I feel like some people need to relearn Genre Expectations... "Man, this tragedy sucks!!! Why didn't they just do XYZ, then everything could have ended happily!!" well, then it wouldn't be a tragedy, would it. "Man, this lighthearted teen romcom is terrible, it's so sappy and unrealistic!!" Well, yeah. If it had been gritty and dark, it wouldn't have been a lighthearted romcom, would it. Is the writing actually bad or are you just trying to order a milkshake from a Home Depot

A secret compound in the Montana wilderness.  An ancient power exploited by the world's most powerful. And the two vengeful parents who will learn firsthand what lies within THE TOMB OF THE BLACK HORSE. Comic I'm colouring for, loving the script and the art so far, (Eat the Rich baby) . Check it out on Kickstarter! 🖤🖤🖤

add me to your writeblr taglist

right now. if you see this on your dash, add me. if you don’t have a taglist, make one and add me to it.

i know it can feel pushy to tag people in your writing (trust me, i know) but we are a community that thrives on sharing. i promise i will always be delighted to read and boost your work, even if it’s a genre you don’t see me post about much.

consider this explicit permission to tag me whenever you post your writing. even if i don’t follow you, even if you’re seeing this as a reblog from someone else. add me to your taglist.

people misunderstand what ‘gifted kid’ actually means but it’s ok it’s fine it’s cool it’s good

Sometimes a family is a writer and their fucked up oc and their fucked up oc and their fucked up oc and their fucked up oc and their fucked up oc and

Good to know! Low-commitment is lovely for me—work-related reading is keeping me busy (not that I’m complaining) but I’ve loved everything I’ve seen about awoni and would love to read more/help however I can!

What type of reader are you looking for re: A Woman of No Importance? I’m interested no matter what, but it helps to know what kind of return you’re looking for ♥️

I don't think I or the draft is ready for true beta readers yet so it'd be more general feedback/general reactions and opinions? I just want to know how it reads and if it tells an enjoyable story and that my thought process was coherent because I haven't written anything like it before. So I guess it would be low commitment since my revise timeline is still a bit far off.

NEW VERSION. :)

Excerpt from a horror story WIP

An incessant rain spell in Haven Bay, Maine, gave the impression of an eternal downpour, which could be a curse or a blessing, depending on one’s perspective. The locals, seemingly immune to the constant precipitation, carried on with their lives as if normal, and to them, it surely was. Tegan, uninterested in getting soaked, proceeded with determined strides—rhythmic sound of raindrops hitting her jacket provided a steady beat alongside. Raised the distinct scent of the harbor just beyond the hill, salt and fish, which filled the air, mixed with the dampness that clung to her as her thick leather jacket shielded her slender shoulders from the persistent drizzle. Along the uneven cobblestone street, the historic downtown of this ancient fishing town, nestled an antiques shop that could beguile with its charm. Once a weathered two-story home, it stood tall and narrow, embraced by neighboring buildings on either side. Crafted from a combination of sturdy wood and durable stone, diligent restoration efforts had resurrected its original 18th-century grace, dated back to before Maine’s statehood. The wooden plank walls boasted a fresh coat of vibrant sky-blue paint, added a touch of whimsy to the facade. Its brick foundation jutted out, which formed a quaint porch adorned with a protective awning. A single large window embellished both the ground floor and the upper level, which drew the invigorating ocean breeze to permeate the interior. When she approached, Tegan noticed a slight crack in one of the windows, which worried her. She needed no one outside to hear what was about to happen. The scent of age-old treasures infused the air. Time was of the essence. As Tegan glanced at the sign that hung beside the door, realized that she had a mere fifteen minutes before the door would lock. “Perfect,” she said to herself.

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@pb-dot @illarian-rambling @ryns-ramblings @stonesandswords @sender-paulson

@roach-pizza

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My face is having uncontrollable spasms. Great. It hurts really, really, really bad.

I think part of why I have trouble explaining pain to the doctor is when they ask about the pain scale I always think “Well, if someone threw me down a flight of stairs right now or punched me a few times, it would definitely hurt a lot more” so I end up saying a low number. I was reading an article that said that “10” is the most commonly reported number and that is baffling to me. When I woke up from surgery with an 8" incision in my body and I could hardly even speak, I was in the most horrific pain of my life but I said “6” because I thought “Well, if you hit me in the stomach, it would be worse.”

