westywrites
A Collection of my Words
I have decided to gather the years of things I have written here on this tumblr. You can find links and descriptions to all my writing under "The Collection" link or by searching /tagged/the-collection. My personal blog is @westysnotwriting and if I follow you that’s what will show up.
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While hunting northern lights, I was told this myth about how they were created by a celestial sky fox.
#this is such vibes for#the corvine#specifically the spin off series that idk if ive ever talked about here lol
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Share an excerpt where a character gets injured
Check the reblogs to read others’ responses!
If you’d rather make your own post, no problem!
Click here for more “share an excerpt” tips.
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That's all so cool! Thanks for answering 😊
a colourful comic sans intro :)
Been a little while coming now. Hope you enjoy!
#other's words#would be wild to live as a mage and just like.#sometimes be affected by these storms you can't even see#and that are so hard to predict#and oooh at those plot threads about the purple mages
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Just a little something I though of that might encourage some interactions around these parts. Feel free to use these daily prompts and ideas on your own page! Don't forget, if someone comments on your response, try to comment on their's!
Meet the character Monday: Introduce us to one of your characters!
Tip of the world Tuesday: Tell us something interesting about the world your character lives in. Go deep into your world lore/building
WIP Wednesday: Post a paragraph from your current wip. Make sure to comment on other's works!
Thirsty Thursday: Talk about one of your ships in you WIP. If there isn't any romance involved, talk to us about the kinds of relationships your character has with other characters.
Fun fact Friday: Give us a random fun fact about a character/setting/etc.
Sit down Saturday: What do your character's do in their downtime? What are some common recreational things people do in your world?
Source Sunday: What inspirations did you draw from for your WIP
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This sounds super cool! I'm so curious about the magic system - so all the colours are associated with emotions and it's those emotions that get heightened in a storm? What emotion is purple then that makes those mages seen as suitable servants? Why do colour storms occur? What do colour storms look like?
You are in no way obligated to answer this flurry of questions, I'm just so fascinated by this idea!
a colourful comic sans intro :)
Been a little while coming now. Hope you enjoy!
#other's words#i love funky magic systems and this one plays along with colour theory which i also found fascinating#plus your characters sound like theyll have such a cool dynamic#also also that art on the last slide? breath taking
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side wounds - Vee the Vampire
Happy Valentines Day, please enjoy Vee getting one of his ribs prized out of his chest <3
content warnings: vampire typical violence, mild gore
“Hush, cooperate and you might see the sunrise yet.” It’s lying to him again. What a delight. He’d say at least he’s not alone anymore—but it would almost be preferable to this. The words had been prompted by an outcry he couldn’t hold back—and one that is currently being threatened with a follow up of either screaming or cursing or vomiting and—
—fuck fuck fuck its hand twists against the spot it’s pressed into, where Vee knows he has at least one broken rib and the movement lights his whole chest on fire with pain.
Screaming ends up winning out.
At least until the monster’s other hand grabs his face, shoving two fingers into his open mouth far enough to make him gag, biting down in an attempt to make them withdraw or at the very least go still. The grip makes him think of Galen—lower half of his jaw torn off, two thirds of a head to be kicked across the floor. It wouldn’t be hard from here, two fingers in his mouth, thumb pressing under his chin so hard Vee can feel the push of it under his tongue.
“Nasty little things aren’t they, broken bones.” It’s still too dark for Vee to see much, but it sounds like it’s smiling. Voice still melodic and soft. Almost a salve to the pain, discouraging the thoughts that urge him to be afraid. “Bite all you want, angel. My hands are harder than your teeth.”
Vee thought when it came back it was going to kill him.
Hoped it was going to kill him.
Kill him just to get out of this room smelling stronger and stronger of the rot pouring from the cabinet. Just to stop the pain—of which he could take his pick, the dull ache in his chest that sharpened each time he drew breath, the incessant gnawing of hunger and its close friend thirst, which he would gladly succumb to before long if it just meant end, if it meant rest.
But no.
The monster had appeared, crouched over him with a candle in one hand that Vee had smacked away in his startled flailing. Plunging only himself into darkness as the thing fell on him, its hands digging into his sides, sharp nails piercing through cloth into skin, sharper teeth in his throat like needles of ice. He thought it was going to kill him.
But it had stopped. Drawn back to its crouch and left him bleeding on the floor again.
And then it is on him. Different, further back. A knee pressed into his chest. Vee doesn’t dare move, hardly breathes. Its fingers searched along his flesh until it found what it seemed to be looking for.
Pushing a flat palm hard into his ribcage—
—and this is where he ended up.
