Day 23

I will confess, when I started to write as a hobby I didn’t actually like writing. Trouble with spelling and grammar coupled with school writing projects that were too vague in scope and lacked instructional direction killed my love for writing before it even started. I wrote not because I had been inspired to write, I wrote because I was bored.

It was the mid-90s; the high speed internet that makes streaming, Youtube, gaming and social media a thing didn’t exist yet. My Space, the ancestor to Facebook wouldn’t come into being for another 7-8 years. And don’t get me started on the search engines of the time. The kind of algorithm that makes Google scarily effective wasn’t even a thought. Most search engines at the time used a combination of ‘web crawlers’ to collect web sites and human curation to determine what search results you’d get.

At the time, my family just recently installed dial up internet. Dad was so excited to show me, even if all I did was look up Sailor Moon pictures between reading chapters out of a physical book because the pictures took so long to load. But lack of good internet wasn’t why I was bored.

I had, the year I finished 5th grade, undergone a series of surgeries due to a birth defect complication. And even after the surgeries were finished, I had a long road to recovery. I couldn’t sit for long periods of time that school required, and I was often in pain and exhausted. So instead of going to school in my 6th year, I stayed home. An agreement with the school allowed me to just take the ‘core’ subjects in order to move onto the next year, which was English and Math. So you’d imagine, when I wasn’t sleeping, I was very bored due to the lack of work.

I already read a lot in my spare time, and so taking up writing for my English made sense. And, I did. I don’t remember fully what inspired me to write, or why I wrote the things I did. Painkillers tend to make things a bit fuzzy. But by the time 7th grade rolled around I had discovered fanfiction. 

Again, I’m not sure how I discovered it. I suspect it was the fansites where I first found fanfiction. Back then, there was no fanfiction.net, or if there was it was a baby. Before fanfiction.net and wiki websites, personal websites were very common. This was because they were free at one point, Angelfire being the most well known of them, and I believe buying your own domain was cheaper back then. At any rate, the fans of any fandom that may have existed at the time owned their own websites and through these sites, curated fanfiction. In fact, it wasn’t unusual to receive requests from other sites for permission to host a story on their site.

I got my start on a site called fanfiction.com, which actually was a coding project apparently if I recall correctly. It had spread by word of mouth, and one of the features of the site was that people could, on top of leaving comments, give a story 1 out of 5 stars. And that’s how stories were pushed to the top of a category. Like I said, this site was someone’s project, and they had left it alone not realizing that it grew without them. I ended up on fanfiction.net when the creator realized what was happening, sent out a notice that the site was shutting down and directed everyone there.

And I guess that was history, so I continued to write. Primarily fanfiction until I entered into university but that’s a completely different kettle of issues. But yea, that’s my story. What’s your writer's origin story?

Loki: *sitting infront of his laptop, glaring at it contemplatively*

Loki: Should I kill off a character in my book to make it more exciting?

Y/N while being occupied with their own work: Well, what genre is it?

Loki: An autobiography.

Y/N: Hm...

Y/N: ...

Y/N: Wait, WHAT?!

anyways, au in which nhs, jgy and lxc are soulmates (and get married). jgy still ends up killing nmj. and nhs plots to kill jgy in the worst way possible. but this is amped up to level 100, several times worse than canon. cause they’re soulmates and married and lxc married two actual insane madmen. chaos, angst and just so much unhinged-ness ensues. 

