Writblr - Blog Posts

The Chase

I forgot the date,

But remembered the day.

I forgot the location,

But remembered the place.

Forgetting the words,

I remembered the face.

Even though, it was completely ruined,

I remembered the taste.

The years forgotten,

I tried to forget the phase.

Maybe it was time,

To let go of the chase.

~ark

List of Interesting Latin Phrases

A list I made just to satisfy my vain cravings for resonating mottos for a secret society I'm working on. Enjoy!

abi in malam crucem: to the devil with you!

ad astra per ardua: to the star by steep paths

ad augusta per angusta: to honors through difficulties

aegis fortissima virtus: virue is the strongest shield

amor vincit amnia: love conquers all things

animo et fide: by courage and faith

arbitrium est judicium: an award is a judgement

aut mors aut victoria: either death or victory

aut vincere aut mori: either victory or death

bello ac pace paratus: prepared in war and peace

bibamus, moriendum est: let us drink, death is certain (Seneca and Elder)

bonis omnia bona: all things are good to the good

cede nullis: yield to no one

cito maturum, cito putridum: soon ripe, soon rotten

consensus facit legem: consent makes law

data fata secutus: following what is decreed by fate (Virgil)

durum telum necessitas: necessity is a hrad weapson

dux vitae ratio: reason is the guide of life

e fungis nati homines: men born of mushrooms

ego sum, ergo omnia sunt: I am, therefore all things are

pulvis et umbra sumus: we are but dust and shadow

quae amissa salva: things lost are safe

timor mortis morte pejor: the fear of death is worse than death

triumpho morte tam vita: I triumph in death as in life

tu vincula frange: break your chains

vel prece vel pretio: for either love or for money

verbera, sed audi: whip me, but hear me

veritas temporis filia: truth is the daughter of time

vero nihil verius: nothing is truer than the truth

vestigia nulla restrorsum: foosteps do not go backward

victus vincimus: conquered, we conquer (Plautus)

sica inimicis: a gger to his enemies

sic vita humana: thus is human life

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! Also, join my Tumblr writing community for some more fun.

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

Reference: <Latin for the Illiterati: a modern guide to an ancient language> by Jon R. Stone, second edition, 2009

If You’re Writing a Female Character, Avoid these Bad Writing Mistakes

Avoid focusing solely on how she looks, what she wears, or how attractive she is to others.

Don’t make her dependent on male characters for rescue or decision-making.

Avoid giving her unrealistic abilities without any training or explanation.

Avoid portraying her as constantly crying, screaming, or overly dramatic without depth.

Don’t make her entire character arc revolve around finding love or getting married.

Avoid creating her as the only female in a predominantly male cast just for diversity points.

Avoid having her dialogue filled with stereotypical phrases and overused expressions.

Ensure she has realistic imperfections and challenges to overcome.

12 Emotional Wounds in Fiction Storys

Betraying a Loved One. Your character made a choice, and it backfired, badly. They betrayed someone close to them, maybe on purpose, maybe by accident. Now, the guilt’s eating them alive. They might try to fix things, but can they even make up for what they did?

Guilt Over a Past Mistake. They made a mistake, one that cost someone else. Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was a dumb decision, but now it haunts them. They can’t stop thinking about it, and no matter how hard they try to make things right, the past keeps pulling them back.

Survivor’s Guilt. Imagine surviving something awful, an accident, a disaster, but someone else didn’t make it. Now your character is stuck asking, “Why me? Why am I still here?” They push people away, convinced they don’t deserve to be happy or even alive.

Feeling Powerless. Your character is trapped, maybe in an abusive home, a toxic relationship, or just in life itself. They feel stuck, with no control over their own future.

Being Wrongly Accused. They didn’t do it. But no one believes them. Your character has been falsely accused of something serious, maybe even a crime and now they’re fighting to clear their name. It’s not just about proving their innocence, though. They’re also battling the pain of being abandoned by people who were supposed to stand by them.

Public Humiliation. They’ve just been humiliated in front of everyone, maybe it’s a video gone viral, or they were betrayed by someone they trusted. Now, they can’t even look people in the eye.

Living in Someone’s Shadow. No matter what they do, it’s never enough. Someone else, a sibling, a friend, a partner, always shines brighter. They feel stuck in that person’s shadow, invisible and overlooked.

