#writinggoals

WEEKLY R.E.P.O.R.T.

r – reading Bunny by Mona Awad

"We’re just Bunnies. We’re just Bunnies, Samantha. We’re just Bunnies doing what Bunnies do."

e – eating strawberry yoplait yogurt

p – playing watching Claire Saffitz x Dessert Person videos while making things

o – obsessed with Yellowjackets — the show is taking over my mind right now, can't stop thinking about it!

r – recommending JLab headphones — great sound quality, comfortable, and affordable, perfect for long listening sessions

t – treating a scoop of strawberry ice cream just because

CURRENT PROJECTS / LIFE LATELY

Sewing

Bikini + shorts set

Lord Shen cosplay

Headbands

Repairing jeans

Sewing a hissif

Crocheting

Ruffle skirt

Wrapping up older pieces

Writing

working on short stories

writing a book called Dear Mr. Darcy

Wolfstar trilogy + a few shorter one-shots

scripting/editing my first YouTube video: a video essay on Marvel’s Thunderbolts

Room Redecorating

making an inspo grid wall

collecting art prints & references

starting button art + stamp art

Other

taking summer classes

Recently, during feedback in my writing group, I got a compliment on my choice of verbs. I thanked the person who gave me the compliment, explaining that I spend a lot of time deciding which verbs I use. Later, it got me thinking about my own writing style. I realized I started selecting specific verbs to overcome my bad habit of using adverbs. Seriously. He walked leisurely -> He ambled She quickly jumped -> She leaped He looked attentively -> He stared She sat listlessly -> She slumped

Shout out to Peter Herrmann for this awesome photo - using it as inspiration for Jim Moriarty!!

Have you ever heard of "Dead Words"? Dead Words are phrases or words that have become so overused in writing and everyday language that they have lost their impact.

Here are the top ten "Dead Words" and some alternatives to use instead!

Very. Instead, use: Extremely, Exceptionally, Remarkably, Profoundly

Things Instead, use: Objects, Items, Belongings, Artifacts

Good Instead, use: Excellent, Superb, Outstanding, Impressive

Bad Instead, use: Terrible, Horrible, Dreadful, Atrocious

Said Instead, use: Whispered, Exclaimed, Murmured, Uttered

Walk Instead, use: Stroll, March, Stride, Saunter

Look Instead, use: Gaze, Glance, Peek, Stare, Observe

Happy Instead, use: Joyful, Elated, Content, Ecstatic

Sad Instead, use: Mournful, Heartbroken, Despondent, Melancholic

Nice Instead, use: Pleasant, Delightful, Charming, Amiable

Thank you to Writing Beginner for the great resource! https://www.writingbeginner.com/dead-words/

Here's the rewrite. A while back, and I mean a whiiiiiiiile, I posted a first draft segment of my fanfiction-in-progress. Here's an update (finally)! Still some work to do, I got some great feedback at a local writer's group, but it's getting there!

A lone siren released a desolate “wop!” as Joan disembarked from the ambulance. She jumped down, shielding her eyes from the bright, flashing red and blue lights. She approached the yellow police tape, mentally hyping herself up for the next job. 

Her first night as an EMT had been a mixed bag. First two calls had been falls, an elderly woman down the stairs then a young man in his shower. After that, it had been a uni student in the throes of alcohol poisoning. Like Joan, she was blonde. Unlike Joan, she had spent the majority of the night partying, celebrating her induction into Uni. Joan wished she too could party it up, but didn’t envy the girl the hangover she was sure to wake with. 

Her last call came in around 3 AM. A woman was found unresponsive in an abandoned building on the edge of town. Joan warred with her sense of excitement at the potential crime and the sensibility that warned normal people did not get excited about violence. Her excitement was winning.

First on the scene, she briefly looked around for the 999 caller, but saw no one in the vicinity. She glanced to her partner, who shrugged. They both bustled up the building’s rotting stairs, checking each floor for a sign of life or a body. They found the latter. Her partner silently let her take the lead, and it was Joan who pronounced DOA. Her previous thrill flickered, gradually dying like an oxygen-starved candle, as she and her partner followed procedure, calling in Scotland Yard and vacating the premises.

Soon enough, several cop cars had arrived and Joan was subject to routine questioning. A lanky, younger-looking sergeant approached her, mouth quirking in a good-natured grin as she stuttered over his questions. It didn’t take much detective work, she was sure, for him to sus out she was green.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before. New EMT?” He scribbled on a notepad before offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade; get any more of these and I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Joan,” They shook hands. “Joan Watson. I’m part of a work-study program at St. Bart’s. Seems I’ll be around often.”

Their conversation went no further, as a dark figure interrupted them, “Lestrade, your crime scene is abysmal. As usual.”

Joan blinked, turning to face the presence. A young man, about her height, with a mop of curly dark hair leaned into Lestrade’s personal space. He had sharp features, and a long nose, which he looked down over to glare at the officer. He was wearing civilian clothes, Joan noted, and wondered how he had got past the police tape.

“Yes, yeah, yeah - get to the point Sherlock” Lestrade barely flinched at the sudden disturbance. He winked at Joan, carelessly waving a hand in the air. He never finished his thought.

