#week 3: stories of a place

[books]

Writing Workshop Week 3: Stories of a Place

Hello again, my very talented writers of tumblr! I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed reading your work. I’ve seen such stellar craft happening, and I’m eager to see where you’ll take this next prompt.

In week 1, we focused on a single object. In week 2, we attended to the objects in our environment. This week, we’re considering the environment as a whole—setting.

One of the reasons I’ve chosen this order specifically, small to large, is because setting can become overwhelming. But last week we already practiced it in our real environments by observing our surroundings, and putting those details into our work. Setting is not as huge and amorphous as it may seem—when it comes down to it, setting is the interaction between character and place. Notice I didn’t say that setting is the place itself, and that’s because a place is meaningless without grounding it in the personal stakes of a character. It’s like walking around a grocery store and not putting anything in your cart. A setting only exists to hold its contents. 

Setting can refer to the largest and smallest of places: universe, galaxy, planet, continent, country, city, home, bedroom, pillow fort. Setting can also refer to time: millennium, century, decade, year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second. 

In writing, not all of these things have to be defined, nor should they. The difficulty in setting is the negotiation between our lived reality—in which we have all of this information at all times—and the restrictive nature of writing, in which we not only control all these variables, but we also have to organize and convey them. In reality, events can occur simultaneously. You can drop a plate at the same time you get a text message. But in writing, even if those things happen at the same time in the lived reality of your character, you have to convey the plate dropping and then the phone vibrating in consecutive sentences, linked usually by the word “simultaneously.” Your reader then retroactively crafts those moments happening at once in their memory, but there is a brief moment between those two details where the reader knows the plate has dropped but not that the phone will vibrate. Just as a film is restricted to the width of a camera’s lens, writing is restricted to the sentence. As immersive as writing can be, it is still always a constructed thing.

When it comes to setting, you not only have control over all these details, you also have to figure out the order of information those details are conveyed. Which brings me to…

Decision Fatigue

One of the reasons people think fanfiction is “easier” than original fiction is because there are fewer decisions to make. You have an established universe to play in and so you don’t have to pull up a name generator to figure out the name of your protagonist, or however you make those choices. But that’s not true—fanfiction requires a different type of decision-making and therefore a different (but equally difficult) skill set of creative thinking. The analogy I like to use is a playground versus a beach. On a playground, the equipment is already there, but you can use it however you want. On a beach, you have to decide what to bring with you. One is not inherently better than the other. It’s all play. 

I say this because I’ve coached a lot of writers who are transitioning from fanfiction to original fiction. It can be jarring to go from the playground to a beach. And so I see a lot of writers succumb to decision fatigue—the exhaustion of creativity. You have to decide what kind of car your character drives, how old they are, where they live, what they do for a living, their relationships, the conflicts of those relationships, their educational background, and so on. Creativity is making decisions. And that’s why it’s hard.

Relevance

I would argue that setting is the most difficult series of decisions to make. Our entry into a new piece is generally a character, a premise, or an image. Or, as we say on Tumblr, we put a guy in situations. That guy’s environment will affect him and his situations, because that environment will either help or hinder him in some way. A meet-cute, for example, is nearly always related to setting.

I remember doing my first generative workshop on setting. It sent me into a spiral I couldn’t climb out of for four years. The spiral was this:

All narratives, even narrative poems (as opposed to lyrical), exist in a time and place, and the author has control of those factors. The more specific those details are, the stronger the story becomes. The specificity of those details is rendered in imagery. Ergo, I have to develop my imagery.

And now I’m going to tell you the result of that line of thinking so you don’t fall into the same trap: I wrote a totally unpublishable novel. It was too long and not very interesting, and both of those things happened because I was more dedicated to developing my setting than my story. 

Although that was great practice, it kind of sucked to spend an entire year working on something only to put it in a drawer and never look at it again. What pulled me out of the spiral was dedicating myself to narration—I decided I was only obligated to describe that which my narrator observed. And because I didn’t want to bother with setting anymore, I made a character who was totally oblivious.

(We’ll be looking at narration next week.)

I began to view the setting through a character rather than around a character. My narrator was narrow-focused and obsessive, so I was only obligated to write that which came into the one-lane bridge of her attention. In other words, I only wrote what was relevant to her. And the only thing that was relevant to her was the object of her fixation. 

The big caveat here is that a story isn’t always obligated to its narrator. That’s a choice I’ve made for my own work, because I’m interested in narrators and the development of voice. My prose will never be beautiful or floral. I’ll never have the patience to lovingly describe what it’s like to live in Ohio. I’ll probably only ever write a character who has driven past the HELL IS REAL sign a dozen times and who maybe has strong opinions on corn. It’s the best way I can find to help me avoid the decision fatigue of building an entire world. 