August 26th 2022

I am writing this for the love of writing. It’s a passion that proceeds from the welling of my heart. The heart is a flower of music. It’s an orchard of poetry. Feelings run like a river in my soul. I am feeling so contented and happy. What must I write, I know not! I imagine my body to be pen, a narcissistic blush. I am very much happy with my fictional self. It is a self of the women I have loved, the poems that I have written, and the cigarettes that I have smoked, the philosophers that I have loved. Yes I would like to transcend all what I have read and epitomize it into an art. Beauty is the soul of love. It is a forest of blossoms. It’s a soul of rhythm. A writer has to defy death. Words have to flow like an ocean. Desires become the tapestry of art. Yes, I have done poetry with her, poetry of songs and rhythms, and a soul of beauty. Beauty to me is a passionate flower. Sometimes my writing is Kafkaesque. Like Kafka I have had a dominating father. Why do I think that I have to accomplish great things as writer? I am not egoistic. I write for the love of writing. Writing is a song of the body. Yes, Nietzsche’s theory of art is so poignant to me. My pen has the harmony of Apollo and the rhythms and beats of Dionysus. My pen is an aesthetic phallus. Yes, the meaning in life is to become a perfect art. Writing is the tapestry to overcome the nihilism of death and suicide. Camus and Sartre were right, we have to authenticate our existence.  We have to become the muse of inspiration. Beauty, you are my lover and companion. Time flows with the rhythm of streams of consciousness. Joyce lived the life of streams of consciousness. Yes, I am closer to Joyce and Wolf. Yes, I am a Ms. Dalloway of consciousness. Yes, why am I writing, I wonder why? I keep asking the question again and again. Writing is muse-music of a work-out. Yes, I long to do poetry with her. Yes, I long to feel the bed of ecstasy. Another one of my favorite authors is Maurice Blanchot a French novelist and philosopher. Yes through writing one has to become a death of defying death. One has to reincarnate with a life of a muse. Writing has to defy the self. It’s grandiose to live the life of a fictional self. Writing is a therapy of existentialism. The Philosopher Sartre has said: ‘man is condemned to be free as he is responsible for the choices he makes’. Yes, responsibility is monster beast of hell. Responsibility is an awesome shmuck. Yes, I live life as a poetic soul. Beauty is congruous with harmony. Writing accomplishes the dream of the body. Writing is a futuristic opera. Yes, I love the beatniks and the ways in which they have lived their life, experiencing life with drugs, alcohol and permissiveness. Ginsberg’s howl is an allegory of cathartic Buddhism. How can we describe the minuteness of life?  I love reading Van Gogh’s letters written to his brother. It is ironic that in his life time he was able to sell only a few of his paintings. But today, he is acclaimed as a famous painter.  It’s wonder to me why he cut his ear for the sake of a prostitute? Yes, I love to watch Van Gogh’s Sower. Van Gog’s painting sower shows a man casting seeds on to a yellowish field.  The Sower can be taken as an allegory of the Messiah Jesus and the seeds his Words. I also like Van Gogh’s Sunflower. The Still Life is a vista of visual poetry. Yes, I also love Salvador Dali very much and his painting: the persistence of memory. The frozen embryo and the melting clocks reflect the inner time of living moments and it also show the mystery of space and time. It could also be a reflection of narcissism of an oedipal conflict. Yes, words are beautiful reflections of poetry. Yes, with words, I melt into a becoming of nothingness. Again I ask why I should write. Writing is an art of poetry and the prose of rhythm. To fall in love with oneself is an aesthetic scandal. Yes, I’m falling in love with the orgy of writing. Writing is actualizing dreams into reality. Writing is a narcissistic mania. Writing is the muse of the pen. I want to live the life of a bard. I want to make love to the paper with my pen.

Heheh jealous wonwoo in a library

Thank you for the ask Nana💕, sorry it took so long :(

Pairing: Wonwoo x Fem Reader

Category: Suggestive, MINORS DNI

Taglist: @junhui-recs @drunk-on-dk @enhacolor @wonuhour (if you guys don’t want to be tagged in such short drabbles, please lmk 💕)

Wonwoo and you shared a passion for books. Even though you both enjoyed collecting books, you equally enjoyed your trips to the local library. Discovering an unknown book, going through the slightly yellow, aged pages, checking the year it came to life and finding random people’s sometimes bizarre bookmarks inside (see: blood donation card) were probably some of your favourite things about library books.

On this trip however, Wonwoo couldn’t really enjoy any of these beautiful tidbits as his mind and eyes kept coming back to you and some random guy who was trying to chat you up. He saw you, from the autobiography aisle, and since the library was mostly empty, he could somewhat piece together what you and the bozo were whispering about. Apparently, and very luckily, he’d approached you in your favourite corner of the library, the mystery fiction section, feigning ignorance about navigation and authors, asking for recommendations. Wonwoo wouldn’t have been so bothered by it had he not made it glaringly obvious that books were the last thing on his mind as he kept staring at your ass every time you turned to the shelf to pick up and recommend a book.

After trying (and failing) to ignore it, Wonwoo made his way to you, determined to let this person know he stood no chance with you. Wonwoo, by nature, was not a confrontational person. So, he just simply came up next to you and slid his hand in the back pocket of your jeans.

