I Pawed Through Some Of My Old Writing - Like 20 Years Ago Old - And Let Me Tell You, Its Not Great.

I pawed through some of my old writing - like 20 years ago old - and let me tell you, it’s not great. But it’s evidence. It’s hard copy evidence that I am better now than I was. That I’ve learned something. Lots of things, really. It’s evidence that at least 20 years ago, I put my fingers to a keyboard and said “I’m gonna create something.” And then I did.

And maybe it wasn’t award winning fiction, and maybe I never finished most of it, and maybe I never even showed anyone most of it, but it doesn’t make a difference. I put in the practice. I created stuff just to see if I could. I found documents that were just me describing things to practice descriptions. I found several that were only a few paragraphs long, a passing thought. A wisp of daydream. A frustration.

A friend of mine showed me her old fanfic account today, and thought that I was laughing at her when I was gleefully pawing through it. And maybe a little I was; but not because she had written things, only because she handed me the link and then made the pikachu face when I actually looked at it. She started going through the motions of telling me that it was terrible, that she had no idea what she’d been thinking, that some of it was weird, and I had to stop her.

Because here’s the thing: I don’t care!! If you are young, or you were young, and you are creating things you’ll look back on in 10, 20, 30 years, I hope that you are kind to yourself. So many people get hung up on the fear of starting something new, of starting and not being instantly perfect, that they never stand a chance at all of being even good. You cannot get better at something you never do, something you never practice. You can think about stuff all you want, but you get better by just doing it.

And yes, you’re going to do it poorly at first, and looking back, you’re almost certainly going to be tempted to say “what was I thinking” too, but… what you were thinking was that you loved something enough to try to bring it to life, to put it somewhere it would survive you. If it was fanfiction, you loved it enough to try to make more of it, or to fix it, or to connect to other people through it; you loved it enough to explore it. If it’s original, you took something that was inside of you and put it outside of you, and that’s so incredibly difficult that to attempt it at all is worthy of appreciation.

What I’m saying is that there are a lot of people afraid to even start writing, and if you are writing now, or if you started when you were young, or if you are starting now when you are not, that’s bravery. You are brave, and you were brave, and if you’re looking back and saying “I was worse at this” then face the other direction for a hot second and think “I’ve become better” and maybe take a moment to appreciate the younger you for putting in that effort for you. Younger you had to go through a lot of work to get you where you are now, and you should be so proud of them. I certainly am. You’ve done and are doing amazing.

All that’s left is to keep going.

very specific tag game: if you are from the US and can drive, pls reblog and say where you’re from and what you call it when someone sorta pauses at a stop sign without fully stopping all the way

calling myself babe when I'm talking to myself. in a pitying but loving way. like babe you gotta get up. babe why are you doing this. babe you're giving me nothing here

One of those envelopes that come in the big 24 card pack, taken off the shelf for 9.99 and tax, slightly banged up by the previous shoppers but now carted off from the store to a loving home. Light blue with some minor detailing, nothing fancy. Forgotten in a drawer for a couple of months, since I’ve been placed in such a safe space that even the person who bought me can’t even find me. (They probably buy other cards and envelopes to use instead in that couple long month period, which is fine, I guess… or whatever.) Once they find me and all my friends they set to work filling us out to send off as thank you cards or whatever, and since I’m last in the line, I anxiously await being mailed off. Finally, I’m the last card in the box, waiting on being shipped off to my new home before being thrown in the trash over there. Now is the time that I realize there are no cards left in the box, no yin to my yang, no peanut butter to my jelly, no other half. Whoever bought me fucked up one of the notes they were writing and had to throw out a card. I am placed back in the box in the back of their hall closet with all of the other envelopes that they’re “sure they’ll find a way to use eventually”. I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming.

if u were an envelope what kind would u be (explain your reasoning)

Prison Snippet I’ll Never Finish

Hey y’all! I haven’t posted in a while, so here’s a little something I had started writing literally the day Techno got locked in prison with Dream but will never find a meaningful end for lol. Enjoy!

TW: panic and hysteria

“Dream, please.” Techno let out a soft sigh. “Stop breathing so quickly. You’re going to make yourself hysteric.” 

Dream, to his credit, had already made himself hysteric, letting out short labored breaths as he slid down the wall in a graceless heap. His eyes were glazed with panic, and at Techno’s words, he tightened his arms a little tighter around himself, as though hoping the action could ground him. 

