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houseofhatano · 1 year

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It's world-building Wednesday so it's time to move onto the next tale! This time we'll focus on the father of magic: Fidelis Solomon, whose inventions and discovery of old Attaguenian ruins marked the turning point of how magic would be used in society.

Despite being born amidst wars and an environment sapped from life, the mage was described to be a mostly quiet, curious and gentle man. From an early age he would become a student of magic under the supervision of the Mages of Meredyl, a sect of sorcerers, warlocks and wizards who dedicated their spellcasting to restauration and aid. The sect was started to form an opposition to the still large amount of destructive magic users, though it's unclear when exactly they were founded.

Solomon would study the craft for several years under multiple masters and would graduate at the age of seventeen. At this age he'd be the youngest graduate to master the ability of component casting, a style of magic which had only been invented fifty years prior by one of his teachers. After graduation, however, he would vanish from history for the next five years.

Many theorize that during this time he traveled, others say he merely stayed on the sidelines honing his skills. What's certain, however, is that the moment his name reappeared in the records of history he'd become a man of religion and ritual. This change would forge him into the role of tutor and scientist. Within a year he would become a renowned teacher an philosopher, writing texts on the marvels of life and magic. His teaching wouldn't be without controversy, but his lessons were there to stay.

After the mage's return his first great feat would become his creation of magic items. At the age of 24 he would go on to perfect a weaving method that could embue any garment with a larger amount of magical energy. These items would mostly empower the wearer, giving them a greater amount of magical control without needing to take energy from nature, a feature that would make his magical cloaks and clothes the first spell focuses in recorded history. Magical garments would soon gain popularity amongst casters of the MoM, which caused Solomon to gain a great deal of fame amongst the magical world. As his standing grew the mage would go on to further improve his weaving to create items with other attributes. These experiments would bring forth magic items as we know them today; Cloaks that could improve a wearer's stealth or form a barrier against attacks were a common creation of his. The ease of use of these items was universal. Not only could mages use them to cast magic, non-casters could also wear them to gain additional benefits.

At the age of 32, with his inventions still being sought after, Solomon ended up purchasing his first home. Sketches of the building show it as being a simple structure with more land than house. Instead the main feature was the old ruin of an, as letters describe it, ugly small building. While it was an unwanted addition for many, the mage was quite intrigued by its presence. He would spend about five years trying to observe and investigate, and it would eventually take him and additional year to find out that the building lead to an underground structure.

What exactly he found there remains unsure. Solomon never wrote about the full extent of the ruins, and due to an earthquake some days after his visit the entire complex would collapse before it was properly investigated. We do know, however, that out of that ugly small building he would bring with him a young man.

The young man Solomon had found was an Attaguenian lightwalker. Before his discovery their existence was thought of as mythical. With the rise of Meredyl's weave the Attaguenians had come to disappear, leaving but myths and legends of their traveling nature and their connection to light. The young man, later known as Elmett Stryder, was left behind to continue their story.

Elmett would teach Solomon the old ways of magic, showing him the connection the weave had unintentionally disrupted. In his letters to a friend the mage described ithis magic as all-powerful and unattainable. He had grown fascinated by its effects and its reserved casting, and from this fascination grew an urge to ensure that newer generations would grow accustomed to its use. This urge would lead him to seek out new ways of casting, and eventually lead to the forging of today's magic.

#worldbuilding wednesday #world building wednesday #worldbuilding #world building #writblr #writeblr #write blog #the magic of globa attica

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elizaellwrites · 2 years

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Legacy of the Fallen: The Cursed Snippet

Hey there! This is the first time I’ve put out a larger portion of my writing so I’m admittedly a bit nervous. This is a sneak peek of my book that I’m currently working on and I’d love to hear your thoughts! If you’d like me to post any more, do let me know and I can start posting more about my characters and world I’ve been working on. Thanks!

Anna closed the front door of her house behind her, leaning against it for a moment, lost in thought. To say that what had happened during her first day of school was unexpected would be an understatement. A smile pulled at her lips, a small laugh conveying her disbelief escaping from the back of her throat.

Even if they were a little odd, especially Jacob, their kindness had blown her away. After they had finished lunch, each one of them had made some kind of effort to say hello in the hallway or walk to shared classes. Even Ben, still silent as a ghost, had walked hesitantly through the hall with her at one point. It had been a little awkward, but she got the feeling that even if he did want to talk, he would have the same trouble knowing what to say as she did.

She had gotten a sense from him that there was something deeper to his shyness; if it was even that he was shy in the first place. She hadn’t needed to know them long to see just how protective Rachel was of him, the girl’s eyes flashing dangerously as soon as anyone so much as looked at him. Anna got the impression that they had a long history between the two of them, while Jacob was probably the newer addition to their group.

It turned out that Rachel was popular in a non-traditional way, though she clearly wasn’t a fan of the attention. It seemed that everyone knew who she was, several of her other friends coming up to them while Anna had walked with her between their tech class and English. Thankfully, Evan hadn’t made another appearance, though after hearing what others had said, she wouldn’t be surprised if he came to bother her again.

