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more stories where falling in love is a horrifying fate worse than death rather than a source of comfort and hope. more stories where love is understood as a terminal affliction.
the problem with autism is sometimes you want to do something (brave) but you need someone to gently walk you through each step so you know what will happen. and people don’t like doing that
every time i see this post i think of that person who posted on reddit that they wanted to go to subway for the first time but they were scared they would say the wrong thing so someone gave them step by step instructions for the entire process and what all the choices would be and when they would ask what question and i just think
someone will
someone out there will see you and say "yes. the world is scary. but let me hold your hand and show you how to do it anyways"
everyone needs that someone, and everyone can be that someone
If you haven't already tried it, might I recommend Goblin Tools? It's got lots of great features including a Magic To Do feature that will break bigger tasks down into a series of smaller, sequential tasks.
Hey y’all I have an announcement! My web app that I’ve been working on, Afro Index, is now live! It’s a visual reference library of Black hairstyles, for artist, animators, writers, and anyone who wants to learn more about them!
Check it out at afroindex.org! 💛✨
A reference library for Black hairstyles with accurate naming,
structured filtering, and curated reference images.
I think it's really important to point out one of the major flaws in that highway analogy:
Eminent domain requires payment.
The government cannot come in and merely seize your land under eminent domain and pay you nothing. There is a process & they have to pay you market value for your land and the buildings on it. A couple of my former clients went through this about 15 years ago when the 202 Bypass went through in Montgomery & Bucks County in Pennsylvania. Their houses and land were taken via eminent domain so that the highway could be built, but, I need to say this again: they were paid.
They were paid and there was a process in which they were informed ahead of time. They didn't just drive home one day and find out their home had been snatched, too bad, so sad, no money for you, you should have put your house in a bank vault.
Just taking someone's shit like that without compensation has a name, and it's not eminent domain or anything like it:
It's fucking theft.
(I'm not interested in hearing the same tired shit about how copyright is inherently bad and only protects corporations, because as someone who deals with protecting my livelihood from scammers and scrapers via copyright every goddamned day, this isn't a fun mental exercise/philosophical debate for me, and you're absolutely wrong. Fucking save it for someone ignorant enough and with time to waste on that.)
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my that one friend that's too woke opinion is that in a similar vein to how you almost never see fat people or women without makeup on tv you never really see anyone experiencing incontinence issues unless it's a humiliating comedic moment at their expense and that's kind of scary
like sorry to be the bearer of bad news but people piss themselves. when they're afraid. when they've experienced mental and/or physical trauma and their body needs a way to express that stress. when they've been sexually assaulted. when they get older and their muscles start to wear out from a lifetime of service. a not insignificant majority of people Will experience incontinence in their lifetimes and while there are steps you can take to manage it for your own comfort and others', there's simply no moral dimension to it whatsoever. & like i'm not saying every show and movie needs checkhov's bed wetting scene but we have seriously got to get more okay with acknowledging that somehow.
The reason categorizing fanfiction by tropes works is because there's already an established setting, cast of characters, and theme in the original work, so when people write fanfics they're building sand castles in pre-existing beaches, but when you advertise your book as "sci-fi enemies to lovers where there's only one bed and also they're gay" it says nothing about what the premise is, who the characters are, or what the book is actually trying to say. That's not to say that books containing stuff like "sci-fi enemies to lovers where there's only one bed and also they're gay" can't be absolutely fantastic books, but if you only advertise by listing off tropes that are inherently cookie-cutter then you're implying (whether intentionally or not) that there's nothing interesting or memorable about the book besides smashing tropes together like you're playing with action figures.
i'm thinking about charlotte brontë spending her last years editing and publishing her sisters' writings and about christopher tolkien dedicating his life to the protection and meticulous reconstruction his father's life's work and about johanna van gogh publishing the letters between vincent and theo that would propel vincent van gogh into fame because she knew how much her husband had loved his brother, and about how so often art isn't just a reflection of the artist's mind and skills but a testament to the fact that they were loved
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here is your daily reminder to COMMENT ON THE AO3 FICS YOU READ! it goes such a long way, especially if it’s a multi-chapter work and you can only leave kudos once. ANYTHING is an acceptable comment—emojis, keyboard smash, screaming, in-depth analysis! i promise you, the writers want it ALL
like I mean this very seriously as writing advice. the character should experience events and make decisions that make them different at the end of the story. they should be changed. they do not have to be improved.
they can get worse. they can make decisions of an increasingly terrible nature. they can stop taking risks on kindness. they can discover how much they can get away with. they can find religion, or abandon it, with negative effects on their moral creed. the character has to develop. the character does not have to grow.
by march of 2025, it was official. i had been dangerously suicidal for an entire 3 straight years. no hotline was going to help me. i had no money for inpatient care or therapy. i spent most of my days so numb it was terrifying, became a void of a person. suicide was no longer a choice so much as an inevitability to me: it all made a terrible, dark kind of sense. it was as if i was writing a very long equation and kept arriving at the exact same answer. it was a twisted but peaceful kind of self-forgiveness - my dog would be happier with my brother, my family would have less to worry about.
