#this one is very raw and it hasn't been cleaned up yet so a lot of mistakes

[a-crystalclearsquid]

Always an angel, never a god.

Jon, on his brightest, could make Damian feel anything and everything like no other. He would simply smile and Damian would breathe easier. Jon could simply express his kindness as he always does and the latter would fall a little more in love. It would be that Jon would immediately stop whatever it was that he was doing in favor of comforting a homeless guy in the street. Jon, who would be patient with a child who refuses to listen to the mother out in public.

It was always the little things- the smallest gestures that caught Damian off guard on how easy it was to fall in love again when he thought that he was completely taken over.

But even on Jon’s darkest days, it would not deter Damian.

It would be that a bully would wear out Jon’s patience and throw the first hit or even when he would completely avoid talking or making contact with anyone else just because the day is not going his way. Or even being irritated at his friends’ tiniest movements because he has an assignment due and he could not concentrate.

All those things simply meant that Jon was also human (as he was) and had his flaws. It made Damian appreciate his partner more.

The fact that Jon has his own human struggles as the rest of them had Damian be comforted but also annoyed as he could not ease it away.

So what he does is to be a better partner more in the battlefield. That way, he knows he could prevent Jon from experiencing the harsher wounds.

It comes in many forms as it is displayed through thousands, millions even, ways: Love.

It’s so hard to put it into words.

Especially for Damian, who was taught that actions proved better evidence to one’s thoughts and feelings. While he simple does not disagree, there are times when one has to use words where one’s actions are not sufficient or is the most appropriate way to let somebody know just how much you care about them.

An example would be right now, where Damian is helpless besides Jon, who is recovering inside a kryptonian pod in the Fortress of Solitude.

Where, even to the best of Damian’s medicine and surgical knowledge, is unable to assist in any way to the recovery of a comatosed Jon Kent.

All that knowledge and practice and for what? To be told that the best he could do as of now is to converse one-sidedly to Jon in hopes they would get a reaction out of him.

So here he is, the grandson of the Demon, proclaimed assassin by the age of 8, Robin to two Batman by the age of 10, has died at least three times by the age of 14, and completely helpless to by the bedside of the love of his life at 21, struggling to form words to bring back his lover from the depths of his own subconscious.

“Jonathan,“ he says his name as how one might start a prayer. “Habibi,“

my love, my life,

He grips the wrist of Jon, to feel the faint pulse, assuring himself that Jon is still here.

“I miss your warmth,

and I miss your presence.

I miss you in every waking hour, knowing you’re barely within my reach.

And I’m tempted,

oh, so tempted to bring you to the waters where I was born.

Yet, I am not so desperate as to turn my back on everything that I have fought for -that we have fought for- just for you to be disappointed in me when you return.

I have yet to lose faith that you’d never wake.

And it was because you have made me promise to by your side and never lose hope.

So here I am,

Barely holding on to hope,

Always on the edge on doing the drastic measures.

The only thing stopping me?

That would be you,

My most and dearest beloved.

All these years, and all the doubts everyone in my life has given me, save for you.

You had never given up on me, you’ve always been by my side, and you’ve always rooted for me even in times I don’t deserve,

You have made me felt no safer than in your arms.

So please,”

Damian begged,

“Return to me and make me feel safe within your comfort again.

As you have been by my side, I am also here, Jonathan.

Return to me and I will show you my devotion.

My faith wavers not as I wait for you, no matter how impatient I might seem.

Please come back to me,“

With nothing to do but sit and wait by Jon’s bedside, barely sleeping in case of missing something, his brothers bring him his books and his sketchpad.

They also bring him Alfred the cat for company, who was now sleeping by Jon.

He appreciates the little distractions, though it does no good as he keeps on looking over Jon every few minutes.

So he inclines to bring out his sketchpad and starts imitating the sleeping form of his little feline friend, and when he’s done with that, he sketches everything else he could see within his sights.

And when he also exhausts those within his peripheral vision, his hand finally gets the courage to draw Jon.

It wasn’t like the other portraits of Jon sleeping he has done so far.

It’s different, but also the same.

The way that it’s so peaceful gives out a nice scene. The way that Jon’s bruises and cuts are now mostly gone relieves Damian. The way Alfred the cat is calmly rested on top of Jon’s chest, comforting both pet and owner of the repeated rise and fall movement.

He finishes the sketch and Damian wishes he had paint with him, so that he may properly bring the art to life.

