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Fuck NaNoWriMo

It's always been a shit way to write a book. Slamming through fifty thousand words in a month leads to burnout and a garbage draft you'll spend more time unfucking than if you'd actually just paced yourself.

I'm proposing Novel Outline November

Start with your idea on November 1st.

Write something for your novel every day. The only unacceptable amount is 0.

Attempt to complete the plot in 50K words. Stick with that as a limiting factor so you focus on what's most important to your story.

When it's done it's done! Everyone is a winner!

You will

Develop good writing habits

Challenge yourself to write long form

Create a base that can be expanded into commercial fiction (70-100K) or genre fiction (100-110K)

Happy writing!

Hey friends. Do this:

This probably took this person 3 seconds to do but it immediately told me that they liked my story enough to come back and read it again and they liked it again the second time.

Your favorite writers Do Not Know that you think about their stories after you read them. I generally assume that my stories make people happy for the few minutes they’re reading and then they never think about it again. To know that that’s not the case and that someone has returned just makes my little heart swell with joy.

I needed this today. If you’re the person who left this comment (or if you’ve ever commented on any of my writing) I love you.

Dude it is SO FUN and EXCITING to see a reoccurring reader. If you've commented a handful of times on an author's work, I guarantee that they recognize you. You can't imagine how many times I've excitedly informed my friends "the person with the funny cat image commented!" "- anon is back!!!!" and the friends've recognized who I was talking about because I talk about my commenters so often LOL. We love you all!!!

Kinktober 2024 + Gothic Horror WIP

Somehow, my Kinktober fic slipped into Gothic Horror this month, and it's gotten a chokehold on my creativity. Prompts: Fingering + Breeding/Cockwarming + Non-con CWs: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Non-con, Mental Torture, Forced Pregnancy (include but are not limited to) Teaser: The bed dipped. No. No. This wasn’t happening. Her mind strained against the magic, silencing her with everything she had. Every curse, prayer, and wish she could conjure, she threw out with a new desperation she’d never felt before. Not even that fateful night she lost her parents or when she walked to her death the night of the sacrifice. Those moments were ends. And this, she realized, the horror settling into her bones, this is a beginning. He pulled the blankets down.

i need to have my ribs cracked open and my heart bitten into and yes it is a sex thing obviously

Ohhh [fictional character with worse mental health than me] save meeeee from this cruel world.

if you’re feeling stuck, take a deep breath and remind yourself that even your favorite authors had rough drafts. the only difference is that they didn’t give up, and neither will you.

In time travel movies, when the time traveler asks 'What year is this?!?' they're always treated like they're being weird for asking.

When in reality, if you go 'What year is this?!?' people will just say '2024. Crazy huh.' and you go 'Wtf where has my youth gone.'

And if you ask 'And what month??' people won't judge you, they'll just go like 'SEPTEMBER!!! Can you believe it?!?!' and you go 'WHAT?!? Last time I checked we were in May?!?'

Honestly, I love the idea of a vampire who only drinks blood taken from blood banks and hospitals, because it so beautifully encompasses someone who's more concerned with the vibes of something than the actual impact of it.

Drinking from someone on the street, barring some other condition they may have, isn't likely to kill them unless you gorge yourself. Taking blood packs? There's always a shortage of blood, and having even less of it runs the very real risk of getting someone killed in a way that is wholly out of your control once you've sipped on that blood. Someone you can't assure the innocence or guilt of, if you're the type of person who cares about that.

Despite that, in popular stuff, I often see discussions of drinking from a blood bank being somehow better or preferable, and yeah. No. The only thing it does is make you feel better while doing more harm, because of that degree of removal. You're effectively drinking blood from someone on the cusp of hypovolemic shock, but since it's not straight from the tap, some people seem to think it's better.

Sometimes Aziraphale feels old. Or, he feels weary and achy and tired. He is old, that’s for certain, but angels don’t really get old. He’d been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadn’t aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see. 

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal–no silly human classification. He’s not an animal, he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions. 

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen. 

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing. 

“What is that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.” 

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.” 

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.” 

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming. 

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters. 

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?” 

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.” 

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.” 

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s … It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and …” He cuts himself off. 

“Crowley–” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?” 

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.” 

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting. 