Abandoning a Dream. They had big dreams, but somewhere along the way, life got in the way, and now they’ve given up. Maybe it was because of fear or circumstances beyond their control, but the loss of that dream has left them feeling empty.

Childhood Trauma. Something happened to them when they were young, something painful that still affects them today. Whether it was abuse, neglect, or a significant loss, the trauma follows them into adulthood, shaping how they see themselves and the world.

Being an Outsider. They’ve never felt like they fit in, whether because of their background, their personality, or something else. They long for acceptance but fear they’ll never find it.

Struggling with Addiction. They’re caught in a destructive cycle, whether it’s with substances, behaviors, or even people. The shame and struggle to break free from addiction are real and raw.

Living with Chronic Illness. They’re living with a chronic illness or disability, and it’s not just the physical challenges that weigh them down, it’s the emotional toll, too. Maybe they feel isolated, or like they’re a burden to others.

Creepy things to add to settings

Just to make things a bit more interesting

—Water stains from flooding

—Withered down machinery resulting from weather

—Torn fabric caught on spikes

—Attempting to find a hiding spot, only to turn around and find the skeleton of the last person who tried to hide there

—Expecting to see spiders and other bugs, only for them all to scurry away as a new presence enters the room

—Fog slithering in through holes in the walls or open windows

—Stepping on the dead, crunchy leaves of plants that started growing inside

—The characters knowing the floorboards will creak, so they try really hard to keep quiet as they travel. Make them all freeze when they hear something else coming at them and decide if they should stand still to keep from attracting any more attention or if they run for their lives

—The wallpaper and paintings on the wall torn off and scattered against the floor, leaving the walls barren and lifeless

it’s all about how you describe it! Find things that get under people’s skin (bugs, snakes, certain sounds, etc) and connect them to whatever you’re trying to make creepy

📚 The Art of Subtext in Writing 📚

Let’s talk about subtext. It’s one of those things you feel when you read, but maybe don’t consciously notice, and yet—it’s everywhere. It’s in the way characters talk to each other, the details they avoid, the glances that linger, and the things left unsaid. Subtext is what gives a story depth, pulling readers into the unspoken layers underneath the surface. It’s like the heartbeat of a scene, or the feeling you get when you’re reading and know there’s more to what’s happening than meets the eye.

So, why is subtext important? Because it makes stories feel real. Life isn’t always clear-cut; people don’t say exactly what they mean, emotions can be complex, and motives aren’t always laid out on the table. Subtext reflects that complexity, making your characters and situations feel richer and more relatable.

Here are a few types of subtext and how to use them effectively:

1. Romantic/Emotional Tension

This is probably the most common type of subtext, especially in romance or drama. Think of characters who clearly like each other but won’t admit it. They argue, they bicker, they avoid eye contact, but all that is subtext for “I’m secretly into you.” Use this when you want your readers to root for a connection that isn’t obvious or acknowledged yet.

2. Conflict Subtext

Not all conflict is overt—sometimes it’s in the snappy dialogue or forced politeness. A character might “agree” with something on the surface while feeling the complete opposite. This kind of subtext is powerful because it lets readers see two conflicting layers: the polite conversation happening outwardly, and the resentment or anger bubbling underneath.

3. Dramatic Irony

This is when the reader knows something the character doesn’t, creating tension or humor. Subtext here involves leaving hints in the writing that make readers feel “in on it.” For example, if a character is convinced their plan is foolproof but readers already know something’s about to go wrong, you create an undercurrent of impending doom or anticipation.

4. Thematic Subtext

Subtext isn’t just for characters; it can also layer meaning into the theme of a story. If your book’s theme is about, say, identity, you might use subtext to show how a character hides certain parts of themselves around certain people. They might be saying one thing while subconsciously revealing their discomfort or need for acceptance.

5. Cultural/Social Commentary

Sometimes the best social commentary is subtle. Rather than outright saying, “This society values material wealth over happiness,” you might show a character who’s obsessed with buying status symbols while feeling deeply unfulfilled. This approach can make readers reflect on the message more personally and deeply.

How to Use Subtext

To work subtext into your writing, trust your readers. Give them just enough so they can pick up on what’s below the surface without spelling it all out. Here’s a small exercise: write a scene between two characters who are pretending to be friendly but actually dislike each other. Notice how tone, body language, and word choice convey the tension without anyone actually saying, “I don’t like you.” It’s all about restraint.