He was tired now.

Though trained by the best to function for weeks with limited to no amount of sleep, Damian couldn’t help his tired eyes and his tired mind, grudingly succumbing to slumber, but not before taking in Jon’s hand in his.

He yearns for the hour Jonathan wakes again.

To be able to recieve and exchange smiles with his beloved again.

Damian rests his eyes, knowing he will easily wake at the slightest movement of his beloved.

Even for just a simple twitch of the finger, or on the skipped heartbeat of the monitor, Damian is most confident he will be able to detect it.

For now, he simply escapes to the plains of his dreams, hoping his subconscious grants his wish. Even though knowing that it would not be real, he would at least get to spend a second reliving on a far-away memory or to experience a new one.

For whatever can emphasize his hopes and faiths, Damian will always be waiting in the land amongst mortals.

#alex writes #jondami #damijon #jonathan kent #damian wayne #mostly #i haven't posted this on ao3 yet #i'm supposed to work on my research report right now #but procrastinated with this #this one is very raw and it hasn't been cleaned up yet so a lot of mistakes #i will post this on ao3 once i'm done with my report and have proofread the fic again #this is just me letting out steam from stress #lots of grammar mistakes and typos #so read at your own risk? haha #this is how i destress: pouring out my creativity lmaoo

[invinciblerodent]

I think after defeating Ketheric is the first time in the story when I'm letting my boy let his unending kindness.... falter a little bit. Just a little.

Semi-coherent 3 am ramblings under cut.

It seems like almost an "act 2 end" staple for me, but... this "midpoint climax" in many games IS, I feel, the natural point for a lot of good-aligned, well-intentioned protagonists to crack a little, and Arvid is no different.

Like. He just came back from what was essentially his *worst fucking nightmare*, having fought the avatar of a quasi-god (and learned that he's gonna have to do that, oh, two more times, just for funsies), having talked his boyfriend out of exploding himself (which was a very shitty, if short conversation, because apparently Gale is nothing if not easily convinced by the words "choose me, the one who loves you"), and overall having a CONSIDERABLY WORSE THAN AVERAGE TIME FOR THE PAST, OH, SEVERAL DAYS (with the Shadowfell, and the watching allies die left and right, and the GOING BACK TO THE MIND FLAYER FLESH-CABINS WHICH IS FUN), and already everyone wants MORE from him.

You know, as if this whole day wasn't, like, one deeply traumatic experience after the other. As if these past weeks hadn't been pushing him slowly towards a breaking point.

The dream visitor is acting... kinda suspicious and cagey, as per usual (she's dodging questions and speaking in confusing metaphors while doling out insurmountable-seeming tasks, which is just 👍👌🤙🖕), Wyll is immediately having himself a little storytime moment that he probably should have thought to have weeks ago ("btw my eye is a sending stone that enables Mizora the Literal Devil to track my every move" IS KIND OF A BIG DEAL, MAN, YOU COULD HAVE, IDK, MENTIONED THAT SOMETIME OVER THE PAST THREE WEEKS OR SO), Gale is understandably feeling wild and wired after that weird, partially self-imposed near-death experience (which, idk about you, but an "I'm glad we survived babe, are you okay" would have been at least appreciated BEFORE the whole "YO DID YOU SEE THAT POWERFUL ARTEFACT, I WANT IT" thing), everyone in that damn room wants something else from him ("hey, sorry I was an asshole earlier after you saved my life, why don't you help me more! Won't tell you how or why or with what tho!", "hey you're back having done what's supposed to have been impossible, so what's up with Thaniel, the issue you solved literally a week ago already, I wasn't paying attention lol", and the likes, even Withers is being fucking weirder than usual)...! Jaheira and Astarion seem to be the only ones to offer any kind of praise, or optimistic feedback, which is already weird...!!! But the others? "Oh, hey, you're back. So, when are you gonna do that again (or this other, different thing for me)?"

Like... thanks? I guess I'll just go fuck myself then???

The poor boy just wants to take the most intense bath of his life (sit in a lake somewhere for a few hours, get the illithid-sludge off his body and scrub his skin until it's no longer blue but flushed, raw, and purple, maybe then he's going to feel clean again and less *hyper-aware* of the wriggling in his skull), get roaring drunk to at least momentarily forget the monumental task ahead, cuddle up to his dog, owlbear, and/or boyfriend, and go to sleep in a fetal position for the next 48 hours. Maybe cry a little or punch something, he hasn't decided yet.