Prompt time!

For this week’s activity, I’d like you to think of a place you really love. This can be your home town or the house where you grew up or wherever has brought you joy. (Remember: love inspires.) 

Next, I’d like you to write 3 facts of public information and 3 facts of private information about that place. 

Public information is anything that can be found, either by researching the place or visiting it. This could be factual—population, square footage, location. It could also involve community knowledge, like legends, cultures, or customs. It can also include major historical events. If you were to show this place to a total stranger, what would you tell them about it? This part may require some research. 

Private information is what can’t be known by anyone but you (and maybe the people who were there with you). This includes memories you have of the place, secrets, unknown histories; anything that can’t be understood unless you have intimate knowledge of the place or lived there during a particular moment. 

For example, when I taught in the South, I had a lot of students who had lived through Hurricane Katrina. They were all young children at the time. When I had them do this activity, many of them chose to list facts that anyone could find about New Orleans in August of 2005—that there were over 1300 casualties, that Katrina was a Category 5 hurricane. They also shared things that no one else could know, about their families housing total strangers whose homes were destroyed, about living for days or even weeks without electricity. About why their parents chose to stay rather than leave, or leave rather than stay. About loved ones who had died.

Once you have your 6 things, I’d like you to write a piece based on them. Here are some ways you can approach it:

If you want to write nonfiction, tell the story of one of your private pieces of information.

If you want to write fiction, write a story using at least one of the public pieces of information. For example, you can tell the story of a legend, or make a legend up. Or you could do something similar to what we did last week, where you take those three pieces of information and weave them in.

If you want to write a poem, try to capture the sense of place by using one or more pieces of information, either private or public.

If you want to write something experimental, write a story about a piece of private information from the perspective of the place itself. 

You don’t have to share your 6 things (unless you want to). While you’re writing, note the details that emerge naturally while drafting, what becomes relevant to the story versus what doesn’t. Like our previous prompts, allow yourself to lean into associative thinking and make connections with your memories.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #week 3: stories of a place #writers' room #writeblr #writing setting #writers on tumblr #writing advice #long post #long text post

[scamuel-likely]

Week 3 of writing workshop with @bettsfic & @books

Stories of a place:

The place I wrote about was Rokkō Island in Japan, and the surrounding area where I used to live.

I only used the common facts that anyone could find out.

1. The Rokkō Liner is an automated tram that transports people from the mainland to the manmade Rokkō Island.

2. Kobe was hit by a devastating earthquake in 1995.

3. Rokkō Island was made by taking the top off nearby mountains and compressing them to form new land in the ocean.

Tangled Up In Blue:

The tram snakes its way across a thin stretch of vibrant water, a thousand crystalline waves dance far below its metallic carapace. Inside, it carries precious cargo. The kind of cargo that thrums with the rush of blood and the spark of life, the kind that reads the morning paper and taps away at their cellphones. The tram is a noble beast, and it carries its task of transport out with no direction, no driver at its helm. It’s an entirely automated system, ferrying travellers from the densely packed mainland Sumiyoshi to the equally dense Rokkō Island. A commuter tram for many, as Rokkō Island houses few attractions and the heavy boom and bustle of harbours echo from its shores. This island is a freak of nature. It has been stitched together by the hands of mankind, mountains ripped from the earth and shoved into an orderly rectangular form. A picture perfect piece of the modern industrial world.

The tram, the Rokkō Liner, announces its destination to the passengers in singsong Japanese and again in a similarly musical yet somewhat mechanically clumsy English. Many, many foreigners, live and work on the island. Stacked into towerblocks and gated housing complexes, these expats make their livings in finance, shipping and translation. The early dawn illuminates a sea of suits, Japanese and foreign salarymen shuffling to work. Their faces are lined with stress and their company-issued tie clips shine in the newborn sunlight. One of them trips and falls, his briefcase letting loose a deluge of papers onto the pristine pavement below. He looks up at the sky, a tangle of telephone and electrical wires crisscrossing from granite apartment to granite apartment, and beyond that a vibrant cloudless blue. His suit is scuffed and he’s grazed his palm, but no one stops to help him up. So he’s left to shake himself off and pick himself up, as his spreadsheets and quarterly reports are pulled away by the soft morning breeze. He sighs and that too is snatched away by the wind. His boss isn’t gonna like this one bit.

