general

(Some of you all may be too young to remember, but before the Matrix Keanu Reeves was not a big time star. And people would occasionally ask on various internet forums, "Why does Keanu Reeves keep getting work? He's a so-so actor. By Hollywood standards he's only average looking. His name isn't big enough to draw people. Why is he getting cast in so many movies?" And the answer would always be: producers loved him. If he was in your movie he would show up every day, on time, sober, with his lines memorized, ready to work. He never caused drama with the cast or crew. He was genuinely a pleasure to work with. And so he kept getting parts.)

the events of greater boston being triggered because a guy so terrified of uncertainty died on a roller coaster

the massive audio drama crossover event that was ryan estrada’s big data

if i remember correctly, the bright sessions and ars paradoxica also had a brief crossover between its two time traveler girlies

2- Jacobi and Lovelace's exchange about Jacobi being scared of ducks (Quaaack) in Wolf 359

3- obviously the 'a goddamm harpoon' speech as prev has mentioned

4- the mini-episode of Ars Paradoxica where Sally is teaching them to swear

5- 'and then something licked my hand' from Station Blue

6- 'we run a diner' - Midnight Burger

But this person on the page, she's doing something you've never done and never will and never can - meeting one of your favourite fictional characters. You're having to imagine for her a set of circumstances that would allow this to happen, which puts a level of distance between you and her.

And even if circumstances very like those that happen to her do end up happening to you* in real life, they won't unfold the same way - they can't, because, well, fiction. Because those circumstances won't unfold the same way, you won't react the same way. But even if they somehow could, you still wouldn't react the same way, because you've already considered how you would react in those circumstances in order to write the self-insert, and you have that knowledge informing your actions.

Depending on how the story unfolds, you may have to research and learn about things that you can't let your self-insert know about, because she's supposed to be you, and when you started writing this story you didn't know any of those things. And even if you deliberately write her learning all the things you learn along with you, at some point, the story will end. You'll move on, you'll change, you'll grow. She never can, and at some point, you'll look back at her and realise that no one who knows you now would ever recognise her as you.

Even writing in a self-insert cameo as The Author within the text necessarily creates a level of distance between you, the author, and the character of The Author, who now exists in and can be acted upon by the narrative. You can slice it so thin you almost can't see it, but you can't ever actually breach that barrier.

No matter how close to life the self-insert gets, there's always that rupture, and it only grows wider the more story gets told. You can't be in the story and still tell it. But isn't wanting exactly that part of the whole impulse to tell stories in the first place?

Well, here's the thing, according to Bluesky reporting it actually emerged as part of an indie TTRPG zine:

so who am i, then, to speak about softness. it's been years since i touched a blade like that, but i still wear the scars in the summer. i know i could get in my car and drive off the face of the map but instead i get in my car and i visit my friends. i could kill myself i suppose but how could i ever explain that absence to my dog, and besides - i haven't been to my own wedding yet.

all i know about softness i learned from the bottom of a sharp pit. there's a younger, hungry version of me, a growling tiger still unsated. every gentle thing is still alien to her. she doesn't understand the concept; it is abhorrent. she thinks it's boring. she thinks it's letting go. she snarls: i made a promise. we would rather burn out than go quiet, remember? i made a promise i would rip all the meaning from this life like a peach pit.

this is the meaning, beloved: today there are cherries waiting for me to eat them. i put my hand on warm moss while on the phone with shannon. i made a new matcha recipe today, and it's quite delicious. tomorrow i'm going to get in my car and instead of screaming or crashing it or disappearing, i am going to go visit my cousin.

in my youth i think i wanted to be loved like a bent needle - under the skin, permanent, an emotional scarification. i have been in the middle of broken glass my whole life. i think i replaced the concept of peace with the numb fear at the edge of a knife.

i know now i can only be loved as far as the sound travels, otherwise it's all only echo. i want to be loved like a purring cat, quiet and gentle. although she's still romanceable, i generally steer clear of blue-winged strife. she sits in the dark corners of my room, pouting, and i teach her how to do the laundry and get to work on time.

I have been losing it all evening with the Eridian Welcoming Committee comics, so I decided to try my hand at one.