Types Of Writer’s Block (And How To Fix Them)

1. High inspiration, low motivation. You have so many ideas to write, but you just don’t have the motivation to actually get them down, and even if you can make yourself start writing it you’ll often find yourself getting distracted or disengaged in favour of imagining everything playing out

Try just bullet pointing the ideas you have instead of writing them properly, especially if you won’t remember it afterwards if you don’t. At least you’ll have the ideas ready to use when you have the motivation later on

2. Low inspiration, high motivation. You’re all prepared, you’re so pumped to write, you open your document aaaaand… three hours later, that cursor is still blinking at the top of a blank page

RIP pantsers but this is where plotting wins out; refer back to your plans and figure out where to go from here. You can also use your bullet points from the last point if this is applicable

3. No inspiration, no motivation. You don’t have any ideas, you don’t feel like writing, all in all everything is just sucky when you think about it

Make a deal with yourself; usually when I’m feeling this way I can tell myself “Okay, just write anyway for ten minutes and after that, if you really want to stop, you can stop” and then once my ten minutes is up I’ve often found my flow. Just remember that, if you still don’t want to keep writing after your ten minutes is up, don’t keep writing anyway and break your deal - it’ll be harder to make deals with yourself in future if your brain knows you don’t honour them

4. Can’t bridge the gap. When you’re stuck on this one sentence/paragraph that you just don’t know how to progress through. Until you figure it out, productivity has slowed to a halt

Mark it up, bullet point what you want to happen here, then move on. A lot of people don’t know how to keep writing after skipping a part because they don’t know exactly what happened to lead up to this moment - but you have a general idea just like you do for everything else you’re writing, and that’s enough. Just keep it generic and know you can go back to edit later, at the same time as when you’re filling in the blank. It’ll give editing you a clear purpose, if nothing else

5. Perfectionism and self-doubt. You don’t think your writing is perfect first time, so you struggle to accept that it’s anything better than a total failure. Whether or not you’re aware of the fact that this is an unrealistic standard makes no difference

Perfection is stagnant. If you write the perfect story, which would require you to turn a good story into something objective rather than subjective, then after that you’d never write again, because nothing will ever meet that standard again. That or you would only ever write the same kind of stories over and over, never growing or developing as a writer. If you’re looking back on your writing and saying “This is so bad, I hate it”, that’s generally a good thing; it means you’ve grown and improved. Maybe your current writing isn’t bad, if just matched your skill level at the time, and since then you’re able to maintain a higher standard since you’ve learned more about your craft as time went on

She was beautiful like flower each day she blooms in the sun light each night the moon gave her his glow.

PART 2

Sorry it took me a while to get round to it, I’ve been pretty busy recently.

Thank you @all-usernames-are-taken for the ideas!

The pain went as rapidly as it appeared. The ringing in my ears disappeared with it. Shaking, I gripped the dresser below the mirror and stared in disbelief at my reflection.

‘It started so suddenly. I was fine, and then suddenly blood was pouring from my ears and nose.’

This couldn’t be possible. The leak from the lab happened three years ago — a virus could never live that long without a host.

But this was no ordinary virus, was it?

I grabbed my phone, and attempted to call the police. There was no signal. I tried to call my clients, the parents of Ava Stone, but I couldn’t reach them either. Part of me knew that that was probably a good thing: I couldn’t allow this virus to spread any further. The damage it was capable of was obvious.

Instead, I turned on my camera, and began to record. I explained everything which I’d discovered, and how important it is to prevent the virus from spreading. If anyone tried to find out what happened to me, hopefully this would be good enough to make my death worthwhile.

I put my phone away and left Ava’s house. Before I died, I wanted to do one last thing: to explore the government lab. The thrill of breaking the law even further filled me with excitement. After all, what did I have to fear?

The lab was about half a mile off the outskirts of the town. Like all of the other buildings, it looked run-down and neglected. The white paint was peeling, and the walls were dirty and yellowed.

I stepped back, then ran forwards and kicked the door with all my weight. All I achieved was a stubbed toe and a sore ankle. I turned my attention to the window. The glass was reinforced with metal, but the frame around it was old and decayed. I picked up a large branch from a nearby tree, and rammed it into the corner of the window, which shattered. I took of my jacket, and lay it over the remaining shards of glass. Then, I leapt up and shoved myself through the tiny window. I was only just small enough to fit — thank god I’d never had a growth spurt.