His boss, the one who requested those quarterly reports to be on his desk by nine am at the latest, is sitting on the Liner reviewing a book his wife recommended to him, on Goodreads. He’s giving the thing, an American book called All The Pretty Horses, five stars. He’d sat down to read it one evening, with a glass of port in one hand and a cigarette in the other. After three refills of port and eleven more cigarettes he was done and, despite his insistence to the contrary, there were tears in his eyes. And tears freely flowed again when he conversed with his wife about the book over breakfast. Something about the book’s message of freedom and hope was inspiring, and made him hark back to the days of his youth. He was once a young revolutionary student who campaigned to end uniforms and for the school to stop getting funding from the nearby American airbase. He used to be a free spirit, used to wear a beret to school and sport Groucho Marx style glasses. Used to quote Karl Marx to teachers and Keats to fellow students. Used to organise film festivals, write in the local newspaper and mitigate street showdowns between young Yakuza members. And then he’d grown up. Life had caught up to him, forced him into a suit and pushed him through the sliding doors of a faceless office building. And he’d lost the joy in his life, crushed by timesheets and shipping mandates.

The review he was writing, on his wife’s account, was full of beautiful prose and cascading metaphors. He unleashed his creative streak, the one the grindstone of society had oppressed, and crafted an excellent essay-like review of McCarthy’s book. While writing this, his mind filled with such raw emotion, he let loose just one more tear. The teenager sitting across from him pretended not to notice him wipe it away with his shirtsleeve, which had been neatly ironed the day before by his wife.

The boss’s wife, an American-Japanese woman who’d grown up in Kobe, had first discovered Cormac McCarthy in a quaint little bookstore tucked away in the shadow of the Kobe Tower. The red light spilling from the tower reflected on the window display, dousing all its contents with an eerie blood-red glow. She’d taken shelter in there, as it was raining something awful and the karaoke bar she’d been at had closed early due to a leak in the roof. It was late at night, she was quite tipsy and in no mood for the noise and light of a train station, so she tapped on the window of this bookstore. It was closed, but light was spilling from a beaded curtain partitioning the shop from its backroom and her hurried and frantic tapping soon altered the owner. He was a man around her age, his eyes were ringed with the telltale dark circles of the sleepless. He wiped a stray eyelash away from his eye with one slender hand as the other fumbled for the door key. She wondered, somewhat drunkenly, if he was single.

He let her in, gave her a cup of green tea, and asked her, in excellent English, “What the hell are you doing dancing around in the street during a typhoon?”

She admitted to being a little drunk, and he gave her a blanket and a book, telling her to rest while he finished up his work for the night.

“Then what?” She enquired, but he clearly hadn’t heard her, as he’d slipped through the beaded curtain into the shop and was busying himself with the shelves.

Having no real other option, she took a sip of the piping hot tea and blearily glanced at the book.

The cover was well-loved, the spine supple and the edges fraying. Emblazoned on its front were the words: No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.

She took one more sip of tea, and began to read.

Eleven years and a long marriage later, she’d finally recommended the author to her husband. She knew he loved old Clint Eastwood films, and she knew something of his creative side, remembering him writing her elegant haikus when they’d just started dating. They’d been quite distant as of late, with her time mainly spent working from home and his in the office. She knew full well he didn’t do anything of substance, it was all delegation. His boss would tell him something, then he’d repeat it to his own employees, mimicking his boss’s angry demeanour best he could. The stress of his job had been making him snappish and standoffish, so she thought a literary diversion might be just what he needed. And she was right. He openly sobbed into his miso soup when they’d talked about the book at breakfast, the tears mixing with the broth and dissipating like rain into an ocean.

The ocean the tram was crossing was prone to violet outbursts. This was mainly due to the fact Japan sits in between four different tectonic plates, making it prone to earthquakes and tsunamis. One such earthquake had occurred in 1995 and had wreaked Kobe. Water had been forced out of the soil used to build Rokkō Island, causing pavements to crack open as water bubbled onto the surface. The rush of underground water brought with it geysers of sand that burst pavements, tearing down towering red construction cranes and shiny new bridges alike.

The bookseller remembers that earthquake well. His shop had been flooded by a burst sewage pipe, and his parent’s house had collapsed in on itself, a supernova of rubble and debris. He had wandered through the wreckage days after the quake, trying to find anything that remained. Quite a bit of the ground floor walls still remained, jaggedly and abruptly ending at around shoulder height, giving way to a sky still grey from debris dust. His parent’s fridge still stood, remarkably, dented as it was. A lone survivor of the now mostly-unrecognisable kitchen. He swung open its door to find a mush of foodstuffs, mulched up berries, squished meat, crushed pasta, eggshells, juice cartons spilling their contents onto the rubble-strewn cracked wooden floor below. A line of orange juice ran through a contour in the wood and pooled at his shoe. He glanced at his reflection in its vivid bring surface, a colour pop in this grey world, a world still shaking from the events of the past few days.