i had tried everything. everything on earth i could think of to try. distractions and burnout and medication and all of it. i integrated with my community and practiced my hobbies and tried to make smart choices and exercised regularly and kept putting it off until tomorrow. i would wake up and think - what if i am just like this, forever? three years into the worst depressive spiral of your adult life, the sensation of it becomes almost smooth, like a worrystone. nothing matters. it is almost a bone that never healed correctly. i was never quite mentally healthy, this was just the crystallization process.
i genuinely thought i was never going to recover, ever. that it would just be an eon of that experience, forever and ever.
my happiness did not come back like a bolt of light. i saw one very-small flicker and i snatched that moth out of the sky with my teeth, held her pinned against me. i worked so hard it felt stupid; i faltered; i continued.
on saturday, i had the best day of my life. it didn't start out that way. it just unrolled into one beautiful moment after another, even though i expected nothing from it. i spent the entire ride home grinning so widely that my cheeks hurt. i watched the sunset in silence. all i could think was holy fuck i'm glad i didn't kill myself.
in the bad place, i couldn't see the happiness coming for me. it wasn't like i wasn't aware good things could theoretically happen (and did sometimes happen even to me), it was that i just genuinely believed joy was no longer a possibility. i had tried to fix joy against my ceiling, after all, and it had bled down and spoiled in the air above me. i assumed that i had simply run out of the opportunity - that if i did experience joy, it would be difficult to parse, muted. a mumble instead of a shout.
the shout i am feeling is still echoing inside of me. i am joyful when i touch moss and i am joyful when i stand in the sun and i am joyful when i make my dinner. i am joyful when i text my friends and when i skinny dip and when i sing off-key to my girlfriend. i am joyful and i dance in the rain like a stupid lesbian manic pixie dream girl and i build little forts for mice to hide in and i hug trees without warning and i am joyful about the cringe of it all, about the silly abandon i feel.
i have bad days, but the good outshines them. i cannot fathom that. last year at this time, the bad days were still outnumbering the good by a margin so wide it was the difference between a pond and the ocean.
but the good days were there, which was new. and if they were there, it meant they could exist, and i could multiply them, and i could get out and get through. if the good days were there, laid out in white stars along the black beach of my life - i could pick them up gently and carry them, one at a time. each new one so blisteringly precious.
i can't tell you when i became overwhelmed with happiness. i think it snuck up on me, a blade in the night. i just woke up one day, and i was so intimately, wildly glad for it. for the gift of my one and only life.
i wrote this post over on bluesky today and, after receiving a few of the predictable "but what if i Want to write badly" responses you get to any opinion that can be taken as prescriptivist writing advice, i thought i'd talk more about what i'm getting at.
basically, it's an issue of suspension of disbelief. there are a lot of things in fantasy and historical writing that we're willing to look past. dragons, potatoes, the divine right of kings. we are able to suspend our disbelief that a monarch could be anything but a despicable tyrant if the story we're being told is convincing enough, or plays to our comforting worldviews about nobility and Great Man theory. we can also suspend it if we straight up didn't know that europe didn't have potatoes pre-columbian exchange. basically--it means it doesn't bother you that these elements aren't perfectly realistic. fiction is not required to be realistic. clue's in the name.
but there are some things we just can't ignore. some things hit us as out of place for the setting we've been presented, or the world as we understand it. it pulls us out of the story by reminding us, in that moment, that we are reading a constructed narrative made of a series of choices by an author. and for whatever reason, they made a Wrong choice, like plucking the wrong guitar string.
bdsm safety protocols are the classic example, since a majority of people that encounter this sort of thing often enough to identify it online are reading fanfic and romance. things like a red light/green light system appearing in a chinese fantasy world where cars have not been invented, or cowboys intuiting the concept of a safeword while having spit-lubed anal sex in the desert. absurdisms that break suspension of disbelief, because who is teaching these cowboys the principles of consent. nobody.
now, we've beaten the dead horse of 'don't write like you're afraid of a callout post' a million times when it comes to including bdsm best practices in writing. you are allowed to write whatever you want forever, and if what you want to write is perfectly safe, negotiated sex between two adults who would have never received sexual education and probably thought a woman's uterus wandered in the body depending on the temperature, you are free to do that. i'll think your writing is bad, but you don't have to care what i think. you don't have to care about the people who'd get upset at cowboys doing unnegotiated "lasso tricks" either.
anyway, i'm getting off track. the actual point of the post above was that i see this same kind of thing with modern terminology for queer concepts in completely incongruous settings, and it pulls me out just as bad as any cowboy therapyspeak. i simply do not believe the local dirt farmer who binds his chest and changed his name from helen to troy would call himself "trans". i do not believe the wizard who has no time or interest in sex would call himself "asexual". and 1800s english dandies would not be calling themselves "gay" unless they were in a holiday mood.
