I’m going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they’re big and thoughtless and they always know what they’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.
—  The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

  • Rushing too fast. Your characters should have time to look around and talk to each other without being shoved into the next scene. It’s very easy to go too far in the other direction, so keep on your toes about pacing.
  • Starting two or more sentences in a row with the same word. Don’t do this unless you’re making a point (eg: Ten men entered the chamber. Ten men were found dead in the morning.).
  • Trying to fit in two versions of the same sentence. Don’t put “Ted watched him for a long time all night.” Put “Ted watched him for a long time” or “Ted watched him all night.”
  • Not knowing proper grammar. Look it up before you write anything.
  • Not finishing. Finishing is the most important part of writing. It’s fairly easy to start a story, and once you’ve finished, it’s fairly easy to edit, but finishing takes willpower. 

Source:  http://referenceforwriters.tumblr.com

They said I’d be an animal; whether in my adolescence or adulthood, it was bound to happen. After all, I was a boy. That specter of fear loomed over me day and night—I was going to become a man. It sounded like a sickness to which I’d succumb whenever nature saw fit to have me. Other boys and girls alike laughed at my awkwardness. What else could I do but laugh with them?

And mama was always watching. Some secret in her eyes spoke to me of a jealousy I wouldn’t understand until many years later. In that way, I watched for secrets in other girls’ eyes, secrets too subtle to be noticed outright, and that subtlety was the way in which their secrets were guarded. Over enough time, my father had taken delight in calling me a girl, though he admitted he wasn’t sure why.

Youthful derision turned to open scorn as I stumbled through my teens, mutual for their polar extremes. They—other boys learning the strength behind their growing bones and deepening voices—saw me as weak because I did not fit their pattern; likewise, they were disrespectful brutes not only to others (women especially) but also themselves. And at night, I still cowered, wondering when that terrible manhood would claim me.

To be sure, there were secrets in other boys’ eyes I detected. Unlike those of the girls, these of the boys seemed to reach from the birth of existence, something I would never come to understand. They lingered about the girls with hunger in their eyes, their voices thick with untested courage. As was mine, too, because the very idea of talking to a pretty woman terrified me into resolute silence!

So many of them, too, that, having been chased by an endless cycle of boys, they took little notice of me. I kept the company of girls who were mistakenly regarded as ugly or not-pretty-enough. And just as with those prettier girls, they, too, held secrets in their eyes. One of them with the raven hair and green eyes was unmistakably beautiful, but for one reason or another never quite fit in. In a way, just like me among the boys.

And still, I lay awake at night, dreading the moment manhood took me into its black tendrils, to make a beast or monster of me, where I’d drink and gamble and womanize my life away; because that was the slow destruction of my own parents, the gradual blossoming of the boys around me and the fate whispered from each of the secrets I discovered, however unique, in all the children’s eyes.

When I explained this to the raven-haired girl, she laughed without knowing why, making an oblique reference, as it was explained to her by her mother and grandmother, that men did not get to choose love, no matter how hard they tried. We both laughed, both without knowing why, until our eyes met and we simultaneously read the secrets in our eyes. Suddenly the world became deathly serious.

No longer did I revile the idea of becoming a man. Our secrets were unlocked at that moment, and I realized that becoming a man did not mean the basest things I’d been told since birth. Yes, a man was given to hunt and to boast and to exhibit strength—biology simply couldn’t be circumvented—but the secret in me told of how a true man knew when love happened, and did not let go for anything.

And for the next sixty years, that raven-haired girl and I never let go of each other. True, there were moments being a man got the best of me, when I drank and my eyes wandered, where our natures clashed to rival the sun; but through it all we realized we never choose each other. Love had chosen us. And we never let go, we never let go.

We Beg of You, Buried Truths, Stay Buried

When Big Kadza slipped quietly into the bar, Mitchell knew something was up. The big man rarely drank, and was seen in bars even fewer times. He had a hunted look about him, like an insect trying to get out of the way of a falling sky.