What It Would Mean To Be Sun-Kissed

He knew at that moment that he was doomed. He felt it with a certainty that radiated through him like the warmth of this incredible new light—he would never marry, never sire children, for he would never love anything so well as this again in his life. genre: romance, mythology retelling | word count: 1,380 cw: imprisonment, non-explicit sexual content

Icarus had lived his entire life in darkness. Confined to the tower as he was from such a young age, he knew very little beyond the cold, stone walls of their rooms and the dim light of his father’s lanterns. He caught glimpses of the sky when the king’s servants would come to their door with food and materials for his father’s inventions, but the deliveries happened under the hazy blue cast of the early morning, before the great chariot made its trek across the sky.

His father had told him of Apollo and his sacred duty, of course. He’d told him of the whole pantheon, including the sea god whose punishment of Minos had led—however indirectly—to their current imprisonment. Icarus had yet to see the chariot for himself, though, and could only imagine the shape of the sun from the stories his father constructed as he worked. He wondered if some long-faded part of himself remembered its touch on his face from when he was a child, unshackled and carefree, for he still felt warmth blossom on his skin when his father would describe bright days on Crete before the island was cursed with the Minotaur, before Pasiphaë was driven to madness for her husband’s sins. His father spoke kindly of the queen, daughter of Helios, and Icarus thought he could sometimes see the light of her smile as his father recounted it in the days before it faded.

Icarus drank these stories like nectar, and would sit at his father’s side as he worked long into the night, handing him tools and strips of leather in enraptured silence. He imagined that the heat of the melted beeswax was that of the sun at his fingertips, reaching out to welcome him back to the light after so long spent locked away. So engrossed was he that he didn’t think to ask his father where he’d gotten his feathers until they were fitting the first set of wings to his arms. His father only smiled and tapped his nose—his greatest feat of engineering, he said, would be their escape. He led Icarus to a stretch of wall devoid of his many tools and diagrams, explaining that there had once been a balcony in their tower that the king had ordered torn down and bricked up upon their internment. One by one, he removed the stones he’d meticulously carved loose to create an opening in the wall—just large enough that a starved man might crawl through—and Icarus got his first glimpse of the sun.

He knew at that moment that he was doomed. He felt it with a certainty that radiated through him like the warmth of this incredible new light—he would never marry, never sire children, for he would never love anything so well as this again in his life. Light reflected off the waves in a glittering, piercing dance as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amaranth and ochre and casting a gold wash over the outer walls of his prison. Heat embraced him even as the sea breeze whipped his hair and stung his face, erupting his arms in a gooseflesh he’d thought could only come from the cold touch of his stone floor. Gulls screeched in adulation as they soared, their wings silhouetted against the brilliance of the fiery clouds. Icarus understood the stories then, of how people saw the face of a god in this light, of how Perse could come to bear Pasiphaë and her siblings. What he would give to be welcomed in such a way, to be held and loved by something so magnificent. That night, he would let his mind and hands wander down paths of what it would mean to be “sun-kissed.”

In the months that followed, Icarus dedicated himself anew to his father’s work. His eagerness to be free of their tower was like fire in his blood—a burning, pulsing need to escape the darkness and envelop himself in the sun’s embrace. Now that he was in on the secret, he volunteered to collect the feathers from the lip of the ruined balcony, to scrape away at the grout and widen their path of egress. If his father noticed the fervor in his eyes in these moments, he said nothing, likely attributing it only to that of a young man anxious for his freedom. He couldn’t have known the truth—that his son had fallen well and truly in love. When Icarus pulled the stones away to gaze upon his beloved, he savored each touch of sunlight on his face like a kiss. He would grasp the rough stone and lean out as far as he dared, drinking in the warmth he’d been so long denied and watching his beloved paint the island and the sky. 

He could only ever gaze upon its face during sunset, as the angle of its glare hid the western tower from the king’s watchful eye. Icarus didn’t mind—it was the face he’d seen first, and the face he liked best. He would observe in awe as his beloved dressed itself in godblood and languished in sheets of scarlet and navy before retiring behind the horizon. It felt like a promise of what could be once Icarus was free, when he and his father escaped their tower upon his ingenious wings and Icarus could spend every day under the sun’s caress. His skin would darken from his rejoicing, be left slick with sweat from its heated touch. He’d awaken with the dawn and pray thanks to Apollo for bringing his beloved to him, and as his ecstasy cooled with the onset of dusk, the last words on his lips would be a farewell.

