Inkdropsonrosequinn - Rose Quinn Writes - Tumblr Blog

For the last goddamn time...

"Kill your darlings" means "if something is holding you back, get rid of it, even if it sounds pretty."

That's it! That's all it means! It means if you're stuck and stalled out on your story and you could fix the whole block by removing something but you're avoiding removing that thing because it's good, you remove that thing. That's the darling.

It does NOT mean

That you have to get rid of your self-indulgent writing

That you should delete something just because you like it (?wtf?)

That you need to kill off characters (??? what)

That you have to pare your story down to the absolute bare bones

That you have to delete anything whatsoever if you don't want to

The POINT is that you STOP FEELING GUILTY for throwing out good writing that isn't SERVING THE STORY.

The POINT is that you don't get so HUNG UP on the details that you lose sight of the BIG PICTURE.

Good grief....

“You Blew Me Away” sculpture by Penny Hardy

Cyanide

For my last meal, I requested a shiny green apple and a marble bowl of cherries. They quirked their eyebrows at it. One of the guards cracked a smile I think. "What, no steak? No bucket of fried chicken? Hell, you didn't even ask for a pound of strawberries." "I wouldn't want to go out without this figure." I even flexed for them. "Fucking Christ, you've lost it. Flipping that killswitch can't fry that brain anymore." I shrugged, smiled, and watched them walk away. Minutes later, they brought it and left me to my devices.

I turned the apple in my hands, grinning at myself in the reflection of fruit wax. Even the bowl was right, black veins in white stone. All it took was a moment, one bite and I was gone, crunching away with the largest piece my almost unhinged jaw would let me take. My chin dripped with juice, but I chewed with my mouth closed. I wasn't an animal for God's sake. I chewed in a neat ring around it, carving the best of the meat from this meatless thing. I didn't care about the bits caught between my incisors. I gnawed and punctured the flesh with my canines, vampire sucking the juice out. At last, I dug the seeds from the core, cooing and saving the one with the root spouting. A life to begin where mine was to come to an end. Perhaps they'd plant it for me. I took the others in my fingers and shoved them in my pocket. I imagined taking the leftover pieces, the bit of the top with the stem, the part of the bottom with remnants of flowers, the core, the pile of bones out in my hands, tossing them out to feed the birds. At least, I imagined birds, sparrows, cardinals, even bluejays. A nice crow to come return the favor. I wiped my face on my sleeve, smiling at the sticky residue.

I took my chair and leant in the far corner of the room for the cherries. It wasn't a throne, but the recline would do enough for my mind to forgive the discrepancy. I lifted the marble bowl and carried it to my makeshift throne. I made a scene of them all, dangling each over my open mouth like some cartoon king. I couldn't help the laugh that escaped my empty throat at the halfway point. If only they could see me. But I was on a timer, they said, so they didn't have to sit back and watch my every move. Still, I put on a show, just in case. I continued my routine, dangling, chewing, spitting the stones in the stone bowl. The irony, or was it serendipity? I doubt they'd know.

Soon it wouldn't matter. At the end of it all, I had stones, seeds, and time. So I dumped the pits out and started smashing. Hammering away one after the other. I cringed at the cracks in the cherry seeds but they would do. Crack, shatter, collect. One pile of shattered stones. The marble bowl worked as a hammer, and I almost felt bad for wasting its rich life for my last act. But what else was it doomed for, other than to sit on some granite island contained in white walls and an open floor plan? At least here, things were quiet when all was said and done. I swept the seeds into my palm, sighing at the dust and dirt they'd gathered. Does no one take pride in their work anymore?

I lay down in the center of the concrete floor. One after the other, I dropped a seed from my clenched hand into my open mouth, chewing it into a paste before swallowing. I admit I grew impatient and started dropping pairs of them at once, though never more than two at a time. When the last of the cherry seeds had been ground up by my molars, I chewed the apple seeds for good measure and a little variety. I took the sprouted seed in my fingertips "One day, you'll be a home. I'd like to see it. With your leaves in the wind, a nest in your branches…" I folded the sprouted seed in my hands and rested them on my stomach. Letting my eyes close, I imagined straining my neck, open-mouthed, to a mother with a delectable bug paste she'd chewed for me. I felt her beak in mine, dropping the meal down my throat. What I wouldn't give for a pair of wings. A song to sing on the breath of the morning.

Except I wouldn't have breath for that much longer. Soon they'd come knocking. And my neck would be in a noose. Or a needle in my arm. No…no that wasn't it. Were they gearing up to shoot me full of holes? Maybe they'd slit my throat. No, too messy. I remember that much. No they…they'd press a big red button launch me into space. No, wait. Not a button. A switch. Killswitch. Fry my brain. Fry my brain up like chicken, but no they wouldn't eat it. I wonder what happens after. Whatdotheydo with my body? Duzzit go… do they burn it up? Do they bury it? Ashes, ashes, I'm already down. And out. I hope God doesn't punish me for stealing death from the executioner.