“Hey babe, found a book that you like?” He said, smiling almost condescendingly at the guy next to you.

You answered a surprised yes, a little baffled by his boldness. The guy next to you quickly thanked you for your help and practically ran away as soon as he saw your boyfriend.

Even after the guy had left, Wonwoo didn’t remove his hand from your back pocket, the warmth of his palm and fingers on you right cheek had now started to make you squirm.

The librarian gave the pair of you a stern look while issuing you your books, making your cheeks burn in embarrassment but wonwoo pretended not to notice, his fingers had now slightly curled to fit the curve of your ass better.

As you were walking out, Wonwoo quietly leaned down as he softly pinched your ass over your denims and growled in your ear,

“I know you knew what that guy was doing. Just wait till we get home, I’ll make you forget how to even talk, much less recommend.”

Just wanted to say how much I love the heart locket piece -- I can't be the only person who wants a whole series just of marius and daniel shopping in paris!!!!!! I would read 1,000 pages of that, your drabble was just so good!!!!!!

AAAAAH thank you!! I'm glad you enjoyed that little ficlet! Honestly Marius and Daniel shopping in Paris could be amazing. Adds that to the long list of fic ideas I need to write. ☑️

The thing about Marius and Daniel that gets me is that like with Armand, Daniel treats Marius like a guy.

Yes, he's an ancient and powerful vampire, and when they meet, he's something of a mythical figure to Daniel: he's someone who acted as a mentor to Lestat as outlined in Lestat's little autobiography, and he's Armand's maker. So there's probably a bit of awe when he gets to meet him person, but there's never really that hero worship he has with Lestat and he doesn't have the fraught relationship with him he has with Armand (and Armand has with Marius... generational something something).

Anyhow, the point is, Daniel strikes me as someone who's generally very straight forward. Maybe not as blunt as Armand, but he says what he thinks, he can be wry or sarcastic, and he's not afraid to tell things like he sees them. Which is probably good for Marius, who needs that person who will be honest with him and call him on things when, say, he's being stubborn or unreasonable. And Marius in turn respects Daniel and knows Daniel doesn't mean things in a malicious way, and he's more willing to listen to them than he might be to others. (I mean I think he listens to Pandora, too, though he might be able to dismiss some more of her criticism in his head.)

But also, Daniel enjoys being dressed and pampered and taken care of, and Marius enjoys doing those things for people.

So basically this my long essay on why I love their dynamic and think they're great. Which is not at all what you asked for but sometimes this is what happens when I'm just spewing VC thoughts after a long week.

Thank you again for the compliment and amazing fic idea!! I always adore messages like this. I'm giving you a mini bundt cake and a handshake! 💖

TGS implies that the book got Victor's gender wrong because or misogeny.

Also the creature is pretty much wasted. His only personality trait is that he wants to protect Frankenstein. He doesn't even care that she didn't bother to name him.

Tbh after reading your drabbles and seeing your handle on Adam TGS just feels that much more disappointing.

Didn't Victor himself or Victoria herself write the book, or at least dictate it to Robert Walton? I mean I could see a scenario where Victoria discovered she was trans later in life, that's not unusual, it seems a bit weird to talk about what is essentially an autobiography being "incorrect." because of misogyny.

granted I'm being nitpicky and haven't read TGS for myself beyond the first two chapters so I don't know how anything was handled except for what I've been told.

I have seen the design for the creature. I don't want to be mean but he looks like a sofa cushion or like something you'd see on a Disney Jr version of Frankenstein, even in comparison to the generally more rounded and cartoonish human characters I've seen in TGS he felt oversimplified but I would have hoped that didn't extend to his personality.

Kind of feels weird to me that he's not a little upset that he didn't even get a name or that Victoria didn't bother to name him even so they are apparently on good terms but it's not my comic so I can't say much on that.

I'm glad you like my AU but given that TGS is a completely different story with a different goal and focus I don't think it's fair to compare my Adam to theirs.

this fic that was supposed to be a drabble is now 1200 words with no end in sight: an autobiography

Hi!, Could you make a drabble “Can I give you a hug? You look like you need one” for Red and little Leia? I love your drabbles and Grandpa Red!! <33

Thank you, anon! ❤️ Prompt Ask Game

Red took the turn around the corner from the kitchen quickly, expecting to bound up the stairs to grab his reading glasses. He denied using them whenever possible, but when he didn't want to miss details he had no other choice. And reading Leia's Kindergarten Autobiography was definitely something he didn't want to miss.