When the day finally arrived, Icarus felt near-drowned in anticipation. He trembled as his father affixed the wings to his arms, nodding along but only half-listening to the warnings he’d memorized by now. If there was a new concern in his father’s eyes as he instructed him not to fly too high, Icarus was too elated to hear it. Soon he would be flying, soon he would be free. Free from the walls of this terrible tower, free to stretch his arms as far as they could reach, free to bask in the beautiful light of his beloved without being caught and risking banishment to the cursed labyrinth below. Caution seemed so insignificant in the face of it all, and was easily whipped away by the wind when his father opened the door to their salvation for the final time.

Taking flight felt as natural as breathing. The wings were less unwieldy in the wind, and it only took a twist of his wrist, a slight angling of his elbow, and he was soaring as easily as the gulls squawking curiously around them. He was not weightless, but there was a delicious freedom in his defiance of nature—in being unfettered not just from the confines of the tower, but the confines of gravity itself. Unbound and unbeholden, Icarus was free to look upon his beloved in all its glory.

His father had chosen the afternoon for their grand escape, when Icarus’s beloved was highest in the sky, blessing them with a radiance the likes of which he’d never felt before. Updrafts from the Aegean Sea carried cool air to his face, and Icarus harkened back to his first meeting with his beloved all those months ago. He had been right—this was a better touch, he knew, than any lover could ever offer. To be caressed like this, to be surrounded in joyous warmth was beyond pleasure, beyond feeling, beyond love itself. His beloved beckoned, and Icarus obeyed with unhesitant exhaltation.

Sense gave way to sensation as the light and warmth overwhelmed him. All else washed away in their wake, leaving behind only Icarus and the sun. His father’s shouts from further and further below faded into the orchestra of wind and waves, the melting wax against his arm deliquesced into tender, heated kisses against his skin, his dizzying descent spiraled into a frantic dance of devotion. Nothing else mattered in that moment, because as Icarus fell, he swore he could see his beloved’s face at last.

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Maybe this is the wrong platform to pose this question given the average tumblr user but

Is it just me or did our generation (those of is who are currently 20-30 ish) just not get the opportunity to be young in the 'standard' sense?

Like, everyone I talk to who's over 40 has all their wild stories about their teens and 20s, being young and dumb, and then I talk to my friends and coworkers and classmates, and we just... dont.

being a fan of a friend's ocs is actually so humiliating....... like yes my favourite character rn is tragically doomed and a pillar of humanity who i think is relevant to the current world. you can find information about them on discord dot com and sometimes in late-night conversations with this guy i know. what the fuck

Eithne's Faith - Excerpt from my Short Story

I originally had this posted and realized it was very long. So now it is under the cut. lol Sorry! And it isn't the full short, lol, just an excerpt

Taglist: @cljordan-imperium @ashirisu @leahnardo-da-veggie

You might think she’s brave to embark on this solitary journey. Though bravery holds true meaning when the fear of death looms, yet Eithne’s fear ran much deeper than mere mortality. Death didn’t scare her. She had evaded the annihilation of her tribe, the Orc, on a rough, makeshift canoe, which was once her father’s trusty boat, glided through the churning waters.

Northmen, clad in bear-skins, their axes covered with blood, rampaged and desecrated the tranquil isles that her tribe had called home for generations, their atrocities echoed across the land. Farms, once bountiful and prosperous, now laid barren and fallow, homes burnt to coal. Survivors taken as thralls to feed the ever-growing slave markets. Those who had the misfortune of being chosen as sacrifices were the ones destined to be killed in honor of their hideous gods—they had the worst fate.

Then came a bone-chilling gale which welcomed her as she paddled toward the mainland. Its icy touch enveloped her like an old friend. Even if it carried the unmistakable scent of death and smoke, accented with the salty tang of the cerulean waters. Followed by the twang of arrows that filled the air, their whistling sound pierced through the howling wind. With each miss, the arrows created tiny splashes, and broke the surface of the water. One arrow struck the wood of her boat, shattered upon impact, and sent splinters flying. Eithne ducked on instinct, her braided reddish blonde hair swayed, accompanied by the soft rattling of bone and gemstone beads.

