writingmoth

[writingmoth]

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS

What’s the lie your character says most often?

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?

What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?

How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?

Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?

What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

When do they fake a smile? How often?

How do they put out a candle?

What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?

What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?

Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?

Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?

Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?

What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?

What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?

What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?

When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?

When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it?

If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?

How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?

How do they greet someone they like / love?

What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made?

Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?

What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell?

What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?

Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there?

How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else?

If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding?

What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?

What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately?

Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?

Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well?

Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?

Would they eat something they find gross to be polite?

What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?

What’s a phrase they say a lot?

Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

Who would / do they believe without question?

What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?

What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate?

If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?

What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often?

How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?

[writingmoth]

[writingmoth]

if i say "i imagine" or "i think" in regards to my ocs its because i dont knowwwwww. theyre living their own lives im just filming them at occasional moments and calling it a day

[writingmoth]

northern hemisphere babes we made it to the longest night of the year. we made it. for the next 6 months, every day will give us a little more daylight than the last. let's go. take my hand. climb out of the darkness with me

[writingmoth]

i sit down to write and suddenly i am the most distracted human alive. the chair is uncomfortable. my coffee is too hot. my playlist isn't quite the vibe. i need to research what victorian houses smelled like in 1872 for exactly 45 minutes even though my story takes place in space. and yet the moment i'm trying to fall asleep? every single sentence i've ever needed just lines up perfectly in my brain like some kind of creative parade i'll never get back.

[writingmoth]

In this exciting and spicy new Romantasy novel, a young orphan noblewoman warrior princess farmer's daughter must become a spy in the court of King Handsome of Europeland and seduce the young king while also winning a series of competition trials and maybe becoming an assassin rebel leader general. Oh and she gets a dragon.

[writingmoth]

is anyone writing anything about weird, creepy forests? pls i want to read something

[writingmoth]

must a book have ‘plot’ and ‘structure’ and ‘progression.’ is it not enough for characters to be in a place. and for that place to be really fucking weird.

[writingmoth]

5 years is nothing. its still 2020 to me

[writingmoth]

I love when platonic love and romantic love is so blurred that it doesn’t even matter anymore. All that matters is the devotion that’s there, the unwavering devotion

[writingmoth]

Being obsessed with your own ocs is so so good for you i seriously can't recommend it enough

[writingmoth]

an overheard conversation about your OC

a drabble (?) i wrote for my dnd character, sorn willowdew, based on the prompt above.

brief info on sorn: he's a nobleborn half-drow wild magic sorcerer. his family is mostly of wizards and they are all high elves. he does not know his father (who is a drow). his mom sucks.

he's ~24 years old when the campaign starts and 12/13 in this drabble.

-

sorn did not mean to snoop.

the truth is, he is used to being the only one around this early in the morning. the sun is barely a twinkle in the distant horizon, the sky still a deep shade of purple barely marred by the pinks and oranges of the new day. the manor is quiet, just shy of cold, and although at times its creaks and groans sound a bit creepy - or lonely - it mostly feels comforting; the servants aren’t awake, yesphyra hasn’t come for him yet and no one is watching. he is free to do as he pleases - even if that only means curling up on his favorite chair at the library to read the newest romance book he found.

but he isn’t the only one awake right now.

“you know how they are,” someone is saying, voice barely above a whisper in the cold, dark hallway. sorn slows down, then realization hits and he goes still - that’s his mother’s voice. of course. she and arqwe had arrived the afternoon before. how could he have forgotten? it wasn’t a surprise visit. the servants had been abuzz all day with preparations for dinner and sorn had been given new clothes, a new haircut and new points on how to behave. as if he needed them. the points, that is. he knows what he has to do. managing to do it is another matter entirely, of course.

sorn hesitates. they hadn’t talked much at dinner. not that they ever do, but yesterday’s was even more… anticlimactic than usual. mother’s visits are such big events in his mundane, ordinary life - so much is done in preparation, then execution, then in regrouping and assessing how to do better next time. so many rehearsed answers to possible questions, only for her to ask one or two, and nothing else. how is your education going? had been the first one, and his first taste of his mother’s sharp gaze in months. her attention was both the warmth of a fire and the sharpness of hot iron; it took everything in him to not buckle under it, but he had done well last night, he thinks. no hesitation, no stumbling over his own words, barely any fidgeting. arqwe had smiled. mother had nodded and looked away, interest already shifting to something else.

sorn stood there, brimming with so much to say and the dawning, sharp, deep-cutting realisation that none of it was of much importance. his days are more of the same, his accomplishments small triumphs only worth the title to him. mother has bigger, better things to worry about. it’s all right.

“there is nothing for us to worry,” his mother’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, clear even through the walls. sorn bites down on his lip, then steps forward. mother’s office door emerges from the gloomy hallway, firmly closed. “in any case, i will send tuiia to talk with them. that should smooth things over.”

“tuiia? not me?” arqwe sounds only slightly surprised.

“you will be busy with me in the mines. tuiia can handle it.”

there is a pause. sorn looks up and down the hallway. he could still make it to the library without anyone in the manor noticing. this conversation isn’t for his ears anyway.

“you know you have another child,” comes arqwe’s voice, strangely stilted through the door. sorn freezes midstep, heart leaping to his throat. for a moment, mother doesn’t answer and the only sound breaking the silence is the hum of his own blood and the distant groan of the old manor. he hugs the old romance book to his chest, hands clammy.

“you do not mean aniin.”

