#pantser-leaning
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Putting together a class for beginning writers. Are you more of a pantser or a plotter? Here are some highlights I put together after asking more experienced writers what the process is like for them. I’m definitely more of a plotter. I’m hoping my beginners can use this to help identify which direction they lean. 😊
#let’s write#writing tips#writeblr#writing tips and tricks#writing reference#writing tip#fanfic#writing help#writer#writing#writing advice
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Pro Tips from a NaNo Coach: How to Write a Clean(ish) Fast Draft
NaNoWriMo can seem like a daunting task sometimes, for NaNo newbies and veterans alike. Fortunately, our NaNo Coaches are here to help guide you through November! Today, author Jesse Q. Sutanto is here to share her advice on how to set yourself up for noveling success:
Dear Nano-ers,
My first book took me three years to cobble together. During that time, I joined Absolute Write—a free writers forum which I completely love and recommend to all aspiring writers—and I made a friend who convinced me to try doing NaNoWriMo. I was completely unconvinced, but I am a people-pleaser and I can never say no, so I agreed to try it for my second novel.
My second novel took me less than a month to write. It was a complete mess, but it was also a revelation. Often, I felt myself falling into that writing Holy Grail—the hole which consumes you, makes you forget the rest of the world, and absorbs you completely in the world you are creating on paper. I loved the process deeply, and never looked back since. All of my subsequent books have since been written in a matter of months.
And you know what? They were all a horrific mess. I did not learn how to do a clean and fast draft until my NINTH book, and I don’t think I would’ve ever learnt without the help of NaNoWriMo. So here are my tips on how to best tackle a sprint-a-thon like NaNo.
1. Try to come up with a loose outline.
When I first started writing, I was a pure pantser. I had no idea what was going to happen before I sat down to write. This is a completely legit way of writing, but I have since learned that it is massively helpful to have an idea, even a vague one, of what you are trying to say with your book. What was really helpful for me was to sit down for just five minutes before writing each scene and try to envision what I wanted the scene to achieve. Once I had that in mind, the scene became much easier to write.
2. Break down your writing time.
Ever heard of the Pomodoro technique? In order to hit 50,000 words a month, you need to write around 1,600 words a day. That is a heck of a lot of words to write! Break it down. Set 10 or 15-minute timers and use that to your advantage. Trust me, if you told me to sit down and write 1,600 words, I would be like, “Omg that’s too much!” But if you told me to just write for 15 minutes, that feels a lot more doable.
3. Give yourself permission to write trash.
Before each writing session, I actually say out loud: “I am going to write trash.” And this gives me permission to write whatever comes to my mind without judgment. You can always edit later, but for now, focus on letting the words out on paper.
4. Lean on others for support.
I made the mistake of thinking that writing is a lonely vocation. In fact, it is one of the most social things I could do. Social media, while a double-edged sword, has done so much for the writing community. I have found all of my close writer friends through social media, and I chat with them every day and consider them my close, lifelong friends. Don’t be afraid to reach out and make connections within the community. You are not alone.
Jesse Q. Sutanto is the award-winning, bestselling author of Dial A for Aunties, Vera Wong’s Unsolicited Advice for Murderers, Well, That Was Unexpected, The Obsession, and Theo Tan and the Fox Spirit. The film rights to her women’s fiction, Dial A for Aunties, was bought by Netflix in a competitive bidding war, and the TV rights to Vera Wong was bought by Warner Bros, with Oprah and Mindy Kaling attached to produce. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Oxford University, though she hasn’t found a way of saying that without sounding obnoxious.
#nanowrimo#writing#nanowrimo 2023#writing advice#writing tips#writblr#by nano coach#jesse q. sutanto
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What writing tips would you give to beginner writers?
These are some general things I wished I had known when I started writing. Keep in mind that everyone is different, so these tips may not be as useful to you as it may be to someone else.
Tropes exist for a reason. If you have an idea, but see that there's already a fic with similar ideas, that's okay. Don't be discouraged. Tropes are loved because people want to read them and reread them. Plus your take will always be different from others because we all have different perspectives, writing styles, and ideas.
Write for the hell of it. If you have an idea, just write. It's okay if it's not good. It's okay if you never go back to it. The more you write, even if it's not to be shared, is good experience and can help you grow as a writer. Keep in mind though, that the more you post, the more feedback you receive which can help you improve greatly. It's always good to get constructive criticism from others. It's also okay to not be interested in constructive criticism. You'll still improve just by writing more.
Write for yourself. This might sound cliché, but it's true. Write what you want to and what you enjoy. Even if it's niche, that's okay since there will still be people interested in it. Interests are not exclusive and you may even be surprised that what you think is niche, might not be at all!
Schedules work for some and don't work for others. If you're a person that knows deadlines work for you and it won't hinder your creativity, then set a schedule for yourself. Set goals of writing a specific amount of words. Set dates when you'll post new chapters. BUT, it's also okay if schedules don't work for you. They personally don't work for me at all. Writing and sharing, especially when it comes to fanfiction is FREE. So don't feel obligated to get a chapter out by this time or that time. Creativity comes and goes, things in life happen, there's so many factors to posting, so don't feel pressured to do as others. Do what suits you! Some people can post every week, some can post every few months, some people need years and that's perfectly okay.
Don't base your success on hits/comments/kudos/etc. Some of the best stories I have ever read on AO3 have had low hits/comments/kudos. There are so many hidden gems out there. But do keep in mind that when you start writing and posting, these things may naturally be lower at the beginning. Over time, as you post more, people can become familiar with your style and what you write. On top of that, this feeds back to just writing. Writing more will improve your skills, which then will draw in more readers and also get them to stay or look at your other works.
Don't be scared to share and self-promote. When you start, it can be daunting to share what you've created. But we all had to start somewhere and if you asked me if I liked my first stories, it would be a hard no. What matters when I do look back at them, is that I see improvement. And as long as you keep working and enjoying the process, then improvement will definitely happen. Finally, when it comes to self-promoting, do it! Sometimes the only time I see a new story that I end up loving is because someone has promoted their own work. They're proud of it and I love to find new things that people were passionate about. I will also shamelessly recommend my own stories if needed. Just don't spam people 😂
Pantser, Plotter, or Plantser. These are three different ways of describing your writing style. Pantsers are more fluid and free with the way they write. Plotters lean toward more strict planning, relying on outlines and following a specific plan. Plantsers are a combination of the two. Try different styles and gradually you'll find what works best for you. I started out as a wildly free, honestly chaotic, Pantser but am very much a Plantser now. Writing styles can change over time, but just know that being comfortable with the style you're using is what's important.
Hopefully some of these things are helpful. They're somewhat vague and not all of them are strictly related to writing, but they are all things that I believe are important to know. These are also some things that can even be helpful to people who aren't new to writing. These are all things that I still follow and practice to this day too.
PS: I like to keep my asks/dms open for people looking for a second eye on their writing. If anyone is interested in having me read anything and share feedback, you're welcome to send me a message. My availability varies due to work, so you may not hear back from me right away though.
#reply#anon#writing#fanfiction#fanfic#writing tips#if you're looking for more specific tips I can share in that way as well
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I've been writing fic for a bit more than ten years now; most of which (eight? nine?) as a pantser. At most I'd make a timeline, for a complicated timey-wimey, wibbly-wobbly fic, but other than that, I just daydreamed the story and then wrote it down 😅
Then in the last couple of years, I tried to learn more about the craft of writing. I never had any training in school or uni, never any class or anything; I did work with a writing coach for a while two years back, and read a lot of advice. I've started to plan stories out more, to be more intentional about what I write -
But I have now run into a problem that I heard pantsers describe, which is that when they plan out the story till the end, they feel like it's done, and the impetus to write it just drops away.
I think I'm still right in the middle of finding my writing approach, which - on the one hand, exciting! I'm learning more about myself, that's always good! But on the other hand, I'm sad about the projects I was working on that I have somehow run out of steam on. I do have other projects that I still am excited to write, but I'm a bit worried I might lose interest in them too as I try to find the right balance between planning and pantsing.
IIRC you are a pantser, right? Any advice on how to not get ahead of myself when I approach a new story? How to keep pace between the dreaming-up of the story, and the writing-it-down?
OMG this is the question!! I am absolutely a proud member of pantser nation, yes, and I'll tell you what works for me, but I do honestly think this is something that (sadly) each person has to figure out for themselves via trial and error.