You don't draw because you think your art looks bad so you stopped drawing so you never got better at it so it looks bad so you don't draw. Do you understand the problem

its so freeing when you realize you can literally write whatever you want 

That's amazing, and I had a feeling sprints or freelance writing was going to come into play here. That's so so so impressive that you can consistently do that!

Okay so my writerblr won't let me send asks for some reason, so I'm sending this via my main and signing it with my writerblr name lol, sorry

My question is how do you write so many words all the time? I'm genuinely impressed!

-rosequinnwrites

Okay, so this absolutely isn’t going to be the answer you’re looking for, but I used to do speed challenges? Like, with the sheer intention of writing faster. I’m a freelance writer by trade, and I don’t get paid until my work is completed, sent in, and approved. That means that how much I make each week is based purely around how quickly I can type.

So, back when I first started writing for a living, I could do 10k words every three days. And that just was so not helpful! Keep in mind back then, I only made about $50 per every 10k (my rates have since raised by a lot but this was at the very start, when I was seventeen). Eventually, freelance writing became my only job and not just a side job.

That means I had to up my word count per day by a LOT! $50 every three days? That wasn’t going to pay the bills or feed the family! So I started timing myself. How much did I write every fifteen minutes? How much did I write every hour? Did sitting up or laying down help me write faster? Did I write faster with or without looking at the keyboard? What rewards could I give myself for reaching new speed milestones?

Eventually, I could do 10k words in an eight hour time span! That was better! But my work days were still so long. So I decided that I wanted a goal of 2k words every hour. And I just kept practicing at what I call speed typing until I could reach that. I will say, it’s hard on the hands and the computer. The faster you type, the harder you slam your fingers down on the keys. That means the keyboard goes up quickly, and your fingers (at least for me, with fibromyalgia) will start hurting by the end of a five or six hour typing session.

It’s also all about figuring out what’s a distraction. I can’t speed-type if there’s a movie on or a playlist that I haven’t heard a lot (so no new songs) or in complete silence.

colour-inspired prompts

pink - leaning closer to listen intently - "oh yeah?" - "let me get that for you" - "here, I've got it" - working to finish something without having to speak; quiet harmony - head-tilted back, mouth-open kind of laughs

red - getting a little teary when you're about to scream - fists clenched in your lap - "that's what you think? really?" - muttered insults - lipstick stains on the side of the mouth - interlocked fingers, being pressed against the wall, eyes narrowed - "god, you just don't know when to stop, do you?"

orange - sun-kissed skin - flowers braided into hair, a worn book on a bus - a child's hand wrapped around your finger - sunset on the beach - a shattered stain glass window - medicine bottles lined up on a shelf

yellow - visiting a childhood friend after too many years gone - a frayed string bracelet - "how did you remember? I only mentioned it briefly." - a half dozen friends showing up at your doorstep when you're sick - "you didn't have to come." "I promised." - days marked off on a calendar - patches of sunlight spotting a lazy afternoon

green - taking the train into the countryside - school trips - running out into the fields, shoes wet with dew - leatherbound books and sketchapds - a willow tree in the local cemetary - "tell me. promise me."

blue - an empty chocolate box at the foot of a bed - flickers of light from the television over a sleeping figure - the same sheets from the past week - a grey sky over harsh waves - "keep it. it was always yours." - growing old and one friend staying forever young

purple - "I didn't think you'd notice." - a kiss, a lamppost, Levi's - all of your firsts - a hand on the steering wheel - quiet conversations outside an empty diner - being the last ones out of a restaurant - running through the rain to the subway

“You Blew Me Away” sculpture by Penny Hardy

Cyanide

For my last meal, I requested a shiny green apple and a marble bowl of cherries. They quirked their eyebrows at it. One of the guards cracked a smile I think. "What, no steak? No bucket of fried chicken? Hell, you didn't even ask for a pound of strawberries." "I wouldn't want to go out without this figure." I even flexed for them. "Fucking Christ, you've lost it. Flipping that killswitch can't fry that brain anymore." I shrugged, smiled, and watched them walk away. Minutes later, they brought it and left me to my devices.