He looked just the same as he had on that rainy night in the bookstore, only now his hair was being eaten by wisps of silver and his shaded eyes were adorned by wire framed glasses, these two effects combining to make him seem scholarly and intellectual, though doing nothing to aid his never-ending quest for long term companionship. His parents, who had luckily been on holiday in Hokkaido when the quake had struck, had tried to set him with so many women in the past but nothing had ever stuck. He’d gone on a few dates with a girl in university but when her grandfather died she had to move back to Kanazawa. Their relationship slowly fizzled out after that, the fire of passion dying through increasingly rarer and briefer love letters and phone calls. Since then he hadn’t really had much luck with love, even going to a love hotel, just out of sheer desperation, only to find that sex was something he utterly didn’t understand, even when doing it. It was the human element that he fell for.

Take, for example, that woman he’d met when he was working late at the bookshop. Her tipsy little smile as she sipped her tea and opened No Country on her lap. Then the awe and raw excitement that flitted across her face as she read further and further. He had spoke a few more times to her that night, to refill her tea, to answer some basic questions about himself and to ask her where she lived so he could phone her a taxi. Her replies had all been witty and polite, and he’d etched them into his mind, despite her actual appearance fading into the obscurity of his memory, long since tarnished with taxes and neighbours and train times and the pressures of adulthood.

The teen on the tram didn’t want the pressures of adulthood. If adulthood made you cry on your morning commute, like she had seen that salaryman do just moments ago, she wanted no part of it. She was heading onto Rokkō Island to meet her girlfriend for early morning coffee. Her stomach was filled with a buzzing static that built and rose to her throat, making it hard to swallow. Not only had she called into school to tell them a family emergency had come up, which she had never done before, but she’d also slipped from her bedroom window and tiptoed to the train station in the waning night, which she’d also never done before. She was now sitting on the first train out to Rokkō Island, a doughnut in the shape of a lion in her hand. She bit into its adorable face, the soft sugary flesh splitting with the force of her teeth, spraying forth a tsunami of cream filling onto her hand. Another doughnut, this one a plump porcelain-like Hello Kitty face, with a jammy centre, sat in a paper bag on the seat next to her. It was for her girlfriend. The static in her stomach surged at the thought of that. She had a girlfriend. They’d met playing netball, it was a sweltering summers day and the tarmac had felt like lava when her palms had smacked down onto it after she had tripped trying to defend the net. After the ball had rushed through behind her, the girl that had scored, a very pretty girl with shoulder-length brown hair and sparkling eyes, had reached down and helped her up. She was so surprised that this girl, who was far better at sports and probably far more popular than she was, had helped her, instead of hugging a teammate or somesuch celebration. She was even more surprised when that girl cornered her by the changing rooms and gave her a tiny slip of Snoopy-branded notepaper. Etched on it in elegant gel pen was a set of digits. And a heart. They’d spoken over the phone a lot since then, and met for a few whirlwind dates when either school was competing. But now, now they were meeting up not in school hours, bunking to go to a boba & coffee place together. She felt so alive, like someone had lifted up her soul from her body and she was floating freely among the candyfloss clouds that hung in sparse bunches over the horizon. But there was a worry, a deep and suffocating one, that sat squarely in her chest and didn’t budge. It was the anger of doubt, of wondering if she was unnatural, of fearing her parents wouldn’t understand, of having to keep it all a secret. She finished the doughnut and wrung her hands together, her nails digging into her palms, making deep white marks that drowned out the static inside her.

“Miss, are you okay?”

It came from the salaryman. He’d put his phone down and was looking at her with deep concern through his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah, yeah I’m alright.” She managed to stutter, her hands shooting apart and onto her lap.

“That doughnut for someone?” He, rather redundantly, pointed at the bag with the smiling Mr Doughnut mascot on it.

“Urm, yeah, it’s for a friend.” She said, mostly to the gum on the underside of the salaryman’s seat.

“Well I hope they enjoy it,” He smiled at her, a kindly tired smile, “do you read much poetry?”

The question hit her like a freight train. A salaryman asking a teenager about poetry? She was astonished.

“No, no I don’t really, sorry.” She spurted out.