Just... everyone seems to be forgetting that he's just Some Guy. Even if he turned out to be some chosen one, he's unaware of it. As far as he knows, he's just a random priest from the countryside who only ended up in the city like a year ago because the church there needed a new healer, and suddenly, after getting abducted and his BRAIN wormed, he's everyone's go-to guy for god-killing. He barely knows anyone, has no family (or really friends or personal connections deeper than the superficial outside of the party), nobody misses him where he's from (which is no longer his home, but neither is Baldur's Gate), and he doesn't even know if he's doing the right thing at any given time, messing with forces he doesn't understand. But everyone just wants MORE, and MORE, and MORE, and he's giving more and more, as much as he can, only he's not sure how much more he has left.

So yeah, he's gonna snap at- and be a bit short with Art, even if Halsin doesn't like it. Yeah, he's gonna be a little snide to the cagey gnome that all but told him to fuck off previously. He's gonna be a little impatient towards the skeleton-man doling out poetic brain-teasers for him to solve while he's still bleeding profusely, from several wounds. He's gonna give a couple fewer fucks about Isobel's reunion with her gf after having already figured out who she is (it's. Not like that was a hard feat. Those dots were not particularly hard to connect. He has an intelligence of 10 and he still figured it out.) than he would otherwise. He's, like, happy for them and all, but would be MANY TIMES happier if someone just handed him a sandwich and a glass of water, and said "hey, good job".

I have not yet gone back to camp or left the building after the return last night, but I'm hoping there's gonna at least be a chance to unwind before we'd march on. :/

#squirrel plays bg3 #bg3 act 2 spoilers #Arvid Trygg

[prettiestcowgirl]

everything is upside down in my world right now. i always experience change at such a devastating rate but sometimes i feel like it all happened too fast. i think about how my dad will never see the new person i've become; a healthier person, a mindful person, less angry, and less terrified.

then again, sometimes i wear it like a stain. i feel like i walk through life like a child with jelly smeared on my cheeks. i assume the turmoil soils through the surface, but it doesnt. there are all these new people in my life and they see me as this person i havent been for long enough. im not comfortable sitting inside her skin yet. she is just as unknown to me as she is to them, but she surprises them and myself regularly.

my coworker, my newest friend, said i ooff as posh. he was surprised when i talked with so much grit. he said i was a girl who wore business skirts with nice hair and he caught me doing my makeup in the parking lot thirty minutes before my shift even started. he said i talked so intelligently he couldnt believe the things i told him about my past. it's weird to hear that view of myself because i can feel the poverty and the raw childhood on my body like an aura. i feel as though it is a way about myself that i feel, but nobody sees.

tonight i sat and watched tv with my roommates and we laughed and one of them made me earrings out of a necklace my little brother bought me. they like my pink outfits and they think im incredibly clean and they treat me like one of them, but they're the people i never thought id fit in with; clean, sweet, pretty. i feel so monstrous inside. i feel like im lying to them.

my best friend and i have been fighting a lot. he hasn't left his girlfriend, but they have ceased couples counseling and he admitted he feels platonically towards her. sometimes i try so hard to hold back my feelings because i think he should be with her even if he has feelings for me. i get so mad at myself when i lash out at him becuase of the odd ties between us. i dont want to pull him towards me. he thinks im selfless and affectionate and genuine and i wish he wouldn't think that way but i also have never felt so much love from another person. i want to lie inside of it, but im so deeply discomforted by it as well. sometimes i wish i didn't care so much about him so i could just leave them at peace. i tried. i ignored him for a week to give them space to patch things up; i cried and wept in bed like an idiot, he called me and asked why i would do that to him. i want him to be with someone who isn't so uncertain, someone who doesn't have cinderblocks tied to their feet, someone without a very long road ahead of them.

#headspace

[shawnpetermuffins]

I Miss You

A/n: I hope this is good because I put this off for so long wanting to do it justice. And this is based very loosely off I Miss you.

Summary: you two broke up recently, and it's not sitting well with Shawn, even though he's the reason you broke up.