I turned the apple in my hands, grinning at myself in the reflection of fruit wax. Even the bowl was right, black veins in white stone. All it took was a moment, one bite and I was gone, crunching away with the largest piece my almost unhinged jaw would let me take. My chin dripped with juice, but I chewed with my mouth closed. I wasn't an animal for God's sake. I chewed in a neat ring around it, carving the best of the meat from this meatless thing. I didn't care about the bits caught between my incisors. I gnawed and punctured the flesh with my canines, vampire sucking the juice out. At last, I dug the seeds from the core, cooing and saving the one with the root spouting. A life to begin where mine was to come to an end. Perhaps they'd plant it for me. I took the others in my fingers and shoved them in my pocket. I imagined taking the leftover pieces, the bit of the top with the stem, the part of the bottom with remnants of flowers, the core, the pile of bones out in my hands, tossing them out to feed the birds. At least, I imagined birds, sparrows, cardinals, even bluejays. A nice crow to come return the favor. I wiped my face on my sleeve, smiling at the sticky residue.

I took my chair and leant in the far corner of the room for the cherries. It wasn't a throne, but the recline would do enough for my mind to forgive the discrepancy. I lifted the marble bowl and carried it to my makeshift throne. I made a scene of them all, dangling each over my open mouth like some cartoon king. I couldn't help the laugh that escaped my empty throat at the halfway point. If only they could see me. But I was on a timer, they said, so they didn't have to sit back and watch my every move. Still, I put on a show, just in case. I continued my routine, dangling, chewing, spitting the stones in the stone bowl. The irony, or was it serendipity? I doubt they'd know.

Soon it wouldn't matter. At the end of it all, I had stones, seeds, and time. So I dumped the pits out and started smashing. Hammering away one after the other. I cringed at the cracks in the cherry seeds but they would do. Crack, shatter, collect. One pile of shattered stones. The marble bowl worked as a hammer, and I almost felt bad for wasting its rich life for my last act. But what else was it doomed for, other than to sit on some granite island contained in white walls and an open floor plan? At least here, things were quiet when all was said and done. I swept the seeds into my palm, sighing at the dust and dirt they'd gathered. Does no one take pride in their work anymore?

I lay down in the center of the concrete floor. One after the other, I dropped a seed from my clenched hand into my open mouth, chewing it into a paste before swallowing. I admit I grew impatient and started dropping pairs of them at once, though never more than two at a time. When the last of the cherry seeds had been ground up by my molars, I chewed the apple seeds for good measure and a little variety. I took the sprouted seed in my fingertips "One day, you'll be a home. I'd like to see it. With your leaves in the wind, a nest in your branches…" I folded the sprouted seed in my hands and rested them on my stomach. Letting my eyes close, I imagined straining my neck, open-mouthed, to a mother with a delectable bug paste she'd chewed for me. I felt her beak in mine, dropping the meal down my throat. What I wouldn't give for a pair of wings. A song to sing on the breath of the morning.

Except I wouldn't have breath for that much longer. Soon they'd come knocking. And my neck would be in a noose. Or a needle in my arm. No…no that wasn't it. Were they gearing up to shoot me full of holes? Maybe they'd slit my throat. No, too messy. I remember that much. No they…they'd press a big red button launch me into space. No, wait. Not a button. A switch. Killswitch. Fry my brain. Fry my brain up like chicken, but no they wouldn't eat it. I wonder what happens after. Whatdotheydo with my body? Duzzit go… do they burn it up? Do they bury it? Ashes, ashes, I'm already down. And out. I hope God doesn't punish me for stealing death from the executioner.

Ask Game for someone’s OC(s)

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

🌼 - How old are they? (Or approximate age range)

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)?

🍕 - What is their favorite food?

💼 - What do they do for a living?

🎹 - Do they have any hobbies?

🎯 -What do they do best?

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

🧊 - Is their current design the first one?

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

🌂 - What genre do they belong in?

💚 - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality?

🙌 - How many sibling does your OC have?

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

✏️ - How often do you draw/write about the OC?

💎 - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC?

💀 - Does your OC have any phobias?

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?

🎓 - How long have you had the OC?

🍥 - What age were you when you created the OC?

What to give a fuck about,while writing your first draft!

I`ve posted a list about things you don´t need to give a fuck about while writing your first draft. Here are things you NEED TO CARE about! (in my opinion)

Your Authentic Voice: Don't let the fear of judgment or comparison stifle your unique voice. I know it´s hard,but try to write from your heart, and don't worry about perfection in the first draft. Let your authenticity shine through your words.

Your Story, Your Way: It's your narrative, your world, and your characters. Don't let external expectations or trends dictate how your story should unfold. Write the story you want to tell.

Progress Over Perfection: Your first draft is not the final product; it's the raw material for your masterpiece. Give a fuck about making progress, not achieving perfection. Embrace imperfections and understand that editing comes later.

Consistency and Routine: Discipline matters. Make a commitment to your writing routine and stick to it.

Feedback and Growth: While it's essential to protect your creative space during the first draft, be open to constructive feedback later on. Giving a f*ck about growth means you're willing to learn from others and improve your work.