He leaned forward on his knees and with an exclamation of ‘yoisho’ lifted himself out of his chair and motioned to see if he could sit down next to her. She nodded, like a frightened rabbit.

“Well you should,” he said, sitting down, “it can free one’s mind of all sorts of heavy burdens. Can I read you a haiku?”

She was strangely at ease with this stranger, and so mumbled, “Yes, you may”.

He cleaned his throat and read, from memory;

“Even with insects-

Some can sing

Some can’t

It’s an Issa poem,” he said to her, “ and I think it relates to you somewhat. You seem different to others your age. And that’s fine, I was different once. I was a communist! Or I thought I was at least. And look at me now, huh? Another cog in the machine.”

The machine of the tram ground slowly to a halt and the lilting voice of the automated announcer proclaimed they’d reached Rokkō Island. The few passengers flooded out from the train and made their way out of the station. Passengers going from Rokkō to the mainland queued in orderly lines at the side of the tram doors, waiting for everyone to exit before stepping on. It was an intricate and well-executed dance of etiquette and unspoken rules. The salaryman picked up his briefcase, loosened his tie a bit, and walked off towards the shining sliding doors of his office building. The teen half-walked, half-tripped her way to the coffee shop, her brain was alight with hope and happiness, and all the static washed away on the wind.

The wind had carried the man’s papers far far away and so now he sat in his puffy, uncomfortable swivel chair, awaiting his boss’s arrival with a glum look on his face. His cubicle neighbour and best friend, a man with dyed blonde hair and perfect teeth, was consoling him.

“At least he’ll give you saké, he does that with everyone he fires right?” The guy grinned, leaning over the cubicles.

“I’d rather keep my job than have a bottle of saké, if I’m honest.” His mate glumly replied.

“Well bossman isn’t even here yet, maybe he’s been chopped up by the Yakuza, or run over by a car or-“

And in walked their boss, his tie loose around his neck and an odd spring in his step. He smiled, yes, smiled at them as he passed. When the door of his office was shut, the two men looked at eachother, then looked around at the puzzled looks on the faces of every employee in the room.

“What the hell just happened?”

“I think you’re not getting fired. Or maybe we all are.”

Music began to drift from behind the boss’s door. American music. Rather old.

Tangled Up In Blue by Bob Dylan.

#week 3: stories of a place #tumblr writing workshop with betts #creative writing

[kameonerd566]

Writing Workshop Week 3: Stories of a Place

Its a poem this time :]

My favorite place is a couch.

It can be any couch really,

but it has to be a couch in a crowded room.

There can be anything from low chatter,

to loud partying,

perhaps the hum of some movie long forgotten,

anything-

as long as everyone is there.

Thats when I can finally close my eyes

and sink into sleep

The voices of my friends

drown out the ones in my head

and before I know it

I've dozed off

Head pressed into the musty cushions,

maybe a blanket or two

Through my slumber I can hear them-

" ...fell asleep again", they giggle

I try to hide my smile.

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #week 3: stories of a place #mine #slug speaks

[teddybearsims]

San Myshuno Aquarium - Friday 9PM & Tuesday 2PM

#ts4 #s4 #sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims #simblr #sim: jude #sim: mars #story tag #I hope it makes sense that they're in the same place but at different times :3 #these were collecting dust in my drafts for WEEKS now ugh #this aquarium was a pain in my ass to build but I love how the colours turned out :'') #Jude looks so lonely n sad and Mars is just solo vibing

[evakuality]

Druck S3 - Five Years on

#druck #druck s3m #og druck #5 years ago I was still trying to pretend that 'I don't go here' #and there was some terrible stuff going on in my life #but even so there I was eagerly awaiting the next clip #while pretending I wasn't #and saying that I was waiting for the episodes at the end of the week #episode 3 was where it all flipped properly #but episode 2 still has a real fond place in my heart #so many great moments #such great characters #pleasantly happy with how much we saw of David #kiki's exasperation made me smile etc etc #long story short #I was hooked even if i wanted people to think I wasn't

