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wheels-of-despair · 1 month

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The Letter Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Evil Woman gets a letter in the mail and says it's not a big deal… but to Eddie Munson, it's a very big deal. Contains: A misunderstanding, a dumb boy, a happy ending. Words: 1.4k

Eddie knocks twice, just to announce himself, before letting himself inside your house. "You don't have to knock, Eddie, you basically live here," they'd all told him several times, but he still felt like they deserved a warning.

Her mom has pulled a chair from the kitchen table closer to the phone mounted on the wall. She smiles and waves at him, gesturing for him to go on to the bedroom where his other half is probably getting ready for their favorite kind of date: Markdown Day at Tape World. They'd raid the clearance bin for new cassettes, then stop by the pretzel place for their usual. He'd get something salty, she'd get something sweet, and they'd split both and wash it down with a shared pop. Perfect.

"Yeah, the letter came earlier this week. She's playing it cool, but I think she's excited. She'll fit right in at Penn."

Eddie feels his blood run cold.

Of course the child of two college graduates is going to college. The thought had crossed his mind a few times, but he was always able to distract himself and banish it. But now…

His feet carry him to her bedroom while his brain spirals.

"Hey! Ready in a sec, just let me finish… oh, fuck it." She slams her textbook shut and tosses it from her place on the bed to the backpack by her desk. She rolls her eyes when it misses, then gets up to shove it into her backpack. She may not be getting a basketball scholarship, but of course she's college-bound.

She could have a real life. A future. A career. She could do anything. Hell, she'd taught him things in a week that the teachers of Hawkins High had been trying to beat into him for years. She's a fucking miracle-worker. Why would she stick around a shitty little town like this? For someone like him?

"Priorities," she smirks, wrapping her arms around his neck. She's so fucking beautiful. How is he gonna keep existing when she's not here? "You okay?" she asks, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. "You look paler than usual."

He closes his eyes and nods. She feels his forehead. If she cared so much, why would she leave him? "You sure?"

"I'm fine. Just tired," he lies. He misses her already. "Ready?"

She kisses the tip of his nose, and he tries not to cry.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand," she grins, grabbing a jacket.

Eddie forces a smile and feels his heart breaking.

*~One Week Later~*

"Switch those two paragraphs around, and I think you're good," you note, passing Eddie his essay back. You're sitting beside him at your kitchen table. Your brother is making a sandwich at the counter. It's the picture of domestic bliss.

"Thanks," Eddie mumbles, sticking the paper back in his English folder.

"We still on for Tape World tonight?" you ask hopefully. Maybe a good deal on some new music would perk him up. God knows he needs it.

"Dunno," Eddie mumbles without looking up, "got a lotta campaign stuff to work on."

"It's Markdown Day," you remind him.

He shrugs and starts gathering his stuff.

"Alright, what's your problem?" You snap the book in front of you shut, making your brother jump instead of Eddie. Oops.

"No problem," he lies, still not looking at you.

"Bullshit. You've been going back and forth between clingy and distant all week. What's your fucking problem, Munson?"

"I don't have a fucking problem," he spits as he starts shoving stuff into his backpack.

"Kay, this was fun, but I've gotta go do literally anything else!" your bother announces loudly as he scampers back to his room with his hastily-made sandwich, leaving his PB&J supplies open on the counter. Like he was raised in a barn.

You wait until you hear his bedroom door slam before you continue your attack on Eddie, who has run out of room in his backpack. (Your lunchbox, Eddie. You shoved your lunchbox in there.)

You put your hand on a folder and slide it toward you, out of his reach. He glares.

"Talk to me."

"I am," he says defiantly.

You consider beating him to death with his math folder.

"Give it," he orders, reaching out a hand for his folder.

You slide it further away from him, daring him to come get it.

"Or don't, I don't fucking care, I'm just gonna fail again anyway." He drops his overstuffed backpack on the floor and stomps toward the door.

"Eddie!" you call in shock. You stand as if you're going to physically stop him from leaving, but your feet don't want to move.

