#jfc I’m wordy today

[faithless-companion]

Tbh I do think the princess peach design for the movie is kinda ugly

I think she looks better when she has a slightly longer face, longer features

She looks like a weird baby flaring its nostrils instead of a young woman

Honestly Im eh on this kind of animation style in general

#i think it’s the nose and nostrils I dislike #and some facial expressions but that’s something that annoys me industrywide #the battle axe is cool #and she looks better in action than in that still portrait I keep seeing #and if people are super mad about her actually doing things and not just being a damsel in distress that’s very dumb #but I’m also kind of sick of the cookie cutter stamp out strong woman character for kids cartoons #who is literally always feisty!!!tm in this specific way #it gets boring #like we get it #the industry can only fathom one type of strong female lead 😭 #well I guess we’ll see how it goes #I’m not big on Mario in the first place #but I’ve always liked peach so 🤷🏼‍♀️ #jfc I’m wordy today

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Hi !!!! I’m sorry if this is bothering you and if so you can totally ignore this but…

I’ve been thinking about how Ghost would react to reader gradually pulling away from him because she gained some weight and is self conscious and ashamed and doesn’t want to be seen by him, so sculpted and beautiful… but of course he’s feeling low because he wants to be close to reader and so he asks and she finally explains it to him (ready to be broken up with…)…. And I’d love to read your take on it !

You can make it female or gender neauteal I don’t really care !!!! Thank you anyway ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Wildflowers Grow in Ruins

(Ghost x F!Reader, word count: 5 k)

Summary: Reader tries to break up with Ghost because she thinks she's not good enough for him.

Tags/warnings: FLUFF, soft sensual smut 🔞, hurt/comfort, light angst, Jealous!Ghost, Soft!Ghost, self-loathing & self-body shaming. Good girl talk/praise kink. Reader is female and wears a skirt for smut plot purposes.

A/N: I hope you like this take & I hope you don't mind that I tweaked this request just a little bit!) Also: JFC I'm wordy. The "I need to explain why they're fucking!" meme comes to mind every time I write anything.

Wars are exhausting. 

You know fighting for something can empower people. Fighting against something usually just depletes your strength.

But waging a war against yourself… 

Now that is pure hell. 

It started somewhere in your youth. You thought adulthood would take it away; that reason and tolerance would take it away. You were supposed to feel more confident in yourself, more positive about life. And for a moment, you thought you might just succeed.

But standing beside a god of war is no easy feat.

He came into your life like a walking myth, swept you away, and you only laughed as you went. It was fun at first. He was supposed to be your savior, the solution to all your problems. If a man like him found you attractive, perhaps it was the world that was crooked and not you.

But then you got soft: you started to gain pounds. Meanwhile, he became even more magnificent. It reminded you that it had all been just a dream.

Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed to worship you, that seemed to look past your every flaw. Perhaps it was the hands which never seemed to get enough of your skin. Whatever it was, it was too much. And at the same time, never enough.

The day has finally come to let him go.

You think yourself heroic. It's like it should be: it's only right that you finally release him to someone better than you.

But inside, the noble feelings twist and turn and curl around your throat and stuff your stomach full of ice - the kind they fill glasses of mojito with. The drink you'll always remember him by because he teased you about it: that you wanted an ice-cold summer drink even in the middle of winter.

Now you feel cold all over, and wish he could warm you like he used to. 

You would forsake all the mojitos of the world to keep him. You would renounce the whole drink if it came to that; if you could make him yours.

But he's not yours. He never was: he was just on loan to give you a taste of what it would be like to have a man like him. That taste should be more than enough for a lifetime. You should feel grateful.

So why is it so hard to let go?

The key on the front door turns, and your heart shoots up your throat: you're supposed to settle this thing once and for all. You're supposed to let go of him today. 

And still, when he arrives, you can't find the courage to say what you need to say. The words are stuck in your throat, but tears are not. He should already be a memory, but you find yourself suffocating on memories as you cry. You've learned to do even that in silence, like the rest of your suffering.

You take a few deep breaths, wipe the tears away, shove the rest of them down your throat – you save them for later, later, when he's far away and you can finally curl up and cry your heart out without no one there to look. Fucking later.

Good. 

Good.

Great.

You put your heaviest armor on. It protects weak and soft flesh because you can't meet him all bare. Then you step forward with the knowledge that you’re a thoroughly wounded guerrilla while he is a seasoned, well-rested veteran. The fight is nowhere near even, but it's ok. You are not meant to be in the presence of immortals anyway.

The man looks at you warily as you finally enter the room. That haunted look has followed you for some time now as the distance between you has grown. 

It should be easy, what is about to come, because he hasn't touched you in weeks. You haven't wanted him to.

Or you have… But it's not easy to have his hands on you when your body is only a vessel you hate. How can you even think about pleasure when all you think about is how it must feel for him to caress something as awful as this?

The man is a vision, and he settles for a peasant. It should be against the law, but it's not… so you figured a some time ago that you should simply find the strength and grace to do ii: do what's right.

"I need to talk to you." 

Your voice comes out neutral, and it makes you more confident, if only for a second or two.

He lifts his chin: already knows what's coming, because he's not stupid. You've been shutting down for weeks, and he hasn't done much about it. But when the thunder rolls in, he doesn't flee. Probably because he fears nothing.

"Go ahead then," he says, equally as neutral, equally as icy. Got his armor on, too. 

This should be easy…

It's really not, so you decide to rip the band-aid off in one yank.

"I think we should go separate ways."

The following inhale from across the room pierces the air like a bullet. You can hear his breaths gain depth and speed all the way to where you're standing.

"Ok."

It doesn't look or sound like he's ok. If anything, he looks like he's trying to process the sudden storm. 

"Ok…" His eyes are on the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he starts to pace around the little kitchenette you've shared for almost six months, just before you started gaining weight.

He stops to look out the window, then turns to you, and the hurt in his stare comes through like a thousand needles pushing through skin.

"Is it because of my work?" 

"No."

"What is it then?"

Your breaths are getting out of hand, too. He looks like a lost, tired creature in an abandoned animal shelter for a moment, and it breaks your heart. It squeezes the organ inside a flaming fist until it shatters like it has never been nothing more than ice.

Your lip starts to tremble, and he notices, as per usual. Nothing escapes this man, except perhaps the true reason for your anguish.

"Hey. Hey."

He comes to you and hugs you like it's the only thing that matters: to comfort you when he sees you're about to cry, no matter how crushed he's feeling himself. The sudden warmth, the intimacy after weeks and weeks of pain is knee-buckling. 

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

His voice is soft, so soft… The tears rush forth now; there's no way of stopping them. What the hell can you even say to a question like that? That you wish he could grab a magic wand and turn you into someone gorgeous, the woman he deserves?

His embrace feels good, kind of. It also feels smothering because your self-hate makes you want to disappear from existence entirely. His eyes are equal to physical touch, a probing scan that sees every little flaw, not to talk about massive faults, the ones which make you feel like you're simply disgusting. His touch only reminds you how you must feel like to him: soft, too soft, weak.

And he must hate weakness.

"What do you need me to do? I'll do anything," he tries with a parched throat, then swallows. 

It's fucking horrible. This isn't going at all like you had imagined.

"It's not about you," you struggle out of his hold, and he lets you go with reluctance. You have to basically fight your way out of a bone and steel prison. Why would he even want to hold a pathetic woman who's on the brink of ugly crying on top of everything?

"What do you mean?"

He's slightly breathless – and restless as fuck. He's usually so calm; nothing can get to him, nothing can rattle the tower of raw strength. Now you've not only pierced some invisible armor; you can hear pieces of it falling on the floor.

"Have you found someone else?"