A shiver ran through her body, causing goosebumps to rise on her sun-kissed complexion. But as she drew closer to the mainland, the onslaught ceased, signaled that the Northmen cared not for an escapee. But the gods would not be on her side.

To challenge her resolve and will, the gods put Eithne through a series of tests, determined to expose her cowardice for not dying alongside her kin. As the air crackled with the intensity of their anger, thunder that boomed and echoed all around. Seemed to be conjured by a malevolent force. Brilliant lightning streaked across the sky. That’s when she felt awe wash over the young woman as she watched, her senses captivated. Forest green eyes flickered like leaves in the sunlight with each whip of lightning that struck something off past the horizon.

But what filled her with an anxious energy, more than anything else, was the notorious current which swirled around the islands and pulled towards the mainland. Its relentless tugging threatened to whisk her away towards the coast in a heartbeat. To batter her tiny canoe, as well as her body, against the cliff coasts, rocks as large as ships waited to bash against her and send the warrior to the depths below. Nevertheless, she possessed the luck of Dagda and navigated past the treacherous rocks of the island, only to have her fortune fade as the canoe capsized, plunged her into the frigid depths of the waves.

fucking hate it when the stuff everybody says "actually works" does actually work.

hate exercising and realizing i've let go of a lot of anxiety and anger because i've overturned my fight-or-flight response.

hate eating right and eating enough and eating 3 times a day and realizing i'm less anxious and i have more energy

hate journaling in my stupid notebook with my stupid bic ballpoint and realizing that i've actually started healing about something once i'm able to externalize it

hate forgiving myself hate complimenting myself more often hate treating myself with kindness hate taking a gratitude inventory hate having patience hate talking to myself gently

hate turning my little face up to the sun and taking deep breaths and looking at nature and grounding myself and realizing that i feel less burdened and more hopeful, more actually-here, that i am able to see the good sides of myself more clearly, that i am able to see not only how far i have to grow - but also how much growth i have already done & how much of my life i truly fill with light and laughter and love

horrible horrible horrible. hate it but i'm gonna do it tho

Fantasy books written by women are often assumed to be young adult, even when those books are written for adults, marketed to adults, and published by adult SFF imprints. And this happens even more frequently to women of color.

This topic’s an ongoing conversation on book Twitter, and I thought it might be worth sharing with Tumblr. And by “ongoing,” I mean that people have been talking about this for years. Last year, there was a big blow up when the author R.F. Kuang said publicly that her book The Poppy War isn’t young adult and that she wished people would stop calling it such. If you’ve read The Poppy War, then you’ll know it’s grimdark fantasy along lines of Game of Thrones… and yet people constantly refer to The Poppy War as young adult – which is one of its popular shelves on Goodreads. To be fair, more people have shelved it as “adult,” but why is anyone shelving it as “young adult” in the first place? Game of Thrones is not at all treated this way…

Rebecca Roanhorse’s book Trail of  Lightning, an urban fantasy with a Dinétah (Navajo) protagonist has “young adult” as its fifth most popular Goodreads shelf. The novel is adult and published by Saga, an adult SFF imprint. 

S.A. Chakraborty’s adult fantasy novel City of Brass has “young adult” as its fourth most popular Goodreads shelf. 

Tasha Suri’s Empire of Sand, an adult fantasy in a world based on Mughal India, has about equal numbers of people shelving it as “adult” or “young adult.” 

Book Riot wrote an article on this, although they didn’t address how the problem intersects with race. I also did a Twitter thread a while back where I cited these examples and some more as well. 

The topic of diversity in adult SFF is important to me, partly because we need to stop mislabeling the women of color who write it, and also because there’s a lot there that isn’t acknowledged! Besides, sometimes it’s good to see that your stories don’t just end the moment you leave high school and that adults can still have vibrant and interesting futures worth reading about. I feel like this is especially important with queer rep, for a number of reasons. 

Other books and authors in the tweets I screenshot include:

Witchmark by C.L. Polk

A Ruin of Shadows by L.D. Lewis

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

The Day Before by Liana Brooks

A Phoenix First Must Burn edited by Patrice Caldwell

Shri, a book blogger at Sun and Chai

Vanessa, a writer and blogger at The Wolf and Books

TLDR: Women who write adult fantasy, especially women of color, are presumed to be writing young adult, which is problematic in that it internalizes diversity, dismisses the need and presence of diversity in adult fantasy, and plays into sexist assumptions of women writers.