“no. aniin is not interested in this kind of job,” arqwe says. “sorn is a bit too young now, but he is smart and learns quickly. he knows when to stay quiet and when and, more importantly, how to speak, which is more than i can say about tuiia. he does not have aniin’s interest or mind for numbers, but he is well read and could probably hold a conversation in a topic he has no clue about either way. you’ve seen him in varre-sai, mother. people like him.”

sorn takes in a breath, straining to hear his mother’s answer. a small burst of hope swells just below his heart, pushing against the melancholy that had settled there after yesterday’s dinner. its presence sends a bolt of hot, uncomfortable fear through his body; sorn closes his eyes, and waits.

“yes,” mother says, a twinge of - what? exhaustion? no, that isn’t it. resignation, maybe? - in her voice. “they do. i’m not stupid, arqwe. i know that boy would thrive in the city if given the chance. he does well enough in his studies for someone without tutors to speak of, and while still clumsy, he presents himself well.”

sorn presses a hand to his chest, as if to smother the tiny seed there struggling to grow. but?

“but?” arqwe prompts.

the scrape of wood against stone. “he’s still a bastard, arqwe. and still a drow.”

half-drow, sorn mouths, shoulders sagging. a second of silence on the other side of the door, and then, “i’m not saying that wouldn’t be an obstacle for him, mother. but i do believe he would be able to face them quite gracefully. it would be harder, yes, but not that different from when i, tuiia and aniin first started acting on your name.”

his mother lets out a small, almost disinterested sigh. “maybe. but back then i was a century and a half younger and your father was still here.”

this is a true silence now. not even the manor dares to complain. eyes still closed, sorn gives an almost involuntary step back. yinren willowdew died almost forty years before sorn had been born, and the hollowness he left behind is one sorn is vaguely embarrassed to admit to not see or feel with any sort of frequency. servants mention his name every once in a while and his siblings sometimes talk about him, though that is still so rare it’s hard to understand who the man had been. but maybe that is normal, and intended - yinren is not his father, not even his stepfather or anything of the sort. sorn only knows the man through words and paintings - he is not entitled to anything more.

“is that what this is?” arqwe asks suddenly, an edge sorn isn’t used to coloring his voice. “weariness, and… father?”

“is that so hard to believe?”

“that you miss him? no. never.”

tap, tap, tap. a finger repeatedly tapping against wood. “say what you mean, arqwe.”

“as you command,” his older brother says, words dragging by. “i do not believe father is the only one you miss, mother. i do not believe this is just grief.”

silence. sorn frowns and carefully steps forward again, body an inch away from the door.

“ah,” mother says, voice flat. “you’ve grown insolent.”

“i am your heir, lady willowdew.”

“is that so? maybe that can be rearranged.”

arqwe’s laughter startles sorn. it’s a bitter sound - there is no happiness in it. “as you command, mother.”

mother’s sigh is a different beast now - deep, long, and, if sorn didn’t know any better, tired. he can almost picture it: his mother, all raven hair and pale skin, at her desk, violet eyes closed, a frown marring her face. almost. the image thaws in a sad mix of fading colors, the mother he knows shining through like gleaming metal under a dissolving layer of rust: hard, unyielding, tireless.

again, wood pushing against stone, a chair dragging across the floor, then footsteps. “you’ve always been the one to push me too far, arqwe.”

arqwe scoffs. “my name is not tuiia.”

“tuiia barks, but i’ve seldom known her to bite. you’ve always been fond of taking a nibble.” the barest hint of frost touches her next words. “careful not to sink your teeth in more than you can chew. some fangs can be made of glass.”

arqwe takes a moment to answer. when he does, his voice is so low sorn has to strain to hear the whispered words. “of course, mother.”

“your words about the boy are sound, but there is no rush. we have time. he’s fine where he is.” footsteps, then the chair moving again. “do not question me about him again.”

a pause. “of course, mother,” arqwe repeats, each word so heavy sorn can almost feel their weight pressing against his skin. there is another beat of silence and then more footsteps - sorn scrambles back, holding the book against his chest, but he isn’t quick enough. the door almost smashes into him when his oldest brother emerges from the office, and he trips, narrowly avoiding a fall that would have alerted the whole house to his presence. arqwe opens his mouth, than closes it - the rising sun shines through the half open windows of the hallway, illuminating the surprise etched on the planes of his pale face. 

the high elf closes the door. “sorn,” he says, voice barely a murmur. something cold flashes in his eyes - anger, as intense as it is fleeting - and sorn flinches back, shock turning his limbs numb, the little seed below his heart withering into nothing. arqwe seems to catch himself; he takes a deep breath, a step back and looks away. “go back to your room, sorn. go back to sleep.”

then he turns and leaves without a word, his footsteps echoing off the empty hallways. sorn takes a moment to gather himself, eyes straying to the closed door, but mother does not seem to have heard them. the pressure against his skin does not falter at this small revelation - if anything, it grows stronger, the old romance book weighing more than it should in his clammy fingers. stupid. he steps back, grimacing. the library feels cold and lonely now, the prospect of it too daunting, but his room won’t be any better. no place will be any better.

he dusts off his clothes, tries to stand a little straighter. he does as he is told.

it does not work. he can’t sleep.

[writingmoth]

i’m not aromantic but i believe in their beliefs

[writingmoth]

[writingmoth]

i've been writing a bit about my dnd character (think drabbles, etc) and thought about posting his stuff here but i'm not sure? would you guys even be interested in that? 🤔

[writingmoth]

i wish my book was written so i could share it and talk to more people about it but unfortunately that's going to take 79 business years. approximately

[writingmoth]

you can pry happy endings from my cold-dead hands. It can be the most heart stopping, gut wrenching fic that has every existed and I will read every drop of it if I get my happy ending. I have had enough painful endings in real life, give me happy in my fantasy world. It can be at the last second, it can be a single sentence, even a single word. Give me all the angst and hurt in the world for 500,000 words, but please give me the comfort I need in the ending. please and thank you.