[anotherpapercut]

bro what the fuck are they doing with my package

#fun story #i ordered 3 things from hot topic. they shipped but never arrived so a couple weeks later i messaged them abt it #and went back and forth with them for a while bc their customer service agents cant read apparently #before being told i had to call bc one of the things i ordered went out of stock and i was replacing it w smth more expensive #so i call and im on the phone for like a fucking hour missing the 15 minute window i have to eat between jobs #and being on the phone at work for a while lmao #i finally get it done and the guy fucking forgets my apartment number in the shipping address. it's in the billing address tho?? #so i email them AGAIN and im like yo your man forgot my apartment number. they cancel that order and place another #the effect this has is that the $14 payment for the more expensive item is cancelled as well. bc again they don't read #so im like sick i will effectively get these $60 pants for $15 (im very good at sales and also manipulating customer service) #but apparently when they replaced the order they put ny apartment number not in the address‚ but as part of my name????? #so i think its fucking up usps. but it came in 2 packages and 1 has arrived so i still have hope. but thats not the end #yesterday guess who fuckin calls me. its hot topic. my original order arrived to the fuckin store in my local mall #and theyre like i think we fucked up bc we just found this package but it says you picked up your order already. do u want it #and i was like yes? not really sure what package to be expecting and its my ORIGINAL FUCKING ORDER #so once this package arrives i will have gotten 2 of the same shirt‚ 2 kiki sign things‚ a sweater‚ and a pair of pants for $40 #and i figure i can return one of the shirts and one of the signs that i have duplicates of for store credit of their full price #so anyway yeah. thats been the past 3 weeks for me.

[arabian-batboy]

In WFA, Duke had a 3 parts story called Crush, Damian had a 2 parts story called Opening Up, Dick had a 2 parts story called Big Brother, Cassandra had a 2 parts story called All Seeing, Stephanie had a 2 parts story called Belonging and Tim had a 2 parts story called Better and Brighter.

So now I have a feeling that a 2 part centric story for Jason is going to come sooner or later.

#although Dick's story was kinda shared with Tim #but we will have to see #I'm sick of Tim centric stories 3/5 of the fast passes eps are about him #and I'm pretty sure someone calculated how many times the Batkids appear in WFA and Tim was like at 2nd place? #anyway he better not show in next week ep #Jason Todd

[fansids]

Welp, I've finished the season 4 special...

Anyway-

#the finale wasn't bad btw. It's just it coupled with season 4 and 3 has me tired #I'm sure a lot of people like it #I'm honestly just really tired #I think I've just fallen deeply out of love with lmk #which is sad cause it had me by a chokehold for years #I could rant but I no longer like the show enough to give such an emotional response #Season 3 was already very high stakes and emotional. Season 4 did not need to be #even if I agreed with all the decisions they made. Having 2 high stakes world ending situations with so much angst is emotionally exhaustin #what drew me to lmk to begin with was the villain of the week format it had going #low stakes episodical things with super fun and endearing characters yk #sure they could have an overarching story. I don't actually mind the LBD plot at all #but what they did to SWK... I started watching the show because I saw a clip with him in it and I loved it so much I sought it out #they've massacred my boy #and then the continued angst and stress they tossed onto Mk. I don't appreciate it #maybe I can focus on making aus instead #season 1 and 2 still hold a special place in my heart (season 1 waaayyy more than season 2) #so maybe I'll rewatch those and see if I feel anything #but as of now I think I'm done with the show #ah well

[meowonhao]

my ticket finally came!! 🩷

#i rarely have to use my full english name unless it’s stuff like this that i have to verify myself #and it always reminds me just how long it is ajshsbsjsk #like especially in korea but honestly even by like american standards #think it’s like 26 characters total including the two spaces since i have to do my first middle and last name 😅 #long ass line blacking it out taking up half the ticket #diamond life #anyways story time! #no one knows the stress interpark has put me through in the process of actualy receiving this ticket…. #was supposed to be mailed out like within a week of buying it #took forever to do that #Then they finally did like sometime last week and said expect it to come 3-5 days #and it came thru the post office and i was like okay probably next week because they don’t deliver on weekends #or so i thought #anyways that was like thursday i think? then i get a text like friday afternoon #saying oh we tried to call you to come deliver the ticket (bc i have to sign for it) but you didn’t answer so #even though i did not have a single call that wasn’t a saved number all day #so i immediately called the number that texted me and they were like well it’s too late to come today #(it was like 4pm) #and it’s about to be the weekend so we’ll come on monday just make sure you answer the phone this time #even though they literally never called me in the first place 🙄 #pretty sure they were just pretending so they could go home early on a friday ahsjsks #but the thing was. i wasn’t even expecting it until this upcoming week so they could have just waited and i never would have known #ANYWAYS so i was like okay fine i’ll make sure someone is here to get it on monday #tell me why i slept in bc it’s sunday and i don’t have rehearsal and i was woken up by a call #they’re like i’ll be coming to deliver your ticket in about an hour! #like it is literally sunday and you said you couldn’t deliver on weekends…..but whatever i was like oh 네 감사합니다 you know #then dude came like. 5 mins later i’m still basically half asleep and look like a mess #but anyways none of that really matters now bc i finally have my ticket but #it put me through so much unnecessary stress bc i’m always paranoid about stuff like this until i have it physically in my hand #even though i knew it was gonna come and be okay