What the…

"No." You put as much weight on that word as you possibly can. To imagine that he thinks you are cheating… Fucking cheating on someone like him. "Jesus Christ…"

He takes a deep breath and sighs deeply, sighs out relief, perhaps. Then his razor-sharp stare fixes on you again, and you can see the fear turning into something akin to concern. You suspect you have to tell him the truth, otherwise he will dig it out of you. 

"I'm just…" 

Jesus, this is just humiliating. 

"I'm just not your type."

"What the hell are you talking about," he mutters, the impending fury giving way to momentary surprise. 

He gets intense sometimes. This time, the ferocity is born of barely concealed distress. He's broad and magnificent, even in despair. He’s just so fucking fine… The perfect man, someone you had never even imagined yourself with. Pulled down to the world of puny mortals, evidently stressing about losing one. 

Losing you.

"If you have someone new, you can just bloody well tell me."

"It's not that. You don't understand–" 

"Try me."

"I just…" A tear escapes down your face as you finally break for him. "I'm fat. Okay? And ugly. And–"

"Stop right there."

The look on his face is just… It's priceless, you suppose.

"Bloody fucking hell…" 

He looks at the floor, then runs his fingers through the short cut hair on top of his head. You've yanked those blonde strands more times than you can count, nearly every time he's been between your legs, and you miss it – you long for it, like fallen angels long for heaven. 

And if there was a time this man was rendered speechless, you would say you were witnessing that moment right now. His brows knit together, then he looks up at you again with blaring disbelief.

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"This is the reason you wanna break up?"

Ugh.

"Yes?"

His voice grows rougher with every question until it resembles thunder, and you suspect this is the commanding tone his soldiers are used to hearing. 

But you're not: it's gravelly, harsh, and betrays the feeling of having been insulted. You feel even more devastated with yourself – it appears you can do nothing right.

"Where has this… idea even come to your head?"

"I don't know." 

"And you never thought to ask my opinion?"

"Would you please stop yelling," you whisper and blink back some putrid tears. His mouth is snapped shut, his head pulls back just a little as he realizes what he's done. 

"Sorry," he says with a half-whisper, and you catch the strain in his throat. You've never seen him cry, but now his voice is suddenly thin and frail. "I'm sorry."

He takes a step, then another, places fingertips on the counter as if to take the faintest support.

"Can I touch you?"

You don't really want him to do that, but you feel pity for the man. He's trying to find a way through this mess, and you want to help him.

"Yes," you whisper, and he immediately comes and takes you in his arms again. Hot tears disappear into his shirt, and you sniff a few times. He feels so good, so safe, even when you're about to lose him. His hold tightens around you, and the kitchen is silent; the whole world is silent. You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn.

"Now I don't know who's said this shite to you but ugly is the last fucking thing I'd call you," he declares above you. As if it was some bully whose fault it is that you were this way, a bully he could deal with with his fists or a gun. If only things were that easy…

"Have I said or done something? To make you feel this way?"

Then the blade is turned against himself. The man desperately searches for a culprit so he can deal with them.

"No," is the only thing you can say because it's true: he has never done a thing to make you feel like you weren't good enough; quite the contrary. But then again, he doesn't have to. It's enough that he exists and resembles a god.

"Then why do you think you're not my type?"

"Because you're so perfect," you hear yourself wail, no, cry into that shirt that smells of sweet safety and familiar musk – his scent, another thing you have missed like it's the only way to heaven.

"That for sure ain't true."

"But it is."

He seems to have the utmost difficulty in grasping what the issue here is. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head with a rusty, laborious creak.

"Can't believe you wanna break up because of this," he finally says. You've chipped his pride, the ego that lives off of pleasing the ones he loves: the few chosen ones who he wants to give his whole life to. 

"To me, you're perfect," he then says, and you simply… You stop breathing. "You're like… my dream woman. Ever thought about that?"

It can't be true, even if you vehemently, desperately want it to be. You reach out to his words like they're precious food after years of famine. Like they're sun and spring rain after being buried in the cold, dark soil whole winter.

"No…?"

"Never occurred to you that I might find you fucking beautiful?"

"Stop," you whisper, because it's too much to take in. He sounds so serious, so sincere.

"No, I don't think I will."

He pulls back a little and cups your face. Brushes away a tear, looks at you with so much love that it physically hurts; you feel like it's a lance that slowly drives through your heart.

"How about I kiss every part I love about you?"

You let out a soft little whimper. Fuck, that you want him to… 

It would also be uncomfortable as hell. To try and let him love you and your body, which you have grown to loathe.

"It's gonna take all night, though. Wanna be as thorough as possible."

"Simon–"

"Love. I want you. Thought I'd made it pretty clear, but apparently I haven't. If you only knew how much–"

He sighs deeply. The man is frustrated with his shortcomings, thinks that this is all his fault. You cry a tear or two just for the sake of how absurd it all is. 

"I don't want you to go. I fucking love you. Everything about you."

For the second time this afternoon, your lower lip starts to tremble as if this was some stupid, romantic movie. He can be so soft when he wants to, more romantic than the soft-spoken gentlemen in Jane Austen's novels. It doesn't even require any effort: underneath the cynical surface, there's fiery emotion, so powerful and raw that it almost bleeds out of him. Fuck… Does he even know what he's doing to you?

"I love you too," you whisper back, and the warmth that starts to bloom in his eyes is an entire sun on its own. It's hope, and you believe him, almost believe him.

"Then I'd say it's a bloody bad idea to break up."

You chuckle while few more tears push through to the surface.

"Simon…" You sigh and look back up at him, your armor falling to the floor too. "I feel like a wreck."

You allow him to see the pain, all of it. His breath is sharp as it hits him, but he still doesn't waver.

"Then let me help you."

The arms around you gain more strength, and you're crushed against a chest made of power. He tries to turn shit to gold, and threatens to succeed. You allow yourself to soften in his hold. How good it feels to be supported – no, loved.

"You don't even let me touch you anymore."

It's a filed complaint, but also heart-rending, soul-wrenching longing. You have evaded him for weeks now – hell, this shit began months ago and has escalated gradually, stealthily, until the moments together were a rarity, the space between you was full of frost; and not the crispy, happy summer drink kind.

"I thought you'd found someone else. Could've found out if that was the case in minutes, but honestly, I didn't wanna know."

Oh my God…

Has he lived with a growing suspicion and dread all these months? 

That would explain why he has avoided you too…

He has allowed you to go to your supposed lover, has given you space to be alone and without too much attention. The man has shielded himself from pain. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm so sorry," you say with a strained little breath. "I swear it's nothing like that. I just… I feel like a mess."

"Never seen such a gorgeous mess." 

He speaks on your skin, the kiss on your forehead feels like an absolution. 

Then you notice it's not only his words which try to assure you. He's growing harder by the minute against your stomach, just from a simple hug. Just from being pressed against you like this, after weeks of dry, bitter longing.

"Miss your taste," he murmurs to your skin, his voice like sand wrapped in burning velvet. "The sounds you make when you want it hard."

Oh God–

"Miss your smile when we go to shower after."

"Hmh…"

"Don't wanna live without that smile."

You don't have to. 

God, you don't have to…

"How about we make a deal," he draws fingers down your chin, coaxing you to look up at him. His eyes are stripped from the cold distance that greeted you just moments ago: now they are filled with warmth that spreads to your chest and belly and bones. You drink him in like summertide.

"You come to me every time you feel bad and I'll make you feel good. Alright?"

"...Ok." 

He tilts his head a little to the side, not entirely satisfied with your shy little answer.

"Come on. Make me believe it."

"It's a deal," you say with more grit to it, even if you're nearly crying again, this time from relief.

"That's my girl."

