Challenge #00172: One Fine Afternoon in the Halls of Higher Education
“When I said that it was nice that you could recite the same dirty limerick in 5 different languages and have it rhyme, I was not asking for a demonstration.”
“Aaaw… but I’m almost up to Pharsi. Do you know how hard it is to rhyme ‘Calcutta’ in Pharsi?”
“No, and I don’t particularly care. We’re supposed to be working on theoretical math, not filthy poetry.”
“…aaaaawwww…”
“Fo-cusss…”
“But this isn’t as much fun.”
“Ai! Focus.”
Sara pouted. “…the Pharsi one was fun…”
“Math. Now.”
[Muse food remaining: 4 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
idonotknowwhatmyusernameshouldbe:
For character development of course.
I miss my OCs right now.
happy birthday edwards! your entire family is dead.
MY PROCESS.
Damn it! This sounds exactly like you, Mary Anne!
Reblogging for GPOY
(via pancake-angst)
Trilogy progress, book 2, part 3
40K words accomplished. 20K to go.
Assuming I don’t go bananas and decide to put more than that in.
Trilogy progress book 2, part 2
30K accomplished. Yay.
The problems of writing
pitchblack-the-nightmare-king:
- Having a Beginning
- Having an Ending
- But WHERE’S THE MIDDLE?!?
- HOW DO I GET TO THE ENDING
- WHAT IS A PLOT
- WHAT ARE PLOT DETAILS
- WHAT IS WRITING
And most importantly:
- HOW DO I TITLE
HOW DO TITLE is the song of my people.
And after all this is accomplished:
HOW DO I FRONT COVER?
Seriously, not one artist has emailed me back…
(Source: pitchblack-the-nightmare-ki-blog, via pancake-angst)
How to survive a relationship with a writer
Fucking thank you.
I don’t know. I don’t think you can tar all writers with the same brush. We’re all different people. While some parts of this list are true, a more accurate guide to dating me would be named “How to survive a relationship with a young adult horror/thriller writer named Sarah” and it would probably look like this:
1. Don’t ask me how my book is going if you haven’t seen me writing for a few days. Instead, subtly suggest I work on it without mentioning my recent neglect.
2. Ask me what my opinions are on the latest bestseller. Trust me, I have a lot.
3. Only say you’re thinking of writing a book if you actually are. Don’t say it to impress me, and certainly don’t act like it would be an easy side-project if you deigned to bother. If you’re serious about writing, I’ll be excited that it’s something we can share. And if you ask me for advice on new projects, I’ll be honoured that you value my opinion.
4. Everything is research. Don’t be alarmed if you see my search history, if I start knocking over chairs in cafes for no apparent reason, or if I exclaim, “OOOH, THIS IS JUST LIKE MOVING A BODY!”
5. Leave me alone when I’m actually writing. Of course, if you notice that I haven’t eaten for a while, leave a small offering near my feet. Sacrifices of coffee are always welcome, although I’ll probably forget to thank you.
6. Don’t pick unfair fights with me. Or anyone you’re dating, writer or no. That just makes you a dick.
7. If we do fight, please explain your motivations. Otherwise, how am I supposed to extrapolate from it?
8. If I wander off at a party, worrying might be a good idea. If I haven’t had enough to drink, the crowd is probably making me panic. Left unattended and intoxicated, I’m inclined to do stupid things.
9. Notebooks and cute pens make great gifts. So do flowers. And pretty clothes and shoes and tattoo vouchers. Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean that I’m not shallow. On that note, don’t buy me chocolate unless you want to hear me complain about my weight for days.
10. When a rejection letter arrives, Jesus Christ, get me something stronger than coffee. Also, hugs are always appreciated.
We should totes make this a thing. Every writer has their own little quirks.
Ten Tips on How to Survive a Writer Named InterNutter
1. Don’t ask how my book is going. I will go on for hours. Even if you don’t ask, you will get a score update on how many words I wrote.
2. DO NOT ASK ABOUT BEST-SELLERS. Best-sellers are rarely, if ever, in my favourite genres. The last one that was both best-seller *AND* IMHO a good read was the Harry Potter series. That was some years and fucking Twilight ago. Grump.
3. Never tell me you don’t have the time to write. Because I have found it. In bus stops. At train stations. In queues. On public transit. Waiting for some other person to get their thumb out of their butt and get on with things. There’s always time to write. Even if it’s just inside your own head.
4. My browser history is full of weird shit. Some of it is actual research. Some of it is for giggles. Have fun guessing which is which.
5. When I am in “the writer zone”, I cackle. I also make faces according to the emotion I’m writing. I also mutter. If you interrupt any single one of these, to find out why I’m doing this - I might just turn into a homicidal ragebeast and hit you with my manuscript. Consider yourself warned.
However, offerings of deliciousness and occasional coffee are appreciated. Just don’t stick them between my face and my screen. I may bite.
6. Do not pick unfair fights. I have a long memory and prefer my revenge served at zero kelvin on a golden platter.
7. If you absolutely, positively must fight about something, make sure both sides know what the hell the topic is. Otherwise 6 will happen.
8. If I wander off at a party it’s because I feel like I don’t belong. I usually blend into the walls and listen, rather than participate. I need as much information on normal people as I can get. Leave me in my duck hide, thanks.