[irish-belle]

My husband is going to work on a side job this evening and I’m being so brave about it

#he said he had a handy enough day in his full time job #so he has the energy at least #but he’s roofing tomorrow so he’ll be exhausted #and soaked #cuz today was the only dry day in this weeks forecast #the oldest is up in the home place farming #and the younger three are in good form #I’ll just shower them and try to get them in bed for half seven #update: 2-4 are showered and in bed #fun fables podcast covered story time for 2and 3 while I nursed 4 #1 is home from farming and showering #it is 7:45 and I’m calling this on track

[polaraffect]

#damien.txt #so listen. i've been kind of fucking depressed for the past 3 months ish #and im going to tell a story related to that in the tags so. if u continue to read. judgement free zone for me pls okay? #cool cool so im like. Really bad abt taking care of my self & my surroundings when im depressed #esp bc like. im in school & work so. literally ALL of my energy goes to those two things #and i will go. weeks upon weeks not cleaning my room #not throwing out trash. which i am AWARE is gross. but truly i would get home and pass tf out and then wake up and #start the day again. like i just truly was not engaging it in any way #anyways. so there's this library book that's been sitting on my nightstand for around a month ish #and ive also been using it as a place for other nightstand things- putting cups on. glasses at night. etc. #well. so i get an email that this book is due back tomorrow. so im like 'oh i should put this book in my backpack' #and i lift it up..... and fuck. there is literally spotty mold ALL. OVER. the back of this fucking book #i guess one of the cups i left on the night stand leaked liquid onto my nightstand and then it soaked into the book or something #and the book didnt move for a Month so like. it's had forever to just sit there and mold over. #and fuck. fuck! i was having such a good night before this too. #now im like.... what the fuck do i even do #i probably just need to go turn it in & pay the fucking expensive fee but like. fuck me. i wanna cry #it always feels like one thing on top of another. like things just are constantly going wrong in my life #and like i Know this is not. the biggest deal in the world. but it just feels like such a dumb fucking thing to happen idk. #anyways. gonna cry abt that and. i guess figure out what im doing with it tomorrow /:

[books]

[Taglist] Writing Workshop week 3: Stories of a Place

For those just joining us, @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. This is the taglist for participants. You can join this list by messaging us here on @books. Want to know more? Start here.

@scamuel-likely

@cheerfulmelancholies

@subversivegrrl

@jamiesshelves

@wanderingbandurria

@nana-glass-chillhop-radio-hour

@dragonnan

@sirswooshnoodles

@strexrep

@preternaturalrose

@funkynoshes

@medieshanachie

@stayfrosty2sims

@ashmariesstuff

@thesoapgirl

@bibliomancerkay

@jeanie205

@paulineagain

@youreonyourownkid13

@mxxnlightwriting

@randomafterthought

@karacat

@lilliebellfanfics

@haillily

@djinnhatescold

@liv-is

@rhysofcourse

@nix-rose

@little-tea-kitten

@petiolata

@xoxo-gothic-girl

@omg-elledubs-things

@reblogwhoreowo

@mclurky

@deplorablethoughts

@richardmurrayhumblr

@gluepoo

@valkyrhys

@x-soapbox-x

@winterstar1412

@themandilorian

@dinovom

@allaboardthecolumboat

@scorpio-and-a-half

@musicismagic-writes

@mywhateversite

@mtk4fun

@kameonerd566

@cardcaptorsakura96

@loiladadiani

@zacharialend

@tanthamorelover

@inflappible

@emptymanuscript

@deadrabbitohno

@slicesofapple

@goldenwatcher

@porcelaintoybox23

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #week 3: stories of a place #taglist

[windfighter]

Not only thunder roars

Prompt: ”I’m scared.”

-----

Takeru curled up next to Yamato and Yamato put an arm around him.

”I’m scared”, Takeru whispered.

Lightning flashed across the sky, thunder roared. I’m scared too, Yamato wanted to say. But he couldn’t. He needed to be brave, Takeru’s rock. Needed to be a good brother. Or else mom and dad might start fighting again.

”I know it looks scary, but lots of things that look scary aren’t”, he said. ”Like that bug you found yesterday!”