Oh fuck…

He knows exactly what strings to pull, the good girl talk being one of the things that instantly makes your legs feel like jelly. 

And why does he always have to use that voice when he calls you a good girl or his girl, that sultry smoke that makes you want to swoon until he catches you and carries you to bed?

The man seems to be a mind reader as well, because he sweeps you off your feet and does exactly that: carries you to your bed which has mainly seen silent tears and painful sleep last months.

"Poor thing doesn't even know how lovely she is."

He sounds amused in the face of your darkness: sees it in full and still doesn't fear at all. He's ready to battle your demons for you, and you feel like shaking: from his touch and that voice, from the stress and loneliness that starts to release as he lays you down on the bed.

He looks so different from the man that has haunted this place for the past months, the complete opposite of the reserved soldier retreating into the shadows.

He moves to kiss you, and it's been – what? Weeks since your last kiss? And even that was only a quick peck, nothing like this… Wet, and desperate; a devouring. It makes you clench around nothingness, and you finally surrender. 

No one can fake such fervor.

You try to accept it: accept the fact that even if you hate yourself, he does not. For some reason, he adores you. His breaths hit your face hot and urgent, and he can't keep his hands to himself anymore. They wander over your waist and hips, they even risk to steal a feel of your breasts, and then he groans in your mouth.

"I've missed you. Fuck, I've missed you..."

You taste notes of burning leaves; tobacco, his only weakness. You fantasize on the thought that you might be another weakness, too.

"Remember when I fucked you in my office?"

"I've missed you too," you utter softly in between the kisses that threaten to turn into a sloppy mess. "So much..."

He smiles at that, and it makes you weak, even when lying down like this.

"Yeah…?"

"You were so loud I had to put a hand over your mouth."

His voice is thick as he laughs a short chuckle. Your inner walls clench again at the sound, you throb among the warm syrup surrounding you.

"Never seen you so wet. Almost dripped all over my gear."

"It's that stupid mask you wear," you hear yourself breathe like you've just been underwater. Feel yourself throb some more, feel a burning sensation in the nether areas from the scorched desert turning wet again. You want him so much that it actually hurts down there.

"Knew you'd like it. That's why I kept it on."

If this man keeps talking, your underwear is going to be utterly ruined. And of course he does; of course he continues to pour more love in your ear.

"Everyone looked at you like you were a queen," he grunts in your ear, sounding almost… pissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," you try to form sensible words. It's only a faint breath, really, but he huffs at your modesty. 

"You don't have eyes in the back of your head, love."

Wow… He is a bit pissed.

Had they checked your ass out when you visited him? 

It was the first and, what you thought, the last time you got to visit him at his workplace… but you never would have guessed the reason for him not asking you to visit again would be jealousy. 

"Don't worry. I put those fuckers in their place after you left." 

Whoa. 

Ok…

First, he had fucked you senseless in his office – a highly inappropriate move for a man in his position – then got jealous because some soldiers had checked you out as you left with his cum practically dripping from your cunt.

You put yourself in his shoes for a moment: he's had to live with thoughts of you running to some other man's arms when he's not home, and then watch you waltz around his workplace after making what was supposed to be the last effort to make him love you… When he has loved and adored you this whole time, has watched the sway of your ass with the rest of those home-deprived, horny soldiers, thinking you had fallen out of love and were on your way to go see some other guy.

Had he invited you there to try and win you back, too? By showing himself to you in all his puffed up, masculine glory? A desperate man in a skull mask, hoping to get love from you…

There's so many misunderstandings; they rip your throat. A sob escapes, and he stops his caress.

"Love… Tell me to stop if you–"

"No. No, I don't want you to stop." 

Your request comes out with such demand that he hesitates only a second or two. Then he moves on top of you and tugs your skirt up. You don't even have time to realize what is happening before he has worked himself out of his pants.

He's hard and heavy between your legs, and your eyes go wide as you realize he's not going to bother to take your briefs off. He just slides a hand under the skirt and draws the fabric aside, and the fat tip of him is pushed in the middle almost clumsily. It's hot, and slips down to your opening with ease.

Oh f–

"Been jerking off to you nearly every night at the base," he says just before he pushes himself in. 

"Uh–...."

Your thighs spread wide as he fills you slowly, inch after inch. The sound that leaves him is starved: a dry, painful sigh. He's been waiting for this for god knows how long, and you're just as hungry to take him in. He seems endless, the way he finally works himself fully inside, spreading you even wider as the thickening base of his cock reaches its end. 

"Thought you were getting railed by someone else while I only get to fuck my hand."

"Oh god…"

There's really nothing else to say as his balls press against you, heavy and taut. He's not going to last long.

"Yeah. Imagine that," he admits, breathless like you. 

You look at him with what must be the most helpless stare of longing in your eyes. Then he moves, and you want to grip him to keep him inside. The first thrusts are divine, they're pure heaven, and your head sinks deep into the pillow as you try to get enough air, try to not scream from pleasure already. Somehow, all you are able to utter is a desperate little whisper.

"Simon–"

His cock is good enough to bring tears to your eyes. You're starving too, you're pulling him in with fierce hunger, and he groans, then nearly falls forward, his weight pressing against you, swallowing you, until you feel like you're an idiot for thinking that you're too big. The thickness of his chest rubs against you as he makes love to you with passion that echoes the first times you did this.

"Just wanna adore you, love." He's panting desperate somewhere above you. A god and a man, both furious and gentle. "I wanna adore you. Just like this."

You answer him with what must be those sounds he told you about, the sounds you make when you want it hard. 

You want him to fuck you, to wreck you after weeks of loneliness and hate. To love you until you break into a million pieces.

"Simon," you whisper. "...Love me."

He halts, huffs in your neck. It's almost a sob. There's so much emotion and desperation in the air that it could be scooped up and sold in the streets.

"Always," he rasps in your ear, then moves to kiss you again. "Always."

The promise echoes around you, it coats your lips as he loves you with all he has. It's been so long, and he feels so good that you nails dig into his shirt, his shoulder, you try to hold onto him even though he's the wave that rocks you.

"You feel that?" He goes deep; he's out of breath and desperate, even more desperate than you. "That's love. You feel it, yeah?"

"Yes," you sob in his shoulder, tears trying to escape your waterline as you're going dumb from the pure sensation, the sensuality of it all. 

"That's it, love. That's a good girl," he turns to your neck and gruffs in your ear as you whimper and moan. "Always such a good girl."

Shit…

"I, I'm gonna…"

Your legs wrap around his middle, your muscles twitch and your hands reach and grab – they claw and yank and tug everything they can: his back, shoulders, shirt, something sturdy to keep you from drowning in a glorious orgasm.

He laughs in your neck and continues to grind you through your climax even when you're shattering, sighing, moaning, writhing under him. He just laughs, the man who never laughs: from witnessing you respond to him calling you a good girl.

Fucking bastard…

Lovable, infuriating bastard who knows you to your core. 

You're an overstimulated heap by the time he comes as well, not long after you, but long enough to make you feel like you're only a tender bunch of nerves. Your legs have fallen to the side, he has open access to take what he needs: you, your love, all of it.

His whole middle goes tense as he cums, he groans and swears somewhere deep into your neck, rolls his hips over and over again like it's a must that his balls press against you with every thrust that shoot his load. 

Then he falls slack, nearly collapses on top of you, reminding you of what it feels like to be small under a giant like him. You're throbbing together, you're full and fulfilled, and he is still lodged deep inside you, panting and broken in a sweat.

"Jesus Christ…" 

He sounds dazed. 

Relieved. 

"Should've done this weeks ago."

You laugh at seeing him so done – a man in love, torn by jealous yearning, finally taking what's his. You stroke his neck, his back – it's so good to have him finally there… So close, with no barriers in between.

