radiowrites

[radiowrites]

@nosebleedclub

HOUSE WITH A NAME

When I was eight my family moved into a haunted house. My first real memory of the haunting is not actually of the house itself, but rather of the two trees that grew out in the front yard. The first had smooth, pewter-pale bark and leaves the color of limes. Tall with sturdy limbs, and wide-reaching branches. It grew, technically, in the lot next door. The second tree, the tree that grew not ten feet from our front door, smelled of rot.

Its bark was thick and grooved, a rough coating of wood that left your hands scraped raw. The branches looked bloated in some places and starved in others. In the center was a hollow pit filled with stale rainwater and squirming fire ants. It was, as we would discover, a dead tree. When we dug it up we found the decay had started in the roots, thick vines that had split our small concrete porch. We drilled holes in the roots, filled the holes with rock salt and water. Waited. Most of the roots were deep under the house and couldn’t be dug up anyways, so the rot stayed. But we cut the trunk a stump, if just for our pride’s sake.

The house itself was unassuming, suburban and uniform in its appearance. Not a threat. Pretty, even. The inside was also fairly pleasant- lots of natural light and an open floor plan. Cream-colored carpets and eggshell paint. But the air was sour, and the ceiling leaked. Perhaps most damning was the dead bird we found stuck in the chimney the day we moved in.

And maybe the house wasn’t really haunted, and the tree and the bird were just dead, but I don’t think the house knew it was a house. I don’t believe it was just dark brick over hardwood and concrete. It had breath. It had teeth. Most importantly, it hated that we lived inside of it.

Maybe it’s wrong to call the first house I ever lived in “haunted”, but it’s easier than telling people it was alive. Houses aren’t living things. But imagine if they were. Imagine that you’re standing in a house with a pulse, and this house has needs. Needs to breathe, and sleep, and eat. Imagine that it can see you. That it can hear you. Feel you. Now imagine that the house has wants. The house wants to breathe, and sleep, and eat. Imagine, if you can, that what it wants is something bad.

The word “haunting” also implies history. Something antecedent. This house had scrubbed itself clean of any past it might have had. Not just a jarring absence but an intentional deprivation. Devoid of anything anthropological. The house was empty because it wanted to be empty. And then your family decides to fill it up.

We called it Hemlock House, mainly because it was located on Hemlock Street, but also because, like hemlock, every part of it was poisonous- from its brickflesh to its cellarstomach. Everything it touched it slowly paralyzed. And it prided itself on its ability to consume. Swallow. Digest.

By the time I was twelve I was more ghost than girl. And by the time we moved I was barely anything at all.

And yeah. Maybe it was just our imagination and mold-lined air vents. A couple of kids scared to move into their first house, so they created a monster too big for the narrative. It would make sense.

We moved so I guess I’ll never have to know.

It’s funny, the first day the new owners moved in my parents got a call from the realtor. Apparently they couldn’t find any evidence that the tree in our front yard had ever been dead. In fact- sprouting from the stump was a little sprout.

They said it probably wouldn’t last long anyways.

It was covered in fire ants.

#writing

[radiowrites]

Just had to talk a friend down from a two cakes crisis. Her cakes - meaning her fic - are absolutely fine, but she felt a little down and checked out the rest of the dessert table. She got caught up in the whole comparison thing. "Oh man, this fic is way better than mine 😞."

And hoo boy, have I ever been there. When I was writing prolifically, I just wouldn't read. I couldn't because I knew I'd go into that fic measuring mindset and declare myself the loser, have to step away from the keyboard and stare out the window a while. And if I had an exchange deadline? Absolute worst timing.

Not everyone goes through that of course, but it's more common than you think, even with so-called established writers. I've seen people delete wips or even their whole account over that burden of doubt. So here are some possible tips to crawl out from under that burden:

Table it. You're done for the day. You've been staring at that cursor for too long. You have no perspective on your work anymore. Go do something else: play with your dog/cat/fish, go for a walk, eat something, go to bed if it's late.

Re-engage with the source material. Watch an episode, read a chapter, listen to that podcast, whatever it is. Find that voice in your head that sings in harmony with the source.

Read positive comments left on your previous work. Trust what they've told you. Because the liar here is your doubt, not your readers.