Terminology for those who don't know:
Pantser: someone who writes by the "seat of their pants," aka no outline, no real clue what happens next. The joy is in the journey!
Plotter: someone who plots everything out before hand, like by outlining or using scene cards or something. The joy is in knowing the journey before you start!
Most people are somewhere in the middle, or vary project by project. There are lots of names for it, like plantser or "headlight method" or whatever, but basically you can think of it as the Kinsey scale, with 1 being solely pantser, 2 as leaning pantser, 3 as equally both, 4 as leaning plotter, and 5 as solely plotter.
I'm a 1.5 I'd say, the 0.5 being from having to learn story beats in order to sell original fiction to traditional publishers, which means things like "the breakup should happen around 80% of the way through" and "inciting incident at 0 or 10%." If that doesn't make sense to anyone reading, don't worry, it doesn't need to! (But if you have questions about story beats, feel free to ask!)
As a true pantser, I typically know the following things before I start. I'll give an example from a long fic I've written and for a book that none of you have read because it hasn't gotten bought yet (SADFACE).
I know the characters and some basic facts about them and their relationship pre-story:
Back to the basket: Alex is a closeted college basketball coach who washed out of the WNBA (life based on Adia Barnes). Maggie is an assistant coach who used to fuck Alex in secret during college and is hella gay.
Original romcom: Libby is great at making friends. Sasha is a serial monogamist. They are both "straight."
Setting and meeting:
Back to the basket: Maggie joins Alex's coaching staff. The fic will last the entire college season (~6 months)
Original romcom: Libby and Sasha meet on a dating reality show. The book will encompass the first 6 weeks of the show.
Primary conflict:
Back to the basket: Alex wants to focus on work because she's A Big Failure. Maggie wants to date. They have undeniable chemistry and horniness.
Original romcom: Classic "straight" friends to gay lovers problems, made worse by the reality show setting.
Ending:
Back to the basket: We get really far in the tournament and Alex and Maggie get their happily ever after
Original romcom: Libby declares her love at the Ceremony, Sasha declares it back after some mental buffering, and they get their happily ever after.
Once I know those things, I'm pretty much good to go. For some books I know the midpoint (I knew the midpoint of my forthcoming novel before I started writing it) but for most projects, including fics, I don't know it until I've written my way there. In these examples, there was a clear time boundary (6 months, 6 weeks), which I find very helpful. When co-writing with the incredible @roadien60, we've put time boundaries on our fics together to help us keep the story tight, compelling, and contained (I mean LOL, Missives is literally almost 80k, but just imagine how bad it would have been if we hadn't been counting down to the eclipse!)
While pantsing, I really try to let the scenes shape themselves, to let the characters simmer when they need to and move forward when they don't. I don't let the characters do whatever they want, because those wants might not make for a compelling narrative or be what I want to write, but I try to let things flow naturally from one event/emotional beat to the next.
This method requires revision, sure, but revising is easier than forcing yourself to draft something that simply won't come, and that's what matters.
I try to be very very careful about NOT thinking ahead. I don't even let myself daydream the things I'm planning to write. I'll think about the next chapter between writing sessions, but never further than that, because if I've so much as thought about it, some of the joy is spoiled. I'll think of great dialogue in my head, and then forget it, and no matter what I write down on the page later, I'll always think it's worse than the first thing I dreamed up in the shower, and that's a kind of regret I don't have space for in my brain.
And the consequences are real! The only fic I took 5+ years to finish, Splice World, is the only one I plotted out all the way. I had to wait until I had forgotten what I plotted to be able to finish it, and even then it was a bit lackluster.
So I guess after all of this word vomit, my questions back to you are:
What was going wrong when you pantsed? What specific problem are you trying to solve for? Sometimes people try to start plotting because they think being a pantser is less "good" or sophisticated or something, to which I say, fuck them!
When plotting, at what level of advance detail do you get bored? If you know the ending, the next chapter, five chapters in the future, etc? Maybe you can find a happy middle there, where you can think a few chapters ahead but not the whole thingy.
How much do you daydream/think about the story without writing it? If it's a lot, trying doing it very little or none and all, and see if that helps!
LET ME KNOW!!
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I really need to sort a non-ASR banner for non-ASR related stuff. A future problem for a future Jess.
Thank you so much for the tags the last couple of weeks everyone! I have been writing, I just haven’t got around to responding and sharing 🙈 in fact, I was telling Ashton this week, the El Dorado AU fic has surpassed 56k already … we’re going for an Epic on this one, folks. An hour and a half film for inspiration? Psh, try a book that could be verging into Samantha Shannon levels of thickness, that’s the level of detail and chaos we’re dealing with with this fic. Please God don’t let this become a ‘Roots of Chaos’ length fic. I’m not sure I have the capacity to write an Epic that long 🥲
That being said, have some words. (Simon POV)
The gun shot echoes throughout the entire gallery.
“Go,” I whisper harshly, shoving Baz away from the office towards the entrance to the gallery.
We head back towards the marble stairs we walked up a few minutes ago, and start creeping down them as quietly as we can. The soles of my shoes are softened through wear, but of course Baz has his Oxford’s on, so his heels are clicking with every single step.
“You and your fucking shoes,” I hiss.
“Now’s not the time, Snow.”
“Now’s the perfect fucking time. I swear to God, if we get caught because they fucking hear you—”
The office door slams against the wall upstairs and for a split second I’m torn between just stopping and waiting quietly, to see if they come our way, or just making a break for it.
Baz chooses the second option.
He tucks the map beneath his shirt, and slips the ring onto his little finger, before he grabs my hand and pulls me along.
For the second time in a month, we’re running away from the Now Next.
I am absolutely loving writing this fic. It’s been such a process from start to where we’re at currently (lord knows we’re nowhere near the finish with this one), and it’s really testing my writing skills. I’m such a combo planner/pantser, more leaning to the planner side of things usually. But this fic has just taken me by the throat and gone ‘we’re going this way’ and I’ve just had to follow the inspiration wherever it takes me!
Currently I’m in a bit of a writer’s block phase, but here’s hoping that won’t last too long.
Tagging (and I know some of you have already shared today, but I just love everything you’re working on right now, so sharing the love!): @artsyunderstudy @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @aristocratic-otter @bazzybelle @blackberrysummerblog @bookish-bogwitch @cattocavo @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @cutestkilla @dragoneggos @erzbethluna @ebbpettier @fatalfangirl @frjsti @henreyettah @hushed-chorus @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @krisrix @larkral @letraspal @martsonmars @nightimedreamersworld @orange-peony @prettylightsbigcity @palimpsessed @phoxphyre @raenestee @skeedelvee @stardustasincocaine @subparselkie @theearlgreymage @you-remind-me-of-the-babe
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20 questions for fic writers
tagged 230943 years ago by @schmem14 [x] @vukovich [x] @mintawasalreadytaken [x]
check out fics from these lovely, brilliant, fantastic, stellar, amazing [*insert lady gaga meme here*] writers:
schmem14 [some truly wonderful & witty rarepair gems y'all]
vukovich [off-the wall, peculiar delivered in amazing prose]
mintaminta [insightful angst/dead dove & hot kinky smut]
tagging @mystickitten42 @citrusses @kittycargo @lumosatnight @xanthippe74 @rockingrobin69 @stavromulabetaaa @bubble-gumhead @porcelainheart3 @roseharpermaxwell @curlyy-hair-dont-care
me, myself & i
How many works do you have on AO3?
76 + 1 in anon, to be revealed soon!
What's your total AO3 wordcount?
149,896
What fandoms do you write for?
HP, with emphasis on Drarry.
What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
Come as You Are (3.8k)
Sun Stroke (3.8k)
Laundry Day (2.7k)
10 Easy Steps (1.8k)
It's Called Fashion, Potter (2.1k)
Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
listen. yes. i try. and i am so far behind atm. honestly, i get the most wonderful comments from lovely readers. and i want them to know how appreciative i am that they took time to read(!) and let me know their thoughts(!!). even if it's just an emoji(!!!). i don't care, i love it.
What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
if you read me, you know...i do not write angst. i have one (1) fic where i stepped out of my lane and wrote angst-lite. it's not even really angst, but more moody atmospheric. and interestingly enough, the most purple i've prosed. my beta was like, peach, what? the weed which strings the hangman's bag
What is a fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
pfft, all my fics have the happiest endings.