"Whaddya have?" BIg Kadza asked as he settled into an empty stool next to Mitchell.

"Rum’s all we got round here."

"Gimmie a double."

"Whoa," Mitchell whistled. "Take it easy. What’s got your gullet on fire tonight?"

"You hear about them strikes?"

"Yeah, I heard." Indeed, the whole industry along the shore heard about them. Or at least, the potential of them. Like most other rumors, they simply faded away with enough time. "You mean Fenix isn’t looking to quell them?"

"Nah, too big for that." The bartender set a glass in front of Big Kadza, who downed its contents in a swift gulp. "It just cost me my old lady, who dinnt wanna hear nothing more about my worries."

"No shit?" Mitchell’s eyebrows raised at the news. Kadza and his mate were together fifteen years, always on the verge of marriage, but one obstacle or another crumbled their plans.

"No shit," Big Kadza echoed. "Seems people are more scared as ever since the scandal broke."

MItchell knew the one. Some poor shmo in the city contracted the shambles and had undergone numerous treatments without his knowledge. Now the people began questioning The Authority en masse.

"Didn’t The Collective bring those rumors down?" Mitchell fumbled for names. "Ellis & Macomb, Fenix and—"

"It don’t matter," said Big Kadza as he tapped the bartop for another round. "The Authority is openly threatening White-Ops treatment to silence the disssenters. If they do, our whole industry is fucked."

"Does this have anything to do with the skitters?"

A noticeable shiver passed through Mitchell. Even the name—the skitters—conjured thousands of arthropod legs (namely, spiders) treading upon skin. The trouble was, no one knew what the hell it was.

"And how are you sick with no symptoms, anyway?" blurted Big Kadza. "Isn’t that the whole point of being sick, to know what you’re sick with?"

The big man was right, but there was no point going down that road. It was an illness, and people were required by law to get themselves examined every week to make sure they hadn’t contracted the illness. Most people were fine, some didn’t return.

"You know what I think," Mitchell said, his words now slurred. "The whole thing’s a sham. The Authority is tightening the screws on us and it’s driving us crazy. They want us to go crazy, to fuck up in some way to better control us."

Big Kadza stiffened. “Is that what you really think?”

"Naturally." Mitchell ordered his last round and downed it as soon as it came. "The whole city is clamped in the grip of The Authority. Who are we to challenge it?"

"If you could do something about it, would you?"

Mitchell’s glassy eyes fixed on the big man and he nearly laughed at the man’s frightened face. It was a strange night for strange tales. Why not cross the threshold, since the door was open? He nodded gravely.

"Kadza," Mitchell said, his words tumbling wretchedly from his lips, "there might be a time when it all gets to be too much. And then, yes, I might do something about it. What it is, I couldn’t say now."

Mitchell patted Big Kadza on the shoulder, paid his tab and left the bar. On his walk home, he wondered if it wasn’t the alcohol that betrayed the truth buried in his secret heart. He’d only confided to his wife, Marta, how he felt, but on this strange night for strange tales, it was possible he’d had enough.

No sooner than he stepped through the door Marta came at him violently and struck him with clenched fists and growling like he’d never heard before.

"Why?" she sobbed angrily. "Why? Why? Why? Why did you have to open your big mouth!"

"What—?" Mitchell barely had time to contain the barrage of blows raining down upon him to think what Marta was saying. "What are you talking about? Open my mouth to who?"

"Who!" she cried. "Big Kadza, that’s who! He ran to your superiors about what you told him—what you confided to me—and they’ve run you out of the fishing district!"

It wasn’t what he said to Big Kadza that had Mitchell thinking, he knew all too well what he’d admitted, and it wasn’t the fact that the big man betrayed him. No, he was thinking about the rum that loosed his tongue. And then, he realized what it was: the skitters. The realization changed everything.

No one could tell they had the skitters, but when they suffered from that terminal inability to keep from telling the truth, they knew they had the affliction, and right quick.

