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| I'm Jacques! | mid 20's | writeblr: @bloodlessheirbyjacques | co-creator of Blorbo Blurbsday (with @jess-p-edits) | Your Writing & Writing Advice on queue with tag #q | I REBLOG YOUR WRITING when I can with the tag #stories by the people | nsfw content tagged #tw: nsfw. | main: @jacquessayshello |
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May Writing Challenge
This May I want to get back into writing. I’m not at all consistent. I’m at a point where I don’t feel like I can work on bigger things, because I can’t guarantee myself to keep working on it in a week from now. So I will take this month as a training month to get back into the habit of writing. I will do this by writing (or trying to write) 200 words every day. Topic is irrelevant. How great my writing is that day is irrelevant. Just 200 words written down. A habit taking 21 days to form was debunked, it does take a lot longer, but 31 days are a start I would say. These are already 140 words, so 200 words every day are hopefully manageable. You're more than welcome to join me if you like 😊
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An Interview with Jenny Slate, by Sara Black McCulloch
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Dealing With Executive Dysfunction - A Masterpost
The “getting it done in an unconventional way” method.
The “it’s not cheating to do it the easy way” method.
The “fuck what you’re supposed to do” method.
The “get stuff done while you wait” method.
The “you don’t have to do everything at once” method.
The “it doesn’t have to be permanent to be helpful” method.
The “break the task into smaller steps” method.
The “treat yourself like a pet” method.
The “it doesn’t have to be all or nothing” method.
The “put on a persona” method.
The “act like you’re filming a tutorial” method.
The “you don’t have to do it perfectly” method.
The “wait for a trigger” method.
The “do it for your future self” method.
The “might as well” method.
The “when self discipline doesn’t cut it” method.
The “taking care of yourself to take care of your pet” method.
The “make it easy” method.
The “junebugging” method.
The “just show up” method.
The “accept when you need help” method.
The “make it into a game” method.
The “everything worth doing is worth doing poorly” method.
The “trick yourself” method.
The “break it into even smaller steps” method.
The “let go of should” method.
The “your body is an animal you have to take care of” method.
The “fork theory” method.
The “effectivity over aesthetics” method.
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Hedge, the PI
I may or may not have decided that I wanted to write a story where Sonic the Hedgehog is a 50s Noir PI and translated as many of the gang as I could/wanted. Also may or may not have been revisiting my love for hard-boiled black-and-white detective stories recently. 😂
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Midnight. Perfect time for a run.
Water splashed against my new red running shoes, mud turning the white stripe into a dark stain as I ran. I glanced up to see the moon through the trees, remnants of a past storm causing the stars to sparkle in the droplets against the leaves. The wind roared in my ears, hammered my overcoat, my hands and arms dragged behind my body as I sped through the forest towards the nearby town.
I sped by a green sign, almost all the words rubbed off by years of storms. The only thing left on the old decrepit sign was the word ‘valle’, and no one could remember what came before or after the word. So, ever since I’d been here, this little town had only been known as The Valle.
The space between the forest and the town was peppered with industrial buildings, half of them rusted from disuse. We had some inventor-types and investor-types move in over the recent years -- who knows where they came from -- and they all took up residence in the industrial zone or the newly-build casinos. The lights on one side flashed through the billowing smoke from the other as I ran past, mixing to create a veil of neon-lit smoke that filled the street.
Once I reached the uneven cobblestone street on the other side of developments I had to slow down, weaving between the few people still out and about at this hour. Among the thin crowd I spotted a gal with a shock of pink hair and turned down a side-street just as she spun, narrowly avoiding her sharp eyes. It’s not that I didn’t like her. She could just be a little much for me some days. I jogged my way through the still-wet back streets to a squatty 3-story building set back among the line of dirty brick-row houses that rose up on either side; my home.
From here, it looked more like a grubby hole in the forest than an office building, but home was home.
Racing up the steps to the second floor, I came up short to find someone standing directly across from my door. He stayed in the shadows, barely moving at my approach, but I knew his silhouette instantly; it was the exact same as mine.
Lanky limbs surrounded a short torso, the guy’s hands always covered in gloves and a hat to cover his head completed the enigmatic ensemble. He only ever removed said hat in front of me, and that was only because I snatched it from his head when we first met. I was never sure why he felt the need to keep his face a secret. It’s not like he was a secret agent or anything.
True to form, he pulled off his hat to reveal a head of black spiked hair, the tips stained a dark dirty red. Red eyes glared at me from a severely angled face as he stared me down over a pointed nose. “Hedge,” he greeted me, voice low and gritty. “Out for a run again?”
I crossed my arms and met his stare with a cocked smile. “Observant as ever, my weird shadow-friend.”
His frown deepened. “I told you not to call me that.”
“Shadow?”
“Friend.”
“Well, when you’re not attacking me outright you don’t act like an enemy.” I smiled as I crossed to the door, hands digging around in my pockets for a pair of keys. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s a case waiting for you behind that door,” he stated, arms crossed. “Don’t take it.”