But to his surprise, a small girl was perched at the foot of the stairs. Her skinny arms were crossed tightly over her tiny chest, an indignant frown on her usually cheerful face. He saw her just in time to avoid mowing her over.

"Leia! What are you doing here?"

"I'm in time out," she explained. Her grumpy face said it all.

"Aw," Red bent his knee to be closer to her. His old bones creaked in protest, but he ignored them. "What for?"

"Takin' cookies."

"What? They put you in for that?" Red shook his head, exasperated. "With that face?" He gestured to his granddaughter's adorable pout. "C'mon."

Leia continued to pout. Red frowned, trying to think of a way to cheer up his favorite little girl.

"Can I give you a hug? You look like you need one."

She finally cracked a smile, and stood up to hug her grandpa. Red embraced her, and as they were pulling away he murmured, "I wouldn't have put you in time out for having some cookies."

Leia giggled, but someone else had come up behind her and he wasn't amused.

"Dad," Eric glowered at Red. "That's not why she's in time out. She's in time out because she stole, and then she lied about it - and those are bad things I have to teach her not to do." Eric cocked his head. "Do you disagree? Grandpa?"

Red sighed. He knew when he'd been beat. "No. No... I - " He started to climb the stairs, back to his task. Finding his reading glasses.

But he threw a glance back at Leia, over his shoulder. "But you just remember that if you ever want to get away from him for awhile, you can come to Grandma and Grandpa's house."

Eric scoffed. "Right. Like she's gonna want to go to your - "

But Leia was giggling, and she waved at Red before he disappeared up the stairs.

"Grandpa's nice," Leia said, leveling her chin at Eric.

Eric just sighed. "Grandpa's gotten soft," he mumbled.

New Year, Same Me

Hello, writeblr! It's been awhile since I was regularly active on here, and though I can make no promises about how consistent I'll be, I figured, as we go into 2023, it was about time to make another acknowledgment that I still exist.

So hi! I'm Teri, mid-20s, work at a school and write on the side (along with a variety of other hobbies). Working consistently full-time has left me a bit less time and energy to pursue said hobbies, but I still make the time when I can to put in work on my WIPs!

Last year, I spent less time on writing to focus more on editing and tweaking a big personal project. And now that said personal project is over, as satisfying and fulfilling as it was, I'm excited to get back into writing a little more for my own sake and the sheer fun of it.

Here's a little bit of a cheat sheet to what projects I might randomly be rambling about.

Beyond Alder Creek | Draft 2 | tagged as: 'bac'

A historical fantasy story about a girl, Winnie, who ventures into the Beyond - the land of the fae - to rescue her kidnapped younger brother. Alongside her, a strange fae man follows and tries to convince her to accept his help.

The Lies in the Legend | Draft 1 | tagged as: litl

A fictional autobiography of an elven noblewoman who rose rapidly in station and influence from an unremarkable youth into a global diplomatic powerhouse. Spanning centuries during the prime of her life, Lady Ghislaine Agassi would go on to play a role in the rise and stability of various nations, as well as her most infamous maneuver: playing a heavy hand in the destruction of an emerging superpower.

There are a slew of other, smaller WIPs - short stories that link together, independent drabbles, etc. A more comprehensive list of all of those can be found at this link. I'll be looking to update it soon, to organize the page a little better. And as I figure out what I'm going to do with all my sudden freedom, I'll try to keep everything up-to-date!