Self-Compassion: Mistakes, writer's block, and self-doubt are all part of the process. Give a f*ck about being kind to yourself. Don't beat yourself up if the words don't flow perfectly every time. Keep pushing forward and remember that writing is a journey.

Remember, the first draft is your canvas, your playground. Don't bog yourself down with unnecessary worries.

x

That post about 30 year old coming of age stories?

I’ve been thinking about it all morning. What would the plot points be for that? What makes a 30 year old coming of age story?

Old folks sound off in the comments

Catalysts for Your Rising Action

Someone close to your protagonist dies

Your protagonist loses a memento

A challenge makes your protagonist run away from their life

Your main character accomplishes a goal and feels unsatisfied

The goal your protagonist has always wanted becomes suddenly impossible to achieve

Your main character wants to change someone's life for the better

Revenge is the only thing on your protagonist's mind

Your main character sees a community need and strives to solve it

Something morally or ethically changes in your protagonist that makes them interact with the world in a fundamentally different way

What are some good ways to write about winter?

Winter. is a season of stark contrasts and sensory experiences. It provides the perfect canvas to paint vivid scenes that range from cosy romances to horror-filled stormy nights.

When writing about winter, it’s essential to capture the essence of its chill and the way it can transform the world. Here are some quick tips!

Sights

A blanket of pristine snow covering the landscape

Bare tree branches coated with frost

Delicate snowflakes drifting from the grey sky

Icicles hanging like crystal daggers from rooftops

Colourful clothes stark against the white of snow

Sunlight reflecting off the snow, creating a blinding glare

Animal tracks stamped into the powder

Frozen lakes and puddles

Man-made objects like snowmen and snow angels

Lights shining against dark backdrops

Sounds

Snow muffling and dampening the usual noises

Boots crunching on the frozen ground

People laughing and shouting as they play

Wind howling through barren branches

Ice cracking underfoot or on distant lakes

The silence of a snow-covered world

Shovels scraping against sidewalks

Snowballs hitting their targets with soft thuds

Branches creaking, laden with snow

The rustle of animals keeping warm in burrows

Smells

The fresh, clean scent of snow in the air

Wood smoke curling from chimneys

The earthy aroma of damp wool from coats and gloves

The sharp tang of frost and cold metal

Hot chocolate and marshmallows

Pine needles and the subtle scent of evergreen

Baking spices from holiday treats

The slight ozone smell before a snowstorm

Wet dog from snowball fights with furry friends

Leather and polish from well-worn boots

Activities

Building snow forts and castles

Ice skating on a frozen pond or rink

Snowshoeing through a silent forest

Curling up by the fire with a good book

Skiing and snowboarding down powdery slopes

Brisk walks to enjoy the winter air

Hiking up snowy mountains for panoramic views

Having snowball fights with friends or family

Feeding birds or wildlife braving the cold

Decorating the home with festive lights and ornaments

Character body language

Shivering and huddling for warmth

Rubbing hands together or blowing on them for heat

Shoulders hunched against the biting wind

Slipping and steadying oneself on icy patches

Squinting against the bright snow glare

Snuggling into oversized coats and scarves

Stamping feet to restore circulation

Clapping hands to keep the cold at bay

Arms wrapped around the torso for warmth

Quick, brisk movements to minimise exposure to the cold

Positive descriptions

The serene beauty of a snow-covered meadow at dawn

The invigorating feeling of cold air filling your lungs

The cosiness of a warm blanket on a frosty night

The joy of catching snowflakes on your tongue

The camaraderie of coming together to shovel snow

The nostalgia of winter holidays and traditions

The satisfaction of making the perfect snowball

The wonder of ice patterns on windows

The laughter and excitement of a snow day

The glistening of a frosted evergreen in the sun

Negative descriptions

The biting sting of the wind against exposed skin

The numbness of fingers and toes in the cold

The dreariness of shortened, grey days

The inconvenience of navigating slushy streets

The isolation of a blizzard keeping everyone indoors

The discomfort of wet socks and snow in your boots

The hazard of black ice on sidewalks and roads

The burden of heavy layers and winter gear

The dull ache of a cold that lingers

The gloom that can accompany the lack of sunlight

Helpful adjectives

Biting, chilly, frosty, glacial, icy

Crisp, brisk, sharp, piercing, raw

Fluffy, powdery, crunchy, slick, slippery

Dreary, overcast, bleak, sombre, grey

Cosy, snug, warm, toasty, plush

Twinkling, sparkling, shimmering, glistening

Silent, muffled, still, hushed, quiet

Fresh, clean, invigorating, brisk, bracing

Nostalgic, traditional, joyous, festive, celebratory

Isolating, inconvenient, burdensome, hazardous, gloomy