I paused, glancing at the door. Frosted glass covered half the wood, with big blocky letters spelling out “S. T. Hedge” across the top, and “Private Eye” across the bottom. Just beyond I could see the impression of someone waiting, a slim feminine figure shifting uncomfortably as she looked around. I looked back, answer in my cheeks, but my shadow-friend was gone. Disappeared into the night.
Hm. Maybe he was a secret agent.
I shrugged. Oh well.
I pushed the door open to find a pretty figure standing in the center of my office, hands clasped together tightly as she spun to face me. Two long blonde braids swung around her shoulders, large eyes brimming with tears as she raced toward me.
“Oh Mr. Hedge!” she cried, “I’ve lost them! I’ve lost them!”
I gave her a smile and patted her hands, something meant to comfort her while also peeling her hands off my shoulders. “Calm down, sweetheart. Take a deep breath, and tell me the story.”
Swallowing a couple mouthfuls of air, she took a step back and started again.
Miss C. Abbit spun me a story of how she’s got a group of children she takes care of on her own dime. She went to check on them this morning and found all of them missing, then ran around town for the rest of the day asking everyone who would glance her direction if they’ve seen the kids. Eventually someone gave her my number and she called, but no one answered. So she came down and had been waiting in the office.
Pulling out a small notepad, I sketched out my normal fee and asked for a description. Giving me a sad smile as she began to play with the orange ribbons in her hair, she described the kids as short with large heads on top of little round bodies. I hadn’t ever seen kids like she mentioned, but it wasn’t my job to judge her descriptive abilities.
She thanked me with a little bow and hurried away, her orange dress still bright in the shadows of the hallway. “‘Don’t take it’,” I muttered my shadow’s last words and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. I had a job to do and I was gonna do it.
Tossing the pad down, it landed unevenly among the mess. I eyed my desk with a sideways frown, rifling through the odds and ends covering the top and moving a handful of gold rings hiding among broken mechanical parts. Hm. Looks like someone thought this was his desk. Again.
Digging out the phone from one side, I pulled the receiver and dialed, tapping a foot as the line rung. Once. Twice. Three times before a young-ish voice hurriedly answered, “Twin Tails Power Shop, what’s your need?”
“A good assistant would be nice. Know anyone?”
A pause. “Sorry Hedge, I got carried away with a new design and--”
“I know, I know, it’ll change the world.” I cut him off with a sigh. “Hey Miles, think you can tear yourself away from your garage long enough to do your actual job?”
My sarcasm flew over his head as he happily quipped, “sure Hedge. What’cha need?”
“Another pair of legs; we’ve got some kids to hunt down.”
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We met outside a small dark coffee shop halfway between the office and his garage. The kid came running up, hunched under a coat to stave off the drizzling rain. He was shorter than me by a head, his somewhat round face smudged with oil and grease while smoke left a black stain on his otherwise bright-orange hair.
“Sorry Hedge,” he apologized again. “The new engine I came up with still needs a bit of work.”
I dismissed it with a shrug -- he was always coming up with new ways to spruce up almost anything mechanical -- and began telling him the details of the case. Miles listened intently while wiping his hands and face clean with a seemingly endless supply of wipes. We tossed around ideas of how to find the kids, finally settling on the one where I’d investigate where the kids last were while Miles investigated the people around the place. We set off together, and I made sure to keep it at a slow jog so he could keep up.
We trotted our way to an old apartment building leaning over a fragile shack on the edge of town, a tattered sign at the top sloppily identifying it as ‘Station Square Suites’. An old fountain sputtered at the edge of the property surrounded by weeds and thick bushes. Miles stared up and groaned, knowing he’d be dealing with drunks and people angry about being woken up. He reluctantly jogged his way to the first-story apartments while I approached the shack.
The door squealed on its hinges as I poked it open, the dim light from the surrounding streetlamps bathing the interior in a yellow glow. A mix of mattresses and sleeping bags were scattered across the floor, interspersed with threadbare rugs and discarded jackets. A dirty handprint there, a crumpled bit of bandage in that corner, small baskets piled to one side and each with an orange bow decorating the top and sides. So, miss Abbit wasn’t lying about taking care of them, then.
Sweeping the area for clues revealed a hole in the door and a broken lock lying on the floor haloed by splinters. Spatters of a black liquid marked the floor and rug, a trail leading to the window where a foot-sized mark was left at the edge of a broken window, where bits of glass and rotted wood had fallen away from the opening.
As I bent to examine the glass, something winked at me under the rug. Tossing it back revealed a small green stone, a tiny diamond only as big as my finger. I held up to what light I had, the green surface reflecting oddly in the light. I pocketed it for later and turned back to the black liquid; A quick run of the fingers to the nose told me it stunk up a storm, though it wasn’t blood by any means.
In fact...It almost smelled like…
A shadow from the doorway blocked my light. Before I could turn I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, suspicion creeping along my neck that the barrel was pointed at my head.
