tonight all of my fear reflects
a burning plain
endless as mandala in a mirror
spinning into time
the unbearable light
of life collapsing in on itself
the crushing gravity of darkness
swallowing stars
the streaks of comets
searing the purple night sky
we all end in fire
I never knew
it would be a relief
to uncurl my fists
to lie down in the wet grass
and burn

anonymous asked:

Hey, it's the overly thankful nerd from earlier! I've had two main problems: I'll explain the other one in another ask. Motivation. I frequently have amazing ideas and create wonderfully fleshed out characters but the more I think or write my story the more I get bored and uninterested and I make worse and worse pieces of work! I've tried the whole "if the writers getting bored the reader was bored 3 pages back" trick and threw in a lot of twists but it didn't make me any better. Any tips?

Hello OTNFE! 

Motivation is one of the most universal problems that writers face. Unlike a stuck scene or a research malfunction, it’s not something that you can fix for good and be done with. Motivation is going to be an on again, off again battle, but luckily, there are a number of ways to help combat it.

In your particular case, it sounds like it’s possible that you have possibly over-developed, or have fallen out of touch with your inspiration and are viewing your story more as work than as the special thing that stories are. 

Over-development occurs when you put too much time and work into planning before you really start writing, and as a result, when you go to write the story, nothing is a surprise anymore. Some level of planning is necessary, but part of what gives stories an ongoing curiosity for the writer is allowing it to grow organically. Sometimes, you should keep writing even after you reach the point where you had stopped planning and let the story and its characters surprise you.

Losing the spark of inspiration can happen through over-development, writer’s block, or just plain burning out for a while. Nothing beats the thrill of coming up with a perfect idea or beating a problem that was causing a block. If you can touch on that excitement, that sheer connection to the story, you can put the passion back into your work, and there are a number of ways that many writers use to get back into it.

1. Music: This is a pretty common one that helps put writers back on track. It’s actually a particularly big one for me as well. I keep playlists for each of my stories, as well as playlists for specific emotions to put me in the mood for a scene. 

2. Moodboards: Whoa, that sounds pretty weird. Personally, I haven’t really seen this one on other lists. But it’s another little something I do to get back in touch with my stories. I make aesthetic boards for both my characters and my general story settings and concepts. I find that figuring out what components and quotes and so on should go on to each moodboard puts me back in touch with the original vision I had for each character. 

3. Read Your Genre: A lot of inspiration can come from exposing yourself to the work of others. Many writers use previous works to get ideas. (Not endorsing stealing here, but inspiration is totally okay.) Find books that match your genre and take a reading break. Especially study the parts that make you most excited or effect you the most emotionally, and think about why they made you feel that way. Try to connect it to moments in your own story. 

4. Re-Read Your Own Story: Another thing that helps sometimes is to re-read your own story- the parts you do like. The parts you previously wrote with excitement and passion. Try to get back in touch with the heart you had then. What changed?

5. Have An Honest Talk With Your Characters: A lot of character development sheets consist of answering questions, listing traits, etc. That’s all fine and necessary details, but it can feel a little worksheet-y and can cause a disconnect sometimes. But there are other ways to really get in touch with your characters in the spirit of who they are. 

Try some creative writing exercises that are more than just a fill-out form. Find prompts that set gears going in your mind, whether it’s throwing your characters into an elevator for a couple hours to see what they do, or writing a death that has nothing to do with the plot, just to rally up some emotions. Or, if it helps, talk to them. Pretend you are actually having a conversation with this character. A self-insert in a very literal sense. Whatever helps you to connect with them.

6. Change Up Your Workspace: Whether this means cleaning or redecorating your current workspace, or changing it up to a different place altogether, a change of scenery can sometimes get your mind going again. Lots of people will recommend finding a place where WiFi and other things you might have at home that might distract you.

 7. Find a Beta Reader: Finding yourself a fan- or a critic- can be incredibly inspiring. Sometimes having an outside pair of eyes is all you need to see your story in a new light. Having a little feedback- especially positive feedback- can help you see the things in the story that you loved in the first place.

This list is starting to get a little lengthy, and others can feel free to add on their own methods!

And one more little tip just for you, OTNFE. Writing, storytelling, is an art as well as a job. If you think of it too much like a job, a task, the magic sort of goes out of it. Yes, there are tools and tricks to help it along, but stories are like stubborn animals. They almost have a will of their own- you can’t force them into doing things they don’t “want” to do. Try some things when you need to, but also give it a chance to grow organically if it needs space.

And once again, motivation is in ongoing battle! You’re not going to cure it never have to deal with it again. It’s gonna happen again, and sometimes it’s going to be easier to kick than others.

Any which way, best of luck! We all go through this. Often. Your fellow writers are always here with their own advice as well.