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over. 

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?” 

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.” 

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back. 

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?” 

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just huge, you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.” 

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.” 

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out. 

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be. 

The pencil stops, then keeps going. 

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.” 

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.” 

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time. 

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder. 

Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?

Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now. 

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room. 

Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking. 

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does. 

I remember, he says. 

elejah_au

maybe they shouldn’t have put so many of the major arteries in such erotic places. Have you ever thought about that

It’s insane we never got to see Klaus’s wolf form on the show. They showed the wolf form of everyone else except the guy that’s spent 1,000 years trying to become one. It’s stupid.

I don’t know how to say this in a non-obsessed way, but I need the ao3 status updates to be beamed straight into my head whenever the archive goes down. I need that shit announced like we’re in a plane attempting to make a risky landing. Oh we’re down for another 20 minutes because of a server in the Pacific? Sure, thanks. I’ll just wait here.

STOP DOING THIS IN INJURY FICS!!

Bleeding:

Blood is warm. if blood is cold, you’re really fucking feverish or the person is dead. it’s only sticky after it coagulates.

It smells! like iron, obv, but very metallic. heavy blood loss has a really potent smell, someone will notice.

Unless in a state of shock or fight-flight mode, a character will know they’re bleeding. stop with the ‘i didn’t even feel it’ yeah you did. drowsiness, confusion, pale complexion, nausea, clumsiness, and memory loss are symptoms to include.

blood flow ebbs. sometimes it’s really gushin’, other times it’s a trickle. could be the same wound at different points.

it’s slow. use this to your advantage! more sad writer times hehehe.

Stab wounds:

I have been mildly impaled with rebar on an occasion, so let me explain from experience. being stabbed is bizarre af. your body is soft. you can squish it, feel it jiggle when you move. whatever just stabbed you? not jiggly. it feels stiff and numb after the pain fades. often, stab wounds lead to nerve damage. hands, arms, feet, neck, all have more motor nerve clusters than the torso. fingers may go numb or useless if a tendon is nicked.

also, bleeding takes FOREVER to stop, as mentioned above.

if the wound has an exit wound, like a bullet clean through or a spear through the whole limb, DONT REMOVE THE OBJECT. character will die. leave it, bandage around it. could be a good opportunity for some touchy touchy :)

whump writers - good opportunity for caretaker angst and fluff w/ trying to manhandle whumpee into a good position to access both sites

Concussion:

despite the amnesia and confusion, people ain’t that articulate. even if they’re mumbling about how much they love (person) - if that’s ur trope - or a secret, it’s gonna make no sense. garbled nonsense, no full sentences, just a coupla words here and there.

if the concussion is mild, they’re gonna feel fine. until….bam! out like a light. kinda funny to witness, but also a good time for some caretaking fluff.

Fever:

you die at 110F. no 'oh no his fever is 120F!! ahhh!“ no his fever is 0F because he’s fucking dead. you lose consciousness around 103, sometimes less if it’s a child. brain damage occurs at over 104.

ACTUAL SYMPTOMS:

sluggishness

seizures (severe)

inability to speak clearly

feeling chilly/shivering

nausea

pain

delirium

symptoms increase as fever rises. slow build that secret sickness! feverish people can be irritable, maybe a bit of sass followed by some hurt/comfort. never hurt anybody.

ALSO about fevers - they absolutely can cause hallucinations. Sometimes these alter memory and future memory processing. they're scary shit guys.

fevers are a big deal! bad shit can happen! milk that till its dry (chill out) and get some good hurt/comfort whumpee shit.

keep writing u sadistic nerds xox love you

ALSO I FORGOT LEMME ADD ON:

YOU DIE AT 85F

sorry I forgot. at that point for a sustained period of time you're too cold to survive.

pt 2

🤣

vampires have been drinking human blood for centuries they don't give a fuck about guys on eight different antidepressants. they were sucking on asbestos factory workers

it’s also fucked up that fat people literally fear going to the doctor for anything because they know the first thing out of their dr’s mouth no matter what their ailment is, is gonna be “lose weight lol” broken leg? lose weight. rash? lose weight. whooping cough? lose weight binch!!!!! like we get it. but can you just write my prescription you bitch so i can go eat a salad and not call you again until im about to die of the plague????