Techno pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the man on the ground in front of him. “Dream, how long is this going to last?” 

There was no answer from his new roommate, who instead opted to shake his head back and forth and begin muttering to himself, eyes now flickering around the small room shiftily. 

“Right.” Techno nodded, more to himself than to Dream, and propped himself against the lectern in the corner, watching him with no small amount of concern. “‘Cause, bruh. It’s not all that bad. Sam’s been gone for...” He checked his internal clock. “Four and a half minutes.” 

That got him his first response. 

“How do you know that?” Dream whispered, head whipping up so fast it probably gave the other man a head rush. 

Techno blinked in surprise, giving him a little shrug. “Dunno, it’s kind of a piglin thing. We don’t have a sun in the nether, but you kind of get a basic awareness of the passage of time.” 

Dream was at his side in an instant, emerald eyes wide and desperate. “What day is it? What month is it? How long have I been in here?”

“Hey, man,” Techno batted the other off of him with a small frown. “Touchy. I don’t really know, to be honest. I was asleep for a while. Then I woke up. Then…” He cocked his head to the side before recalling, “I fell back asleep again. The only reason I’m here is because Quackity said you wanted to call in a favor.” 

“You’re such an idiot.” Dream buried his head in his hands, mimicking despair. “It was a trap, he made me write that letter.”

Techno let out a small snort at that. “Someone made you do something? Quackity made you do something? Yeah right, the man is like the size of a footstool, I don’t believe that for a second. Besides,” the piglin hybrid continued, “Why would he lie to me on my birthday? That would just be cruel.” 

“I- Techno, Quackity is cruel. Quackity is the very definition of cruel.” Dream gave him a look of mixed desperation and dumbfoundment. 

Techno clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully, beginning his pacing. “If you say so, Dream.” 

There was a moment where the lava seemed to drip ever sluggishly slower and the seconds dragged on well past their welcome. 

“Do you have a plan to get us out of here?” Dream asked, tone shifting to desperation alone. He sounded fragile and breakable and nothing like Techno remembered him sounding. Then again, the piglin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the green-eyed man in anything other than full netherite, but here he sat.

Techno scrunched up his nose, shrugging a little as he continued his pacing. “Planning is less my style. It’ll come to me.” He glanced back at Dream, who looked like he’d just swallowed a whole lemon. “I gave Phil a note before I left, just in case,” he added on. 

“So someone knows where you are?” Dream asked him anxiously. 

“Mmh, not really.” Techno scratched the back of his head. “I wrote that Phil was supposed to remember to feed the dogs. He’ll get the gist of it after a while.” 

Oh my gosh this is the sweetest thing !!!

I'm a Deceased Playing Victim

(AO3 link)

It’s not like Phil is ignoring Wilbur, or avoiding him, it’s just that he’s… not seeking him out.

There’s a gap in his chest that scares him. For the first time in his life he doesn’t know what to say to his own son.

There’s so much he still doesn’t know, everything that fluttered away with the fact the letters were fake.

Maybe he should’ve known beforehand, should’ve known there was no way things could go wrong so quickly.

And he’s not sure what to think, that Wilbur doesn’t seem to be angry with him.

Because he should be. He obviously should be. And Phil deserves it, deserves every ounce of anger that could be chucked at him, but isn’t.

And that’s what makes it so hard. He’s waiting for the shoe to drop, for the proverbial gun to his head. And it hasn’t happened yet.

He didn’t quite notice how much it had hit him. He hardly remembers the months after Wilbur’s death as though he’d be moving on autopilot. It should probably concern him more, how much of it seems like a dream, but there’s hardly time now.

(For all his years of living, all he’s learned is that there’s never any fucking time.)

There’s something about being immortal: people expect you to know shit. And Phil doesn’t quite feel like he knows anything at all.

He doesn’t think he’s wise. He doesn’t think he’s knowledgeable. He doesn’t think he knows anything more about living (and probably less about dying).

And he hates it when people look at him like he does. And Wilbur does.

>

There’s something about Wilbur returning that makes it all the more real.

Wilbur was dead. Wilbur died.

He had months to think about it. And he didn’t. And now… he wonders if he ever grieved much at all.