“Hands where I can see them.” I complied. “Stand up.” My knees popped as I stood. “Turn around.” I did slowly, coming face to face with a pair of angry blue eyes set into a wide face, the tips of his red hair peeking from under a white wrap wound tightly over his forehead. Similar wraps clung to his hands, the prized boxer’s hands still stained with blood from all the bare-fisted fights he had won. He blinked in surprise. “Hedge?”
I smiled. “Hiya ‘Knuckles’. Done boxing for the night?”
He frowned with a snort. “The Island closes at midnight, you know that. What are you doing here?”
“Not wasting time betting on your fights,” I answered, hands dropping into my pockets. “You?”
“Something was stolen from me. I got wind it might be here.”
A rattle in the corner drew both of our attention, Knuckles’ gun snapping to the sound. We waited for half a breath, the fighter approaching the corner first. A bundle of blankets shuffled at his approach, a powerful sneeze rocking the pile from under at least three layers down. With a quick pull, Knuckles jerked the blankets back and shouted, “Where are my gems!?”
His suspect wasn’t going to be much use; his rash action unveiled a child, matching the description Miss Abbit gave me, cowering with arms over his head. “Don’t hurt me!” he squealed, “Don’t take me away!”
I clamped a hand over Knuckle’s wrist, yanked his aim away from the kid. “Easy. I don’t think this is what you think it is.”
“How can you be sure?!” he snapped, stealing a glance at the kid.
“First, he’s just a kid. A kid I’ve been hired to find. And second, there’s this.” I held up a hand, showing Knuckles the small green stone. “Found this over by the window, close to an oil spot...and I doubt the kid is leaking oil.”
Knuckles swiped at my find, but he was too slow. The gem was back in my pocket and I was two steps out of his reach.
“Don’t fight me on this, Hedge,” he warned. “That gem belongs to a private collection of mine; someone stole a handful of those from me, and I’m gonna get them back one way or another.”
I shrugged. “And you will...after I figure out what it means for my job.”
We stared each other down before Knuckles holstered the gun and turned away with a grunt. “So I’m here for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I answered, looking back at the kid. “Help me figure this out and you can get it sooner.”
“Give me the shard as a downpayment and you got a deal.”
I snorted and shot him a glare, but took the tiny stone out and flicked it towards him. He snatched it out of the air with a grunt, peering closely at it while I bent down to get eye-level with the kid. “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Miss Abbit sent me to find you.”
Her name brought an immediate turnaround. He clung to me and cried, trying desperately to talk and failing to get the words past the lump in his throat. Knuckles tried a few more times to get a story out of him, but it didn’t work any better than the first time.
A knock on the door revealed Miles standing there with a notepad and a confused look on his face. He summed up his adventures in the apartment building with short sentences, to which I suggested he elaborate on later. After we take the kid back to Miss Abbit.
I had the distinct feeling that putting all our pieces together would produce a better picture to all our puzzles.
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I crossed my arms as I leaned back against the wall in thought. We took the kid back to Miss Abbit’s for safe keeping; one down and too many to go. After giving a groggy and disoriented account about a small metal man that kidnapped the rest of his friends, the child had been given food, water, and a secure place to sleep. Meanwhile Knuckles and Miles were talking around each other like water down a stifled drain, reciting facts and situations they had gone over a hundred times.
The breakdown was this; Knuckles, while primarily a boxer, also specialized in collecting rare and unique rocks. Seems he could never have enough of them and kept them locked up in the arena he owned known as ‘The Island’. A few nights ago someone managed to swipe his collection, leaving only a handful behind. His own hunt led him to think the thieves might be holding up in the shack that turned out to be where the kids were holding up.
Miles’ irritated apartment-dwellers had spun him a collective story about a fire-breathing car taking the kids away in a sack. I wasn’t buying the car story, but I had seen and heard enough things on the street that I couldn’t rule out some sort of mechanized monster maliciously snatching the minors last midnight. And if I was right, there was only one place that could manufacture said monsters and be willing to kidnap kids.
I was still fuzzy on the ‘why’ though.
Shrugging it off, I cut off the useless conversation and told them my theory. The three of them fell silent, the silence continuing past the point of my musings. I finished and Knuckles drew the same conclusion I had, slapping fist against an open hand.
“Nick Ivo,” he growled. “It’s got to be.”
“But...his company makes engines and machines,” Miles said. “Why would he…?”
I shook my head, glancing out the window. “I don’t know. But I think asking him might do the trick.”
“I’m coming,” Knuckles said, standing up and slamming his fists together. “He’s not gonna get away with this.”
I shrugged. Three against one evens the odds.
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The threat of the sun cracked along the horizon, a pale pink staining the dark of the sky as we approached a gritty tower of a building. Smoke bellowed from three chimneys at the top, the black belched cloud joined by an oversized exhaust pipe on the side. The name “Julian and Sons” was spelled out in neon lights, flickering over the doorway like a boast.