She pushed herself upright, sliding her backpack down her arm to place it on the floor. She looked into their small living room, the low ceiling and eggshell walls not exactly pleasant to the eye, but it was a home. Footsteps from where the kitchen was in the back corner of the house caught her attention as she pulled her arms free from her coat, her father coming into view a moment later.

There had been many people over the years expressing how she looked nothing like him, and no, their doubt wasn’t from nowhere. He stood at around five and a half feet, though there was just something about him that made him seem taller. His skin was a rich tan, with dark chestnut curls atop his head that stopped just above his shoulders, a five o’clock shadow covering the lower half of his face. He looked young for his age, she knew, not a greying hair in sight, though his worry lines became more obvious the more you looked at him. There were similarities though, her high cheekbones and the upturn on the outer edge of her eyes.

He currently looked exhausted, bags forming under his shockingly violet eyes, the product of a rare mutation that she long suspected may have contributed to her own strange eyes. His body seemed to wilt, even while he straightened, offering her a smile. “Hi,” his voice was light, cheerful even. “How was school?”

She watched the anticipation in his eyes, the regular hint of guilt floating across his face before it was gone. “It was good,” she felt the grin return to her. She leaned down, untying her boots and freeing the lower part of her jeans.

“That’s great!” His face lit up. “Did something happen?”

She wanted to laugh at his excitement, but she knew it was because she had stopped answering the question a while ago, much less given any hint of a positive experience. “I think so,” she couldn’t help the small amount of doubt. “I met some people.”

“Wonderful,” his face relaxed, though his eyes continued to shine.

She looked at him carefully, the weariness he felt ran deeper than he was trying to portray. She knew that he had hardly slept the night before, the sounds of him having another night terror waking her at sometime around midnight. She had never asked him what they were about, but it was because he hadn’t ever wanted to talk about them. He knew that she was aware of them, their rooms hadn’t always had the best insulation over the years after all but knowing was the furthest they got to acknowledging them.

He lowered himself down into one of the two chairs they had, a slight grunt escaping his lips as he did so. Immediately, his eyelids drooped, as though now that he wasn’t on his feet, his body had decided it was safe to sleep anywhere.

She bit her lip, trying to keep her concern from showing. After a moment of silence, she turned away, feet moving quickly across the creaky wooden floor. She entered her room, shutting the door softly behind her. A quiet trill sounded from the heap of blankets at the foot of her bed, a fluffy black head shooting up to regard her with blue eyes.

She shuffled over to the cat, sinking her hand into Isa’s long silky coat. She had immediately stood up at Anna’s ministrations, arching her back, balancing precariously on her tiny clawed toes. Isa, or Isabelle, as Anna had named her when they picked her up from the streets of Istanbul two years before. She was small for a cat of her breed, a Turkish Angora, only coming out to weigh just over two kilograms. Isa looked up at her with narrowed eyes, a soft purr rumbling to life in her chest as Anna scratched a sweet spot along the side of her neck.

She looked at the framed picture that she had on her bedside table, the old photo one of the few she had of their family before it was ripped apart. Her father was holding her mother from behind, Natalie, he had told her. Anyone would know that she was her mother in an instant, her father saying many times that she had gotten ninety percent of her looks from her. She had many of the same facial features, the same golden blonde curls, and even her height in relation to her father seemed to align almost perfectly. She was holding a young toddler version of Anna, platinum blonde wisps just starting to curl from the top of her head and face blotchy from obvious tears. At Natalie’s side stood a small girl, around four or five years old, brown hair curling tight in a wild mane around her rosy cheeks. Her sister, Arabella.

She looked into the deep violet eyes that matched her father’s, filled with joy and innocence as most at that age were. Her father hadn’t wanted to talk about her often, and when he had, it was only in short comments. Over time, she had been able to determine that Bella had died in an accident of some kind only a few months after this photo had been taken. The incident lined up, time-wise, with her mother leaving as well, though she couldn’t help but wonder if she had died in the same incident. If that was the case, however, she wondered why her father just didn’t say so.

She knew her father didn’t necessarily want to hide the past from her, but it was extremely painful for him even when he began to try. His life before what she could remember was a mystery to her, other than the occasional picture and the short stories he would talk about her mother. In a sense, she understood why he couldn’t talk about the past, the lack of any family presence before he had told her about his recently found older brother, along with his nightmares… it was a dark picture to paint indeed. She remembered the look of utter amazement when he had told her about Joseph, after at least twelve years of silence.

In truth, she didn’t even know where her father had even grown up. She knew her mother was American, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t from the United Kingdom either, or any of the other places they had lived. His accent was impossible to identify, like a bizarre mix of Arabic, Swedish and French with a minimal addition of English pronunciation as well.

A paw lightly smacking her wrist turned her attention back to Isa, the cat rubbing her fingers as soon as she started moving them again. A small smile played on her lips at Isa’s affection while she reached with her other hand to scratch down the length of her spine. Blue eyes slowly blinked up at her, her claws lightly pricking her leg through her jeans as Isa climbed into her lap.

Her hand stopped at the base of her tail, frozen as her fluffy tail was dragged between her fingers and palm. Her eyebrows furrowed as something pricked the back of her mind, like an itch that she couldn’t reach. It was as if something was calling her, though the ‘voice’ was more of a pull.