Do you get hate on fics?
nope. i did get hate on a supportive/love comment i left on a friend's fic once. that's, like, 7th circle of hell troll behavior to be hating on a comment.
Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
i do write smut, yes. my smut has been described as [insert various descriptors like "inferno", "blazing", "scorching", and lots of🔥] hot paired with soft/romantic/sweet. i.e. fluffy smut. smuff.
Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
nope. the closest i've come is inserting HP characters into a magical version of The Breakfast Club.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
not that i'm aware of.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
not that i'm aware of, but i do have a blanket statement in my AO3 profile that allows it, so who knows?
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
nope.
What's your all-time favorite ship?
drarry, easily.
What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?
i have a fic inspired by a movie and idk if i'll ever get it written. I COULD mention my xmas advent fic from 2020 but i'm determined to finish it this year. DETERMINED. 🦔
What are your writing strengths?
i'm good at characterizations & writing banter. and i'm good at writing lean.
What are your writing weaknesses?
recently, i've had the immense pleasure of listening to my fics read aloud in published podfics. and let me say, this is a brilliant way to spot weaknesses. and while my banter may be good, sometimes i maybe inject too much action into my conversations. it disrupts the flow. also, long, plotty fics ellude me. i'm a pantser/gardner style writer and plotting/outlining makes me hyperventilate.
Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
yes, if used sparingly, and in such a way that i (as an english only speaker) can intuit what is being said. and also if translations are provided as a footnote. i've got a french-speaking Draco in my Dron fics [1] [2], where he lapses in the heat of passion.
First fandom you wrote for?
drarry, baby.
Favorite fic you've written?
if i may, i have two:
Deadheading the Odd Dahlia, inspired by the incredible art of @beyondtheclose
Birds Behaving Badly (my longest drarry to date! 10k!)
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SIC 'EM
Chapter 1: Fetch
A/N: We're FINALLY ready to get started here! So excited to share my work with you guys after talking about it for so long. Each chapter will come with its own warnings, tags, etc. but the chapters are not stand-alone. It's... more just because I am a pantser and not a planner so lord knows what will happen in the future.
Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, future M!OC x Tommy Shelby
Warnings: mentions of period accurate anti-Romani racism, mental health issues, generally just being a PB fic
Summary: Tommy Shelby needs a rat for the Grand National at Aintree Racecourse. Runaway lovers Samuel Lovell and Florence-Maria Lee need the money. It's a bulletproof plan, an easy job, and a chance to make things right with the Lee family... so what other choice does Sam have?
The other Lee girl was meant to meet him along the road halfway between Haydock and Collins Green just over twenty minutes ago, according to Tommy’s pocket watch. Esme had promised Tommy that Florence-Maria would make good on her word, but her lateness was beginning to wear on his resolve. Still, he had no choice but to wait, cigarette after cigarette burning down to embers at the tips of his fingers. Thomas Shelby was a man who valued the soldierly punctuality that would have been the difference between life and death on the Front. Esme’s sister or not, Florence was still an unknown variable, and the far travels of the Lee family could prove difficult if it came to tracking the young woman down. If she did not want to be found, she would not be found.
She certainly had her fair share of reasons to balk at their meeting. If Johnny Dogs’ story was to be believed, Florence was the first to object to the deal between the Shelbys and the Lees. The sisters were best friends, the closest in age of all of Zilpha’s children. Esme was Florence’s whole world. Strike one against the Shelbys, then, for taking Esme away. John’s account of the young woman was that she was skittish and not easily comforted by the promise of peace between the families. Tommy himself remembered seeing a girl roughly Esme’s age shying away from Cousin Nipper’s offer of a dance, flinching as though a touch from their accursed family could kill. Strike two. Most compelling of all was Esme’s own warning, delivered with the pride of an older sister: Florence does not take unnecessary risks. And Tommy was asking a very, very risky favor. Strike three.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke thick and acrid as he let the wind carry his sigh away. The prospect of making this deal work was too tempting to give up now. It kept Tommy leaning against his car, resolutely opposing the strong wind buffeting his side, the slightly-too-warm late spring sunlight beating down on his jacketed shoulders. If this plan went well, the Blinders could expand to Aintree Racecourse, taking the Grand National Steeplechase and cementing a reputation in Northwest England. While their security with Solomons and his Yiddishers meant they already had a place in booming London, the idea of staking a claim on Liverpool and Manchester was tempting. Tommy was nothing if not enterprising.
A low snort alerted him to the presence of a stout black filly cresting the top of the hill before him, a petite woman astride her unsaddled back. There was no mistaking her: this was certainly Florence. Her resemblance to Esme was evident, from her upturned nose to the brunette curls brushing her shoulders. Even the way she carried herself was familiar, bearing the unmistakable poise and dignity of a daughter of Zilpha Lee. Her dismount from the horse was gentle, nearly soundless even with the oversized riding boots she wore. It wasn’t until Florence turned to face him that Tommy could see the slight curvature of her lower belly below the loose fabric of her dress. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she pulled her colorful shawl more tightly over her abdomen, frowning slightly. Ah. That certainly explained her sudden departure from the Lee family caravans. Her mother was a stern and practical woman. If Zilpha were to find out about her daughter’s pregnancy, she would likely have been married off immediately to save her girl and the family the embarrassment. Perhaps to someone she didn’t know, whom Zilpha would approve of far more than her man. Not unlike how she and I married off her sister, Tommy thought, not without a small pang of guilt.
“Thomas Shelby, then?” She called out to him from a distance, keeping herself close to her filly. God, she even sounded like her sister: birdlike and light, but with a sharp edge of wariness.
“Aye,” he responded. “Florence-Maria Lee?”
She nodded, glancing over him suspiciously. Undoubtedly, she already knew about the razor blades tucked unobtrusively into the brim of his cap. That wouldn’t help matters. Slowly, Tommy removed the cap and lay it out on the hood of his car, palms raised placatingly. The tension in her shoulders unwound slightly, though there was still a stubbornness to her voice when she spoke.
“He told me this morning he didn’t want to see you,” she called out. “Said he didn’t want a part in the Peaky devils’ business.”
It wasn’t ideal, that. It was always a possibility, coming all the way out here only to be turned away by the man he’d been hoping to see. But he would be damned if he gave up now, when the North was so close to being his that he could practically taste the factory soot in the air. “What would it take to change his mind?”
Florence tilted her head, silently scrutinizing some unknown detail on Tommy’s face as she brought up a hand to stroke the cheek of the little black filly. Tommy had seen this type of horse often, when he’d been young. Only broad, compact horses were strong enough to pull a vardo across miles of open plain without complaint. He wondered if this was the sort of creature that Florence’s man worked with often: sturdy, dependable, solid. Hardly the leggy, lean build of a pedigree racehorse, but it had a unique charm that was difficult to deny. Rough-hewn and efficient, they were all that was needed with none of the frills.
“She’s a beauty,” Tommy said, breaking the silence as he jutted his chin towards the horse. “What’s her name?”
Florence relaxed a bit further, allowing the little horse to press her velvety nose in the cup of her palm. “Fleet Ypres,” she responded proudly. “She’s practically his baby. Not for sale, nor barter. So don’t try.”
Tommy nodded, daring to approach the horse, who eagerly flared her nostrils to examine the newcomer. From his left jacket pocket he withdrew an envelope stuffed with money– Florence’s share of the payment for her share of the negotiating –handing it over so the woman could safely tuck it behind the plain neckline of her dress. From his right, he procured a small pink taffy, which he unwrapped and fed to the eager horse. “He fought in Belgium, then?”
She didn’t respond immediately, instead clicking her tongue at the filly so that she would sidestep closer to the wooden fence along the side of the road. Using the rails as leverage, she mounted Fleet Ypres carefully, a hand resting protectively on her small bump as she pulled herself upright and adjusted her shawl again.
“He’s in a bad way today,” she commented in lieu of an answer. “You were a soldier. You’d know how it is.”
All too well, Tommy thought bitterly, the phantom scent of thick, burnt-sweet opium smoke assaulting his nostrils at the memory of one too many sleepless nights ending in a drugged-out haze. “I’ve seen men behave in all manner of ways, coming home.”