"I should've talked to you weeks ago..." 

"Yeah. You should have."

"Are you going to punish me?" You giggle a little – the flirt is light and frees your heart further from its recent jail. He moves to look at you with all the tenderness there is. It's too much... His love is too much. But you won't run from it anymore.

"Nah. Think I'm gonna spoil you some more."

He spoils you right away with a kiss. You surrender to his treatment with happiness: happy tears, even. 

The medicine to your anguish has been the exact opposite to what you had first tried, what you had originally thought. The true remedy for your sickness is mercy. Perhaps some spoiling…

And love.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost fluff #soft simon riley #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon riley x you #fluff and smut #call of duty

[shitmygaywifesays]

your wife is a writer!! do you think she'd have any writing tips for a young aspiring author who's only recently started planning for an original book?

This is the Gay Wifeanswering herself!

 Some disclaimers:

1.This turned into amonster, I am so sorry. I apparently had a lot to say on the matter.

2. I assume you readthe blog and don’t have a huge problem with cuss words. I normally wouldn’t dothis to a stranger online, so…

3. I am so fuckingpretentious. Lord. I added a bunch of links to things that have caused me topause and think about writing, and some of them are just??? I am so sorry,please don’t judge me too harshly.

Thank you so much for this ask! I was surprised,admittingly, that you’d ask for my writing tips despite the fact that I haven’tpublished anything online for you to read. But I am glad you did! My wife (theblog owner) is so very kind and supportive of me. Maybe a bit too much? Shetalked me up quite a lot in her answer to that ask. Because I don’t think I amall that special. Nor do I think myself and the spaceman living and my head area wellspring of great ideas, BUT HERE GOES. [Note from the blog owner: I neverexaggerate baby’s talents 😉]

I have hadthoughts on writing advice blogs/posts in the past, as in, they aren’talways useful.  K J Charles, an author Ireally like, recentlymade a post about writing advice that is really worth a read if you wouldlike to seek out advice in the future.

That’s not to say I am not totally willing and excited toanswer you! This might just be a weird tip list, that’s all, because all ‘tiplists’ are biased to one writer’s processes. My ideas on writing might not workfor you, may be disastrous, or may be where you set your flagstones. I’ll trymy best to communicate what I think will help. But with that, take it with agrain of salt.

Writing a story, byits nature alone, is a product of desperate translation of something that isintangible; emotions, moments,places one has never been, experiences one’s never had. A story becomesgood when the translation of ideas switches from the surreal to the profoundlyrelatable. That might be something to keep in mind as you write; that youaren’t telling a story, you’re translatingthis idea in your mind and heart into words – into language, into a story,into a pathway to follow, into this brand new experience that will sit with areader for long time after they finish the story.

The writing process is labyrinthine and elaborate andintricate. I’m going to list a couple of things that have helped me, specifically what I did when I wasfeeling uninspired or frustrated with what I was writing. Again, these workedfor me, so if they don’t for you, don’t use them. Try something else! Explore!Innovate! Grow! And allow yourself mistakes!

I constantly think about classic writers and how theydiffer. I’m kind of a nerd for quotes and delight in spending hours pouringmyself over them. And writersso vastlydiffer fromeach otherwhen it comesto how they approachedtheir craft (I think about that last one a lot because it directlycontradicts every ‘writingadvice’ blog post I’ve ever seen). You’ll have to do that, too, or riskbeing drowned out by the static of how you think you should be writing. You should neverlet your unique way of writing be chained down by all that bullshit out there.

 Plotting/Outlining/and the dirty work—

I try to do NanoWriMoevery year and fucking hate it to shards and jagged pieces. If there was oneoverwhelming thing I have learned, it is that I need an outline to function. Thiscame as quite the surprise to me personally because I am such a messy bitch. Butdear merciful Lord in heaven, if I don’t have an outline I can’t move forward.So I embraced that and outlined my scenes like a motherfucker on a lone motorcycle, reaching for that burning redsunset, running from my sordid past, man!Here is just three notebooks from the last year’s NaNo:

Now that is three notebooks, not including the forth one Ialso filled up. One of them is initial notes; themes I had in mind, characteroutlines, a summary of the plot – basic stuff. I also wrote out some rules.This was a supernatural/horror/comedy, all three of those genres I have nopractice in. So I wrote out tropes that I wanted to avoid, points that I wantedto greatly impress, character traits I had etched in stone (for instance,“Edwidge will stay a kind person.”)

Then I dive into outlining by chapter with a rough first go,then another notebook where I re-wrote that outline, then a forth with fleshed-outdialogue exchanges, character movements (both in detail, such as the hands, theeyes) and within the constructed space (sits on a desk, leans against a wall,observes the pictures on the wall), and with random details I decided whileoutlining. In that same vain, the nightmarish scribbles off to the side of thenotebook pages are products of an idea striking me and the muses directing myhand. Muses have horrible handwriting.

Now I know there are people out there in the great greenworld who can write with vague outlines, or no outlines at all (I’m looking atyou, @onedamnminuteadmiral, you wicked ho). And those people are witches andheathens that must meet with the pyre. I’ll bring the gasoline if you bring thematches. [Note from the blog owner: Heeeyyyyyyyy!]

I probably shouldn’t admit to it, but I would often getreally frustrated with outlining and resort to stick figure storyboards. Yes,like I’m a writer for derivative cartoon about a wacky suburban family. My stick figure storyboard was surprisinglyeffective (???I guess???). I got a sense of space, of movement, I made notesabout the way the eyes moved. This, coupled with the far more wordy outline,added a lot of hot sauce to that beef.

I also saw this methodof storyboarding today and I am thinking I might take it up. It looksfantastic!

So, yes, either outline or don’t. I really worked for me,but it might come more natural for you to fly by the seat of your pants. Ifthere is one thing I would do, it would be to make notes on how the charactersmove within the space. Specifically, placement of hands, how their eyes move,the lighting, anything that gives the characters a solid weight in their world.

SPEAKING OF

A slice of characters—

Human nature, by the definitions divined by humankinditself, is fucking absurd. A personleft unobserved will always devolve into subtle rule-breaking based purely andthe common, everydayswerves their free will dictates (ie. I never wear lipstick, but thismorning I was feeling kicky by no outside influences what-so-ever, so, fireengine red?). There is more glorious spark and untold, unfolding of brilliancein a real person sitting quietly in a chair for a half and hour than there willever be in a fully-realized, well-rounded, fictional character. That might be aharsh statement, but it is something I constantly have buzzing in my bonnetwhen I write characters. It causes me to strive for something more from my characters.

I bring up that (jfc am I pretentious) philosophy videoabout fate/free will because in writing characters, you’ll constantly have tothink if your characters are acting as youbelieve they will, or how they would more naturally behave.

People are series of moments with great contradictions.Characters who are well developed, compounded and complex, and interesting toread, should also be weighed at the center in how they contradict themselves. I find this to be a really important standard in writing characters. This is so damnhard to explain, so let me give some silly examples.

Characters tend to have traits/characteristics/personalityrules cemented by the author. I see it constantly in books, and it reallysteams my vegetables. For example:

 Valen was raised in a polite society—he is a politeand considerate man – he will act politely as a matter of keeping thecharacter consistent.

Valen was raised to be strong — he would be calm in thissituation— he would not be afraid at the climax of the book.

It’s… not a wrong way of writing character. Constancy iscertainly important. Its just flat? ‘Uninteresting’ may be a bit too much.Writing a character as a series of set rules can be this transitive, it justfeels manufactured, distant from reality.