Inside the lab, it was just as derelict as the outside. Everything was covered in dust, so thick that I sneezed. I made my way through the abandoned rooms, instinctively trying to be quiet, even though I knew there was no one to see me.

Something in the corner of the a room caught my eye. It was a just cupboard, nothing particularly interesting, but something was off about it. Everything was dusty, except for the handle. Someone must have touched it recently.

I crept forwards and opened the cupboard. Instead of revealing shelves of equipment, it had steep stairs leading deep underground.

A secret underground facility underneath an abandoned government lab. Could this day get any weirder?

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, it became clear that this place was well looked-after. It didn’t smell of dust and decay; instead, it reeked of antibacterial spray. The corridors were shiny and white, and no cobwebs could be seen.

And I could hear movement.

I opened a random door and darted through it, hoping nobody saw me. Normally, I’d be more afraid, but what could they do to me? I was going to die soon enough, so I might as well finish solving this mystery.

I turned around and examined the room I was in. It was another corridor, shorter than the previous one, but instead of rooms on the side, there were cells. 

Cells with people inside.

I clutched the wall, horrified. People? Real, breathing people in cells underneath a government lab? Maybe they were prisoners, but they didn’t look like prisoners. There were young children behind these glass walls. Dumbstruck, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit record.

Cautiously, I rapped on the glass of one of the cells, which held a middle-aged man. He sat up and blinked rapidly. He said something I couldn’t hear, then repeated it, this time screaming the words.

“Help me!”

People in the surrounding cells began to wake up and shout with him. I spun around, filming the scene, until I locked eyes with a young woman. I’d never met her, but I’d seen her picture many times.

It was Ava Stone.

Before I had time to comprehend this, her expression changed to pure terror. But she wasn’t looking at me.

“Turn around, Miss Walton.”

I turned around. A woman in a biohazard suit was pointing a gun at me.

“How do you know my name?”

She ignored me. “Hand me your phone.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I have a gun.”

“I’m going to die anyway,” I replied, with less certainty than I wanted. Ava Stone was alive, and so were all of these other people who I could only assume were from her town.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to be quite ill for the next few days, but you’ll survive. Now come with me.”

I followed her down the corridor, not knowing what else to do. She walked into a room and sat down, still pointing her gun at me.

“Sit.”

I sat.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are they here?” I replied.

“I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Why should I answer? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“I’m not going to kill you. A dead body has no use.”

“Then why should I answer your questions?”

The biohazard suit covered her face, but I could feel her fury radiating off of her.

“How about this,” she said. “You answer a question, then I answer a question”

That was... actually a pretty good deal. “Sure.”

“Why are you here?”

“I was hired to investigate what happened.” I paused. “Why do you have a bunch of people in cells?”

“We’re trying to create a biological weapon. One which can wipe out entire countries in a day. We pretended the virus was leaked so we could test it on the town, assuming it would kill everyone. Everyone survived. We couldn’t just let everyone leave after what happened, so we adapted our facility to make it look like it was abandoned.”

“That’s inhumane! What do you do with all these people? There are young children!”

“It’s my turn to ask a question. I watched the videos on your phone. How did you figure out what happened?”

“I found a diary. It talked about how there was a leak from the lab and everyone was getting ill.”

“Where is this diary? Do you still have it?”

“My turn,” I said. “What do you do with all these people?”

“We test our viruses on them,” she replied, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “Now, WHERE is the diary?”

“Ava Stone’s house. 32 Shortbrew Lane. What are you going to do to me?” A dull ringing noise echoed in my ears.

“We’ll test viruses on you, like we do with everyone else. It would be interesting to see how people from different areas and with different races are affected. I can tell that the virus has a faster reaction on you than it does with most people. In fact, from the dilation of your irises, you’ll probably pass out at any moment.”

The ringing noise was getting louder. My head throbbed, and the walls were swaying. The floor reached up to meet me and everything went black.

I opened my eyes. I was lying on a pristine, white bed in a pristine, white cell; and, ew, I was wearing different clothes. The ringing in my ears had disappeared.