Florence gave him a sympathetic wan smile. She held his gaze contemplatively, a furrow between her brows as another strong wind blew against her back, making Fleet Ypres shiver and shift her balance. Her comfort with silence struck Tommy as unusual. Growing up in a household as crowded and hectic as his own, it was difficult to develop the patience to be so still. Florence, despite her own large, close-quartered family, seemed to possess this affinity for quiet. He respected that; it took discipline and an even temperament. She was exactly the type of person Tommy could rely on to keep this negotiation running smoothly.
A creeping chill settled over them as a thick cloud blotted out the midday sun. In the overcast light, he could see where Florence had become different from her older sister. Where Esme’s defiant gaze was fueled by stubbornness and fire, the younger Lee girl held a quiet desperation behind her cautious dark eyes. Her cheeks were beginning to sharpen despite her youthfully round face, something he’d learned to recognize when food was scarce and his younger brothers were at risk of going hungry for too many nights in a row. The combination of these factors would have typically made him wary, like some sort of primordial survival instinct developed to recognize when a person was at their breaking point. Once again, the girl (consciously or not, Tommy wasn’t sure) protectively rested a hand on her lower belly. No, he thought, not a threat. Someone in her position wouldn’t risk ruining the offer he’d laid out for her.
Florence was the first to break the silence with a resigned huff and a shrug, the tips of her ears pinking with the confession: “Fine, let’s go then.”
Tommy blinked. “Pardon?”
“He’s waiting to speak to you. I needed to vet you out first.” Florence gave him another critical once-over, waiting on his reaction. “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Shelby.”
It took a moment for Tommy to realize what Florence was saying. Then, half a second later, that she’d been misleading him on purpose. The mix between relief that the tension had broken and irritation that she’d outmaneuvered him must have shown on his face, judging by the slight cheeky smirk the Lee girl was struggling to suppress. Sorry my arse, he thought. You’ve been conducting this conversation to the exact tune you wanted. I just happened to sing in key. “Very well,” he sighed, turning towards his car and placing his hat neatly back on his head. “Alright. You have the money, now I’ll need the address.”
Florence scoffed, as if the very idea of such a thing was ridiculous. “There’s no address, Mr. Shelby.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
She turned Ypres back down the road she’d rode in on, the horse’s long tail catching the breeze in an unexpectedly graceful about-face. “If you’re going to find Sam Lovell,” she shouted over her shoulder, “you’re going to need to think like Sam Lovell.” Fleet Ypres kicked up a cloud of dust behind her as she cantered off, leaving Tommy to hop into the driver’s seat and start the ignition on his Model-T.
Fuck’s sake. He knew enough about Sam to know exactly where she was headed. He would need to follow behind quickly and keep his eyes peeled for a little red vardo, the one that had gone missing from the Lee caravans just a few months ago. That was the last Zilpha had seen of her daughter, and the last anyone had seen of the elusive Samuel Lovell. From what Esme had said of him, perhaps that’s been for the best. With that thought in mind, he sped off down the dirt path, following Florence’s lead.
At a canter, the horse wasn’t overly fast, but she had a steady gait. That speed wouldn’t do on the track, Tommy reasoned, but it was well enough for a caravan horse. Certainly well enough for Florence, who rode at least ten lengths from the car without a second glance behind her or an ounce of concern for her delicate condition. Even with the rumble of the car engine just out of sight, something startling to a horse with little to no city experience to be heard of, the little filly kept her course without a hint of anxiety. Bomb-proof, he thought, and a wave of relief brought a smile to his face. A horse like that could only come from a handler of integrity, a man who understood mutual respect. The type of man Tommy could do business with and walk away from without sweating over the fear of a bullet in his back.
The path Florence took him down grew dusty and dotted with sparse patches of grass, leading them away from the main road to Haydock. Past here, only tip carts and sure-footed horses disturbed the dirt, the natural grooves in the earth rattling the chassis of the automobile as it sped carelessly over each bump. Tommy could just make out forked sticks left in the grass along the trail as patrin signs urging fellow travelers onward, indicating safe passage and friendly company up ahead.
Just as sunlight broke through the cloud cover, the road curved around a copse of thin trees to reveal their destination: a small, red vardo bedecked with hand-painted blue and yellow flowers. Outside sat a tent and cooking fire, and just before that was another horse tied to a stake in the ground. The chestnut gelding was snorting and pawing at the ground, ears tilted back in warning as a tall, dark-haired man stood patiently outside of kicking range. Florence slowed Fleet Ypres to a stop to dismount by the vardo, and Tommy pulled to the side of the road, closing the car door behind him as gently as he could so as not to unsettle the hotheaded gelding further.
Florence and the man– Sam, he presumed –conversed in hushed Angloromani, darting furtive glances back at Tommy as he approached. With one last reassurance that he was fine, that the state he’d woken in had passed, Sam kissed Florence’s forehead sweetly.
His eyes were the first thing Tommy noticed. Large and dove grey, they gave Sam a distinctly melancholy appearance, like the sky just before a downpour. The bruise-dark circles just below stuck out harshly against pale, sallow skin. Despite this, Tommy couldn’t find himself to be put off by his appearance. Sickly and unassuming as he seemed, he didn’t shy away from Tommy’s gaze. Call it simple intuition or call it recognition of a fellow soldier, but Tommy could tell that this man was not the same one who had enlisted. He must’ve been handsome before the war.
“Mr. Shelby,” Sam greeted, wiping his calloused palms on his farrier’s apron. Tommy removed his driving gloves, shaking his hand firmly. “Sam Lovell. Henry’s son.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samuel. Good to finally see the man I’ve been hearing of,” Tommy drawled, stepping back to take a look at the gelding as a whinny pierced the air. “And this is?”
Sam huffed, shaking his head. “Meska. Danny Lee’s new horse.” He rounded the gelding’s front and patted him firmly on the neck, despite the horse’s loud snorting. “He was sold with an abscess under the left back hoof. Danny-boy dropped him here a while ago to go, ah… have a word with the seller,” Sam looked askance at Tommy, quirking an eyebrow knowingly. “And to deliver a message from the Peaky Blinders. But you knew that already.”
Tommy pulled out a cigarette for himself, offering one to Sam. He declined. Instead, the man reached into his back pocket and revealed two slices of dried red apple wrapped in a handkerchief, popping one in his mouth and letting the horse cautiously eat the other from the palm of his hand. “Gave up smokes after the war. Gives me the shakes.” He sniffed and cleared his throat, trailing a hand along the gelding’s flank until he reached the troublesome hoof, bandaged and padded. “This’ll take some time. He’s got an attitude, won’t let me near without a fair bit of bribery. But he oughta be good for riding by the Appleby fair, God permitting.”
“You’re still a godly man after everything, Samuel?” Tommy lit his cigarette, letting it hang from his mouth as smoke curled around his head.
It was an innocent question, nothing more than a weak attempt at peeling back the layers of Sam’s guarded past, but it earned him a glare as cold and dead as still water in the trenches. Perhaps it was the change in light, the overcast above thickening as it cloaked the sun, but the circles under his eyes seemed to grow darker, deep and sunken. The man's lips were chapped and anxiously bitten to scabbing in places. It didn’t take a soldier’s experience to know that Sam was exhausted, laden with the kind of weight that didn’t shake with a good night’s sleep. If he could even manage such a thing, he thought. Tommy had seen men fall victim to their own minds with a lack of sleep in the Somme, going skittish and paranoid like cornered animals. Yet the look in Sam’s eyes wasn’t desperate, but fixed. Focused. It was a dizzying thing to be the subject of.
“You keep calling me Samuel,” he muttered, the ghost of a scouse accent coating his words as he stepped into Tommy’s space, breathing in his smoke. “God has heard, it means. D’you think God heard me in Ypres?” He leaned in close, right next to Tommy’s ear, lowering his voice to just a whisper. “Because I’ll tell you a secret, Tom. I did a lot of begging for it all to stop.”