He gets to the kitchen door and puts his hand on the knob, but doesn't turn it.

"When were you planning on telling me about getting into college?"

"What?"

"I heard your mom on the phone, talking about your acceptance letter," he says to the door.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He turns around with an accusatory glare.

"I didn't think it was that big a deal," you shrug. And it wasn't... to you. You knew he was sensitive about the subject. He visibly bristled when anyone mentioned the c-word. You planned on breaking the news to him after graduation. One thing at a time. And right now, getting a high school diploma in Eddie Munson's hand was the only thing that mattered to you.

"Of course you wouldn't think getting into college is that big a deal."

"Eddie, I didn't mean it like that," you say gently.

"I guess moving a few hundred miles away from me isn't that big a deal either."

"What?"

"Don't play dumb, alright? I know you're going to Pennsylvania, where you won't have some dumb loser townie holding you back. Your mom seemed real happy about it."

Pennsylvania? You're going to… you connect the dots, and a laugh escapes you. You clamp your hand over your mouth.

His eyes fill with tears. "Yeah, it's gonna be real fuckin' funny when the love of my life runs off and forgets about me, just like everybody else did as soon as they graduated." This boy is giving you emotional whiplash. He turns around and reaches for the doorknob again.

This time, your feet cooperate. You rush over and wrap your arms around him from behind before he can get the door halfway open, and he tenses. You can feel his sides shaking. He's trying not to cry.

"That's not gonna happen."

"Bullshit." His voice cracks.

"Eddie, that's not gonna happen to us. Look at me."

He takes a shuddering breath and turns around, but keeps his eyes on the ceiling as he tries to blink back tears. You go in for a hug anyway. He resists for a second, but soon gives in and wraps his arms around you.

"I love you," you say into his neck.

Silence.

You thump him on the back. "Say it back."

"I love you, too," he mumbles.

"Do you trust me?"

He pulls back and looks at you with his big wet eyes and nods. You cup his face, kiss him on the tip of his nose, and smile. "Come with me. I gotta show you something."

"What?"

"Just come on," you grin. "Let's go for a little drive."

You scribble a note for your brother, in case he dares to venture out of the safety of his cave before you get back, and lead Eddie to the car.

Nineteen silent minutes later, you pull into a parking lot, find a space, and turn off the engine.

Eddie looks around quizzically at the parked cars, the people rushing by, and the bodies lounging on the grass. Then he looks to you.

"Where are we, Eddie?"

"Isn't this where your mom works?"

"Yeah. But where are we?"

He stares at you blankly. He's lucky he's pretty, because he is so damn dumb. You've never loved anyone more.

"C'mon," you smile, getting out of the car and waiting for him on the sidewalk. He watches you from the passenger's seat for a moment, until curiosity gets the better of him. You wait patiently, then hold out your hand when he approaches. When he takes it, you lead him toward the main building, where your point will be easier to make.

You stop and point at the massive stone sign. "What's that say?"

He huffs out an annoyed breath and reads, "Pennhurst Coll… oh." You see the realization dawn on his face, soon accompanied by a blush. "I'm an idiot."

"You're my idiot," you grin, pulling him close. "And I'm not going anywhere without you."

A Note From Wheels: Honestly can't remember if I've ever mentioned it, but in my mind, Evil Woman's mom has always been a college professor. 😂 EW will be attending Pennhurst because it's cheap (well, free, since Mom's got the hookup) and close to Eddie. 🥰 I'd imagine Pennhurst is not a very prestigious university, so Mom could probably get Eddie in if he wanted to go. (He absolutely does not.)