"I hate you," Marta seethed through the sobs that still racked her body.

"I hate you, too," Mitchell replied, lowering himself to the ground. "And that’s why we love each other."

He pulled Marta close and opted not to say one more word.

How I knew (Tronnor)

Troye and Connor had been acting differently around eachother.

Touching eachother.


”No! Hahahaha, Connor, no, stop it!” Connor was ontop of Troye, on the couch. He was tickling him, the biggest of smiles on his mouth as he did so. I watched with a soft expression as they both giggled, having the time of their lives. It’s as if they didn’t notice the people around them. Like they were just with the two of them in a room, the whole world tucked away in a drawer. I peeled my eyes away from them, not wanting to intrude, but I still heard the adorable laughs coming from both boys.


Staring at eachother.


I looked to my left, catching Connor staring at Troye with wide eyes. His hand was placed on the inside of his hand, which was resting on his knee. We were all together in a room, playing some kind of game. Troye was telling the story about how he got run over by a car when he was little, again. We had already heard it for about 50 times, but nevertheless, we all listened again. Connor was totally wrapped up in the image of Troye, though. I could see his eyes looking Troye up and down several times, his tongue sometimes flicking out to lick his lips as he did so. It wasn’t even a lustful look, it was simply adoration.


Sneaking away together.


I looked over my shoulder to check if Connor and Troye were still walking behind us, and found them whispering to eachother quietly. They looked up, both quickly jumping apart when they saw me. Troye cleared his throat awkwardly, starting to move towards the restrooms. “I, uh, need to pee.” I saw him giving Connor a look, before spinning around and walking off. Connor’s cheeks were red as I raised my eyebrows at him. “Erm, yea, me too.” He squeaked, his voice higher than usual as he scampered off behind Troye.


But also, more bickering. They fought more about the simplest things. If one got too close to one of their friends, the other would completely ignore him. You could practically read the jealousy off of their faces. They just fought and bickered about the smallest things, once in a while.


"Stop that." Troye said, simply. His words were directed towards Connor, who was poking his side to get his attention. "Sorry. I just wanted to know if I could lend your charger. Mine broke, ya know, and my laptop’s almost dead." Troye just scooted away from Connor, a little, and shook his head. "No. I’m using it right now." I watched with raised eyebrows at the scene playing out infront of me. Connor’s eyes went wide with slight panic, and he poked Troye again. "Connor, stop it! You’re not getting my charger." "But, Troye, please. You’re only on Tumblr, you can do that on your phone, right? I’m uploading my video and I can’t afford for my laptop to die right now. It’s important, Troye, please." "No!" "Why not?!" "Because I’m using it! Go use Zoe’s, or something!" "No." "And why not?" "Because this is not about that anymore. Why would you not let me lend your charger?" "Because. I’m. Using. It." I gulped and slowly walked out of the room as their bickering continued on. I wasn’t a part of this, I would let them figure it out for themselves. They’re adults, they can handle it.


And that’s how I knew.

With all the things that have happened over the past few months, I came to a conclusion. Troye and Connor are most probably in a relationship. Now, I am completely okay with that, god, I ship it so much, but I’m also sad that they didn’t tell us, their friends. I guess they weren’t ready yet, and I understand. That’s okay. You’re just gonna have to fangirl in silence until they come out, Zoe Sugg.

idk. I wanted to do one out of someone elses point of view, and this happened. Hope you guys like it! It was Zoe’s P.O.V. if that wasn’t obvious yet. The things between ~~~ and ~~~ were flashbacks from different happenings, clearly.

I wear summer

I wear
summer like a snug blanket,
wear it like faux fur
with an accent of linen

that spills around the fabric
like stain, like blueberries
around a savage mouth. I

wear summer until it is as worn-down
as a pair of city espadrilles
used to tread down muddy paths
of twigs that snap like the sun. I

am moth-chewed and spat like sweat
and saliva, a terror
in dehydration, as if water couldn’t
exist around me. I lean

on the warm concrete walls to feel
the smoke of the summer heat emanate
through me, like the fumes of hot tea,

and I am the coffee of the warm earth, grounded
with dirt and pebbles

that refuses to be drank during autumn.