Requested by @it-isnt-in-myy-blood: Hi, I recently listened to the song 'I Miss you' (Clean Bandit, Julia Michaels). Maybe you could write a fic based on the song, angsty but with a fluff ending? Thank you... ❤️

***

Kinda_yourname

2,158 likes

Kinda_yourname Cabo sunsets >>>> anything else

•

It may have only been a week, but I'm missing it here! 😭

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I shut my phone off and toss it to the end of the bed. I should have been with her on that trip, but tour got in the way. I got in the way. It's crazy to think that if you asked me three weeks ago, I would have said that my girlfriend and I could overcome any obstacle thrown at us. But ask me again a week later, and I would tell you I was wrong. That being away from her for months at a time was too much for me and I broke it off because I thought it would be what was best for both of us in the end.

Now ask me if I still believe that.

I don't.

I haven't told anyone about us yet. I mean, everyone probably suspects because there haven't been Amy preshow FaceTime calls for good luck, and I'm not texting like a madman during dinner or when we're on our way to the venues. And I know she hasn't said anything to anyone either. How? Because for one, she hasn't blocked me on any social media - I know, I've checked at least ten times just within the last two hours. And two, she hasn't deleted the three pictures of us that she has on her Instagram. They're still there for everyone to see, me included.

Now my fingers are hovering over the keyboard and I'm staring at her name on my phone which is still My Love 😍, and I'll probably never change it. Because she is my love, and to strip her of that title because I'm an idiot just isn't fair.

Hey... I miss you

I type and backspace and type and backspace at least ten times. Because I want to text her. I want so badly to text her, but what if she doesn't want to hear from me? I wouldn't blame her if she didn't want to. I was the worst. Breaking up with her over the phone, no less because I was hurting being away from her. Never once did it occur to me that, yeah, she was hurting too. Or maybe she's with someone else. Maybe she's found somebody new. I want her happy, sure. But I selfishly still want to be the one that makes her happy.

Y/n I miss you.

I delete it one last time and open my photo gallery. I have an album saved for photos of us. Photos that I never got to post because she wanted to keep us as private as possible without being a secret. Which is why both of us only have 3 photos of each other on our Instagram. One for our six months, a year, and a year and a half. Two more months and we would have had a fourth picture.

I'm swiping through the photos landing on one I took of her when we were flying back to Canada after our first trip together. We're on a private jet because this was before we went public with our relationship. Andrew made sure that we weren't seen together in the airport or anything. She's sitting in the seat across the aisle from me, legs up to her chest, earphones in, head resting on her knees as she smiles brightly at me. There's another one of us curled up together on this tiny chair in a green room in the UK that Andrew sent me. She's literally curled into a ball on my lap, sleeping peacefully and my legs are spread in front of me, arms wrapped tightly around her body, head resting against the back of the seat.

The next one Brian took. We were at my place for a very impromptu new years party. It was just gonna be me and y/n, but she insisted we invite the guys over. And we did. It was one of the best nights of my life. We're watching the ball drop, with her in my lap, arm around my shoulder. I have one arm behind her back, the other on her thigh. I think Brian knew something was going to happen because at ten seconds to midnight he pulled his phone out and captured out first new years kiss. She's holding my face and I'm practically leaning her back against the couch. It looks like I'm seconds away from crawling on top of her, and it be honest, I probably was. She's just too perfect for me to resist.

Then there's one that Josiah took of us just a few months ago at the studio house. I had y/n on the kitchen counter, she was in these jean shorts that I loved her in and a button up that she'd stolen from my suitcase. Not that I was complaining. It looked far better on her than it did on me. I stood between her legs, my hands on her sides, slipping under the shirt a little bit, leaning her hips exposed. Not that either of u cared with her fingers threaded in my hair as casually as they were. My face is blocked by her figure, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that I was smiling entirely too wide standing between her legs.

The video that follows knocks the breath out of me. She giggling like crazy, but the camera isn't on her, it's on me. On my back, more specifically. She laughs even more when I wince at the feel of her fingers on my red, raw skin that is now home of her fingernail scratches.

"Baby? What happened to your back?" She asked, amused.

"Don't know," I said, turning to face her, my cheeks still holding a slight blush. "But I think the real question is, what happened to your neck, missy?" I pluck the phone from her hands and turn the camera to her where she's trying to cover her face. I manage, however, to take her hands in my free one and the camera focuses on the flourishing bruises that litter her beautiful neck, my favorite place to rest my head.

