I specifically bought a new fountain pen and green ink to write a bunch of letters to people I love and I keep forgetting to do that
oops
maybe if I make a redundant text post about it I’ll remember
Posts tagged "writing"
Does The Brain Control You…?
Characters: The Spine, Rabbit, The Jon, Sam, Michael Reed, and… The Body?
Summary: When The Spine unplugs himself from his body to unwind, his body is less than willing to let him back in. Based on Mod’s idea. (It should also be noted that the entire time writing this, I was listening to a very suitable song.)GODSPEED
READ ALL ABOUT IT HEADLESS CANON CONTINUES TO SPREAD THROUGHOUT FANDOM
(via t00ie)
Neil Gaiman: For all the people who ask me for writing advice...
1 Write.
2 Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3 Finish what you’re writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4 Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like…
(via neil-gaiman)
Just for some people who’ve been asking how I do the comic and if I’ve got the whole story written already- yes, I have the whole story mapped out, and I draw thumbnails of every page before I work on it.
(New tab and high-res or go to the DeviantArt page and download if you to see the full size image.)
“There’s no sherry in this trifle!” The first voice complained.
“Well that’s no fault of mine,” its companion replied, “you used the last of it to polish your boots.”
“How was I to know that was the last bottle? You should have bought more when you were in January.”
“Oh yes, and have to carry it all the way through March? I don’t think.” The second voice concluded his argument with a sound that might have been meant as contemptuous, but sounded more like a hiccough.
It struck Ethel, as she listened, that she hadn’t ever heard voices like these before- they were more like a collection of scratches and gurgling than words. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it occurred to her that it didn’t sound like English at all. They must be speaking in another language, she thought.
Of course, most sensible people would follow this thought up with; ‘how, then, can I understand them?’ But the thing about Ethel was she wasn’t greatly inclined to think about such things. When she had known her way to the postoffice on their holiday in Corfe, even though she had never been there before, or looked at a map of it, she had thought nothing of it. It wasn’t an inconvenience, so, why bother troubling it? These sorts of things were quite helpful without her interference- it would surely seem rude if she started voicing complaints about it now.
What did occur to her, however, was that she was no longer cold. Opening her eyes (which took a surprising amount of effort), Ethel blinked the sparks and green out of her retinas to see a churning amber glow lying a few feet away from her. It was a fire. Not one of those rickety white plastic things with the set of glowing wires, which you mustn’t touch even if the shade of red they turn is ever so appealing: but a real, smokey, spitting embers and ash fire. It was laid on something that looked like a piece of slate, except that it was green, and moved occasionally. The three of them- she, and her two voices- were arranged around the fire on a fine grey sand. At least, it appeared grey in the firelight; the pervading darkness around them declaring it to be nighttime in this wherever it was.
“Ah, so you’re with us then.” Said the first voice.
———–
The rest is over here on my new writing blog so I’m not constantly text dumping you chaps on tumblr, but I’ll let you know when I upload a new chapter. Thanks to everyone for being so encouraging, this is actually kind of new for me, so, uhm, yay.
A little bit of writing. Feel free to ignore it’s pretty much TL:DR anyway.
The problem with Ethel was that she didn’t really fit.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice, oh no, most everyone had to agree; Ethel was about the nicest creature that anyone could encounter without bumping into a unicorn on the way to work. Provided that the unicorn didn’t gore you on sight. You see, some of them do have the tendency of doing that, not that anyone would have brought that up in conversation.
No, Ethel did not suffer from a lack of niceness, prettiness, ability to smile-ness, or any of the other so called ‘ailments’ that some other non-fitting people suffered from. She was bubbly in every possible way, was fronted by a fountain of pale canvased freckles, topped by a champagne coloured explosion of hair with a smile the breadth of a pigeon’s wingspan beneath. Her voice was more of a chirruping sound than a string of sentences, and she had a habit of bouncing on the toes of her feet when not enough was happening.
Precisely why Ethel didn’t really fit was quite a mystery, and yet… she just didn’t. Like a grain of salt in a sugar bowl- she was ever so close to being exactly the same, but nobody wanted her to be in their cup of tea, or five-a-side football team, or reading club. It wasn’t that she was particularly dim or overly smart or terribly clumsy at sport; certainly no more than any other fourteen year old child, it was just that she was… not quite right.
Ethel had known for some time that she was not quite right. Of course, one got the impression rather quickly when everybody kept repeating it. Oh, it wasn’t that they said it, not in words. You see, Ethel had become very good at listening to people’s faces. Teachers would pull the 'understanding’ face, the one which was two creases away from disgust; classmates would pull the 'sorry’ face, which was one twist away from embarrassed and three from sneering; and then there was her parents’ favourite, the one she had decided to call the 'Ethel’ face. It was such a specific, nameless expression that they had created to use in regards to her un-fitting that she had been left without any other word to call it by. It wasn’t quite disappointment, but if she had thought hard enough about it she might have said that was probably the closest to it. Ethel didn’t like to think about it very hard though.
So it was, one Tuesday afternoon, that Ethel decided that she should find somewhere that she did fit.
She was perched on her bridge at the moment of this revelation; a small, shambolic looking thing that had born the weight of too many freight lorries following their sat-nav directions instead of their eyes. It had become a regular pit stop for her on the way back home; a place to while away the extra fifteen minutes that she wouldn’t be missed for. There was a convenient notch on the western-most wall where one of the more careless lorry drivers had taken a good three inches with him on his way to the M5. Many a day had seen the girl who didn’t fit, sat in her dent on her bridge, kicking the rubber heels of her shoes off the remaining brickwork above the slow moving river. Thud. Ka-thud. Thud-ka-thud. Thud.
Absently rotating this thought of finding somewhere to fit inside her mind, Ethel contemplated the river. It was an ugly looking thing. Brown; the sort of brown chocolate milkshakes came in- the ones that tasted of powder and not chocolate. She couldn’t remember what it was called. She had asked someone once, but it had been a short, boring, ugly sounding name, so she had forgotten it almost immediately. Perhaps that was why people had trouble remembering her name, she thought.
She leaned a little forward. If she concentrated very hard, she could just make out her murky sister, swinging her springy heels against the muddy bridge made of ripples and whorls. It wasn’t at all like the rivers in the movies- sparkling, silver things, or black; with great strings of lights peering out of them. This one was trimmed with a lace of foamy scum, broken with occasional gashes of darkness- a bigger absence of brown in the face of a passing cloud, or an extra tug of the current from beneath.
Focusing as she was on a particularly dark laceration of water that had formed to her right, presumably due to the intervention of a plastic bag caught in the reeds ahead, Ethel couldn’t have told you precisely why she fell in. Part of her was quite sure that she must have been pushed, having never fallen in before during all her months of sitting in quite the same fashion, but at the time of her descent she was rather too occupied with the fact that she was falling, and falling very fast. A damp rustling announced that the plastic bag had been liberated from the reeds.
The air was smote from her ear drums, the water closed over her head, and she was cold.
[I adore his “s”… and “o”… and “r”… and…]
Typography porn.
Look at that B, I mean, gad, I wish I could write that elegantly.
A collective of miscellany and mirth. Also sometimes I draw stuff.