Whumpuary Day 10: Hidden Injury / Blood / Recovery

Language: English Genre: an attempt at whump I guess (the last one is pretty much fluffy tho, I am obviously not good at sticking to my initial plans lmao) Character: my OC Cae (+ mentions of other OCs of mine and two of my friend Soph's OCs)

CN:

[1st drabble] blood, wounds, cuts, bite marks, abuse, manipulation, toxic family, mention of food, character struggling to eat

[2nd drabble] self-harm, cutting, blood, unhealthy relationship/dating habits, mention of food, character barely eating

[3rd drabble] flashback, kissing/hand holding/general intimate moment, mention of food, mention of blood

Author's Note: Gonna be honest, these are some purely self-indulgent snippets of my bby Cae having dinner with different people at very different points throughout his life (from abused youth, to young adult with unhealthy coping mechanisms, to somehow vaguely functioning person with a found family, I guess) and I'm not sure any of it means much to anyone except for me and @marmeltier lol. Also don't mind my weird habit of writing things in 2nd person singular even though they're not meant to address the reader, I know it's unusual, but I like it, so I will probably keep doing it. 🤙 Thought I'd share this anyway bc @whumpuary was the main inspiration. The other inspiration mentioned below is apparently a quote by Brynne Rebele-Henry, from »Autobiography of a Venus Figure« (according to a quick google search). These are 200, 300 and 400 words exactly btw. Enjoy <3

***

Blood didn’t faze me. I could slash myself open and still make it to dinner.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table with the royal family — your family, technically. Your relatives. Most of them still don’t feel like family at all, even though you have been living with them for years at this point.

You’re trying your best to keep your act together and just eat, table manners and proper etiquette and all, but the food feels incredibly dry in your throat, you barely manage to choke any of it down, and all you can think about are the fresh wounds you’re hiding underneath your clothes: Swollen bite marks in various shades of blue and purple; deep red scab that sticks to fabric, feels like it tears and crumbles with every movement; messily sewn-up gashes that still burn every time you lean back in your chair.

Avien is smiling at you from across the table, and while it might seem innocuous to everyone else, to you, every silent smile of hers is a reminder so clear you can almost hear it in her voice, sending shivers down your spine: Smile for me, brother dearest. Smile through the pain.

You know what happens if you don’t.

So you do. You always do.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table in your new favorite tavern with pretty girl number three in this city — a lovely girl, really, easy to get attached to, perfect to keep your heart so busy falling in love that you forget you should be falling apart.

You’re playing with your food more than eating it, completely focused on your date instead: Watching her closely, leaning towards her, listening attentively, with such interest it almost feels fake even though it isn’t. Every word from her lips is another chance to wipe your own thoughts away, every sentence a gracious break from the chaos in your head; every single thing she could ever say is better than what you silently say to yourself when it’s quiet. So, you listen. Pour all of your attention and dedication into another person, like you’re so used to doing.

She doesn’t know about the cuts that run all the way down your thigh. Completely unaware of the wounded flesh still trying to heal, she puts her hand on your leg as she throws her head back and laughs at a joke you made. You suppress a wince and smile instead, welcoming the burning sensation of her touch through the fabric of your trousers; it reminds you of the wave of peace that washed over you when you put the blade to your skin earlier that day, the moment of release you had craved so much you were willing to spill your blood for it. That memory alone is enough to make you feel a little bit less tense, a little bit more lighthearted.

Blood doesn’t faze you, and neither does pain. Not if it’s yours.

You just slashed yourself open and still made it to dinner, after all.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table with the people you love — your dinner table, to be precise. You happily took on the task of cooking for the whole bunch, and now that everyone is full and satisfied — even those who don’t need regular food to survive, yourself included —, you get to lean back in your chair and watch your loved ones enjoy themselves. Everyone is there, except for the kids; they have been sleeping for a while already, so it’s up to the adults to fill the room with warm laughter and lively chatter now, and so far, your found family is doing an amazing job of that.

You watch Nayati and Alyssé clear the table, both so preoccupied with whatever they’re jokingly arguing about they seem to barely even notice they’re doing a chore nobody expected them to do. Cynthia, who has also been watching, throws you an amused smile across the room. You’re just about to smile back when suddenly, a flood of fractured memories takes over: Scenes, smells, sounds, sensations long gone, brought up again out of nowhere. None of the sequences last long enough for you to truly grasp; they pass you by so fast you’re left with nothing but the faint taste of blood and the feeling of a decades-old scream stuck in your throat.

You only realize you were starting to tense and stare off into nothing when Lynire’s voice right next to you brings you back to the present. »Are you okay?«, she asks as she gently squeezes your leg beneath the table.