Knuckles jabbed at the door, the wood flinging open and slamming against the wall. I glanced at the inside of the doors as we made our way inside; the doors had been left unlocked. I drew my gun and motioned for Miles to keep behind me.
The inside lobby was a mess. Our feet kicked scattered nuts and bolts across a cold metal floor, pipes along the walls spewing smoke and steam in our faces. This place looked like it had been abandoned for years before being disturbed, mechanical tracks cutting through the dust and debris on the floor accompanied by a set of huge bootprints.
“So, you’ve made your way here, Hedge!” A gritty voice boomed over hidden loudspeakers, accompanied by a hearty laugh. “I wondered when you’d make your way into my trap!!”
“What have you done with the kids, Nick!?” I called up, looking around. Knuckles’ fists went up as we clustered together, moving as a group. “Hand them over and I’ll leave without tearing the place apart.”
He laughed. “You won’t get the chance!!”
The sound of gears grating echoed around the lobby, a pair of nearby iron doors opening with a slow groan. The opening filled with hot steam, surrounding the silhouette of a giant of a machine. With a rumble the giant rolled its way into the room, domed head nearly scraping the ceiling and treads large enough to squash us if we weren’t fast enough.
“Nice robot, Nick,” I called out, keeping my gun low and ready. The thing lurched forward, raising a drill-hand twice my size and aiming it at me. I motioned over my shoulder for Miles to move around as I ducked away, the drill smashing into where I had just been. I raised my head in enough time to spot Miles sliding into the shadows and mouthed the words ‘shut-off switch’. He nodded and disappeared. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.”
“Of course you haven’t!” he boasted, the machine whirring in time with his voice, flexing four arms with various sharp attachments for hands. “This is a creature of my own invention; the machines are the way of the future, don’t you see!?”
Another blow slammed into the ground nearby, a buzz saw activating and racing towards me. I jumped back in time to see my reflection among the blades. “I see you’ve got a hobby,” I answered, nodding for Knuckles to head left. “But why steal Knuckles’ rocks and a handful of kids?”
“I needed a workforce!” he bellowed, “And a power source.”
I hesitated, looking up at the looming giant. “The kids built this thing overnight!?”
“Of course not, you fool! But I have several more of this same model, and I need all the hands I can get to help me build. Those kids weren’t doing anything useful, so I decided to give them a job. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other things to attend to. Have fun!”
Two more hidden drill-hands began to whirr, the arms jerking to life and swinging around. The mechanic voice stated, “Target Locked. Initiating drill sequence.”
“Let’s go!!” I screamed, dodging a strong strike. The drill broke through the floor this time, concrete bits flying into the air as I jumped onto the arm, running up the links and landing a kick square against the metal dome. It let out a shudder and flung its arm, forcing me to jump down to the floor and steady myself.
“Oh Hedge, you don’t know how much this little town needs my inventions,” his voice continued to taunt as I dodged strikes left and right. Knuckles came around the other side, the robot swinging a bladed pincher hand at him, the glow deflected with a solid punch to the wrist-like connection. “My machines will become the next greatest thing, able to handle any kind of construction single-handed! I’ll be able to find oil in half the time, build or break down any building I want with less manpower. I’ll be rich!!”
An arm wound back and struck hard, one of its blades biting deep into the floor. It whined to pull back, but it was stuck. The robot jerked, and I took the opportunity to dash up the arm again, darting right to the top this time. A small glass opening allowed me to see inside the head, where one of Knuckles’ gems rested inside a tangle of wires glowing green and red. Shoving my gun against the glass, I pulled the trigger twice.
The robot jerked and shuddered, winding down with a goran. The gears screamed, oil spraying from the joints. I thought it was over and reached down for the gem when it was yanked down into the domed head, the thing popping up and flinging me into the air. The torso turned, smoke starting to spray from its arms as it wound up for another strike. Before it got it’s chance, Knuckles appeared, winding up with a scream and landed a crippling blow against its torso. The metal bent with a deafening crunch, a panel completely twisting away from its welded section.
Nick howled over the intercom, shouting demands at his monstrosity as Knuckles began to climb the sides. I shouted about the gem at the top, distracting the thing with a few more pops of my gun. It swung wildly, steam coming from the top of its head as it began to overload. Reaching the top with a grunt, Knuckles reared back and pummeled the metal until he made a big enough hole for his hands. The giant nearly shook him off, but with a quick jerk of his shoulder the machine died with a shudder and squeal. He pulled his hand out, revealing the gem he managed to free.
“No!!!” Ivo screamed. “How could you-- Wait, what are--!”
I heard Miles’ voice over the intercom yell “Freeze! We’ve got you, Nick! Come quietly, or...wait, what’s that!?”
There was a short pop and boom, static spreading over the speakers. My heart stopped for a moment, restarting once Miles’ voice came over the speaker. “Sorry Hedge,” he said, voice stilted with coughs and hacks. “He set off some kind of smoke bomb. He...He got away.”
