#writing comunity

[iridescentmemoria]

[goodluckclove]

Scott and Edgar have two slightly different strategies when they are forced to explain their sexless relationship.

Edgar: "Well I think society definitely places an emphasis on sexuality as the cornerstone of a healthy romantic partnership, but when you really dissect that you start to think about the things a person might seek in sex and all the other forms of intimacy that provide the same effect. It's actually a really beautiful experience if you're willing to be curious about yourself and the person or people you're forming a partnership with."

Scott: "Sex is cringe!"

BONUS Edgar, but the inside Edgar that only speaks out loud when they are tipsy or very frustrated: "Shut up. Be quiet. If you had a fragment of the physical intimacy I get on a weekly basis you would weep so hard it would make you throw up. Shut the fuck up, you have no idea what you're talking about, I hate you."

[letswritestories101]

Writeblr, I intend to start a new story but first I need to know from you, when you finish what the hell do you do with them? I wanted to write to post on a Wattpad-ish type of site, but it turns out that there is no longer a site to post your writing with no strings attached. What do you guys do? Do you publish or save? Did I really want to put my story somewhere? (It's not fic, so Ao3 is not recommended)

[firedragon1321]

Hi Tumblr Gaysite. I have a question. I'm a cis writer with a few LGBT+ characters and I have some questions about how to word certain things and develop them. Not just for potential marketing, but so I better understand how to write them. These questions may sound offensive or dumb but I come from a point of ignorance.

First, I have a nonbinary 13 year old (assigned male at birth). This is not a spoiler- due to plot circumstances, they reveal it to the MC soon after meeting him (when those circumstances are not in play, they are more secretive). They kind of fuck around with gender presentation. So maybe genderfluid is more accurate? As they've used they/them pronouns from conception, though, I'm sticking with nonbinary (or at least those pronouns).

Again, these are all cis idiot questions. I'm speaking from a position of minimal understanding.

I've seen on posts here that being nonbinary is a form of being transgender. Is that true? If it is, that means I have more resources for additional research.

What is being genderfluid? Not fully sure what that means, so I don't know if it really applies to them.

How would puberty effect them? They are somewhat shy about their body already. But I think the characters might take a few years to figure out the plot (with the MC already having a design for when he's a young adult). So they'll definitely start appearing more masculine.

Then not pertaining only to that character-

This part is a spoiler, so it can't be used as a marketing buzzword. And I'm not sure if it will happen. But the nonbinary character may start dating a cis female character. Is pansexual the right word to refer to her in that case?

Finally, are there any extra guides for writing trans/nb characters in general? There's a few more in another work. They might benefit from something like that.

Note I might turn off notifications for this post after getting a lot of responses and/or if shit hits the fan. I'll try to respond to as many as possible.

[iamsherlocked1479]

So im not feeling great at the moment, im not gonna lie. Im feeling quite homesick at the moment because ive just moved to uni a few days ago. Now i know homesickness is inevitable but i watched markipliers video titled “watch this when you’re feeling down” and he spoke about doing things you love which made me think about this blog. Now i can tell you here this isn’t me asking for followers or likes. Its just me trying to create a little community. Now I can’t do that without letting you guys get to know me. Now this isn’t me being like oh 1000 reblogs and i’ll do a face reveal no, as far as diving i to my personal life a face reveal isn’t on my list. But telling you guys about me is.

So Hi 👋, my name is Molly and I’m 18 years old and from the UK. I just enrolled in university to study Zoology because i like animals and the environment. And some of my favourite blogs include work from ironstrange1991, withalittlehoney and jrrmint. I’ve linked their masterlists or latests post so I highly recommend checking them out! But im hoping this will help people who follow this blog get more involved because ive seen some amazing community’s and i’d love that for this blog even if it was one person or a million i just would love to bring everyone together because i love writing these fics so much so please leave a lil comment abt urself or a request if you really wanted to and i send all my live. Even if nobody reads this its helping me feel less homesick. <3 xxx

P.s will link the authors bloggs in the comments

[kestalsblog]

I’m really glad I wasn’t plagued with the curse known as “writer’s envy.”

I see writers absolutely trapped and frozen by it because they’re unable to create anything since the sentence isn’t perfect. They aren’t the best.

I feel so invigorated and thrilled and inspired when I find beautiful writing - few things compare. Beautiful writing has been giving me joy since I learned to understand words; I couldn’t give that up to feel like “the best” even for a second.

[multiversxwhore]

To all the fan fiction writers on this platform, y’all are some of the most creative mf in the community of writing. The ways in which y’all put all these characters in so many different scenarios. Y’all are fucking amazing 🫶🏽✨🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

[aeshteticangel]

Black heart

A sanctuary is never truly silent. She seeks refuge from the malign voices who whisper and shout the cruelest of things, and yet, the only voice that hurts her soul is her own. 

Wishing for silence is like watering a dead plant. 

As time passes, her pitch black heart cried in untold pain. Pain long gone into the waters of her past but vividly present through her veins. Some nights she laid wide awake because of her murderous intent, letting go isn't exactly her strongest suit. 