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman #this has been sitting in a notepad folder for EIGHT MONTHS #and has SO MANY TIES TO ANOTHER BIT OF STORY I NEVER EVEN STARTED WRITING #AHHHHHHHHHH

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yoongis-scooter · 4 years

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senior year, but make it infected

pairing: yoongi x reader (yoongi seems to be in high demand so imma just keep writing for him until 1) someone requests another member or 2) i write something good that’s with another member lol)

word count: 1,029

genre: highschool!au, best friends!au (you n yoongles reminisce about your senior year) (also tried to make it funny but im not funny so)

warnings: this involves covid-19 and essentially how high school seniors are being effected by that so if that upsets you/triggers you don’t read! also there’s a couple swear words

authors note: hi y’all!!! i am/was a senior this year so i’ve def been reminiscing on my high school memories n such :’) also a lil fun fact!! all the stories told in this fic are inspired by things that have actually happened to me lolol but yea!! i hope you enjoy!!

new cases of covid-19 confirmed!

restaurants shutting down do to covid-19!

CDC recommends that citizens stay quarantined!

that’s all your news feed had been for weeks now. you feel awful for everyone that’s been affected, sure, but you find it hard to care now that your last few months of your teenage years have been infected with this god forsaken disease.

you’re mother told you that you were being over dramatic, and that it’s time you start letting go and start thinking about your future. maybe she was right, but you weren’t having it.

you sit at your desk that’s placed by your window. it overlooks your front yard and you can see all the people that walk by throughout the day. some wearing masks, some not. many move away from the people they see walking towards their direction in silent fear, but they still said a polite hello to not seem too rude.

the time on your phone reads 1:18 AM in little white lettering. you and yoongi had been on the phone with each other since 11, and the call showed no signs of ending any time soon. these nighttime calls with yoongi were a regular occurrence now that the two of you can’t see one another every day at school. the two of you live only about a 10 minute walk away from each other, but your parents were so caught up in the news that they wouldn’t let you leave. so facetime calls would have to suffice until this all blows over.

you’re drawing little doodles on your notepad while you and yoongi talk about miscellaneous things. you look out of your window briefly and notice a lone duck waddling it’s way into your yard. he wanders for a couple minutes while you and yoongi continue talking. you watch him for a minute and then go back to your doodles.

“don’t even get me started on mrs.jung, i can pull up her mugshot at any moment so she better watch how much work she gives us” yoongi babbles. you had accidentally brought up the sore subject of the teacher, knowing how much she gets on yoongis nerves. sometimes you’ll do it just to watch get mad. what can you say, its cute.

“wait she really got arrested? i just thought that was a rumor”

“yea, it happened in like 2013 i thi-”

HONK HONK HONK HONK

your head shoots up, spotting the duck running around your yard and honking like the world was going to end.

“what the fuck is that?” he asks, looking at your equally as confused expression through the phone screen. you groan loudly, but for some reason the obnoxious honking triggers a memory, and you start smiling a little. yoongi, still very confused, speaks up.

“can you like, not do that? it’s creepy” yoongi said, slightly disgusted by your sudden change in behavior.

“do you remember that one time jungkook was drunk off his ass and he could stop telling us facts about canadian geese?” you beamed, looking at yoongi through your camera. the memory brings a smile onto his face too.

“oh my god... i do. and hoseok was really freaked out because jungkook has never even left the country” yoongi hummed, the both of you now grinning like idiots.

this leads you into a rabbit holes of funny moments that had happened in your friend group.

like the one time you, taehyung, and namjoon had spent 20 minutes painting jesus’ ass to perfection in art history class and then realized you only had 10 minutes to finish the actual assignment but ended up just turning in the ass anyway

like the one time jungkook found one of your head bands on your bedroom floor and put it on like a tube top, then proceeded to prance around your house chanting california girls by katy perry

like the one time your class had taken a trip to washington d.c. and had gotten a chance to attend the changing of the guard ceremony at arlington cemetery, but when all of you got there, namjoon forgot to put his phone on silent so his ringtone started blaring during the what was supposed to be quiete ceremony

the laughter that had been coming from the both of you had finally calmed down and the two of you caught your breath. the both of you still had large smiles on your faces.

“i can’t believe i’m about to say this, but i actually think i’m gonna miss high school” you sigh, looking down at your floor.