“That’s alright,” I called up, looking at the defeated machine. Oil was starting to pool on the floor. “You got the kids?”
“Yeah, I found them and opened the back door. I told them to get to Miss Abbit’s and stay there until we get them. I also found most of Knuckles’ gems, though I think some of them are already a part of Nick’s robots. You should see the factory back here, Hedge. It’s wild.”
“That’s fine,” Knuckles called up, already making his way past the iron doors. “I’ll find them. You guys make sure the kids are safe and sound with Miss Abbit. Don’t worry about the aftermath, Hedge. I’ll take care of it. Nick won’t get away with this.”
I nodded and headed out the doors, calling out my plan to Miles. We made an agreement that I’d start to Miss Abbit’s and he’d take a minute to study the machines. He’d meet me there after he was done. I waved a hand and left, not surprised in the least. After all, Miles was a bit of a tech junkie. If I had it I would’ve bet a couple gold rings on one of Nick’s engines winding up in the Twin Tails shop.
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A quick trip to Miss Abbit’s found the kids safe and sound. She wrapped her arms around me as she cried, thanking me and Miles for rescuing them from Nick. We left after she paid us, heading back to the office while she went to cook soup for all of them.
The office was cold and quiet, the dull light of morning finally settling over the town. Miles had gone back to the garage to work on his new engine, police sirens wailing in the distance. I tossed my payment along with my hat onto the desk, the clanking of the glittering gold rings music to my ears, and ran a hand along my hair as I sat by the window. My fading reflection stared back at me, a shock of spiky blue hair sitting atop my head. Then the sun broke over the horizon, coating the street below in light and giving life to the dark buildings in our knothole of a town.
I pondered Nick’s robots. I wondered why my shadow-friend warned me away from the case. I thought about what Knuckles was likely to do once he got his fists on Nick. I considered the idea that Nick was still out there, and would likely want revenge on me for destroying his toys.
I shrugged it off, those worries being tomorrow's worries, and realized I was hungry. Stopping a moment to clean off my red running shoes, I decided to go out and nab a bit of my favorite grub; a chili dog.
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Epilogue
“Curse that Hedge...Curse him!” Ivo slammed two fists down on his desk and began to pace, his boots squealing in protest. “I can’t believe he defeated my latest robot. Defeated...no, he wrecked it!” He paced through his little hidden office, a space he built specifically for evasion in case anything went wrong. It was stocked to the brim with provisions, a wide path in the middle carved out with consideration for his generous girth. Hands clasped behind his back, he fumed and growled to himself as he paced past a scattering of blueprints, old plans, and a smaller model of the drill-bot that wound up being useless.
“I’ll show him,” Ivo muttered, glancing at his blueprints. His tinted goggles changed the color to a darker tone, but they held a secret; they allowed him to see the hidden ink scrawled over the blueprints.
Shuffling through them, he uncovered a floorplan of an anchient underground chamber, built right under this stupid little knothole town. He had traveled all over the world, looking for information on this chamber, and found many interesting theories but no facts. Some sounded far too mystical to be true, but some...Ah, some led him to believe an ancient power source was down there, just waiting to be used. He played with the tip of his wide bushy mustache as he considered his next move. “I’ll show that skinny runt,” he grunted. “This is not the end of Nick Ivo, inventor extraordinaire and genius beyond his time!!”
Taking his blueprint, he trotted back over to his desk and pinned it up on the wall next to a diagram of some finances. “Once I have this power source under my control,” he said, noting his habit of talking to himself and how it helped him think, “nothing will stop me from taking control of the industry, not even that runt, Hedge! And after the industry is mine, I’ll use the money and the robots to destroy this city and rebuild it in my own image; Ivotown! Yes! That’s what I’ll--”
“Talking to yourself again?”
Ivo hesitated, spinning around. He adjusted his goggles to see better, watching as a figure much like Hedge melted from the shadows. He sucked in a breath before realizing who it was.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, recovering with a smirk. “The mysterious ‘Shadow’. What do you want?”
The slender man held out his hand. “My cut.”
Ivo grunted. “Your cut. Your cut for what? You were supposed to divert him, not lead him to me.” He waved a dismissive hand, turning away. “You get nothing.”
He startled when the Shadow appeared directly in front of him, hand still out. “I did what you asked. I wasn’t told to tie him down. I wasn’t told to hurt him. Our deal was that I’d tell him not to take the case, and I’ve done so.”
Ivo sniffed through his giant nose, mustache twitched as he turned his back on Shadow. “Our ‘deal’ was for you to throw him off the case, at which you clearly failed. You get nothing. Besides, all the emeralds are back at my factory, and likely have all been taken by the police or by that idiot boxer, Knuckles. Maybe you can get your cut from them, since I no longer have access--”
Ivo felt a shove from behind, and found himself pinned momentarily to his desk with the cold steel of a gun at the base of his neck. “Wait wait wait!” he cried, “I- I- I may have one or two left. Look in my desk!” He flailed at one of the drawers. “That one! Look in there!”