For example, consider at how I act:

Gay wife spent her formative years in the South —she was trained to be a polite person, professionally— she calls hercustomers Mr. Meyers and Ms. Linda and her boss solely as Ms. Jeanne—she workshard to be a polite person – she always uses ‘pardon me’ and ‘excuse me’. Thatis honestly who I am.

BUT ALSO

Gay Wife had a weird home life growing up—she had a rocky,religious upbringing— this manifests in reallyvulgar humor at home— shecalls her wife whore-tits and expressesreligious terror to her cats. This is also honestly who I am.

Am I vulgar person? Am I cautious and polite? Thosecontradict each other, and they are both true about me! I try to be as politeas possible, but at home where I am comfortable and unobserved (other than bymy wife, who is now stuck with me so whatever), I turn into a total asshole.

When I read a love story, for example, I get concerned whena character stays exactly the same as when they started out. I’m notspecifically talking about character growth, per say, but in the way the carrythemselves, in the way they behave. I read one fantastic book where a characterspoke differently with the other servants than he did to the lord of the house,even after they started a relationship together. As you proceed to write yourcharacters, I would recommend thinking about how differently people behavedepending on their current situation, and contradict the rules you have set forthe character. Everyone act different around their grandma than they do aroundtheir high school friends. Both those situations, the person is stillthemselves, just affected by compulsions lent to them by the situation.

So consider writing a character that is both compassionateand open-minded, but is also bigoted towards someone/something. It tells thereader where that compassion ends, the lines that character draws. Or acharacter that is brave, but only because he is a coward (that is one of myfavorites.) A character that is a brilliant genius, but a fuckin’ idiot. I’vepersonally known plenty of real people I would describe as genius fuckin’idiots.

Please consider how funny, upbeat people are so fucking sad inside. Or rather, theytend to be. Within two weeks of knowing the funniest person I’ve ever met, Iwas asking him if he was okay. And he was fuckin’ not, and I knew to askbecause despite this blog making people laugh (of which I am proud), I’ve haddepression since I was a child and have struggled with it to the extreme(aside: if anyone needs to talk, feel free to message me @thewaltzrio). I’veborrowed that so many times when writing. [Triggerwarning on this link, but it is worthreading.]

You play your cards right, you’ll also be subverting tropesleft and right.

Compound contradictions, add in swerves of free will, mix ina pinch of chaos caused by fate (that you have set for them), and you’ve got ainteresting, more real and weighty character on your hands. People will relateto that. The best compliment I’ve ever received was, “Hadrian [one of mycharacters] has really stuck with me.” That meant a lot to me, more thananything I’ve heard about the story or the setting or the world building I’vedone for the story.

The second best thing I’ve heard is when I let someone readwhat I have written, and the first question I ask is “which was your favoritecharacter?”. I’ve done it dozens of times with the same work and I’ve gotten adifferent answer every single time.If you do the same, you will know you’ve got a good cast of characters on yourhands.

It is only my personal opinion that characters are worthmore than the story itself. You connect with characters, you believe in them,you root for them, you love them with an unhealthy dependency. Look aroundevery fandom — it is characters that draw people into a show, make them stickwith it, make them care about the 2nd season getting greenlighted.The plot is a series of situations done tothe characters. It happens to them.The interest in the story is cultivated from the perspective of a character andhow they react.

Which brings me to thedetails. Fuck yeah DETAILS.

Write details when it comes to character creation beyondhair color, zodiac signs, or height and weight. Now, you’re on tumblr andwithout a doubt a smart and well informed person, so I don’t need to go intothe importance of a diverse cast of characters. So here are some of my favoriteways of meshing the character into the world, and making them seem more like people.

I like mentioning the condition of their fingernails. Youmight find something else that works for you, but I like fingernails. I mademention that my main character has “acres of real-estate under his fingernails.”Now that is a handful of words that tells the reader that: He works hard, hedoesn’t have time to clean them, he isn’t vain, he doesn’t consider clean nailssomething worth his time worrying about. Everyone in his community probablycarries the same kind of dirt and grime around with them.

I adore using verbal ticks as markers of a character’spersonality. I probably go overboard with this; I go out of my way to add atick to each character. My character Hadrian ended up saying ‘in any matter’ toswitch topics. He is the only one who says that, and it’s a nice verbal tick. Mycharacter Raif is trying to be seen as a poor tradesmen, so he uses impropergrammar when speaking on the daily, and (in exposing his true background) uses expressly proper grammar when in a stressfulsituation. If a reader picked up on that tick, then they would feel so damnclever when Raif is exposed as the lost prince! That is satisfying payoff!

My favorite one I’ve written so far is Seymour, a 15-year-oldwho was raised mostly in isolation, without a real home or community to callhis own. So he parrots other people, he borrows from his friends and those headmires. It tells a reader than he lacks a sense of self, of place, of how tointeract with people. I never actuallysay he does this, but he constantly repeats phrases he hears from hisfriend Raif. And, by the end of the book, he is also saying ‘in any matter’ toswitch topics. It is a satisfying way of showing how Seymour interacts withother characters.

Mentioning the condition of a character’s clothing is sobaseline it might as well be chapter one, line one, in the guidebook of how towrite characters. But you can really have fun with this one. For example, Imade of point of introducing my main characters in very particular ways. WhenDouglas meets Hadrian, they are at a costume party. Douglas is in his Fleet cadetuniform (which tells the reader he is the type of person who didn’t feel theneed to change his out of his everyday uniform for the sake of a costume — Ishe too proud of it? Is he too shy to dress in something bizarre? Is it alreadya costume to him?) and he sees Hadrian across the way. Hadrian is wearing thedraping robes and ivy and burning candle crown of a pagan god of mischief(which tells the reader damn neareverything they are in for with him. That he pays attention to ancientpagan god history in a religious society, that he isn’t concerned with lookingridiculous in public, that he is a huge fuck-head.) [note from the blog owner:I love him.]

That is different! That isn’t going into details aboutfineries/tatters/tailored clothing vs. hand-me-downs.

Clever segue to thenext section!!

A student of curiosity—

So you may notice that I am not going to mention a very hugepart about writing in this bullshit thing I’m claiming as writing advice, andthat is how you construct your plot. Who gives a shit? Sorry that was harsh.But we’ve all seen that chart in school about rising action and climax andfalling action and UGH.Because seriously, who gives a shit? You write what you want, there are no rules.

But! I can add a few words about how to help your story getswol. Or at least, what worked best with what I do. Like I said earlier, humansare fucking absurd. And human history is so broad and sweeping and fantasticthat you can find endless sources for inspiration to draw upon. It is importantto stay curious and make a habit of studying the bizarre. I utilize my love ofhistory to find inspiration. History pulls from and contains so many other topicsto learn about and utilize; superstitions, unsolved mysteries, trends, deadreligions, all sorts of niches that have wedged their way into the buildingblocks of history.

If you find history dry, that’s fine! Loads of people do.The point is, if something really grabs you, take the time to think about whyit did. Those wiki binges that last until 3am? What is it about those subjectsthat drew you in that you could borrow for your story? (I once based an entireromance novel on a wiki binge about the quartering of soldiers in the colonial UnitedStates.) Podcasts are fantastic for this! I’d recommend Lore if you haven’t already checked itout. Even though Aaron Mahnke drives me fucking crazy with that “well, yousee, maybe human beings were the monsters the whole time” bullshit, I stilllove this podcast.

But remain curious as you write. Think about moments inbooks and movies that have stuck with you and you don’t know why. Some cleverlittle thing that made you pause. Like, for me, the kitchen scene in JurassicPark. I’d never seen kids under such threat before, just pure terror, and thatis my very first thought upon thinking about that movie. I know that I writenotes (usually when I’m at work) on what about a thing made me sit up and payattention. Then I break it down and mold it into something new. Who knows,maybe it will help add a great twist into the plot that you didn’t think of.