Tommy steeled himself, slowed his breathing. It would do him no good to give in to the discomfort and back away, to put distance between himself and the war being stirred up in Sam’s brain. Whatever battle Sam had been fighting this morning had evidently not been won as easily as he’d told Florence it had. While Tommy did not come here looking for a confrontation, it was difficult to determine if Sam knew as much– or, rather, whether his mind could recognize the difference between friend and foe so far into this waking nightmare. The way he spat out God’s name felt like a provocation, tempting Tommy to fight back just to give Sam a reason to bite. Besides the fact that he and the heavens were no longer on speaking terms, Tommy knew better than to escalate. Knew that this was just the jagged edge the Western Front had left behind when it ripped Sam away from the safety of home. Something in the tension the other man held, an anticipatory rigor, told him that he had to keep playing his part in the verbal standoff if he wanted this conversation to go anywhere. He had to meet the soldier where he was at, even if that place was a trench only Sam could see. “And did God answer?”
Sam was the one to back up, hunching slightly to grin sardonically with that same ghostly eye contact. “Oh, yes. He sent me a bullet, right here,” He tapped a rib on his right side. “Nearly sent me up to my maker, it did. But the week I was due back on the front lines, the war ended. Lucky me.” He straightened up but didn’t move farther, just glared down at him like a priest at the pulpit. “So yeah, you could say that I’m a proper faithful man, Thomas.” Don’t fucking ask again, his tone said.
“Good.” Tommy looked him up and down slowly. Analytically. Waiting for the bite to follow his bark. “I like to see devotion.”
Sam’s nostrils flared, betraying his irritation that the older man would not stand down. He cut an imposing figure, Tommy had to admit. It was a shame how hard he tried to shrink into himself before this disruption, lean limbs pulled in and shoulders hunched as though he could hide in plain sight. This, in contrast, this…intensity was a force to be reckoned with. This was someone Tommy could use on his side. He had to teach him to harness that anger, refine him the same way he honed Arthur to a razor-sharp edge and wielded him like a weapon. Break him the way he might break a horse. Train him the way he might train a bloodhound. Their eye contact held until Florence stepped into his peripheral, a hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back gently. She whispered a question to him, inaudible over the sound of the gelding’s concerned huffs, to which he responded with a tight smile and slight shake of the head. The warm glow of Tommy’s cigarette quickly reached his lips, and he crushed the butt of it into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.
They didn’t have money, that much was clear. Between Sam’s unhealthy pallor and the frayed hem on Florence’s dress, they gave the impression of a couple working themselves ragged in an attempt to make ends meet. Tommy’s offer could get them out of the cold for the winter, put them up in a flat in the city where the factories could use a blacksmith. That wouldn’t appeal so much to someone like Sam, accustomed as he was to clean, fresh air and the sensitivities of horses, but it was work. Work meant food on the table. That realization must have reached Sam while he listened to Florence, because something like dread settled over his face as he took in the difference in their appearances: Tommy, clean-cut and offering him a job, and Sam, hunger gnawing behind his ribcage and no family left to take shelter with.
“Alright,” Sam returned to Tommy, the ice beginning to melt away from his pale eyes. “I’ll consider doing business with you, but it’ll be no tricks, aye? If I don’t like your plan, or if you change shit up on me day-of, I walk. Got a deal?”
Tommy nodded, emboldened by this show of trust. “Deal.”
Each man spat into his bare palm, and they shook on it.
Sam did not like Tommy. Not at first, at least. He carried himself as if he weren’t the upstart head of a Brummie street gang; an ill-fitting hand-me-down from his father that he had only just grown into, if he’d heard correctly. The tailored suit and shiny dress shoes were a poor fit for the dusty country road, as though he’d been planning to meet over crystal tumblers of gin and tonic at a fucking white tablecloth restaurant rather than the middle of a field miles from anything resembling a town. Sam had no such pretenses. Tommy knew he was just a farrier, knew he was the son of a farrier, knew he was dirt poor and barely scraping by even without the baby. But if Tommy wanted to flaunt his new status and play at the image of old money, he could go right on ahead. It cost him nothing when Sam knew he could see right through it.
Sam had to give him credit for one thing, though– he was a good businessman. The plan was solid, and the offer was just steep enough to be tempting while realistic enough to be trustworthy. He hardly had to act to fill the role he’d been set to play, just keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut at Aintree Racecourse. Tommy needed someone to integrate into the regular staff of farriers, veterinarians, trainers, and stableboys milling about the racecourse over the course of the two weeks leading up to the race, learning the ins and outs of the venue and discovering the weak points in security. After every few days he’d report to their go-between, Paul Knight– which he was sure was not the man’s real name –who was identifiable as a big bloke missing half a pinkie who would wait for him at the Queens Arms pub. But on Grand National day, his role would be the silent, inconspicuous observer posing as yet another nameless grunt in the stables, tracking the movements of every piece on the chessboard: the jockeys, the coppers, the bookies. Up until the minutes before the races start. From the bar, he’d create a distraction: a staged fight with another of the Blinders over something stupid and typical, like betting or women or offhand remarks. He’d involve others. Make a scene. And, with the Blinders’ help, their scuffle would escalate into an all-out pub brawl. The coppers would have no choice but to flood the scene just to untangle the whole mess, and Sam would flee. With no coppers and no eyes on the bookies, the Blinders could burn their permits and rob them of their earnings. A variation on the Epsom scheme, Tommy had said. A modus operandi in the making.
With the price Tommy was willing to pay for his cooperation, it was impossible to say no. He had a child on the way, a family to look after, a home to be the man of. There was already no other choice for him. The age of automobiles was upon him, and the type of people who could afford to pay good money for a good farrier were no longer the people who required his services. He wouldn’t be many clients’ first choice; it was easier to send the Rrom on his way and pay a higher price for someone whose parentage they respected. Anyone who wasn’t like him.
So there was no other choice. That’s what he told himself. It’s what he told Florence, later, when they were alone and settling in for the night. There was no other choice, and the money would be enough to keep them afloat, and she deserved to rest while he made things work. That he would take care of her. That he always did.
“Fia,” he whispered to her, fingers carding through her curls. Long ago, Florence-Maria became just Fia, and the name had stuck tighter than a burr in a wild colt’s mane. “Fia, listen. It’s just one job.”
She sighed, one heaping lungful of air saying more than words could. When it was just the two of them, words were hardly necessary anyway. “It’s always just one job with those men,” she muttered into his bare chest, “and then before you know it it’s just another job. And another. And a horse. And a few guns. And some cash. And a night in a cell.” And your big sister, he thought. It went unspoken.
“Yeah, well, next time I’ll just tell ‘em to fuck off.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just this time, I’ll do it. It’s not much effort, and a lot of money besides. The racecourse’ll pay me for the honest work on top of that. They’ll be none the wiser.”
She pouted. Sam couldn’t see it, but he could certainly feel it against his skin, the way her jaw tightened and her lower lip stuck out just slightly. He resisted the urge to poke that scowl, just to make her laugh. Something about this moment felt like no laughing matter.
After a moment of silence, she spoke up, her voice small and quiet: “I didn’t like the way he talked to you.”
Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t be seen from her angle. “He hardly did, Fia. Puffed himself up like a rooster and said the vaguest shit you ever did hear, then it was right to business.”
“I don’t like the way he looked at you, then,” she moved, propping herself up with a hand on her cheek so that her chin rested on his shoulder. “Like you were a horse at auction.”
Like a piece of meat, more like. He shuddered. “And what if you’re wrong, eh? What if I do my job and go on my way, and the Peaky Blinders just leave us be?”
Florence shrugged, still skeptical. “Well, if I’m proven wrong, then I’m wrong.”
“My Fia? Proven wrong?” Sam gaped at her, gasping dramatically. “Hell might freeze over before I hear you admit that.”
“Wanker.” That, at least, provoked a snort and a poorly-restrained grin to break out over her face. She wriggled up until she was partially propped upright by the pillows behind her, then took Sam’s hand and placed it right over her bump. A flicker of sadness shone behind her eyes for half a second. “Just… don’t let them keep you from being her father, alright?”
Sam grinned, scooting so that they were close again. “Her? You’re convinced we’re having a girl?”
“Oh, we are.”
“Nah, we’re having a boy. I know because I prayed.” He pressed his palms together and looked skyward, “Oh please God, send me a son! Send me a son so that I’m not stuck being nagged by two mares and a daughter and a wife all at the same time–”
She cackled, leaning down and bumping their foreheads together. “Sam, you can’t just say I’m your wife!”
“Gotta say that to keep the Big Man happy, eh?” Sam rolled so that he was hovering over her, nose-to-nose. “How else am I gonna get my prayers answered? Not with sex out of wedlock and spiriting you away from home, that’s for sure.”
