1. *wines for 1000 years because I can’t find face claims for half my characters because they have rare/fantasy phenotypes and/or are younger than most models and actors*

  2. I don’t want to fall in love the way a city falls. I want to fall in love the way I fall silent in sacred spaces; quietly overtaken by something greater than myself.
    me, one of the many lines I don’t know what to do with
  3. inksplattersandearlyhours:

    saberquill:

    inksplattersandearlyhours:

    when you’ve almost finished the chapter

    and then you realise the pacing is wrong

    THIS JUST HAPPENED TO ME, THOUGH. 

    AND ALL THE CLEVER, FIDDLY BITS THAT LOCKED THE SCENES TOGETHER HAVE TO GO NOW. you have to cut the scenes out and leave those bits trailing behind just so you can switch something around and it’s awful.

    (So glad!  I think I’m feeling better about mine as well.)

    See, the problem with me is that I’m still writing the first draft, and well, I need to know where everyone is story-wise/introduction-wise/emotionally before I get into the first big set piece.  Which isn’t too much of a problem, it’s just a matter of figuring out how to get everyone where I need them before I can get the working together as a coherent team. 

    I’ll keep in mind the”kill your lovelies” thing, though.  It’s vital to me that what I have to say be understandable to people who aren’t me and my co-author, and honestly, this leads me to a tendency to over-state things that I know I’ll have to fix in editing. (*sigh*)

    I really admire your work with the cityverse, and it’s good to know you’re still struggling with the same issues as I am.  Good luck with the trimming!  I’m sure you’ll do fabulously.  

    Reblogged from: inksplattersandearlyhours
  4. inksplattersandearlyhours:

    saberquill:

    inksplattersandearlyhours:

    when you’ve almost finished the chapter

    and then you realise the pacing is wrong

    THIS JUST HAPPENED TO ME, THOUGH. 

    AND ALL THE CLEVER, FIDDLY BITS THAT LOCKED THE SCENES TOGETHER HAVE TO GO NOW. you have to cut the scenes out and leave those bits trailing behind just so you can switch something around and it’s awful.

    OW.  Still, no writing is ever wasted; the ground you cover in the fiddly bits could be useful later.  But tell me, since you’re having pacing issues, do you ever have the problem where a chapter works in the context of the wider novel, but still feels a little aimless?

    Reblogged from: inksplattersandearlyhours
  5. I am sitting in the National Museum at Trinity College, with the poetry of Yeats ringing in my ears, and I am angry.

    I am fresh from a film chronicling Yeats’ love affairs, his marriage and lovers, his longings.  I am furious in a helpless, silent way where even my words are deserting me.

    It’s not even about Yeats.  I don’t know enough to get properly mad about the man’s life.  It’s about the idea of great men, and how they have stories with spiraling trails of lovers.

    In the Great Man’s story, I have two possible roles.  I can be his safe space, his wife.  I can sacrifice everything to provide him with a home he can avoid and curse and swear stifles him.  I can treat his ailments, nurse his ego, and die every day trying to smooth his way.  In return, I will be a footnote in his autobiography and an obscure essay question.

    Or I could be the muse.  The landscape he paints, the vital energy he drinks to write his words.   I can nod and smile charmingly in pictures, and let him wrap me in poetry, each layer taking me further and further from myself, until even I don’t remember my name.    In return for that, I get immortality as every lonely English majors’ hope, existing forever as a beautiful object, a pick-up line, a vision occurring to someone else.

    Here’s the thing.  For years, I have sighed in hope for a poet to love.  I want to be seen beautiful, to inspire, I suppose.  But I also want to speak in my own voice.  I want collaboration, partnership, and respect as well as love.  I don’t just want someone’s winged words, I want to fly myself.

    And I worry.  Every time people recount the story of the Great Man and the women behind him, the groove is worn deeper.  The patterns repeat, and gain power from the repetition.  I worry that I’ve internalized the concept so thoroughly that I’ll find myself pushing my dreams and hopes aside, little by little, without noticing that I am doing so. 

    I must remember the value of my own voice.

  6. I think one of the greatest gifts writers can give each other is the act of simple witness. To say to each other: I believe you and I believe in you and I want you to keep on keeping on because that’s the only way. Write that story or poem or essay or novel or play or advice column that you feel compelled to write, no matter what the market says.

    Cheryl Strayed, from Buzzfeed Book’sWriterly Friendships: Cheryl Strayed, Lidia Yuknavitch, And Suzy Vitello (via therumpus)

    I believe you and I believe in you. The most powerful things you can say. (via arabellesicardi)

    Shout out to the people who inspire me by listening; I hope I can do the same for you!

    Reblogged from: arabellesicardi
  7. the-sarcastic-robot:

    a-naive-british-love-affair:

    Have you ever wondered what would happen if you lit a whole pack of birthday candles at once? Because I did

    That is the most metal looking cupcake ever

    "Hay, Lucifer, when’s your birthday?"

    "You know I don’t remember."

    "Fine."

    (A few weeks later)

    "Phoenix, what is this?"

    "Happy un-birthday!"

    "…"

    "Your roommate said you were having a bad day."

    "…"

    "Bad idea?"

    "No. I- it works."

    "Good.  Blow out the candles and make a wish!"

    "…Now you’re pushing it."

    Reblogged from: caducus
  8. inksplattersandearlyhours:

    when you’ve almost finished the chapter

    and then you realise the pacing is wrong

    THIS JUST HAPPENED TO ME, THOUGH. 

    Reblogged from: inksplattersandearlyhours
  9. I’m sitting in a museum in Dublin, just having stumbled through an exhibit of art inspired by Theosophical thought.  Honestly, I’m not impressed.  It’s not that the ideas of a Greater Universe that can be understood through arcane science, magic (or magik), and radical cosmology feel silly. Well, not exactly.  I’m a fantasy writer, currently up to my elbows in a book with some rather odd cosmology- I’ve devoted serious though to how to get a demon drunk.  But still, I’ve seen my grandpa so sure of some New Age idea and I’ve seen him hurt when, like faerie gold, it turns out to be dust and leaves.  I want to believe that there is some way to make sense of the universe- magical or scientific, but most days, I barely have the energy to acknowledge the questions, let alone search for the answers. 

    I stumble into the impressionist gallery, hoping to find a few Monet paintings to brag about encountering when I’m back home. Then I see it.  Evening, Achill. Grace Henry.A painting of a simple landscape, at night with a single star. 

    I’m reminded of the night before I turned twenty, catching fireflies on the twilight, just to prove I could.  That night, I realized- this life, with all its complexities, is magical- as much as any fantasy world.  There is no divide between the joy and wonder I get out of the act of watching night fall and the sky fill up with stars and the idea of magic and adventure.

    Later, I told a friend.  He said that this reverie was, at bottom, a spiritual revelation.  I agree.  Looking at this painting, I see then possibilities of that night, the quiet, the dark, the light, the love I felt for the world.  This painting, this moment- more than postmodern alters or films of standing stones- this is the mystical.

  10. … but you’ll still see quite a few of my posts/writing from my trip because I’m still processing/kind of lazy.

Next Previous

A new beginning

Paper theme built by Thomas