Joan had less than a second to process the old-fashioned, unusual name. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto Joan. His weight shifted, and he was suddenly in her orbit. Joan sized him up. He was lanky, and didn’t look like much of a threat at first, but restlessness in his posture hinted at a manic energy.

“You,” He addressed her. “What did you notice about the body?”

Joan sent a glance Lestrade’s way. “I gave my statement to the police.”

“Useless, your talents are better served helping me.”

Joan ignored him, turning her full attention back to Lestrade. “Since when did Scotland Yard let civilians into their crime scenes?”

An irritated huff breezed over her crossed arms. 

Lestrade’s mouth pulled upwards into a grin wider than a Cheshire cat. “Since their older brothers have political pull. Insisted we make Sherlock here an amateur detective.”

“Consulting detective,” the Sherlock hissed. “Body. Now. Crime is waiting.” With a suffered huff, he flapped the ends of his coat and hurried off, ignoring the officers who shouted after him.

Greg was still chuckling under his breath at Sherlock’s exit. “Never seen ‘im so ruffled. Who are you, Joan Watson?”

“Never mind that - what the hell?”

“Oh, Sherlock’s a student - with you, sounds like - got a relative with pull over the force and an interest in forensics. Shows up and badgers everybody, then usually solves the case.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg gestured up to the crime scene. “You oughta see him work. Got a minute?”

Joan’s eyes flicked towards her EMT partner. Checking her radio, she noted there were no incoming calls or emergencies. The body had been interesting, and her sense of excitement flared back to life. She nodded to Lestrade. Waving away the two other sergeants at the door to the decrepit building, he ushered her up three flights of stairs to the familiar body. 

No longer preoccupied with saving a life, Joan could take a moment to evaluate her surroundings. The roof to the building had long rotted away in sections, staining old apartment or office walls an off-white, mildewy colour. The floor wasn’t in much better shape, boards swollen in the London rain, and now blood. The body was still left the way Joan remembered - face down near fingernail scratches in the floor - and covered in pink. 

Yes, the woman was dressed head to toe in the colour, with only one pump hanging limply off a foot. 

The amateur detective stood slightly away from the body, peering over the scene in thought. Some distance away, a forensic tech took photographs of the scene. The flash of the camera carved deep shadows into the lines of his face. It reminded Joan of old black and white horror flicks, where vampires lurked amid streaks of lightning.

“Cause of death.” Ordered Sherlock.

Joan sent a side-eyed glance to Lestrade. “Thought that was the coroner’s job.” 

“The coroner is an idiot, and I don’t care what he thinks. What would you say was the cause of death?” Sherlock spun and paced to the opposite end of the room.

Greg handed her a set of nitrile gloves with a shit-eating grin. Joan huffed, but snapped them on, to the shocked alarm of the tech in the room.

“She can’t touch the body!”

“She’s an EMT - Anderson, you dolt - she already has.” Sherlock said.

Ignoring them both, Joan squatted by the body and leant over, reassessing her initial observations. The woman’s eyes were open in that eerie, absent way normal for the deceased. Joan noticed burst blood vessels: petechial haemorrhaging. The body lay face-down, with the head twisted sharply to the shoulder. Joan slightly lifted it, like she had earlier to take an absent pulse, but this time, she focused on other details. The woman’s lips were blue and a faint whiff of gastric acid caught the air.

“Asphyxiation.” Joan determined out loud.

“By what cause?” Sherlock countered.

“She choked on her own vomit,” Joan continued.

“Finally!” Sherlock crowed. “Someone who isn’t completely useless!”

Joan continued to ignore him. She gazed at the throat, finding no evidence of bruising or strangulation. She examined the hands and wrists, where recently manicured hands were torn away in the woman’s manic scraping against the floor. There was no bruising on her arms or knuckles; no defensive wounds. Ripped pantyhose on her legs only suggested that the woman had tripped and tore them at one point, and her ankle with the missing pump was swollen, probably with an injury relating to the missing shoe.

“Someone coerced her here, probably with some kind of weapon. I think forced her to take something that caused her death.” Joan announced.

“Excellent, but you’ve missed major details,” the amateur detective burst into a rambling analysis of the scene. 

Joan peeled off her gloves and tossed them into a forensic garbage bag. She checked her watch as his tirade sparked an argument with Anderson. As the two strove to shout over the other, Joan strode back towards Lestrade.

“You weren’t kidding, Lestrade,” she mused aloud. “Does this happen often?”

“Call me Greg,” Lestrade said, “And you have no idea.”

“Do you make bets?” she eyed the way the detective and the forensics tech hurled insults at each other, close enough she thought they might start throwing punches.

“Not since the commissioner got wind of it.”

“Damn. Not much to look forward to then.”

Greg laughed. “Well, some nights after a long stretch, the boys like to get together for a pint. You should join us sometime.”

Joan sent him a lopsided smile. “Cheers, that sounds great.”

As static crackled over her radio, Joan’s remembered her partner was waiting outside. She bid Greg goodbye, leaving to finish her shift and looking forward to shaking off the crazy night.