I close my eyes, the memory of that night filling my mind. Watching her come down from her high, my face still buried between her legs. The weight and cold touch of her hands as she pulled me up to her, into her, because she needed me closer. I can hear myself murmuring the words 'I love you' all over her skin, still remember the way her back arched when I hit the right spot again and again and her finger ran down my back over and over, once more and she probably would have drawn blood. And I may not be home, but I can smell her on the sheets, that constant aroma of warm vanilla penetrating my nostrils. God, do I miss her.

I'm only making it worse for myself by doing this, I know that. But I should feel bad. I lost the greatest thing in my life and I didn't need to. So I got back to our messages, but instead of going to type a new one, I scroll through, reading through our old texts. There's countless paragraphs of us professing our love for each other. Lots of random pictures sent, most from my side. There's conversations about getting a home together, and a dog. And her telling me how much she loves my family and me telling her how much they love her, how much they ask about her. It's all hitting me too hard right now.

And it doesn't help that im literally sobbing at 2 in the morning, in Paris. The city of love. The place she told me was her favorite trip to ever take with me. Where we stood atop the eiffle tower and I gave her a promise ring, a ring that said I would love her and keep her forever. A promise ring that was now probably in the ocean in Cabo because I tore us apart so easily.

I sit up suddenly, struggling to catch my breath. It takes a few minutes, but I'm able to pull myself out of this empty bed that would only be comfortable with y/n laying next to me. I'm scrambling through the room, picking up the pair of jeans I threw off my body earlier and slipping back into them. I find a torn work out shirt in the bottom of my back and push my head and arms through before throwing my youth hoodie over my already overheated upper body. My passport is sitting in my guitar case, and I grab both things without a second thought. My suitcase trailing behind me.

It's difficult booking a flight and carrying a suitcase and guitar all at once, but I get along just well enough and adjust myself in the lobby while I wait for a taxi. I don't text Andrew until I've made it to the airport and am in my seat on the plane, ready for take off.

Emergency... had to fly home. Promise to make it back in time for the Paris show.

And I turn my phone off before he can text or call me back. Because there isn't a damn thing that he could say that would keep me there in a city that's meant for lovers, when my lover is across the world instead of laying in my arms the way she should be.

I know I shouldn't be doing this. I know there is someone out there who is better for her. Someone who isn't constantly on the move. Someone who can come home to her every night and help her make dinner. Someone who can cuddle her until she falls asleep when she's having a particularly bad day. I know there's someone who can do those things.

But I also know that he won't love her the way I do. He won't know all the little things that I do. Like how she only uses a blue toothbrush. Always has. And he won't notice the tiny scar that she has on her right middle finger from when we tried to make dinner together one night and she cut herself. He probably won't know that she wakes up at 3:34 every single night, because she hasn't been able to sleep fully and soundly through the night since she was four years old. And he'll mess up the way she likes her tea, using tea bags instead of leaves. (She like the herbal taste that you get when you use the leaves. And she likes when you do two scoops of them, and two scoops of sugar, but just cane sugar, the rock sugar makes it too earthy. And of course, she drinks it on ice because she hates burning her tongue with hot drinks.)

I'm thinking way too much as I get off the plane, reluctantly turning my phone back on only to see texts from just about everyone I know. They're all asking where I am, but I ignore them, because what I'm about to do is far more important than anything they threaten me with. I have to make things right.

Standing in front of this door that I've stood in front of hundreds of times should make me feel at ease. Remembering all the times I had her pressed against the other side of the door because I just couldn't wait to have her all to myself. But if anything, it's making me more nervous. So nervous that my hands are shaking, palms sweating, my breathing is jagged and I know if I don't knock right now I might never get the chance again and I can't lose her for real this time. So without giving myself the chance to rethink, I knock on the door three times and I wait, handing in the pocket of my hoodie.

I wait a solid thirty seconds, which feel like an eternity, before the door finally opens and I see my beautiful girl. Her face is bare, hair only halfway straightened, and she's in those shorts I love and my old Led Zepplin t-shirt.

"Shawn," my name still sounds like heaven spilling from her lips. "What are you doing here?" She crosses and then uncrosses her arms, shifting her weight from one leg to the other before standing completely straight.

I didn't even realize I was crying until I sniffled and heard my voice crack with just three words, "I miss you."

"Shawn," she shook her head.