She stood slowly, Isa mewling in protest as she jumped down onto the floor at her feet. She exited her room, wincing at the sound of the floorboards under her feet. Her father was hunched over in the chair still, his eyes closed and chest rising in a slow, steady fashion. She passed him in a blur, her socks sliding slightly on the slick floor.

She rounded through the kitchen, the dark cupboards covering the outside walls with a small window over the sink. The basic, discoloured ivory tiles stretched beyond the small dining table and into what could hardly be called a hall with doors to their utilities and laundry/storage room.

Her eyes landed on a large box that was somewhat hidden behind a pile of others. She recognised it easily, as it was one that she knew had never been unpacked from when they had first moved from London. They had gotten rid of a lot of the unnecessary knick-knacks and books they didn’t read over the years, but this one particular box had remained, unexplained. Now it was drawing her closer, luring her in.

What was in that box?

Pressure against her ankle told her that Isa had followed her, a quiet chirp coming from the cat. She didn’t lean down, her eyes locked onto the plain, unprinted cardboard. Her hand instinctively raised, reaching out before her with fingers spread just ever so slightly.

Her eyes bulged as the box almost looked like it shifted under her gaze, her breath stuttering as her hand began to shake. In the low light that strewn in from the open doorway, a second source appeared. A turquoise glow seemed to originate directly above her, dimly lighting the white walls in a blue-ish sheen. When she looked up to see what it was, however, the light followed the path of her line of sight.

She snapped her head back to look at the box, the glow following once again. Her breath was coming faster, her legs feeling weak under her weight. Her hand, still outstretched, flexed absently, the muscles in her arm tightening. A tearing sound just caught her attention, her breath stopping altogether when she saw the makings of a hole just starting to show on the side of the box.

Anna ducked into a crouch without thinking as a rip rang through the room, her arm moving from in front of her to being raised above her head. She could just see the silver flash at the top of her vision, her fist abruptly closing around something cold and solid.

She opened her eyes from their sheltered position staring at the floor, the blue light was now gone. She felt her arm lower back to her side, gripping whatever now rested in her hand with white knuckles. She didn’t dare breathe, she didn’t want to raise her gaze to look at the box, nor to see what she held. Her eyes moved on their own, straining from her bowed position to see the jagged hole that punched outward from the cardboard.

Slowly she forced her head to turn to her right hand, her fingers slipping slightly on textured metal. A silver blade expanding outward from her backhanded grip sent a gasp that shuddered her body. Crystal, wing-like structures jutted out on each side of the hilt in an admittedly gorgeous guard. A silver V-shaped joint connecting the simple length of the blade that was almost as long as her forearm to the hilt, only a sharp hourglass indent two-thirds down the blade interrupting the classic shape. She shifted her fingers slightly, the ridged lines on the grip making it easier for her hand to balance the alien object in her palm.

She flipped her hand, the blade now directly below her face as she continued to inspect it. Amazement wasn’t a powerful enough word for the surreal feeling that burnt through her body. Dumbfounded, maybe, astonished, bewildered, perhaps flabbergasted, but nothing in the English language could ever truly describe what was happening to her.

She looked back at the box, swallowing the sting that was appearing in her throat. What in the name of all things holy had just happened? How was she supposed to explain this to her father?

She made a split-second decision, hopping to her feet with renewed vigour. She crossed the room to the box, looking at the dagger in her hand one last time before shoving it back through the hole it had come out of. Then, she braced her hand on the small counter behind it, shifting its position with her feet to turn the hole away from the door.

She left the room in a flurry, her feet skidding as she made the arch around the house, going back by her father, and into her bedroom. She paused with her door poised in her hand, heart pounding in her eardrums. She watched her father for a moment, his peaceful form still asleep, eyes shifting in a dream. She quietly shut her door with a trembling hand, bringing it to a fist just below her collar, her heart pounding beneath her fingertips, as she wilted against the solid structure.

She stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, her whole body screaming in alarm at what she had seen, the cool remaining tingle on her hand reminded her of how the dagger had felt in her hand; like it somehow belonged there.

What the hell?

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liesmyth · 3 months

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#on writing #needed this on my blog

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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 5 months

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I’m not a perfectionist, but finding a typo or a grammatical error in my own already-published fic is like stepping on a Lego honestly

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blinkpen · 27 days

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what if i decided i'm straight up not posting any new art publicly until that family's GFM in my pinned is at least Halfway to its goal

(even half my followers donating 5 bucks each would do that btw)

#i dont know them i just want to focus efforts and secure at least one 'at least this fam conclusively got help' i want to do SOMETHING OK??#extrwemely time senstiive GFMs that linger in limbo eternally are heartbreaking #i might post writing and reblog pre-posted things so the blogs not dead but mmmmmm

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burntoutdaydreamer · 6 months

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Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

#writing #creative writing #writer problems #writing advice #writing community #writing a book #writing problems #novel writing #on writing #writing tips #writing help #writers on tumblr #writers block #female writers #writers of tumblr #writers blog #adhd writer

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