9. Pens are good. Pens are very good. I like to have a stash of pens. Other good presents include good chocolate, care and attention and, if you’re feeling very lavish, a decent fucking computer that won’t die on me.
10. If the dreaded rejection letter happens, I will be an emotional wreck. Do not expect me to be completely functional for at least a month. Emotional support is vital. I need hugs to live. And lots of chocolate.
…I had way too much fun with this…
1 - 2 - 3 - 4, I declare a fic war!
What: Tumblr Fic War
Who: Anyone who reblogs this post.
When: Until everyone is actualfax dead, because this is WAR suckers!
Why: FEELINGS
What: Everyone who reblogs this post is opening their ask box up to the most brutal, feelings-inducing prompts anyone who is playing can imagine. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take those prompts and DESTROY EVERYONE with them. Not just angsty stuff either, fluff can be just as bad, as many of you know!
I’m in
A blessing? Or a curse?
We’ve all wanted to go back and unsay that one hurtful thing - or at the very least, apologise before a chance at a friendship is lost - utter those words that got us mocked that time, undo that stupid thing that cost us self-respect and possibly more.
Only thing is: Who could stop at one?
(#00124)
Kylie blinked. There were now three of her in her room. Two were older. Both dressed in identical old-fart clothes that spoke loudly of their devotion to the hegemonic norm.
“Don’t go to the party,” said the one on the left side of her mirror as she continued to apply makeup. “It’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.”
“Are you kidding me?” said the her on the right side of the mirror. “Not going to the party was the biggest mistake of my life!”
“I got roofied and raped and slut-shamed! How could your life be any worse than that?”
“Um. Excuse me? My social life imploded after that party. Anyone who was there had all the breaks. I was ostracized as a nerd and never got anywhere.”
“I thought going to this party would stop me getting ostracized as a nerd,” said Kylie the younger. “And the people who are there anyway? They’re the social elite. They’d get all the breaks regardless.”
The two other Kylies stared at each other. “The whole thing was a set-up?” they said in unison.
“You know what?” said Kylie the younger. “I might anonymously call in about a rowdy party with drugs and then show up late with Starbucks.”
The two other Kylies vanished under the ripple effect. Kylie smiled and finished her lipstick. It wouldn’t be so bad, but versions of her just kept on turning up over the most improbable things.
[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Trilogy progress book 2
20K words at freaking last. Dang real life keeps slowing me down. Can manage 500 words a day, most days. 1000 if I’m lucky. Bleh.
Be interested to see what you do with this one:
“Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?
- Mark Twain
(#00122)
There were designated busking zones on any station large enough to attract the kind of itinerant population that gathered Minutes by entertaining passersby.
Amalgam had hundreds of them.
Rael knew from long, and partially agonizing experience, that Shayde loved them like nothing else. In the hours not taken up by duty, she would take her ‘axe’ down to one at random, and play for pocket change. Allegedly so she could 'unwind’.
This from a being who entertained herself by winding other people up.
The surprisingly unjust part of it was that she could always afford to feed the both of them after just a few sets.
This time, she’d found a dismal corner calling itself the Slop Shop. It catered to the sort of clientele who knew they couldn’t afford anything better and didn’t want to pretend to try.
Shayde ordered a meat pie floater to start and spotted someone in a booth.
They were having the Impoverished Special, which consisted solely of whatever fruit one could get away with picking from the nearest orchard before security got interested. This pallid and washed-out soul was staring at their lone apple in near suicidal despondency.
“Ey up,” said Shayde. One of her many, many call signs of doom. She left her stool to park herself opposite the truly unlucky one in the booth. “Why d'ye sit there lookin’ like an envelope without any address on it?”
“En-ve-lope?” echoed the sallow saurian. He looked to Rael for translation and fished in his pocket. All he had to offer was Seconds.
“She asks why you are sad and despondent,” said Rael. He not only pushed back the Seconds, but palmed an extra Minute into the man’s sad pile.
“I came to see the universe. I believed I could trade on my talent… but nobody notices me.”
“D'ye get stage fright?”
“I do admit nervousness,” the saurian confessed. “But that shouldn’t alter my performance.”
Shayde handed across a ten Minute coin. “Gi’ us a song, then. Up ye pop like you would in t’ hall.”
The instant he started playing, the poor creature blended in with the walls.
“Scared o’ muckin’ up, aye?”
“Er… yes?”
“I’m gonna give ye an’ old Earth song ye can’t possibly muck up. It’s designed to be played bad.” This time, Shayde took the dias.
It was horrible. The tune was both random and out of key, as for the singing the only creature it could attract was possibly a lovesick cat.
And the words… well… they got to the point.
“OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH…. Give me some moNEY! Just gIVe me some MOneeeeyyyy! You can drop it right hErE on the groUND! And if you don’t give me enO-OUGH, I’ll foLLow you HOme… and sIng outSIde your winDOw for the rest of your LIIIIIIIIIFFFFE!”
The saurian blinked. His anger colours flushed. “I shall not,” he announced, “need to play that song.”
“Think of it when ye play the good stuff, then. You omnivorous?”
“Er… yes?”
“Than I can shout ye another floater. You look like you need feedin’.”
The young saurian again looked to Rael.
“Shayde has a habit of feeding strays,” he announced. “She thinks it will count for her in her afterlife.”
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]