The sound of gunshots woke me up properly. Shouts echoed down the corridor, and to my surprise I saw police freeing everyone from their cells. Even more surprisingly, they were accompanied by Mr and Mrs Stone, who were hugging their daughter.

When my cell was unlocked, I raced over to them. “What’s happening? Why are you here?”

“You’ve been gone for a week, so we contacted the police,” Mrs Stone said. “They saw the broken window in the laboratory, so they followed your trail and found all this!”

“We can’t thank you enough.,” Mr Stone said. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have found Ava.”

A young man came over me and held out his hand. I shook it politely.

“Hello Miss Walton. My name is Adam Haider, and I am a government official. I have some questions for you about what you’ve discovered.”

“Do you know about the virus?” I asked.

“That’s what I came to ask you about. The—”

“Has anyone left the town recently?” I interrupted him urgently.

“Uh, yes, of course, to inform—”

“The virus is STILL HERE. You need—”

Adam Haider’s radio buzzed. He picked it up.

“What is it? I’m busy,” he snapped.

The voice from the radio replied, “Sir, this is important. Our men are bleeding out of their ears and noses, and some have passed out.”

“Shit,” Haider muttered.

“That’s not all, sir. This has been reported in nearby towns — towns which we sent soldiers to after they examined the area.”

Adam Haider dropped the radio. At first I assumed it was out of shock, but when I saw his face I realised I was wrong.

Blood was trickling out of his ears and nose.

On November 19th, the population of the town of Warmosa vanished. No explanation was ever given by officials and the town was eventually closed to the public.

You‘re a private investigator hired to find the truth behind the event. After trespassing into the town, you find a private journal detailing the events that took place on the days leading up to the disappearance.

You were the song I used to listen to on repeat, knew every beat by heart. I felt every high and low, every key and note, every word and tune and I could tell when you'd end and begin.

Soon, I started getting happy during certain parts, excited even. It was all so good that you'd make me smile just humming you to myself, you'd make me happy playing on repeat in my head.

You were the song I knew I loved, the moment I heard you, and you were the song I knew was close to heart, that I played it for that one special person I spoke to all day and night.

Then one day, he left, and I couldn't hear you the same anymore. I knew it was going to be bad so I stopped listening to you, because I didn't want to associate those feelings with you but that's exactly what happened...

You were always on my playlist and I didn't mind listening to you when you came on the radio every now and then by accident. The sweet memories would last for three and a half minutes before vanishing the same way they'd appeared.

And that's the thing, I wouldn't deliberately play you on my own, that would be too painful and knowing the feelings attached to you, I couldn't possibly punish myself in such a cruel way.

Soon, words that were once meant for happiness, turned sour and I didn't want to dissect the meaning of you other than what I'd already interpreted in my head before.

Now, I hear you once in awhile and maybe it doesn't hurt anymore but it still doesn't feel the same as it did before...

You're the song I once loved, was intoxicated with, knew by heart and you will be the song I'll never listen to again by choice...

I'll never choose you again...

© Raina Rose.

Hi, I'm Anne!

A handful of my posts are from a period of my life when I aspired to be a novelist. I will not delete those posts, so feel free to scroll if you're curious.

My desire for writing has not wavered, but my career path has changed. I still have so much I want to talk about and so much I wish to share with whoever wants to listen.

I remember venting about being upset that the fanfic series I put a lot of time and effort into wasn’t doing well on my anime account. It was pretty popular in the fandom, and everyone requested that I bring it back and continue it, so I did.

After posting it, something people had been pestering me and begging me for, it preformed terribly, which really killed my motivation. I posted a short vent, upset that it didn’t do well like my other posts did.

Do you know what the response to my vent was? People sent me asks saying I was being dramatic and ungrateful, that if I just kept posting the series and didn’t stop that it would still be popular.

I had taken a break from that series for mental health reasons(I was receiving death threats and being harassed) when before I had been pumping out chapters nearly weekly. Still, all that content, over 100k+ words of material wasn’t enough to keep them interested. They always wanted more, the threat of people leaving or unfollowing me if I didn’t post faster looming over my head like a dark cloud.

Writing became a chore. I didn’t view my readers as friends and comrades in my fandom, I viewed them as people that would leave the second I didn’t live up to their strict expectations.