“yea... i mean we’re still going to see each other though. we’re literally going to the same college (y/n)” yoongi chuckles, wanting to tease you but he holds back, because he feels the exact same way.

“oh shit” yoongi whispers.

“what?”

“it’s 3 in the morning”

you look at the time and yoongi is in fact correct. the numbers read a bright 3:07 AM and you grimace at the thought of having to get up tomorrow.

“well i think it’s time that i hit the hay. i recommend you do the same, (y/n), would hate to see bags under your eyes tomorrow” yoongi joked, and if he were right in front of you, you would’ve flicked him on his forehead.

“shut up! i’ll talk to you tomorrow?” you ask hopefully. and he confirms with an echoed tomorrow.

you throw yourself onto your bed and start looking at old pictures in your camera roll. you miss your friends, and you would give anything to just be in the same room with them again.

you begin gathering all sorts of photos into a file. the folder consists of any and every stupid memory and greatest accomplishment that the eight of you shared throughout your four years of high school. you share it with them and finally shut your eyes, dreaming about seeing your best friends again.

when yoongi wakes up the next morning he sees the notification from the photo album you humorously titled ‘senior year, but make it infected.’ he chuckles at your amateur attempt to be funny

“what a fuckin’ sap”

#bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts drabble #bts one shot #bts imagine #yoongi #min yoongi #suga #yoongi fluff #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi x reader #yoongi oneshot #yoongi imagine #yoongi drabble

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lazylazyhowl · 4 years

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miscue (of snakes and cherry blossoms - sasusaku)

miscue (noun, verb) – failing to respond to a cue; an inadvertent mistake

[“They must call her foolish behind her back, but she supposes there are worse things to be.” Sakura. Sasuke. An open window, and saving the other. Post-war fluffy angst. (But not angsty fluff, no).]

AO3 Link

—

There’s no denying that her office is cluttered. Sakura tries to keep it tidy, but the paperwork that steadily increases together with her responsibilities as Head Medic isn’t so forgiving.

“Can I open the window?”

For a moment, there’s a stab of self-consciousness that there are smells her colleagues might have been too tactful to point out.

“Go ahead, Sasuke-kun.”

Without moving her gaze from her work, she tracks the faint signature of his chakra as he moves across the room to fiddle with the lock. Sai was in charge of keeping watch of him tonight, so they should have some leeway.

The scent of dew and earth fills her nostrils with the slight breeze that enters her office. Beneath her coat, a small wave of goosebumps climbs up her arms from the chilly air. She can hear the rustle of the trees and the lively chirping of birds returning to their nests.

“It’s a full moon tonight.” He announces with his back to her and face tilted up to said celestial body.

He’s undoubtedly losing weight, and she doesn’t know what more she can do to help. His back seems small in those loose-fitting clothes, she thinks, against the orange-blue backdrop of early evening outside. It’s a strange thing to observe when he’s always been tall gait and broad shoulders to her.

She can’t see what he does from her seat, so she simply returns to the papers on her desk with an acknowledging hum. Jotting down the last few notes on the patient case file, she closes the folder and sets it aside before cracking open a new one.

“It’s already been a month, huh,” she says. “Time flies.”

“It felt longer actually.”

“Oh, I can see how.” She checks to make sure she’s getting correctly the kanji for the name of this thirty-year-old patient. Quite a rare spelling. “So much has been happening.”

“I lost track of time,” he says after a bit.

“Right, I need to get a clock for your room!” She grabs her notepad to scribble down a reminder.

“No, I mean-” There’s a slow headshake in his tone “-the moon, it’s beautiful.”

She pauses mid letter despite herself and smiles, knowing he would never mean it like that. He’s always been clueless in these matters. It’s quite endearing.

“Is it ever ugly?”

In the unassuming silence the follows where he says nothing, she finishes writing with a firm press of her pen.

A clock would be good for him. The council is demanding he be drugged up half the time of a day, as if sealing his chakra down to half what normal shinobi needs to move about wasn’t enough. Absolutely ludicrous! With his wounds healing, she’s also run out of excuses for the daily visits that probably used to help him orientate, too.

