It’s like seeing a ghost

The curtains were blue because throughout their filmography the director consistently uses cool tones to mark moments of distance between characters. The curtains were blue to tie the events in that room into the broader oceanic motif of this particular novel. The curtains were blue because the assonance evoked a contrast with the following stanza of the poem.

Even the curtains looked expensive: floor to ceiling velvet drapes, in a flawless royal blue. She tucked the saucer up on the windowsill and tied back faded blue curtains with a loop of string. The narrow blinds were the same navy blue as the pinstripe suit of the man who served eviction notice that sent them to this office.

The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of comfort in that place. The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of grief in that place.

The curtains were blue as an allusion to the contemporary joke about literary criticism, an extension of the author’s autocritical approach that will be further discussed in section seven.

The curtains were red, as a pun on;

give that knife/sword fight survivor nerve damage. give the character who was shot in the gut a stoma. give that fire survivor lung damage and an oxygen cannula. give that leg injury survivor a cane. give that starvation survivor gastroparesis. give that spinal injury survivor a manual chair or powerchair.

What is a Tag Game?

A tag game is a post, of any topic, but in writeblr most often is targeted towards a writer’s past or current works-in-progress, where people are invited to answer questions, share snippets of writing, goof around with OCs in random scenarios, etc. This is a great opportunity for writers to get know each other, learn about one another’s projects, and provides an easy excuse to share your writing.

Do I Need to Tag Other People?

Well, that’s kind of the point. If you don’t know anyone to tag, you can always go into a writer’s blog and see if it says anywhere that they are ‘Tag Game Friendly’. Some of us will put it in the description under the title of our blog, while others will state it in their WIP/Writeblr intro. If you are still unsure, sometimes there are posts that circulate about who would like to be tagged, and you are always more than welcome to create your own. I’ve personally created a list on my phone to refer to when I can’t think of anyone to tag.

Tag Game Etiquette

more about mourn the day here

A single touch is enough to drown Zac in another person's memories, forcing him to relive moments of joy, grief, violence, and shame as though they were his own. Years of unwanted visions have left his own past fractured and indistinct.

While the others rest off a night of hunting, Zacarias spends restless hours cataloguing the mysterious runes found throughout the town, convinced they conceal answers hidden beneath generations of neglect and superstition.

And each afternoon he returns to his small room above the town brothel, where laughter, moans, and affection drift through the floorboards below, serving as a constant reminder of the one thing he can never have.

more about mourn the day here

Haunted by the memories of a murder he didn’t mean to commit, Athios recedes into a life of isolation to avoid facing the truth behind the event. There are no consequences for the crime, no evidence that it ever happened—not when his victim rose from his grave at the touch of Athios’ own hand—except for the ceaseless guilt.

In the accompaniment of Ambrose, a dog whom is neither here nor there, Athios tends to the graveyards of Ashmourne, both with the intent to maintain a pristine appearance and to experiment with his ability to raise the dead.

That does, however, does come with an assortment of deadly consequences.

more about mourn the day here

Painting helps Pennant hold on to hope, distracts him from the grim truth of his existence in the weary village of Ashmourne. When painting fails, there’s the withering garden in the forests beyond Dead End to keep him occupied. He’s determined to bring some life to it—a budding flower or a shock of green amongst the wilting leaves.

Ashmourne is a dark and dismal place, desperate for a spot of brightness, a spark of hope, and so is Pennant.

Not even death will stop him from making it happen.

bram’s post, and more about mourn the day

After out-aging the dirty halls of Galloway’s Home for Unfortunate Children, Halifax and his younger brother, Pennant, were left to fend for themselves in search of a new roof over their heads.

Poor, helpless, and more than a little hopeless, their journey was wrought with bad decisions and met with a quick end.

When Pennant was taken in by Ether Laboratories as an experimental subject in exchange for a small sum, Halifax bargains for Pen’s freedom and sacrifices his own, unaware of the consequences that await him.

Fax hasn’t spoken to Pennant since.

And Ether did not stick to their word.

seattle: third place books (ravenna) at 7 pm, june 23

san francisco: bookshop west portal at 7 pm, june 24

los angeles: annabelle’s book club at 7 pm, june 25

all events are free to attend and i am in some fabulous company. come say hi!

it was time I reintroduce the cast of Mourn the Day, beginning with my belovéd brambly boy.

