Three times I have seen him be the one who kills Dracula without Jonathan. In two of those he has the kukri.

Also idk if vampire Quincey is underappreciated, there is a novel all about him.

And in this one Jonathan is revealed to have been a cowardly cheater all along.

You know. Sometimes I think I might be going too overindulgent with my Harker Horrors and lavishing of attention on my favorite special little haunted gothic heroine lad.

And then I get lovely reminders like these that not only am I not being indulgent, I have to actively burn every daydream of an inhibition I have as a writer to unfuck 126 years' worth of doing the whole cast dirty, but Jonathan Harker the absolute worst.

[paperw0rmz]

[inkedwingss]

Just got an email from Junk: Literary & Arts Journal saying my submission was accepted!

This is my first time ever submitting my work and I am absolutely thrilled. Thank you all my angels for your likes and reblogs, for the support and all the kind words. This is a shared victory! And thank you, @leechs :)

[lostdeviantartcollages]

95p - part one

[camelliagwerm]

Honestly where I'm at with Veilguard mentally is "I've picked apart the carcass, taken the bits I can cook with, and establishing what I want to happen for my own personal canon with it."

[scarthefangirl]

I want to write but I don't want to write

[raineandsky]

#57

tw fire / arson

The street is engulfed in a burning blaze. The buildings next door will adopt the flames too, and before long the entire city will be alight with the villain’s master plan.

Everything is coming together just as he wanted. By the time the heroes get here, the destruction will be too great to do anything but salvage whatever little remains. The fallout will give them plenty of time to get everything in place for his final big show. 

The villain lets the flames warm his face from where he’s watching the carnage. Everything is perfect.

There’s a light tug at the end of his coat. “Mr. Evil?”

The villain gives the spot next to him a frown, before pointing it downward—a child, a wholeass child, clinging to the hem of his coat with a little too much force, wrinkling the usually smooth fabric. A glance around gives him no inkling as to how they got here.

“Hey, uh…” The villain has to raise his voice over the sound of the buildings crumbling around them. “If this is your kid, can you come and get them? I won’t attack you.”

Nothing. Either no one is willing to risk their neck or this kid is somehow out here alone. Wonderful. Of course this would happen to the villain as he’s trying to reach his peak in life.

“Look, kid.” The villain squats down to the child’s level. They don’t let go of his coat like the villain had hoped, and so he sets about carefully prying their tiny fingers off. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be out here. Where’re your parents?”

The kid laughs brightly, as if the arson of the city they live in is entertaining. “Mr. Evil!”

Clearly there’s been an attempt to teach this thing stranger danger, but maybe the concept of ‘evil’ hasn’t quite gone in yet. 

The kid points up to where the building opposite is ragefully burning. “Boom!” they squeak, and they clap their hands joyfully when it responds by creaking on its supports.

There’s no one around but the villain and this child that looks to barely be in the double-digits. He can’t leave them here. He’s a villain, not a degenerate. There’s screaming nearby as people flee the impending blaze.

He stands back upright with an irritated sigh. He can’t believe he’s letting morality he shouldn’t technically have get in the way of everything. He holds a hand out to the child expectantly.

“Come on,” he says with what he hopes passes off as kindness, “we should be going.”

The kid has a concerning lack of hesitation in taking his hand, a bright grin on their face as they watch the flames engulf everything.

There’s people making their getaways a few streets over, moving from the flames like a terrified flood. The child watches everyone absently as the villain tries to pick out anyone he can hand them off to.

“Hey, you!” the villain calls into the fray. “You, in the blue shirt!”

A woman miraculously slows down, swimming through the current of people to reach them. “This kid needs to go,” he tells her urgently. “They’re lost—find their parents if you can.”

The kid turns up to the villain with wide, puppy-like eyes as he lets go of them. “Mr. Evil?”

“You’re going to find your parents, alright?” he says. “Go now, before the fire spreads. I have to, uh, go look for other people.”

The woman nods, bending down to the kid with her hands out. “Come on, kiddo, let’s get going then.”

The villain has let go of the kid, but said kid doesn’t seem to have the same idea. Their grip is back on the bottom of his coat, tucking behind him like he’s the safest person in the world. It takes a frankly embarrassing amount of effort to push them into her arms. They fight it the entire time like they’re being kidnapped.

The woman turns on her heel to continue her escape, and the child gets one last look at the villain from over her shoulder.

“Mr. Evil…?” they say uncertainly. The moment it’s clear the villain’s getting further away they burst into tears, their wails echoing through the collapsing city around them.

The villain lingers worriedly, waiting until the pair are out of sight before turning on his heel to finish what he started.

God, he’s a villain. An upset child shouldn’t make him feel bad. His heart hurts though, much to his dismay, and he knows that he never wants to see a kid caught up in his plans again.

Goddamnit, he doesn't even like kids.

[icaruswithwingsofwater]

In lieu of . . . the news, I wanted to share something soft and happy from my private life after taking a day to relax and reflect. ✨

This is from my personal art journal, which I’ve been working on this year. I used to have an art journal during the ‘art hoe’ movement of my high school years, but I went through a sad, depressed, and angry phase where I thought my art sucked and threw it away regrettably (along with several of my previous sketchbooks and other things I deeply miss). But now I have a new one that I started a few months ago and have been using it as an outlet for my mental health and creativity. It’s been so freeing and good for me. My therapist and fiancé love it! And I love it, too. I hope you can as well 💕

Speaking of updating, The Locked Door chapter 20 will be updated on November 16th at 11 AM EST time. Be there to see if Kiara comes back LMAO 😩

Until then, I’m sorry, guys . . . But tomorrow will always come, so hold your heads high, and we can do it. 🫰🏻

Fuck’em,

Kate 💙

[gigi-journaling]

Tell us your page style preferences and why!

Do you prefer blank and is it because you’re an artist, a free spirit, maybe a bit messy? Do you like graph grid and are you more of an analytical type, a bit of a neat freak, always working on your penmanship? Are you a writer and prefer lined?

I kinda have a theory that you can get a glimpse of a persons personality, so let us know!