“I guess not,” he finally says with hints of a chuckle, his shoulders slouching a little more.

Putting away the notepad, she resumes her work again. The key to optimism is to focus on what can be done, rather than what cannot. Being with Naruto taught her as much.

The test results for this patient is fairly straight-forward. Just malnutrition and lack of sleep, a combination not entirely uncommon these days with so much work still needs to be done in Konoha.

They were going through something close to an upheaval. Her shishō has been pushing for changes left and right, sometimes rather ham-fistedly (but with no less cunning), taking advantage of the smoke and debris of war that has yet to settle.

For all the newness of the situation, even the chaos is beginning to bleed into routine after a month. Adaptation is a truly amazing thing.

She prescribes the man two types of supplements and makes some additional notes for his discharge tomorrow.

“I lose track of time staring at it,” Sasuke says.

“Ah, me too.”

“Hn.”

“I look at it sometimes when I can’t sleep.” It was in fact the only thing that got her through many sleepless nights for a while, but her words sound trite to her own ears, like some blatant ingratiation to force a connection with him.

She doesn’t care to look for the hints, but she does wonder if Sasuke has taken offense. He’s never had patience for people who pretended to understand, and she’s still not sure she does. Perhaps she would never.

“Aa, I end up watching it most nights.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could give you some sleeping aid.” He’s rapidly developing monstrous tolerance for their tranquilizers, and she can only worry for his constitution after this is over.

“No. It’s nothing I haven’t been through. Some of the drugs Orochimaru gave me before also made sleep impossible. There wasn’t much to do outside of training and traveling.”

“Right.” But she’s not sure what is, because to be honest everything he just said is all wrong in her mind. He was barely over thirteen.

“The lulls in between are the worst,” she says noncommittally, but it’s perhaps the one thing they could agree on—he and she, both being single-minded people.

“The moon was there no matter where I was. Wasn’t hard to form a habit.”

She keeps her eyes on the paperwork but fails to concentrate on the words between her hands. Her throat is suddenly dry. She hasn’t realized they could just talk about his time away from Konoha like this. She thought she wasn’t allowed to know about the him of that period. He’s proven as much when he left her on that bench all those years ago.

But maybe that night has never held much significance to him. Maybe from his point of view, he only did the sensible thing, what was probably best for her, if not himself, and she’s the only one who’s still sore, who treats it like the landmine it’s not.

“All those times, it never occurred to me. That’s…beauty.”

Something in the movement of the air tugs at her attention then. She looks up and gapes at the sight of him standing precariously tall on the edge of the windowsill.

“S-Sasuke-kun!”

She runs to him in an instant, knocking over some folders on her way over. Even one arm down, he turns around on the narrow ledge with grace not unexpected of a shinobi. Still, her heart skips an ugly beat.

His inky hair is tousled, bleeding into the cooling sky; his flawless skin paler than the glaring full moon at his back. Mismatched eyes unblinking, he watches her for explanation.

“You need to get down from there.”

“Why?”

She’s sure she had a good reason, but she can only come up with, “It’s dangerous.”

“We’re on the first floor.”

“I-I know.”

But something about the him right now unsettles her.

“Just- Get down, please.”

He considers her words for a moment and dips his head a fraction. “Alright.” And he turns around and leaps out before her wide eyes. She only knows to reach for him on pure instinct.

“Wait!!”

“Oi Sakura.” The baleful barb in his voice startles her as she hastily releases her grip on his ankle. He pushes himself off the ground to glare at her over his shoulder with a coal-black eye, looking about to pop a vein. There’s a heated flush to his cheeks that matches the redness of his nose from having fallen face-first into the grass and dirt outside.

“I-I’m so sorry Sasuke-kun!”

She jumps over and kneels next to him as he sits up, green chakra glowing over the minor cuts on his face. He’s as good as new in an instant.