Held still and half-quiet by the jaw while nails—sharp nails, but still only nails—dug through his side as though he were a fish to be gutted and boned. Breathing ragged and uneven as the thing slowly sinking its hand into him whispered false comforts that he nearly believed.
It’s hard to think.
Spit runs down his chin, sweat coats the rest of his face, his side is warm and wet with his own blood. It’s strange. He can feel the ragged edges of the hole torn into him, feel movement as his muscles convulse and riot at the intrusion, hear the awful wet sounds whenever the monster adjusts its hand. But it’s not until he actually feels it take hold of a rib that the pain comes back, like a white hot spearhead of agony that the obstruction of his mouth can’t fully quiet.
“Ah, shhh, quiet angel—” Vee’s near gagged cries cut off into silence, “—it’s almost done. You wouldn’t want this catching on your lungs—” There are a pair of sickening wet snaps that he feels more than hears, and a slow pulling as the hand now clutching his fully broken rib withdraws from the cavity it had dug. The sharp edges of split bone catching on his already ruined flesh, little fireworks along his nerves, almost pleasant in comparison to the rest. “—there you are. Beautiful.”
It's cold.
Air touches parts of him it should never touch.
Though the same could be said for the hand.
All at once it releases him, vanishing back into the shadows. Whatever it had been whispering that dampened the pain went with it, and Vee rolls onto his side, retching and heaving with nothing to spill. There is a clatter, and a brief stirring of air as one of the tall candleabras is lit behind him.
Vee doesn’t look.
He would like to keep his nightmares free from whatever that thing looks like with his blood smeared across its face and hands. So he stays where he is, curled on the cold stone floor, the hole in his side still pouring red heat out below him.
He is alone again, or he is going to pretend that he is for his own goddamn sanity.
In the room now both rotted and bloodied.
He is going to die here.
Another clatter as something hits the ground beside his head. Close enough that he doesn’t need to move from where he is curled in on himself, nor even move his head to see.
His rib.
Soft white against grey.
Licked clean.
He is going to die here.
@flyingbananasaur / @abalonetea / @meatandboneasmr / @captain-kraken / @albatris / @excessive-vampires / @booptasticbadonkadonk
#holy shit this is#unbelievably good#incredibly well written#so visceral#goddamn#hunger and its close friend thirst??#all the other banger lines in this??#thank you for this gift
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more stuff about becoming a god being inherently dehumanizing pls
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And the winner is Cypress Ascending, in which title character Cypress Schyley weirds people out by being phenomenally autistic and cares so little about bs societal expectations that she mostly accidentally ends up fulfilling her destiny as the secret child of the Forgotten Gods, ascending to godhood herself, and overthrowing the tyrannical rule of the current gods (called the Sphaera)! Really all she wanted to do was read some books and learn things in peace. But, hey, guess getting overthrown is bound to happen when you try to gatekeep information that pertains to a very stubborn person's special interest.
(I haven't touched Tumblr in ages but I popped on for a minute. Now I'm seeing everyone doing this thing and I can't resist)
I'm gonna include some older wips in this that are still always on my mind and a newer one I'm working on with a friend that I haven't talked about here
#cypress ascending#cypress schyley#my beloved girl#im so proud of her#honestly super happy to see that all the options got at least a few votes!#that makes my heart warm
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(I haven't touched Tumblr in ages but I popped on for a minute. Now I'm seeing everyone doing this thing and I can't resist)
I'm gonna include some older wips in this that are still always on my mind and a newer one I'm working on with a friend that I haven't talked about here
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(I haven't touched Tumblr in ages but I popped on for a minute. Now I'm seeing everyone doing this thing and I can't resist)
I'm gonna include some older wips in this that are still always on my mind and a newer one I'm working on with a friend that I haven't talked about here
28 notes
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(I haven't touched Tumblr in ages but I popped on for a minute. Now I'm seeing everyone doing this thing and I can't resist)
I'm gonna include some older wips in this that are still always on my mind and a newer one I'm working on with a friend that I haven't talked about here
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Damask, 2005 - Snippets from Nowhere
Angelface had walked away to the back room for something—she’s been assuming it’s a storage room of some kind, hasn’t been back there yet as so far she hasn’t needed anything. And thus far being left alone at a well stocked bar before there are even any patrons has been plenty entertaining. Mainly because she doesn’t get to touch anything otherwise, mostly she washes dishes in the bar sink and listens to Angelface chat up patrons all night. It’s not glamorous, but it’s also not being cold on the fucking street.