 The literal scene, a quick note—

I’m also a huge nerd for movies and the way movies are shot.I know this is coming out of the blue, and may seem odd to add in a monsterpost about writing, but stickwith me on this. Movies and writing have some overlap if you’re willing tospend time thinking about constructing a scene in your book the same way adirector frames a shot. I swear, it works if you let it.

When I get frustrated with how a scene is playing out whileI am writing, I try approaching it based on how it would be framedcinematically. Every reader has (what my wife calls) the theater of the mind,and you can use that to your advantage as you write. Think about how acharacter would view a room upon entering it for the first time. What draws theireye, what piques their interest, what is central to them. Film directors to thesame thing when they frame a shot. They carefully plan how the light falls overa character’s face. They deconstruct and reconstruct the layout of a room. Theyblock the actors. They pan over book titles to show a character’s interest.They  they keep important things out offrame to remind the viewer that it will come back into play in a few moments.  You can do that all, too, when you write!

I recommended once that my wife and I watch a very well shottv show when we were both frustrated with writing. We got sketchbooks and drewwhat caught our eyes. I remember I latched on to the way a character’s earringsmoved every time she did; it was subtle, but vibrant, kinetic, and a detail Idon’t think I would have thought to add if I was writing that same scene. Iliked how the bloodshot eyes of a character didn’t come into view until thescene grew tense and they filmed a closeup of the actor. I thought that wouldtranslate well in writing; add tension when my character got too close and sawthat the other character was influenced by something yet unseen. I detailed theway shadows fell over a staircase, and how the beam of light was on only themost enlightened of the characters in an ensemble cast.

This is something you can do on days when your brain is afried pancake and yet you still want to work on advancing your story. Take a TVshow or a movie that left an impression on you and take notes on the environment,or the actors’ expressions, etc. As strange as this sounds, it works well withanimation. Every single thing in awork of animation was purposely chosen to be there. Every single thing wascreated – like your writing will be. I’d say look at Satoshi Kon’sanimation process. Not only is his work a fantastic exploration of writingand storytelling, he is very purposeful in what is seen, shown, understood, andthen subverted. Think about how you’d write that, how you’d describe it. How a “quickcut” can translate into writing the impressions and feelings in a character.(ie. The smoke clouds, into a clear sky, how a character looking at one can getthe impression of another).

I’d recommend looking at Every Frame aPainting YouTube page. I know I got a swell of inspiration on how to paceout and detail a scene based on the importance of subtle details in this video.Or, if you want to think about how to construct a plot, Lindsey Ellis on YouTubeand her video essays are fantastic, too. For example, if you want to think ofhow your characters address and interact with your narrative, consider what shehas to sayabout RENT. The last minute of this video is gut-wrenchingly powerful and saysmore about the dissonance between characters and their narrative/the event thatnarrative was based on in that ONE MINUTE than months of research could tellyou. (Note, don’t watch this if you love RENT. If you love RENT, that’s okay,my wife reeaaallly does.) [note from the blog owner: I do love RENT, but thisis a really great video and I don’t disagree with anything she had to say. Stilllove RENT, but boy it’s got its problems, haha]

Aaaaand that’s all I think I have to say about that! Thank youso much for sticking with me this far! I hope something in this mess helps you.Thank you again!

In final—

Your voice moving forward with your manuscript is unique,and your voice is powerful. There will never be one like it again and there hasnever been one like it before you. There has never been a day of your life that wasn’t aproduct of chaos and mayhem from unseen struggles of the universe, and yet youmade it through some boring Tuesday! Good luck, and I’ll be rooting for you!

 Sincerely, The Gay Wife

#writing #snufflypuffly #long post #too long really #the gay wife answers #sorry i am not really that funny when i sit down to write stuff out

[alo-piss-trancy]

Okay I found one of the super/girl drafts on my laptop and was relieved for a minute and prepared to start writing, only to find that all I had saved was the prompt itself c':

I don't have the energy to try and recreate what I had rn (it was at almost 1000 words so far and about Cat and had great sassy lines I am dying) so instead take these ideas for Winn and Kara omo bc their bff relationship gives me life and no one talks about it even in general much less in omo and also I really want Winn to soak himself bc he's cute and I'd kiss him<p>

1. Consider the day when Kara first started working at Cat/Co. Ah yes, the cute new assistant who sits right next to Winn and they have a nice enough time chatting with each other while he gives her a general idea of how things work around the office. They have a few more conversations between projects throughout the day, and towards the last hour or so of the day Winn realizes that Kara hasn't left her desk for anything ALL DAY except to bring Cat lunch and some papers (and maybe you could have guessed that she'd gone then, except he'd admittedly been unable to take his eyes off of her whenever she walked by, so he knew she hadn't gone near that direction), and he naturally gets a little concerned that she's probably dying by this point and oh crap maybe no one told her where they were and she's just been too nervous to ask? He's super embarrassed to even bring it up but finally manages to blurt out a casual (aka not casual at all but awkward af) "Hey, uh, you know the bathrooms are just down that hall, right? Like, in case no one told you...". Kara, of course, with her superhuman bladder of steel, hasn't even felt much of an urge yet, and just casually nods with a "Yeah, I know, thanks." before she goes back to her work. Winn probably looked her over just to make sure she wasn't just faking casual because he knew some people were shy enough to deny it even if they were about to burst, but she honestly looks just as unbothered as she sounded, so he drops it and wonders how on earth this girl is fine when he's had to take at least 3 breaks today.<p>

Throughout the rest of the week Kara continues to last the entire workday from morning 'till night without bathroom breaks, and Winn is probably impressed but it also makes him kind of self-conscious to be the only one getting up and drawing attention to himself multiple times or interrupting their conversations. So the next Monday he decides to try and start holding back and hopefully match Kara's unholy endurance, because if someone as normal as her can do it then maybe it isn't actually that hard and he's just kind of weak (he's already the office nerd, it probably isn't much of a stretch now that he thinks about it). He makes it through the first few hours and his first break okay (well, not okay, but he can keep still), but about an hour after lunch he's starting to really feel it, pressing his legs together or crossing them at the ankles or scooting his chair around as a distraction. Kara probably gets a little concerned by the soft moans under his breath that her superhearing picks up and asks if he's sick or something, but he manages to brush off her worries and insists he's fine. It works, but only a half hour after that he's absolutely DYING and he can't sit still and nothing is comfortable and he decides to cave and get up because he really can't do this except the second he tries to stand he feels a leak into his boxers and sits right back into his chair with a strained squeal. And by this point Kara is definitely worried because poor Winn is all sweaty and blushing and she definitely heard that leak and figured out what was going on, so she casually scoots her chair over to try and talk to him without drawing everyone else's attention, and he finally admits that he's never had to pee this badly in his l i f e but he really doesn't think he can stand much less move and oh gosh every breath is slicing into his bladder and he has to stop whispering to her so he can grab himself and hunch over with a nervous little moan bc holy shit he can feel it running right up to the edge of his dick and he doesn't know what to do and what if Cat comes over how on earth is he going to explain this and he's just rocking in the edge of his seat trying to hold on and shaking like a leaf. Kara really has no clue what to do either because she can't exactly justify using superspeed to rush him to the bathroom bc there's no way to explain suddenly teleporting there or even just scooping him up bc you don't just do that to your coworkers, and helping walk him there isn't even an option since he can't stand.<p>