That golden smile of hers deflated slowly, turning bittersweet as she stroked an overgrown lock of black hair away from his forehead. Ah. So that’s what this was about.
Sam sat back on his heels, taking her slender, work-calloused hands between his own. “Hey. Hey,” he waited until she was focusing on him, brown eyes meeting grey. “It’ll be okay, Fia. Esme’s the one who had Danny bring you the letter, wasn’t she? And besides, he left his new horse here, yeah?”
She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.
“Right. And if she was angry with you, or if your mum was angry with you… do you think they’d go and do that?”
Florence sniffled, shaking her head vehemently. “They hold grudges.”
Sam smiled. “Reminds me of someone I know. Fia, if your mum holds grudges, and Esme holds grudges, and Danny– bless his little arse-kissing heart –was sent all the way up here just to draw us into the Shelby family nonsense and then ‘borrow’ your mare while I doctored his proud-cut devil of a horse… do you really think they’d be upset at hearing from you?”
Florence sighed, reluctantly shaking her head no. Sam was sympathetic to her anxieties. It was world-shaking for her, finding out she was pregnant so soon after her best friend and older sister left home with a gangster. Their decision to leave in a stolen vardo when her monthly was late was impulsive, but not terribly unexpected. She’d threatened as much a number of times when Zilpha had told her that under no circumstances was she to marry the troubled boy from the troubled family in Liverpool. If Zilpha only knew the truth, her answer might’ve been different, he thought ruefully. It aggravated him, to think that they couldn’t see the way that he cared for her. That he would protect her. Love her. Do anything for her. Would they see that, if they knew why they’d run?
“They’ll have to figure it out eventually. You know that, right?” He tried to control his tone, struggling to keep the accusation out of his voice. Will you tell Esme? Will you tell Danny? Will you tell your mother?
Are you ashamed of me? Should I be ashamed of myself?
Florence rolled onto her side, curling up protectively. “I don’t want to go on about it, Sam. Not right now. I don’t feel well.”
Please tell me you aren’t ashamed.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s okay,” he said instead, lying down to hold her back against his chest. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. I promise.”
The tension in Florence’s shoulders evened out as sleep overcame her. Sam stayed awake, watching her breathe until the sun rose.
#fic: sic em#oc: samuel lovell#oc: florence-maria lee#peaky blinders#peaky blinders oc#peaky blinders fanfic
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ooooooooh i’m gonna send u many many of these and hope u are still doing them………
2, 5, 8, 17, 21, 64, 65, 74
(you absolutely do not have to answer all of these. or any of them. MWAH <3)
Thank you my wonderful friend :)
2 answered here.
5. have you ever made a playlist about something you were writing as an elaborate means to procrastinate when you could have been actually writing and if yes drop a link, son.
Yes! I made a few, but most recently for there is no other land https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UK9NfK7D2yGyKcnl2rcbK?si=sYww7vJjTWyETpZJcjyzig&pi=u-b9oh9EvcRD-m
8. what’s your relationship with constructive criticism and feedback like? do you seek it out? how well do you take it?
I do not seek it out, I probably should. I definitely don’t take it well at first (see above) but I like to think after that I make use out it. Truth be told, I wish I was better at taking it because I’d love to improve myself as a writer so please send me any you have (or anyone, or as an anon if you don’t feel comfortable). I feel like with fandom, there’s not much constructive criticism, it’s either lovely lovely comments or random anonymous, mean but not helpful comments (which I thankfully have not received much of but have seen it).
17. what is your favorite line you’ve ever written?
I cannot think of any I love the most haha So I'm going to share this paragraph and you can pretend it's a run on sentence from ignite your bones:
He was pissed at Jamie right now, too. Pissed that the muppet had wormed his way into Roy’s heart years ago. Pissed, he forced his way into a tiny crevice and made it a chasm big enough for Sam, and Isaac and Colin and every other Greyhound under his charge over the years. Because now he cared about them. Now he had to worry about them. Now he had to worry about Jamie.
21. pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you’d write about.
I'm still trying to write a fic with @fanficfanattic I'm not sure I could handle a whole ass book.
64. what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve read?
Oh there are so many! and do not recognize us as we pass by you is fave, as is i saw the end (it looked just the middle) by @antitheticaally, oh god, you're gonna get it (you have not been given love) by @jamiesfootball, To All The Better Places by @asteria-argoand All I Have (And a Little More) by @kvetchinglyneurotic just off the top of my head.
65. what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve written?
I really like there is no other land because I use song lyrics so much and I feel like it fits the fic really really well. I also love hope the skin heals where the pain enters because I feel like it also fits the story well.
74. are you a planner, pantser, or planster?
I'm a planster, leaning more towards panster than planner. I usually have a generally outline, sometimes it's just in my head. My longer fics have an outline but the shorter ones, some definitely all full panster mode especially the whumptober shorter ones.
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Small (665 word) segment of one of the various fics I’m working on being put on tumblr in hopes of receiving concrit and predictions because I’m a pantser and have somewhat lost motivation on this and am just generally curious about some feedback? How about that?
Anyway, Vanessa Afton and Ness the Waiter are siblings. That’s it. That’s the fic. Enjoy and warning for brief mention of blood :D
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After a firm talk from their father about staying in the storage closet in the back of the pizzeria until he came back to get them, 'some of the animatronics may act odd while they're being taken care of, machinery is dangerous, don't touch anything that's made of metal and could possibly move on its own...' blah blah blah, the two twins were left alone on the storage room.
Vanessa frowned and side-eyed Ness. "Are you happy now?" she asked, clearly sour about being stuck where they were.
"Ecstatic!" Ness replied, not even looking at her as he examined every nook and cranny of the closet. He grabbed a broom and jabbed it into a springlock suit, looking with fascination as it snapped shut suddenly and violently.
"NESS! Dad said not to touch," she scolded.
"Did I touch it? I think not," he said as he leaned closer, still barely paying attention to her. "Dang... these things could kill someone. Easily. It's almost as though this was made to kill. Either a child or adult!"
"Then you probably shouldn't have your face less than two inches away from it," was her dry reply.
"I'm approximately three inches away. Besides, with the springlocks already activated, it's incredibly unlikely that I am in any danger at all. Even if I was, it's worth it!" Ness poked one of the springlocks with a look of glee.
"You should still step away..."
He glanced over, noticing the worry in her tone. He gave the suit a single, longing glance, before stepping away and glancing at the door. "I'm going to go check on something, stay here," Ness instructed.
"The curse of idiocy has hit you hard today, I see, you're breaking every that Dad put in place for us. Where are you even going?"
"I'm not an idiot, and I'll tell you later."
"You're stupid and I'm going with you."
"Absolutely not. Just because I'm breaking the rules doesn't mean you should. I'm older, therefore that makes me more responsible." Ness ignored Vanessa's scoff of disagreement. "I know exactly what I'm doing, besides, there's plenty of fun stuff in here!"
"You know what? It's not even worth arguing with you at this point, dummy. But either you stay here, I come with you, or I'll tell Dad later."
"You just always have to pull the 'I'll tell Dad' card, don't you?"
She shrugged. "It works. Why wouldn't I?"
"You're a little brat sometimes, you know that? But fine. You can come with me," he said with a resigned sigh. "Just stay behind and stay quiet."
Vanessa nodded, looking slightly anxious but also pleased with herself as Ness pulled open the door.
He crept through the pizzeria, all the way to the stage curtain, where he cautiously peeked through it to look out into the main room. Ness stifled a gasp as he shoved Vanessa back towards the storage closet.
"What is it? I want to see!" she whisper-yelled.
He shook his head, not seeming to be able to find words as his face contorted with a slight panic and he grabbed her hand, attempting to drag her away.
"Did the endoskeletons scare you? You can be a real baby sometimes," Vanessa taunted.
Ness shook his head again, motioning for her to hurry up.
She scoffed in annoyance and ripped her hand free from his grasp. "I'm going to go see."
"Don't!" he managed to whisper-yell as she peeked through the curtains.
Ness cringed as Vanessa let out a loud scream of terror, and then he bolted back to the storage room. Perhaps he should've gone to drag his sister back with him, but she had already been caught. It would only be worse if both of them were caught, right? He never should've let her come with him. He never should've asked that they come here. It was too late now, though, Vanessa had already seen her father holding a bloody knife over a mangled body.