Notes from this latest foray into digging through the back bottles: Whatever that green label one is tastes fucking awful, like melted licorice. Disgusting. Conversely, there is something down there that reminds her of toasted marshmallows and that’s making up for the awful one.
The next thing she picks up is in such a dark bottle she can’t even see what’s in it. Which isn’t fully abnormal, some of the bottles are frosted or opaque. Rather than dirtying cups she’s taken to putting the little shot spouts on and then giving them a quick rinse afterwards. It’s saved both time and suspicious dishes.
This time is no different, after double checking that she is still—in fact—alone, she tips the bottle up holding the spout a few inches from her open mouth—she had missed the first couple times but the spout is surprisingly consistent no matter what’s in the bottles, and she learned fast—and gags.
It’s thick like some of the creme bases are but—fuck—it’s salty and metallic and the bottle slips out of her hands with the shock of it and shatters on the tile behind the bar.
Sending bright red spraying across the floor and the bottom shelf glasses.
She doesn’t really process it, busy heaving over the sink.
It’s not until she hears the door open and shut at the far end of the room that she looks back at the floor in panic.
So whatever it was sucked, but it was probably expensive and—
—no.
No that was blood.
Something about seeing the way it’s spreading on the floor. The color it turns as it soaks the bottom of her jeans. The taste. When she wipes a hand across her mouth it paints her skin the same way a nosebleed would, and she’s stuck staring at it, feeling very suddenly like she is going to be properly actually sick—what the fuck.
“Cassidy?”
Her gaze snaps back up to Angelface, who has made it all the way to the little half-door blocking the back of the bar before she even noticed he was there. “I—I didn’t—”
“—are you hurt?”
Relief.
He looks more—amused? Than anything else. But there is genuine concern in his tone. She thinks.
“Was that—that was blood—what the fuck is that doing under—”
“—Cassidy.” That word is sharper. She’s still getting used to connecting it to herself. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. Hop up on the bar, I’ll take care of the glass.”
“Answer my question first.”
“Blood is a medical hazard, Cassidy. Get on the bar.”
She plants her feet, the tile slick under her boots, arms crossed. “No. Answer my fucking question.”
Angelface sighs, stepping carefully around shards of glass until he’s close enough to—is she really that small or is he stronger than he looks?—pick her up and set her none too gently onto the bartop. It happens so quickly that she doesn’t really have time to react until it’s already done. “Ridiculous. It’s like you don’t have a goddamn survival instinct at all.”
The reaction he’s having feels so out of place that she’s struggling to find any sort of response. She just watches him start picking up the larger chunks of glass from the floor, listens to the little plopping sounds as blood continues to drip from the bottom shelf.
In the end it takes until he’s fully cleaned the floor and filled the sink with blood spattered glassware for her to speak again.
“Am I fired?”
He gives her a look. It’s the face he makes every time she asks a stupid question.
She’s pretty sure that isn’t a stupid question though, so she repeats herself.
“Am I?”
“No,” He tells her, “you will not be left alone back here again though.”
It startles a laugh out of her.
“So…” She’s still sitting on the bar, the blood on her jeans has dried dark and stiff. “I’m still waiting on an explanation.”
“You’ll be waiting forever, Cassidy.”
“Is it like—sketchy?” She asks, “Like—is there some sort of black market thing going on—are there organs down there too? Is that what you keep in the back room?”
“It is not like—sketchy,” Angelface repeats, faintly mocking and ignoring the latter half of her question. “and it isn’t your concern.”
“I drank blood,” She insists, “that’s concerning.”
“You didn’t drink blood—you spit it in the sink.”
“I swallowed some of it.”
“And?”
“Didn’t you say it was a medical hazard?”
“Would you like me to take you to the hospital?”
She glares at him, and for a moment both are silent. She’s putting it together though. Between his reactions and the rest. Or maybe she’s crazy. That’s also possible.
“We’re only here after dark.” She says finally.
“It’s a night club, Cassidy. We’re only open at night.”
“There’s blood under the bar.”
“There is. You spilt it.”
“It was there before I did that.”
“Is this little train of thought supposed to be impressive?”
“I don’t think you should be able to pick me up that easily.”
He does look mildly offended by that one. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve read books.” She’s treading dangerous waters now. She knows it.
“I should hope so.” He replies, and maybe she’s imagining the slight quirk to his expression, the sour little smile. “Are you going to start making sense any time in the next few sentences?”
“Promise you’ll answer one question?” She asks, voice suddenly very quiet. “Honestly.”
Angelface gives her an appraising sort of look, like he’s weighing a risk. “One question, Cassidy.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
He smiles.
It’s sharper than it should be.