that doesn't mean they couldn't understand those concepts, but it's not the language they would use to express them, because they would not have it. you see this with discussion of actual literal history--we technically cannot call historical figures "gay" or "transgender" with 100% confidence, even when their behavior lined up very closely with our modern idea of those concepts, because those people did not have our modern idea of those concepts. would they have identified that way, if a time traveler taught it to them? possibly! but we can't know that. they might like "transsexual" better, even if it's no longer in vogue.
and much like nobody is teaching cowboys the concept of aftercare, nobody is teaching our dirt farmer troy the word "trans", which is itself a shortening of several words that have come in and out of fashion as recently as the last century. troy would be calling himself something else, if he even has a word for what he is.
and that's where you, the author, have a Choice. there's plenty of reasons to default to the modern term--you're writing for a modern audience, you want to be clear about your representation, you're afraid of getting yelled at for getting something wrong--but i think it's the wrong move in any serious writing. because what you're losing by doing that is an opportunity to get creative and actually say something with the character, rather than tick a box.
troy might describe himself as a man trapped in a woman's body, because that is how he experiences it, and that experience informs his character. or he might think of himself as a man who just has breasts, because he's always been a man and has been treated as a man, and he's never had to examine it. or he might call himself a "rock", because he lives with dwarves and that's the dwarven word for masculine-presenting.
or he can just say he's "trans", and you don't explore what it means to the character in the world he lives in, while also implying somebody sat this boy down on a stump in the dirt fields and said the word "transgender" to him, and then said it often enough he shortened it to "trans". while living on his dirt farm. where he would never have seen a pineapple.
i am more interested in a troy who doesn't have a perfectly modern understanding of what he is and what he wants, because that's where a story lives. i don't read to see my understanding of things perfectly mirrored back to me, i read to experience something different. i want to read about the guy who calls himself a slur because it's the only language for himself he has, and what that means to him. i want to read about the guy who never calls himself a man, but understands implicitly that he's something different. i want to read about messy, complicated people who don't know shit from fuck. it'll absorb me a hell of a lot more.
anyway.
this is all opinion and i am just one guy so you're allowed to disagree with me. i just won't be interested in your work if you do. and that's only a loss if you make it one.
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”I have this artistic idea but not the skills to achieve it to the standard I want.”
congrats! Now you have a motif! A recurring theme! A focus for your art! Something to haunt you!
Seventeen still lives of dandelions? Three hundred poems about grief? A sketchbook dedicated to your grandmother’s house? Two books trying to unravel the complexities of familial relationships?
Don’t let the fear of it not being perfect on the first try stop you from being Weird About It!
Please view Hokusai's gradual working towards The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, over a period of 39 years.
An early exploration of the themes Hokusai would keep coming back to is Spring in Enoshima, done in 1793 when he was 33. The wave is small and there are no boats, but Mt Fuji is clear in the background, and Enoshima is in Kanagawa, so we are clearly beginning to work towards something here.
A second pass, eleven years later in 1803 when he was 44. The title of this one begins to get more familiar: The View of Honmoku Off Kanazawa. It has a towering wave over a smaller boat, but Mt Fuji is not present, and the boat is considerably larger and has a sail. But the feeling of danger in the wave and the smallness of the boat are here, and of course the general composition is definitely recognizable.
This is A View Of Express Delivery Boats, done in 1805, merely two years later at age 46. Here we find the wave and the boats almost exactly as we'll find them in The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, though Mt Fuji isn't present, and the location is uncertain. And it's a good picture! The wave is threatening, the boats are small -- but the feeling of "ocean" isn't really there yet, is it? It's unlikely this picture would have become a classic for the ages. But that's okay, there's still time.
And here we have it, a full 26 years later, done by Hokusai in 1831 at the age of 72. The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, one of the most recognizable pieces of art in the world. The boats are there, the mountain is there, the wave is there, and the FEELING is there. He did it! He reached the apex of his ongoing motif and theme!
Or did he? Because the whole point of a motif is not that you're striving to get to the perfect version of it, the one idealized image you carried in your head all along, and when it is done, you are also done. Hokusai is on record at the age of 73 saying he'd only just begun to feel like he was learning how to draw things properly, and that "if I keep up my efforts, I will have even a better understanding when I was 80 and by 90 will have penetrated to the heart of things. At 100, I may reach a level of divine understanding, and if I live decades beyond that, everything I paint — dot and line — will be alive." He had drawn The Great Wave, but he didn't believe he was finished -- he thought that he was still just beginning to get started.
And he wasn't finished with his ocean motif, either. Please check out his Mt Fuji At Sea, done in 1834 at the age of 75.
It's all there; Mt Fuji, the ocean, the wave. The boats are gone, but replaced with birds, flying with the wave instead of fighting against it. It's not as famous as The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, but that's not what motifs are for -- each successive work does not have to surpass the previous in terms of success, especially in terms of external success. They're there for you to keep playing with, keep remixing and re-experiencing, for as long as you think you have something to say.