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@carouselrabbit
@walking-fnaf-encyclopedia
@hearts4ggy
No idea if y’all remember this ( https://www.tumblr.com/carouselrabbit/734873562621657088 ) and I’m by no means finished but it is in progress…
#fnaf#five nights at freddy's#fnaf vanessa#vanessa afton#vanessa shelly#ness the waiter#ness fnaf#william afton#fnaf movie#fnaf movie spoilers#fic writing#fanfic#fanfiction#fnaf fic#fic excerpt#concrit welcome#writing#fandom#work in progress#siblings au#can I legally tag this as Afton siblings#Best to just not methinks#goofy siblings#hope nothing bad happens#tw blood mention#mention of death#mention of blood
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24 & 28
24: Do you let your story evolve as you write or do you meticulously plan everything prior to writing the first draft?
I am what Brandon Sanderson calls a pantser writer. I often will get an idea in my head, and then I'll write out that scene. This scene then evolves into another and another until I have either a short story or a full chapter that's several thousand words. I will then go back over what I've written to see if it makes sense, if there's a plot to it, and if there's a character arc evolving in it.
It's then that I map out a possible plot line. However, this is a loose outline, where I have what I call Fixed Point scenes that must happen. Everything else evolves around those Fixed Points.
Often times the characters will evolve the story to the point where I need to rethink my loose outline, and at that point, I'll re-examine the Fixed Points and see if they need adjusted to fit the new narrative arc.
Once I finish the story -- if it's an original story I'll do this but I don't do it as often for fanfiction unless it's a series -- I'll go back through the entire story and map an outline based on what's already written. Doing it this way allows me to find plot holes, check for consistency errors, make sure its coherent, and verify if the arcs are either tied up neatly or prepared to be tied up neatly in the sequel.
28: Do you need background noise to write? If so, what do you listen to?
I have to have something in the background when I write. Silence is too loud, mostly because of my tinnitus, so it can distract me far too much.
I have very eclectic music tastes and will listen to just about everything -- unless it's rap or country (I struggle with both genres for reasons unknown; however, if the rap song has a really good rhythm that sounds tantalizing or soothing to the ear, then I'll listen to it. I will also allow certain country artists to exist on my playlists such as Dolly Parton and Kelly Clarkson). I do lean heavily toward metal such as gothic metal, symphonic metal, etc (Oceans of Slumber, Ad Infinitum, Kamelot, Within Temptation, and Nightwish are good examples). I will include artists from countries all across the world, and especially enjoy artists whose music displays their heritage. I also have a soft spot for Eurovision songs, which is likely the romantic in me.
When I craft my playlist, I think about the theme of my story, the characters involved, and the plot. I will then select songs that have an atmosphere, lyrics, or general feel that fits those parameters. This keeps me focused, and helps my brain slip into the right mood for the particular story I'm writing.
Thank you for asking! :D
Click here for the questions for Unique Writing Asks.
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for the Writer's ask game!
2. Are you a plotter or a pantser?
39. What's the weirdest character idea you've ever had?
Oh god I haven't checked my inbox in a hot sec
I'd say I lean more towards pantser. I bulletpoint plot individual books, but the overarching plot of a series is usually something I find along the way.
Weirdest character idea, hm.... I mean, Elsind is pretty weird. They're a changeling, but I was inspired more by octopuses and amoebas than the actual fae myth in his creation. She's a single celled organism, she loves monsterfucker fluff, she's probably got an anxiety disorder, she was an unwilling court jester, she's the babygirl of her terrorist organization. What's not to love? I have a longer post about changeling biology and culture here, if you'd like to know more :)
Thanks for the asks!
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Always wanted to know if you know the specifics of how the story you write will end from the start or does it come later?
And its nice to talk to sensible people, especially in half dead fandoms. :D
Usually, I do know the ending, because I tend to know where I'm going, what the point is, and the ending tends to tie to that very strongly. "Specifics", though... depends on what you mean by that. I know the essence of the ending, and I have a fairly good idea how I wish to reflect that, because those things are why I wanted to write the story to begin with.
When we're talking about something as massive as my knb fic series though, it's more accurate to view it as multiple endings that are not necessarily where the fics literally end. I knew the first one (= the point that wraps up why I started the story) when I began writing, and before I reached that point another "task" emerged, and I knew how that should wrap up, and so on... But as a whole I don't know how it will end because it's not really supposed to end, it's supposed to grow and change with me.
However, I have been wrong, sometimes some things I envision about the point I'm trying to make change along the way. So I may have a somewhat detailed ending in mind, but some things about what I thought it should be no longer feel accurate when the ending gets nearer. The question I started with remains but the answer has somewhat changed.
As a rule though, I tend to have a lot clearer idea of where I want to go and what I want to accomplish (the ending) than how exactly I'm going to get there (the overall plot) so that's why I lean towards pantser very much.
I certainly share your feelings about our talks. 💙 Thank you for being so cool.
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Animal Arbiter writing update #1
You can find the WIP intro here!
I wanted to talk a little bit about the concept behind this wip and how I first conceptualised the idea, since I'm generally a pantser who develops ideas based off of vague vibes and vivid imagery, which can often make it difficult to figure out a proper plot. I figured maybe others might stumble upon similar hurdles, and I wanted to share my process for solving it while sprinkling in some excerpts here and there!
Content warning for talk about birth, pregnancy, and murderous intent.
So this project started off as a short story about a woman giving unassisted birth alone in a bathtub. The woman in question has a complicated relationship with her pregnancy and the "mother" role, and had partially hoped that the child would have been a stillborn so she could just... Not think about it.
I’d quit smoking far too late into the pregnancy, so part of me expected—hoped, even—that I’d killed the fetus inside me. I didn’t even go to the hospital. I thoroughly believed I had willed that thing dead and I’d be better off saving everyone the trouble by pushing the corpse out of my body all alone in a bathtub. I just wanted to get it over and done with and move on with my life.
Because of this, she'd been sabotaging her own pregnancy for a while, but when the child still manages to be a successful birth, the woman develops a sense of superiority over such an accomplishment, practically glorifying her own child as a miracle despite her initial (unpleasant) plans of how to get rid of it.
As strained cries pierced the silence and echoed off of the bathroom walls, I felt frozen in place. I gripped onto the walls of the bathtub to hoist myself up and lean forward. The tub was slippery from all the blood. The whole thing looked like a crime scene ripped out of a horror movie, a passage of death devoid of any sanctity. I loomed over the sobbing thing like a grim reaper, watching it helplessly thrash around in my own blood. If I’d truly wanted to, I probably could’ve killed it and gotten away with it. Accidents happen all the time during unassisted births, it was practically a statistical guarantee.
I think the excerpt above (which I've shared here before) was when I really figured out what kind of character I was dealing with, and I got kinda intrigued by it, I guess? ^^; A lot of my characters emerge from extreme characterisations like these, because I enjoy peeling back the layers to figure out exactly what kind of person would form thoughts like this in the first place. My drafts are usually just me trying to figure out my own characters, because I usually don't really know them when I write them for the first time.
One of those layers involved figuring out exactly why someone this determined to get rid of a child would decide to keep it. The rationalisation behind this decision ended up being a very vital part of the character I'd say.
When I picked up the delicate thing and held it in my arms, I hesitated to follow through with such a morbid plan. The successful birth of this child seemed like such an anomaly that it was practically a miracle, as if the thing had such a tight grip on the promise of a future that it defied death and willed itself back to life.
(...)
I didn’t love her immediately either, but I considered the birth of that child to be proof of some hidden strength in me that people refused to acknowledge. I created this defiant of death.
And that's more or less how I conceptualised Nora Gaarder, the narrator of the story! From here, I didn't really have a plan to add anything to the story, but I did find myself circling back to it pretty often because I had a constant urge to fill in the blanks of how she ended up in this position and what had shaped such a person, which is what led me to the decision of expanding upon it and making it a longer story.
I think what intrigued me the most with the story concept was the idea of birth, creation and motherhood juxtaposed with death, murder and detachment, but I didn't really have a plan or any sort of plot in mind for it. I then had the idea of adding a second character to the story who somewhat mirrors Nora's story, and this would become the basis for Anette, the 14 year old girl Nora has to look after over the summer. Without going too much into anything too spoilery, Anette's circumstances and Nora's circumstances kinda run parallel to one another, and as Nora uncovers more about the town she temporarily resides in, the more she realises the similarities between herself and Anette.