However, even in deep despair, she would never change her wounds for glitter. After all, they are her greatest creation. 

Author: JM_Pages 

(A little something I wrote in the spur of inspiration, JM_Pages is my author name on Inkitt)

[firewolf-pyro]

A large group of non-canon Dalek! Doctor Who Oc’s can truly range from hero’s to villains.

[eldritch-flower]

Alt: The Waking — see here for trigger warnings

Chapter 2 of 9 | [prev / next ]

A jingling cut out amongst a silence that had been interrupted until then only by the rasp of his laboured lungs, the organs forced by his disquieted brain to keep him alive. It was a full sound, jovial, rectifying the quiet and persuading his dismal thoughts to falter.

The temptation to follow it was jarring. 

Orville grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and swung his legs up and off the mattress. His feet slapped the soft carpet, and vicious the sob it forced out of him was muffled by the fabric stuffed past bruised lips. 

The pillowed carcasses followed his every movement with eyes that were unnervingly human, glistening with moist films stretched over top. They stared at him knowing of his plight, mocking Orville’s feeble attempts to try as he in turn stared at the tall, menacing door that split the room in half. 

A door. He had never claimed to be smart, but Orville knew that doors lead places. Places like away, like home, like out this fucking room. 

He avoided the mirror planted conspicuously on the wall beside it. Orville didn’t go near the reflective silver; the idea of staring back at himself and seeing just what was causing his entire being to ache, what had become of him, stirred the muscle of his gut into an ill frenzy. His stomach failed to calm it’s nauseating churning as he continued to size up the door, watching it like some wild animal. 

It was simple, unembellished. It wasn’t even painted, although Orville guessed that the bronze handle might have been once. He could make out where the paint had flaked and been scratched away through rough and desperate actions; traces of vermilion and chipped keratin were unobtrusively splintered there, a stamp of despair. He pointedly refused to imagine what had caused someone to act in such a way, to imagine what had filled them with so much terror that they torn the nails from their fingers simply trying to turn the handle. Instead, he scooted along the bed and tried his best to ignore the spasming of his ribs as he did so.

His ankles hadn’t been tied - big mistake, Orville thought (and he couldn’t help but hear Jones’s voice as he did because the man would be all over this psycho shit). He took it as a sign of good will from whatever deity actually existed, forcing himself to stand despite how it pulled and chewed at his wobbling muscles. Then, thought occurred gently that maybe it wasn’t a sign. Maybe He hadn’t meant for Orville to be able to walk, maybe He had miscalculated just how much pain Orville Shepherd could take. 

He? Orville chased the thought, losing it in the opened floodgates of his mind. 

His knees shook, grinding gristle against bone as the man painstakingly limped forward. One foot dragged behind him, useless and twisted grotesquely, and Orville steadfastly ignored the sliver of unclean cartilage that had worked itself out of the wound and into the open like a poison (Orville was good at ignoring things. He had ignored his failing relationship with Maddie, and his parent’s hatred for him. His hatred for himself, too. And he’d ignored the way his kids moved on so quickly, flocking to Jones; the next best thing).

Orville all but fell into the door, pressing against its square, solid frame with bruised fingertips.  The wood rattled his being, expanding in,out,in,out. A thrumming of energy worked its way through the seams of the door and into his soul; a living, breathing entity. 

He moved his hand away, drawing it back to his side as he flexed his tingling fingers, and Orville considered what lay before him: Should he open it, trapped in apparent purgatory as he was? What if someone was stood behind it, waiting with an axe to finish the job they’d so crudely started? What if it was all just some game, some horrible, horrible game, and it was simply meant to give him a last spark of hope that would just as soon be distinguished?

Orville turned his sights back to the vixen, watched her snarl lifelessly. The fox hadn’t opened the door. The fox couldn’t.

He didn’t want to end up like the fox. 

He reached for the door again. The pretty jingling echoed from nowhere and everywhere, and Orville’s mind couldn’t understand it. It pulled at his brain like a long-lost memory before it dissolved into a mollified, hissing cackle. He glanced down, shivering. The hairs on his arms were stood to attention: A troop of soldiers upright on a bed of horripilation. Orville lay his palm against the bodily-warm handle, feeling the faint throb of a heartbeat that intermingled with the pulse beneath his skin. He swallowed, thick and dry, forcing spittle down his constricted throat, and twisted it. 

Orville didn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting to see as he pushed the door open. Nothing, maybe - just a blanket of dark, like the back of a closet. Or perhaps the continuation of whatever abode he had awoken within: red carpet hallways, serviceable torture rooms identical to his own. 

Instead, he found the Others. 

tag list: @anonymousfoz @digital-chance @milatooo

(ask to be added)

[iridescentmemoria]

[letswritestories101]

There is something very devastating to me about writing.

I don’t know, it’s about writing being one oldest form of share thoughts but, at the same time, the most... “limited”.