“What was that for?” he asks as he accepts the handkerchief that she meekly holds out for him. It takes the better part of her control to keep from flinching where their fingers lightly brush.

She breaks eye contact from the intensity of his stare and considers lying before telling the truth. “Well, I-you scared me.”

“I scared you.”

“N-no!” She snaps her gaze back to him. “Not you. More like…what you did.”

“Hn.” His shuttered tone says he’s zeroed in on an instant he thinks she’s referring to, and she clambers to clarify.

“You leapt out the window.”

He huffs, eyes turning hard. “It takes more than half a meter drop to hurt me. I’m low on chakra, Sakura. Not crippled.”

He stands and dusts himself off, no longer looking her in the eye. Well, if he wasn’t offended before, he certainly is now. It’s well-deserved, really, but somehow, she finds it easier to breathe.

She rises and tugs at his empty sleeve before he can walk away. “I’m not scared of you, Sasuke-kun.”

She speaks for no one else, but this he has to know. She has to make sure he knows, because it’s probably the insecurity that pervades him these days. That he courts unrest and dissension. That he’s that something to fear, and be shunned and left in isolation and neglect.

That he’s somehow less human than the next boy.

She looks into his eyes until she sees the hardness melt into resignation.

“But I still scared you.”

Her heart quickens again. “That’s because you jumped-”

“-out the window, you’ve mentioned,” he says with an eye roll and something between agitation and a sigh.

There’s a sting in the corner of her eyes she hopes is just reaction to the chilly wind. “You don’t understand!”

“Aa, I’m still waiting.”

“It- You-” Her voice is starting to crack. How she loathes that she’s always showing him this lovelorn, pitiful part of her that she knows he doesn’t care for. She feels eight-year-old again before him, small and bumbling, an unaccomplished mess, and he just stood back and watched her in all his dignified apathy.

“Sakura.” His hand grips at her shoulder firmly, a dash of concern in his countenance. She blinks at the watery sheen in her eyes, wondering momentarily, where he still gets his strength from.

“I thought you were going to disappear.” At his wide, blank stare, she averts her face, her tears spilling anew. She’s aware her words are as silly as she feels.

That stillness to his demeanor, that foreign tranquility—like silence, like rippleless water. It occurs to her sometimes that maybe he’s making peace. That he’s given up before the fight even begins.

Then his suddenly far-too-baggy shirt fluttered in a gust of strong wind, lifting to reveal a vulnerability of skin and bones, the white bandages underneath and stark black seals carved all over his body. And the next moment, he leapt.

“Right then…I was…afraid…” The massive leaf canopy that hangs over them rustles wildly. She picks at the hem of her coat, looking everywhere but at him.

He feels empty and faded when he’s like this. Calm. Placid. Like he could be gone if she blinked too slowly. And then she’d wonder if the reason for this all is that she’s actually just another one who can’t forgive, another one who can only associate him with tumult and discord, despite all her vocal averment for his goodness.

His grip slipping from her shoulder draws her gaze back to him. He’s looking down to where she’s holding a fistful of his empty sleeve, and he wraps his hand over hers, the calluses on his palm grazing her knuckles with such gentleness, it hurts.

She lets go and steps back, never expecting him to step forward and pulls her against his chest.

“S-Sasuke-kun!?”

She flushes. Her body goes rigid as the weight of his chin rests over the top of her head and his large hand fits behind her neck. Her arms are crushed between their chests, and she smells medicine and grass; the spice of detergent in his clothes, the saltiness of the gauzes beneath.

“Sakura.” His voice thrums deep against her forehead, through the skin of his throat. “I made up my mind, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”

“O-oh, that’s…great.”

Nothing is said for a while, and they remain in that position. He shows no sign of budging, and she’s not sure she has ever had it in her to break away from him.

“You’re worried about me.”

His scent, the coolness of his skin. His faint, beating heart against her thundering one. She chokes when she feels his thumb on her earlobe.

“Right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And you’re not afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” She shakes her head the best she can in his embrace.