My brainstorming mostly consists of asking why? to just about anything and building off of that. Why is a woman giving birth alone? Why is she contemplating to kill it? Why did she decide to keep it? How did she end up here? etc. I can do this with more visual ideas as well by asking myself what the circumstances behind the imagery are, whose perspective depicts the imagery, and so on. The conflict in this particular story is very internal, which is common in short stories in general, so I've looked for ways to externalise the conflict as well, which, in this case, is Nora figuring out what the town is hiding from her.
Anyways, I won't make this post too long or rambly, but I hope it was somewhat enjoyable to read! I might be a bit spotty with posts for a while due to semester work, but I'll try to be responsive to any asks or messages if there are any! :,)
Tag list: @oliverferrie @jaydewritesfiction @coffeeandcalligraphy @annlillyjose @phantomnations
Let me know if anyone would like to be removed/added to the tag list for writing updates and additional content for this wip!
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1, 2, 11, 16?
1. Do you listen to music when you write?
No. It's distracting.
2. Are you a pantser or plotter?
Pantser, but I've kind of verged into more of a flashlight writer lately, and I have been taking time to think through what I'm doing and what's happened and edit as I go more now. But you'll never catch me doing an outline or making any kind of useful notes for future plans; only freewriting ideas at myself.
11. Books and/or authors who influenced you the most
Pretty sure I answered this one last time around, lol.
Roger Zelazny, for better or for worse. Probably for both, really. My dad owns every single book he wrote, and while I haven't read most of the novels, the short stories are really something. Every time I don't explain my exposition? That's his fault for sure.
The Night Room, by E.M. Goldman. The layers and little details just buried so far back is so intoxicating. I reread this one a lot as a kid realizing new things.
I talked here about YuuMori
Sarah Monette/Katherine Addison. I'm never, ever going to write like she does, but you can just. Tell she knows her shit. And the character voices are so distinct. And in The Goblin Emperor, it was...so....hopeful, for once. It had a happy ending around building bridges as a leader and wanting to be known for that. So I think the things I want to take are: writing about the things you know and love so that everyone knows you know your shit and love it, making every character voice sing, and just. Leaning into that philosophy in TGE.
A lot of stuff I read obsessively in middle school in Formative Years: A bunch of Star Wars EU/Legends books, the Fearless series, The Pendragon Adventures, Enchanted Forest, Pit Dragons...etc.
16. How many drafts do you need until you’re satisfied with a project?
This depends wildly on the project and how long it is, but generally at least three: The messy fuckup draft, the part where I clean up all the obvious stuff, and the draft after someone else looks at it and I fix it again. Sometimes that last step repeats a fair few times.
Cons of being a pantser.
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You're such a doll. 🥹❤️
🚀🏷️🎁
I was traveling this weekend so just catching up with fic asks!!
🚀Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go?
Lol I was just discussing this on Sunday! I absolutely outline but I am definitely a lazy, create-as-I-go pantser with a lot of writing. I'll generally get a big burst of creativity when I come up with a new story I'm excited about and I know the broad strokes of everything as well as a few scenes that come to me. I might write it down, I might just remember it. I like the story to unfold as I'm writing it, and a lot of times I'm solving plot problems and discovering emotional through lines as I write as well. It's a messy process and I love it. :) I will say Psyche-Eros is going to be 60k+ words for part one, and I just did a bonkers detailed chapter-by-chapter outline to keep me on track, so I definitely need it for longer works...
🏷️Is there a tag you like to search when looking for fanfics to read?
Honestly the only thing I search is for new Feyre/Rhysand fics! I'm lucky to be tapped in here and get a lot of recommendations from people. And I've found so many good pieces and writers just by searching for new Feysand fics on AO3!
🎁Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?
Ok I shared this a bit elsewhere but I think I've already posted a lot of my fave bits from Psyche-Eros so you get something new :) This is an Azris meeting UTM...be gentle, it is my first Azris.
“And how is your dear circle? Is The Morrigan in hiding from her father? He looks at me strangely every time I mention how much I miss her glowing countenance.”
Azriel was still, a dark storm brewing.
Eris knew. Only in seeing Azriel, in the hard iron bars of his mental shield, had he been able to dredge up their names, bits of their faces, like pulling memories out of sticky tar. Their names felt heavy on his tongue.
“I’m not speaking about them.”
“Won’t you? And don’t you want to know what your illustrious High Lord has been up to? Just this evening I watched him make a low fae dance for hours until his feet were bleeding, and then knock him unconscious so quickly his face cracked on the marble floor. Apparently Amarantha thought he had sneered at her in the hall.” No reaction. “We all knew Rhysand was a bit of a monster, but he truly seems to have found his calling in this place. Who knew he would take to servitude so well.”
The lilt of his voice was a taunt, a plea for reaction. He wouldn’t stand for stoic silences today. “Does he even know you’re here?”
The barest hint of a smile, the corner of Azriels’ lips twitching. His eyes like dark coals. “I came to see you.”
Eris huffed a laugh. “How flattering, that you came Under the Mountain just to needle me for information. You’re like a hungry cat. I should never have fed you. Now you won’t stop coming back.”
A smile, a flash of sharp teeth. Menace glistening in shadow. His dark wings rustled as he pushed off of the table where he had been leaning. His steps indeed like a stalking cat. Until he stood in front of him, his wings casting a shadow over the high lord’s son, the fire crackling and looming behind him.
“I wasn’t hungry. But you fed me anyway.” His leg closer, parting Eris’s knees on the couch. Azriel leans down, his eyes going to Eris’s lips. “Says more about you than me, I would think.”
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writers’ ask game 2, 9, 17, and 21
i haven’t sent writing asks in forever! i enjoy seeing you on my dash though so i have scuttled out from beneath my rock
- @writeintrees
Aw thank you!! For the compliment and the ask! (From this writing ask game)
2. Are you a pantser or plotter?
I identify as more of a Plantser, actually. I used to be more of a Pantser, but that didn't really work out for me, so I lean slightly more toward Plotter now.
What I used to do was have a basic idea and write until I hit a block but that always ended up poorly. I started planning more, and that was much more effective. As things went on, I found out the more I planned, the better things ended up being for me, as I usually ran into a wall or in circles or sprinted to the finish line with nothing in the middle happening.
Now, I'll admit, the pantsing did get me places, but now I can't do anything without an outline. However, I do find myself not being able to figure out the details of a scene until I write it, and that writing stuff down often deviates from the outline. This doesn't bother me at all - it's extremely helpful. The outline is more of a way to guide my writing so I better know what I'm doing, while actually writing can lead me to improving my outline.
Like I said, a bit of both, but technically leaning more toward plotter now.
9. Current WIP
The WIP getting the most of my attention is The Secret Portal, planned to be a five-part sci-fi fantasy YA series. Part One is in the beta reading stages (see intro post) and Part Two is on another draft.
However, most of my focus is on the background world building for the magic system, which always needed work tbh but I'm there now! It's very exciting!
17. What writing habits or rituals do you have?
I make it a habit to write between a shower and dinner. Rituals are listening to music and my water being right next to me. I'm usually at my desk as well.
21. Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write?
Robbie, Akash, and Carmen are just fun to write. Robbie and Akash are inseparable, and just such a chaotic duo. Akash is fun because he has that humorous streak but is generally responsible, while Robbie is me throwing random things at the wall and saying whatever I want. Their banter is so fun to write.
Carmen is just an asshole and assholes are fun to write! She's angry at the smallest inconvenience but very easy to make very awkward. She's also super interesting and I want to study her under a microscope.
I find Lexi, Maddie, and Gwen a lot of fun to write because they're frankly easy. Side characters that are fun are Liam (argues over everything), Parker (chaos personified), and Gabriel (boring stick in the mud).
Thank you so much for the ask!!
TSP intro
TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites
#writing ask game#ask answered#the secret portal#tsp#teaspoon#akash singh#robbie stafford#carmen asghar#lexi morgan#maddie morgan#gwen amante#liam beaumont#parker cassidy#gabriel medina#writers on tumblr#writing community#writers of tumblr#writing on tumblr#writeblr#writeblr community
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