life hack
if you happen to be a creative alongside an 4n0r3x1c, get into your projects. i just spent several hours at my desk working on my shitty wip not realizing that shitty wip distracted me from food. win win i say.
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My parents: are you texting with friends?
Me *never really texting with anybody; frantically typing a new Lucemond chapter into the notes on my phone*: sure
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A little book I’m working on.
“An enemies romantic wound”
Yes I did use google translate
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I cannot express
How much it hurts me
That I couldn’t contribute a story to All is Found
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next s&ac chapter gonna be like 10k words because i feel bad for missing the last few weeks of updating😭😭😭🥲🥲🥲 oopsy!
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Me fantasizing about publishing and being an author for about 90% of the time and actually writing for the remaining 10% is what I call the writer’s experience
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i was going through my search history from when i was doing febuwhump
and um
if shot in chest is it hard to breathe
what happens if shot in chest
poisoned muzzle
is it possible to poison a muzzle
muzzling a person
what exactly happens if shot in the chest
type of guns used in the american revolution
charleville musket
shot in the chest with a musket
were concussions called concussions in 1777
IM A WRITER, I SWEAR
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person: “I wonder why she’s so smiley, what’s she reading”
me: reading the Wikipedia article for the Chernobyl nuclear disaster
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today is monday, i have my matt murdock socks on, i have no homework, and i’m ready to fuckin party
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How DARE Taco Bell Quarterly call me out like that
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I think ye olde boomer man just threatened me with legal action if I don’t take the posts which are ‘allegedly’ about him down. Clearly it was all an elaborate work of fiction since my real life father is a mild mannered baker from belgium who hasn’t spoken to me since I turned 9. He used to tell me:
“Son, one day you’ll inherit this oven.”
Then my mother ran off with an Olympic cyclist to join a cult in the Appalachians and well, you know the rest. The bit about the 32 firefighters in the bathroom was real though.
Or was it.
Can’t believe y’all fell for that. Never trust the internet.
If you understood the entire content of my blog was always a work of fiction, like this post. Maybe I’ll show my lawyer if I have to get one. A fictional lawyer.
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Oh to move to Iceland, live on the border of a small town near the mountains, and be an enigma. I appear in town to get my groceries, I sit in the local cafe and listen to the conversation. I mutter to myself and the birds that follow me. I’ll say thank you to people and greetings, nothing more. No communication. No constant socialisation. No relationship upkeep.
I think I’d have a pen pal. It’s still intimate but not this incessant talk. I write my little stories. Every month or two I dust out my earplugs, travel out to the closest post office, and pick up the materials for my newest craft project. My small cabin is warm and cluttered, I probably have a cat.
Oh to be quiet. To be alone. I still do my human need socialising but, quietly. In letters. Listening to strangers. Talking to birds. Writing stories.
Maybe sometimes when I need some exposure I travel into Reykjavik and attend a festival or tour. Maybe I pick up a course or a hobby group. But the key is that: I choose. I can choose when I need that. I’m not forced into all of this noise and lights and communication and relationships with seemingly no other choices. I choose: I have the social and economic mobility to choose.
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I’m constantly swinging between “the story my imagination came up with is interesting enough to tell it to the world” and “do I really have anything important to say about the world to write a book?”
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