This is all to say that I want you, the readers, to think about the author behind the works you read and love. Think about WHY you think it’s feasible for a person to be uploading every single week without a break. Why do you lose interest if an author isn’t working themselves to the bone to pump out chapters that could have been so much better if given the time to really flesh them out?

Be kinder to writers, be patient. We aren’t machines, and it takes time for us to make the content you want to see. Don’t rush us, and be grateful for all the free content you get to see with just a click or tap.

Don’t be the reason an author decides to give up writing.

Sparking Chemistry Between Characters #1

⇢ Emotional Timing ( When One Opens Up and the Other Isn’t Ready, Yet)

There’s something so devastatingly real about when characters miss each other, not physically, but emotionally. One’s finally ready to be honest, to be seen… and the other? Still hiding. Still pretending. That emotional dissonance creates a whole different kind of electricity: one rooted in vulnerability, silence, and the ache of almost.

“I trust you,” she said, voice low, eyes steady. He looked at her, and for a second, he almost said it back. But then his smile cracked, soft and sad, and he looked away like the words were burning holes in his throat.

This isn’t the moment they fall into each other’s arms. This is the moment they could have. And those moments still haunt.

Use this when:

You want slow burn that hurts a little

Your characters are stubborn, scared, or emotionally constipated (bless them)

The closeness builds from not-quite-connecting, until one of them finally breaks

⇢  Silent Support ( When They Don’t Say It, But They Show It)

Sometimes the most romantic thing a character can do is just… be there. No speeches. No dramatic gestures. Just showing up, quiet, consistent, unwavering. The kind of person who notices when your laugh sounds tired.

He didn’t say anything when he found her curled up on the kitchen floor. He just sat next to her, their shoulders barely touching, and slid his hoodie off without a word. A minute later, she was wearing it. Five minutes later, she was breathing again.

This isn’t about grand declarations. It’s about the kind of love that doesn’t demand to be acknowledged. The kind that waits. That steadies. That speaks fluent silence.

Use this when:

You want to show love without “I love you”

You’re building intimacy through actions, not words

Your characters aren’t the touchy-feely, talk-it-out types

⇢ Emotional Whiplash (When Conflict Turns Intimate Too Fast)

This is the classic “We were fighting five seconds ago and now I want to kiss you” moment. Because nothing stirs up feelings like frustration mixed with closeness. When characters clash, especially if there’s emotional history or denial involved, it creates heat. They’re already fired up. Already in each other’s space. Now throw in a little vulnerability and BAM, you’ve got magnetic chaos.

“Why do you care what I do?” she snapped, stepping closer. “Because I...” He bit the word back, jaw tight. His fists clenched at his sides. She stared, breath caught in her throat. “Because I do,” he said finally, quieter this time. “More than I should.”

Enemies to lovers. Friends to what even are we. That line-blurring, heart-pounding tension where the air is thick and the truth almost slips out, that’s where this trope lives (I Love It).

Use this when:

You want chaos, angst, and chemistry all at once

Your characters are in denial and one good argument away from kissing

You want something to break open and then immediately regret it

16 story steps to pull your reader more into your main character’s journey.

HOW DO YOU REPRESENT THIS IN WRITTEN FORM

im struggling

🟢 You are still a writer even when you haven't written in a while.

🟢 You are still a writer even when you feel like you aren't writing enough.

🟢 You are still a writer when you feel like your work isn't good.

🟢 You are still a writer when other people don't like your work.

🟢 You are still a writer when you aren't published.

🟢 You are still a writer when you only have works in progress.

🟢 You are still a writer if all you write is fanfiction.

Your memories flicker in my mind like snapshots - frozen in time, untouched by distance, carved into my heart.

Suffering, no matter how prolonged, how acute, or how intense, is not a permanent state. All suffering—the anguish and the pain—will eventually give way to joy and hope. Even the darkest night will eventually yield to the dawn.

"All the things that have brought us pain, carve a distinct hole in our heart, and there's someone else out there with the perfect something that will fill the void. And in turn, we get to do the same for them. And suddenly, it all makes sense. It all fits. Because we haven't been forsaken. We've been prepared."

TRAVIS | MIA SHERIDAN

Ooh I love this little freak too now.

Thanks for the tag @somethingclevermahogony!

Last Line Tag

Starbreaker is going well 👍

The next evening, Anarac lurked with intention. It was a lot more enjoyable than lurking just for the principle of it, he decided.