“Promise me one thing.”

“O-kay.”

His chest expands in a deep breath.

“Don’t go anywhere, either.”

Ah, how sly, Sasuke-kun.

She curls her fingers into the front of his shirt and nods against his chest. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Sasuke adjusts the angle of his chin against her headband, the metal sapping heat from his skin on contact. Sakura’s grown wonderfully, he thinks, so able and strong; might walk so far out of his grasp, no dōjutsu in the world can find her for him, when all he’s known of her for so long are naïve smiles and spindly arms and legs.

When they finally part, he wipes gingerly at the corner of her eye. They both know that this is in no way fair, because they are both the sort that looks far ahead, and even though she is certain to keep her words, he might never be able to keep his.

But the heat of her breaths breathes something tenacious into his chest, seeping into his lungs, and bones and marrows.

And for at the very least tonight, he decides he will not be going anywhere far away from her.

#sasusaku #haruno sakura #uchiha sasuke #angst #pining #it's mutual i think #post-war #fanfic #snakes and cherry blossom

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thedaywebuiltthefort-blog · 6 years

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No 95 - Become A Published Author (a work in progress)

When I was little, my primary school English teacher told my parents that I was a very good writer but that I should stop trying to write in other genres and stick to shawls and petticoats.

In retrospect, as annoyed as that made me at the time, he was probably onto something. The majority of my characters these days do in fact wear shawls and petticoats - mostly the female ones but not always.

Just to be clear about this, I have always written. There is a huge difference between someone that writes and someone who is trying to be a writer. In my case, the shift from one to the other has been quite recent. I wish I had done it a long time ago.

In my head though, there was always this image of what I believed an author should look and sound like. Sometimes I feel like I ought to be more thespian like, more academic. I should extend my social circle to include a variety of artistic, creative types that sit around coffee shops discussing theology and Greek tragedy. I feel like I should own a lot more scarves.

I’d like to join a writers circle or club but I’m too paranoid that when I get there they’ll want to ask me questions about Tolstoy or get me to give my opinions on neoclassical literature. My favourite author is Steven Pressfield. The last thing I read was Yahoo news.

I don’t have a beautiful antique desk upon which my manuscripts sit in neat piles. I don’t spend sunny days sitting in the garden drinking tea and scribbling genius ideas into a notepad. I tried to use a typewriter once and spent three hours trying to type one word.

In comparison to the image in my head, the reality of writing is much less glamorous.

Most of my work is done at the kitchen table, empty red bull cans wedged between piles of washing that has been sitting there so long I can no longer tell if it’s dirty or clean. Every ten minutes I have to remove a cat from my keyboard. As far as the sun goes, unless I have something particular to do, I often go days without seeing it. It seems like the ideal time to write is at about two thirty in the morning after twelve cups of instant coffee.

I have become a master of midnight editing, sitting in bed on my phone and saying things like ‘what the hell does that mean?’ and ‘what was I thinking?’ whilst trying not to wake up the rest of the house. Writing seems to amount to spending 20% of your time typing, 20% of your time lamenting over the awfulness of your work and the rest of the day googling things like ‘do frogs have toes?’ and ‘when were kettles invented?’ for research purposes.

Every day I seem to stumble across some new rule in the idiots guide to becoming an author. Rules that I had no idea existed. Things like the fact that you’re not allowed to use most of the words that exist in the English language. Even then you find most of the words you can use, have been used incorrectly.

It is all ridiculously complicated. Traversing the murky waters of editing, querying and getting work out there is akin to trying to find your way out of a dark room with your face covered in mashed potato. Working out what you should and shouldn’t be doing is like a Lord Of The Rings-esque quest. I feel like I need to spend eight hours walking across a mountain landscape so that I can fling my manuscript into the flames of Mordor.

I’m expecting a response via ork in twelve to sixteen weeks.