Shadow opened the drawer, springing a small flash bomb. He stumbled away, falling to the ground as his senses whirled. Ivo stood over him with a laugh, gloating. “You fool!” he crowed, “did you think you could get me like that in my own office? I’ve got traps in every nook and cranny. Now get out! Get out while I still let you out!!”
Stumbling to his feet, the mysterious Shadow fixed him with a glare. “Fine. But this isn’t the last you’ve heard from me. I will come back. And I will get what is owed me.” With that, the mysterious copy of his rival stumbled from the room and Ivo turned back to his plans.
“That little snoop and his gang are going to pay for complicating my plans,” Ivo growled, snatching a blueprint for a dragon-shaped metal monstrosity from the wall. “And I know the right machine for the job...All I’ve got to do now is build him.”
Down the dark hallways and dim rooms, Ivo’s dramatic gut-filled laugh could be heard all over his abandoned, secret office building.
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“lol but why is this actually good” because i made it in earnest?? because i loved it??? because i love you??? because quality and humor are not mutually exclusive???? hold my hand. it’s okay
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Being creative isn’t always fun
I think this is one of the most difficult things to realize. Be it writing or drawing or making music or crafting – it’s not fun. Not always.
I think we all expect it to be, I mean, why do it if it isn’t fun? It looks so easy when others do it. And then we get discouraged when things inevitably turn out to be more difficult than we thought. And then we blame ourselves!
It should be easy! This should be fun! I’m such a hack, I’m doing this wrong, I will never be good at this because it isn’t fun and it’s supposed to be fun, else it’s just a stupid waste of time.
We all feel this way sometimes.
Allow yourself to accept this. It isn’t always fun, sometimes it’s really difficult and you have to push through to get to the other part that is more fun.
It’s not easy, it’s not always fun but that doesn’t mean that it’s wrong to do it. You’re not wrong, you’re not stupid, you’re not a hack. Keep doing your thing.
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David Tennant as Romeo in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Romeo and Juliet (2000) - Part 2
David Tennant on playing Romeo (excerpt from Players of Shakespeare 5: Further Essays in Shakespearean Performance by Players with the Royal Shakespeare Company):
The thing about Romeo and Juliet is that everyone seems to think they know what it’s about. You don’t have to talk about it for long before people start saying things like ‘the greatest love story ever told’ and spouting famous lines. (‘Wherefore art thou Romeo’ has to be one of the most overused and most misunderstood quotations in the English-speaking world.) When I found out that I was going to be playing Romeo for the Royal Shakespeare Company I was at first thrilled, then nervous, and then rather snowed under with unsolicited opinion: ‘O, it’s a wonderful part’; 'terribly difficult’; 'such beautiful poetry’; 'O, he’s so wet’; 'he’s so wonderfully romantic’; 'Why on earth do you want to play Romeo? Mercutio is the only part to play’; 'of course Romeo is always upstaged by Juliet’; 'it’s the best of Shakespeare’; 'it’s absolutely Shakespeare’s worst play’ - and so on, and on, until it soon became evident that to attempt such a part in such a play might be at best ill-advised and at worst total and utter madness. It was certainly clear that I couldn’t hope to please all of the people all of the time and that even pleasing some of the people some of the time was going to be pretty tricky.
However, I had always wanted to play Romeo. I thought it was a great part full of very recognizable emotions and motivations, with a vibrant youthful energy and a sense of poetry with which anyone who has ever been a self-dramatizing adolescent can identify. It is suffused with the robust certainty and cynicism of youth, but crowned with a winning and rather beautiful open-heartedness.
And it’s a great story brilliantly told, full of passion, wit, politics,
intrigue, life and death, and topped off with lashings of s*x and violence.
[…]
And I was running out of time. There is no explicit reference in the text to how old Romeo is, but he is, undeniably, a young man. I didn’t have very many years left. I’d always said to myself that it was a part I would have to do before my thirtieth birthday or not at all. Actors older than that have played the part, of course, and I don’t doubt that they’ve done it very well, but I wanted to set myself a deadline. (There are, after all, few more tragic sights than a balding, middle-aged actor, corsetting in his paunch and inelegantly bounding across the stage as an ageing juvenile!) So, at twenty-eight (I would be twenty-nine before the show opened) it was now or never.
And I suppose that playing Romeo had always represented to me the first rung on a ladder that every great classical actor had climbed before ascending to Hamlet, Iago, Macbeth, and so on, finally culminating in a great, definitive King Lear before toppling over and retiring to an old actors’ home and telling ribald anecdotes into a great, plummy old age. Not that I am, for a second, categorizing myself as a 'great classical actor’, or even aspiring to such a term, but the opportunity to follow a path through these famous parts in the wake of actors like Irving, Olivier, Gielgud and others seemed thrilling, and something that, ever since drama school, I’d dreamed of doing. This is the sort of egocentric thought-process that is not entirely helpful to an actor when it comes to actually approaching a role, and I’m not particularly proud to admit to it now, but I can’t deny that it was a part (only a relatively small part, but an important one nevertheless) of what made me say yes to the RSC and to begin to find my own way through the sea of received notions of what the part meant to everyone who was so keen to give me their opinion.