I love this little freak <3

I'll tag @mysticstarlightduck @leahnardo-da-veggie @davycoquette @oliolioxenfreewrites @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling and anyone else who wants to play :)

writers' resources

sick of using "very _____" ? : https://www.losethevery.com/

want to simplify your writing ? : https://hemingwayapp.com/

writing buddies / motivation ? : https://nanowrimo.org

word you're looking for but don't know ? : https://www.onelook.com/thesaurus/

need a fantasy name ? : https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/

need a fantasy name ? : https://nameberry.com/

want a name with meaning ? : https://www.behindthename.com/

who wants a map maker! : https://inkarnate.com/

story building / dnd ? : https://www.worldanvil.com/

need some minimalistic writing time ? : https://zenpen.io/

running out of ideas ? : https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

setting a goal ? how about 3 pages / day ? : https://new.750words.com/

what food did they eat ? : https://www.foodtimeline.org/

questions on diversity within writing ? : https://writingwithcolor.tumblr.com/

now what was that colour called ? : https://ingridsundberg.com/2014/02/04/the-color-thesaurus/

want more? : https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lyralit :]

Indiana : American Countryside

Midwest, Great Lakes Region

Summertime

A Father’s Day Weekend

I sit with him on the lakeside

It’s peaceful

The weather is rather humid

We picnic

the sound of a seagull greets him through an open window. he’s sitting in a quiet and quaint hotel restaurant. the california coast.

he looks out the window across the dock. the boats rest still in the calm waters of the pier. the autumn morning sun is bright, accompanied by a tame and salty ocean breeze. he’s thinking about someone. he thinks about home.

a chilly morning for pastel chino shorts & a well-worn, cerulean linen sweater. both wrinkled, because of the suitcase and an impatience for folding laundry. his dark blond hair is healthy and uncombed, his pale skin and slight accent likely hinting to others he’s not from around here. at ease, his thoughts drift back to kentucky, back to the summer.

surrounded by the soft sounds of silverware clinking on plates, coffee mugs being picked up & sat back down on the tables, sunlight and small talk fill the room. he focuses on the present moment, breathing everything in. people actually live like this, he smiles.

my prince of kentucky, made me feel so -lucky

from within him a dark light, first alleviated my plight. // a call from a ghost, taunted me the most.

parasites of confusion, try to take host //

yet i still want to stay, simply can’t keep away. see the smile in his eye, you’ll understand why. //

anger& stone, an empty car ride alone. with shattered pieces, can love still be known? i don’t want to accept, that our feelings are outgrown

can’t be my home, if he prefers to roam. but i keep coming back, he is my crack

in awe & terror, possible margins of error.blind me in ways, fog up my gaze. the tears that fall, pain me for days.

still i am here, and yes, it feels queer. his invitation on a whim, i lay next to him my feet, cold. they clammer, it’s dim

roses have their thorns, messages from the unborn. i eat the sweet bread, see visions of the dead. sacrament. new hope. a reason to tread

though not gone yet, please don’t let me bet. i’ll always remember, the first moments we met

broken & hollow fleeting internet follows // my red bedroom walls, these urges to wallow //

uncertainty abound, is all i’ve really found

love somehow remains

& is the direction i’ll follow

Vampire and his partner run into vampire hunters. Cleopatra was a literature student. She knows vampire literary symbolism well.

Crew of Light live reaction:

From my novel in progress, which is basically fanfiction of all my favourite gothic literature Frankensteined into one story.

Someone challenged me to write a romance.

Call it my special brand of braincell torture, but I decided to take it further.

I shall try to write something sweet with a happy ending, with no gloomy-doomy self-inserts, no characters with 1,800 personal problems and absolutely no long discussions about the meaning of life, the justification of murder, love, loneliness, alienation, complicity, or suchlike.

Somebody help. I don't know how to write anymore.

I don't dare to say no vampires. Do you want me to be absolutely miserable?

Vlad's Erik (Vlerik)

Doodles of @vladimirsangel 's Erik Carrière from his story, Trying Again. Click for close-ups:

Right-oh, advertisement time. I'm not-so-well at the moment and can't muster the strength to make sense, so I'll just say that I went to menace the author with my excitement the moment I finished reading. And had to shorten my original message by half so as not to scare the living daylights out of him.