»Yeah.« You nod and put your hand over hers while you take a moment to look around, remind yourself where you are: Home. You’re home, you’re safe, you’re surrounded by your loved ones. You’re okay. »Just realizing how lucky I am, that’s all.« You turn towards Lynire and press a kiss to her cheek. »Thanks for checking in, mi vida.«

Your eyes meet for a long moment, and when she seems satisfied with whatever she was looking for, convinced you told the truth, her lips curve into a soft smile.

Wordlessly, she interlaces her fingers with yours, hand still resting on your leg, and you can’t help but smile, too.

Honest words and honest smiles — that surely is a lot of luck for someone like you.

Day 1

I used to write a lot, when I was in middle school, high school and even when I was in university. Even when I should be getting sleep or doing an essay I wrote. Experimented even, with writing styles and poetry (I wrote some very bad poetry).

When I was younger a very supportive family told me to write children’s books, books and even an autobiography. As I grew older… I didn’t quite stop writing things per se, but I didn’t write with the frequency that I used to when I was younger. I never published a book.

I’m fine with that, I love my job, but writing was important to me.

There is a Youtuber whose side passion is to make lists of up and coming indie games. He released something every day without fail, and he once said consistency is the key for improvement. So here is the challenge I set to myself. Every day I will sit down and write one thing to post on here.

One thing.

It doesn’t have to be a story. It can be a thought, a drabble or something about my day. It doesn’t have to be perfect or different, it just has to be. Write every day, start something new. And let’s see where this takes me.

Let’s see where I am in a year.

Eoy fic asks: 10, 14, 15!

10. shortest wip of the year

88 words (unfinished drabble so that's either one more sentence or 'fuuuuuck i need to start over slightly differently' length. it's from when i was brainstorming reasons for jaskier to be that buff, and the answer was because geralt believes sword form practice is the answer to all emotional distress and has forcibly imposed this on jaskier)

14. a fic you didn't expect to write

all of them? i expected to finish the yendelion fic--which i did not do, at all--and write something to fill in the gap between witcher season 2 and 3, which I have 10k of but it is still not done! (it's ok, it has a narrative shape, and plot beats now (at least relative to what a meandering character study ought to have), we're getting there.)

i guess the most unexpected was all the news in fits of prints, even though i wrote it for an exchange that i very deliberately signed up for, and selected the prompt i was going to do immediately upon looking at them. i am immensely proud of it, it gets across many things that are immensely important to me in A Series of Unfortunate Events canon, it fits the prompt, but i did not mean to write that! i did not think i thought of geraldine julienne quite like that, but after re-reading large chunks of Lemony Snicket: The Unauthorized Autobiography and timeline plotting, i realizing something i had forgotten and it was the only fic i could write.

15. something i learned this year

i can write longer fic. even if it takes an approximate eternity. i had thought i had only gotten through my only other 10k+ fic by breaking it into normal (for me) fic length chapters that could be written and edited semi-independently, but i am so close. i can do this.

[fanfic end of year asks]

October 27th 2022

I can only write life’s experiences. Yes, fiction is the mundane and the ordinary beautified. I always wonder why I write. Writing is a meditative therapy for me. I am also in the habit of keeping a prayer journal. I wonder why luck is elusive. What is consciousness? Is it a fragment figment of the brain? Consciousness is the fragrance of the spirit. Consciousness is the propaganda of the spirit. It is the spirit of possession and appropriation. I hope I can live a life where I have enough money to feed my desires. Beauty is the poetry of meaning. Adventure is the lust of life. I am always killing the demons of negativity. Passion you are a flower of the body. Nirvana is solitary ecstasy. I wonder why I write. Yes, motivating words exist in my consciousness. Writing is a mechanism to trigger the libido. I am always searching for a woman who can give me sexual satisfaction. Intimacy you are the flower of the body. Do I have to love an excess of narcissism? Dear Lord, I have a poet’s heart and I am gentle and meek. My mind is a wayward beatnik shifting from belief to unbelief. I am sad as to why God is turning deaf years to my prayers for financial requests. Writing is a pubic oasis. Make me a financial well watered spring. In spite of every things God has been good to me. How I wish to be a global vagabond, travelling to far off countries writing and making love. I ask myself, am I the poem that has loved woman? The romantic self seeks a pasture of lyrical intimacy. Yes, money is good. It’s a passion for consumption.  Yes, money can grow on trees and it’s not an evil. What is the harm in becoming a Warren Buffet?  Muse of passion is lyrical self. I have a beatific body and a nectar soul.  The motivation to write is the pleasure of the pen. Solitude is a beast copulating with nature.  Democracy is a perfect from of government even though it has flaws.  

