Every Midwit Literary Fiction Novel From The Past 5 Years Has Been Called Something Like The Little Things

Every midwit literary fiction novel from the past 5 years has been called something like The Little Things We Do To Ourselves or Back Then I Didn’t Think So Clearly or I Have Been Trying To Venmo You.

broken unbroken promises

finally inspired to write! so i make my grand return (for however short i stay) with @flashfictionfridayofficial​ prompt for this week! very fun to write all this angst

The wind whips angrily through the scrubby leaves on the tree. It tosses Ben’s curls around his face, breaking up his vision. If Cuckoo’s scarlet bandana had been tied any looser over her hair, it would have flown off. Working with Cuckoo’s boots, it kicks up dust swirls that sting legs as Cuckoo stomps back to meet up with the rest of the group.

“What the hell was that?” Ben half-shouts over the wind. They grab Cuckoo’s shoulder but she shakes them off. He tries again, and this time Cuckoo stops dead to whirl around and glare at him. He asks again, “What was that? We almost died out there.”

Faster than a whip, Cuckoo grabs his fingers where they rest on her collar and twists, making Ben yelp and pull back. She spits onto the ground, clearing her mouth of dust. “Yeah, well,” she challenges, “we didn’t die. We’re fine. Stop making such a big deal about it.”

“‘A big deal,’” Ben says incredulously. He jogs to catch up to Cuckoo. The fire that marks their campsite is only embers, but it is growing closer. Whether the pair made it before the wind snuffed out the last of the sparks was yet to be seen.

Petulantly, Cuckoo stops walking and pulls out a mud-stained bag. Ben slides to a stop, thrown off by the abrupt stop and the buffeting wind. The bag dangles from Cuckoo’s fingers, illuminated red by the setting sun. “Yes,” Cuckoo insists, shaking the bag. “We got what we needed! Supplies and favors for the road.”

“At what cost?”

“None!” she fires back. “Nothing happened! Everyone lived, no one was arrested this time. No scrapes, no bruises, no blood, no broken bones. You’re being dramatic.”

The fire snuffs out. Ben and Cuckoo don’t notice.

Ben snatches the bag from Cuckoo’s hand and puts it in the inside pocket of his coat. They grab Cuckoo’s collar and start dragging her with them. They hiss back at her, “I’m not being dramatic. I was trying to be optimistic.”

“The world’s too bleak for that,” Cuckoo shoots back half-heartedly. She’s stumbling after him, pretending to be struggling to find her footing again

“No!” Ben drags her around to stand in front of him, face to face, chin to chest. His composure crumbles. “You don’t get it. I was hoping you had changed. After last time you promised to do better. You had been doing better. But then today happened. You pulled that- that- pickpocketing again on the wrong person, and we all had to scatter. What happened? What changed? What about your promise?”

The wind stole the sound from his lips. Cuckoo’s throat bobbed up and down, but her upward gaze remained steely.

“I didn’t mean it.”

Cuckoo turned on her heel and strode towards where she thought camp was. The stolen emerald bracelet dances between her fingers, hidden in her pocket. Slowly, Ben faded where he stood, motionless, in the setting sun and wind-whipped dust, from sight, but not from Cuckoo’s concerns.

What were promises if you didn’t break them? She did mean it. Cuckoo simply didn’t mean to break it.

writing reminders

it's ok to write only for yourself

it's ok to not share your writing with the world

it's ok to want validation

it's ok to write self-indulgent stories

it's ok to write only one genre

it's ok to share your writing regardless of your skill

it's ok to praise your own writing

it's ok to abandon wips

it's ok if you don't write every day

it's ok if you write fanfiction (because people who claim it isn't real writing is wrong)

it's ok to use clichés

it's ok to have a bad day of writing

it's ok to be a slow writer

it's normal to have days in which you doubt the things you write, that doesn't mean you're a bad writer

it's ok to ask for feedback

it's ok to cringe at your old writing

it's ok to hype up your writing online

it's ok to celebrate your achievements

The two types of fantasy writers

1. Feverishly calculating the body mass of your dragon species, spent 5 hours last night researching the origins of steel, losing sleep over horseshoes, 20 tabs open, should a cockatrice be warm-blooded?, will die if they don’t immediately figure out when honeybees were first domesticated

2.

Just a little poll for anyone who wants to answer!

- Sabel✨