Frugal Friday Sale: That Witch! by Zoe Lynne

Retail Price: 6.99 | Frugal Friday Price: $1.99 
(Valid Friday, August 29, 2014 only)

To celebrate the release of Carnival - Decatur by Zoe Lynne we’re offering That WItch! for $1.99. This special sale price is good for 24 hours only, so hurry over to All Romance eBooks and get your copy.

Cassidy Ryan and Brynn Michaels attend the same high school, but they live in different worlds. Cassidy’s a popular cheerleader, and Brynn’s the social leper. One is all sunshine and rainbows, while the other could’ve been carved from an Edgar Allan Poe book.

Both girls have their problems, though. Cassidy is coming into her birthright—a long line of ancient magic Cassidy isn’t ready to have. Brynn is coming into her sexuality—something that will definitely cause problems with her very conservative family.

When a teacher assigns Cassidy and Brynn to work together on a project, the girls find themselves in a heap of trouble, because what they feel for each other can’t be denied. If they have any hope of changing ignorant and frightened minds, they’ll have to listen to their own hearts first.

Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am.  Sometimes she looks right at me and it’s a stranger she is seeing.

It’s the drugs that do this.  It’s the drugs that make it impossible for her to recognize me.

It’s me, I say, don’t worry, it’s only me.

But she’s never sure.  She knows the voice, but she doesn’t know the face and she pulls her hand away from mine.

It’s the drugs, I tell myself.  It’s the drugs that make her this way.  It’s the drugs and the cancer and the weight in this room.  The heaviness of everything.

It was so easy once.

I think this and then I feel bad for thinking it.

All her fluids drain into a tube and then into a bag.  When I empty the bag the stench is amazing.  Every time I experience a feeling of utter disbelief – this comes from her, from inside her?

Is this what love is, I ask as place the bag in a special bin for human waste, is this what it means to love someone?

Every two hours I reposition her body.  This is important.  Once a day I check her body for areas where her skin may be breaking down.  I place a pillow under her heels.  I apply barrier creams to bony prominences.

She is all bony prominences.

This is just what human beings do, I think as I make sure that the settings on the special air mattress are correct.  These things are happening to people everywhere.  Across town somewhere is another man standing over his young wife wondering how they reached this point, wondering how to put his experience into words, wondering why this is happening to him.

Am I being held accountable for something, some crime long forgotten?

When the nurse comes to relieve him for four hours, this man gets in his car and sits in the dark garage trying to decide where he should go.  But he feels bad for going anywhere.  He feels bad leaving her.  Feels even worse that he wants to leave her.  That he wants some time to himself.  That there is a part of him that is always imagining some release from all this.

That sometimes he can’t help but think about how it might be when all this over and he is actually alone in the world.  When she is gone and he comes home that first time and there is nothing.  Not the horrible sound of her weak breathing.  Nothing.  An empty house.  And he will go from room to room and he will open all the windows and try to get the smell out of the house.  That rotten smell that is in everything .

Sometimes this man imagines these things and then afterwards he begs her for forgiveness because he doesn’t want her to die, not really, he is just so drained and he has no strength anymore and these last few months have felt like an eternity.  And there is nothing to look forward to anymore and there is no way out – or the only way out is the worst thing imaginable.

This man.  This man on the other side of town crawls into the small bed beside his wife and he wraps an arm around her dead bird body and he feels so weak and so tired and he hasn’t eaten properly for days and he keeps seeing blobs of light floating across his line of site and he hears things that aren’t there and he just wants something to change.  He just wants something to happen.

I’m sorry, he says, I’m so fucking sorry, he says and he hears rustling like her body is made of paper and he is sure that at any minute a strong wind will blow and she will up and flutter away from him, his arms grabbing at all the pieces of her as she scatters and tumbles in every direction imaginable.