Hit up that friend you trust and ask them to tell you your strengths. Even if you don't believe it right now, you have strengths as a writer. Maybe it's worldbuilding, maybe it's dialogue; your friend will give you concrete examples. You don't need a beta right now, that will come later.

You're not alone. This is a community. Even if it's a rarepair or gen fic in a niche fandom - and especially then! - someone will be so happy that you brought that cake to the table.

#fanfiction

[radiowrites]

Lucy Grossmith - Spring Joy. Acrylics on deckle edged paper.

#art

[radiowrites]

May be haunted, $.25 extra.

#ghost hunt #lmao

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ending a story in other languages

kurdish: “my story went to other homes, god bless the mothers and fathers of its listeners” (Çîroka min çû diyaran, rehmet li dê û bavê guhdaran.)

greek: “and they lived well, and we lived better” (και ζήσανε αυτοί καλά και εμείς καλύτερα)

afrikaans: “whistle whistle, the story is done” (fluit fluit, die storie is uit)

goemai: “my tale has finished, (it) has returned to go (and) come home.” (tamtis noe lat / dok ba muaan yi wa)

amharic: “return my story and feed me bread” (ተረቴን መልሱ አፌን በዳቦ አብሱ::)

bengali: “my story ends and the spinach is eaten by the goat” (aamaar kothati furolo; Notey gaachhti murolo) *means something is irreversibly ended because goats eats herbs from the root

norwegian: “snip snap snout, the tale is finished” (snipp snapp snute, så er eventyret ute”

polish: “and i was there [at the wedding] too, and drank mead and wine.” (a ja tam byłem, miód i wino piłem.)

georgian: “disaster there, feast here… bran there, flour here…” (ჭირი – იქა, ლხინი – აქა, ქატო – იქა, ფქვილი – აქა)

hungarian: “this is the end, run away with it” (itt a vége, fuss el véle)

turkish: “lastly, three apples fell from the sky; one for our story’s heroes, one for the person who told their tale, and one for those who listened and promise to share. And with that, they all achieved their hearts’ desires. Let us now step up and settle into their thrones.” (Gökten üç elma düşmüş; biri onların, biri anlatanın, diğeri de dinleyenlerin başına. Onlar ermiş muradına, biz çıkalım kerevetine.)

#writing

[radiowrites]

the first day of my hand drafting class in my senior year of college, after the prof taught us how to frame up on the drafting table and went over how to use the tools we'd bought, he had us all take our pencils and make a mark on the top right corner of the vellum. then he walked us through the setup steps - the border, the title block, etc.

and he told us to erase the mark.

when someone - rosie, i think - asked what the mark was for he smiled.

"if you give a novice student an expensive, blank piece of paper, they panic. they think if i start using that i will ruin it. so the first thing i want all of you to do, any time you stare at a blank piece of paper, is to ruin it a little and take the pressure off yourself. pencil erases. anxiety has to be managed."

i hated that man for a myriad of reasons, but that was some of the best advice i've ever been given.

#writing #art

[radiowrites]

Just checking.... We all pronounce Miette like My-TAY in our heads, right?

#lmao #mee-yet

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#art #wow

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the classic trope of "what if you went to a town and it was weird" never fails

#writing

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My cartoon for this weekend’s @guardian books

#writing #lmao

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Rowoon for Oligio Thailand

#rowoon #kpop #eye candy

[radiowrites]

Clarice Lispector — An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures

#writing

[radiowrites]

Eli McMullen - Internal Compass, 2024 - Acrylic and gouache on panel

#art

[radiowrites]

“She thought how for years onstage she had used the image of walking up the dirt road holding her father’s hand, the snow-covered fields spread around them, the woods in the distance, joy spilling through her — how she had used this scene to have tears immediately come to her eyes, for the happiness of it, and the loss of it. And now she wondered if it had even happened, if the road had ever been narrow and dirt, if her father had ever held her hand and said that his family was the most important thing to him.”

— Elizabeth Strout, Anything is Possible

#writing

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#writing #art

[radiowrites]

sunday drive by Kate Baer

#writing

[radiowrites]

Seven years after, I see you again 😚

#writing