I’ll be working on your second ask next OTNFE. ;)


Night Vale is Hell, and this is why

The most recent episode, Past Time, has caused my entire view of the world of Night Vale to change, and it all goes back to the meaning of the “Dark planet lit by no sun”.

I am pretty sure that Night Vale is in Hell. Specifically, the Hell of Dante’s Inferno.

I don’t think that the inhabitants of Night Vale are in Hell proper, as in across the River Styx. I think that Night Vale is more like Limbo, the land of the Virtuous Pagans.

The reason I believe this is that Limbo, Hell’s vestibule, is a place with no sun, lit only by the light of Reason. In this particular corner of Limbo, Cecil (and NVCR as a whole) serves as the Light of Reason, as he is the one who gives information. Not only that, he knows so much about what happens inside of Night Vale as an all-seeing entity. He may be a physical being, but he is metaphorically the Light and literally the Voice.

Night Vale being the afterlife, or specifically Hell’s Vestibule, would also explain some of their general distrust of their neighbors, such as Desert Bluffs. Desert Bluffs could be representative of the outer circles of Hell. These people are not really evil for the sake of evil. They are people who followed their joy, and in doing so, found themselves in torment. Such as Kevin, who is so chipper and upbeat, but ended up a vicious killer bathed in blood.

Then there is the Desert Otherworld, where armies march and fight constantly over a burning plain. This is very reminiscent of the wrathful souls found in the inner circles, where people who were evil for the sake of being evil are tormented. This is not a place for gentle souls at all, but it is also somewhere that requires heavenly protection to pass through, which is why Angels needed to close the Old Oak Doors.

The souls of Hell cannot call upon Angels, and therefore the tiered Heavens and Hierarchy of Angels cannot be known. Because Hell. Still, there are some who might pass through from time to time to visit the Virtuous Dead, but still. Knowledge of them is forbidden.

This would explain the Vague yet Menacing Government Agency, too. They are the enforcers of the laws of the world, and they are very menacing because of the overall environment of Hell. The City Council also makes me think of the City of Dis that separates the crimes of passion from the crimes of wrath. To appear before the Council (or the gates of Dis) is to invite torments beyond imagination. The hooded figures could very well be the demons that guard this city.

But why did I come to this conclusion? Cecil. Specifically, Cecil in Cassettes. He says towards the end that the radio station is “hidden” and a “dark planet lit by no sun”. This is after talking about mirrors being covered in his home (an old superstition concerning the death of a loved one to keep their souls from being trapped in the corporeal plain). And he says this right before, I believe, he is killed by whatever force. Because the only people who see the Dark Planet are those who are about to die.

I really don’t think that Cecil survived the Intern Program. Not really.

Then there’s Carlos, who I believe fills the role of Dante in the story. He is an outside observer who is fascinated by these places he is seeing. But instead of breezing through, he decided to stay. He became a part of Limbo as a living being, which is why he had such a hard time getting back.

Also, according to the Inferno, Lower Hell is always rumbling and shaking due to the Harrowing of Hell that happened after the death of Christ. And there is only one mountain visible in Hell, and that is Mount Purgatory. So one mountain exists. Not “mountains” plural.

Time is weird in Dante’s Hell, too. The ones who are there have no sense of time or how much time has passed. They know nothing about the world beyond their own particular niche of the Inferno.

It would explain so many things about why the sudden violent deaths are not really seen as all that tragic—-more than likely, these dead citizens will be back and have no memory of ever dying horribly during Street Cleaning Day or being torn apart by feral dogs (Cerberus) or Valentine’s Day cards (because what would hurt more in a place without love than to be shown love?)

Anyway, this is my theory. I could be way off, but from now on, this is my headcanon. This is how I will forever see Night Vale. There is of course a lot of Lovecraft in the mix, but I can see the Inferno being a big part of the greater world around them.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

the-mirador  asked:

'i imagine death so much it feels more like a memory' + maglor?

White sand. By the distant starlight it is almost too dim to see, and where he can see it it looks greyish, but his mind paints it white from the memories acquired in happier days. Black waves. Those, he knows, were blue before the Darkening, but memory does not suffice to introduce color back into the world.

The blood, too, must be red, black as it looks against their clothes and the decks of this ship and their swords.