A bug was far from the same thing as lightning though. Another flash crossed the sky and Yamato supressed the need to flinch. Takeru did instead, pressed harder into Yamato’s side. Yamato lifted him into his lap. Part of him wanted to suggest they hid in the wardrobe. He pushed that part as far away as possible.

”Why is the sky angry?” Takeru asked.

Yamato didn’t know. He raked his brain to find what he had done to wrong the sky, but nothing came up.

”Maybe….” he started and tried to think something up on the spot. ”...maybe there’s just been too much work for it lately. Like how it is for dad sometimes.”

Thunder roared again. Takeru gripped Yamato’s shirt and pressed his face against Yamato’s chest. Yamato watched the rain run down the window.

”He’s not angry at us, just very loud”, Yamato said.

He wished he could believe his own words. Takeru seemed to calm down a bit though, the tight grip around Yamato’s shirt loosened. Yamato lifted a hand to his cheek. The bruise had disappeared, but the pain was still fresh in his memory. He swallowed and hugged Takeru.

”He could never be angry at you”, he whispered.

”Is the sky angry at you?” Takeru asked.

Yamato blinked. Shook his head.

”Maybe it is”, he said. ”Maybe it’s angry I’m holding you in here instead of letting you go out and greet it.”

Takeru looked at him. Yamato did his best to grin and Takeru laughed. Settled more comfortable in Yamato’s lap and looked through the window. Yamato did as well, tried to keep the memories of dad’s hand and the pain away. Takeru leaned his head back and looked at Yamato.

”You’ll always protect me when it’s angry, won’t you?”

Yamato wasn’t sure what they were talking about any longer, but he knew one thing. He ruffled Takeru’s hair and gave him another hug.

”I’ll always protect you.”

#windy writes #whumpril2023 #digimon adventure #yamato ishida #takeru takaishi #pre-canon #implied child abuse #they're babies your honor #takes place somewhere before their parents split up #I dunno I saw 'I'm scared' and my brain was just 'takeru is scared of thunder I don't make the rules' #then I had to fill in the blanks #I've always like thunder #except once when I was like 1 week and had just gotten home from the hospital #first thunderstorm I experienced was apparently very terrifying for me and made mom wish she could return me to the hospital or the stork #honestly wish she had #or that dad had taken me with him when he left #aklsfhg #sorry for the ramble #but that's what the tags are for aren't they x3 #anyway hope you enjoyed the story :3

[baekuras]

it’s always fun being creative until you work on like 5 things at once so none of them get finished but you have made like half a step of progress on all of them in the past few days

#txts #at least i am not bored? #but also dear god my poor brain juggling all this #and sadly work returns tomorrow #late short shift aka 6hours but STILL #its work so ew #anyhow i have created like 3 characters #fleshed out 4 (side)plots-part of it involved more in the main one so yeah #blocked out an entire relevant location which is 3 levels of inside and 1 of outside...which still needs details but STILL #and have now done flat colours for 1 fandom piece (hi kiyan....help me...pls) #rn it is 1am and i wanna go draw my ocs #it'd be much more helpful if i were to model them or decide on a style bc i would like to actually fuck around with them in game-relevant #thingies and learn that #BUT i guess not....def not at 1am to be fair #not during work week #BUT!!! this means basically everyone of the main cast with the exception of 2 relevant antagonist is done at least style wise #needs refinement etc etc but at least we are getting places #slowly.....but surely...... #look i always wanted to throw my ocs and stories or whatnot out in the world somehow #and i am so not there to comit to comics-especially not atm #so....i am going back to 'lets see how hard it is to make game' idea and see if i give up on that #if i do-well....wouldnt be surprised but it is fun to fuck around in game engines so at least there is that #what is life for if not to fuck around a bunch #its also always a fun time of having to take 500steps back bc brain is like #oooooh what if we add all these cool action super amazing thingies everywhere and put all this in #like bitch what if we learn how to make our own shit AND have it work in engine first? #lets start by having a character and walking animation-like...pls #it'll stay small bc...i am me...i am not gonna make a AAA 70hour game lol #i will make smth neat and small that I'll enjoy playing through and thats basically my philosophy w/ all my art #its for me first and everyone else 2nd-but i do love it a lot when others enjoy it

[cosmicbyeol]

what in my chart makes people tell me crazy ass stories within the first couple of times meeting them?!?!

#I work in a staffing agency so I’m at a different place almost every week sometimes every day #I’ve been to this location maybe 3 or 4 times and I’ve met one teacher in passing but she just told me the craziest story #I’ve seen her maybe 3 times… and she asked where I’ve been with my job and then BOOM crazy story #anyways… i have pacs coming so be looking out for those!!