"I tried not to," I insisted, still standing like a fool on her door step. "I swear I did. But I couldn't stop. I looked through all our pictures and texts, and I couldn't stop myself from missing you. And I know I have no right to because I broke things off. But I was in Paris and I was miserable because Paris was your favorite place, and that was where I promised to love you forever, and I'm still keeping that promise. I was an idiot," I continue to ramble. "If there's a better word for that, then I'm that too, because I thought it would be easier if I broke things off. This tour was going to be so long and to go that long without each other, I was scared that it wouldn't be enough for you. But it's not what I wanted, y/n. It's not, and I just-"

"Shawn, stop."

I shut my mouth instantly, ready for her to tell me to leave. But what she does instead throws me completely off guard. She pulls me into the apartment and wraps her arms around my neck, burying her head deep in my chest.

"I miss you, too." She mumbles and I exhale slowly, only to inhale that scent that I love so much. The scent that is naturally her. She starts to pull away, and even though I don't want her to, I let her but she only leans back enough to take my face in her hands and before I even have time to blink, her soft lips are on mine and I'm whole again.

She's mine again and I'm never letting her go.

***

Tags: @curlyshawny @shawns-badreputation @anamariel2301 @bbellbagel

This took me longer to write than it should have, but I kinda really like it. I hope you enjoyed and I'll see you Wednesday for more content! 💙

Like, reblog, and leave feedback!!

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes one shot #shawn peter raul #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes smut #smfsource

[citylightsbooks]

Writing from Fierce Love: Mira Sethi in Conversation

This is an excerpt of a free event for our virtual events series, City Lights LIVE. This event features Mira Sethi in conversation with Miranda Popkey, celebrating Sethi’s new short fiction collection Are You Enjoying? published by Knopf. This event was originally broadcast live via Zoom and hosted by our events coordinator Peter Maravelis. You can listen to the entire event on our podcast. You can watch it in full as well on our YouTube channel.

Miranda Popkey: I wanted to ask you about your protagonist at the end of that story ["Tomboy"]. And I won't spoil the twists and turns that the story takes, but she has a moment with her husband, where she's remarking on a mutual friend. And [the protagonist] describes her as “brave.” And I think that “brave” is a word that's overused when describing works of literature, but I'm curious what it means for her, for your character, but also for you, to be publishing work that is quite daring and that is really trying to paint a picture of different pockets, different communities, in Pakistan that we ignorant Americans may not be familiar with.

Mira Sethi: Miranda, thank you so much for asking that. And I'm not just saying this because I'm in conversation with you, but this has to the most thoughtful question I've been asked about my book, because a lot of the questions I've been asked so far have been about Pakistan and politics, and we’ll get to that. That's also very important. But thank you for asking that.

As far as my protagonist--without giving too much away--she calls the other lady “brave,” because that other lady is living life on her own terms. And it's not easy to live life on your own terms in a country like Pakistan, even if you have a lot of privilege, because of issues around sexuality and the often burdensome imperatives of family and your clan or your tribe and your parents. And then the larger superstructure above that, which is the state and the things that trickle down from the state. So my character says [the other woman] is brave because she, herself, is living this dual life and she hasn't yet been able to come to terms with what it is that she wants. Although this, I imagine, is a turning point for her.

And for me, yes, I did think a lot about what the repercussions might be for writing about queer lives in Pakistan. But, you know, I'm in my thirties now, and I believe very strongly in a certain set of principles. I'm an outspoken feminist in Pakistan. That sometimes gets me into trouble. And I am going to write the things that I know and I love deeply. This book actually comes from a place of fierce love, and trauma and heartache and comedy, but mostly it comes from a place of love. And buttressing my fear is my love for people who are struggling to live life on their own terms. And so I wrote this hoping that if there are--I know I have so many queer friends in and out of Pakistan--I'm hoping that maybe if they read this, they can glimpse their lives and feel seen, because fiction is ultimately the desire to write, the desire to be seen fully.

Miranda Popkey: Absolutely. I completely agree that it's hard to imagine a life that you have not seen represented. And I think that's the experience that your protagonist is having. In that moment, she's seeing the life that she wishes she could live. Instead, as you say, she's living sort of a double life where she's married, but she does have queer desires.

Mira Sethi: Absolutely. And I didn't just struggle with this. I was kind of petrified while writing some of these, and not just "Tomboy" but also the title story, "Are You Enjoying?" because it's about infidelity, a love affair, an illicit relationship, a taboo relationship.