With no regards to his health or safety, Bram delves straight into harm’s way with the hope of a miracle: an end to his eternal suffering.

His past is marred with as many scars as his body, haunting reminders of what he is, who he used to be, and what he can never be again. No more than a laboratory rat, an experiment, a mistake … something far from human.

Unfortunate for him that he cannot die.

Since the gruesome death of his parents at the mouths and hands of hungering Fangs, Bram has collected crystals and jarred specimens—a bee found drowning on the cobblestones, butterfly wings lost to the marsh’s surrounding field, a frog gifted to him by a blue-haired boy he might have called friend in a past life. Counting them helps to ease the obsessive thoughts rattling through his skull. Not a night goes by where he doesn’t tally off each and every one, often to the familiar tune of insomnia.

A fear of intimacy and loss has left him bitter and alone for much of his life, but he dreams of one day finding a love alike that of the fairy tales that accompany him on these sleepless nights.

on the night his parents were slaughtered, Bram was rescued by a horrible piece of shit scientist named Balthazar, who later went on to experiment on him for years and ultimately ended his mortal life at the eternal age of twenty-four

relies on drinking blood to live and loathes everything about it. Balthazar won’t tell him the source and Bram is better off not having an answer

limited use of his legs after they were trampled on by horses as a boy, relies on a cane for stability

prefers up-close combat with the aid of his twin daggers, this often leads to him becoming a literal bloody mess by dawn

has a pet black rat named Seven who likes to sleep under the lapel of his vests

suffers from severe obsessive compulsive disorder

My friend goes on entire rants about the reasons she DESPISES cheese. All cheese. In all forms. She waxes poetic about it, to the point I have a dedicated notes page for her cheese quotes.

The fact she talks so much about hating cheese is weird.

The fact I transcribe her speeches like a court stenographer is weird.

Classic writing advice will tell you to give your characters quirks, or routines, or little superstitions, and that's all well and good, but a lot of times, those things are fairly normal. I probably wouldn't bat an eye if someone taps a pen three times whenever they have to sign their name. If their signature was an old Myspace username instead of their legal name, though....now that would stand out.

(A.K.A. the quiet stuff that says everything without screaming it)

❥ The “I Always Sit Facing the Exit” Quirk They don’t talk about their childhood much, but they always know where the exits are. Every restaurant. Every train. Trauma has muscle memory. Your job is to notice what it’s saying without needing a monologue about it.

❥ The “I Can’t Sleep Until I Hear You Lock the Door” Habit It's not controlling. It's care shaped like paranoia. They say “Goodnight” like it’s casual, but they’re counting the clicks of the lock like a lullaby. Let that show more than “I love you.”

❥ The “I Keep Everything You’ve Ever Given Me” Thing Not just gifts. Receipts with your doodles. The crumpled note you wrote when you were mad. Every bit of you that felt real. It’s borderline hoarder behavior, but also? It’s devotion.

❥ The “I Cook When I’m Sad” Pattern Their world’s falling apart, but suddenly everyone has banana bread. It’s not about food—it’s about control, about creating something warm when everything else is cold. And they won’t say it out loud, but they're asking, “Will you stay?”

❥ The “I Practice Conversations in the Mirror” Secret Before big moments, hard talks, or just answering the phone. They're rehearsing being okay. They're trying to be the version of themselves people expect. That’s not weakness—it’s survival wrapped in performance art.

❥ The “I Fix Other People’s Problems to Ignore My Own” Reflex Everyone calls them “strong,” but no one notices how fast they redirect. “How are you doing though?” they ask, one heartbeat after breaking down. Let your reader see how exhaustion wears a smile.

❥ The “I Never Miss A Birthday” Rule Even for people who forgot theirs. Even for exes. It’s not about being remembered—it’s about being someone who remembers. That’s character.

❥ The “I Clean When I Feel Powerless” Mechanism That sparkling sink? Not about hygiene. That’s grief control. That’s despair in a Clorox wipe. Let it speak volumes in the silence of a spotless room.

❥ The “I Pretend I Don’t Need Help” Lie They say, “I’m fine” like it’s a full stop. But their hands shake when they think no one’s looking. Let your other characters notice. Let someone care, even when they don’t ask for it.