spite has everything to do with it

Realized a little late that I should probably have an intro post, so here we are!

The name's Kirke or Kirk, a friend of mine also calls me Crow/Bird

they/she pronouns

23 years old

Queer writer

Holder of a BA in Creative Writing, and also studied psych for funsies

Blog

im mostly on here just to stalk the aftg fandom and enjoy some writing humor/struggles. Occasionally I'll post something along those lines, but I might open it up to sharing my writing. might. we'll see how i feel about that development

Interests

reading/writing

aftg (all for the game)

trc (the raven cycle)

soc (six of crows) / the grishaverse

anything to do with fantasy and magic really

knife collection

bones & flora motifs (have tattoos of such a concept)

crows/ravens

you get the gist

if you're interested in my writing, that's down below! if not, that's cool too!

my fantasy novels require fabricating an entirely new world, with its own rules, people, culture, magic system if it has it, etcetera etcetera. there is more worldbuilding needed so readers get a sense of where they're at and what's going on.

i can say cyborg and you'll know pretty well what i mean, if not exactly. if i say parotheia, you may or may not have an idea until it's explained. if i have a setting in a real world that mentions cornfields, i don't have to really go into detail of how they behave. but you'll never know my fantasy world has sentient grass until i explicitly tell/show you.

Rodrick Harris was going to die before dawn’s awakening; he just didn’t know it yet. But Orin did.

Diamond Square—named so after the janky intersection that cut through the quiet neighborhood—was awash in starlight and the occasional twitching streetlight. Garish orange glared at cracked and empty roads, painting them in splatters of the ugly color. Rainwater puddles distorted the orange into an almost miniature sunset reflection. Where the streetlights died, or never worked to begin with, candlelight flickered in windows to stave away lurkers. Crooked and half-lit neon signs indicated little shops tucked between and underneath homes. Webs of cocked powerlines glowed a dim blue-white, though they bowed to the sky’s starlight. Weeds slipped through the cracks of tilted sidewalks.

borrowing this image from a post I saw

as someone who writes both... i asked my neuroscience roommate what part of the brain a sensory-manipulating processor would go into, what side of the head it'd be inserted through, and what exactly would happen as consequences, and we found the right balance between realistic plausibility and fiction suspension of disbelief.