Several months after my first submission I can confirm I am no closer to being the next literary sensation than I was when I started, although I do now have much less memory space on my laptop. I have three and a half completed manuscripts in various stages of editing. The folder on my desktop contains roughly 480,000 words of my pure unbridled genius. It contains a further 500,000 words of total garbage.

The first novel, a fantasy adventure, is in the process of being beta read. I have convinced myself several times now, that it is in fact completely finished. That idea has turned out to be very much incorrect. I have put it out to agents and the response has been the same from each. It’s not what they’re looking for at the moment. I suspect I am getting stock answers but at least none of them have told me to never contact them again, or taken out restraining orders. There has actually been one or two that have in fact been quite encouraging.

Writing a novel is easy. The difficult bit is writing a novel that is a) actually good and b) people will want to read. Anyone can vomit words onto a page – something that I have proven consistently for the past year.

My first novel was written in a matter of several weeks. Granted, over those several weeks I was sitting hunched over the kitchen table for eighteen hours a day and my fingers ended up like gnarled flesh stumps, but still, it was done pretty quickly. It has since been rewritten at least twenty times. I’m still not happy with it.

I once read somewhere that a first draft is like shovelling sand into a box so that you can build sand castles with it later. If that is the case, editing feels like trying to bail out a waterlogged sailing boat with a teaspoon. You know there’s something salvageable in there somewhere, but you get the horrible feeling it’s going to sink before anyone else can see it.

I’ve started putting out some of my work on Wattpad, which is a way for writers to publish their work online for critique and feedback. The novel that is on there is one that has been knocking around in the back of my brain for about three years.

Unlike the fantasy novel, this one is turning out to be much tougher to write. I can feel it crawling around under my skin, but it seems to be like one of those itches that you can’t quite scratch. The minute you know where it is, it moves somewhere else. All of a sudden I am much more aware of what is going into the story. I find myself scrutinizing every word obsessively. I hate it all. A few hours later I love it again.

Mostly I am just worried that I’ve made a horrible mistake. It is one thing to sit at your kitchen table pouring your soul into something only for it to sit on your computer screen where only you can see it. Putting your work out there for other people to read and judge feels like standing at a precipice waiting to fling yourself over the edge.

I wake up in the morning and my first thought is about writing. As I fall asleep my last thoughts each night are about writing. It has consumed my life and is both wonderful and exhausting in equal measure. I am no longer just me. There are dozens of characters living and breathing inside my head. I know them, I feel them. When they get hurt, when they feel something – I feel it too. Maybe that makes me crazy. Perhaps it makes me passionate. I’m not quite sure yet.

Either way, it is that more than anything that drives me to keep going. It is an overwhelming need to bring life to these characters. I need to make them real. I need to tell their stories.

The truth of the matter is, that in the end, it doesn’t really matter if I get published or not. It would be amazing if it happened. But I don’t know that I’m good enough for that. I don’t know if I can compete against the millions and millions of people putting work out there, fighting for a place at the table. People ask you what’s special about you, what’s special about your work. I can’t answer that. I don’t know the answer. It’s probably nothing.

All I know is that these are my stories and writing them feels like breathing. Every time one of these characters moves from my brain, through my fingers and out onto the page, I feel like I have become a little more of myself. Each time I complete a project, it completes a little bit more of me and I feel like a better person for it.

I know I may come to regret some of the choices that I’ve made in recent months further down the line. I’ve given up an awful lot to do this (mostly money). The sensible part of me keeps trying to tell me that I ought to go back to working nine to five, and just write as and when I get the time.

The last decade of my life has been spent pursuing one horrible, spirit-crushing job after the other, each time convincing myself that I was climbing the ladder only to find myself unceremoniously shoved back down. It wasn’t until I sat down and poured my heart and soul out onto the screen that I realised how miserable I had made myself.

The best way I can put it is that as each character comes to life, so do I. I’ve never felt that way about anything before. That is why whenever I hear that voice in my head telling me to be realistic, to get on the job sites and start acting like a sensible person, I tell that voice to shut its face. Then I listen to the other voice - the one that says do not stop.

Holly

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