Photo credits include: Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, photostage.co.uk, the Royal Shakespeare Company, and more
Link to [ Part 1 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ]
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if someone asks you to read their writing and provide feedback, remember that your feedback should help them get as close as they can to their ideal version of the work. not yours. not capitalism's. theirs.
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taglist: @aloeverawrites, @your-absent-father, @rbbess110, @yesireadbooks, @full-on-sam, @anonymousfoz, @the-mindless, @athenswrites, @albatris, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @aalinaaaaaa, @the-void-writes (ask to be added or removed)
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Writing Tip - What ‘Habit Over Motivation’ Actually Looks Like
We’ve all heard the writing advice that you can’t rely on motivation to get you through writing a book, sometimes you need to force yourself to do it and make a habit of it. And a lot of us will scoff at that or find it too restrictive or boring, it leaves us feeling like it’s a chore rather than a fun activity
As someone who only worked out what people actually mean by it recently, let me explain my take on it
You’re not always going to be inspired to write, you’re not always going to be motivated to write, but if you only write when you’re motivated it’s gonna take a crap ton of time - and writing anything to completion already takes donkey’s years as it is. Forming a habit is going to enable you to write consistently, and thus even unmotivated or uninspired progress is still made. Hence, sometimes you have to force yourself to write
But writing too much will make that habit impossible, or at least it becomes a chore and not a fun activity. You need to give yourself realistic goals to meet, even if it’s only something small. Write for ten minutes a day, write 500 words every week, any snail’s pace progress regardless of how insignificant it may seem. Something small enough that it doesn’t drain you but frequent enough that there’s still a habit being formed, there’s still consistency to it
I used to only write when I was inspired and motivated and could get myself to start writing, and even then the word count would be inconsistent. It could be weeks or even months between proper writing sessions. But now that I have a baseline for productivity, I have a baseline for consistent progress. And I’m only on 1K words a week! And if that doesn’t work, you can do less, or go by time spent writing if that’s a better metric for your writing style!
There’s no such thing as not enough progress when it comes to forming a consistent habit; if you can get at least one word per deadline (day, week, whatever) then that still counts as consistent progress
What everyone else seems to think of is “You must get this big amount of words written daily, think of it as eternal NaNoWriMo, if you miss even one day you’re a failure and you’ll never get the book done, SUFFER FOR YOUR ART!”
Just do what’s comfortable and it’ll be fine, no worries
#writing advice#writing habit#set realistic goals#you don't have to write every day#set small goals and stick to them
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David Farland’s Writing Tips: Great Character Arcs
Often I will hear a young author talk about character arcs and realize that they have a misconception: just because a character changes, that doesn’t mean she has a character arc.
For example, let’s say you have a character who works as a pizza delivery person and suddenly she gets a new job working as a chocolatier. Maybe being a chocolatier is her dream job, but it still isn’t a character arc. She’s just changing careers, not changing who she is.
A character arc only occurs when a character changes the premises that he or she operates under and takes a new course of action, becomes a new person. They have to change a fundamental belief about how the world operates.
We all base our actions at some levels on models of the world that are false. Sometimes, we just really don’t understand the world. Sometimes the rules of the universe seem to shift under us. Once you discover that you’re operating under a misconception, you have to change the way you act toward the world and find a new balance. That’s a real character arc.
Every character arc has four main parts, traditionally, but I think that there is a fifth. Let’s go through them.
The Lie. The first part of a character arc is called the lie. It’s something that the character believes, and he or she builds their life around it. The lie can be anything. “My spouse loves me and will always be faithful.” “Let the professionals handle politics, that is what they are good at.” “So long as you work hard, you can make enough money to take care of yourself.” “My priest is a trustworthy person.”
Of course, such generalizations all have exceptions. Under the right circumstances, your spouse might betray you. Many professional politicians are no better than crooks. You can make plenty of money and still have your wealth wiped out by a tragic illness, and many priests are predators of one sort or another.
So once your character recognizes that he or she has fallen for a lie, you as an author have got a great opportunity to begin creating a character arc. The recognition that there is a problem is called the “Inciting Incident” to your story, and it begs to be written perhaps even as a first scene.
Let’s take the cheating spouse as an example. Years ago I knew a man who had killed his wife. He was a genuinely nice guy, according to many reports—a pillar of his community. I was a prison guard at the time, and I have to admit, I even liked him. He’d come home from work early and found his wife in bed with another man, so he got mad and shot them both. That moment of discovering your wife cheating is pivotal.
The Wound. A second thing that we have to show in a story is the reason the character believed a lie. Why do we believe lies? Usually it is because our past experience suggests the lie is true.