So I'm writing about sex, you know? Yes, I worried a lot about that. I'm worried about if somebody screenshots a really vivid passage and then says, “Look at her. She's spreading vulgarity.” I mean, this is something I deal with in my life as an actress as well. But yes, at the level of the sentence, it's definitely something I think about, but I didn't ever let that stop me from saying what I wanted. And in many ways, Miranda, I think it actually makes you more creative. I am not wishing censorship upon anyone. God knows, when there was censorship in Russia, people still wrote. There is a ton of censorship in Pakistan, and we still manage to tell stories. And it's not great, but it does force your most creative instincts out of you in a way that when you can say things very openly and very clearly, the mind isn't concentrated. It leads to a certain concentration of the mind when you're forced to say things in code. And I did for "Tomboy" a little bit.

Miranda Popkey: I think just from the craft perspective, it's also interesting that the story that is most explicit in its treatment of queer themes, and most affirming and its treatment of queer themes, is also the only first-person story. I think that's an exciting, exceptional choice.

Mira Sethi: May I tell you a cute little story? So I wrote this story, which had a very different shape and form, literally three weeks before I submitted it to my editor. And I showed it to a friend who was queer. And she said to me, very politely, she said, “You know, Mira, I love you, and you're a great writer, but you're not queer. And you're writing this queer story from the point of view of queer desire.” My protagonist in the early drafts would look at women in a certain way. And she said to me, “You’re great, but this is not working. You don't know what queer desire is like, so don't try and enter that consciousness. But you do know about patriarchy. So why don't you reframe this story from the point of view of patriarchy.”

And man, that was such a hallelujah moment, because I was really struggling with the story in the early drafts. And then as soon as she said that, I was like, “Oh my god, yes.” This was actually reading as comic writing, because I don't know about queer desire. And then I reframed the whole story. And it was a real breakthrough moment for me, because then the story just ran when I started reframing it from the point of view of patriarchy.

Miranda Popkey: Well, I'm glad that your friend gave you this wonderful piece of advice.

Can you talk about your editing and revision process?

Mira Sethi: Oh my god. The most false thing about becoming a writer is that you have a book and you get to show off your book, and nobody talks about how much real writing went into it. I mean, I'm practically tripping over my words right now because I rewrote the shit out of all of these stories. And the writing takes you to places that you hadn't anticipated.

I often say that I think in order to write. The writing is what tells me what it is that I think. So after I’ve written the thing, I know what it is that I think. So the editing process works like this: I write something. It's very raw. I'm actually not self-conscious when I start writing, because I know it's vomit. And I know there's nothing to be done with the vomit, you just do it. And then later on, you can go and clean it, but it gives you something to work with. And so I write, and then I clean it up, and then I think around draft fifteen, I show it to my editor. It takes at least fifteen drafts. And then they say “Okay, you've got a scaffolding, but where is this going?” So I've worked on these seven stories for five years. That's a long time for seven stories. It's almost a story a year. Writing is really quite grueling.

Miranda Popkey: I agree. My joke about my first novel, my only novel, is that I had to think about it for twenty years before I could write any of it.

Mira Sethi: And you said that in your acknowledgments as well, which I actually really appreciate.

Miranda Popkey: Are you the kind of writer who plans it all in advance or are you one of those who need to surprise themselves and somehow, through the writing itself, the ideas emerge?

Mira Sethi: It's the latter. It's exactly what you said. I don't think, in order to write, I write so that I may know what it is that I'm thinking. And I don't plan in advance. And honestly, this is not a critique of writers who plan in advance. I can't relate to it at all, because so much of the beauty of me writing fiction is discovering things that I didn't know. For instance, my take on identity politics. Yes, of course, I'm progressive, and I have a take. But it was only after writing this book that I really understood what I felt about the world. And I think that is one of the most beautiful things about writing fiction. There is a kind of slow dredging up of your subconscious. And then you're like, “Oh, this is what I think about this issue.” It's really quite amazing.

Miranda Popkey: I completely agree. I write in large part to figure out what it is that I think and when I get the words on the page, I know if they're right, and I know if they're wrong, and if it's just a thought it's much vaguer.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Mira Sethi: If it consumes you, you'll probably end up doing it. Because I find that is the case with most writers.

And have a community around you! Something that I don't have in Karachi is a community of writers. And I miss it. I have a community of actors, but I don't have a community of writers.

And workshop your work with people you respect and admire and keep going. And, you're not going to get it right the first time or the tenth time or the twentieth time, but you might get it right the fiftieth time, and you'll have to be in it for the long haul. It's actually quite painful.

Because you don't get it right. And then one day you get it right.

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