Touch Grass: Autumn Edition
Leaves cushion under-
foot. I walk enlightened on
the path; crunch, crunch, crunch
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Touch Grass: Autumn Edition
Leaves cushion under-
foot. I walk enlightened on
the path; crunch, crunch, crunch

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Source
teetotailer
first incidence of good writing advice i've seen in 10+ years on this platform and it's in the notes of a mustelid wreaking absolute havoc in a german grocery store
This is a great resource, but I always like to remind everyone that when in doubt just say “said”!
People are more likely to notice if a writer is using a ton of weird synonyms for “said” than if they’re using “said” too much.
• An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television, getting drunk, and smoking cigars.
• A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly.
• A bar was walked into by the passive voice.
• An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening.
• Two quotation marks walk into a “bar.”
• A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite.
• Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything.
• A question mark walks into a bar?
• A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly.
• Papyrus and Comic Sans walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Get out -- we don't serve your type."
• A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud.
• A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.
• Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart.
• A synonym strolls into a tavern.
• At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar -- fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack.
• A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment.
• Falling slowly, softly falling, the chiasmus collapses to the bar floor.
• A figure of speech literally walks into a bar and ends up getting figuratively hammered.
• An allusion walks into a bar, despite the fact that alcohol is its Achilles heel.
• The subjunctive would have walked into a bar, had it only known.
• A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph.
• The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.
• A dyslexic walks into a bra.
• A verb walks into a bar, sees a beautiful noun, and suggests they conjugate. The noun declines.
• A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert.
• A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.
• A hyphenated word and a non-hyphenated word walk into a bar and the bartender nearly chokes on the irony
- Jill Thomas Doyle
A zeugma walked into a bar, my life and trouble.
If you want to write a dumb little story with a dumb little plot and ridiculously silly characters. No one's stopping you. Genuinely, no one should be allowed to stop you. Write that dumb story with your whole heart and don't hold back.
ok the dumb little story turned into a lot of work why does this always happen

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the thing about children is that they’re always delighting in the world in front of them.
wisdom to heal the earth, rabbi tzvi freeman / madeleine l’engle / grave of the fireflies (1998) dir. isao takahata / iroquoian woman, barbara alice mann / rainer maria rilke / star wars: attack of the clones (2002) dir. george lucas / the little prince, antoine de saint-exupery / the spirituality of parenting, david spangler
The Troll Beneath the Bridge heard the car first and then the loud pop.
Honor bound by the law of lore, he heaved his bulk over the bridge and turned his face to the headlights.
The woman behind the wheel gasped and stifled a scream.
"To cross my bridge, you must pay! Five and twenty, then be on your way."
"Oh, thank goodness!" She took out her purse and handed him some green paper—a five and a twenty.
"I've got a spare tire in the trunk."
The Troll looked at the women, confused.
"I can't cross your bridge with my tire like this. And I've already paid your toll."
The Troll Beneath the Bridge, ageless, timeless, and honor-bound by the law of lore, growled, pocketed the money, and asked, "Do you have a jack, or do I need to get mine?"
writer culture is having that one scene that really scratches your id, and being willing to write forty thousand words to get to it.
122
You’ve got five minutes.
In these next five minutes, you will re-evaluate yourself.
Why you are here.
What are you doing.
What you want to accomplish.
You will weight these reasons against your current physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual state.
You will drink coffee.
Three minutes.
You have yet to come to a descision. You know what has to be done. But the coffee is hot and your [body part] [feels negatively somehow].
You know that is an excuse.
Two minutes.
You get angry. Angry that everything is a choice. That willpower isn’t automatic. That you can’t just flip a switch and get up and DO THE THING that you know has to get done.
One minute.
You take a deep breath. You finish your coffee. You concentrate fully on how you will feel after you finish this horrible wretched, cursed task that you willingly signed up for.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.
You let out a primal scream, and get to work.
121
The cast itched. You want to scratch the skin off the muscle, then muscle off the bone that was too slowly knitting itself back together.
A mug of tea magically appears by your elbow.
You look up, and the love of your life smiles down at you.
You smile, say thank you, and return to your book. Your heart doesn't beat faster, and all other organs remain normal.
They were just another nurse in a facemask, you a patient with a broken leg.
That's how it starts sometimes; without knowledge or consent, only an itch of something better to come.