Music, drawing, animation. These things also take time to be made. It’s all ways of art that requires just as much effort and dedication. But I can’t help but feel that they are easier ways for your art to be shared, objectively speaking.

A painting can be comprehensible due to its aesthetics and style. Just like a song, it sticks in your head, holds your attention. I can tell if the sound is sad or happy or angry.

A book can't do that.

You don’t watch or hear a book. It won’t reach people with its visuals or sounds, things that are so common to humanity as a whole... and that hurts me.

Feeling that the art that I love so much can’t be as universal as I want it to be. A song can reach people who speak different languages, and so can na image. A book will always have a language barrier. If it is not translated, others will not have access.

I cannot rely solely on sound and vision and feelings that go beyond language. Not like a artist or a musician can.

I am a communicator blocked by my own way of communication.

And that hurts.

[subtextures]

Absence

“there is no absence

that cannot be replaced”

—Rene Char

She sits in a hole in the room

where time drifts like dust motes

through sunlight. There is no time

anymore for resentment, or anger,

to fester their dark intentions.

Everything fades. The half-life of names

expands absorbing our vague desires

in the absolution memory grants

with each revision. She is tired now.

Patchwork obligations, like cages

without keys, contain her reasons.

In her way, she is dying, as are we all—

an obvious cliche, yet rituals

daily provide us with parameters

where we feel most comfortable.

Life is painful enough. Outside the air

clutters with snow, and rime forms

along the fence line. She watches the door.

Once, long ago, someone knocked, then left.

(November 12, 2022)

[kagazaurlafz]

I was a little unsure, nervous that day. My lips were lingering over each other but not touching. Overthinking about what is going to happen, where she was-.. -and there she was, looking beautiful as always. She pulled me and my thoughts away and it was just the next moment which i remember, the taste of her lips, the sweetness it carried with it.

"I need her now", was the thing my heart kept repeating, my hands grabbing her oversized white T-shirt continuously, pulled her near me more as every second pass. Her soft fingers moving across my shoulders and her breath moaning my name with every single exhale of air.

I lost myself in her eyes, and my lips got calmer when they met her lips. My every single cell got mesmerized the perfume she was wearing. And the mole on her jaw defined everything about what falling in love was.

Pulling away from that kiss. Her hair... was a mess and cheeks were red, lips slightly parted and her eyes longing down of shyness. "Gosh, she looked so pretty".

~Pratham Garodia

[iamsherlocked1479]

So I’m a little late on this but recently we passed 200 followers, I’m so pleased to see that people are enjoying my writing, honestly it makes me want to do more and write more. I really do appreciate your support i know I’m not the most frequent poster but it really does mean alot to me to see that others enjoy my stories as much as i do.

So from the bottom of my heart thank you guys so much.

[kestalsblog]

Thoughts on Current Young Adult Fiction

Recently, I made it a mission of mine to read a plethora of YA fiction at the library, including a wide range of genres (fantasy, romance, historical, etc.), as well as books composed of prose poems, which can be blended into "fiction" when they're crafted into an overarching story.

I also chose from a wide selection of authors of different racial, ethnic, gender, age, and sexual identities. The one constraint I had, unfortunately, is I only can fluently read books written primarily in English, though I did make an effort to read books that switched between languages, mostly between English and Spanish in my case.

I'm not going to name any of the books I read between last year and now when I started this project because I don't want to call out any authors/titles in a post that might be considered "negative."

I'm a huge supporter of YA fiction, but the primary thing I noticed while reading is . . . lack.

Lack of character development. Lack of exciting action. Lack of intriguing dialogue. Lack of world-building. Lack of surprise.

But more than all of that - lack of passion! Literally lackluster writing. I want sentences that ooze and drip the writer's passion, war-torn, gripping, resonant sentences that make me care about the characters, that make me want to keep reading.

Out of dozens of books, some deemed more "popular" and some more "obscure" (though, let's put some pressure on which books even get selected by "Top Ten" Lists and so on), I didn't read a single one where I really cared what happened next. I barely remember one from the next.

There could be several reasons for this:

I'm a little too old to be the target audience for YA, which is typically around 12-18 (younger than you might think!) I'm sure if I looked back at the books I considered "gripping" when I was younger, I would be disappointed with them now.

Publishers are going to publish what they think will sell - whether for political reasons, big name connections reasons, whatever else. This means not-stellar writing can pass through to the shelves quite easily.

But still! I keep thinking on this. Isn't there a space for YA fiction that can blend the lines with what's typically perceived as "literary" fiction? It doesn't have to be poetry. It doesn't even have to be profound.

But can't it be passionate?

Can't it be poignant?

I suppose my takeaway from this is here: if you are a YA writer, don't let the fact that you're writing for a younger audience hold your writing back from being superb. Teach them new words, new ways to construct sentences. Show them the most devastating character they've ever met. Be memorable.

And, of course, keep fighting against the current market, which is perhaps the biggest hurdle of all. I wonder if any published authors have had to "dilute" their writing to get an agent to accept them or something like that. Is this tepid prose what's truly in style?