There are two ways this could play out.<p>

Either A. she tells him to try and hold it in for just a few minutes while walks out as casually as possible before whooshing around the different floors looking for something useable, and if they're lucky she comes back and manages to sneak whatever the object is (like a large soda cup or a personal trash can or smth) under his desk and Kara finds some loud distracting way to keep everyone in the room from hearing (maybe she sets off an alarm in another part of the building or just 'accidentally' bumps someone else's computer to play music really loudly while they struggle to shut it off) while Winn gushes into the makeshift toilet with the force of a firetruck's pressure hose.<p>

Or B. Kara really can't think of anything to do to help and before she can think much further Winn starts leaking harder and gasping and groaning and he's trying to keep quiet but it's hard when the feelings are so strong and painful and he loses complete control a second later in the chair, warm piss completely flooding his pants and running down his legs into his shoes and it's pooling in the seat and drenching the carpet and it's hissing loudly enough to draw attention and it's honestly all Winn can do to keep from crying bc it hurts but it's also SO relieving and also completely mortifying he's going to be the laughing stock of the office and once it's over Cat pipes up from where she'd arrived in time to witness the last of the event and makes some kind of snarky remark comparing him to a toddler before snapping at him to go get cleaned up, change at home if he needs to, and then come back to work bc he's still got half a day left and she isn't paying him to hide under a rock in shame. Once Winn slinks out and people go back to work Cat's probably about to call the janitor but Kara insists she'll clean it up bc she doesn't want more people to find out about it ('Kara you should know I'm not paying you overtime for doing someone else's job') and Cat relents bc as long as that mess gets cleaned up before the germs multiply she really doesn't care who does it. Kara probably uses a smidge of secret superbreath to make sure his spot is as dry as can possibly be when he gets back and she probably got him some kind of sweet treat to brighten him up a bit.<p>

No matter which ending happens Winn is absolutely beyond mortified bc he just almost/actually pissed himself in front of Kara and everyone else and he probably looked completely pathetic and gross and she's never going to want to talk to him again jfc. Of course then Kara is nothing but sweet and understanding and tries her very best to help take his mind off of it and get things back to normal and makes him feel a lot better about the whole incident. She also takes the hint after that and starts taking more frequent bathroom breaks at work even though she doesn't really need them, just so he's more comfortable about it.<p>

Okay this was intended to be a whole list of cute scenarios but look at my wordy ass getting WAY out of hand with number 1 jfc I guess I'll save the rest for more posts lmao at least you get this one for now I'll do the rest later

#omorashi #male omo #male omorashi #bear txt #superpiss #dunno if that tag counts since it isn't kara wetting but its the same show so #lowkey praying this doesn't pop up in the character tags bc this site is lagging way too much for me to put slashes through all of them #@the fandom i'm sorry if you find this and aren't into omo just ignore it lmao #dc omo

[eirenical]

Brick Club ‘17 – Chapters 1.1.1-1.1.5; I admire a man with chutzpah.

(...jfc, if you had any idea how much trouble this post gave me. *glares at tumblr*  I HAD TO REWRITE IT FOUR TIMES and between times 3 and 4, Kaspersky randomly decided that Firefox shouldn’t load any websites.  ANY.  NOT EVEN GOOGLE.  ARGH.  But I’m OK, now, and I’m going to retype this again for the (HOPEFULLY) last time.)

The first thing I have to say about these chapters is that I absolutely adore the Bishop.  Anyone who follows me knows that Courfeyrac is my absolute favorite of favorites in all of Les Mis, but Feuilly and the Bishop tie for second place.  And this is the reason why: The Bishop is a classic representation of what it is to have chutzpah.  

Merriam-Webster defines chutzpah as “supreme self-confidence: nerve, gall” and that’s part of it, and is what it’s come to mean in English usage, but that’s not the whole truth.  I’m going to borrow something now from an article on chabad.org by Tzvi Freeman:

So what is chutzpah? It’s a kind of acosmic attitude, as though there’s nothing really there stopping you from doing whatever you want.

That’s why chutzpah can be real bad and chutzpah can be real good. Bad chutzpah is something we all know about. But good chutzpah is one of the first rules of behavior cited in the Shulchan Aruch—the classic codification of Jewish Law. Citing the words of the Mishnah, “Be fierce as a leopard,” the code tells us that this means that when you go about doing all those Jewish things that Jews do, you shouldn’t feel the slightest embarrassment before those who ridicule you. You don’t have to call them names, you don’t have to react at all. Just keep on doing what you have to do as though they don’t exist. […]

So, to be a good Jew, you need two opposites: A sense of shame that prevents you from acting with chutzpah to do the wrong thing, and a sense of chutzpah that prevents you from being ashamed to do the right thing.

The Bishop is very clearly not a Jew, but this is such a Jewish thing that he does: unashamedly doing the right thing, in spite of ridicule, standing up to people who look down at him from on high and not only assuming equality, but daring to encourage them to use his behavior as an example do better.  He is who he is, he knows what is the right thing to do, and he’s just going to go about his business and do it, no matter what you think.  That is chutzpah, and that is my Bishop.

And now, below the cut, I will give you some of my more specific thoughts on each chapter.  ^_^

I’m not going to go over each of these chapters in much detail, because, to be honest, it’s too much and I could probably spend 20 pages babbling, and I don’t think anyone wants that.  So, I’ve tried to stick with picking one (or two) thing(s) in each chapter to talk about to avoid making this ridiculously long.

1.1.1

The thing that always strikes me out of this chapter is that I desperately want the story of Myriel before he became a priest.  Because that transformation from well-born, well-to-do, charming and yet somewhat debauched man to the Bishop we know in Digne?  That fascinates me.  In there lies a story just as complex and interesting as Valjean’s own and I want to hear it.  I want to know more about this man who gleefully looked Napoleon in the eye and punned at him.  I want to know more.  I would gladly read another 1200 page novel on him.  And that’s honestly my biggest problem with Les Mis in a nutshell.  Even the minor, minor background characters are so richly created that I want to know more about them.  It’s a problem.

[Side note: I forgot how frustrating Hapgood’s handling of puns is.  She misses just about every one.  Or maybe the way she translated them just doesn’t translate into modern English, but, either way, it’s super frustrating.  I can FEEL the lead-up to the pun (Hugo sets them all up pretty obviously, especially for the Bishop’s puns) and then where the joke would be it just… falls flat.  :P  I found myself rifling through my FMA and my Donougher to see if they were handled any better there, and @pilferingapples, I gotta say, I’m tempted to flop over to Donougher every time there’s a pun because she did a MUCH better job with the few I checked.  Did you find the same?]

Anyway, the other thing I need to mention about 1.1.1 is this: Myriel is “advanced in years and living in a very retired manner.”  His sister, Baptistine, who is 10 YEARS HIS JUNIOR, is “an elderly spinster????”  And let’s not forget this hot mess:

Mademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature; she realized the ideal expressed by the word “respectable”; for it seems that a woman must needs be a mother in order to be venerable. She had never been pretty; her whole life, which had been nothing but a succession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of pallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years she had acquired what may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been leanness in her youth had become transparency in her maturity; and this diaphaneity allowed the angel to be seen. She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her person seemed made of a shadow; there was hardly sufficient body to provide for sex; a little matter enclosing a light; large eyes forever drooping;— a mere pretext for a soul’s remaining on the earth.

Hugo, Victor. Les Miserables (Xist Classics) (Kindle Locations 483-489). Signet. Kindle Edition.

Hugo… NO.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING.  PLEASE, STOP.  JUST… STOP.  OTZ

(That being said, “diaphaneity” is a pretty great word.  Did you make that one up, Hapgood?  I may have to find an excuse to use that.  ;D)

1.1.2

“Hold, Monsieur the director of the hospital, I will tell you something. There is evidently a mistake here. There are thirty-six of you, in five or six small rooms. There are three of us here, and we have room for sixty. There is some mistake, I tell you; you have my house, and I have yours. Give me back my house; you are at home here.”