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120
The seagulls were sleeping on dunes. It was nighttime, there was nothing out to eat. In the distance, the small beachside town was lit up. Suddenly a door slammed open. Then another. A third! One seagull woke and watched as people began to pour out of their shelters into the streets. People meant food. The people were shouting and sparkled under the street lights. They kept screaming, dropping bits of food, and spilling drinks. No one noticed the seagull. They were busy chanting... "5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." As his belly slowly filled, the seagull had just one thought, "Mine!'
119
The bulb went out, and Millie was alone in the dark. She breathed in, slightly exasperated at being pulled from the world of the book she had been reading. But she stood up, placed her bookmark (an old receipt) on the page, and opened the door of the closet.
She did not know what time it was. All that mattered was this: Her children were asleep, her husband asleep.
She quietly went down the hall to the storage closet, rifled lightly through the shelving to find the box of lightbulbs her husband had picked up at the store, grabbed one, and softly closed the door.
In the morning, her husband found her in the closet, near the end of her book.
“How long have you been up?” he asks.
“Not too long,” she says.
As she answers, he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of her sitting in the closet, reading her book, hand on the pull string of the bulb. She’s still wearing the clothes she wore the day before.
“Well, I’ve got an early meeting. Can you make some breakfast since you’re already dressed?”
“Sure, hon.”
She leaves her book in the closet, turns off the light, and gently closes the door.
For writing characters grieving a loss.
This can also apply to real life, a bit more handily than the Seven Steps thing
But also a reminder that it’s more often this
Grief isn’t linear, and not everyone goes through all the stages. Sometimes you get up to a certain point and then regress, and that’s all part of healing. Don’t feel like your character (or you!) needs to follow the direct path from Hurt to Adjustment.
grief is a skateboard ramp
Grief is a radical rollercoaster tbh, complete with swoops and upside down bits and that jumpy stomach feeling, except it comes with visions of a death that’s already happened
118
“You’ve got to move!” “No, just leave me here. This will be the hill I die on.” “No, really. Knitting club is over. Mabel already went home.” “She’s wrong, though.”
“Your Mom was wrong. Mabel proved it.” “But, it’s WRONG.” “Look, Mabel did a Herringbone stitch with size 1 yarn so she could make her grandson some socks... and prove you wrong.” “Her fingers were so fast...” “I know, I know... let’s get you home.”
“This isn’t over, you know. We haven’t even begun to crochet!”
117
I wanted to write about depression
Based on the line
“Being alive is amazing. I’m sorry for forgetting.”
But Depression came to visit.
And sleeping next to Depression
Or above it
(As Depression has been sleeping in the basement)
Is a backpack full of rocks.
When you unzip the top
To quantify the heaviness
There’s just empty air.
No... a vaccuum
That can suck you in
Unless you close it back up.
Put it back on and adjust as needed
Across your shoulders
Helpless to lighten the load.
It’s a struggle to even sit up straight
Let alone, look ahead
To when depression moves on
And your Partner is happy to be alive again.

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This legitimately needs to be in future literature textbooks to capture the Covid-19 Pandemic.
116
The angel descended, eyes luminous, wings shimmering. The girl in the dessert was young, and rightly afraid, but had not lived long enough to risk turning away. Joseph was away. Joseph was always away.
The Metatron spoke sweetly, gently. The voice of G-d did not command but asked.
“Mary, the Lord will bless and keep you.”
“Will he?” Mary thought. The way Joseph does? The way my father did? She looked around; the dessert, the donkey, meager possessions, and meager provisions. Who really kept her?
Is bearing children her only honor?
“Do you consent?”
The angel waited for an answer.