He doesn’t know who started it. He can almost make more sense of it without knowing; knowing would pin it down to a mere incarnate thing, to a man thrown overboard who could not swim and his wife, in rage, swatting down the one who’d done it, or to a panicked child grabbing for a sword in the midst of a deck melee – and this was no series of bumbling accidents, this had crashed down upon them as inevitably and certainly as the waves themselves, this had gathered its force in the long dark years and chosen its direction when his father pleaded with Olwë. This, here, was the collision of two avalanches rushing down a steep slope, a force beyond the comprehension of anyone who had unleashed it, and people were dying but all he could see in the swords and the screams was the unspeakably powerful stories that had unleashed them. It would destroy them all. Already he could see that. But not yet, he thought, wait – 

Keep reading


In April there is a chill in the air,
Brisk and quick, it smells like smoke.
The plains burn July in a new winter,
Fiery claws reaching for the skies
The deepest blue you’ve ever seen.
Who set the blaze? The rising sun?
Who will quench the blaze? Not the rain.
There is no rain, not for weeks now.
But in April there is a chill in the air,
Brisk and quick, it smells like smoke.
The plains burn July in a new winter,
Fiery claws chasing dust kicked up
By the heated winds of a brushfire.
Who set the blaze? The setting sun?
Who will quench the blaze? Not the rain.
Never the rain. I can’t remember -
When was the last time it rained?

anonymous asked:


The show will crash and burn without them, plain and simple.

  • Me: I want to rewatch some tv shows online for a while....
  • Brain: Okay, Supernatural, Doctor Who, White Collar, Sherlock, Burn Notice, In Plain Sight, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly....which one?
  • Me: uh...
  • Brain: and which season? You want Castiel or Crowley or John? Tennant or Smith? Start from the beginning or just rewatch the last few?
  • Me: ...
  • Brain: Well? Pick ONE ALREADY!
  • Me: Nevermind, I'll just play on tumblr and watch convention videos on youtube....*slinks away*

The gryphon, or zrilla, was first domesticated from wild herds on the Burning Plains. It was bred by humans and is nowadays cultivated for its feathers, its strength in carrying people and pulling heavy loads, and perhaps most significantly, for their companionship. The gryphon is extremely intelligent and social, interacting with people in a manner similar to real-world dogs and some pet birds. The partnership is said to go back even before language and magic.

anonymous asked:

i. (long) michael is born first from the thigh of God, a little constelation screaming with holliness and rightousness. he is given form by the skin of an old lion and he's all polished ebony skin and dark eyes. when he is gifted a sword forged by dragon's breath and blessed by mermaid tails, he's not as holy and rightous (don't weep, child, death is ridicously abstract in eden)

ii. heylel came second and he had a thousand eyes. when michael asked why, god said “he is wise”. he was a ghost born form the heart of an old nebula, circling around the divine throne chanting holy songs. when god draped buck skin around his changing body, heylel’s burned it whole. when god draped dragon skin around his shining body, heylel ate it whole. when god fed heylel forbidden fruits, heylel took form; and he was tall and thin waisted, and his hair was golden threads.

iii. raphael was born from song; god sang for the first time and raphael was nothing but a wave of sound travelling through dimensions, coming back to tell stories of other worlds in a language that no one could hear but everyone understood. god gave him one million bird feathers, but raphael blew them in the wind. god gave raphael the skin of a white antelope, but raphael fed it to the children. when god made the disease, raphael took form; and he was golden skinned and silver tongued.

iv. uriel came fourth. “what’s a woman?” “a woman is a song, a white flower, a calm water”. father forgot to tell them that she was fire itself. they didn’t expect the chaos and heat and the disaster, disaster, disaster. uriel had no need for gifts to take form; she spun three trimes and turned dragon and she spun four times and turned a serpent biting it’s own tail and she spun five times and she turned woman with firey robe, all dark hair and pretty eyes and bearer of the divine light.

v. nobody really knows how gabriel came to be, he just appeared one day. they were already too many to notice yet another brother. he was given a lily and was taught to sing “ave maria” through eden and left everyone wondering “who in father’s name is maria?” (maria always hated this song)

vi. it was never the same after the war. corpses of dead angels were in piles of fifteen, an entire plain of burning corpses. the cherubs were covering the tree with their wings, all four of their faces singing prayers. when uriel was stationed at the gates of heaven, she burned for a hundred days in rage. they don’t really talk to her that much now, outside the formal archangels-YHWH meetings.

vii. “if he were to forget his pride and come home, i would kick the gates open for him, sew his wings back with golden thread with my own hands.” no one really talks after father said that. “i loved him the most, still do, always will.” uriel sighs.

viii. when they learn who maria is, the eden is too broken to be happy. “‘tis just the begining of the end” michael told gabriel before his departure “lucy will find a way to destroy that too.”

ix. it’s the year one, 1933. jochebed michael is blond haired and light eyed. in the night, the fire from the fireplace rises, crawls towards the child. “he is cradled by hell”. deborah, green and afraid, whispers. it was an inconvenience, to be the Antichrist’s guardian angel.

x. the death of the universe was merely an earthquake. “why did you allow this?” raphael asks father. “it is time to start over.” father answers as he sews wings with golden thread. -sushi

. the dead anon poets society . 

She said plain, burned things. She said I thought it an excellent poem but it hurt me. She did not say jungle fear. She did not say jungle hatred wild jungle weeping chop it back chop it. She said self government she said end of the road. She did not say humming in the middle of the air
what you came for chop.
—  Anne Carson, Plainwater