Things Klaus doesnt, do.

- klaus mikaelson doesn’t just hold a grudge—he frames it, hangs it on the wall, and stares at it for a thousand years.

- klaus doesn’t just burn bridges—he builds them first, sets them on fire, then stands there watching, sipping wine and thinking about how poetic it all is.

- klaus doesn’t just make enemies—he collects them like fine art, framing each one as a testament to his eternal pettiness.

- klaus doesn’t just hold on to trauma—he throws it a party, invites all his enemies, and makes it a night to remember.

- klaus doesn’t let things ‘blow over’—he weaponizes them, turns them into plot points, and makes sure everyone knows he’s never truly moved on.

- klaus doesn’t ‘get over things.’ he builds entire cities of regret, decorates them with melodrama, and gives guided tours to anyone who’ll listen.

- klaus doesn’t do ‘moving on’—he writes it down in blood, seals it with a vow, and revisits it every century with fresh vengeance in his eyes.

reasons to write fanfiction (I'll start):

share a cool scene that popped into your head

evoke a particular emotion the canon makes you feel

song made you think of a character or idea from canon

make people feel the same way about a character you do

make dolls kiss for fun

explore ideas the canon hints at but doesn't do anything with

traumatize characters and make them suffer

coddle characters and let them rest

had an insane idea for a crack ship and now everyone needs to know

the author of the canon was wrong and must be fixed

use familiar characters to explore your own ideas and plotlines

canon is too short and you need to wallow in the universe of the story

edit as you write. use adverbs. use said. outline. or don’t. plot it. pants it. make a mary sue. who cares! just write whatever makes you happy. that’s all this is about. be happy in what you make.

Writing References: Character Development

50 Questions ⚜ "Well-Rounded Character" Worksheet

Basics: How to Write a Character ⚜ A Story-Worthy Hero

Basics: Character-Building ⚜ Character Creation

Key Characters ⚜ Literary Characters ⚜ Morally Grey Characters

Personality Traits

5 Personality Traits (OCEAN) ⚜ 16 Personality Traits (16PF)

600+ Personality Traits

East vs. West Personalities ⚜ Trait Theories

Tips/Editing

Character Issues

Character Tropes for Inspiration

Tips from Rick Riordan

Writing Notes

Allegorical Characters

Binge ED

Childhood Bilingualism ⚜ Children's Dialogue ⚜ On Children

Culture ⚜ Culture: Two Views ⚜ Culture Shock

Emotional Intelligence ⚜ Genius (Giftedness)

Emotions ⚜ Anger ⚜ Fear ⚜ Happiness ⚜ Sadness

Facial Expressions

Fantasy Creatures

Happy/Excited Body Language ⚜ Laughter & Humor

Hate ⚜ Love

Health ⚜ Frameworks of Health

Identifying Character Descriptions

Jargon ⚜ Logical Fallacies ⚜ Memory

Mutism ⚜ Shyness

Parenting Styles

Psychological Reactions to Unfair Behavior

Rhetoric ⚜ The Rhetorical Triangle

Swearing & Taboo Expressions

Thinking ⚜ Thinking Styles ⚜ Thought Distortions

Uncommon Words: Body ⚜ Emotions

Voice & Accent

Writing References: Plot ⚜ World-building

🤣🤣🤣

filed under: things that keep me up at night

So TVD wants me to believe, that the entire village of WHITE werewolves who were presumably european and had their own language, lets say OLD NORSE since they managed to communicate with the Mikaelsons.

That village. Was so obsessed with Mikaelson gossip that they somehow figured out that Klaus had de-hearted his mom, even though none of his siblings was none the wiser, and decided that the gossip was so hot, so delicious, they needed to make up pictograms (instead of using their own language, aka Old Norse) so they could forever ... chalk paint it on the walls of the same cave that the Mikaelsons used to randomly graffiti their names* on.

*their names plus Aaron, RIP Aaron we never knew you

Funnily enough, this feels like the perfect first post on Tublr for me. I finally started writing as an adult because I got sucked into Kinktober prompts 2 years ago by another writer in the TVD fandom. So if you're interested - join us over in the EHOM Discord to talk about fanfiction or writing fanfiction during our 2024 Kinktober event. <3