Joacin Charlemend Francel de Haillenarte

“my characters have a mind of their own!” - no i’m not mad and yes i know i made them up but i have no idea what’s happening anymore please save me

“i’m going to write today!” - i’d actually rather wash the garden path but the house is already pristine and i’ve run out of excuses

 “this is still a rough draft so go easy on me!” - i have spent what feels like forever pouring my very soul into this but i worry it’s terrible and if you’re mean i may just cry

“i’ll update soon!” - this is utterly killing me, i don’t know how to read anymore, what are words, help 

“i just had this idea and had to share it with you guys!” - this has taken me three weeks and countless hours please love and appreciate it

In The Zone 

Inspiration level of dried up mud 

Idea chaos cavorting through your head like bunnies on crack, never making it onto the paper 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

o shit its 3 am 

cat lugubriously puking small and pathetic hairballs onto paper 

after-submission cold sweat 

i’m going to break my character’s hands in the next chapter *laugh of evil glee* 

typing sad scene while crying 

reading the chapter you wrote late last night confusion 

guilty trickle of procrastination 

slamming face against desk headache 

worldbuildgasm 

writing fan fiction of own books daydream 

i am the next tolkien 

i am the next rejected sack of shit to be yeeted out of a publisher’s back door

clever metaphor delight 

drained exhaustion after writing a couple thousand words 

euphoric, exhausted emptiness of finishing a book 

rereading first draft nausea

research hole 

screaming at wikipedia 

overwhelmed by the mess youve made 

cheeto dust on the keyboard mid-writing snacking 

typo typo typo 

what do i write next existential crisis 

After the Vault, the Warrior of Light and Estinien bond (?) over vengeance

Haurchefant wishes a merry Christmas!

120419 - headrest (?)

A Death that need not fight against you, that will often fight for you, because why not? It will gather you home eventually. Why not enjoy you first?

A Death that treasures those who fight it most ardently. That loves healers and defenders and survivalists and necromancers and mad scientists and immortal gods. That lets them pour everything they are into fighting it, denying it, adoring every desperate scrap of strength and will and brilliance and raw determination poured out against it. That catches you when your strength is done and all your will and brilliance run out, that gathers you close beneath a warm, dark cloak, and whispers well done, oh child, you were magnificent, well done.

A Death who will not seek to hasten an inevitable end, who will chastise those who seek to hasten it for others in Death’s stead, who will slowly and patiently plot and sow and siphon away from the great monsters of the world. Because who are they to hasten Death’s domain, who are they to deny Death its time and its place, who are they to cut short these vital glories that illuminate it so? Who are they to presume upon its will, that is so much larger and so much longer than theirs?

Who are they to call, and presume that Death, of all beings, should obey?

A Death that is not a hunter but a gatherer, who is always and eternal, who loves you, and can afford to wait. A Death who will fight for you and defend you, who will place its hand upon those who would speed you to its embrace, who has no need to rush you, only to greet you when you call.

A Death who is kind.

And patient.

And, before all and above all,