It’s almost like he’s suddenly got too many teeth.
“I certainly hope not.”
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(I haven't touched Tumblr in ages but I popped on for a minute. Now I'm seeing everyone doing this thing and I can't resist)
I'm gonna include some older wips in this that are still always on my mind and a newer one I'm working on with a friend that I haven't talked about here
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Gained in Translation
I speak four languages (at varying degrees of fluency) and do translation both for smooth and peaceable family reunions and for fun, with works of literature I enjoy. It's practically a truism at this point that meaning gets lost in translation; in fact, I'm currently reading an excellent book, Babel by R.F. Kuang, in which there is magic powered by the meaning lost in translation. But a topic I hardly ever hear anyone discuss is how meaning can be gained in translation.
Example 1: References
A type of meaning that can be gained in translation is that when you translate from language A to B, you can make references to other texts in language B that the person who wrote the original in language A wouldn't have been aware of. Here is an example from a translation I did of a Pablo Neruda poem:
Yo te recordaba con el alma apretada
de esa tristeza que tú me conoces.
I remembered you with my soul gripped
by the tragic ordeal of being known by you.
These lines in Spanish reminded me a lot of the meme based on the viral New York Times article about how you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known in order to reap the rewards of being loved. So I decided to make a subtle reference to that quote in the way I phrased the English translation. This meaning, of course, doesn't exist in the original Spanish; I added it in.
Example 2: Meaningful Distinctions
Meaning is often gained in translation because the target language makes a distinction that the source language does not. The translator has to choose one side of that distinction, and so meaning is gained.
Here is an example from the Spanish localization of the Japanese RPG Fire Emblem: Three Houses. There are two unlockable scenes in which the character Hubert is given a gift as a romantic gesture. Now, I don't speak Japanese, but through reading the analyses and translations done by Japanese speakers, and by checking for consistency in the kanji, I can see that the same word for "gift" seems to be used throughout these scenes. However, in Spanish, there are multiple words for "gift" with rather different connotations, which becomes relevant in the localization.
In Spanish, there is no generic word for "gift" that applies in every situation. There is a distinction made between gifts that are personal, between people who care about each other, and gifts between people who are not close, such as charitable gifts and formal gifts given to a diplomat. The translators of the game had to choose which of these words to use in the Spanish, and they used the distinction to add some very interesting meaning to these romantic scenes.
In each scene, what happens is that Hubert notices the person has a gift and comments on it, thinking it's for somebody else. In these lines, in Spanish, Hubert uses the personal intimate word for gift. Then, when he finds out the gift is for him, and reacts very awkwardly, he switches to a formal word for gift, creating an emotional distance between himself and the romantic token. This is excellent characterization and adds a layer of meaning in translation.
Example 3: Meaningful Ambiguity
Sometimes, the opposite phenomenon occurs, where the target language does not make a distinction that the source language does, and that ambiguity or vagueness adds something to the translation.
I have a Finnish friend who has told me that fiction that plays with gender is often more meaningful for him in Finnish translation than in the source language, because Finnish does not have gendered third person pronouns. Where books like The Left Hand of Darkness or Ancillary Justice have to make a conscious decision about which gendered pronoun to use for characters that fall outside the Western gender binary (The Left Hand of Darkness uses "he" and Ancillary Justice uses "she"), the Finnish translations can just use the default neutral pronoun they use for everyone, and never have to resolve that ambiguity in any direction. My friend has told me that there are some books about non-gender-normative characters that he wishes he'd read in Finnish instead of English because the experience would have felt more authentic in some ways.
What It Means
The reason why I bring all of this up is that the concept of meaning lost in translation is tied to the idea of translation as an act of violence. Indeed, there is a saying in Italian, "Traduttore, traditore," which means "Translator, traitor." I agree that translation can definitely be an act of violence that destroys the intended meaning of a text and warps it to suit the needs of the speakers of the target language. But when we focus only on what is lost in translation, at the expense of what is gained in translation, then we deny that translation can be an act of liberation and power.
I was raised in a bicultural household speaking both English and Spanish, and when I translate between these languages, it makes me feel empowered and proud of my heritage. It feels insulting to me to claim that when I translate, I can only ever deplete the meaning. That is not true. Every translation requires a translator, and we are more than thieves and traitors. We are more, even, than archivists, trying to minimize loss and decay as much as possible. We are creatives and inventors who can add something beautiful and meaningful to the text via our translations.
#this is part of the joy i find in translating my own writing#the poems i write first in french and translate to english or vice versa#have such different feelings in one language or the other#in a way that adds so much to the meaning
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