Yes catharsis, I love that word; it’s a poetic metaphor, a rhythm and melody of life. Ecstasy is the flower of orgasm. Wishes and thoughts have to be one of edifices of reality. Metaphor is a phonic garden of sound and meaning. I love the morn when colors dance, birds tweet and all life is gay. The mind can never be idle and it is a rich storehouse of thoughts. Yes, my life is luckadisical. In the morn poems wake me up. Beauty is the appreciation of passion. I have been a generous person and I am asking God to be generous one me. Adam and Eve wore fig leaves to cover their nudity. This adornment signifies the birth of art. The deceiving serpent lured Adam and Eve to eat the fruit of the tree of good and evil and when they did transgression was born.  True art is always transgressional. Art is a rebellion of the soul. Art makes the muses twitter. I wonder what I am as a self. The self is narcissism of fiction.  The self is a voodoo soul, bizarre and eccentric, challenging the conventions, customs and traditions of the society. Self is a John Lennon of music. Creative streams of life break out as an estuary. What is it when one goes beyond the phonic and graphic content of meaning? Yes one attains a bliss called consciousness. Streams of consciousness are a lived meaning of life. As a writer I ask myself: what is the meaning of life and I prophetically utter: Life is the celebration of meaning. This is unlike Camus and Sartre who have said that life is meaningless, chaotic, absurd, repetitive and monotonous.  Again Sartre has said: man is condemned to be free and I rewrite his philosophy by saying that man is privileged to be free. What I write echoes as my readers. I feel disappointed as I am not getting any replies to my job applications. For me, the beauty of the self is self-sufficiency. I hate depending on my mother for money. I am a Philosopher not in the poverty of thought. Though the maid Hagar was a gentile: God blessed her and her son Ishmael and their generations. I always wait upon on the Lord to give me an answer. I always grateful and thankful. Liberty is a not a statute but a spirit of freedom. I don’t want to be enshrined with the society’s moral codes, customs, traditions and beliefs. I am a free bird. Writing is the orgasm of emotion. Is it wrong to have the patronage of the fairy God Mother? I want to release myself from desolate circumstances. I want to live life to the fullest celebration. Let me have the body of Buddha and the mind of Socrates. Yes, Lord I want to transcend all the philosophers, novelists and philosophers that I have read. I am not going to narrate some experiences have life that I had.  I went to the meat shop to buy mutton. The seller told me to wait as he has to cut the goat. Soon he and his helper were dragging an unwilling goat to the slaughter room. The goat knowing its fate was resisting. Finally they got it into the butcher’s house and tied its legs. The butcher with a stroke of precision sliced the neck of the goat in the most gruesome manner. Never have I experienced such macabre cruelty. The next experience was the flight of a butterfly.  You poem of the air, you float on wings as a fairy’s nectar. You gliding conversation of love’s sweet chimes, you narcissist of prose incantations, you epiphany of a hymn, you angel of solitude, you haute couture of an epic’s legacy, you carnal delicacy of flight, you love’s serenading muse, you poem of passion, you are art of experience.  The third experience I had was watching the sunset. The sky late evening was conversing in colors.  Colors, pink, orange and red glistened as a witch’s crystal ball. The sky is a Monet of impressionism. The sky painted beauty in the canvas of the mind.  I became absorbed in its aesthetics.  The sky is a colorful adornment. The sky is singing the poetry of colors. Melody lay like a spectacle of passion.  

So I have been writing fanfiction after publishing the autobiography and it’s been in the form of drabbles posted on a different pseud. Here’s a link:

No apologies

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/UMbGiql

by Cor-belle (I_did_not_mean_to)

Bingo Card 14 - Genreswap Prompt: (Autobiography) Comment: Ah Míriel...you poor woman!

Words: 100, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 16 of Bingo Card 14 - Genreswap

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Fëanor | Curufinwë

Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë

Additional Tags: B2MEM, Drabbles, Perfect drabbles, Writing, gen - Freeform, Mother's Love, Death imminent, an explanation of sorts

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/UMbGiql