Why did this man believe his wife was faithful? He’d never seen evidence to the contrary. As I recall, he’d been married to her for ten years. They were both in their sixties. He had met his wife at church. She’d supported him emotionally. She’d cooked meals for him, taken care of him when he was sick, cleaned his house, bought him presents for Christmas. She’d never talked longingly about wanting another man. So of course he believed that she was faithful. In short, she didn’t just say “I do” at the altar.
As a writer, when you’re creating a character arc, you need to show the foundation for the lie, the reasons that your character believed that something was true. In short, the evidence points to one conclusion, that she loves him completely.
But as a writer, we also need to show the exception. Maybe there was something about this specific man that made her want to cheat. Was she drawn to his wealth? His prowess as a lover? His charisma? Was he a master at sweet-talking the ladies, or did she genuinely find someone that she felt was a soulmate?
In short, showing why the protagonist believed a lie is fertile ground for a story, but a lot of time can be spent revealing the depths and breadth of a problem.
Taking New Action. Every arch has its keystone, a rock that holds the two sides of the arch together.
In a story, the keystone is reached when the protagonist takes a new course of action. Now, in the story we’ve been looking at, I’m not a fan of the idea of killing your spouse, but perhaps leaving her would be justified, or perhaps trying to win her back.
Whatever course of action your character takes, however, it requires him to suddenly move from being reactive to become proactive, to consciously change things.
I think that the moment where your character begins to take a new course of action is pivotal. Luke Skywalker dreamed of going to the Academy and becoming a fighter pilot like his father, but when he suddenly begins to study the ways of the Force, he enters a much larger world of possibilities, and the audience is mesmerized by it. Luke is taking a pivotal action.
The Character’s Wants. Every character has things that they want, and those wants provide the motivation for them to change. Typically, though, we don’t have the energy to chase after every possible dream. Still, the character’s “wants” can provide a strong motivation for their actions.
There is a rule in screenwriting that says that the protagonist must voice his wants by the midpoint of a film. The audience must learn what is driving him or her.
It’s a good rule for a novel, too. In once scene or another, you need to let the character show the reader what she really wants.
The Character’s Needs. More important than the character’s wants may be the character’s needs. Sure, your protagonist might want a Mercedes Benz, but all he can afford is a scooter. Ultimately, he might have to settle for a unicycle as transportation.
As your protagonist struggles to build a new future, balancing her wants against her needs will be a vital for plotting the upcoming sequences.
I think that the important thing to remember is that when your story starts, your character is acting on the basis of a belief system founded on a lie. As the story progresses, the protagonists uncovers the lie and adopts a new belief system, one that requires greater accountability, then moves toward reestablishing their lives based upon a new system of beliefs.
Please note that the new belief system doesn’t necessarily need to be “true”. In Star Wars: A New Hope, Luke Skywalker tells Obi wan Kenobi that he wants to learn the ways of the force and become a Jedi like his father. He imagines that his father was a hero who fought against the tyranny of the Empire. But in the next film, he discovers that his father is Darth Vader, and that all of his hopes are merely founded on a new lie.
For more on David Farland's Writing tips, visit https://mystorydoctor.com/writing-blog/
And you can also click here to get your David Farland Daily Meditations.
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🩸 REVIEW: THE SANGUINE SORCERESS 🩸
(can be found on goodreads and storygraph)
I had the honour to receive an ARC of this book in exchange for an honest review.
This novella tells a harrowing tale of revenge encased in the most delectable descriptive prose, as the author has us accustomed to. It has a grimmer tone to match the darker setting and story in comparison to “When The Stars Alight”, and it’s a great match for it, just as the first person perspective. It all works together to create an immersive experience that didn’t allow me anything but to read the whole thing in one sitting. A few times!
Despite, or maybe precisely because, the story reaches us through the filter provided by a fantastical world, it offered a sharp perspective that really satisfied me. It was cutthroat, honest and unrelenting, with an adamant refusal to mask the ugliness of a patriarchal society, the part men play in building it and maintaining it, or the endless ways used to keep women compliant within it, unveiling every platitude in its wake.
The narrator, Serafina, is key to my love for this book. She fascinates me, and her very existence as a character, as a wholly imperfect victim who’s never portrayed as anything less than sympathetic and undeserving of her plight; as an “unlikeable” person who acts in all the “wrong” ways that would get her blamed for her plight; as someone on the precipice of a dark path… she’s everything I could ask for in a protagonist.
Those of us who’ve read other stories by the author have the privilege of knowing a little more about her future beyond this novella, and if you’re intrigued by her character, I wholeheartedly recommend taking a look to the main story (she doesn’t physically appear until the second part, but her off-the-page presence has weight in the events unfolding). She’s far from the only reason I’d recommend WTSA, but she’s emblematic of what makes Camilla Andrew’s writing resonate with me as much as it does: on top of my innate appreciation for her signature style or for the imagination and care that go into her worldbuilding, she’s creating the types of female characters I feel I’ve been hungering for all these years.
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ok im about to think about the Character!! im so Excited 😊😊
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