And now he is.

Ghostbur was a pale reminder, of course, but Phil’s never been one to keep pain close to his chest. He pushed him away, tried not to think about him much at all, provided him with surface platitudes and as much attention as he could stomach.

(Poor, pathetic Ghostbur. He sends a quick prayer to Kristin. Take care of him, please.)

But now, he finds himself shaking when Wilbur brushes his hand, when he sees him standing in the hall like the ghost he never was.

For as many people as he’s seen die he’s never learned fucking anything about grieving. He’s not sure he ever has.

Maybe every little death gets added to the pile in his mind that he never lets himself think about.

He rifles through it now, pulls out Wilbur, shoved it back when he finds himself gasping at the pain, when he finds the first tears in who knows how long.

No. Wilbur needs him now. He can be a father. He can be Philza. He can’t be Phil, not right now.

>

He finds himself stumbling out of bed on the fifth day, shoving on his slippers and shuffling out into the hallway in a daze. He’s not quite sure where he’s going until he slides open the door to Wilbur’s room as quietly as he can.

Something about the sight of his son breaks the dam. He shoves a hand over his mouth to muffle the sob.

He crouches in front of his son’s bed as gently as he can manage, reaches a hand to his neck.

His pulse is still there. There’s a pervasive, crushing fear that he’ll slip away again. He’s so young, so mortal, so fragile, and Phil doesn’t quite know how to handle it. He’s never known.

He runs a hand through Wilbur’s hair. The man makes a quiet noise, rolls over in his sleep.

He pulls himself to his feet, closes the door, leans against it.

He feels so old. He feels so young.

>

“Why did you lie to me? In the letters?” He finally brings himself to ask, one day. He’s somehow coerced Wilbur into helping him wash the dishes, and now, with both their hands covered to the elbow in dish soap neither of them can run away.

Wilbur sighs. He does it a lot. Phil’s not sure when he ever grew so old.

(It’s an odd thought, that his son will grow older than him. He never thought about it when Wilbur was young. It seemed too far away. It seems all too close now.)

“I don’t know,” he says, in that contemptuous teenager voice he never grew out of. Phil can’t help but smile.

“I don’t think it had much to do with you at all.”

He cocks his head in the way that makes Techno call him a stupid bird.

“Everything was going to shit and I didn’t know what I was doing and I was scared, and I guess… I could act like everything was good, to you. I could have someone who didn’t know what a mess I was, I could have a timeline where everything was good. So I guess… it wasn’t me going ‘I’m gonna lie,’ it just… happened.”

Phil nods, slowly. “I didn’t know for months. I helped Dream and Techno destroy it. I thought this place, your country… I thought it had poisoned you. I wanted to help destroy it because it had destroyed you.”

“Maybe it did poison me. Maybe it poisoned everyone there.”

“Maybe it did.”

“I’m sorry I lied.”

He sighs, clicks his tongue. “I wish you’d told me, is all. I worry that I’m someone you feel you can’t tell about what’s wrong. I’m your dad, Wil.”

Wilbur lays himself across his shoulders, hugs him from behind. Phil lets himself rest, just for a moment.

“I kept wondering, back then, if you’d be proud of me. If you’d be glad I was taking this into my own hands, enough to kill my country.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

>

Grieving is hard, and Phil can’t say he cares much for it at all.

It’s an odd thing, something he must keep close to his chest and hide from Wil and Techno and the Syndicate, but it’s something that creeps on him when he’s all alone.

Wil is alive, breathing (and Phil checks, he does), doing better than he was before. Phil is trying his best, trying his best to be a father like he always has.

He’s not quite sure what he’s grieving at all. The time he missed with his son? Belated mourning of his son’s death after all these months? Mourning what he did wrong? It doesn’t make sense, all just a bundled pile of emotions that he has to do his best to sort out.

(And what are emotions but a confusing bundle, after all?)

Phil is a firm believer in healing. A firm believer in wiping the slate clean, starting over from scratch. He is a firm believer in fixing things, or getting as close as he can.

So he spends time with Wilbur. Helps him fix his guitar, helps him talk with Ranboo or Niki or whoever he needs. Give him someplace to call home.

Grieving is hard, and he still has his moments, but watching Wilbur smile or running his hands through his hair or letting Wilbur drape himself over him is easy. And that’s enough.