From William Blake to Charles Dickens, authors have written or talked about experiencing auditory verbal hallucinations when writing fiction or hearing voices that others cannot hear. So is this the same when writing for radio or television? And if so, do writers hear characters as clearly as if a real person were speaking or as an external voice outside of themselves?

trashquing asked:

Hi !! So, I just finished my first semester of uni and I'm home for the holidays. People keep asking me how school is / how I like it in that city (I'm from a small town) but idk how to respond... ?

you could respond in a couple of ways!

Them: How is school going? Are your classes going okay?
You: It’s going all right. Last semester I took [class A, class B, etc.] and [class] was my favorite.

You can go into detail about what you did in that class if they ask. You can also talk about your least favorite class too.


You: I have met a couple of people in my classes, and they’re really nice. I met them [in a class/club/on campus/etc].

This is a good way to talk about your classes too, and any other clubs you’re doing, if any.

Them: Do you like it in the city?
You: [Yes or no]. It’s way different than living in this small town, it’s way busier. I like [place in the city that you go to often] the best, I hang out there a lot.

hopefully this helps! i get these questions a lot too, if you need more answers i can come up with some but these are the ones i use most.


I know you’re young, but you gotta hear it now. The most valuable part about you is your brain. Get an education. Don’t let anybody tell you that your body or the size that you wear or any of that BS matters, because it doesn’t. Your brain matters. So be the smart girl in the room, because to be funny you have to be smart because you have to get the joke

Explaining my depression to my mother: A conversation.
Mom, my depression is a shapeshifter. One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear; The next, it is the bear. On those days, I lay dead until a bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days the dark days. Mom says, “try lighting candles.” When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church. The flicker of a flame sparks up a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides, Mom, I am not afraid of the dark. Perhaps that’s part of the problem. Mom says “I thought the problem is that you can’t get out of bed.” I can’t. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. Mom says, “where did anxiety come from?” Anxiety is the cousin visiting from a town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party. Only I am a party I don’t want to be at. Mom says, “why don’t you try going to actual parties? See your friends!” Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. it’s just not that much fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night, Insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, “try counting sheep,” but my mind can only count reasons to stay awake, so I go for walks. But my stuttering kneecaps shake like fluttering spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells, reminding me that I’m sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in. Mom says, “happy is a decision.” But my happy is as hollow as a pinpricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat out asks me if I’m afraid of dying. No! I am afraid of living! Mom! I am lonely! I think I learned it when Dad left.. how to turn the anger into lonely, the lonely into busy. So when I tell you I’ve been super busy lately, I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch to avoid confronting the empty side of my bed, but my depression always drags me back to my bed until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city. My mouth - a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat, but I am a careless tourist here. I will never truly know everywhere I have been. Mom still doesn’t understand. Mom, can’t you see that neither can I?
—  Sabrina Benaim (Explaining My Depression to My Mother.)