Hugo, Victor. Les Miserables (Xist Classics) (Kindle Locations 519-522). Signet. Kindle Edition.

CHUTZPAH.  XD

But, no, the thing I really want to talk about is this:

NOTE ON THE REGULATION OF MY HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES. For the little seminary … … … … . . 1,500 livres Society of the mission … … … … . . 100 “ For the Lazarists of Montdidier … … … . 100 “ Seminary for foreign missions in Paris … … 200 “ Congregation of the Holy Spirit … … … . 150 “ Religious establishments of the Holy Land … . . 100 “ Charitable maternity societies … … … . 300 “ Extra, for that of Arles … … … … . 50 “ Work for the amelioration of prisons … … . 400 “ Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners … 500 “ To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt 1,000 “ Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the diocese … … … 2,000 “ Public granary of the Hautes-Alpes … … . . 100 “ Congregation of the ladies of D——, of Manosque, and of Sisteron, for the gratuitous instruction of poor girls … … … … … … . . 1,500 “ For the poor … … … … … … . 6,000 “ My personal expenses … … … … … 1,000 “ Total … … … … … … . . 15,000 “

Hugo, Victor. Les Miserables (Xist Classics) (Kindle Locations 526-541). Signet. Kindle Edition

EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE AND CIRCUIT. For furnishing meat soup to the patients in the hospital. 1,500 livres For the maternity charitable society of Aix … … . 250 “ For the maternity charitable society of Draguignan … 250 “ For foundlings … … … … … … … 500 “ For orphans … … … … … … … . 500 “ ——- Total … … … … … … … . . 3,000 “

Hugo, Victor. Les Miserables (Xist Classics) (Kindle Locations 568-573). Signet. Kindle Edition..

The thing that strikes me about this bit on the household expenses is how absolutely clearly Hugo saw that society had to be improved from the bottom up.  I mean, just LOOK at some of these stuff!  Education of the poor, education of women, straight up money to just give to the poor, women, and orphans, proper nutrition for the sick, prison reform, returning the wage earner to families whose wage earners were in debtor’s prison.  I mean, LOOK AT THAT.  Can you imagine how much it would improve the life of the working class if we had bishops across the world doing this?  Taking government money and applying it where it will actually do the most good?  Hugo had some revolutionary ideas; that’s fact.  But, the idea that even the poorest among us, even those who have committed crimes, deserve mercy and a basic living wage?   That’s an idea that’s still revolutionary TODAY.  And it makes me angry… and sad.  We should be doing better.  We NEED to do better.

1.1.3

Good gravy, the bit about the donkey.  XD  CHUTZPAH, AGAIN.  See?  This is why I love the Bishop.  ^_^

Anyway, another thing that struck me in this chapter was how the Bishop teaches mostly by examples and models.  We literally just had a huge class discussion in my doctoral program about that the other day.  A good example, or a good model, is worth more than any amount of polished or wordy language.  It’s yet another case of a picture being worth 1000 words.  Hugo, via the Bishop, being ahead of his time, yet again.

1.1.4

I am NOT getting into the capital punishment discussion.  I’m just not up for that tonight.  :P

So, instead, here’s a discussion of mishandled puns and translation fails.

Madame Magloire liked to call him Your Grace [Votre Grandeur]. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of the upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of stature, he could not reach it. "Madame Magloire," said he, "fetch me a chair. My greatness [grandeur] does not reach as far as that shelf."

Hugo, Victor. Les Misérables (English language) (Kindle Locations 442-444). Public Domain Books. Kindle Edition.

This is honestly one of my favorite puns in the whole book.  It’s such a dad joke.  ^_^  Unfortunately, in Hapgood’s translation, it falls a little flat.  It’s clear what the joke is in French (the play on grandeur) thanks to the [notes], but in English it doesn’t entirely work.  The fact that I have to rely on the original French to get the joke leaves me feeling like she could have done a better job on that.  So, just for shits and giggles, I checked Donougher to see what she did with it.  She seemed to do a better job at translating the pun:

Madame Magloire liked to call him ‘Your Highness’. One day he rose from his armchair and went to his bookcase to fetch a book. This book was on one of the top shelves. As the bishop was rather small in stature he could not reach it. ‘Madame Magloire,’ he said, ‘bring me a chair. My Highness falls short of that shelf.’

Hugo, Victor. The Wretched (Clothbound Classics) (p. 13). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.

It may not be an exact word-for-word translation, but I feel like it captures the spirit of the pun just a bit better.  So, kudos to you, Donougher.  Point in your favor.

Here’s the other translation gaffe:

"I am thinking," replied the Bishop, "of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine,—'Place your hopes in the man from whom you do not inherit.'"

Hugo, Victor. Les Misérables (English language) (Kindle Locations 451-452). Public Domain Books. Kindle Edition.

vs.

‘I’m thinking,’ replied the bishop, ‘of something curious to be found, I believe, in St Augustine: “Place your hope in him who has no successor.” ’

Hugo, Victor. The Wretched (Clothbound Classics) (p. 14). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.

And FMA translates it even differently than that but I think made it sound even more like he’s referencing G-d?  When I climb out from under my cat, I’ll double check that, but the point stands--Hapgood’s translation is clearly talking about a person and Donougher’s is talking about G-d.  I’m, ironically, more likely to trust Donougher’s translation there just because it sounds much more like something the Bishop would say and because the set-up feels like the lead-in to a pun and Donougher is clearly better at handling those.

Now, that being said, I have no idea which of these interpretations is actually more correct.  My French is DEFINITELY not at the level of translating Hugo puns.  But for anyone with better French who may wish to take a stab at it...

—Je songe, dit l'évêque, à quelque chose de singulier qui est, je crois, dans saint Augustin: «Mettez votre espérance dans celui auquel on ne succède point.»

Hugo, Victor. Les misérables Tome I Fantine (French Edition) (Kindle Locations 255-256).  . Kindle Edition.

It doesn’t LOOK like there’s a pun hiding in that French, but again... not an expert by any stretch.  :P

1.1.5

(IN THE HOME STRETCH.)

I... actually have nothing to say about this chapter?  Other than that I’m picturing this little Bishop running about town, attracting a mini-parade everywhere he goes with little children cavorting around him and it’s the most precious thing.  ^____^

OK, one last translation amusement because it’s directly related:

Here and there he halted, accosted the little boys and girls, and smiled upon the mothers.

Hugo, Victor. Les Miserables (p. 28). HarperCollins Canada. Kindle Edition.

vs.

He would stop here and there, talk to the little boys and girls and smile at their mothers.

Hugo, Victor. The Wretched (Clothbound Classics) (p. 20). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.

But this is the best part, because my French is good enough for this, I think:

Çà et là, il s'arrêtait, parlait aux petits garçons et aux petites filles et souriait aux mères.

Hugo, Victor. Les misérables Tome I Fantine (French Edition) (Kindle Locations 381-382).  . Kindle Edition.

“PARLAIT” IS PRETTY CLEAR, HAPGOOD, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? XD 

Although, to be fair, I’m pretty sure she meant the type of “accosted” where like... adults make monster faces and “chase” the little kids around until the kids turn the tables and chase them.  And the idea of the Bishop doing that is SUCH a perfect image to close this week’s reading on that I think I’ll forgive it, this once.  ^_~

Tune in next week for chapters 1.1.6-1.1.10!

#brick club 17 #eirenical reads the brick #and is way too wordy about it #O_o;;; #les miserables #the brick #translations #hapgood translation #donougher translation #lm 1.1.1 #lm 1.1.2 #lm 1.1.3 #lm 1.1.4 #lm 1.1.5